The Unseen (44 page)

‘Then, we won’t see each other much more. Not like before. Not if you mean to keep your word,’ George says, frowning.

‘In a way I do, in a way it doesn’t matter any more …’

‘What do you mean? Come – come and sit down. You look sun struck!’ He tows her gently to the shade of the cabin, and they sit on the steps. ‘What do you mean, it matters not?’

‘George,’ Cat says. She looks at him, loves him; puts her hand on the rough skin of his jaw. ‘I can’t stay there any longer. Even though I can unlock my door at night now … I am still a prisoner. I will not tolerate the vicar turning his head away, as though I am some kind of filth! I will not tolerate being told where I must be, and
how
I must be, every sleeping and waking moment of my life! Even the vicar’s wife … though she thinks to help, still she would have me be a thoughtless drudge. She seeks to govern my thoughts and actions and I
will … not … have … it
! Not any more!’ she cries, shaking her head and thumping her bony knees with her hands as each word is bitten off. Her skin tingles where she strikes it, and she likes the feeling.

‘So, what are you saying?’ George is still frowning, still unsure of her, of himself.

‘I mean to leave. I will run away from there. There is only one thing I have to do, and it will be done soon. And then I shall disappear. Like a mist in the morning, like a spoken word. I will slip away from there and none of them will be able to stop me, or know where I’ve gone. Let them see then how they control me! How they own me! They do
not!
But where I go … where I go is up to you, George.’

‘Is that so?’

‘I will run, and when I do I will run straight to you, if you’ll have me. I won’t marry you, George, but I will stay with you, and be true to you. But this is the moment – now I must have your answer. And if not … if not … then I will run all the same, though it would break my heart, George. You would break my heart.’

‘I would not,’ he says, the words wrung tight, tension shaking them. ‘I would not for all the world, and you are mine, wife or no.’ He puts his hand behind her head, pressing their foreheads together so tight it half hurts. ‘So run, Cat. When you may. I’ll be waiting for you.’

Cat hears this promise and she smiles; she smiles and the smile goes right the way through her, like it hasn’t since she was a little girl. George kisses her but still she can’t stop, and the smile becomes a laugh, which passes to George. A laugh of relief, of simple joy.

‘Sweet Jesus, Cat – your kisses are salty today!’ George tells her. Her skin is sticky and pale with it.

‘Oh, I’ve been sweating like a pig since dawn first broke!’ She wipes her hands over her face again; but her hands are every bit as sticky, and grubby to boot.

‘What is this last thing you must do?’

‘I … can’t tell you. I hate to have a secret from you, but while I must return to that house, I must keep it. Once we’re away, I will tell you, I promise.’

‘Is this where the money is coming from?’ His voice is weighted with unease.

‘It is. And I’ve thought long about it, and I can tell you that it breaks no law. Don’t ask me any more about it yet, I beg you,’ she says, squeezing his hand. George raises their knotted fingers, kisses her delicate knuckles, and nods.

‘You would not give yourself to another man, would you, Cat?’ he asks softly. She grips his hand, as hard as she may.

‘Never, George. I swear it.’ Beneath the boat, the water laps with a sound like something softly tearing. In the shade of the trees its surface is black and emerald green, with silver slivers dancing all over it. Cat gazes at it with utter yearning. ‘How I long to see the sea again! I saw it once, when I was a child. So vast and open and …
beautiful
. I
long
to see it again. Can we? Though we’re not to wed, perhaps we could take a trip to the seaside, once I am away? What do you say?’

‘We shall go wherever you want to go, Black Cat.’ George smiles.

Cat takes a deep, happy breath. ‘Let’s swim,’ she says.

‘Swim? In the canal?’

‘Why not?’

‘It’s not that clean, love …’

‘It’s got to be cleaner than me right now.’

‘There are crayfish … and pike, and eels …’

‘Bugger the eels!’ Cat laughs. ‘Are you scared of an eel?’

‘No, not scared. Not scared, exactly …’ George hedges.

‘Good. Come on.’ She stands, holds out her hand to him. He takes it, allows himself to be towed to the very edge of the deck. The boat dips drunkenly with their weight. ‘Ready?’

‘Feet first, Cat! It’s not that deep. What about your dress?’

‘Bugger my dress! They can dismiss me for it, and see how I care!’ she shouts; and leaps, holding fast to George’s hand. The water is only four feet deep, and she bumps her feet on the bottom, feels them sink into silt and muck. But the cold of the water is like a locked door opening, like the break of dawn. It rushes over her hot skin, through her hair, around every eyelash and into her ears, booming. Her heart opens up and pours itself out, is washed clean until no anger or fear remains. In that one instant, she is free.
For the first time in my life
, she thinks, knotting her limbs around George, wet arms sliding like eels to lock around his waist. She tips back her head and lets the sky reach high above her.

*

The storm begins with what has become reliable regularity. The heat and humidity build for five or six days, reaching a peak like that day’s when the air is so fat and bloated with moisture that it is hard to think, let alone to go about the day. And yet Cat’s tread was as light as a child’s, as she brought up the supper dishes. Whilst they all wilted – even Robin Durrant, whose chatter was for once subdued – she’d all but skipped about on the balls of her feet, a secretive smile playing at the corners of her mouth when she thought herself unobserved. Hester tries to imagine it is because she has the key to her room, but that alone can’t have brought about such a change, can it? She thinks of the girl’s shrieks, her crying and her begging, when her bedroom door was locked. Perhaps it is enough for her to have the key.

Hester stands at the parlour window. She has unlatched the shutters which Cat closed earlier, and folds one back to look out. The lights in the room are all off, and Hester is in her dressing gown. She went to bed at her usual hour, and woke again a short while ago. Alone, of course, with the first rumblings of thunder chasing ghoulish flickers of lightning in from the west. It is almost two in the morning, and no light comes from beneath Albert’s study door. He is not in the drawing room, nor anywhere in the house. Rain hits the window. A fitful, sparse scattering at first, and then a steady downpour. Water rolls down the glass in an unbroken wave, bounces from the garden pathway, makes a sound like a distant sea.
Where are you, Bertie?
She casts this sad little thought out into the night, with no hope of an answer. She can’t remember a time when she felt more alone. Another flash of lightning drenches the room, and thunder chases right after it, making Hester jump in spite of herself. There is a soft chuckle behind her and she gasps, turning quickly to find Robin Durrant walking towards her. He is wearing the same creased and crumpled trousers as he’s worn all day, his shirt undone. His chest is smooth and flat, the skin taut
over the shadowed striations of his ribs. Dark hair blurs a diamond shape in the centre, reaching down towards his stomach. Hester catches her breath and looks hastily away. This is more of any man other than Albert that she has ever seen. He is broader, darker, more solid looking than her husband. He seems more animal; invulnerable.

‘Does the thunder frighten you?’ he asks softly. His friendly, affectionate tone of voice is something she has come to dread.

‘No,’ she whispers, shaking her head. She takes a step backwards but her legs bump the wide window sill, forcing her to grasp it for balance. There is nowhere for her to go. Robin saunters towards her, and stands too close. He seems to tower, though he isn’t that much taller than she. Hester looks at her feet, looks past him across the floor to the open door, and pictures herself walking through it. The scent of him fills her nostrils. Animal again, slightly stale from the heat of the day, but at the same time compelling. She fights the urge to breathe more deeply.

‘Do I scare you?’ he asks; and Hester says nothing. ‘Something must be scaring you, dear Hetty. You’re shaking like a leaf.’

‘Please …’ she manages to say, when words are snarled up and caught in her throat, refusing to be spoken. ‘Please, leave me alone.’

‘Hush now, don’t be that way. I suppose you’re watching out for Albert?’ He looks out at the crashing rain for a moment, then grunts carelessly. ‘I wish I could tell you. I know you blame me for this new-found Christian zeal of his, Hetty, but I swear I never suggested it. At least, I never meant to. His understanding of what I’ve been trying to teach him has gone awry, somewhere.’

‘You’ve driven him half mad!’ Hester’s voice is choked with emotion.

‘Not my doing! Why would I want that? He was proving a most astute pupil, and a useful colleague … at first. But don’t worry. I
think he just needs to sleep. Once I’ve gone, he’ll calm down again, I dare say.’

‘You’re leaving?’ Hester gasps, hope surging through her. Robin smiles. He reaches out and takes Hester’s hand, which is quite boneless, and holds it against the skin of his chest. Hester’s heart jolts horribly. The world is so altered that nothing makes sense, and she is helpless to act; a mere passenger in a tiny craft, heading for a maelstrom. His skin is hot and dry. Hester can feel the hairs there, sharp against her fingertips.

‘Soon, soon. Will you be so very glad to see me go?’

‘Yes! Oh, yes!’ Hester says, and she begins to cry, helplessly, not trying to hide it. She does not turn her face away, or reach to wipe her eyes. Robin Durrant takes one look at her stricken face and bursts into delighted laughter.

‘Hester! Dear girl, why do you fret so? Stop that, you’re making yourself ugly. Why do you want me gone so badly? Have I been such an awful house guest?’ He cups her face with one hand and rubs his thumb along the line of her cheekbone.

‘Because … because … Bertie loves you so! Far more than he loves me … than he has
ever
loved me! With you here I may as well … I may as well not exist!’

‘No, no! You’re quite wrong, Hetty. He
does
love you. The problem lies elsewhere, with Albert. It’s not love he feels for me, but something else. Something I dare say he does not even know. Or won’t admit to himself.’

Gradually, Hester stops crying. She notices that her hand, though he has released it, still rests on his chest. ‘What is it then? What does he feel?’ she asks.

Robin takes another step closer, so that when he speaks, his lips brush the skin of her forehead, send shivers tumbling down her spine.

‘You’re such innocents! You and the vicar. Hard to believe such innocence can last so long into a marriage. Normally by now the
innocence is gone, replaced by satisfaction, by knowledge and experience, and then by familiarity and distaste. Not that I can claim to have experienced marriage myself, but I have seen it enough times, in friends and family.’ He puts his arms around her loosely, but Hester is caged. The smell of him fills every breath she takes, his flesh so close that her skin flares with heat, as though they are already touching. ‘Haven’t you experienced anything like this with him? Not even on your wedding night? Has he never touched you, or kissed you?’ Robin whispers. Hester can’t find her voice to answer him. She shakes her head minutely – though in answer to his question or reaction to his embrace, neither of them can tell. ‘Such a dereliction of duty! And such a terrible waste. He denies you one of life’s great pleasures, Hester; when you were good enough to save yourself for him.’ Robin shakes his head and then presses his lips to her forehead. Hester stands transfixed, entirely trapped between the terrifying excitement and the wrongness of his touch, unable to move or think. She shuts her eyes; Robin kisses her eyelids. ‘Shall I show you what he should have done? Hester? You look so pretty with your hair undone like that, and tears on your cheeks. If you were my wife, I wouldn’t waste a single moment of time with you …’
I am not your wife!
Hester cries silently, but still she does not move, for underneath her disgust at this betrayal of Albert, her fear and confusion, she
does
want to know these things he offers to show her. She is desperate to know. The room is dark, protective. It makes her invisible, makes her disappear.

When he kisses her mouth she sags against him, her legs tingling and weak. She cannot breathe. All strength seeps from her, and though she braces her arms against him, as if to fend him off, her mouth kisses him back, in spite of herself. When he breaks away he is smiling slightly. Had it been his normal smile, she might have acted differently. Had it been a smile of triumph or satisfaction, or a mocking smile, she might have found the resolve to run from him. But it is a soft and tender smile; one of
admiration and desire, one that she has so longed to see, albeit on another man’s face. The storm lights his face again, gives every inch of him an unearthly glow, so bright that Hester flinches. He is beautiful, it is true. She does not open her eyes again, but lets herself be touched by him, be kissed and held by him. With every movement of his hands and mouth she feels her own rising desire – a longing like an ache, an unbearable ache right at the core of her. Robin opens her robe and pushes her back onto the window sill. The pain as he reaches for this ache makes her shudder and clench her teeth together, but it is wonderful too. A thousand fiery sparks whirl behind her eyes, shoot her thoughts to pieces, set light to every inch of her and leave her to burn. For that short while, she is not herself. She does not even exist.

When she opens her eyes Robin Durrant is pulling up his trousers, buttoning the fly, catching his breath. There is sweat gleaming on his chest now, and on his brow. Hester is on her feet again, still by the window, her heart slowing down, and a cold touch of horror to make her sick just beginning to grow. Between her thighs she is stinging, burning, and something begins to trickle. She touches her fingers to it, finds smears of blood amidst something else, some other stuff she does not know. Robin looks up at her as he tucks his shirt in roughly.