Until the Colours Fade (35 page)

‘How is the portrait, Mr Strickland?’

‘As complete as I intend to make it here.’

‘Surely you are not leaving already?’ Catherine asked, with an innocence which he was certain was ironic.

‘I go tomorrow.’

‘It has taken longer than you thought?’

‘A few days.’

Her cold scrutiny disconcerted him, but he did not show it.

‘By asking you to stay on, her ladyship has paid you a rare compliment.’

‘I must try to merit it,’ he replied with a laugh. ‘I fear she has found sitting very dull. She kept me waiting an hour this
morning
and then did not deign to sit.’

Catherine ran her fingers along the spine of a book and then smiled brightly at him.

‘Did you enjoy your morning drive?’

‘Should I not have done so?’ he asked, meeting her gaze.

‘Of course not.’

She rested her hands on a marquetry table between them, drumming lightly with the tips of her fingers.

‘You must forgive my mistake, Mr Strickland.’

‘I cannot recall any mistake, Miss Crawford.’

‘I believed Lady Goodchild had spoken to you concerning me.’

‘And now you think otherwise?’

‘Of course,’ she replied pertly. ‘Her ladyship would hardly
have considered a man whose company pleases her so much, an unsuitable companion for me.’

Tom was still thinking how to reply as she left the room.

*

Shortly after dinner, Humphrey suggested billiards, and for once Tom was glad to oblige him, since the alternative was to sit with Catherine and Helen, ignoring the unnerving tensions and undercurrents passing between them and trying to make
innocuous
conversation. A game of billiards also gave Tom a brief respite from his apprehensive thoughts. In the past his progress with Helen had appeared entirely spontaneous, and this had saved them both from self-consciousness and nerves. There would be nothing unplanned or unexpected about tonight; this time both of them would have had hours in which to reflect.

Between shots, Humphrey lounged on the arm of a leather armchair, sipping claret and talking about the navy; he also lit a cigar and persevered with it in spite of several bad fits of
coughing
. His valiant efforts to be a man of the world amused Tom and he enjoyed calling the boy ‘my lord’ and in return being called ‘Strickland’ – a token of familiarity, he thought, rather than superiority. They were in the middle of their second game when Helen and Catherine came into the Billiard Room. While Humphrey raised his eyebrows disapprovingly at what he
evidently
considered an unwarrantable violation of this male
sanctum
, Tom hurriedly finished his shot, before turning to greet the ladies.

They sat down on the long buttoned-leather sofa in front of the window and watched the play in silence; a proceeding which did not please Tom, since Humphrey began playing with an expertise and determination which he had not shown when they were alone. This was not the first time that Tom had noticed Humphrey’s eagerness to impress Catherine, nor did he intend to spoil the boy’s attempt by making an exceptional effort to avoid defeat. In the end Humphrey won comfortably.

‘I hope you win all your naval battles so easily,’ said
Catherine
, as Humphrey put away his cue. ‘I am sure that I should be frightened of becoming a sailor with everyone speaking of war.’

Tom had an uncomfortable feeling that Catherine had really aimed this remark at Helen; he was still uneasy about what she had said in the library, and was determined that if they argued, he would remain neutral.

‘Even officers who have been in action ever so many times are
a bit nervous,’ replied Humphrey.

‘Of course war is by no means certain,’ added Helen. ‘Nobody wants it; not even the Tsar.’

Catherine got up and on reaching the table, began bouncing the red ball back and forth off the opposite cushion; in the light of the bright moderator lamp above the table, her eyes shone
mischievously
.

‘Why on earth is everybody pretending to be against a war? Lots of promotion for soldiers and sailors, contracts for caterers and shipbuilders, and the whole thing fought out thousands of miles away over somebody else’s country by people paid to do it.’

‘You can’t want people to be killed,’ said Humphrey,
genuinely
shocked by her apparent cynicism.

‘Isn’t it rather like cholera – dying in battle? Nobody thinks it’ll happen to them, so they don’t worry. And anyway, we’re going to win, aren’t we?’

‘I find your attitude a little surprising,’ said Helen icily, ‘especially at a time when your father is doing everything he can to preserve peace.’

Catherine smiled sympathetically and leant against the side of the table.

‘I wonder if he’s told you why he thinks my lord Aberdeen such an old woman?’ Helen did not reply. ‘Apparently his
lordship
toured the battlefield at Leipzig and was so stricken by the bodies of the slain that there and then he became a Quaker – in sentiment if not in name. Perhaps he had expected to see flowers instead of corpses – my father’s words.’

‘If you are suggesting that your father would encourage Humphrey to become a naval officer, knowing that, he stood a high risk of being killed, I think you ought to say so clearly.’

‘Your ladyship knows his thoughts better than I, but you may have heard that half his crew were dead before he moved out of the line at Navarino. The officers on the gun decks had to threaten to shoot men to keep them at their guns.’

Tom noticed that Humphrey appeared animated rather than cowed by this information. To his relief Helen still seemed
perfectly
calm.

‘The circumstances were hardly similar. Your father is
convinced
the Russians will not leave harbour.’

‘Perhaps we will send in the fleet to sink them at anchor?’

‘Kronstadt and Sebastopol are too well fortified,’ said Humphrey, more with disappointment than relief.

‘I hope so for everybody’s sake,’ replied Catherine, sweeping
one of the white balls into a pocket with a loud thump.

‘Your father has repeatedly said so, and I have perfect
confidence
in his judgment.’

Catherine glanced at Helen and said quietly:

‘He is fortunate to enjoy such loyalty and trust.’ She turned to Tom and Humphrey. ‘I have stopped your play, forgive me, gentlemen.’

As Catherine left, Tom was convinced by Helen’s expression that she was also aware of the barbed irony in Catherine’s
parting
words to her. Although Catherine’s bitterness distressed him, Tom was sure that it owed more to wounded pride and a personal dislike of Helen than to any evidence more damning than their ride together, unaccompanied by coachman or groom. Jealousy could be founded on even less – on a word or a glance. Given time to reflect, Tom was confident that Catherine would realise that she had allowed her emotions to distort her judgment. Tom’s fear was that Helen might be unable to take such a philosophical view of her future step-daughter’s behaviour.

Having played a final game with Humphrey, this time of pyramid, and having lost it badly through inattention, Tom rang for a servant to light him to his room.

He lay fully clothed on his bed, doing his best to prepare
himself
for what he expected to be a long and anxious wait, made worse by a growing suspicion that she would not come. Their morning by the stream seemed to have happened weeks rather than hours ago; and since then, worries about her son and
Catherine
would have reminded Helen forcefully of the realities of her situation. The darkness of the room and the deep shadows cast by the candles on each side of the bed made the sunlit fields seem still more remote. He fumbled in the pocket of his frock-coat and pulled out her veil, staring at it for several moments before
replacing
it. Then he undressed rapidly and climbed into bed. For a time he wondered whether he ought to wear his nightshirt but in the end decided not to: its patched condition overcoming his
shyness
at being naked when she came. A moment later he laughed aloud at the absurdity of worrying about such things. The beautiful kingwood chest, with its intricate brass inlay and gilt bronzes, was filled with his worn shirts, and threadbare
under-waistcoats
and trouser-drawers. Beside the carved sphinxes,
supporting
the porphyry and marble top of the dressing table, were his only pair of new shoes, bought specially for his stay at Hanley Park. After thoroughly impressing on himself the bizarrerie of his position, Tom felt less nervous, and fell to thinking about the
various conversations he had had with Helen since his arrival. Later, thinking of the future, he imagined himself welcoming Helen in his studio and laughing with her about the cracked
sky-light
and stained floorboards; he saw Magnus come in and was relieved that he did not seem angry or disturbed to see Helen, but embraced her warmly and offered her some wine.

When the clock in the cupola above the stables struck one, Tom was asleep.

Helen entered silently, closing the door with great care and placing her candlestick on the edge of the washstand. At first she thought that Tom was feigning sleep to impress her with his sang-froid but, on coming closer, she realised, from his light regular breathing and the peaceful expression of his pale upturned face, that he was indeed sleeping. The candles had burned right down and several were sputtering and on the point of going out. For a moment she felt angry with him, as if for a
betrayal
. He had not had to endure the nerveracking minutes she had lived through on the stairs and in the long passage-way, listening every few feet, testing each board; discovery could not bring
him
ruin. Had
I
waited for
him
, I should never have been able to sleep. Yet looking at his closed eyelids and tousled hair, she felt her anger ebbing, respecting him for his calmness. She sat down gently on the edge of the bed, being careful not to wake him until she had laid her cheek against his; for a moment he did not move, but then she felt his eyelashes flutter like the wings of a moth and heard him sigh; he opened his eyes and lifted his head a fraction, staring at her, at first with surprise, and then with
horror
and mortification. Not wanting to hear his apologies, she kissed him lightly on the lips and slipped into bed beside him.

‘Did you think I might not come?’

‘I thought perhaps Catherine …’

‘Stupid boy,’ she murmured, touching his shoulder with her lips and turning him to her. Perhaps five seconds since he had opened his eyes, and yet Tom felt as wide awake as if he had been plunged into ice cold water; his chest was aching and his limbs painfully tense. By contrast her body seemed relaxed and yielding under her silk peignoir. Until this moment he had seen her only in tight-fitting bodices, with her hair swept back and to the side from a central parting; now it hung loosely to her shoulders, glowing vividly in the candlelight, softening her features, making her seem like a girl. His tenseness eased a little as he traced the outline of her nose with a single finger, passing on over her lips and
chin. Sitting up she undid the ribbon securing her peignoir, letting it slip slowly from her shoulders. They remained still for a few seconds and then lay down facing each other, side by side.

After she had stopped loving Harry, Helen had known
perhaps
half-a-dozen lovers, but none had caressed her with Tom’s delicate almost teasing gentleness; he would kiss her and then withdraw his mouth to brush her breasts with his lips. Often he came near to entering her, but then slid away, coaxing,
pressing
, eluding – increasing her suspense to the point of pain;
seeking
out hollows and angles, moulding his slender body to her shape, until she felt that they were merging – his warmth flowing around her, into her, their separateness dissolving; yet there was an element missing; by the stream she had found him as helpless as herself, but now, although aroused by the lightness of his touch, over again she felt the detachment of his wooing, and was filled with an agonising and humiliating sense of her vulnerability – as if she alone were truly naked and unveiled. He made her burn with the expectation of ecstasy, with the licking of small flickering flames, but not with an enveloping fire, not with a desire which was also close to fear, not with the promise of
completeness
she had glimpsed beside the stream: the fulfilment of utter surrender.

She turned away from him, raising clenched fists to her eyes, but when she lay back, she saw him gazing at her with eyes full of such concern and sadness, that she was sure he had shared her fear of any consummation which fell short of their imaginings; all his efforts aimed to recapture that lost moment.

‘My darling, I didn’t see your eyes – your eyes were hidden.’

A moment later her lips were parting his, her fingers probing and searching, twisting his hair and forcing his hands to her breasts with a desperation that snapped his control, making him echo her sobbing halting cries of pleasure, annihilating
memories
of her aloofness, filling him with a fierce and passionate tenderness, as he raised his narrow hips and thrust into her,
feeling
himself carried with her, almost before knowing that they had begun, almost before the slight resistance to his entrance had ended – so that when it was over, time lay sleeping with them a little while, undisturbed, stirring only with a dull
murmuring
in their blood, with the quieter rhythm of their
breathing
.

*

The candles had all burned out and between the curtains a thin
bar of blue light was brightening imperceptibly with a hint of redness. Outside birds were singing. Helen woke with a sudden start, her heart beating violently and then slowing with the
realisation
that dawn was only just breaking. Beside her Tom was sleeping soundly, his face cradled in the crook of an arm, his fingers trailing in his hair. She hesitated a moment before waking him.