Chapter Three #2
He turned his face up to the sky, and the cold drops on his cheeks were like tears, as though the universe was weeping for him.
The timing, the timing, the wretchedly ambiguous timing meant that he did not know – probably would never know – the truth of it.
Was the child his or Cowling’s? Officially, of course, that old man would claim it and would stand proud father to it.
But unofficially? In actual truth? Only God knew.
And perhaps Nina. And neither of them was telling.
Hatto was brushing Kitty’s hair when the door of the dressing-room that linked her room to Giles’s opened, and he came in. He was in his dressing-gown. Her heartbeat quickened.
‘You can go,’ she said to Hatto, who had already laid down the brush. Hatto was no fool. She slipped out, closing the door silently behind her.
Kitty stood, but before she could say anything, Giles had crossed the room to her.
His strong hands loosed the ribbon fastening her robe, then slipped inside.
She felt them at her waist, through the thin silk of her nightgown, then moving up over her ribs and cupping her breasts.
She closed her eyes and shuddered with desire.
He felt it, and his breathing quickened.
He backed her, like a dance, to the bed and laid her down, and her arms went up round his neck and pulled her to him.
Neither of them spoke. There was no sound but their breathing.
She wanted him so much, had wanted him for long, empty months.
She didn’t know what had brought him to her bed, and she didn’t care.
They had been good lovers on their honeymoon, when it had been new to them both, and they had discovered together the delights of physical passion.
He had called her his little pagan for the unfettered way in which she had thrown herself into it.
Now she let herself loose again, and felt his response, which in turn fuelled hers.
When the moment came she gave a little cry, and he made a sound like a moan of pain as he emptied himself into her.
He collapsed onto her shoulder and she folded her arms round him in glorious triumph.
She wanted to tell him she loved him, but instinct told her words would break the mood.
She held him close in silence until, after a little while, they both fell asleep.
She woke in the dark to find he had gone; turned over onto her side and slept again.
In the morning, she woke feeling relaxed, rested, and deliciously happy.
She lay a long time remembering the night before, reliving the sensations and his cry of accomplishment.
She had given him that. She felt powerful, and her love was like protective arms she wanted to wrap around him.
She knew he was a complex man, often not a happy man, but she could give him that joy.
And though it was fleeting, it was infinitely renewable. He had only to come to her.
When she got down to breakfast it was to learn that he had, as so often, eaten early and gone out, but nothing could puncture the bubble of happiness that enclosed her.
She chatted to the others and saw them notice her mood, enjoy it, respond to it.
She smiled all the more because they would not guess her delicious secret.
She did not see him until the afternoon, when he came in up the back way from the stables when she was going upstairs after luncheon.
He looked startled to see her, and met her eyes, it seemed, almost guiltily.
His look told her he was uncertain how she would feel about his coming to her the night before, and she thought it was a lack of confidence in his own attractiveness, which she found adorable.
Did he not know, even now, how much she loved him?
She smiled dazzlingly at him, put out a hand and touched him lightly on the back of his. ‘Giles,’ she said. Just that.
He smiled back, a frail, unsure smile. ‘You look well today,’ he said.
‘I feel well. I had such a wonderful night’s sleep. It did me so much good – I hope I have another tonight.’
It was as far as she could go to encourage him without being indelicate – you never knew outside the bedroom which servants might be within earshot – but she hoped it was enough.
Giles was a man on whom responsibility did not sit easily.
And, having been criticised all his childhood by parents who saw nothing good in him beyond his mere existence, he was habituated to feeling guilty.
His guilt over what he had done with Nina, combined with his jealousy of Cowling and his doubts about the baby, had driven him to Kitty’s arms, thereby triggering a fresh access of shame for using her in that way.
And the fact that she loved him and was glad to be used created another layer.
She was his wife, he had the right to lie with her, but he had never been able to think in those terms. He had taken responsibility for her when he married her.
Rather than any rights over her, he had duties towards her.
Now he knew that she would sooner he slept with her, whatever his reason, than didn’t sleep with her, and where did that leave him?
He had wanted the physical release, and it had given her pleasure, so it ought to be a simple equation.
Any other married man would find it simple, would never even start on the mathematical calculation.
Instead he groaned under a weight of remorse, while knowing he would go back, because for that short time with Kitty he had been able to forget everything that troubled him.
The thoughts returned soon enough, but the respite had been too good not to want it again.
When Alice went back to London to resume her studies at the art school, Rachel went with her, and Richard escorted them on the train.
‘I don’t know why you’re going,’ Alice said to her sister. ‘There’ll be nothing to do.’
‘There’s always something to do in London,’ Rachel said. ‘The country’s so dull.’
Alice smiled. ‘It’s funny, I think the exact opposite. But the Season doesn’t start for ages yet.’
‘There are people who live all the time in London,’ Rachel explained kindly, ‘and they’ll have dinners and evenings. Aunt Caroline goes out to things all the time.’
‘What about Angus? Will you be seeing him?’
Rachel stuck her nose up. ‘He was very rude to me. I don’t know if I want to see him.’
‘Oh, Ray, you know you do,’ Alice sighed. ‘You can’t blame him for being upset when you were flirting with the Farocean boy.’
‘I was not flirting.’
‘Draped over him like a dishcloth.’
‘Don’t be absurd. If a person can’t dance when they’re asked, at a ball – well, I don’t know what!’
Richard, who was absorbed in the newspaper, where he was reading about the general election, looked up. ‘Are these Faroceans going to be in Town?’
‘Yes, but not until March,’ Rachel said, giving herself away. ‘They’re in Melton Mowbray, hunting, then going to Sandringham.’ She caught Richard’s derisive grin and said defensively, ‘Alice danced with his brother a lot.’
‘I know.’ Richard looked at Alice. ‘Are you sure you’re not getting the fonds for the brother, Alice dear?’
‘No,’ said Alice. ‘All I want is to get on with my painting. What is it Grandmère says? “Art lasts, kisses do not.”’
‘Except when she says “music” instead of “art”. It’s an all-purpose philosophy.’
Alice wanted to distract Richard from the present topic, and asked, with a nod at the newspaper, ‘What’s this election all about?’
‘All about?’ Richard said. ‘It’s a very big all.
The nonconformists don’t like the Education Act, the temperance folk don’t like the Licensing Act, the social reformers are up in arms about poverty after the Rowntree report, and there’s the ongoing row about free trade versus protectionism.
A debate that, like the poor, we have always with us.
Which topic would you like me to expound on? ’
‘I heard someone say that the Conservatives have been in power too long, that they’ve run out of ideas and that it’s time to give the Liberals a turn,’ said Alice, desperately.
Richard laughed. ‘Oh, my dear girl, the last thing we want is a government with ideas! It’s not the government that runs the country, it’s business – the people who actually make the money to pay for things.
And what we principally want is a government that will leave us alone to get on with it.
But I suspect this sudden interest in politics is a deflection, because you think I’m going to bring up the subject of your living in lodgings.
I must say, I’m not sure it’s entirely safe. ’
‘Oh really!’ Alice said, exasperated. ‘I’m perfectly capable of walking from Gower Street to Old Burlington Street and back without getting lost or run over.’
‘Hmm. I’m not sure you’ve grasped the kind of safety I’m talking about.’
‘But we’ve been through it and through it. The housekeeper, Mrs Harris – she’s called “the superintendent” for a reason, you know. She’s very strict.’
‘I don’t know how you can even think of it,’ Rachel said, with a shudder. ‘Going out in public without an escort? And walking! Why not take a cab?’
‘Because my allowance will have to stretch and won’t allow for luxuries.’
‘Well, I think it’s horrid. Suppose some rough person speaks to you?’
‘Then I shall speak right back,’ Alice said.
She did feel a misgiving when she saw the room, shown into it by Mrs Harris, who clanked as she walked, thanks to a massive bunch of keys attached to her waist with a chain, like the chatelaine of a mediaeval castle.
She was a tall, strong woman in her fifties with iron-grey hair and gimlet eyes.
Alice thought she must have been beautiful in her youth because of the bone structure of her face – it was a face you instinctively wanted to draw – but it did not look as though she ever smiled.