Chapter 15
FIFTEEN
Ravenglass
Despite the early hour, the house was silent that evening.
After an emotionally charged afternoon, Douglas had taken to his bed, and Honor’s reaction to the news had been so volatile that, after hours of listening to her sister rage and weep, Geneva felt utterly depleted.
She had been forced to leave Honor to wrestle with her grief alone and had sought refuge in the quiet of her own room.
She had settled into her favorite chair by the window and had not found the will to move for several hours.
During the day, the parkland and the beach were lovely, but now the nearly bare trees stood like sooty smudges against the night sky, and hazy moonlight filtered through gauzy clouds drifting lazily overhead.
Waves crashed against the shore, and the sea that sparkled playfully in the sunlight now looked like an oily puddle of petrol that stretched towards the horizon.
As she stared out, Geneva felt a desolation she had not known since her mother’s death—and then Jack’s, the news of which had reached them only two weeks later.
Douglas had still been at the front, leaving her and Honor alone, two young girls shattered by loss and completely unprepared to shoulder their grief unsupported.
When their father had eventually returned, it had taken time and sheer determination to claw their way back to something resembling normality.
But now that thin veneer of acceptance had been stripped away, and their old wound had been torn open and bleeding again.
More than anything, Geneva wanted to close her eyes and let this awful day come to an end, but she knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep.
She needed to confide in someone, to talk through her options, but there was no one she could turn to—at least not within the house.
The servants had to sense that something was wrong, but it would be unfair to burden them with the details before she had more information and could offer either reassurance or, if it came to it, severance and a character reference.
Her father would be furious if he discovered what she was about to do, but she could not bear the weight of her suffering alone. Not tonight.
She padded downstairs in stockinged feet, tugged on a pair of wellies, a waxed jacket, and a flat cap she found in the mudroom, then slipped quietly out the door.
If anyone happened to look out a window, they would simply take her for the gardener.
The night was cold and dark, but the walk was short—barely a quarter of a mile—and she knew the way by heart.
Geneva walked past the garage and then hurried around the stable block, and down the narrow path that led to the row of cottages tied to the estate.
Before the war, all the cottages had been occupied, but now two were empty, the families who’d lost their menfolk gone to the cities, where they had a better shot at making a living.
The cottages were in a reasonable state of repair, thanks to Rory, but they were not equipped with gas lines or wired for electricity.
And they likely wouldn’t be now unless the new owner decided to modernize.
If the light in Rory’s cottage wasn’t on, she’d turn back, Geneva decided, but the glow of an oil lamp beckoned her forward and she knocked softly on the door, mindful of alerting Mr. Blatt, the gardener, to her presence.
When Rory appeared in the doorway, he was dressed in a pair of cords and an open-necked shirt.
Geneva had never seen him in anything but a tweed suit, starched shirt, and tie, and was momentarily taken aback by his casual appearance.
An auburn forelock had fallen into his face, and his jaw was shadowed with evening stubble.
Rory’s eyes widened at the sight of her, and his forehead creased with concern.
“Geneva, is everything all right?” he asked. He had finally agreed to stop calling her Lady Geneva when they were alone together, but he had yet to call her Genny.
“May I come in?” she asked, her voice quavering with uncertainty.
“Of course.”
Rory stepped aside, and Geneva slipped inside.
The cottage was tiny, with just two rooms and a privy out back.
The furniture was outmoded, and included some pieces brought from the big house once they had been discarded.
A tufted wingchair stood before the hearth, and there was a small table and two chairs, and a sideboard that held a few pieces of crockery.
There was also an ancient range, but Rory took his meals at the house and probably didn’t light it unless he wanted to make a cup of tea or generate some heat during the winter months.
The door to the bedroom stood open, and Geneva caught sight of a bed covered with a blue quilt, a wooden chest with rounded brass fittings, and a narrow wardrobe.
Seeing where Rory slept felt awfully intimate, and she dragged her gaze away.
Perhaps she shouldn’t have come, she thought as she allowed Rory to take her jacket and cap and settled in the wingchair.
Geneva had never shared her worries with anyone outside the family, not even when she was a little girl.
She was the sort of person to retreat to her room and hide in a book until she felt more in control, but she found herself pouring out the whole story as soon as Rory pulled up a chair and joined her by the fire.
When she had finished, Rory walked over to the sideboard, took out a half-full bottle of whisky, and poured two fingers’ worth into a glass.
“Get that down ye,” he said as he handed her the glass and watched as Geneva threw back the drink as if it were water. The whisky was fiery and tasted awful, but the heat was also strangely comforting, and she held out the glass for a refill.
“Slow down,” Rory said when she started on the second drink. He took the glass from her once she’d finished the whisky and set it on the mantel. He was silently cutting her off.
“I don’t know what to do,” Geneva cried. “I’ve never felt so lost, not even after Mother and Jack died.”
She had still had her father then, and the members of staff she’d known all her life.
Now it would be just her and her sister, and she would have to look after Honor and depend on a man whose name she had never heard until that afternoon.
Possibly as his wife, but the prospect made her feel as if she were about to become a prisoner of war rather than the lady of the manor.
Rory reached for her hand and held it between his own. “There is nothing to be done, lass,” he said softly.
“What do you mean? There’s always something one can do. Isn’t there?”
Rory shook his head. “Not in this instance. Yer father is dying, Geneva, and his end won’t be either painless or peaceful.
Ye can’t ruin what’s left of his time on this earth with childish arguments and pointless recriminations.
He didn’t entail the estate, some long-dead ancestor did.
And I assure ye, this hurts him a lot more than it hurts ye. ”
“I doubt it,” Geneva muttered. Rory smiled softly at her but didn’t say anything, so she went on. “Surely he can choose to ignore this ridiculous clause.”
“I don’t know how these things work, mind, but if Mr. Lefferts wasn’t able to find a way then I don’t suppose yer father could have.”
“But I’ve never even seen this man, Rory. And he’s going to get it all. Every last thing,” Geneva wailed.
“So he will.”
“And Father wants me to marry him,” she cried.
“I can see why he would,” Rory replied thoughtfully.
He was so infuriatingly rational, Geneva began to regret her decision to come.
She had hoped Rory would share her outrage and propose various schemes for thwarting Jesseph Bellamy from inheriting what should rightfully be hers and Honor’s, but his quiet acceptance made her feel even angrier and more alone.
“I’ve got to go,” Geneva said and sprang to her feet.
Rory got to his feet too and pulled her into his arms.
“Ye needn’t worry,” he whispered softly in her ear. “I will look after ye. We can get married and live our own life. We don’t need the estate. We only need each other.”
Geneva felt herself relax and leaned into Rory, her cheek resting against his solid chest. Perhaps the effects of the whisky were finally making themselves known, or maybe it was because this was what she had hoped for all along, but she suddenly felt deliciously languid and a little too warm.
Rory held her close and stroked her hair, and she felt safe and cared for.
It was such a lovely dream he offered, but things were never that simple, not when legacies and estates were involved.
“What about Honor?” she muttered, choosing to focus on the human cost rather than the holdings and wealth that would be lost to her.
“Honor can live with us until she finds her own life,” Rory said softly. “Just bide yer time, my wee Genny, and when ye’re ready, I’ll be right here, waiting.”
“Do you really mean that, Rory?” she asked. She loved that he had called her his “wee Genny.” It made her feel closer to him.
“Of course I do.”
Geneva wanted to ask if that meant they were now engaged but decided against it. She’d sprung this on Rory, and he had responded with his heart, not his head. He needed time to think, and so did she. She lifted her face and Rory kissed her, his lips claiming hers with tender promise.
It was only the third time they had kissed, but this time was different.
When the gentle kiss became more urgent, fueled by desperation and strong liquor, Geneva found she didn’t have the strength to resist. It felt so good to be held, and desired, and to feel that she wasn’t terrifyingly alone.
She allowed Rory to pull her closer and matched him kiss for kiss, and before she knew it he had her cardigan off and was unbuttoning her blouse as he maneuvered her through the open door and into the bedroom.
She knew she should put a stop to it before things went too far, but her body seemed to have a mind of its own, and her hands went to the buckle of his belt as he unbuttoned her skirt and she stepped out of the wellies.
Rory’s skin was warm beneath her hands, and a sprinkling of auburn hair covered his chest and glowed on his arms. His blue eyes looked almost black in the semidarkness of the bedroom, and his breath was ragged with need.
Before she knew it, Geneva was in her brassiere and silk knickers, and Rory’s cords were on the floor.
His hands roamed over her body, caressing every inch of her.
His touch awoke feelings that were new and inexplicably urgent, but, as he slid his fingers inside her knickers, it suddenly felt intrusive and wrong. Geneva instinctively tensed.
“It’s all right,” Rory whispered. “Try to relax.”
“Rory, I—” she began, but he was intent on his task and not really paying attention. “Rory,” Geneva tried again as she planted her hands on his chest and tried to push him away.
She wasn’t ready for this and needed to slow things down.
But Rory silenced her protests with kisses that were now a bit rough, and before she knew it he’d parted her legs with his knee and had pinned her down with his body.
Instead of feeling aroused, Geneva felt trapped, and the things he was doing to her seemed like a violation.
She tried to shift him, but he was too heavy. And then it was too late.
“God, ye’re beautiful,” Rory panted as he thrust into her. “My wee angel.”
Geneva tried not to fight it, and, after a few moments, the act became more pleasurable. At least it no longer hurt. And then Rory stopped, but did not get off her. He brushed a stray lock out of her face and smiled into her eyes. He looked so happy.
“Ye’ll enjoy it more next time,” he said. “The first time is never good for the lasses.”
How many lasses have you deflowered? Geneva wanted to ask but remained silent.
“Are you all right, love?” Rory asked as he finally rolled off her.
Geneva nodded. She couldn’t trust herself to speak.
She had dreamed of what it would be like to have a man make love to her, but this had been nothing like what she had envisioned.
It wasn’t beautiful and romantic but painful, quick, and rather awkward.
As she lay naked atop Rory’s quilt, she suddenly felt exposed and ashamed, and all she wanted was to cover her nudity and be on her own.
Rory handed her a handkerchief and said, “Here, clean yerself up.”
Geneva’s cheeks burned with mortification as he took the handkerchief from her and showed her what he meant. Then he balled it up and threw it on the floor.
“I have to go,” she choked out. “I will be missed.”
“I’ll walk ye back,” Rory said. He was already pulling on his clothes. “Unless ye want to have another go,” he added and smiled suggestively.
“No,” she cried. “Really, I must get back. You don’t need to walk me.”
She hastily dressed and almost sprinted towards the door as soon as she put on her jacket and boots, and pulled the cap low over her eyes. But Rory blocked the way.
“Genny, ye needn’t worry. It will be all right,” he promised. “We will be married, and it will be like this always.” He kissed her again, his tongue sliding into her mouth. “We’ll be together every night,” he whispered when she broke the kiss and pulled away.
“Yes,” Geneva croaked and ran out into the silent night.