Angel in Scarlet (6 page)

“Barely, but he was amazingly quick.
Amazing
ly quick, far outstripping all my other students in curiosity, native intelligence, aptitude. We had a most pleasant relationship for several years, Hugh absorbing learning like a sponge absorbs water. No one ever knew. It was our secret. I grew quite fond of the boy. He was always borrowing books, asking for more. Alas, he had to stop coming a year and a half ago—his duties at Greystone Hall left him no more time for the luxury of learning. He informed me of the fact with no little bitterness. I was sad to see the last of him.”

I was sad, too, deeply touched by what my father had told me. He shuffled some more papers and sat down at the desk, a wavering ray of sunlight touching his brow, gilding his pale gold hair. He looked older then, weary, almost frail, and I felt a moment of terrible panic at the thought of someday losing him. The panic stabbed me, sharp as a knife, and I bit my lower lip, longing to rush to him and hug him and beg him never to leave me, then he looked at me fondly and smiled and everything was all right again.

“A pitiful case,” he said, “a pitiful case indeed. Poor Hugh hasn't had much chance.”

“It—it must be dreadful to be a bastard,” I said quietly.

“I shouldn't imagine it would be pleasant, people being what they are. Ours is a hypocritical age, Pumpkin. A hypocrite is something I trust you'll never be.”

I felt guilty then, for I had talked about The Bastard and made fun of him like everyone else. I shifted uncomfortably on the stool, holding the book tightly. Father looked at me with those lovely gray eyes, as though he could read my mind. I looked at the littered floor, studying the crumpled brown paper and bits of twine with apparent fascination, a slow flush tinting my cheeks. Father sighed and shook his head.

“There's some question as to whether or not Hugh actually
is
illegitimate,” he said. “When Lord Meredith first came back from Italy with the boy, everyone assumed he had married the Italian woman. He was treated as a grief-stricken widower by one and all, and then he went to London and met the current Lady Meredith—a lovely thing she was then, cool and patrician and haughty as they come. But lovely, a vision of loveliness. When Lord M. brought her back to Greystone Hall, everything had changed. She was expecting a child, you see, and she wanted
her
son to inherit. Talk was that she had made his disowning Hugh one of the conditions of her marrying the noble Lord M.”

“But that—that's dreadful,” I said hotly. “Disowning his own son, pretending he wasn't his rightful—”

“All this was just talk, Pumpkin. No one knows for sure if there was a wedding in Italy or not. Hugh was given the name ‘Bradford' and when Lady M. gave birth to a son he was declared heir. Hugh, perforce, was a bastard. People forgot all about that hypothetical wedding in Italy, assuming quite naturally that it had never taken place.”

I found this quite fascinating, a bit confusing as well. Father picked up a paperweight and toyed with it as the sunlight grew dimmer and hazy shadows began to fill the room. I could smell Marie's cooking and knew I would soon have to go set the table.

“The baby died a month later,” Father continued. “Lady M. was never able to bear another. Her looks faded fast. Drink had a lot to do with it, I fancy. When his brother and sister-in-law were killed in a boating accident in Cornwall, Lord Meredith brought his young nephew to Greystone Hall. Master Clinton will inherit the estate.”

“And Hugh sleeps in the stables.”

“As I said, a pitiful case indeed. The boy is rightfully bitter. Legitimate or no—and he probably isn't—he has been treated most shamefully, but Lady Meredith took an intense dislike to him from the first—Hugh was three when Lord M. married her. Lord M. never had a great deal of character to begin with, and women—” He hesitated, a delicate frown creasing his brow. “Beautiful women can exert a—an inordinate amount of influence on a weak man.”

He fell silent, a curious look in his eyes, and somehow I knew he was thinking of Marie. Marie had been very beautiful when he married her. Had she exerted “an inordinate amount of influence” on him? Had he been forced to abandon dreams, give up plans of scholastic glory? That history he was forever scribbling on—perhaps he could have finished it long ago had he not taken on a wife and two more daughters to support. He turned to stare out the window where a translucent blue-gray haze was filling the gardens, and then he sighed heavily and moved some papers about on his desk. Marie called me from the kitchen, her shrill voice clearly audible through closed doors. I got up and thanked Father for the book and told him I would see him at dinner and moved toward the door.

“Angie—”

I turned. “Yes?”

“What I've told you is—between us. There's no need for anyone else to know I gave young Hugh private tutoring. And Angie—” He frowned again, looking quite stern. “The boy has endured a lot of grief. I don't ever want to hear you call him ‘The Bastard' again.”

“I—I won't,” I promised.

“Good. Now off with you. I want to get a little work done before facing the Gabbling Pack.”

The Pack did indeed gabble during dinner. Solonge went on and on about a perfectly cunning bonnet she had seen with the most fetching green ostrich plumes dripping over the wide brim, it would look perfectly smashing on her, with her eyes, and Janine told her it should be easy enough to acquire, like the locket. Solonge shot her a warning look and Janine smiled lazily, refilling her plate. Marie said it was a shame, a wretched shame her girls had to languish away in a stultifying place like this when we could all be happily ensconced in London, enjoying life. Father could easily get a post there at one of the schools or he could take private students and her girls could get out and
meet
people. She gave full vent to her bitterness, and Father merely shrugged, immune to her complaints after all this time.

I helped Marie clear the table and then she joined her daughters in the parlor to complain some more. I could hear her shrill, unhappy voice as I washed the dishes and tidied up the kitchen, a task I really didn't mind too much. Father was shut up in his study again, scribbling away on his history of the Assyrians, and later, after I fed the tabby, I trudged back up to my attic room to discover that Solonge had already brought the turquoise silk gown up, tossing it carelessly across a chair.

Solonge and Janine had comfortable rooms on the second floor, but I much preferred my snug, cozy room up here under the eaves with its bare hardwood floor and slanting ceiling and low, odd-shaped windows that looked over the back lawn. A feather comforter and faded sky-blue counterpane covered the old four poster. The ancient overstuffed blue velvet chair was in deplorable shape, the nap worn to threads, one spring broken, but it was large and seemed to enfold me when I snuggled up in it to read or sew. There was a sturdy table beside the bed with white porcelain pitcher and pot, a small bookcase filled with my favorite books, a tall wardrobe. Flickering candlelight washed over the bare brown walls with a lovely golden glow. It began to rain as I curled up in the chair with sewing kit and turquoise gown, and the pleasant patter-patter made a soothing background as I nimbly removed velvet bows and rows of fussy beige lace.

As I worked I thought of all that had happened today, all I had learned about Hugh Bradford, the sod. Sure, I felt sorry for him, but … but he was still a crude lout with that striking, foxlike face, all sharp angles and planes, not at all handsome, not like Clinton, but … I couldn't forget that face, couldn't forget the strange, bewildering sensations I'd felt when he manhandled me so roughly. Bleedin' sod! My bottom no longer stung, but I felt a curious prickling feeling down below and my legs seemed to be growing numb. I shifted position in the big chair and, bows and laces removed, began to snip loose the tiny stitches that hemmed the neckline, the turquoise silk rustling and sliding over my lap. Solonge found him exciting, had a yen for him, she did, would like to wrestle with him in a stack of hay, have him stick his stiff thing in her, and him a beanpole smelling of sweat and manure. Couldn't understand it. Didn't make sense, not when she could have any man she wanted—and usually did. The prickling sensation down there wouldn't go away no matter how many times I shifted my rump and moved my legs. Wudn't really that worrisome just … just slightly irritating. I tried to ignore it, tried to think of something else besides the stableboy who had smacked my bottom so forcefully.

I worked for an hour or so in the candlelight and decided that Marie's rich sauce hadn't agreed with me tonight. I began to feel strange, strange indeed, kind of aching all over like … like an upset stomach, only lower down. My legs ached, too, but that wasn't unusual, climbing the wall, scooting along the tree limb like I did. Felt almost like I was coming down with some kind of fever, only it was different. I put the turquoise silk aside and stood up. My legs felt kinda shaky, the backs of my knees weak. I took off all my clothes and washed myself with water from the pitcher and dried myself off, then slipped on my thin cotton chemise, shivering now but strangely flushed. That ache down below was turning into an itching sensation that made me want to rub my private parts. I'd never felt so peculiar in my life. No more of Marie's fancy sauces for a while, I decided, and I intended to be extra careful climbing trees, too, if it was going to cause my legs and thighs to ache like this.

I blew out all the candles except the one by my bed and climbed under the covers and picked up Captain Johnson's book and started reading. Nothing I loved better than reading in bed, particularly if the rain was pattering on the roof and making slippery silver-gray patterns on all the windowpanes. I got caught up in the book immediately, but, curiously enough, I kept seeing Hugh Bradford in sweeping black cape, pistol in hand, his lower face covered with a black silk scarf. Ruffian like him would make a dandy highwayman, all right. I had been moved by everything Father had told me about him, but … he was still a ruffian, sullen and savage.

I read about Jacob Halsey, a dreadful rogue indeed, and he had Hugh Bradford's face, those dark brown eyes, those wicked eyebrows, that dark tan complexion and unruly black hair. “My pretty lamb,” Halsey told the maiden he was about to rape, “an insurrection of an unruly member obliges me to make use of you; therefore I must mount thy alluring body, to the end that I may come into thee.” The Bastard … Hugh … was saying that and his eyes were glowing and I was the maiden, shivering with fear and aching all over, particularly down below. My free hand slipped under the covers. I couldn't help it, that tingling ache was driving me barmy. My thighs tingled, too, like the skin was flushed and stretched too tight over my flesh.

I read on, rubbing, trying to assuage the ache, and came to the passage about Patrick O'Bryan, another rogue, even worse than Halsey. He looked like Hugh, too, and there I was, trembling at the side of the coach, and he turned to his confederates and grinned. “Before we tie and gag this pretty creature I must make bold to rob her of her maidenhead,” and then he led me into the woods and I put the book down and stretched my legs as far as I could, writhing, rubbing, harder now, not really understanding what was happening to my body, what was happening in my mind. There I was and I was wearing the turquoise silk gown and I was on the ground, writhing, and he was standing over me with his cape blowing in the wind like black silk wings and the scarf was over his nose and mouth and chin and his brown eyes were glowing darkly and he was chuckling, legs wide apart, fists planted on his thighs, me helpless and all atremble.

I rubbed, eyes closed, and it felt … it felt good, like a thousand tiny needles jabbed my skin lightly, not really hurting, just irritating it pleasantly. Something was happening inside, too, something frightening I'd never felt before, and I stretched my legs until the tips of my toes touched the foot of the bed and something seemed to snap inside me and I could feel a flow and my hand was suddenly wet. I pulled it out from under the covers quick as I could and cried out when I saw all the blood. Scared me something awful, it did, thought I'd wounded myself, and then realization dawned and I caught my breath.

Jemminy! So that was it! I threw back the covers and dashed over to the pitcher and took off the chemise which was spotted with red. I washed myself, but there was still a trickle flowing. What did one do? Rags, Eppie Dawson had told me. You use clean rags. I folded one up and put it down there and climbed back into bed, shivering again, feeling awful, feeling frustrated. I hated it. I didn't want it to happen. I wanted to cry. I wanted to curl up in Father's lap and have him stroke my hair and tell me it would be all right. I wanted … I wanted to be in Hugh Bradford's arms. I wanted to look up into those smoldering brown eyes. I wanted him to … to do to me what Patrick O'Bryan did to his poor, defenseless victim.

No! No, it was disgusting! I hated him, the lout, and I wasn't ever goin' to let a man do that to me. I wasn't goin' to change. I wasn't goin' to be like Janine and Solonge, always thinkin' about men. Not me. I blew out the candle and listened to the rain and watched thin, thin rays of moonlight seeping into the room, all murky and making watery pewter reflections on the floor and ceiling. I didn't want to start bleedin' every month. I wanted to be like I was before this happened, before I started havin' these disturbin' thoughts about the stableboy who might or might not be a bastard, who probably was, who had held me tight and spanked me soundly and made me … made me feel all peculiar.

Time passed, hours probably, and the rain stopped, just dripping from the eaves now, patter-patter, soft and gentle, and the moonlight was brighter, making blurry silver patterns that danced against the blue-black walls and ceiling. I was feeling a little better now but still strange and disoriented. My chest felt funny, the tiny buds no bigger than beans aching, like flesh pushing against warm skin. Next thing you knew I'd have breasts, too, bloody inconvenient when you were climbing trees or scooting under shrubbery to find a smooth round pebble. Thunderation! Wasn't anything I could do about it, not a bloomin' thing. I wasn't going to let it make any difference, though. I was going to go right on being myself, just like before, and … there
was
a bright side. I could hardly wait to see Eppie Dawson. She wouldn't be so bloody superior when I told her
I
was a woman, too, now.