The Black Mountains (39 page)

She knew he loved her. Perhaps, she thought, she had always known, and only been afraid to acknowledge it in case the wonder went away. For that had seemed sickeningly inevitable. Sooner or later, Ted would grow tired of waiting and scheming, of being preached at and threatened, and would forget her in the company of some other pretty girl. Now, however, for the first time, she was sure of him, and it was wonderful.

It was only when Rachel spoke to her about entertaining him in her private drawing room that she was brought back to reality. By this time tomorrow he would be gone! All she would have of him would be her memories. Life would go on as it had before he came, and soon it would seem that he had been no more than a dream.

And perhaps he would never come back.

The thought almost made her cry out, but she forced herself to face it as she knew she must. She covered her face with her hands, pressing, against her eyes until the blood ran in flashes of purple and scarlet behind the closed lids. He mustn't die. I won't let him. But what can I do? Perhaps if I gave him something, as a talisman …

A photograph! She had gone with her father and mother to a studio in Bath just before her departure. There they had posed together in a stiff group. Alfred had dominated the photograph, standing sternly with his thumbs tucked in his watch chain, and Winnie somehow managed to look demure instead of cowed. But it was an especially good photograph of Rebecca. She had been so pleased with it she had kept a copy in her bag, and now she took it out, looking at it critically. Would Ted think it vain and presumptuous to give him a photograph of herself?

Of one thing she was very sure—he wouldn't want to take her father and mother with him too. Rebecca found a pair of scissors and carefully cut her own likeness out of the photograph in a neat oval. Then she slipped it back inside her purse. When the chance came, she would give it to him as a keepsake.

On his last evening, she was still in her room when Rachel came in to say Ted had been shown into her private drawing room. “Now off you go, and remember to treat him nicely,” she told Rebecca sternly. “And don't worry, I shan't be the one to disturb you.” She smiled, a knowing smile that reminded Rebecca oddly of Marjorie.

Why does she keep harping on about being nice to Ted? Rebecca wondered. How could she possibly think that in the circumstances I could be anything but nice?

She went down the carpeted stairs to the drawing room feeling hot with embarrassment. It was nice of Rachel, of course, to allow them to use it, but she wished she hadn't done it all the same. When Lady Harcourte returned at the end of the week and got to hear of it, there would be all kinds of trouble, and besides, she would have been far more at ease with Ted in the garden or going for a walk along the lanes. It was a dry night, and she rather liked the thought of snuggling under the collar of his great coat in some quiet gateway.

But Rebecca had the uncomfortable feeling that however much she had protested, Rachel would have eventually had her own way. She was paid to be her companion as well as her maid, and if arranging her private affaire amused Rachel, then arrange them she would.

Rebecca pushed open the drawing room door to find Ted standing on the hearthrug before the ornately carved mantelshelf.

“Hello,” she said shyly.

He turned, and she realized he was not at all overawed by his surroundings. “ Hello,” he teased in return, reaching for her hand and pulling her towards him. “Now this is what I call doing it in style.”

She bit her lip. “ We should have gone out, Ted. I don't like using her room.”

He held her at arm's length, looking at her.

“If we'd gone out, you'd have been all buttoned up in your coat, and I shouldn't have been able to see you properly—or feel you when I kiss you, either.”

She looked at him, half understanding his meaning and her stomach churned relentlessly. She liked to be close to him, of course, and sometimes, when he held her, the restless excitement made her cling to him with an immodesty that made her cringe when she thought of it afterwards. She had even begun to accept the sensations his nearness excited in her as pleasurable as well as forbidden. But to hear him talk of it so openly only increased her self-consciousness.

Searching for a diversion, she put her hand into the pocket of her skirt and brought out the photograph. “Ted, I've got something for you. To take with you to France, or wherever it is you're going. It's not much, I know, and perhaps you won't want it …”

She held it out and saw his face soften as he looked at it.

“When did you get this done?”

“Oh, a while back. If you don't want it, you don't have to …”

“Don't be so silly!” He pulled her towards him, holding the photograph up in line with her face as if to compare. “Hmm, not bad,” he said, mockingly critical. “ Not as good as the original, of course.”

Ridiculously, she felt her chin wobble.

“You don't like it?”

“Of course, I like it. If I can't have you, it's the next best thing. But it's you I want really. A piece of paper can't be any substitute for you.”

As he spoke the teasing note left his voice, and she saw the desire in his face. He laid the photograph on the mantelshelf and pulled her roughly towards him, exploring the curve of her breast with one hand while the other slid down her back to hold her hips firmly against his.

Breath caught in her throat, a tiny rasping sigh. His face was close now, so close it was out of focus, and it seemed to her that everything was happening too suddenly, too fast. Yet how could it happen too fast when there was so little time?

His body moved against hers, and she felt the first small twisting stab of answering desire making her ache for something unknown and out of reach.

“Ted!” she whispered urgently.

For answer, he covered her mouth with his own, his tongue thrusting between her lips.

For a moment she floated upwards on a wave of unimagined excitement mingled with sweet sharp fear. But as his tongue thrust deeper into her mouth, moving with rhythmic urgency, she found herself remembering fragments of conversations held over the last two days: “Be nice to him,” Rachel had insisted. “I won't be the one to disturb you.” Could it be that she had known what Rebecca herself was now beginning to realize—that it was physical love Ted needed to take with him?

An overwhelming desire to give him what he wanted most washed over her, drowning all her shyness and making her forget her strict upbringing. For a moment she strained against him, savouring the sharp delight, then taking his hand, she began to unfasten the bodice of her dress.

Fear and fascination sharpened all her senses, and as the buttons came undone, one by one, and his hand slipped inside her bodice, the longing to please swelled inside her. She pressed her breast into his palm. She felt her nipple rise at the touch of his work-toughened hand.

Slowly, he raised his lips from hers, running a line of kisses down her chin and neck. Easing her breast free of her bodice, he covered the nipple with his mouth. Surprise almost made her cry out, then as the pressure of his teeth shot a dart of pain through her, she arched her back, thrusting her breast harder into his mouth.

Reality took on a new dimension then, every crevice of her body coming alive beneath his touch. He kissed her mouth again, until she felt she was drowning. Then he pushed her gently back on to the sofa, and the weight of his body started a new awareness, so that nothing in the world mattered except to be closer, even closer. Every nerve in her body cried out, and the deepest parts of her were taut and yearning. She parted her thighs, and the desire rose in her like a flood so that her whole being was stretched and waiting. But the thrust she expected never came. Instead, her world jolted roughly, the weight lifted, and coming back from a long way off, she realized he was standing up, looking away from her.

The sudden loss was like falling from a pinnacle.

“Ted!” she cried, and when he didn't turn around, she leaned over to take his hand, bewildered, pleading. “Ted, what's wrong?”

He pulled away from her roughly.

“Stop it, Becky, for God's sake.”

“But what's the matter? Don't you want me?”

“Of course, I do.” With shaking hands, he pulled a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and lit one.

“Then why?” She was close to tears.

He drew smoke into his lungs with a long, shuddering breath.

“Another minute and I wouldn't have been able to control myself. Don't you know what I mean?”

Her mouth puckered. “Of course, I do. Don't
you
start treating me like a child, Ted.”

“Well, stop talking so stupid then. And do up your bloody dress.”

She glanced down and pulled the two edges of her bodice together.

“I am not talking stupid. And don't you swear at me!”

“Becky.” He ran a hand through his hair, looking at her with exasperation and tenderness. “ How can I make you see?”

“You don't have to. I understand.” Her chin was up, her hazel eyes suspiciously bright. “You don't really want me at all.”

“Becky …”

“You don't. I thought you did. And I wanted to make you happy. Oh, Ted, I wanted that so much. After all, you're going to France tomorrow and heaven knows when we'll see each other again … if we ever do …” Her anger was dissolving into tears, and her last words were muffled as she pressed her fist over her mouth to suppress a sob.

“Oh Becky!” he said helplessly, reaching out to touch her neck where the stray ends of hair lay in loose brown tendrils.

“Don't cry. I do love you, truly I do.”

“Then why …”

“
Because
I love you. I want you, God knows. But not like that. How do you think I'd feel going off and leaving you and not knowing how you were? I could give you a baby like that, don't you realize? And what would you do then, eh? No, when I make love to you, it's going to be for real. I'll make love to you all bloody night when you're my wife—or when I know I'll be there to look after you. Now, dry your eyes and don't be so silly, do you hear?”

She was silent for a moment. Then she whispered, “I wanted to give you something to take with you.”

“You've done that,” he told her, picking up the photograph from the mantelshelf. “ You've given me this. Look, I'm going to put it in my wallet, and you know where that'll be, don't you? It'll be in my pocket all the time—with me wherever I go.”

She nodded, still sniffing at the tears, but managing to smile.

“I'm sorry, Ted. I didn't want to quarrel—not on our last night.”

He grinned, his old composure nearly regained.

“Oh, I'd rather quarrel with you than anybody else. Now, how about a stroll to cool off?”

She nodded, smiling back.

“Rachel will be disappointed.”

“Too bad,” Ted replied.

AN HOUR later, they parted at the gate. For as long as she could, she clung to him, unwilling to accept that the time had really come for him to go, but at last he prized himself free, kissed her gently and put her aside with firmness.

“I have to go, Becky,” he said.

She turned cold, for suddenly it felt to her as if he had gone already.

“Oh, Ted!” she whispered, a sob catching in her throat.

“I'll be back,” he said.

Before he had gone more than a few steps, the darkness swallowed him up, but she stared after him, imagining she could still see the brightness of his hair and the dark bulk of his greatcoat. Tears trickled down her cheeks, and she put out her tongue to intercept them as they slid past her mouth. The salt was sharp on her lips, and it made her think of the sea that would soon be between them.

“Dear God, please take care of him,” she whispered into the darkness.

Then, feeling more alone than she had ever felt before, she turned and went back to the big house.

Rebecca was not the only one to pray for Ted's safety. Rosa Clements was distraught when she heard that Ted was leaving for France, and not even coming home first.

What have I done? she asked herself over and over. And what can I do now?

The guilt lay so heavily on her, she could think of nothing else, and when she could bear it no more, she went to the woods.

It was a night in early January.

By the time she climbed the stile, hitching up her skirts and jumping down into the drift of dead leaves on the other side, her shoes and stockings were already soaked through, and her dark hair, peeping out from beneath her shawl, lay in dank strands across her cheeks. But undeterred, she went on with the sure-footed stealth of a cat, picking her way between the tree roots and the branches brought down by the December gales.

There was no moon, and Rosa was glad. Her eyes quickly accustomed themselves to the dark. She preferred it to those nights when the woods seemed as light as day and the trees stood like silver ghosts casting their long, shivering shadows across the paths. The dark was friendly. It hid her from curious eyes.

Here in the heart of the woods it was very still. The gentle, rustling sounds of night seemed muted by the fog. Rosa raised her head, sniffing the air so that the scent of the dank leaves tickled her nostrils like woodsmoke, and a pleasurable sensation ran through her in a bubbling tide.

This was where she belonged. Out here anything was possible. Romany, tinker, witch—what was there in a name? All that mattered was the power that was unleashed whenever she put aside the bonds of ordinary, everyday life and stepped into this other world.

It was like a religion with her now, and she was a high priestess. The woods were her cathedral, the branches of the trees forming the high vaulted roof, the mosses and dead leaves serving for kneelers. But she had no need of an altar. That was somewhere inside herself, a place so reverent and so singing with power that it almost frightened her. And she knew that wherever she went and whatever she did, if she lost that power, she would want to die. Without it, there would be no point to living.