Papa, then replaces them and unbuttons his tunic, the small brass buttons disappearing one by one through the holes.
“Sir James,” he says. It is a statement.
“You know my father?”
We are all known to one another in this world. It is the coming-upon which is sometimes a surprise. Prepare yourself as it was given to you to be prepared, in your middle way and not in the first days of your undoing.”
“Charlotte may be singing now. With the music. I wonder if she will be singing?”
I am not answered, but it does not matter. I put the question to myself, stroke it for a moment and then it is gone. Perhaps it evaporates or passes through the glass panes of the windows out over the dark city, floating, gone, dazzled by lights, bemused by dark.
The bedroom to which I move enhances me with space. I unfasten and discard my gown slowly, for there is the waiting. I lower my drawers and feel the sleekness of my thighs, the weavings of wonder of the threads that clothe my nether limbs. In a tilted standing mirror whose feet claw at the carpet, dumb, I survey myself with shyness yet with approbation. The girl on the train-I forget her name-said that my stockings glistened. It is so. My garters are rosetted, tight, the thigh-flesh swells above a little. A shade of plumpness in these regions, it is said, is beneficial. I would not have too much of it, not too little. The curves should be pleasing, complimentary, subtle in their outspringing where the indentations of the thighs yield to the bottom's bulbing. Hesitant as a doe, I gaze towards the doors, then use the perfume stick, between my cheeks, betwixt my thighs. I am ready unto his readiness. Am I to bend, hands flat upon my knees-or kneel?
“If your uncle were to come-were he to come-have there ever been two?”
The man asks in entering. His shirt is loose. I am minded to immaculacy but do not comment on it. I sift the question, examine the pieces. Being not of wanton mind, I know not its meaning at first.
“Two. Were there ever two?” he repeats.
I understand now. I believe I understand. I shall not answer him directly.
“There is neither knowing of it nor not knowing of it.”
My answer produces a chuckle from him. He appears pleased. “What a princess you are-how small and yet not. How angelic your eyes! How innocent you must have looked. I wish to see your eyes when I am putting you to it.”
You may not. It was never done. Only in the dark was it done and I was comforted.”
A finger in my bottom, tongue to tongue.
There should not be words, not here, not in this realm where quietness should obtain. I may reject him yet. I step back. His eyes become harsh.
“Show me!” he utters.
“No!” I am stubborn, yet beneath the will of his gazing I raise at last the lace-frilled hem of my white chemise. My bush shows, dark and springy upon my springlike flesh.
“Two would suit you. You are of an age for it now.”
I stand as Charlotte stood, my legs apart. “What?” My tone is the tone of an aristocrat.
He grins. I do not like grins. Smiles should be subtle, seeking a response. “You don't know of it, do you? Never thought of it, have you? One here”-he dips a forefinger beneath my slit-“and one here. Together.” His free hand fingers my bottom.
Murmurings of streams and flickerings of lightning. No. I would be then as grass buried in the mud by a careless heel, a heel that hunts the fox and courses hares.
“How indecent!”
I move back from him sharply. I resent. Let the wind carry him and be gone with him. His manner of vocabulary belies his accent. People should be of one piece and entire.
“All right, then. Let met put you to the strap. As was. As you liked it, ever did.”
“You may not, no.”
I gather up my gown, am cold of eyes. The pattern is gone, dissembled, broken. Where there are lattices they should let in but fine clear bars of light. Where there are curtains the dust should dance. There is no ceremony here, but a coarseness. He is between being one man and another, and uncomfortable with both. He is neither of the past, present, nor future. Such quiet as there should be may be broken only by the creaking of old floorboards, the turning of a key in an oiled lock, the muted protests of the bed, the slapsmack of the leather to my yielding, the rustling of my gown removed. Such silences are autonomous. They contain all within themselves and have their own authority as do the silent roots of trees.
“You may leave.”
I have found myself, fingered the threads of my beginnings. Into my gown head-swooping of a sudden I am covered. His eyes yield disappointments for which I have no pity. Pity is for the poor, the desolate, the unknown, the boys in rags who sleep in barrels or under a tarpaulin freezing.
“Have champagne sent up to me.” I sweep into the drawing room.
“Yes, Miss.” His voice has returned to the London undergrowth again, made coarse. I seat myself upon a chaise longue and upon his opening of the door see my uncle and the woman standing there. The man bows to them, goes out. They enter.
“I have ordered champagne.” My look is neither bleak nor warm. The woman wears an uncertain smile of the shape of a discarded glove.
“Well, then.” My uncle looks all about as if assuring himself of his location. They seat themselves in chairs facing me-I the accuser or the accused. “Did you write? Write to your papa?”
“Of course.” I shade the words with grey. It is an appropriate colour for words, though not for women in their wear unless they be nondescript. Charcoal shades are pleasing. Mingled with black. My stockings have the sheen of rooks' wings. “Let us be silent now while I think what is to be done.”
“Of course.” His fingers twine as a man's never should unless he is a preacher or a mendicant. There is a weakness therein. Hands should be free and strong in their taking.
Lower the silence like a white sheet and listen. My eyes so instruct them. They obey. I wait for the knock, the champagne, the bubbling. It is my only concern at the moment. An interruption sought, discovered-an interlude such as when someone coughs in church or a girl is tumbled at a picnic while the others watch and the earth moves to the sudden bumping of her bottom. Thrust, withdraw, and thrust again. There are females who should wear drawers for ever and some who should never, though all should wash twice a day their linen or whatever lies beneath. So my mother taught and I believe.
The champagne arrives, is served. It is of indifferent quality, but it matters not. It is a pink shade, as the woman shyly observes, for she wishes to say something that will not offend. My uncle clears his throat. I apprehend speech and interrupt him while yet the words tumble down from mind to throat.
“You may have her. Take her into the bedroom. Leave the doors open. I shall watch. Then you may leave.”
“It was not expected. You cannot see the bed from here.”
“I shall come and go, uncle. You have no need to observe me. Leave the bed tidy and all about clean. Or you may have her on the floor. Here. Put the cushions down.”
The woman licks her lips. “He will be too quick. If you are watching all the time he will be too quick.”
“Yes?” I ask, look at them both, then drink.
He places down his glass and rises. “Well, get up then, get up, Maude, get up.”
“All right, yes.”
She rises as though her clothes are already discarded and her underwear dirty to my eyes.
“She might do it with you, too, afterwards, she might.”
They are all but her last words, words coherent, in her muttering. A haplessness is upon her. In the moment of their limp embracing his hands draw up her gown, pull at her drawers.
“Don't be too quick, don't be too,” she breathes.
CHAPTER EIGHT
