The Gown(82)

He hadn’t let go of her hand, so she had no choice but to follow him. He opened the door, swore under his breath when the overhead light failed to come on, and went over to the mantel, still dragging her along, and switched on the lamp there.

It was hard to make out much, for the light wasn’t especially strong, but she could see pink and silver everywhere: the carpet, the draperies, the upholstery on the occasional chairs and settee by the hearth. Even the bedcover was made of pink-and-silver brocade.

“What do you think?” he asked, and she realized he had let go of her hand. He’d gone over to the windows and was pulling back the draperies. Now was the time for her to go—just run. Run.

But then he was at her side again, his hand combing through her hair, and she was too frightened to move. “It’s very pretty,” she lied.

The room, and the house, had once been pretty, but now they felt and smelled as if they were rotting away. Armies of mice and silverfish and woodworm were nibbling away at his house, and Jeremy didn’t seem to notice or care.

“My mother hasn’t been here in years. She and my father never come in from the country. They live their lives, and I live mine, and they don’t care that it’s all gone. That my inheritance is nothing but this moldering heap and mountains of debt. I’ll never be free of it. And now I’m almost out of time.”

He twisted her hair in his fingers, winding it tight, so tight she couldn’t move her head. “You are very pretty, you know.”

He began to kiss her, and his mouth was a little too hard against hers, his fingers pressing a fraction too tightly against the soft skin of her arm, and he didn’t seem to notice, or care, that he was pulling her hair.

It was the first time he had kissed her and she didn’t like anything about it. “Jeremy,” she said. “Please stop.”

His hand moved from her arm to her breast, kneading, pawing, and one of his fingernails scraped against the soft skin just above her brassiere. She flinched, and he laughed softly.

“Were you expecting hearts and flowers? Stupid, silly girl.”

“I wasn’t expecting anything. I’d like to go downstairs now.”

“Why did you think I brought you here, if not for this?”

“You said you wanted to show me the house, and now I’ve seen it and I’d like to go home.”

“Stupid, silly girl,” he repeated, and he pulled at her hair so sharply that tears came to her eyes. He might do anything to her now, for they were alone in the house. She was alone and she had gone into this bedroom with him willingly, or at least that was how anyone else would see it.

He propelled her backward, one stumbling step after another, and then the back of her knees hit something. It was the bed, the bed, and he pushed her back, finally letting go of her hair, but only so he might pull at her skirt, higher and higher, oblivious to her slapping hands. The same fingernail that had caught at her breast before now tore one of her stockings. It laddered, splintering, and he laughed, a cold, sharp heh that killed the last of her hope.

“No, Jeremy! I said no! I’ll scream,” she threatened, and she pushed at his shoulders with all her strength. It made no difference.

“There’s no one to hear you. My sister’s staying with friends, and the daily girl doesn’t come in until eight. Scream all you like.” And then, his mouth hot against her ear, “I actually rather like it.”

He wrenched aside the crotch of her knickers. “That’s better,” he said, and then he spat. She flinched, but he’d aimed the spittle at his own hand. It made no sense—why should he do such a thing?

He opened the flies on his trousers, and now he was rubbing his wet hand over his—no, no—and he pushed at her legs, forcing them wide, and the horror of his invasion, the tearing, wrenching brutality of it, stunned her into immobility.

What had she done for him to be so cruel? Or was this what it was simply like? Did all women have to endure such indignities? Were the love stories Milly had read aloud to her all lies?

Everything had been a lie.

He was so heavy, and his breath against her face was so rank, and everything he was doing was so painful and disgusting, and the sounds he made under his breath were just awful. Filthy words, over and over, right against her ear, and soft, whining groans that turned her stomach.

She hardly noticed when he rolled off her.

“Up you get,” he said, slapping at her thigh. He sounded almost playful. “You’ll want to clean yourself up. I’ll see you downstairs.”

How long did she stay there, her legs splayed open, her eyes hot and dry and sightless? She had to get up, she knew, and find some way out, but it was a long while before she was able to move. Even then the room spun around her and she had to fight hard not to be sick.

She noticed an open door, and beyond it the cool gleam of white tile, and somehow she managed to stand and then stumble to the bathroom. She was still wearing her shoes.

She switched on the light above the sink, and was surprised by the woman she found in the mirror. Eyes wild, face ghostly pale, hair dull and straggling and damp against her neck.

A stack of linen hand towels, impossibly fine, sat on a table next to the sink. She wet one of them with cold water, wrung it out, and wiped her face. Then her breasts, where a long, livid scratch had risen against her milky skin. And, last, between her legs. She had to rinse the towel again and again, but after a while the water no longer ran pink.