The Blood Upon the Rose (47 page)

‘How many lords and ladies have been in this bed before us then, Miss O’Connell-Gort?’ he said.

‘Oh, dozens.’ It’s going to work, she thought. It’s really going to work. She held out her arms and drew him to her.

This time, the kiss was rougher, more passionate and insistent. She moaned and ran her fingers through his hair. He kissed her neck and fumbled with the buttons of her nightdress.

‘It’s all right. I’ll take it off.’

She tugged it over her head and then gasped as he sucked her breasts - hard, much harder than Sean had ever done. It hurt, but it did something to her stomach as well and she felt her loins warm and moist. She parted her thighs and kissed him again, rubbing her hands down his back to press him on to her.

‘Oh yes, yes. Go on.’

And then he was thrusting into her and it was another man, she was really doing it with another man and it was all right, he was good and strong and she needed it so much and …

And it was all over.

She felt him go limp inside her and kissed his cheek gently and felt his arms and back with her hands and thought how heavy he was, smooth hard muscles under the skin. There was soft fur on his buttocks and the small of his back, and a ridged line like a scar on his left side.

He rolled off her and lay on his side with his head propped on his elbow, gazing at her. His face in the lamplight was shadowy, the expression hard to interpret.

‘I’ve wanted to do that since I first saw you,’ he said.

‘Have you, Sir Galahad?’ She thought how strange his face was after Sean’s; older, rough, a cruel face to look at close to. The way he had thrust into her had been quite brutal. She felt aroused, annoyed that it had been so swift. She shouldn't be thinking of Sean: the whole purpose was to forget him.

She rubbed both hands along his back, and said: ‘So what is your next ambition, then?’

Andrew was amazed; shocked even. Not even Elsie had been quite so brazen. He leaned forward and kissed the little brown nipples and she closed her eyes and moaned. He kissed them harder, feeling his erection return, and then her hands were all over him, clinging to him, pulling him down on to her. He didn’t like it. He felt used, exploited. I’ve got to show this girl who’s master, he thought. He remembered Elsie, and as he thrust inside her he caught her wrists and forced them down over her head so that she had to look up at him as he thrust slowly, deliberately.

‘What?’ She tried to clasp him to her with her thighs, drumming her heels hard against his buttocks. ‘Come on, Andrew.’

But he took his time, watching her, enjoying the moment of control. She was lithe and slim as he had imagined; the struggle excited him. The bedclothes fell on the floor, but he was too heavy for her. She could not throw him off, even if she wanted to. Then he began to thrust faster and faster and her eyes closed and she stopped struggling and began to move with him and he saw her gasp and cry out just before he did so himself.

Afterwards they lay quietly in each other’s arms.

She thought: I never thought it would be like that. He’s a brute and a pig but I’ve done it and I don't feel guilty. I didn't promise to marry him, I just wanted to do it with another man and that’s what I’ve done. There was no love here, only lust, but that’s all right. I like lust. You can do it just as well without love.
Oh God why do I feel so lonely?

She had a sudden disturbing picture of Sean, alone in his cell. But he seemed very distant now, tiny, a little man in a stone box that grew smaller and smaller and fell out of sight in her mind like a matchbox thrown into the sea.

Tears prickled in her eyes. She realized Andrew had fallen asleep. She got up quietly to blow out the oil lamp, crept back into bed, and lay on her back watching the flickering shadows on the roof of the bed, caused by the dying embers of the fire.

Andrew woke later while it was still dark. The wind outside was stronger, and gusts rattled rain against the windows. He listened to her breathing softly beside him, and stroked her smooth dark hair with his fingers. A log fell in the grate, and he raised himself on his elbow and watched the warm firelight bathe her face.

He thought: I am here but I have not mastered her. There is more courage and spirit in that slim soft face than in any woman I have ever met. He wondered if she dreamed of him at all, or if, like Elsie, she was far away. He wanted to stay with her for ever.

Then he remembered Michael Collins. A gust of wind blew smoke down the chimney and for the first time he was afraid. His skin was sensitive and tender all over as though he had just been born; he did not want to be hurt now. But it had to be risked. He looked at her with immense gratitude and then quietly got out of bed, collected his clothes, and went back to his room.

At first it was too cold to sleep there. For a long time he lay, watching the grey dawn light creep through the curtains, and thought of Ardmore. Tomorrow, he thought, before I go to Dublin I will ask her again. And then when Collins is dead I will have the money to rebuild Ardmore and we will sleep in my mother’s room together and she will bear my sons.

You and I are too much alike, Catherine O'Connell-Gort. I won’t let you back out now.

In the morning Catherine woke up early and wondered for a moment where she was. The room was the same but there was something missing from it. Then she turned and saw the pillow crushed beside her own and remembered.

She got up, ran a bath, and brushed her hair in front of the decorated mirror in the bathroom. This is where I had my great idea, she thought. I look just the same. I am the same, really, it doesn’t touch you much inside if you don’t let it. All that’s a myth.

But although she smiled she felt like weeping and kept thinking of Sean. I’ve abandoned him, she thought. I’ve abandoned all that now.

She went downstairs to the breakfast room. There was no one there. She gazed out of the window at the rain sweeping in from the sea. Raindrops were splashing like smoke on the stone paths in the garden, and the wind was lashing the bent shrubs and bushes this way and that. But far out to sea a pale sun was shining on silvery-grey, white-capped waves, and she could see the edge of the dark clouds coming nearer. She thought she would go out for a ride later, when the storm had passed.

Brophy brought her bacon and eggs, and she ate hungrily, scanning the headlines of the
Irish Times,
which he had laid out in front of her. She had glanced at him anxiously when he brought it, but it was all right, he was his usual avuncular, cheerful self. There was no hint of shock or disapproval in his eyes.

It’s all fine, Catherine thought, it’s all right. My body isn’t hurt and my mind is clear and everything is straightforward now. He made love to me and it was coarse and brutal, like the pig of a man he is. But in its way it was thrilling too, in a quite different way than with Sean. Like riding a new skittish hunter for the first time and being thrown; frightening but compulsive too, so you want to do it again and control it. Perhaps I was like that for Sean.
Forget Sean
. I was right – it’s a medical thing like an inoculation in reverse. The second man immunizes you against an obsession with the first and brings health. I can do it with Andrew again if I like, whenever I like, or not at all if I don’t want to. It’s my life again, I’m free and in control.

She realized Andrew would probably ask her about marriage again, and she wondered if every night would be like that, or whether she could tame him. She had led him to her bed, after all; now she knew what to expect. But anyway there was no hurry; it didn’t seem an important problem at the moment.

The rain was easing off. Andrew seems to be sleeping late, she thought, with a secret smile. He must be tired. She poured herself some tea, buttered some toast, and scanned the newspaper idly. A headline caught her eye.

SINN FEINER CHARGED WITH RADFORD’S MURDER
TRIAL LIKELY IN TWO WEEKS

A sick, fluttery feeling invaded her stomach. She bent her head closer to read.

Dublin Castle confirmed yesterday that a man has been charged with the murder of Assistant Commissioner Radford of the DMP, who was murdered in Harcourt Street last week. The accused man was named last night as Sean Brennan, aged 20, a medical student at University College, Dublin. It is understood he was arrested in Merrion Square last week, and is currently being held in Mountjoy Prison.

The government is anxious to bring the case to court as soon as possible, and the trial is scheduled to take place within the next two weeks. Assistant Commissioner Radford was shot at point-blank range in Harcourt Street, and eye-witnesses at the time reported that two armed men ran off into a side street ....

There followed details of what little was known of the murder, but Catherine did not read them. She was too shocked. She put the paper down, her hand shaking. Sean must have been charged yesterday, perhaps while she was lying in her bath thinking of seducing Andrew. They probably tortured him, beat him until he confessed. Perhaps last night, while Andrew and I were …

And if they find him guilty, he’ll hang.

‘Ah, there you are! Good morning.’ It was Andrew. He came in, walked round to her side of the table, and kissed her neck. She shrank away. ‘No. Please don’t.’

‘Why not?’ His hands stroked her shoulders softly. A few minutes ago she might have liked it. Now it seemed a violation. ‘Leave me alone, please.’

‘What’s the matter?' This was worse than he had thought.

‘Oh, it’s nothing. I’m sorry, it’s not your fault. Just something I read in the paper, that’s all.’

‘Really? What is it? Show me.’ He sat down facing her across a corner of the table, and poured himself a cup of tea.

‘It’s none of your business.’

He drank the tea thoughtfully, and stared at her. More monkey tricks. He had thought at least this morning she would be pleased, happy as he was. Instead, here was the old arrogance back again. Did she think she could summon him to her room at night, and then slap him in the face the next morning?

He said, mildly enough: ‘You say there’s something printed in the paper and yet it’s none of my business?’

‘Yes. Oh, to hell with it. Look there then, if you must.’

She flung the newspaper across, pointing to the article. He read it. ‘So?’

‘So?’ She pushed her chair back and walked to the window, running her hands distractedly through her hair. ‘So Sean Brennan was my lover and now he’s going to hang.’

‘Oh.’ Andrew couldn’t think of anything to say. He felt ill, wasted, as though his blood had turned to ashes. As he had felt the day after Ardmore had burnt, when he had gone back to stare at the smoking ruins. And, just like then, something small began to smoulder within himself, and he knew that later, when he had recovered, the anger would flare and consume him.

He said, stupidly: ‘He was your lover? When?’

‘In Dublin. We were students at UCD together.’

‘And you did - let me get this straight, Catherine.’ He stood up suddenly, strode to the window, and spun her round to face him. ‘You did with a dirty little Sinn Feiner what you did with me?’

She stared at him, then shook her head. ‘Please, Andrew!’

‘Don't please Andrew me! I want to know! Did you?’

‘Yes!’ She stood quite still and glared at him, then relented slightly. ‘It was all over before I came down here. That was why I came.’

His face was very grim and hard, like her father’s when she had done something wrong. But there was pain there, too, in the lines round the eyes. She looked away; she didn’t want to see that. At least Andrew would live; he wasn’t going to hang.

She walked to the door at the far end of the room and said: ‘I’m going back to Dublin. I’ve got to see him.’

Andrew stared at her. ‘Why? You said it was all over. And if he’s a murderer, for Christ’s sake!’

She looked at him wearily. ‘I loved him.’

‘And you don’t love me?’

‘Oh, for God’s sake, Andrew! Look, I’m sorry. I said I loved him, not that I love him now. And if he's going to die ...’

Very carefully he said: ‘I thought after last night that you must feel something for me as well.’

‘Oh …’ She shook her head, trying to remember the feelings she had brought into this room, only a few minutes ago. Then she walked back down the room and took his hand. ‘I didn't make any promises, Andrew, did I? Anyway I don’t want to talk about that now. I just want to go to Dublin and see Sean.’

‘I may as well come with you then. I was going tomorrow anyway.’

‘If you like.’ She didn’t like it but she could see no way of resisting.

‘I’ll get David Ferguson to run us down in the car. There’s a train about eleven.’

When she got to her room there was a maid there, cleaning out the ashes from the grate. The maid asked if she should go but Catherine told her to carry on. Then she flung a few clothes and books into a bag and sat distractedly at her dressing table staring into the mirror. Her face was slightly paler than usual, the eyes wider and darker-ringed, but otherwise there was little to show the pain and guilt she felt. No tears, just that sick, empty feeling inside.

The maid interrupted her thoughts. ‘Is this yours, my lady? I found it on the floor beneath that chair.’

It was a folded, typewritten letter. The first time Catherine read it, it made no sense at all. She forced herself to concentrate and read it again.

Dail Eireann
c/o The Mansion House
Dublin

14
^th
 January 1920

Count Manfred von Hessel

Lambert Hotel

Dear Count von Hessel,

I have received your proposal which is, on face value, very interesting to me. I will meet you within the next few days. The arrangements will be made by the bearer of this, whom you may trust absolutely.