The Winter Folly (8 page)

‘You looked very pretty today,’ he said in a confiding tone, his gaze sliding over to her.

‘Did I?’ She was surprised. It hadn’t occurred to her to wonder if he had responded to her in that way. She had just hoped that she looked right, rather than pretty.

‘The other men were jealous, I could see that.’ He sounded pleased about it.

She remembered Robert Sykes’ face pressed up close to hers, the sight of the inside of his nostrils, and felt a wave of nausea. She clutched Laurence’s arm tighter and looked up at
him. He was suddenly handsome to her, with his fair hair carefully combed and his pale face. He seemed clean and neat and honourable, not like his brother in the least. She felt safe with him and a
rush of affection for him coursed through her.

My husband
, she thought, still wonderingly.
This is my husband.
She smiled back up at him. ‘I’m glad I made you proud,’ she replied.

‘You did. Very.’ He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. His mouth was cool from the night breeze. ‘And here we are.’

She wanted, in this moment of sudden intimacy, to ask him why he had chosen this strange guest house but before she could frame the question, they were walking up the steps and Laurence was
saying, ‘Let’s hope Mrs Addington isn’t on the desk,’ as he pushed open the front door.

But there she was, watching them as they came in. ‘Good evening, Mr Sykes!’ she trilled. ‘If you and your wife would like a drink, the bar is open to guests.’ She nodded
to an open door leading off the hallway and Alexandra turned to see a plushly carpeted room set up with a polished counter and easy chairs around small wooden tables. It was empty except for a man
holding a newspaper, peering out from around it to see who was in the hall. When his gaze caught hers, he quickly disappeared behind his paper.

‘No, thank you,’ Laurence said. ‘I think we’ll go straight up. It’s been a busy day.’

‘Indeed,’ the landlady said with a sugary smile. ‘And a very special one, too. Congratulations on behalf of us all, I’m sure.’ She watched with a knowing smile as
they walked up the stairs.

Alexandra stared at herself in the mirror. She’d come along the hall to the shared bathroom, with her night things over one arm. The idea of changing in front of Laurence
was horrifying and she had no wish to see him begin to take off all the things that civilised him and made him a gentleman – his jacket, waistcoat, shirt and cufflinks, his belt and trousers
and then . . . what would he reveal underneath? She felt appalled at the idea that he would humble himself by undressing in front of her. She wasn’t sure if he’d be vulnerable beneath,
a kind of helpless child, or reveal an animal maleness, like a bull or a stallion with its shameless, swinging organs – a strong and strident difference that she would have to contend with as
best she could. It didn’t seem right, not at all.

Her face was pale and her eyes frightened. She combed out her dark hair so that it fell long over her shoulders. She stared at her high-necked nightdress and, after a moment, undid two of the
buttons at the top. Then she quickly did them up again.

‘I don’t know what to do,’ she said to herself. Her cheeks looked hollow with fear. What was she doing here, in this strange place with this strange man? And what was about to
happen?

There was no help for it. She couldn’t stay here forever. Other guests might be waiting. And besides, it would look odd if she were too long. She picked up the pile of her clothes and
shoes, her washbag and hairbrush and made her way back along the hall. To her relief, Laurence had already changed into his pyjamas and cleaned his teeth in the room’s washbasin. Now he was
in one of the beds, a newspaper resting on the blanket.

‘Hello,’ he said, smiling as she came in. ‘I took this one, is that all right?’

‘Of course.’ She turned back the covers of her bed and slipped between them. They were chilly and she rubbed her feet to warm them up, as she did at home.

‘Are you all right?’ Laurence was watching her.

‘Yes, thank you.’ It was disconcerting. Her bedroom had always been a private place before now. The only person who had ever come in was her mother. Alexandra could still remember
her mother’s weight as she sat on the bed, one hand stroking Alexandra’s hair, the other holding her hand as they talked about the events of the day. Then, a gentle kiss, the footsteps,
the pause in the doorway as she turned to smile, and the sudden change from a person to a silhouette as the light went out. Since the accident, no one had come to turn out the light – she had
to go to the switch herself and scamper back over the cold floor to her bed. There were no bedtime kisses and no gentle words. Until now, perhaps.

She lay down and closed her eyes. Events of the day scudded through her head and before she knew it, she began to sink into sleep. A click made her eyes open wide to blackness; Laurence had
turned off the lamp. Her heart began to pound beneath her nightgown, thudding against her chest.

Nothing happened for a while and then she heard him get quietly out of his bed and walk around to hers.

‘Alexandra?’

She said nothing but squeezed her eyes shut, lying as still as she could.

‘Are you awake?’

Honesty had been drummed into her since girlhood. ‘Yes.’

‘May I . . . I’d like to . . . join you.’ His voice was low, almost pleading.

‘Of course.’ She did nothing to help him, though, lying stock still, one fist clenched with tension. She felt the blanket and sheet lift, and cold air waft in. He climbed in behind
her, squeezing onto the narrow mattress, pressing his body to hers.

She was holding her breath, she realised, and she released it slowly, pulling in another as quietly as she could. Laurence wrapped one arm around her, tucking his legs up under hers. He began to
nuzzle at her neck. She stayed utterly still, her eyes open wide against the darkness, wondering what she was supposed to do.

He was rubbing himself against her body, she realised, and one hand was stroking her behind, following the curve of her buttocks down and then up again, softly at first and then with more force.
Then he began to move his hips against her. Something hard prodded her in the buttocks as his stroking grew rougher, and the heavy breathing in her ear where he was pressing his face into her neck
louder.

‘Help me, can’t you?’ he muttered.

‘What shall I do?’

‘Pull up your nightdress.’

She hesitated. So this was it. That thing they had talked about was going to happen to her now. It was hard to imagine that it might possibly be heaven, but there was still time, she supposed,
for the bliss to begin. If only she weren’t so frightened. Reaching down, she slipped her nightgown up as best she could and lay still again, feeling exposed. Now Laurence’s hand was on
her bare bottom and he was stroking and pinching her there.

‘Do you like it?’ he murmured in her ear between his panting breaths. ‘Is this nice?’

‘Yes,’ she said miserably, and he responded by pinching her a little harder and saying, ‘Good, good.’

Now his hand moved suddenly around her hip and onto her belly. She gasped but managed to stifle it. No one had touched her here since the doctor had pressed her to check for appendicitis when
she was twelve. Aunt Felicity had given her hot-water bottles to press against herself when her period pains came, but had never looked. And now this man’s hand was on her – not just
any man, her
husband
– and to her horror, it was heading downwards, towards the private place between her legs where no one but she had ever been.

Long thin fingers that felt like knobbly sticks probed her. She bit her teeth down into her lip and concentrated on letting no sounds escape her, though she wanted to say
Stop! Don’t
do that!
and push him away. But the hard scrabbling on her tender flesh went on, as though he was searching for something underneath her. She realised that the prodding in her buttocks was
getting more pronounced and then a moment later, after Laurence had fumbled with his pyjama bottoms, she knew with a hot, appalled certainty what was poking at her.

What am I supposed to do?
she wondered, agonised. She had no idea. She had never imagined that this might happen with her facing away from her husband. Now he was sliding his hand
between her thighs and trying to press them apart. It felt vaguely ludicrous.

‘Can’t you help a bit more?’ he panted in her ear, and she obediently raised her leg. The hot-tipped prodding thing was at her buttocks, prying between them. She was in a
curdle of mortification and confusion, afraid of whatever it was that was supposed to happen next.

‘Turn around,’ he said.

She wriggled round, hampered by the nightdress twirled around her waist, until she was on her back.

‘Move your legs apart and I’ll go between them.’

‘All right,’ she said in a small, fearful voice. She was grateful for the cloak of darkness as she let her legs fall open, revealing the soft heart between them. She couldn’t
see him at all but she could smell Pears soap and a musty oil scent that might be his hair cream, and she could feel the warmth of his body, though his skin was still cool to touch. He was kneeling
between her thighs now and as she glanced down, she saw something long and thin rearing out from his groin, and quickly looked away, her breath coming in fast, frightened pants. Surely this would
hurt her, it must.

‘I’m going to try now,’ he said.

She shut her eyes as he lay down on her. He was not much taller than she was and almost as slim. His cool skin was virtually hairless and he didn’t weigh much as he let his body rest on
hers. Then she felt it.

‘Why . . . can’t . . . I . . .’ He spoke through clenched teeth. ‘What’s happening? What’s wrong?’

‘I don’t know,’ she replied anxiously. ‘What’s supposed to happen?’

‘Don’t be a goose, you must know that! You’re supposed to let me in. You’d better guide me.’

Guide you where?
she thought, but she put out her hand, moving it in the direction of the insistent prodder. Then she touched it, screamed and pulled her hand back as though it had
burnt her.

‘What’s wrong?’ he hissed. ‘Why the blazes did you do that? You’ll wake everyone up!’ He was evidently angry.

‘I’m sorry . . . I was startled.’

‘Come on, let’s try again.’

She put out her hand again, gathered her courage and seized the rod. It was hot and smooth and slender, like its owner.

‘Ow, don’t pinch it, you clumsy idiot,’ he snapped. ‘Now, put it in.’

But he might as well have asked her to conjure a coin from his ear. She had no idea where to manoeuvre the thing, or how she was going to take it in. There seemed to be no earthly way that could
happen. They carried on for ten fruitless minutes, Laurence getting more agitated and Alexandra more despairing at her stubbornly resistant body. At last, he swore hard under his breath and sighed.
She noticed that he was limper now, eventually shrinking away to a small, soft, curled snail of a thing nestled in the coarse hair at the base of his belly. He climbed off her and out of the little
bed, saying, ‘I give up. It’s a waste of time. Just work out what you’re doing wrong and we’ll try again another time.’

‘Yes,’ she said meekly, humiliated but deeply relieved now it was over. She knew it must be her fault that it had been such an awful experience. ‘I’m sorry,
Laurence.’

He grunted as he returned to his own bed. She rolled over, pulling down her nightdress. Sooner than she could have imagined possible, she was asleep.

But the next morning, the knowing look of the landlady and the impertinence of her raised eyebrow and the amused pursing of her lips were almost more than Alexandra could stand. She didn’t
know what to be more ashamed of: that Mrs Addington thought she had been successfully deflowered, or her own failure to do whatever it was that Laurence had wanted.

Present day

Even after more than six months of marriage, Delilah found it hard to remember that letters addressed to Mrs Stirling were for her. She picked up the daily stack that had been
left out for her in the hall and flicked it as she wandered down the long passage towards the kitchen. The post usually came early and John always sorted it first, removing anything that
wasn’t for her and spiriting it away into the estate office where he spent so many hours working, a place where she knew he preferred to be alone.

She didn’t recognise any of the correspondents, which meant it was probably the usual raft of requests. She was still getting used to being constantly approached for help by worthy causes
– some wanted her to attend a smart fundraiser, others requested free use of the house or grounds, and yet more asked for her to give money or donate objects. She wished she could help them
all but sometimes she wished they would leave her alone; if she acceded to all requests, the house would be continually full of people and empty of anything else, as it would have all been given
away. Besides, it wasn’t in her power to say yes or no without John’s permission, and he would only consider ideas that would bring the house as much income for as little effort as
possible. That was why photo shoots and filming were fine but he gave short shrift to suggestions that they should do anything for free.

Delilah tore open one of the letters as she went into the kitchen where Janey, their housekeeper, was cleaning the butler sink.

‘Morning, Janey. Is there any coffee on the go?’

Janey looked up with a smile. ‘Hello there. Yes, there’s some just brewed up fresh in the jug. I’ll pour you a mug.’

‘No, don’t worry, I’ll get it.’ She put the letters down on the scrubbed pine table and went to get herself the coffee. She liked the kitchen, a large and bright room,
and Janey kept it welcoming, with vases of flowers, bowls of fruit and the scent of fresh cooking. Delilah relished the feeling of being in a normal home. Nowhere else in the house felt like
this.

‘How are you today?’ she asked, sipping on her coffee.

‘Oh, very well. Lovely to see the sun, isn’t it?’