"Secrets of the Heart" - читать интересную книгу автора (Balogh Mary)

CHAPTER 2

LADY MURDOCH declared that they would do nothing more strenuous than visit the circulating library after breakfast. A week of almost constant activity was taking its toll of her energy, and she wished to be feeling well enough to enjoy the pleasures of the Upper Rooms in the evening, especially as she had now discovered her old friend and would have five years' worth of news to catch up on.

"Bertha and I will be quite happy to take tea all evening, I am sure," she said. "But I feel more than delighted that we will not have to bore you with our talk, cousin dear. You are a good girl and have stayed close beside me day after day, but I know that young tastes run to brighter pleasures. Tonight you will be able to join the dancing. Bertha's granddaughter and Lady Fanny Montagu seemed very proper young ladies and very suitable companions for you. And the duke is a very gentlemanly sort of man. I am sure he will be delighted if you join their party."

"Indeed, ma'am," Sarah said in some alarm, "I have no interest in joining in the dancing. I came here to be with you. And we have had a delightful time and made many acquaintances without attending the balls. I really have no wish to impose my company on his grace and the young ladies."

"Sarah," Lady Murdoch said, waving in her direction the knife she was using to spread clotted cream on her scone, "you know I have begun to think of you as my daughter. And my daughter should be attending these twice-weekly balls. I have been thinking, in fact, that I should chaperone you myself. Not that I care to dance, of course, though there was a time when I could have danced from evening to dawn and not paused for breath. Now nothing seems more convenient than that you attend the ball in company with Bertha's party."

Sarah lowered her eyes to her coffee cup. "You are more than kind," she said. "But really, ma'am, I have never danced in public and feel it is far too late to start now. "

"Bosh!" Lady Murdoch said, reaching for the jam.

The circulating library was crowded by the time their carriage deposited them outside its doors. Gentlemen read the newspapers; ladies chose novels, some buying, some sitting to read, others taking books away with them on loan. A few people sat quietly writing letters. Several gossiped. It was a crowded but comparatively peaceful place. Sarah relaxed when a hasty glance around the room assured her that there was no one there that they knew with any degree of intimacy. She was feeling too upset by the events of the morning to cope with meeting any casual acquaintance.

While Lady Murdoch sat down with a novel, frequently glancing over its top to check the identity of every new arrival, Sarah bought pen and paper and seated herself at an empty desk to write a letter to Aunt Myrtle. At least, that was what she intended to do. It was such a relief to sit with her back to other people and know that she had perhaps an hour to herself, an hour in which it was unlikely that she would be disturbed. Lady Murdoch would either nod to sleep behind her book or strike up a lengthy conversation with some new arrival.

She was very badly shaken. Indeed, she realized as soon as she had written the first sentence of her letter that neither her hand nor her mind was steady enough to enable her to continue. But she kept her head bent over the paper, the quill pen clutched in her hand. It just seemed too ironic, too unfair. This was her first visit to a public place in four years, indeed ever. And this was the first time in more than four years that she had dared meet new people and enjoy life. And after only one week she had run into him. George. Of all the places that he or she might have gone, they had been fated to converge on the same place. What made it stranger was that unless he had changed in four years, he had never been a man to seek out fashionable pleasure spots.

If his presence in Bath were not enough for her to contend with, there was her knowledge that Winston Bowen was somewhere there too. She had seen his name in the subscription book when Lady Murdoch was paying their dues on their arrival the previous week. She was not as surprised by his presence as by George's. It was almost to be expected that he would be wherever fashionable people gathered in any num- tiers. It was unlikely that she would see much of him. He probably would not seek her out in such a public setting, and his interests would doubtless keep him away from the places which attracted Lady Murdoch.

Absentmindedly Sarah was dipping her quill in the inkwell and outlining the words that she had already written on the page before her. She could remember the first time she ever saw George Montagu. She had been with Winston, out riding one afternoon. She had always spent a great deal of time with him since she and her brother, Graham, had come to live with her uncle and aunt, Viscount and Viscountess Laing, two years before on the death of their father. Winston was not, strictly speaking, a cousin. He was Uncle Randolph's son by a former marriage. Sarah's mother had been the sister of Aunt Myrtle, who had had the good fortune to make an advantageous marriage. But Winston was kind and had never seemed to mind having her trail around after him, though he was three years older than she. He had been an amiable boy who appeared to take nothing in life very seriously.

She was fourteen when they took this particular ride. It was a hot afternoon and they had stopped for a rest before turning for home again. She was sitting on a hillside, her arms clasped around her raised knees; Winston was sprawled beside her, a blade of grass between his teeth. But theywere not the only riders out that day. A group of four came cantering down the laneway below them, and Winston sat up to watch their approach.

Sarah stayed where she was when he got to his feet and bounded down the slope to hail their neighbors, a twin brother and sister with whom he sometimes associated. While he talked with them, she studied their companions, strangers to her. One was a very young girl who was having some difficulty controlling her pony during the halt. The other was a man. In any other circumstances he might not have drawn her attention. He was not exactly the Prince Charming type around which her youthful dreams were beginning to focus. He looked neither tall nor particularly muscular. His face was not remarkably handsome, nor his smile dazzling. In fact, he did not smile at all.

But looking at him idly, because he was the only real novelty in the scene below her, she was attracted by the grace and apparent ease with which he sat his horse. And she was impressed by the quiet way in which he went to the assistance of the little girl., "Oh, I can manage him perfectly well myself, George," the child said. "Don't fuss!"

"Not by tugging at the bit and digging in your knees that way, Fan," Sarah heard the man say. "You have to sit him and hold the reins in such a way that he knows you are in charge."

She liked his voice. It was low and calm, with no trace of either impatience or condescension.

After the group rode away, Winston climbed back up the slope and told her that the strangers were the Duke of Cranwell and his sister.

"Lucky dog!" he added. "Finished university a few months ago; succeeded to the title and fabulous wealth two years ago. Off on the Grand Tour next month. Some people have all the good fortune."

"You can't complain, Win," she said soothingly. "You have a good home, and Uncle Randolph is going to send you to Cambridge next year. And he has said that if you do well at your studies he will see about letting you travel Europe. And one day you will have the title. And you do have both a mama and a papa." This last was said somewhat wistfully.

He leaned across and covered one of her hands with his. "Don't get mopey, Sarah," he said. "They love you too, you know, and you have Graham and me for brothers. You like that, don't you?"

She smiled gratefully as he squeezed her hand and jumped to his feet again. For several months after that Sarah's Prince Charming had had a slight, graceful figure, steady, unsmiling eyes, and a calm, low-pitched voice.

It would have been better far if she had not seen the Duke of Cranwell again. Perhaps the other things that had happened would have been a little easier to bear. Perhaps. It would also have been better if she had never set eyes on Winston Bowen. But it was useless to think in such a way. As well to think it would have been better if she had never been born or if her parents had never met. Unfortunately, one had to cope with life as it was presented to one. Really there seemed to be very few free choices.

She had another very good reason for remembering that occasion when she had first seen George. It was only a few days later that Graham had killed Albert Stanfield. The memory could still make her head spin and her stomach churn. Graham was three years younger than she and feebleminded. Mama had died giving birth to him and something must have happened during the birth, because Gray was never normal. As a baby he had been unusually placid, smiling at anyone who bent over his crib, laughing helplessly at any antic that was performed for his amusement. It was only as he grew older that his family became unwillingly aware that this fair-haired, pretty little child was not of normal intelligence.

Sarah was particularly fond of him. And who could not be? He was a sunny-natured, affectionate child who liked to hang on her arm, stroking her hand lovingly and gazing worshipfully into her face. His mood rarely changed. Only occasionally, when he was teased as a half-wit, did he become agitated. And very rarely, if there was no one around to get rid of the teaser, he would fly into a frustrated rage and throw himself headfirst into a fight, fists clenched and teeth gnashing.

Sarah had not been with him on that particular day. She was helping her aunt plan a dinner party for her uncle's birthday. Graham had gone off to pick wildflowers and was gone for several hours. When he came home, he was very agitated and hid in a corner of his bedchamber, his face pressed to the wall, while Sarah tried to coax from him the reason for his withdrawal. He said nothing, only whimpered for hours.

And then the body of Albert Stanfield, twelve-year-old son of a neighbor's gamekeeper, had been discovered at the foot of a quarry. The boy had fallen thirty feet. His body was cut and bruised, presumably from the jagged stones that protruded from the quarry walls.

"Were you with Albert, Gray?" Sarah asked her brother gently.

"No, Sare," he said. "Gray picked flowers. Pretty flowers."

"Did he slip and fall, Gray?"

"Pretty flowers for Sare," he replied, looking at her with anxious, wary eyes.

"Come, sweetheart," she said, "let me put my arms around you. Did you try to save him, Gray, and you could not? You must not blame yourself."

"Gray don't want to play with that boy no more," he said, coming to nestle within Sarah's arms and gazing earnestly into her eyes. "Nasty boy, Sare."

"Was he?" she said, smoothing back a soft curl from his forehead and kissing his brow. "You don't have to play with him again, sweetheart."

And she had set herself to spend all her time with him for the coming weeks, intent on smoothing away the memories that troubled his dreams and sometimes brought a puzzled frown to his face in the daytime.

Poor Graham had been questioned interminably, it seemed, for several days, but of course it was pointless to try to coax a coherent story from him. He clearly had been present at the time of the accident, but equally clearly he did not know what had happened.

It was Win who finally wormed the truth out of the boy. Gray did not like his cousin; he was frightened of him. But that was understandable. Win was six years older than Graham and a confident, virile young man. The child was overawed. Win's persistent but not unkindly questioning drew from the child an admission that he had hit Albert.

It was officially concluded that Albert had fallen accidentally to his death. There was never any suggestion that foul play was suspected.

But after the funeral, Win took Sarah aside one day and told her the full truth very gently. He had been out walking himself and had been drawn toward the sound of loudly quarreling voices. He had arrived in time to see Graham push Albert over the edge of the quarry. Win had been too late to prevent the disaster.

Why had he said nothing before this? Sarah asked Iiim, wide-eyed with horror.

He directed at her that smile which was very attractive even in those days. "How could I do that to my own cousin?" he asked. "Or to you, Sarah? You know you are like my own sister."

"But if that is what happened, someone should be told," she protested.

"What?" he asked gently. "That Graham is a murderer, Sarah?"

"Murderer!" Her hand crept to her throat. "Don't be absurd, Win. He is a child."

"Child murderers hang in England as well as adults, Sarah," he said, gazing into her eyes.

She shook her head.

His hand covered hers reassuringly. "You and I know Gray is not quite normal," he said. "It would be a terrible injustice for him to swing, Sarah. But it would happen, you know. I am going to keep my mouth shut. You need have no fear. It will be our secret. No one else knows or ever will."

She grasped his hand and pressed it to her lips. "Win," she said. "Oh, my dear Win. How wonderful you are! How will I ever be able to show you my gratitude?"

She had been blind enough over the next few years not even to realize how he made use of their secret. She lent him money that was never repaid, ran errands, was constantly at his beck and call. And she had done it all gladly, worshipfully almost. She had never been conscious of serving him only to buy his silence.

She really had been as fond of Winston as of a brother. And proud, too. He had been an extraordinarily handsome boy as far back as she could remember, with his blond hair, hazel eyes, and white teeth, and with his laughter-filled face. As they both grew older, Sarah had become aware that almost every girl for miles around sighed for one smile from him. And she had become a little conceited about the fact that he was frequently in her company. She had enjoyed feeling envious female eyes on her as they entered church together on a Sunday or walked down the village street together. Foolish, foolish girl.

When she was sixteen and Winston was home from university for the summer, he had started to touch her. She hardly noticed at first. They had always been close. He had often held her hand or lifted her down from fences or tickled her until she was weak with laughter. But these touches were different and made her uncomfortable. He came up behind her once when she was sitting on a stile reading a book and put his arms around her waist. She smiled and put her head back on his shoulder. She expected him to pitch her backward. Instead he held her waist with one arm and explored the contours of both breasts with the other hand.

"Don't, Win," she said, uncomfortable.

"You've grown, Sarah," he said into her ear. And then he did pitch her backward, threatening to drop her on the ground until she shrieked for mercy.

Another time he was lifting her down from the same stile, his hands beneath her arms. And again he touched her breasts, his thumbs this time pressing in on her nipples. She slapped his hands away without stopping to think, and he grinned.

"I think we are losing our angular little Sarah and gaining a shapely woman," he said. "Look at this!" And his hands traced the curve of her waist and the growing fullness of her hips. He gripped her hips tightly suddenly and pulled her lower half against his groin. Then he released her and laughed.

"You really are turning into a woman, Sarah," he said. "I bet that blush reaches right down to your toes."

"Stop it this instant, Winston Bowen," she scolded, "or I shall tell Uncle Randolph."

"No, you won't, Sarah," he said, laughing into her eyes. "You like being touched, don't you?"

It went on like that all summer, small incidents that made her uncomfortable and uneasy yet had not seemed serious enough to make a big fuss over. Winston was an attractive boy, after all, and she was woman enough already, at the age of sixteen, to feel a twinge of excitement over the fact that he had noticed her blossoming womanhood and appeared to appreciate it.

It was the following summer that everything went wrong. He had not been home either at Christmas or at Easter, and she had completely forgotten those small incidents- from the previous year. She was delighted to see him, delighted at the prospect of needs having a companion close to her own age again. She was dearly fond of Graham, but he did not satisfy all her needs of friendship. And Winston had grown more attractive than ever, tall and muscular, like a blond god. And he was not one whit less amiable and carefree.

He began on her on their very first ride together. Again it was a hot day, and they had stopped to rest amongst some trees on a hillside several miles from home. She, foolish and naive, stretched out on the ground and spread her hands palm-down on the cool grass, sighing with contentment. Winston was quiet for a while, presumably stretched out beside her. Then she felt his hand on her breast.

"Don't, Win," she said, turning her face to him and laughing in some embarrassment.

"Don't what, Sarah?" he asked with wide-eyed innocence. And he moved the hand deliberately to the other breast.

"Don't do that," she said, flushing. "Please, Win."

"You have lovely breasts, Sarah," he said. "Full and firm." His fingers tightened around the one that rested in his palm.

"Win," she said, laughing again in hot embarrassment. "Please stop it."

"If you say so, Sarah," he said meekly. And he moved his hand away and placed it palm-down on her abdomen. He grinned down into her face as he pushed his fingers down between her legs and tightened his clasp of her.

Sarah pushed him away in a panic and scrambled up onto her knees.

He laughed. "Have I scared you, Sarah?" he asked. "That's more than I ever did with all the ghost stories I told and tricks I played when you were younger. Come and sit down again. You aren't afraid of me, are you? Silly girl. Come on. I didn't mean to frighten you."

She sat, and he stretched out beside her and regaled her with stories of his university days until she was giggling with amusement and forgot the discomfort she had felt a few minutes before.

Even so, she was a little more wary the next time he suggested a ride. She made an excuse not to go. It was several days later that he found her at her favorite haunt, the stile, where she was again reading. He stood beside her, his arms resting on the fence for a while, before suggesting that they go for a walk. She had been sitting and reading for more than an hour and agreed.

The walk took them across the pasture to a clump of bushes at the other side, where he suggested they sit (town. She was only slightly uneasy. She sat, her arms around her knees.

He talked for a while, until she was thoroughly relaxed, and then he reached for her hand. She gave it. They had often sat thus in the past. He tickled the palm with one finger until she giggled and would have pulled the hand away. But he turned it palm-up and put it to his mouth, his tongue continuing the tickling movements that his finger had abandoned. And then his mouth moved up her bare arm toward her short puffed sleeve.

She giggled again. "Don't be absurd, Win. You are tickling me." Her giggles stopped cold when he lifted his head and she saw the expression on his face. "Win," she said, "let go of my arm. It is time to be getting back."

"You tease, Sarah!" he said. "You know you don't mean that." And one hand came up to hold her chin as he lowered his mouth to hers.

Sarah froze. She waited for the kiss to stop. She did not like the sensations it created at all. She thought of Winston as a brother. Brothers did not do this with their sisters. And then he opened his mouth over hers and she felt his tongue pushing against her lips. She felt nausea and panic both at the same time and pushed at the hand that still held her chin.

He lifted his head to look at her. "Don't fight," he said. "You are bound to be frightened at first. But don't fight. You will like it if you will just relax."

"I don't like it," she said decisively. "I want to go home, Win."

"No, you don't," he said. "Lie down, Sarah, and relax for a few minutes."

"I don't want to, Win," she said, her voice beginning to shake.

But he would not take no for an answer, and she found that that muscular body, which she had admired for several years, now worked very much to her disadvantage. He took her by the shoulders, laid her back on the grass, and held her there with one hand on her shoulder and one leg thrown across her body. The other hand proceeded to explore her body, his palm pushing and kneading, his fingers prodding and teasing. His mouth was everywhere: on hers, on her throat, on her breasts.

All her struggles were quite in vain. She could not work an arm or a leg free with which to flail at him. Finally, when his hand went under her skirt and began to explore its way up her legs, she stopped fighting and started to cry. And her tears accomplished what her struggles had failed to achieve. He looked at her in surprise and immediately removed his hand from beneath her skirt.

"You are a tender little thing, Sarah," he said affectionately. "Are you still frightened? Most girls love doing this, you know. You are silly, are you not?"

"I don't want to, Win," she said through her sobs. "It isn't right."

"What is so wrong about it?" he asked, smiling down at her tenderly. "We were merely having some fun, Sarah. We have always had fun together, have we not?"

"Not like this," she said. "This isn't right. Aunt Myrtle would not like it."

He laughed and propped himself on one elbow beside her. "It would not be wise to tell her," he said. "Older people tend to forget what it is like to be young. You will learn to like playing, Sarah. The time will come, I guarantee, when you will be begging me to do this to you and more. Silly little girl." And he bent his head and kissed her gently on the cheek.

She accepted the handkerchief he offered her and dried her eyes and blew her nose on it. "Let me go home, Win," she begged.

"Come on," he said, jumping to his feet and pulling her to hers. "We will go together. Don't cry, Sarah. I wouldn't have hurt you, you know. You didn't think I would hurt you, did you? How could I do that when we have been the best of friends for years? Come on, smile and tell me you are not afraid of me."

She made a poor attempt at a smile. "I am not afraid of you, Win," she said, "but I don't like it when you do those things to me."

He pulled her arm through his, patted her hand, and walked slowly home with her.

"You know, Sarah," he said with an affectionate grin down at her, "you really can be a wild thing when you want, can't you? I didn't realize that you and Gray have that in common. I think you would have killed me back there without realizing what you were doing if I had not restrained you. Silly girl! Just like Gray with that Stanfield boy."

He squeezed her hand and proceeded to talk about other matters. But Sarah's heart felt turned to stone in her breast. Surely that had been a careless remark. Surely it was not a veiled threat. Not from Win! Surely not.

"Have you finished writing your letter, cousin?" Lady Murdoch's voice hissed in a stage whisper from behind Sarah. "This library does not appear to have any interesting novels. And there is absolutely nobody here today. If you need a little longer, dear, I shall sit quietly and wait for you. But really, my rheumaticks are troubling me quite badly. My back aches no matter which way I sit. I have already tried three different chairs to see if I can gain some ease for it."

Sarah looked up with a start and then back to the heavily outlined sentence on the paper in front of her. "Oh, we may leave immediately, ma'am," she said, laying the pen down and hastily folding the paper in two. "I really cannot think of anything to say to my aunt today. Perhaps tomorrow I shall be more in the mood."

"It is perfectly understandable, dear," Lady Murdoch said, still in the stage whisper, "that your head should be too full of the many pleasures in store for you here to enable you to write a duty letter to the viscountess. Maybe after tonight's ball you will have something of more importance to describe." She pursed her lips and nodded knowingly at Sarah.

The rest of the day passed quietly. They returned to their lodgings on Brock Street for dinner. Lady Murdoch decided to forgo the outing that was customary during the afternoon. She preferred to sit at home, she said, and listen to Sarah read to her from the only novel that had seemed at all worth bringing home from the library.

"I am very sensible of the fact that it is an exceedingly dull way for a young lady to spend an afternoon, cousin," she said apologetically, "but I console myself with the reflection that tonight you may be able to do something a little more exciting than sitting and talking with an old lady like me over tea as you would normally feel obliged to do. And really, dear, I am suffering from cruel indigestion. I begin to doubt that those horrid waters are doing any good at all. What do you think?"

Sarah murmured something soothing as she fetched a cushion to prop behind Lady Murdoch's back and a stool for her feet. It seemed to her that the waters would have to perform a miracle indeed to prevent some twinges of indigestion after a meal that had consisted of a large helping of beef and vegetables and two helpings of steamed pudding and custard.

But she said nothing. She picked up the gothic novel from the library and began to read it aloud. Not many minutes passed before the sound of very deep breathing mingled with the tones of her voice. She put down the book quietly when her cousin began to snore and crossed the space between them in order to arrange the cushion more comfortably behind the old lady's head.

She returned to her place and reached for the box in which she kept the purse she was netting in silk. She arranged the work on her lap and bent her head to it. She really was fortunate to have been contacted by Lady Murdoch five weeks before. At first she had been very dubious about going to live with an elderly stranger who was obviously self-indulgent and not a little vulgar. She had expected to be bored at best, to lie abused at worst. Yet there had been no answer to her advertisement for employment as a governess, and she was desperately in need of somewhere to go when the lease on her cottage expired. And she could not go back to Aunt Myrtle's, though her aunt was puzzled and hurt by her refusal to do so.

Could she have done anything to avoid the situation with Winston? she wondered. It was easy now to look back and judge herself harshly, to see her young self as a hopeless weakling. It had been harder at the time. Loving as her aunt and uncle were, she had always been conscious of the fact that they were not her parents and that their home was not hers by right. It had been a lonely feeling to know that she had no one of her very own to whom to turn in trouble. Poor Graham had provided her with more than sufficient brotherly love, but of course he was no confidant.

She had thought of going to Aunt Myrtle and explaining her unease over Winston, but it was easier to say she was going to do so than actually to do it. Aunt Myrtle had a very loving nature. She lavished that love on her orphaned niece, but she positively doted on her stepson. There was no one to match him in her eyes; he could do no wrong. And of course she had good reason to feel that way. Winston was a warm and a charming young man. And Aunt Myrtle led a hard life. Uncle Randolph was frequently sick and not likely to get better as time went on. He was consumptive, and though the disease progressed slowly in him, he did become steadily thinner as the years went on, and his spells of fever and coughing became more frequent. Sarah had found that she just could not bring herself to talk to her aunt and add to her troubles.

And then, of course, there was the other reason that had held her back from talking to anyone, the reason she had feared to admit even to herself. Was it possible that Graham could still be charged with murder if the truth of Albert Stanfield's death became known? Could he be imprisoned? Transported? Hanged? Sarah did not know and had no means of finding out without revealing the secret to someone else. But she had always feared the worst. English law could be very cruel. It perhaps would not take into consideration the fact that Gray was not fully responsible for his own behavior and that he was not normally dangerous at all.

She dared not discover the truth. She dared not do anything to offend Win. One word from him in the wrong ear and Gray's very life could be at stake. And he had alluded to the incident again for the first time in more than a year. By accident? She could not be sure.

So she had borne the burden alone. She had not, in fact, been actively unhappy or frightened of Winston. He had still been the brotherly figure whose company had always brightened her days. She still enjoyed talking and laughing with him. But she had steadily avoided being alone with him after the episode in the pasture. She had not even blamed him entirely for what had happened. She must have done something, she had felt, to give him the impression that she would allow such liberties with h^er person and even enjoy them. There would be no more such incidents, she had assured herself, now that he knew he was wrong.

She had avoided for a whole week being alone with him, but inevitably the time came when she could avoid him no longer. She had been doing an errand in the village for her aunt and was returning home along a country lane, swinging her reticule and singing quietly to herself. She was on foot, from choice, as the distance was only two miles and the weather cool but pleasant. Graham, who usually accompanied her on such journeys, was at home with one of his colds.

She decided suddenly that she would take the shortcut up over the hill to her right_. and through the woods to the pasture before her uncle's house. It was not that he wanted to shorten the distance, but the walk was so much prettier than that along the lane.

She was at the top of the hill, just about to move downward again into the trees when she heard a shout behind her. Winston was below on the lane, and he was turning and urging his horse up the grassy hillside toward her. Sarah felt an icy thrill of fear. It was too late to turn back to the relative safety of the lane. She had time only to master her panic and try to behave casually.

"I thought I might meet you," he called cheerfully when still some distance away. "Why did you not ride or bring the gig, Sarah?"

"Because I felt like the exercise. And it would not hurt you to walk sometimes, lazybones," she retorted, swinging her reticule in an attempt to look quite relaxed.

"I shall have to get revenge for that!" he said with a grin. And as he reached the top of the hill, he dismounted and moved up beside her.

"Are you not on your way somewhere, Win?" she asked.

"Certainly," he replied, "and have arrived. I came to meet you."

"Oh," she said, glancing ahead through the trees, but knowing very well that the house was well out of sight.

It was inevitable-she would almost have been surprised if it had not happened-that he would stop when they were among the trees, tether his horse, and suggest that they sit down for a while. It was not even a suggestion, she realized. She had no real choice. He took her by the arm, not ungently, but she knew she would not be able to break his clasp. She sat.

She listened to his chatter as he reclined on one elbow sucking on a blade of grass. But she knew with a hopeless certainty that this was only the preliminary, that soon the touching would start again. She hoped only that he would not go as far as on the last occasion. She would die of mortification if he put his hand beneath her skirt again.

"You are very quiet today, Sarah," he said at last, reaching up and drawing one finger along her jawline.

She smiled. She did not ask to go home. She did not ask him to remove his hand. She sat very still and hoped.

He sat up and drew nearer to her. "You are seventeen, are you not, Sarah?" he said. "A real woman now. And a very pretty one too. I bet all the boys in the village eye you when you walk by, don't they?"

Sarah blushed and looked at her hands, which were clasped around her knees. "I don't know," she said. "I have not looked to see."

He laughed. "Liar!" he teased. "I bet you enjoy the attention, Sarah, even if you pretend not to notice." He reached out his hand and brought it across her breasts, then spread his fingers so that his thumb and one finger pressed inward on her nipples.

She continued to stare at her hands. She did not tell him to stop. "You see?" he said. "You are doing it now. Pretending not to notice. But I can feel your nipples hardening, Sarah. Your body cannot lie, you see."

And it was true, she realized. There was a rush of feeling to her breasts, which seemed to tighten them and which made their tips uncomfortably hard, She continued to stare at her hands.

"Come on, Sarah," lie coaxed, moving again until he sat against her. He put an arm around her shoulders. "Lie down with me, and I will make you feel even better than this."

"I don't want to," she said almost in a whisper.

"Yes, you do," he said, kissing her cheek and hugging her closer. "You are just being a silly goose, pretending that you do not want it. Lie down now,arch."

She lay down without any assistance or coercion from him. And with her arms at her sides, and her legs stretched out before her, she allowed him to kiss her and fondle her. She did not even protest when he tugged at her skirt and began the exploration of her hare legs again, beyond pressing them more tightly together.

He lifted himself half across her, his hand making circular motions on her calf. "Sarah," he said, "so warm. So soft." His voice, quiet and deep, was hardly recognizable. "Just lie still now. I am going to unclothe you here."

Finally she reacted. She shook her head. "No," she said, "I don't want you to do that, Win."

He smiled a gentle, dreamy smile that again she hardly recognized as his hand went up over her abdomen to the fastenings of her undergarments. "Sweet little Sarah," he said, "of course you do. Don't be afraid. I won't hurt you. You don't think I would hurt you, do you?"

As he spoke, his hand knowingly undid the fastenings at her waist and was dragging the garments free of her body and down her legs.

And belatedly, realizing that this time he had no intention of stopping at merely fondling her, Sarah fought him in a blind panic. Arms and legs, fists, fingernails, teeth: all flailed at him. She cried, shouted, screamed, implored him until his open palm cracked across one cheek and she froze, gazing in horror into his eyes.

He had already dragged her garments free of her legs and pushed her dress up to her waist. "Stop it now, Sarah!" he commanded, though the words were unnecessary now that she lay perfectly still. "Calm down. I am going to take care of you. You aren't afraid that I will take you and abandon you, are you? Or get you with child? Don't worry. I have plenty of knowledge of the ways of the world."

In one mighty effort Sarah brought herself under control. "Let me go, Win," she said in a voice that did not sound quite as cold and steady as she had hoped, "or I shall tell Uncle Randolph and he will turn you off and you will be thrown into prison."

He laughed, a pleasant laugh of genuine amusement. "Dear Sarah," he said, "you look delightful playing the part of the outraged maiden. But you need not be afraid, you know. You are going to enjoy this. Far more than you would enjoy visiting me and Gray in prison. Do you suppose we would be allowed to share a cell? Until Gray's execution, that is."

She had been about to start struggling again. But she lay still then while he laughed and lowered his mouth to hers. She lay still as he brought his full weight down on top of her.

"Just relax now, love," he said, "and it won't hurt. I don't want to hurt you."

She lay still while he dealt with his own clothing. She allowed him to push her legs wide apart with his and to work his hands beneath her. She allowed him to lift her away from the grass. And she lay still, her teeth biting down on both lips, as he pushed very slowly into her.

And he was right. He did not hurt her. She felt as if she was going to be hurt, as if she was being stretched and stretched until she must burst. But then something inside her really did give way and there was no more stretching until he was deeply embedded inside her.

There was no pain. But there was the almost overpowering nausea at being held wide open to his invasion, at knowing that there was nothing left that she held secret from him, at knowing herself violated. During the interminable minutes while he moved in her, rhythmically thrusting and withdrawing, removing from her the last vestiges of personhood, she bit on her lips, concentrating on holding in check the terrible urge to vomit. She feared his hands that could inflict pain, and that part of his body that could impale and degrade without hurting, and she dared not disgrace herself further by being sick.

Finally, when there was nothing of herself left for him to take, he groaned against the side of her face, buried himself deep inside her body, and relaxed. She lay staring at the sky until finally he pulled himself free of her and lifted his body away. He lay on the grass beside her for a while, but finally his hand reached out and took hers.

"You see, Sarah?" he said. "There was nothing to be afraid of, was there?"

She said nothing.

He turned his head to look at her. "Still quiet?" he asked. "Are you sleepy? It is quite natural for you to be so, you know. I am too."

"No," she said tonelessly.

He raised himself on one elbow again and smiled down at her. "You enjoyed it?" he asked.

“No."

"Nonsense!" he said, cupping the side of her face in one hand and turning her to face him. "But of course, it was your first time. You were a little frightened, were you? It will be better next time, Sarah."

And finally she started to cry. "I don't want there to be a next time, Win," she said.

He took her into his arms and cradled her head against his shoulder. "Silly girl," he said tenderly. "I am going to look after you, Sarah. I'll never abandon you. When Papa is gone and I marry, I shall set you up in the dower house and you can always live there, even if you do not remain my mistress for the rest of your life. You don't have to be afraid."

He held her and rocked her until she finished sobbing, and then he dried her eyes with his handkerchief and kissed her eyes and her mouth tenderly.

Sarah jumped as her netting slipped off her lap and fell to the floor with a clatter. The rhythmic snoring across the room from her stopped.

"Oh, goodness," Lady Murdoch said, "I do believe I missed the end of the chapter, dear. I must have dozed off for a minute. Now I shall have to bore you, poor cousin, by having you read it over again to me. Tomorrow, though. I really think it must be time for tea. I feel quite famished. Why did you not ring for the tray, Sarah? You did not have to wait for an old thing like me to wake up, you know."

"Indeed, ma'am," Sarah said, putting her work away carefully in its box and crossing the room to the bell pull, "I had not realized how late it was. But I am sure the tea is all ready to be brought in. Shall I rearrange your cushion?"