His breath was foul; Roz turned her face away. But he caught her wrists, pulled her towards him; he was just slightly shorter than her, but he pushed her against the doorway, and started pressing his wet mouth against hers, prising her arms above her
head and holding them there. Roz acted swiftly; she raised her right knee and thrust it hard into his groin. He groaned softly and let her go; but when she looked back at him, as she fled across the hall, his eyes were bright and his cheeks flushed with excitement.
Next morning he did not ride with her and after she had stabled her horse she came into breakfast nervous as to what he might say; but he was as always immaculately polite, almost distant, and nodded to her as if nothing had happened between them at all. But Eliza appeared at lunch heavy-eyed and listless, and hardly spoke.
Roz began to worry about her; she suggested twice that she might come back and stay with Lentia in London for a while, but Eliza said gaily that it was out of the question, that she wouldn’t dream of leaving Pierre even for a short while.
‘Well, Mummy, I think if you don’t mind, I might go back a bit earlier. Rosie has asked me to go and stay with them in Colorado, her new stepfather has a ranch there, I’d love to go. Would you mind?’
‘No of course not,’ said Eliza, her eyes almost frighteningly bright. ‘You go, Roz darling, and have fun. When do you want to leave?’
‘Oh, I don’t know, maybe on Sunday. Whenever it suits you.’
‘Fine. Now I think I’ll go and have my rest. I seem to be getting old, all I want to do is sleep these days.’
‘You’re not – ?’ Roz couldn’t bring herself to say it, to acknowledge what her mother must be doing, endlessly, horribly with du Chene.
‘Oh, no, darling, not yet, give me a chance. These things take time, you know.’
‘Do they?’ said Roz.
The night before she was due to leave, the three of them ate outside; whatever else, Roz thought, this place greatly resembled Paradise. The air was sweet and full of the sound of the poplar trees and the crickets’ evening chorus; she looked up at the towers of the chateau against the darkening sky, and across to where they were reflected in the great lake. In the hedges near the terrace there was the light of a thousand glow-worms; the new moon, a sliver of silver, was climbing the sky.
‘Look,’ said Roz, ‘look at that moon. Isn’t it perfect?’
‘“Softly she was going up, and a star or two beside,”’ said du Chene suddenly. ‘Is not that a most beautiful English poem?’
Roz looked at him, surprised. ‘It is. I didn’t know you read English literature, Pierre.’
‘Oh,’ he said, ‘I am full of surprises. I can quote you the whole of “Oh to be in England” by Robert Browning, as well.’
‘I bet you can’t,’ said Eliza.
‘Yes I can,’ he said and proceeded to do so, rather beautifully. ‘You see,’ he said to Roz, ‘I am not the ignorant French peasant you thought.’
‘I didn’t think you were anything of the sort,’ said Roz quickly.
‘Good,’ he said and smiled at her, patting her hand.
Roz pulled it away and felt him turning his attention to her thighs instead. Oh well, she was going home next day.
She went to bed early; she had just turned out the light and settled into the huge bed when there was a tap at the door.
‘Mummy?’
Silence. Another tap, more urgent.
Roz climbed out of bed and went over to the door, which she always kept locked against the threat of du Chene’s attentions. ‘Who is it?’
‘Rosamund, it’s Pierre. Open the door and come with me quickly. It’s your mother, I am worried about her.’
She unlocked the door; saw his face; tried to shut it again too late. He was inside the room, pushing her backwards towards the bed; he was wearing only a robe and it was hanging open. Roz tried not to look at him, just concentrated on fighting him; she was a big girl and strong, but he was stronger. He had her on the bed in no time, pushing her down on to it, pressing his slobbery mouth on to hers, pushing up the hem of her nightdress with his free hand. Then she felt the hand exploring her thigh, and creeping up, up towards her pubic hair; a hot panic engulfed her, she tried to scream, but his mouth was over hers, attempted to kick him, but she couldn’t move.
‘Arrogant English bitch,’ he said suddenly, almost cheerfully, and stood up, shrugging out of his robe. Roz shut her
eyes; she didn’t want to see. Then in the split second she was free, she raised one long strong leg and kicked him, hard in the chest; he staggered and fell backward and lay splayed on the ground, his hands clutched over his penis; he looked more than ever like one of those rather sad-faced small monkeys that hide in the corners of their cages at the zoo.
‘Get up,’ said Roz, ‘get up and get out. You’re disgusting.’
‘Oh Rosamund,’ he said, ‘don’t be unkind to me. I love you.’
‘No you don’t,’ she said. ‘You’re supposed to love my mother.’
‘No, I love you.’
‘Rubbish. Now are you going to go, or shall I call her?’
‘I’ll go.’ He scrambled up, still covering his parts, and groped for his robe.
‘I only wanted to stroke your pussy,’ he said plaintively. ‘Your beautiful English pussy.’
‘Oh, fuck off,’ said Roz, and then remembering his reaction when she hurt him the night in the drawing room, afraid that he would become aroused again if she went on being hostile, took him by the shoulders and marched him to the door.
‘Come along. Time for bed. Good night, Pierre.’
He went meekly enough, but at the door he turned once again, with an expression of great sadness. ‘Forgive me,’ he said, ‘I didn’t mean to harm you. It’s just that you are so beautiful.’ Roz relaxed her guard and suddenly his hand was inside her nightdress, feeling for, squeezing her nipple. ‘Beautiful,’ he said, his face millimetres away, ‘beautiful bitch.’
‘Fuck off,’ said Roz again, pushing his hand frantically away.
‘That is precisely what I want to do,’ he said, pushing it back again, working it down towards her stomach this time. ‘Do you feel nothing for me at all?’
‘Yes,’ said Roz. ‘Revulsion. Shall I knee you in the groin again, Pierre, or are you going?’
He looked at her, breathing heavily, his face flushed, his eyes still oddly sad.
‘I will go,’ he said, ‘this time. But I shall not forget you. There will be other holidays.’
‘There won’t. I shan’t come. I shall tell my mother in the morning. She’ll probably come home with me.’
‘I’m afraid,’ he said, ‘that your mother will not be surprised.’
‘What?’ said Roz, too horrified to be afraid any more, pushing his hand away from her repeatedly, ‘you mean she knows?’
‘Not about you. No, of course. But my very healthy appetite for – well, for young ladies.’
‘I don’t believe you. She wouldn’t put up with it. She wouldn’t stay.’
‘My dear child,’ he said, finally dropping his hand, fastening his robe, ‘she has no choice. Ask her about her wedding present when you tell her about tonight. Good night, Rosamund. Sleep well.’
He raised her hand and kissed it, formally, courtly. Roz stared after him, then went back into her room and slammed, locked the door. She leant against it, feeling first shaky, then sick. She longed to go to her mother, to be with someone, but she would be with du Chene, it was impossible, she had to cope with this, get through the night on her own. She went through into her bathroom and ran a deep very hot bath and lay in it a long time, trying to calm herself, to control her panic, her sense of revulsion, of invasion. And what had he meant? What wedding present?
Roz hardly slept; every time she closed her eyes she saw, felt, du Chene, his horrible clawing hands, his frightful slobbering mouth. She had never thought about sex except in rather abstract terms, or alternatively very romantic ones, in the height of her passion for David; now its worst implications had been literally forced upon her and she felt damaged, grieved.
Towards morning she finally fell asleep and dreamed, a confused, half nightmare, that she was tied down, on her bed, and he was coming at her, smiling, his robe flapping loose; she felt his hands pushing at her, probing her pubic hair, and then further, further up, and she woke up, her head tossing from side to side, her face wet with tears, and her own hands clasped together over her vagina.
She got up, dressed, packed, went downstairs to the kitchens and made herself some coffee; she was terrified he would appear, but then she saw him walking to the stables and relaxed a little. Now that it was morning, and life was becoming normal again, the nightmare was receding, had become something she could put away, keep under control, like so many of the unpleasant events that had punctuated her life.
What in some ways she wanted, longed to do was go to her mother, talk to her, tell her, but something stopped her. In the first place she felt it would simply prolong her agony, deepen her own distress.
The other thing was the deeply disturbing fact that her mother was married to this man, she must surely know what he was like, or certainly suspect, indeed he had said last night that her mother knew about his behaviour.
Roz went upstairs, finished her packing and then went along to her mother’s room. Outside the door she took a deep breath, visibly squared her shoulders, and knocked.
‘Mummy? Can I come in, I want to say goodbye.’
Roz went home to England, told her father she had had a marvellous time in France, and that her mother seemed very well, spent a month in Colorado with Rosie Howard Johnson, and then went back to school.
Everything, she kept telling herself, was fine. She was doing well; she had had a brilliant time with Rosie, and to begin with with Rosie’s eldest stepbrother, Tom, who was eighteen and just going to Harvard; he had clearly liked her very much, had gone out of his way to spend time with her, and she had liked him too. The only thing was that every time he kissed her, which he did two or three times, Roz began by enjoying it very much, and the whole flood of new and intense feelings which seemed to accompany the process, and then suddenly the vision of du Chene and his awful little body, and the feel of his hands on her, would rise up inside her head and she would feel sick and repulsed. She didn’t say anything to Tom Bennett, obviously, and tried to suppress the repulsion and recapture the other feelings, but it really didn’t work, and instead of hoping he would kiss her, she began to dread it. As a result Tom decided she was a cold fish, and left her alone.
Roz didn’t think too much about it at first, but then as the term went on she began to have nightmares, to wake up, as she had that first morning, crying, clutching herself; and the nightmares began to grow in intensity. She started sleeping badly; she would put off going to bed until later and later, and then, dreading the dreams, slept very shallowly, trying to ward
them off. Her housemistress noticed the way she was looking, and asked her if she was feeling all right; Roz said yes, perfectly, and worked even harder, acted even tougher; and then one morning, right in the middle of a maths tutorial, she felt terrible, started to cry, and couldn’t stop.
After an hour or so the matron, alarmed, phoned her father; he was in New York, Eliza was of course in France, Letitia was on holiday in Florence, and Sarah Brownsmith, completely at a loss as to what to do, consulted Susan Johns, who was at least, as she said to Susan apologetically, at least a mother herself.
As a result Roz found herself opening the can of worms and releasing them all over Susan that evening in the little house in Fulham where Susan now lived and where she had taken Roz (with the school doctor’s rather relieved permission) for a few days.
Roz had always liked Susan, but that night she learnt to love her. Susan did not do any of the things her father, or indeed her mother would have done. She did not become hysterical, or act particularly appalled, or threaten to inform the police, or attach the merest suspicion of blame to Roz, and naturally enough, not being Roz’s mother or father, did not go through the nauseating process of debasing herself, claiming it was all her fault, and offering her the world in order to help her recover.
She merely listened, quietly and calmly, handing Roz interminable tissues, holding her in her arms occasionally when the tears became so overpowering she was unable to speak, asked sensible questions, made her lots of cups of tea, offered her a drink, and even managed to make Roz laugh by forcing her to repeat, her own lips twitching slightly, the description of du Chene lying naked on the floor, covering his private parts with his little monkey hands.
‘Well,’ she said when Roz had finally finished, and finally stopped crying too, and was sitting exhausted but calm in the corner of her sofa, ‘none of it sounds too bad. Don’t misunderstand me, I can see it was perfectly awful, and I think you’ve handled it wonderfully, I think you’ve been amazingly mature about it all, but I just don’t think you have to go on worrying about it. Your big mistake was not telling your mother that morning, just talking about it straight away, so it didn’t have to fester away for months –’
‘But I told you,’ said Roz, tears welling up in her eyes again, ‘I couldn’t tell her, she’s having a bad enough time as it is, without that sort of thing to worry about, and anyway –’
‘I know. You didn’t want to have to relive it.’
‘No. I couldn’t face it. I’d just got away from him. It.’
‘Even so, all you’ve been doing is relive it ever since, instead.’
‘Yes. Sometimes I can’t think of anything else. It’s so horrible.’
‘Of course. Very horrible. Don’t get me wrong, I can see exactly how horrible it was –’
‘Can you? Can you really?’ Roz looked at her with suddenly hostile eyes. ‘I don’t think you could. Nobody could, who hadn’t gone through it.’
‘Roz,’ said Susan briskly, ‘when I was only about twelve, my uncle used to get drunk and wait till my mum and dad were out and touch me up in the front room. I didn’t know what to do, who to tell, I felt somehow I ought to like it because he was a grown-up so it must be right. Sometimes, I assure you, even now I can remember how that felt.’
Roz looked at her with a kind of desperate hope.