Authors: Fiona McIntosh
‘Are you all right, Miss?’ a young woman asked. She was in the uniform of the tearooms at Hanningtons.
‘Yes . . . yes, just a headache,’ she lied.
‘Why don’t you come into the warm and —’
‘Thank you, I shall be fine,’ she replied with an embarrassed smile. ‘The sea air will clear it.’ Stella pushed off the wall and pleaded with her feet to keep her moving.
She pulled a silk headscarf out of her bag and wrapped it around her hair, tying a knot under her chin. She hurried down the street, trying to put as much distance between her and the suspicious Georgina as she could.
She glimpsed the seafront ahead; she could hear it now as well as see its vast greyness and that colour wouldn’t change, she suspected, because the weather felt to be cooling by the minute. So much for being on the cusp of summer! A wind had picked up and blew harder, cutting past her overcoat and whistling around her ears to make her bend her head to keep her eyes from watering. It nearly blew her back around the corner as she rounded it and this part of the seafront looked almost deserted, save a few hardy souls pushing prams.
She gasped at the temperature drop now that she was exposed and she glanced around for where she might shelter. There was nowhere. Stella looked left and stopped a passer-by.
‘Excuse me, please, Sir, where does this lead?’ She pointed.
‘To the Old Steine.’
‘Steine?’
‘Bus terminus.’ The fellow flicked a cigarette, pulled his collar up and lurched on. He looked like a worker coming off a shift and eager to be home. She couldn’t blame him. She followed in his path, heading back towards Hove, wondering whether it mattered if Rafe found her. What did he expect of her? What possible future was there for them? Her instincts told her she should run in the other direction; go straight home to London and send for her belongings from Harp’s End and forget the name Rafe Ainsworth and his wretched letter. Forget the soulful, searching gaze that made her feel naked, or the mellow – often sardonic – manner that teased her, or even the smooth voice that rarely raised itself beyond calm and which seemed to make her feel safe. Forget the boy in the photos and the Arabian desert that she wished she could share with him and hear him speak its language. She hardly knew him, anyway – certainly wasn’t much the wiser since their first meeting. She knew she must force herself not to recall his touch, the hardness of his body, the softness of his mouth . . . his tongue, his . . . Stella gave a small cry as someone grabbed her and pulled her into a doorway. It was dark and smelled damp but it didn’t matter because for all the instinctive warning bells clamouring within, it was Rafe who held her. The voice she thought she could ignore, the gaze she thought she could forget and the mouth she hoped she wouldn’t crave made instant mockery of her resolve. Confronted by him, her best intentions melted away.
‘Sorry for startling you,’ he said softly and cupped her face. ‘May I kiss you?’
‘If you don’t, I’ll die.’ She loved the bright smile that parted his lips and stretched his cheeks, fired his eyes and changed his brooding presence.
Stella forgot where she was for several heartbeats, lost in his affection, heedless of being seen kissing in a doorway like a . . . The thought made her pull away sharply.
‘Rafe, this makes me feel like a —’
He pulled away. ‘Don’t say it.’
‘Why not? It’s how I’m behaving. On the open street, no less.’
He stepped back, pulled his coat closed and reached for her hand. ‘All right, then. Will you come with me?’
‘To where?’
‘Somewhere safe, away from prying eyes.’
‘Will it make me feel less like a street girl?’
‘That’s up to you.’
She took his hand, allowed him to lead her. As they walked, he put his arm around her, pulled her tightly to him, and Stella knew they couldn’t be physically closer if they tried. And as soon as she thought it, she knew she must adjust that notion . . . they could be closer. Stella walked, no longer allowing herself to think on anything specific. If she did, she knew she might tear herself free and run like a frightened rabbit. Instead, she anchored herself to the safety of his warmth and bulk and cleared her mind of all thought.
It wasn’t wrong . . .
With Rafe everything felt safe, everything felt right.
It was like moving in a dream state; she was with the single person she wanted to be alongside and suddenly nothing from outside their special bubble of intimacy could intrude. Her awareness of his presence was heightened to being able to pick out the sound of his individual footsteps on the pavement while the colour and sounds of everything else around her appeared to fade. The lonely cry of seagulls swooping on the beaches became distant sound, while even the rhythmic break of the waves on the foamy shore dragging shingle back against the sucking sands became simply a sigh on the edge of her consciousness. She barely saw passers-by smile, or men who lifted their hats in a silent salutation.
Rafe did, though. He was seemingly focused for both of them; nodding, touching his hat in turn, while all she could concentrate on was her escalating heartbeat. She fixed her gaze on the traditionally whitewashed buildings of Brighton to calm the timpani of fear, to anchor herself, but her eye tripped on a large terracotta façade. Where were they? She was walking up some stairs and then he was guiding her through a revolving door. He did all the work. Her job was to put one foot in front of the other, no words exchanged.
There were voices, people smiled at her. She managed to nod but no smile would come. Stella drifted away to look up at massive vaulted white and gold ceilings. She passed a smoking room with club chairs upholstered in soft leather, small Persian rugs. Where was this place?
They were now following the footsteps of a young man in a uniform. ‘Would you like to wait for the lift? It’s the third floor, Sir.’
‘We shall be fine with the stairs. In fact, just give us the key. We have no luggage, as you can see.’
‘Er . . . fine, Sir.’
‘My friend needs a rest. She’s come over a little faint.’
‘Can I fetch you —’
‘No, she just needs some quiet for a few hours. I’ll sit with her and order some tea and sandwiches later, perhaps.’
‘Very good, Sir.’
Stella watched some coins change hands.
‘Come on, Stella,’ Rafe said and they were climbing one of the grandest staircases she could imagine with its sweeping ascent of wide marble stairs over which chandeliers hung from magnificent archways. She could appreciate it and yet felt disconnected from the beauty as though moving in a trance. Stella heard a door close and with its soft click became fully aware that they were alone in a vast chamber. Its series of tall windows opened onto a long balcony that overlooked the promenade to the beach where the breeze over the English Channel was stirring the waves into gentle white caps.
‘It smells beautiful in here,’ she remarked.
‘The Brighton Metropole was built just over forty years ago and has its own perfumier. They use it to scent their rooms,’ he said, still by the door. ‘Speaking of rooms, this is not the most lavish, I regret.’
‘No, that might attract attention,’ she murmured to herself.
‘It’s booked under your name but I can stay a while without raising suspicions.’
Rafe must have seen her shiver because he walked across the vast expanse of carpet to draw the curtains, which immediately darkened the room mutely lit by a single standard lamp. Stella moved away from the windows and the world outside to where a fire danced in the ornate marble fireplace. He arrived silently behind her to help her off with her coat; his had already been cast carelessly across a sofa together with his hat. She followed suit, removing gloves, scarf and hat. It kept her nervous hands occupied and Stella wondered if he felt the same way.
‘I went for the ensuite with hot water rather than cold or sea water,’ he said. She heard the awkwardness; was relieved by his uncertainty.
‘How long do we have?’ Stella hated how her simple query sounded vulgar.
‘Long enough,’ he replied, picking up that hidden question, oddly lacking in his usual adroitness with words. She waited, forcing him to be more accurate. ‘I said I’d pick up Georgina at six.’ Stella wanted to glance at her watch. He saved her the trouble. ‘Nearly four hours.’ Now he sounded sheepish.
Long enough
, she allowed to echo through her mind. Long enough to tumble into bed, long enough to fall so deeply in love she would be ruined for others, long enough to spoil each other’s lives . . . and those who loved them.
‘Stella, listen, if you don’t —’
‘But I do!’ she declared, finally emerging from the stupor. ‘I just don’t trust our wisdom.’ She looked up and his expression was filled with sympathy. She could sense the longing that tiptoed across the tightrope that stretched the short distance between them. Her yearning to be in his arms wobbled its way straight back to him. ‘I mean . . . there’s no going back,’ she offered, her words sounding tremulous. ‘We can’t undo it. We won’t be able to change the hurt it may cause to ourselves or, more importantly, to others.’
‘I’m impressed you can think of others in this moment when all I want to do is —’
‘Then just do it, Rafe,’ she whispered, unable to bear the tension any longer.
To hell with others
whipped through her mind. To hell with having to be responsible all the time; to hell with the world beyond this warm room with the wind blowing people’s hats off outside and flames dancing joyously inside, burning with the same hot intent that was coursing through her.
At her challenge spangles of desire stirred deeply and began to pulse in time with her heartbeat, except this time the drumming was a throbbing need. He moved nimbly, silently, and pulled her so close Stella lost her breath. She clung to him, losing herself in the delirium of lust within his embrace. Nestling within the absurd loss of control was a curious sense of safety that his arms provided – here she was home, here she was secure, here no one else intruded.
Clothes were being unbuttoned, eased off shoulders and hips to pool at the floor like discarded skins, leaving them with nothing standing between their flesh . . . no longer even her conscience. That had floated from her when he’d unclasped a final layer of her clothing and the cold had urged her nipples erect. His arms had stolen around to hold her, helpless hands reaching to cup her breasts. Guilt tiptoed away to vaporise in the flames, which were now the only sound in the room to accompany their heartbeats that Stella was sure she could hear. She swung around to face him.
The fire’s warmth couldn’t touch the heat searing in his gaze. ‘Stella . . .’ he murmured, stepping back slightly, heedless of his hard nakedness, his voice struggling to get past the passion that was clogging in his throat.
‘Don’t say any more,’ she said, hoping it didn’t sound too much of a plea. ‘Show me.’
He picked her up as easily as she recalled him lifting Grace and she instantly forced herself to banish that memory, or it would allow all those obstacles back into her conscience. She wanted her mind to remain empty, like the wilderness he loved – whether it was desert or the Weald – and where there was only the parched need for each other.
Rafe laid her gently on the coverlet and the cool of the satin pricked her skin to gooseflesh.
‘Are you cold?’ he whispered and began pulling away the covers until even cooler sheets made her shiver slightly.
She shook her head but it didn’t matter. He was suddenly next to her, his body also pounding with obvious desire yet he deliberately held back while he gazed the length of her in the dim light. She could tell he wanted to talk, wanted to prolong this time that perhaps they might never have again. But Stella didn’t want any words in the way right now; words often led people to places they didn’t want to go. Words might lead Rafe and herself away from this cocoon back to Harp’s End, where people who loved him and trusted them both lived. Or perhaps even London, or St Albans, to where those who loved and depended on her waited.
Her thoughts tripped on the vision of the faces of innocents.
This is madness. This is selfish. This is —
His mouth tenderly closed upon her lips and sealed her doubt. She wanted him. Stella arched her back to reach up and pull Rafe closer, harder to her and he responded eagerly; seemingly all of his tentativeness had fled too. He pulled the sheets up over them as he moved to cover her body with his – it felt like the tent she’d seen him peeping out from as a boy . . . the place she’d wanted to share with him.
All thought blanked as Stella rode her passion to a height she didn’t know was possible and where, in the cosmos of a breathless, beautiful ache of desire, she discovered her new sense of belonging, her true home, which was Room 19 of the Metropole, in his arms . . . moving with him to their own rhythm as their selfish pleasure gave her a sense of healing. Rafe was the conjuror working his magical, cleansing affection on her that stripped away all her past grief and replaced it with tender loving. Her excitement escalated further by his sighing relief as pleasure trembled through him and Stella let go then, giving herself completely. She thought she may have whispered his name as they slipped quietly down the gentler slope to the liquid warmth of their entangled bodies.
Stella made a nest in his arms and settled in with a soft sigh. With the back of his fingertips Rafe traced the shape of her neck and shoulder, passing down the length of her ribs to her hip. There his hand rested, releasing her from the ticklish sensation that had made her smile.
‘What are you thinking?’ he asked softly, kissing her forehead, his lips lingering on her skin.
‘That I love you,’ she replied, not giving herself even a moment to consider whether to spill this truth.
‘Thank heavens for that. I thought you were going to start muttering about who we’re hurting.’
She turned to look at him, ensuring he wasn’t teasing her. ‘No. I’ve already considered that.’
Rafe propped himself on an elbow. ‘And?’ He gazed deeply into her eyes and she could tell he was vulnerable.
‘I don’t care. I hate myself, but . . .’ Stella shrugged. ‘It’s no good hiding behind bluster or empty words. The truth is I simply don’t have enough room in my heart for anyone but you.’
‘Your brother and sister?’
‘It doesn’t hurt them. I am providing for them.’
‘Grace?’
She paused. Grace was the one person who might suffer in the equation of their adultery. ‘Grace is a child. She can’t begin to understand what is happening here.’
‘She loves her mother.’
‘Yes, but I suspect the truth is more that she wants her mother to love her in the same way that her father loves her. The latter fact hasn’t changed because of us, and I refuse to be held accountable for whatever lacks in her mother.’
He considered this. ‘And speaking of Beatrice . . .’
Stella lifted a shoulder, her lips thinning. ‘Beatrice loves you but in an almost sinister way. I can’t speak for her but I can tell you that my feelings come from a different place. I can put my hand on my heart and swear this love stems from purity, not for gain . . . not for a husband, not for status, not for wealth, not for any form of acquisition other than your love in return. If we had to live in a hovel and catch rabbits for food, I suspect my feelings for you would sustain me through the challenge.’ She grew serious. ‘I thought you wanted to avoid crowding all the others into this bed with us?’
He laughed sadly. ‘I do, and yet they loom over us, don’t they?’
There was no denying it.
‘Dear Stella.’ He squeezed her hip. ‘Trapping rabbits will not be necessary.’
She turned to face him, in a position suddenly to study individual hair stubble in his chin, the soft suggestion of the dimple she sensed from his childhood, the thick, dark flop of hair that had fallen across his forehead, which she tenderly pushed back. ‘I was trying to make a point.’
‘Which I do understand. However, I don’t wish you to become anxious. Things must change.’
‘Do you mean in your life?’
‘In all our lives.’ Rafe sounded wistful.
‘What does that mean?’
‘I don’t know. There are others beyond our family in this bed, Stella.’ She frowned, puzzled, waiting for him to elaborate. ‘The old enemy in Germany is beginning to gain strength again.’
She blinked.
Germany
. That was a twist in their conversation she hadn’t seen coming. ‘Adolf Hitler’s in our bed?’
‘We can jest but he seems to have a plan in mind for Germany and there’s nothing shy about it.’
‘War?’ she whispered, vaguely horrified to be having a second conversation about it in the same day. It was time to come clean with him. ‘Rafe, I have to own up to something but you must promise you won’t be angry with me.’
‘Have you ever heard me angry?’
‘I have, actually.’
‘Oh, really,’ he mocked.
‘Last night.’
He made a clicking sound in his palate. ‘That wasn’t anger with Beatrice; that was years of disappointment and despair. If anything —’
‘I’m not talking about that,’ she cut in, embarrassed. She wanted to own up quickly. ‘I’m talking about later, when you spoke to Basil.’
Rafe’s unflappable demeanour slipped and his expression clouded.
‘It was an accident. I was expecting a late call from Suzanne Farnsworth, you see.’
He waited.
‘After your argument with Beatrice I stayed in my room, too embarrassed I suppose by what I had witnessed to be confronted again. You came to my door and I . . . well, you know what I did. Later, I tiptoed to the parlour to get a snack. I could hear you stomping about upstairs and, well, frankly, I wanted to put some distance between us. I was on my way back to my room when the phone rang in the main hall. It was so loud I thought it would wake the entire household. I remembered Suzanne and dashed to the phone.’ She looked anxiously at him but couldn’t read his expression.
‘But I answered first,’ he said.
‘I didn’t know what to do. I was damned either way.’
The silence lengthened between them like a dark cavern suddenly opening up. She stroked his cheek. ‘Rafe, I would never repeat anything.’
‘I know. It’s why I can trust you.’
‘What do you mean?’
He leaned back and checked his wristwatch. ‘I’m sorry, Stella, I have to go.’
‘Wait! You can’t leave it like this. You’re angry with me.’