To Love and to Cherish (28 page)

“Inkerman? Yes—”

“I mean, do you know what it was
like
? No, of course you couldn’t. It doesn’t matter what you’ve heard or what you’ve read in the newspapers, you couldn’t know what the fighting was like there, the unbelievable—the brutality of it, the beastliness. It was hand-to-hand combat at the end, and it wasn’t a battlefield, it was an abattoir.” His body was bowed in half, leaning forward, his eyes bright black with intensity.

“You were wounded, we heard.”

“Shoulder and thigh, both from the same Russian bayonet. Before he could kill me, my corporal cut his head off.” Again the chilling, high-pitched giggle. “That wasn’t—that wasn’t—that wasn’t what did it. Something happened to me. I was afraid. First time. But—not normal fear, the kind any soldier feels in the heat of battle.” He wiped his hand across the sweat on his forehead and tried to slow his words. “I mean paralysis. Not being able to move or speak.
Paralysis
. Do you understand?”

“Because you were ill, your disease. You were—”

“No, not because of that! That came later. This was different. After I was wounded, I knew I couldn’t go back, couldn’t fight again.
I could not
. And they’d have sent me back, no question of it. My wounds weren’t serious enough to get me invalided out for good.”

“The letter from the War Office said you were on a hospital ship in the harbor when the storm struck.”

He nodded quickly, over and over. “Shut the door, would you?”

Surprised, Christy got up and closed the door to the drawing room.

“No one knows this, not even Anne. It’s a secret.” Geoffrey told the rest in a fast, eerie whisper. “My ship went down in the storm, but somehow I made it to shore. I was naked—I took the clothes off one of the corpses on the beach. That’s when it hit me that nobody knew who I was! See? So I let myself be found, babbling like an infant, claiming I’d lost my memory. Everything was in chaos, you can’t believe what it was like. No one knew me—what was left of my regiment was on the other side of the peninsula. So there I was, wounded and incoherent, possibly insane. Five days later they shipped me home.”

“Home?”

“To Portsmouth. I’ve been in an army medical barracks in Fareham since December.”

Christy tried to absorb it. “But why? Why didn’t you tell them who you were? Why didn’t you come
here
?”

He slumped in his chair, as if telling the story had exhausted him. “Why?” he said irritably. “I’ve just told you why, weren’t you listening? Isn’t that your bloody
job
?” He looked down at his left hand, which was clenched in his lap like a claw. “Little bit of stiffness,” he muttered, catching Christy’s eye. “From the . . . from the wound. Say, you wouldn’t tell any of that to Anne, would you? All I said was that I’d lost my memory. She didn’t believe it, but she can’t prove otherwise.” His attempt at a playful smile crumpled. “I don’t want her to know the truth. You won’t tell her, will you, Christy?”

It took him a few seconds to be able to say, “No, I won’t tell her.”

“Ah, I knew you wouldn’t.”

Beyond the window, the setting sun was shining in Christy’s eyes. “Why did you leave Fareham?”

Geoffrey hesitated. “Actually, they asked me to leave.” He looked away. “They found out about me having malaria, you know, and told me to clear out. They think it’s catching, the bloody sods. Gave me ten pounds and a suit of clothes and wished me the best of luck.” His laugh was hideously artificial. “It was like—like leaving the Bodmin gaol after a period of penal servitude. But it was time to go. I needed . . . I needed . . .” He looked lost. “I needed to see my wife. My friends. Friend,” he amended, with a terrible wistfulness.

“What will you tell the military authorities? They still think you’re dead.” It seemed that all Christy could do was ask questions.

Geoffrey began to squeeze his left hand with his right. “I’ll tell them my memory was miraculously restored after I left hospital. Ha, ha! Like my wife, they probably won’t believe it, but do you know, I’m a wee bit past caring.”

Christy found himself on his feet, hearing himself saying, “I must go. I’ll come again, but I have to go now. Call on me anytime, if I can—if you need anything from me—” He broke off stupidly. What could Geoffrey need from him? What could he give?

Geoffrey was looking at him strangely. “Go, then,” he said, angry again. He patted the sofa cushion next to him. “I’m going to lie down, I think, have a little nap before dinner.”

Christy stopped at the door. “Shall I stop by Dr. Hesselius’s house on my way home? Ask him to come and have a look at you?”

“God, no. No more doctors. I’ve got my little pills.” He patted his waistcoat pocket. “I’m just tired, that’s all. It’s been a moving and emotional day for me. Odysseus back from his travels, don’t you know.” He uncovered his teeth again in another travesty of a grin. “The analogy breaks down, though, since my wife as Penelope leaves a certain something to be desired, don’t you agree?”

Christy went out without answering.

***

Geoffrey’s memorial marker was as far away from his father’s tombstone as the small confines of the family burial ground allowed. Last November, Anne had thought he’d have wanted it that way.

D’AUBREY

Geoffrey Edward Verlaine, 6th Viscount

B. 12 Mar. 1823 D. 5 Nov. 1854

At rest now.

At rest now
. Not exactly. How he would relish the macabre irony of this stone when he saw it. She hoped she was nowhere around when that happened; most of Geoffrey’s humors depressed her, but his bitter, sardonic one laid her the lowest.

Come to me, Christy
, she prayed with her eyes closed, but when she opened them he wasn’t on the gravel path, or coming over the crest of the hill from the house. The sun going down behind the dark trees looked cold and indifferent in the whitish sky; she shivered, and pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders.
Please come, Christy
. She sank into a lifeless revery.

It grew colder, darker, but she didn’t stir. There was still a chance. The crunch of stones made her lift her head. She put her hands to her cheeks and rose from the chilly stone bench, feeling hope surge inside. He came toward her, through the gate she’d left open for him. But he stopped on the far side of Geoffrey’s marker and came no closer.

She felt the warm, welcoming blood drain from her face. She held out her hands, whispering, “Can’t you touch me?” He didn’t answer; his beautiful eyes were dark with misery. “My God, Christy—can’t you even touch me?”

“Anne.”

In that one word, she thought she heard pity. She turned her back on him, covering her eyes. After everything, this was the worst. Christy’s hands, suddenly holding her shoulders, were no comfort. She shrugged away, hugging herself. She hadn’t wept before. Now hot, stinging tears clogged in her throat, her chest—everywhere but her eyes, which were quite dry.

“Don’t, Anne,” he begged, touching her again. “For God’s sake.”

Her head shot up; she whirled on him. “For
God’s sake
? Don’t talk to me about your God, Christy. This is his punishment on us, isn’t it?”

“No, I don’t believe that.”

“I do! I loathe your God. Hateful, cruel, vengeful—”

“No.”
He had her by the arms, trying to hold her still. “Anne, listen to me.”

“We sinned, Christy, and this is his retribution. Because we loved each other!”

“Stop it, you know it isn’t true.”

“Prove it, then. Kiss me.” She grabbed at him, past caring about the anguish in his eyes or what it might cost him to touch her now. “Damn it, damn it,” she muttered, incoherent, frenzied, shaking him in her anger and frustration. His cold mouth came down, silencing her. She pressed closer, holding his head. Now the tears were blinding her. She pushed her tongue between his teeth, sharing the taste of salt, frantic to arouse him. She found his hand and pressed it to her breast, hard. His breathing grew harsh and ragged, but he stood still, not flinching, enduring it for her sake. She fumbled her own hand between them and touched him through his trousers; he came alive in her palm, and she knew a grievous victory. “Take me,” she commanded in a hoarse whisper; she was trembling so hard she could barely stand. “Take me on top of his bloody grave!”

He would have. She could see it in his eyes, feel it in the desperate clutch of his hands on her body. Even if it meant the destruction of his own soul, he was going to do it, give her what she thought she needed.

She pushed him away while she still could, holding him off, stiff-armed, shaking her head over and over. The suffering in his face cut like a dull knife. “Go away, Christy,” she ground out, empty and exhausted again. “You’re a terrible failure as a sinner, aren’t you? There’s probably a special place in hell for your kind. The petty, no-account sinners, hardly worth God’s attention.”

He shut his eyes tight. “I love you,” he said.

A sob in her throat almost strangled her. “What good does it do? There was never any hope for us, it was always a dream, a joke. I wish I’d fallen in love with someone else, not you. An ordinary man, who would run away with me now so we could be happy.” She whispered, “But you won’t, will you?”

“No,” he said, hollow-voiced. “And you wouldn’t either.”

“If you think that, then you don’t know me at all!” At that moment she believed it. “Oh, God, Christy, leave me alone. I can’t look at you anymore.” He held her gaze for one more excruciating minute. Then she was reduced to begging. “Please go.
Please
.” He started to speak. “Don’t tell me again that you love me! I can’t—I can’t—” She spun around, fists clenched in the air in front of her face. When she turned back, he was gone.

XX

Dearest Anne,

By now I should know what to say to you. After two days, I should have precise thoughts to convey, orderly sentiments, a plan. It can’t be that I haven’t pondered the situation deeply enough. No, I assure you it can’t be that. And picture this, Anne: the very Reverend Christian Morrell, swilling port wine all alone at his desk, until he passes out cold on top of an old sermon. Perfect, isn’t it? How you’d have laughed at me last night for my one ludicrous attempt at debauchery. I’m a little drunk now, to tell you the truth. Mrs. Ludd is quite beside herself. I’ve had to lock the door so she can’t keep fluttering in and gibbering at me. But it’s wearing off, I can feel it. No matter; it wasn’t a very effective anesthetic anyway.

One thing that’s come to me clearly—relative to anything else, I mean—is the unlikelihood of my remaining in the ministry. I don’t see how I can keep on with it. I can’t picture it, cannot imagine myself continuing in the role. “Role” is a revealing word here, isn’t it? I used to dream quite often that I wasn’t a real priest but an imposter, and that I’d been found out. And now it’s come true. It seems to have come true. But I don’t know for certain. I don’t really know anything at all.

Except that I must stop rambling. You can see how my wretched sermons got out of hand, can’t you? Only with them, I couldn’t even blame it on an excess of drink.

Anne, I keep seeing you, your face and your bitter tears, the way you couldn’t even look at me. There’s so much pain in me now, but I swear I would take yours too if I could. I swear it. But I can’t do anything for you. None of my numberless other failures weighs on me as heavily as this one. This is the one that’s driven me to drink. And despair.

God is punishing us, you said. I don’t want to believe that, but I wonder if you’re right. It feels true. The evidence points to it. You said there was never any hope for us, it was always a dream. If it was, it was a pure, blameless dream from the start. A God who would punish lovers—punish you, Anne, for the generosity of your heart—my spirit recoils from that God. He’s too hard to love, and I’ve failed at it. I can’t serve him.

But what am I if I’m not a priest? Believe it or not, even now I find myself praying. I break off in anger—but then there’s truly nothing, no alternative to sustain me. You’re stronger than I am. You’ve never claimed to have faith, and yet you lead a “Christian” life in every way that matters. For me, nothing makes sense anymore, none of the verities and absolutes I used to believe in help me. I’ve lost my way. And when I think of the pieties I once would have offered as consolation to anyone suffering the same desolation I feel, I want to smash things with my fists and shout blasphemies in God’s face.

I’ve been thinking about my father, and how his faith never deserted him even when he lost everything—his wife, his health, finally the work he loved. He was deeply spiritual, the gentlest man I’ve ever known. I wanted to be like him, Anne. I’m in despair when I measure how far I’ve fallen from that goal. I can’t help anyone, I’m as hollow as an empty box inside. I would stay here, I swear I would stay if I thought I could help you in any way, be any kind of legitimate friend to you. But I’m afraid I’d hurt you more. God knows there’s nothing I can do for Geoffrey. And I don’t believe I can go on for long pretending I don’t love you. Anne, it’s best if I go. If you don’t agree now, only think of how it was between us when we were together last. Remember that pain. And now I’ll risk your scorn and recommend Reverend Woodworth to you if a time should come when you need—don’t laugh, my darling—guidance of a spiritual nature. He’s a good man, and he has the advantage of me now: he believes in his own counsel.

I’m afraid Geoffrey is very ill. He’s unstable as well, emotionally chaotic, and yet I don’t really think he’s a danger to anyone—you, I mean. If I thought otherwise, nothing could make me leave you. But if anything should happen, if you ever need advice, help, even sanctuary, Robert Polwin is not only a friend I trust but also a man of judgment, means, and discretion. I’ve spoken of him before—he’s the rector of St. Stephen’s church in Tavistock; I’ll add a note with his address at the end of this letter. Please, Anne, do not hesitate to call on him for anything, if ever the need should arise.

Two days ago you didn’t want to hear that I love you. You must read it now. It’s the last time I’ll be able to tell you. I wish I could see you, hear your voice, hold you close. I don’t regret anything we did. I’ll always love you, always believe you were my salvation. If I could think of a way for us—

But I can’t, not an honorable one. And despite what you said, I know you wouldn’t choose any other, not in the end. So we’re both cursed, equally. Again. My dearest love, once I’d have said I’ll pray for you. Now I can only say I’ll never forget you. Or stop loving you.

Christy

***

T
IME TO LIGHT
a candle. She couldn’t remember what she’d just written in her journal, and the room had grown too dim to read the words. Was it that late? No, now she remembered—it was raining. Everything was a cold shade of gray. Inside and out, no color, and no sound but the dripping gutters and the wind. She was startled by the sound of the match striking, blinded a little by the dazzle of the flame. She blew the match out and set it in the base of the candleholder, moving the candle closer to her journal.

It seems incredible now; my stupidity embarrasses me, it was so complete. I honestly thought I was free, and that I had been allowed to have some happiness. I’m choked with chagrin at my arrogance. Christy Morrell was off-bounds to me from the beginning, but I defied the laws of God, man, nature, who knows what, and took him for my own. I’m suffering for my dangerous, God-insulting presumption. I must be made to pay.

She took a swallow of sherry and tried to remember if this was her second or her third glass. “Third, if you can’t remember.” The gruff, barely recognizable sound of her own voice jolted her. Shuddering, she set the glass down and pushed it to the edge of the table, out of reach. She took up her pen again.

If only I could leave Geoffrey. But I can’t. He’s sick, and I’m cursed with a conscience, surely the cruelest “gift” God ever distributed in his fun-loving omniscience. Oh, thank you, Lord; how can I repay you? With my life? Will that satisfy you? No? Too bad, and to hell with you. I despise your gifts, your ubiquitousness and your omnipotence, all that nonsensical claptrap I came so close to swallowing. So close! Oh, poor Christy—to think I envied him his faith! I wonder if he’ll realize it before I have a chance to tell him—that God is a very sad, very distasteful joke on us all.

She looked up, arrested by a sound—footsteps on the stairs. Susan again, on another of her mercy calls.
Can’t I get anything for you, m’lady? Sure you don’t need yer shawl? What about a nice hot cup o’tea?
Anne couldn’t even make herself smile anymore.

But no—the tread was light, but it wasn’t Susan’s; too slow. Violet’s? She closed her journal, using her pen to mark her place. Before his head bobbed above the top stair, she knew it was Geoffrey.

He’d come here only one other time. The memory of that violent encounter had her pushing her chair back and getting to her feet. The room spun once before it steadied. Too much sherry, she chided herself; too little food. The candle on her little writing table wavered in the rippling air currents her movements made, and Geoffrey made when he came in the room. He had a piece of paper in his hand. An envelope?

In three days, she hadn’t gotten used to his physical appearance. She’d seen him ill before, once she’d even thought he was dying, but she’d never seen him like this. The stairs had winded him. He leaned in the threshold of the doorway and leveled his flat black stare on her while he caught his breath. She found she couldn’t speak to him. Couldn’t say anything.

“What are you doing? Hm? Writing a letter?”

She shook her head. “Nothing. I’m not . . .” It was so hard to talk. “I was just sitting here. I’m not doing anything.”

He moved closer to the candle. His face looked like a skull. “Look what I’ve got.” He waggled his envelope at her. “Don’t you want to see it? It’s a letter.”

“What is it?”

“A letter, I said. It’s to you. Want it?”

She was afraid to look at the white square in his hand. His face was ghastly, but she kept her eyes on it. Something was happening. Something awful was unraveling.

He threw the envelope on the table in front of her.
“Take it.”
His voice, suddenly violent, made her jump. “Come, you’ll want to read it. I know I did. When I realized who it was from, I couldn’t wait.”

Her skin froze; her blood felt like icy slush in her veins. She stared down at her own name in Christy’s straightforward handwriting, honest and undisguised, and the heartbreakingly trusting “Personal” he’d scrawled in the corner.

“Open it!”

Geoffrey had already opened it; the plain red seal was broken, the angular flap gaping loosely. Her body felt numb, but her hands were shaking badly as she pulled two sheets of Christy’s cream-colored vellum out of the envelope. The words swam; her eyes skimmed the pages wildly. “Dearest Anne”—“the unlikelihood of my remaining in the ministry”— “your face and your bitter tears”—“I want to smash things with my fists and shout blasphemies in God’s face”—“I’ll always love you, always believe you were my”—

Geoffrey grabbed the letter out of her hands. She screamed when he began to tear and rip at it, shredding it to pieces. He stamped on the jagged scraps fluttering to the floor. His face turned a vivid scarlet. She slipped into the old fear of him, began to back away toward the window. Spewing curses, he came at her.

If she hadn’t been so frightened, if he hadn’t been so angry, she might have fought him off, because he was weak, ill, uncoordinated. She saw the hand he raised to hit her in time to dodge or turn away—but he struck her in the face with all his strength, and the force of it slammed her head against the wall. Her legs buckled. She slumped to the floor, and prayed it was over.

It wasn’t. On his knees beside her, he muttered, “Bitch, oh, you rutting bitch,” and shook his fists at her. She threw her hands up for a shield, but he batted them aside and grabbed at handfuls of her dress, pulling her down, away from the wall, until he had her flat on her back. His teeth were bared; the fetid smell of his breath brought her close to retching. His hurtful fingers pulled and shoved at her clothes until he had her breasts bared, and then he sprawled on top of her, kicking her legs apart with his knees. “I’ll make you like me,” he panted, trying to kiss her. “You’ll be just like me. Anne, Anne, Anne.” He brought his open mouth to her throat and bit down while he struggled with her skirts, yanking at the cloth and hauling it over her knees. He had her arms pinned between them. She freed one and pulled his head back by the hair. Tears were spilling down his cheeks. He stopped cursing her. She heard him say, “I’ll make you love me,” while he mashed her breasts with his hands.

The fight went out of her. He was fumbling at the front of his trousers. Her legs trembled, but she let him press her thighs apart. He wasn’t hard yet; he had to use his own hand to get his erection. When he pushed into her, they both cried out, a harrowing sound she knew she would never forget. “Sorry, I’m sorry,” he rasped, with his face buried in her hair. “Oh, God, I’m so cold.”

She put her hands on his shuddering shoulders and held him. He was weeping, hardly able to get his breath. He couldn’t climax; his painful thrusts quickened, but he began to pound the floor with his fist, vicious blows full of pain and rage. His full weight was suffocating her. “Stop, Geoffrey. Stop it now.” She took his face between her hands and lifted his head. The dark, unimaginable suffering in his eyes defeated her. They rolled to their sides together, and she held him while he sobbed against her breast.

When he calmed, the rain beating against the window became the only sound in the dark room.
I ought to feel more
, thought Anne.
More than this coldness
. At least Christy’s God would be satisfied now, for she’d gotten what she deserved. After all the years of coldness and rejection, Geoffrey’s disease and his defilement were to be her punishment. Her just deserts. Everything was gone now, her last hope finished. Then why couldn’t she feel anything?

Geoffrey had begun to shudder uncontrollably. He pulled her to a sitting position and began trying to fasten her dress and brush her skirts down over her legs. She held still, waiting, numbed into a weird state of bemusement, while he pulled her wild hair back from her face with his shaking fingers, gentle now, almost loving. He moaned when he got to his feet. Her shawl lay across the table; he brought it back, with the sherry decanter and her half-finished glass, and tucked it carefully around her shoulders. He offered her the sherry next. She was close to vomiting; she shook her head. He drank it himself, and another glass after that.

“You can’t get it, you know.”

She stared at him blankly. His cheeks were a hectic pink; he was holding the glass in both hands to steady it. “What?”

“You can’t get the pox from me.” His chattering teeth clacked together like bones. “I’m not contagious any longer, I’ve gone—I’ve gone—beyond that stage.” He must have seen skepticism in her face. “It’s true. I swear it. If you don’t believe me, ask the army doctor who threw me out of Fareham.”

She sank against the wall behind her, waiting to feel relief, but she didn’t feel anything. The peculiar numbness wouldn’t go away.

Geoffrey set the glass on the floor and reached for one of her hands. His shook so hard, she covered it with her other one and squeezed it tight. He smiled at that, looking down at their clasped hands. “So. Do you love Christy? Do you? You can tell me.”

She whispered, “I love him. I’m sorry. We thought you were dead.”

He took a long, slow breath. With nothing but gentleness in his voice, he said, “I am dying. The doctor said a year or two, but it’s going to be less. It’s going to be considerably less.”

She whispered, “Oh, God,” exactly like a prayer. Oh, hopeless, hopeless.