Curricle & Chaise (17 page)

‘You did what?’

Lydia was aghast.
She could scarcely believe what
she had just heard
. She stopped in her tracks, staring in disbelief at the sneering, handsome face before her.

‘You said what? Engaged to you? Secretly engaged? How dare you...how ever could you do such a
wicked
thing, you evil, evil man?’

Charles smirked a little and said nothing. He was evidently enjoying his moment of triumph. He had waited a long time for it.

‘I don’t believe it,’ went on Lydia. ‘You can have no reason to believe that I am attached to you. There is nothing you can do to make me think anything other than ill of you. And you wilfully deceive our closest neighbours merely to prevent some imagined flirtation between myself and an injured soldier who never has had, nor ever will have, any feelings for me at all.’

‘As for that,’ said Charles, somewhat sulkily, ‘I have proof enough already. Why, on my very first evening at Abdale they were both here, ogling you and making pretty speeches – teaching you to ride – inviting you to Grantham. Who did you spend half the night dancing with at Branton? Aye, it is you, Miss Lydia, who is the deceitful one, not me my good girl. There’s no need to get into such a deuced pucker about it.’

‘And when did you tell them this terrible thing?’

‘The other evening, after dinner – the evening we spent at Grantham. There is a lot we men talk about when you females are out of the way, you know. We discuss the most interesting matters when we get ourselves together. You formed the chief topic of conversation then, if my memory serves me aright. There is more than just me who fancies a dock with you.’

Lydia snatched her arm free, her face burning, and bolted into the house. She could hardly believe her ears. She didn’t want to believe them. And yet there was no reason for her to think that Charles was making it up. It would certainly explain Mr Churchman’s reactions on that miserable, miserable night. Mr Churchman was a man of principle. To hear Charles Abdale and his brother discussing her in such a vulgar manner. To learn such a shocking fact about her – that she had repaid the good offices of her uncle and aunt by entering into an arrangement with their only son – a man for whom no woman of any sensibility could feel other than revulsion. Yet her own manner towards Mr Churchman had been open and free – she had given him no indication that her affections were engaged elsewhere. How could he possibly believe what her cousin had told him? Her spine chilled as she realised how things could have looked to him. Charles had been everywhere with her since his return from Oxford – following her about, dancing with her at Branton, riding with her, annoying her at every turn. He had even given her a present – a gift which, on reflection, she had every confidence would have been pointed out as evidence of her acquiescence. And why should he not believe it? Charles was handsome after all – and rich. Why should a poor dependent relative deny herself such an eligible match? What other opportunities could she reasonably expect? And what more natural than that they should wish to hide their attachment from the Abdales, who would doubtless disapprove of it? Inwardly she groaned as the full implications of what Charles had said gradually dawned on her. What in heaven would Henry think of her now? It must be impossible for her to regain his regard, if regard there ever had been. She had been stupid and foolish and she was cross with herself, and mad with Charles. The likes of Henry Churchman were not for such as she. She might as well forget him.

She was scarcely more comfortable at dinner. Julia felt too ill to come down and Mrs Abdale was suffering from the effects of a megrim. It remained for Lydia, Charles and Mr Abdale to refresh themselves on cold beef and apple pie. Charles’ presence was oppressive. His look had turned into a distinct leer and she felt his eyes on her all the time. Deciding privately to return to her room for the rest of the evening, cold and gloomy though it was, she determined on picki
ng up a book on the way
in order to while away the tedious hours before bed.

She excused herself at the first opportunity and stopped off at the library. A big fire was blazing in the grate. A grizzled
wolfhound
was stretched out blissfully in front of it. A grandfather clock ticked steadily by the door. Lydia gazed at the fire. It looked a lot more tempting than her empty grate. The leather chair nearby invited her to sink into it. A table beside it was laden with enticing books. She looked at the fire again, mesmerised by the brilliance of the fiery caves between the logs. Surely Charles would not think to find her here? He scarcely ever set foot in the library, being no great reader himself, and after dinner he always spent the hours until bedtime drinking his father’s port and brandy in the dining room. And anyway, was she to become a prisoner in her own bedchamber until he went away? She was not afraid of Charles. He was a complete numbscull. And why should she freeze in her own room when the library was light and warm and oh, so restful? The temptation proved too great. She eased herself into the leather chair, tickled the
wolfhound
’s accommodating head (which said animal acknowledged with a lazy thump of the tail) and promptly fell asleep in the warmth.

Lydia was never sure, thinking back on the incident later, whether it was the creak of the door or a squeaky floorboard that awoke her. It may have been simply the rustle of logs in the grate. Whatever it was, something certainly disturbed her, for scarcely had she closed her eyes than she was wide awake again, senses alert, certain that there was someone else in the room. She opened an eye cautiously. Her heart sank. Charles was standing in the doorway, candle in hand, a smile on his face. He closed the door carefully behind him and sauntered over to stand in front of her. She stared up at him, defiantly.

‘So you are here, Miss Lydia,’ he swaggered, planting his feet firmly at either side of her legs. ‘I thought you would not run away from me entirely. Where else would you hide than in the library? Maybe you hoped I should find you here, eh? After all, it is the obvious place to hide - warm, snug – and well away from the rest of the household. And now we may do exactly as we like and not be disturbed, mayn’t we? But do I detect some fear in those dark eyes of yours? Aye, I declare you
are
frightened of me – just as you were as a child.  But I don’t want to frighten you, my darling. I just want us to be friends.’

‘I was never frightened of you, Charles Abdale,’ lied Lydia. ‘Bullies never frighten me. Rather, I despise you. Can’t you see that I dislike you? Yet you still insist on pursuing me. It’s insulting and ... pudding headed.’

‘Your face is quite flushed. It suits you.’

Lydia refrained from further speaking her mind. It was apparent that Charles was not to be deterred, and further defiance may do more harm than good. She tried to ignore him and picked up a book from the table beside her. But it was impossible. He gently released the book and snapped it shut. Then he tried to grasp her hand but she whipped it away. Her resistance only seemed to make him more determined. He roughly pulled her to her feet in front of him and held her there. He still towered above her. That close he looked strong and threatening. She had lied when she had told him that he did not frighten her. The fear gripping her now was almost overwhelming. What did he intend to do to her? Surely he would do nothing to regret, here in his father’s house?

‘You have to kiss me,’ he commanded, roughly drawing her towards him. She forced her head away and his lips met her cheek.  He swore and shook her. She raised her eyes to look at him.

‘Go to the devil, Charles Abdale,’ she directed.

She tried to snatch herself free but there was no escape. Charles was stronger than she was, and determined. His lips met hers at last. His kiss was long and voluptuous and she found it difficult not to respond. But now he was fondling her hair and neck, now fumbling with her skirt, trying to lift it. She realised that the danger was real, and imminent, and that Charles was in a high passion and in no mood to give up. She had to do her best to escape. She tried to hit out at him with arms pinioned to her side. She tried to kick him with kid-slippered feet. She wriggled like a snake in his hands. Charles clung on to her in a vice-like grip. It seemed that nothing she could do had any effect on him what
so
ever. But they had both forgotten the
wolfhound
, lying on the hearth. His sleep disturbed by what seemed to him to be a great game, he suddenly leapt to his feet, barking wildly, and jumped on the hapless Charles, knocking him to the ground. The wrench was so great that as Charles fell back there was a
n ominous
ripping sound as Lydia’s sleeve gave up the unequal struggle and gave way under his weight. He lay there, stunned, for a second, Lydia’s sleeve still in his hands. The
wolfhound
thought this tremendous fun. Determined to release this enticing new toy from his master’s grip, excitement got the better of him. Charles gave out a sickening yell as the dog’s sharp teeth embedded themselves in the flesh of his hands.

Lydia saw her chance. Rejecting the opportunity to discover the fate of either liberator or tormentor she took up her skirts and ran. The hall was empty. She raced towards the stairs and took them two at a time. H
er heart was pounding but there was no question of slackening
until she reached the safety of her own room. She slammed the door behind her. Heaving with exertion and fright she dragged her trunk to the doorway and wedged it there as best she could. She tested the door. It would only open with great effort. She balanced the heavy lid so that it would slam shut with a crash if the door gave way. Hopefully the noise would raise the household, if Charles decided to try his luck again.

She stood in the middle of her room, quivering with fear, senses aroused, listening intently for some noise from outside to say that Charles was on his way. A second, a minute went by. Still silence. A faint glimmer of moonlight was illuminating a pattern in her rug. Her gaze fixed on the pattern. Round and round the pattern she went. Again and again the question reeled
a
round her brain. What was she to do? Whatever could she do?

Her first thought was to tell aunt Abdale but this was immediately dismissed as a nonsense. Aunt Abdale? No – she would never believe any wrong of her darling son – it would be Lydia’s fault, telling tales behind his back. Charles was only doing what came naturally. Lydia must have led him on. She deserved everything she got.

And what of uncle Abdale? Ridiculous thought. He was totally uninterested in both his family and herself. If he thought about it at all he would probably find the whole thing a great joke, slap his son on the shoulder and tell his friends and relations about it. No. There was no help to be got from the Abdales. But who else could she turn to? Nobody.

There was nothing she could do for now but to hope that Charles would have learned his lesson, that he would not attempt to insult her again. Perhaps the whole thing would blow over. Perhaps Charles would grow tired of the game. Deep down, however, she realised that this was something of a forlorn hope. It was perfectly obvious that, for now, Charles was obsessed by her and that he had no intention of giving up his pursuit. Her presence posed a challenge to his manhood. She had to get away from Abdale somehow.

The moonlight disappeared and a few drops of rain began to spatter onto her window. Lydia suddenly realised that she was cold. She hurriedly took off her now ruined gown and snuggled into her bed. A wind blew up, the rain became more constant. She was mesmerised by the sound of the drops as they were blown onto the window. Confident from the silence within that Charles would not be back that night, she finally managed to drift off into a somewhat troubled sleep.

Lydia decided to ensure, as much as possible, that she was always within sight of someone
else
whilst Charles was in the house. So the next morning she breakfasted with Julia in her room. Julia’s maid imparted the news that Mr Charles had been bitten by his dog last night but that the bite, though painful, had caused a flesh wound only. His hand, now wrapped in bandaging, had not been badly mauled. Julia greeted this news with unsisterly glee. Lydia wisely kept her thoughts to herself.

It was fortunate that Julia was now sufficiently recovered to sit in the drawing room with her during the day. Even more fortunate, an Oxford friend of Charles arrived at Abdale House and was prevailed upon to stay the night. This was an unexpected blessing. Despite providing
the heavily bandaged
Charles with the scarcely needed excuse to get very drunk on Mr Abdale’s best port wine, it also obliged him to pay some attention to his guest and less to annoying her.

Suddenly much recovered from her own illness, Mrs Abdale, too, responded positively to the appearance of a guest. She was much concerned, in particular, that Julia should appear at her best and expended a good deal of effort in ensuring that this was the case. Losing much hope of any alliance with that peculiar Mr Churchman she was more than prepared to thrust her daughter at any semi-eligible young man who happened to come along, particularly if he were already an acknowledged friend of Charles. Poor Julia was therefore made the constant centre of attention, firstly being berated for her (false) modesty whenever she spoke a word to him, then having every expensive item she was wearing pointed out to him, and finally having to sit by their guest at dinner and be as pleasant as possible to an altogether unremarkable young man. Mrs Abdale’s fusses and stratagems failed to pay off tonight, however. When Julia was finally allowed to retire to bed some time after midnight the young men had failed to reappear, and when Lydia went upstairs not many minutes after her cousin (having first been obliged to pin up Mrs Abdale’s gown, which had unaccountably split along a seam again) she came across the butler in the hall hurrying towards the dining room with a further bottle of port on his tray.