Death be Not Proud (37 page)

I settled back down against him and thought about what he had said. An ocean of difference lay between the two men in my mind, not least the way in which they seemed to love me.

“Sabm will be alrighbt though, won't he?”

“Physically, he'll be fine; he has a simple fracture and it
won't take long to heal. It'll put him out of action for a bit, which might give him time to reflect on what he's done.”

I didn't think that Sam would risk crossing Matthew again in a hurry – unless his broken jaw only served as a vehicle for his revenge.

Matthew considered our previous conversation. “So you're determined to stay here?”

“Yub. I'll be fine; I've lots to do, so no sneaky visits frobm your relatives checking ub on me, or… or brin-ging Red Cross food parcels, or anything.”

He looked decidedly shifty. “Oh…”

“And you'll be back in the evebnings, won't you?”

“I'll have to work through the night, but I'll be back as much as I can when you're awake.” My pout was made much more effective by the swelling of my lips. “I won't totally abandon you, I promise, but what I have to do won't wait. We'll go home on the twenty-third, if that suits you?”

“OK.” I already had several things I wanted to get done that he didn't need to know about. “Will you stay wbith me tonight?”

“I think I'd better.”

It was the first time I had drifted to sleep in his arms for what seemed like ages, lulled by the regular rhythm of his chest and the security of his closeness. The fire ticked as it burned in the grate, and outside the frozen campus cracked as the frost deepened. My face ached and, despite Sam and Ellen and the possibility of an impending trial, I felt more secure than I had done for a lifetime.

I knew that what I had to do had to be done quickly.

Despite what Matthew said, I couldn't allow matters to rest. For one thing, if Sam did love me, there was no knowing what he might be prepared to do, and his fractured jaw and injured pride might only serve to increase his rancour, not lessen it. Judging from his performance last night, Sam was beyond reason and I couldn't put Matthew at risk of any gossip, no matter how insignificant it might seem.

I waited until Matthew left in the morning, then rapidly showered and dressed in clothes I knew made me look pallid and emphasized the damage to my face. I pulled the hood of my coat around it, hiding as much as possible, in case I met anyone on the way. The fewer questions asked, the better.

It took Sam some time before he opened the door to his apartment in the new accommodation block. He turned away abruptly when he saw me and went back into his room without a word. I followed him into the main living area, which was flooded with light as the sun streamed beneath the half-lowered blind. He wore an old T-shirt and striped boxer shorts, his jaw distended and bruised, his eyes black from lack of sleep. His dishevelled appearance was at odds with the expensive, indulgent Italian furnishings. If I had
thought about it at all, I would have imagined him living in chaos, waiting for the next woman to come along to pick him up and brush him down and put some order back into his life. Sam looked as if I had woken him from a broken sleep.

“What d'you want?” he mumbled, barely glancing at me. I waited until he turned towards me before I lowered my hood and let the strong light shine on my face.

It took a full minute for him to react as he took in the injuries he had inflicted. Although less swollen, what my lip lacked in size was more than made up for in red and purple discolouration. Enough dried and caked blood remained between my upper lip and my nose to look as if I had been in a prizefight and lost, and the bruising across my cheek and the bridge of my nose completed the picture of violence. When certain he understood what he had done, and I saw it in his eyes, I prepared to make my thoughts on the matter clear. If he entertained any misapprehension that I came to apologize or sympathize for his broken jaw, I would leave him in no doubt about the real purpose of my visit. The muscles in my throat constricted in anticipation of my attack.

“Sam, I am not going to report this to the police or to the college authorities,” I began, indicating my face. He looked guardedly relieved. “However…” I continued, “if you ever give me – or Matthew – cause to do so, not only will I report this, but I will add a charge of intimidation and attempted rape as well. In the time it would take to clear your name, enough damage would be done to your reputation to ensure that no female will trust you again, and you will find securing a post in any other reputable institution very difficult indeed.”

I paused to let the significance of what I had been rehearsing since last night sink in. I didn't want Sam to think that Matthew had something to hide, and I wouldn't let Sam
see my fear that he might report Matthew to any authority that would be obliged to investigate his own injury.

“Last night before you hit me, you called me a
bitch
. Well, Sam, I wasn't one, but that's what you've just made me. Don't make me into a
liar
as well; stay away and leave me alone.”

I didn't wait for a response. I left him looking as if a bow-wave had hit him and he was wallowing in the aftermath of the ocean swell.

Rumours and lies – they can work both ways.

 

I made it downstairs and out to the far corner of the building before my nose started bleeding afresh, and the bright scarlet drops stained the blank face of the snow. It had taken everything in me to face him and to make clear the steps I would be prepared to take in order to protect myself. And, had it been merely for myself, I might never have screwed up the courage to do it, because a part of me felt sorry for Sam and mourned the friendship that could have been. But I didn't do it for me, and for that I was prepared to perjure myself.

 

The next few days passed more quickly than I thought possible and, by the time the morning of the twenty-third came, I put the confrontation behind me in anticipation of a greater horror. Awash with nerves, I sat in front of the mirror examining my image. My face had healed just in time, and the last of the bruising lay disguised under a thin veil of make-up. Not used to wearing it, my skin felt horribly fake, as if I were trying to hide my true identity beneath it. I wondered what Matthew's family would see, and what they would think of me. Equally worried about what to wear, in the few short hours I saw Matthew when he wasn't working, I managed to glean that his family were pretty informal. And that
was it. He couldn't say much about what I should wear for Christmas – except that whatever I might choose would be “fine”. Although always loving, he appeared distracted when we were together. Once, I asked him how his work went and he said that it was “going well”. But the less he said, the more intensely he said it and, whatever it was that occupied him, had possession of his mind.

On the Thursday before we left, he stood by the doorway to my bedroom, his strong, supple body clothed in the pale-blue sweater I liked and looking so good I could have cried. He held up a bunch of keys and offered me his car so that I might go to town to buy something.

“I can't drive your car – it's far too beautiful and, besides, I'll bet it's not even legal for me to drive it. And anyway, I've not driven for ages so, for the sake of other road users, I'd rather not.”

He pursed his lips briefly. “You'd better get used to it; you're going to need to drive if you stay here and want any independence.”

I found myself speechless as what he implied sank in. It must have been the first time he mentioned my staying on in the States beyond the generalized comments about me not leaving him. This sounded more like a life plan and his eyes had danced, giving him away, and my little stomach sprites performed a delightful jig to accompany them.

Now, however, the sprites took refuge, to be replaced by an army of ants that scurried around my tummy. I reapplied the lipstick already chewed off twice before, and gazed glumly at myself in the mirror, only then seeing his reflected image. Caught fretting, I swivelled around on my chair, sheepishly.

“You look beautiful and you'll be fine,” Matthew reassured me, holding out his hand. “Ready?”

“I suppose…” I mumbled, but took his hand anyway, feeling the strength flowing from him to me.

 

A dull day, grey with a threat of yet more snow. I huddled into the seat, wishing he would drive somewhere we could be alone again. The car tyres crackled over the frozen ruts in the college car park, leaving only two cars under their blankets of snow. One of them – I realized – was probably Sam's.

“I don't even know where you live,” I said.

“You'll find out soon enough,” he promised.

We picked up speed once we were on the main road, juggling between vehicles on the busy highway until we found near solitude on the minor roads. Here, only a few late deliveries were being made by corporate vans – gaudy in the monochrome landscape. Everything jarred when normally I would have found beauty in all that I saw. My pulse hammered away and I felt sick with nerves.

“I just don't know how they'll feel with me in the house. It doesn't seem right somehow – I'm a… a usurper, an interloper, a cuckoo…
and
it's a sensitive, family-ish time of the year, to boot. It was bad enough when I thought I was going to meet your parents, but your
son
, Matthew…”

He looked at me sideways and smiled his half-smile. He had heard this anxiety a number of times over the last week; he had been very patient.

“I know you don't find this easy, but Henry and the family are looking forward to meeting you. Even if one or two of them might find it awkward at first, they'll get used to the idea.”

I had a feeling from the way he said it, that it would be a case of their having to like it or lump it, because he was as immovable as the boulders we passed by the roadside.

I hadn't been taking much notice of where we were going. We headed west, away from college and the town, where the land rose in a series of low hills – rising until they became mountains as part of the chain that flanked the low-lying area on which the college stood.

Matthew swung the car ninety degrees down a slender road, barely more than a track, running through thickly wooded slopes. At times a river flowed so close I could almost lean out of the window and touch it, the waters bouncing around the iced rocks lining its bank. We came out of the trees and there, on a gentle slope overlooking the river valley, stood a house. Or rather, it wasn't a single house but a range – like an abbey grange – made up of buildings that appeared to form a square.

“Here we are,” he announced cheerfully. He glanced at me, measuring my initial reaction, but my petrified face remained as frozen as the surrounding landscape. I craned to look at the fine weatherboarded house sitting securely on a rise set back from the river in gardens of snow. Trees – unadorned except for their temporary mantle of white – kept a reverential distance beyond the river. A long, two-storey wing that must once have been a barn, ran back from the front face of the main house at right angles.

“That is Pat and Henry's home.” Matthew indicated the barn. “On the other side is Dan and Jeannie's house. They converted it from the stables.”

“And yours?” I asked, already guessing the answer when we drew up in front of the classical façade and came to a standstill. “Ah, I see…”

“Do you like it?” he asked a little anxiously as emphatic silence replaced the sound of the engine.

“Couldn't you find anything bigger?”

He grinned, and then came around the side of the car, opening the door for me before I could think up any more excuses. Leaning forward, I swung my legs onto the snow and took his proffered hand. On looking up, an unexpected movement caught my eye as a face appeared at a first-floor window. Ghost-pale and with silver-white hair, hollow eyes punctuated its skull. The disembodied face hovered momentarily before retreating into the darkness. I stared. I blinked.

Matthew's face came into view as he peered into mine.

“Sweetheart, what is it?”

With a shiver, I shook my head free of the uneasy image.

“Matthew, is your house haunted?”

His gaze followed where mine was drawn like a magnet, but the windows gleamed darkly wholesome, and all I could see of their benign surface was the mirror of the snow.

“Not that I'm aware,” he answered, turning back to me with a questioning look. “If it were, it soon wouldn't be. I'd give any spirits short shift; they have no business in my home.”

I pulled myself out of the car, hearing the snow compact solidly beneath my boots and welcoming its reality.

“Yes, silly of me to have suggested it; I expect it's just a figment of my overactive nerves. Talking of which…” I regarded the broad steps leading up to double doors painted the same soft white as the rest of the house and framed by delicate webs of wood in the fanlight and the sidelights. Altogether corporeal movement shifted behind the glass and I suspected a welcoming committee. The spectral face forgotten, I moaned, “Matthew, do I
have
to do this?”

He smiled broadly. “Come on – it won't be nearly as bad as you think, and remember, you've already met Ellie and Harry – that's nearly a quarter of us, for a start; what can possibly go wrong?”

I was about to tell him in some detail when he grasped my hand firmly, half-tugging me towards the steps. Still I hung back, and his grin softened as he took in my scared face. Featherlight, he touched his fingers to the lines chasing my brow, imbuing in me some semblance of his peace.

“Emma, whatever happens, wherever this may lead, remember that you are with me now, and we are together.” And he slipped his arm around my waist as we mounted the final step so that when the front door opened a second later, and with his words echoing in my heart, there was nowhere else to go except forward.