The Rich Are with You Always (58 page)

  She leaned back then into the softness of the sofa and let Walter kiss her and found herself responding, quite warmly. She thought, as she closed her eyes, of all the others who had met in this same room day upon night upon day for years and years. Momentarily, she even saw them, rutting men and wriggling girls—here, where they now sat; there, on the hearth rug; there, standing; there, on the bed. The pictures her long-starved fantasy now served up lighted the fires within.

  He dropped to his knees and, with palsied fingers, struggled to undo her boots. She leaned forward to help him, with fingers no less tremorous. "Try to stay a little calm," she panted. But when he threw up her petticoats and began to kiss her thighs and explore her with his lips, her sexuality swelled and engulfed her mind and body both.

  She did not care then what he did. And he, seeing he had the mastery, dropped his queen-and-slave pretence and took command, undressing her in the way and order he preferred, and making her do just the things he wanted. And he was good. Even in the extreme of her delight, she knew he was a virtuoso, with skills that went far beyond mere technique, up into the realms of art. For the best part of an hour he drew her on, now frenzied, now languorous, slow, talking to her of how wonderful she was being, whispering in her ear, thrilling her with wordless noises—on the sofa, on the floor, kneeling, standing, backwards, sideways, on top, crushed…stretched, shivering, tense…curled up and unmuscled… thrashing, heels in the air…surrendering into spasm, melting and filling every angle of the room.

  Then he finished too, almost as an afterthought. He rolled off her and went to sleep. She watched him go limp, fascinated at the shrivelling of the sheath. The pink colour had run and darkened; the liquid blob at the end was blotched like a carrion crow's egg. She sighed and felt wonderful.

  He slept less than a minute and woke up already apologizing. "Always happens," he said. "Wasn't it good?"

  "Your…finale seemed a bit…" she said.

  He got up, peeling off the sheath. "The older I get, the less important it becomes. When I was fourteen I couldn't sleep without four or five a night. Now, I sometimes don't get there at all, but it doesn't seem to matter. When I'm old, I think memory and imagination would be all I need. Memories, I mean." He laughed.

  "It's very important to you, isn't it, Mr. Thornton?"

  "Congress?"

  She nodded.

  "It is the entire joy and meaning of my life. I used to feel ashamed of it, but not now." He went over to the washstand, filling it with the kettle from the hob. His gesture invited her to use it first.

  Amazed that she felt no shame, she walked across and began to wash her face and neck. He took a cloth, wrung it out, and, kneeling, gently washed her privities from behind. Looking down between her knees she saw him swell again. Carefully, she lifted one foot and pressed it down. "Oh no no," she said. The cloth was red with the dye from the sheath.

  "It's important to you too," he said. "And you are not ashamed."

  "It's true, though I don't understand it. I like to hear you talking about it. Next time will you tell me about the things you like doing?"

  "Next time!" he said. "Well, now!"

  "Don't be arch," she told him crossly. "Don't spoil it. Of course there'll be a next time—and many more." She began to dress. "What we must do now is settle all the arrangements. Next time, by the way, I shall pay for the room." He protested but without conviction. "I insist," she said. "We are two free beings who meet freely for our own mutual free enjoyment. If you always pay for the room, that makes me at once merely a—a part-time mistress. No longer free."

  "Before you put that on," he warned, "you might like to use this." He opened a cupboard door and took out a medical-looking thing on a mahogany tray. There was a rubber bulb and tube connected to a silver pipe, coiled around a porcelain bowl with some powder in the bottom. "Compliments of the house," he said. "It's a sort of cannula washer—or a douche, as they call it in the French houses."

"What for?" she asked, half guessing.

  He told her and showed her how to use it. She giggled at the touch of it and at the water. She thought it was blood coming out but it was just the dye again. She lay down and spread herself while he dried her, which he did slowly and tenderly. "Beautiful mother-of-pearly pink," he said.

  She watched him, looking down at her with such intensity. "Have you known a lot of women, Mr. Thornton?" she asked.

  "Three hundred and eighteen," he said, still half in a dream.

  She sat up at once and then laughed, thinking he was joking.

  But he was not. "I told you," he said. "It's what I live for."

  Still she laughed. "How can you be sure of the number though?"

  "I can be sure it is at least three hundred and eighteen because I keep a diary. Religiously, you might say. These"—he pulled her thighs together, stroking them with the towel as he drew away—"are the pillars of my temple."

  The possibility of a diary had not occurred to her. "Please, Mr. Thornton, do not record this, today, in it. Oh, if it should be read by…"

  But he interrupted, smiling at her fears. "Believe me. It could fall into the hands of my closest friend—into Arabella's even—and there is not a word or detail to connect me with it. Each incident is recorded in loose-leaf and undated. The sequence is constantly shuffled. Places, times, names, everything is altered. I have even taught myself to write in a different hand, with my left hand. My own clerk would not recognize it."

  "Where do you keep it?" She was still worried.

  "Absolutely safely. I rent a garret room in Bristol. The landlady thinks…I have told her I am writing a history of English everyday life. It will be my own life's work, I say. She is certain I am a harmless fool. I tell you what—you shall choose the name you are to bear in my diary."

  Sarah, intrigued now, thought quickly. Silvia Carey was the name of the girl in that book at the Tabard—and, it suddenly struck her, the initials were the same as her own. "Silvia Carey," she said.

  His look changed at once to a sort of watchful mistrust. "There are depths to you, Mrs. Cornelius. Are there not?"

  "What do you mean? What depths?"

  "Silvia Carey—
The Lustful Turk.
There's depths if ever I plumbed them."

  She coloured. "It's the only such book I've ever seen," she said. "One of the maids at the tavern had it."

  "Ah." There was half-belief in his tone. "I have lots more like it. They help me when I am—ill. Otherwise, I don't think much to them." He was trying to repair the mood between them.

  She began again to dress. "Call me what you like," she said lightly. "When did you start this diary?"

  "About a year after I married Arabella. When I knew for certain that my marriage was not going to bring…all that I had hoped."

  Sarah sighed. "That is what I fear most. Meeting Mrs. Thornton again."

  He turned her then and held her by her arms. In all their time in the room, it was the closest he came to a really loving gesture. "Of all fears." he said, "that is, believe me, the most groundless. What you gave me today it is not in her to give. What you took is something she values less than…house dirt." His intention was humorous but the effect was to fill her with sadness, all the deeper for its suddenness. Once again he did not notice. "I used to feel guilty," he said. "All those girls, taking what was rightfully hers. But not anymore." He buttoned her dress and knelt to help her on with her boots.

  "How long before you go back to Bristol?" she asked.

  "A month at least. My father-in-law's throat is not mending. Arabella will wish to stay, and I may work as easily at Paddington as at Bristol just at the moment."

  "Good," she said briskly. "Then we shall meet here next Wednesday at three in the afternoon. I shall come direct to the back door. And you will let me in. Meanwhile, we must both think about our longer-term needs and arrangements."

  "As a matter of fact," he said diffidently, "can you pay for the room today? It was rather more than I expected."

  "How much?"

  "Five pounds."

  She blanched. A half year's wages in the old days! But she handed him the money with a smile, saying: "We
must
make other arrangements."

  Later, she wondered if Nora knew how much money there was in such houses. She at once regretted the cheapness of the thought.
Come—I must not lose my
standards,
she said to herself.

"John," Sarah said that night after supper, "I was not born or brought up to a life of idleness."

  He grinned. "That's why you take to it so well."

  "That's just it: I don't. I want to feel of some use."

  "You teach the children, better than any governess. You've helped Nora's French. You cheer both of us up, just being around us. Do we make you feel useless?"

  She took his hand and squeezed it. "Of course not. But—I don't know— going to London today—I thought the world does have an especial need of people with education, time, and money."

  "If you want to be useful," he said, "I've some particular work for you. You could do it well too."

  And she, not wanting to appear to have too clear a scheme already formed, acceded gratefully to do whatever it was.

  It turned out to be writing letters on his behalf—the more personal sort of business letter, such as a recommendation for a man, an arrangement to meet, a thank-you, an acceptance to a public dinner, a covering letter for a donation to a charity, and so on. All John had to do was to write a sentence explaining why the letter was in another hand and craving indulgence and to sign it.

  It was the letter to the Female Refuge, with a donation of four hundred pounds, that gave her the idea. She said she would like to see the people who did such fine work and would take the letter and draft herself.

  "You're up to something or other," John accused.

  She blushed, and then, to cover that reaction, she agreed she was "up to" something and promised to explain all if it worked. "If it doesn't, then it won't matter, will it?"

  When Nora saw Sarah that evening, she knew something had happened. She remembered that John had taken her to London that day, and all the suspicions that had died down over the last few months began to grow again.

  John repeated his conversation with Sarah to her. "It has something to do with Thornton," he said. "I'm sure there's something going on there."

  "Tittle tattle," she said, afraid for him to go on—afraid that something in his voice would betray the lie.

The Female Refuge was a charity of the Female Rescue Society, whose offices overlooked Islington Green. The Refuge itself was out in the country at Hornsey, beyond the city's temptations.

  Islington Green was virtually on John's route into London, down the City Road, so he needed make no great detour to let her off at the Society's door. And he even pointed out the cab rank to her and told her how much to pay for the journey to the City—just as if he, rather than she, had lived in London for the best part of eight years.

  With a draft for four hundred pounds, she was naturally a most favoured caller, and a comfortable chair and a cup of tea were brought at once. She told the clerk that she had money of her own and had thought of making a donation—perhaps the same, or even more—perhaps five hundred pounds. The chief clerk was beside himself with gratitude.

  But, she went on, just giving money was so passive—especially when one had time to do things—be more active. What she was really wondering was whether she might serve on their committee—or, indeed, play any role?

  The chief clerk could not say—but he was sure—oh, if only Lady Bere were here—perhaps Mrs. Cornelius could come back this afternoon?

  No, she would not be in London again until next Wednesday, in the morning.

  Well, he was certain that, in those circumstances, Lady Bere would arrange to see her then.

  Good, that was settled. Then, feeling she ought somehow to substantiate her interest in the work of the Society, she asked exactly how they went about their task, and what they did under the heading of rescue.

  Lady Bere would explain all that too. Meanwhile, perhaps she would like to look over the Society's prospectus and its most recent report?

  From the prospectus, she learned that Lady Bere spelled her name Bear. She had wondered why the clerk was so insistent on the "beeer" pronunciation; he must have suffered more than his due of ribaldry about a lady "bare."