Deeply troubled by what she felt might be an insight into an unsuspected region of Ash's being, Christie put the book aside, switched out the lamp and lay down.
But for a long time she remained awake, wondering if, behind his self-sufficient, sometimes arrogant manner, he concealed the
wounds
and weariness and hopes grown dead
of the poem.
She did not, after all, wake up early.
Rose woke her, bringing her breakfast tray, and accompanied by John. Already firm friends with the housekeeper and her husband, he was going to stay with them in their cottage after Ash and Christie had left on their so-called honeymoon, and until the Hathaways returned.
'Uncle Ash and me have had breakfast. This afternoon we're going shelling,' John announced, climbing onto her bed.
'Are we? What fun!' Christie hadn't thought about the rest of the day after the wedding. 'You should say "Uncle Ash and I", darling,' she added.
'Uncle Ash
and I
went out in the little boat,' John continued. 'He says when I can swim a long way I can have a little boat of my very own.
He's going to teach you to sail, Aunt Christie, and then we can go on adventures in his big boat sometimes, just the three of us.'
'That sounds terrific,' she said, spreading butter on toast.
Whatever else was wrong about this marriage, it was going to be good for John. That was the important thing.
He stayed with her until she had finished eating. Then he ran off to play, and Christie slid out of bed and went to have a shower.
She had not, after all, bought a new dress in which to be married. Her clothes included a very plain ivory silk shirt-dress, made in Hong Kong, and advertised as a special value mail order offer by Selfridges, the great department store in Oxford Street. It was the kind of undating classic which had been worn in the Thirties and would be worn in the Nineties. With it she wore the small real pearl earrings which had been her mother's, and a fine four- teen-inch gold chain which circled the base of her throat, the last birthday present given to her by her sister.
Ash, when they met, was wearing a pale grey tropic-weight suit with a dark terracotta shirt, and a cotton tie patterned in pale terracotta and blue. He looked, as always, exactly right for the occasion, and he looked approvingly at her.
Accompanied by John, and with George and Rose to be their witnesses—looking far more bridal than the bridal couple—they drove to St John's. Little more than an hour later it was all over and they were driving back to change into beach clothes for the shelling expedition.
Mr and Mrs Ashcroft Lambard. Christie looked at the gold wedding band now encircling her finger next to the ruby engagement ring, and couldn't believe the deed was done. There could be no turning back now.
By noon they had shared a bottle of Dom Ruinart with the two Antiguans, reverted to shorts and beach shirts, packed two cool bags and a picnic basket into the car, and were beach-bound.
He took them to one called Seaforth, well shaded, deserted except for themselves, with a group of fishing boats some way off, and an offshore island with a cottage on it.
They swam, played with John on his crocodile, then dried off and sat down to eat.
'It's so
beautiful
here. I just can't believe this is home now,' said Christie, gazing around her, an ackee patty in one hand, a glass of iced water in the other.
Ash was lying on his side, Roman-fashion, propped on one elbow.
'You haven't begun to know the island yet. A lot of the best places are away from the main roads, like this is, or only accessible by sea. It will take a long time to show you everything. You'll want to do some exploring on your own. When we get back from London we'll have to find you a car. Maybe one of the Hillman Hustlers which the tourists hire to buzz around in would suit you, although they haven't much lockable storage space.'
'I shall have quite a lot of money when the fiat is sold. I shan't be too great an expense to you.'
'I didn't marry you for your dowry, Christiana,' he said dryly.
No, for my housekeeping skills, she thought, with an odd little pang.
After lunch they went searching for shells; finding fragile tellins, the home of sand-dwelling clams, and lucines, a stronger clam shell, as well as little striped cowries, and many of the Atlantic Bulla shells known as bubbles.
Later? they bathed again. Then it was time to go home.
That night, Ash and Christie had dinner after John was in bed. Rose had prepared a special meal, and George had set up a table for two on the terrace and laid it with napery and china which Christie had not seen before; a pale green circular cloth, with a border of exquisite pulled work with matching motifs on the napkins, and a service of white French porcelain patterned with tiny wild strawberries and rimmed with gold. The cutlery had vermeil handles of a beautiful lustre in the light from the storm-shaded candles on either side of the centrepiece. This was an arrangement of white flowers and dark green leaves in a frosted crystal bowl, too shallow to obstruct their view of each other.
Ash had been listening to a record on Joss's stereo when Christie returned from Miranda's bedroom. When she joined him, he lowered the volume, but the music—Chopin—continued to play while they ate.
The Hathaways' cook, who lived in the nearby village, had excelled herself. They began with jellied orange consomme, served in chilled bouillon cups, garnished with slices of orange and having a faint hint of cloves.
'No, this is a Grenadian speciality, Mrs Lambard,' George told her, when she asked if it was a local dish.
The main course was striped bass baked on a bed of potatoes, served with a green sauce and accompanied by a French white wine selected for them by Joss from his specially-built wine store, air-conditioned to stay at fifty-eight degrees all year round.
The meal had been light enough for Christie not to feel satiated before the pudding appeared, a lime meringue pie with whipped cream.
Finally, they both had a little Brie on Miranda's favourite Bath Oliver biscuits, before George reappeared to enquire whether they wished to have coffee at the table or in the living-room.
'Inside, please, George.'
Ash laid aside his napkin and pushed back his chair. He came round the table to assist her to rise. 'If we have it inside, George can clear the table and go off duty,' he said, to explain his choice.
They moved to one of the several groups of comfortable chairs and sofas in the huge room. Very soon the butler came back with coffee in a tall silver pot. He set the tray on a low table between Christie's chair and Ash's end of the sofa next to it.
'Cream, Mrs Lambard?' he asked, before he had finished filling a black and gold demi-tasse.
'No, thank you.'
He placed the cup and saucer within her reach, and performed the same service for Ash. It took him less than five minutes to clear the dining table, loading everything on to a rubber-wheeled trolley. Then he came back to where they were sitting.
'If you should require anything else, you have only to ring, sir.'
'Thank you, George, but we shan't need anything more. Goodnight.'
'Goodnight, sir. Goodnight, ma'am.'
A few moments later they were alone. It was not quite fifteen minutes past nine—much too early to go to bed for people only pretending to be on their honeymoon. When, shortly afterwards, the music came to an end, the ensuing silence seemed to emphasise their seclusion.
'Would you like some more music?' Ash asked.
'Yes, please.'
'What would you like? If it's classical, Joss probably has it.'
'Some Tchaikovsky, perhaps?' Christie suggested.
The music centre was in another part of the room. She watched him stroll away from her, moving from the hips with the straight-backed, indolent grace which was as pleasing to watch as the paces of a thoroughbred horse or the fluid movements of a leopard patrolling its cage.
She poured herself another cup of coffee, and wondered how soon she could excuse herself. Not before ten o'clock. It wasn't that she was tired; it was just that tonight was an awkward time. Surely he must be equally conscious that a normal couple, if not already in bed together, would at least be exchanging passionate kisses.
Mike had hustled her up to their room as soon as they had finished dinner at their Guernsey boarding house. But she didn't want to remember that now. It was part of the past; not part of her new life with Ash. He would make no repugnant demands on her. With her second husband she could relax, knowing the night held no shattering disillusionment, only undisturbed rest, alone in the Hathaways' bed.
'Have you seen this American
Vogue?'
He came back to where she was sitting with a magazine and a heavy coffee-table book with
Mexico
in large letters on the dust jacket. While she turned the pages of the fashion magazine, he seemed immersed in the colour plates of the book.
'George forgot to offer us a liqueur. Would you care for one?' he asked presently.
'What? Oh, no ... I don't think so, thank you.' Her absorption in an article on a raw food health and beauty regime was no pretence. With a start she realised that the time had passed much more swiftly than she expected. It was already five minutes to ten. 'In fact I think, if you don't mind, I'll turn in.'
'Why not? We shall be lucky to have more than two or three hours'
sleep on the plane tomorrow. For reasons best known to themselves, since everybody has already eaten, they serve dinner forty minutes after take-off.'
Christie put the magazine down, then decided to take it with her.
'Goodnight, Ash.'
He rose to his feet. 'I hope you don't find yourself suffering from agoraphobia in the Hathaways' bed. I've seen it. Six people could sleep there,' he said, with a gleam of amusement.
'Yes, it would have been better for you to occupy it, and for me to stay where I was. Well . . . goodnight,' she repeated.
In Miranda's luxurious bedroom she took off her dress. Rose had cleared one section of the wall-long bank of hanging cupboards, and left the door wide to indicate that Christie could use it. Having hung up her dress, and taken off her light make-up, she went to the bathroom to shower, borrowing a bath cap she found there to protect her hair which, in spite of her afternoon swim, would not need another shampoo until tomorrow.
The bed had been turned down, and her nightdress laid across it. A cool, pretty Tana lawn nightdress, but not the seventh-veil garment most brides chose for their honeymoon.
Shedding the bath sheet, she slipped the nightie over her head, then returned to the bathroom to hang up the towel and brush her teeth.
She was in the bedroom again, brushing her hair, when there was a light tap on the door. It sounded as if it might be Rose. Perhaps John had had a bad dream and woken up frightened and calling for her.
'Come in.'
It wasn't Rose. It was Ash. He was wearing the navy silk dressing-gown she had seen at her flat, but not the apple green pyjamas. His long brown legs were bare between the hem of the robe and his leather slippers.
'Is something wrong?' she asked concernedly.
He came in, closing the door. 'No, nothing is wrong, Christiana.'
'Then . . . what do you want?' she asked, puzzled.
He strolled into the centre of the room, his hands thrust into the square patch pockets of the robe.
'I want you,' he said, very softly. 'I'm going to make you want me.'
Christie froze. Her knuckles whitened on the handle of the hairbrush as she realised what he meant.
'B-but you promised . . . you gave me your word!'
'I gave you my word not to do anything you wouldn't like. You will like our
nuit de noces.
It won't be like your first wedding night.'
'Y-you can't. . . you wouldn't. . . you don't mean it.' Her voice was ragged.
Ash didn't move, but a dark flame burned in his eyes.
'It's useless to argue with a woman who believes she is frigid. Words will never persuade her she's wrong. There is only one way to convince you, my nervous bride.'
Still he didn't make a move towards her, and for perhaps fifteen seconds Christie remained on the dressing stool, paralysed. Terror turned her to stone; a sick, mindless, abject terror such as people must feel when they knew they were going to be tortured.
It was the most horrible moment she had ever experienced; the knowledge that she had been betrayed; the feeling of being utterly helpless, with no possibility of escape.
Escape.
The ancient human instinct for self-preservation flickered to life again. She knew there was only one chance, one place where Ash could not touch her.
She leapt to her feet and flung herself towards the bathroom.
He caught her before she reached it, spun her into his arms, and held her fast. She struggled and squirmed, but in a very few moments he had both her wrists pinioned behind her, manacled by his steely fingers, while his other arm bound her against him, only the silk of his robe and the thin flowered lawn of her nightgown insulating her body from the warmth and strength of his tall frame.
'Let me go . . .
let me go
,' she implored. 'You promised . . . oh, God, you promised.'
'And I'll keep that promise,' he assured her. 'Calm down, Christie. I'm not going to hurt you.'
It was the first time he had used the familiar form of her name.
'You will,' she burst out, in anguish. 'Oh, how I hate you—you bastard!'
The way she ground out the epithet—itself so uncharacteristic of someone who rarely uttered an expletive stronger than
"damn"—expressed all her bitter sense of betrayal. She had believed him; had trusted him; even, last night reading that poem, had felt compassion and sadness for him.
And now he was about to rape her.
The thought iced her veins with dread, but she forced herself to pull back from the brink of hysteria.
'If you don't let me go, I shall scream the place down!'
'No, you won't.'
Suddenly his free hand was holding her head still, and his mouth was pressed fiercely on hers, effectively stifling any sound but a muffled groan of despair.