She put her arm around his waist and stared at the house, wondering what it was like to live in such a vast mansion. She found it hard to imagine what you would do with all the rooms. After all, if you had somewhere to sleep and somewhere to cook, and perhaps the luxury of another room in which to entertain guests, what else did you need? There was no point in having two kitchens or two sitting-rooms: you could only be in one at a time. It reminded her that she and Hugh lived on separate islands in society, divided by an ocean of money and privilege. The thought troubled her. “I was born in a one-room hut,” she said.
“In the northeast?”
“No, in Russia.”
“Really? ‘Maisie Robinson’ doesn’t sound like a Russian name.”
“I was born Miriam Rabinowicz. We all changed our names when we came here.”
“Miriam,” he said softly. “I like it.” He drew her to him and kissed her. Her anxiety evaporated and she gave herself up to the sensation. He was less hesitant now: he knew what he liked. She drank his kisses thirstily, like a glass of cold water on a hot day. She hoped he would touch her breasts again.
He did not disappoint her. A moment later she felt his hand close gently over her left breast. Almost immediately her nipple grew taut, and his fingertips touched it through the silk of her dress. She felt embarrassed that her desire should be so obvious, but it only inflamed him more.
After a while she wanted to feel his body. She reached inside his dress coat and ran her hands up and down his back, feeling the hot skin through the thin cotton of his shirt. She was behaving like a man, she thought. She wondered if he minded. But she was enjoying it too much to stop.
Then it started to rain.
It happened not gradually but all at once. There was a flash of lightning, a clap of thunder right afterwards, and an instant downpour. By the time they broke the kiss their faces were wet.
Hugh seized her hand and pulled. “Let’s take shelter in the house!” he said.
They ran across the road. Hugh led her down the steps, past a sign saying “Tradesmen’s Entrance,” to the basement area. By the time they reached the doorway she was soaked to the skin. Hugh unlocked the door. Putting a finger to his lips to indicate silence, he ushered her inside.
She hesitated for a fraction of a second, wondering whether she should ask exactly what he had in mind; but the thought slipped away and she stepped through the door.
They tiptoed through a kitchen the size of a small church to a narrow staircase. Hugh put his mouth to her ear and said: “There’ll be clean towels upstairs. We’ll take the back staircase.”
She followed him up three long flights, then they passed through another door and emerged on a landing. He glanced through an open doorway into a bedroom where a night-light burned. In a normal voice he said: “Edward’s still out. There’s no one else on this floor. Aunt and Uncle’s rooms are on the floor below us and the servants above. Come.”
He led her into his bedroom and turned up the gaslight. “I’ll fetch towels,” he said, and he went out again.
She took off her hat and looked around the room. It was surprisingly small, and furnished simply, with a single bed, a dresser, a plain wardrobe, and a small desk. She had expected something much more luxurious — but Hugh was a poor relation, and his room reflected that.
She looked with interest at his things. He had a pair of silver-backed hair brushes engraved with the initials T.P. — another heirloom from his father. He was reading a book called The Handbook of Good Commercial Practice. On the desk was a framed photograph of a woman and a girl about six years old. She slid open the drawer of his bedside table. There was a Bible and another book underneath it. She moved the Bible aside and read the title of the concealed book: it was called The Duchess of Sodom. She realized she was prying. Feeling guilty, she closed the drawer quickly.
Hugh came back with a pile of towels. Maisie took one. It was warm from an airing cupboard, and she buried her wet face in it gratefully. This is what it’s like to be rich, she thought; great piles of warm towels whenever you need them. She dried her bare arms and her bosom. “Who’s the picture of?” she asked him.
“My mother and my sister. My sister was born after my father died.”
“What’s her name?”
“Dorothy. I call her Dotty. I’m very fond of her.”
“Where do they live?”
“In Folkestone, by the sea.”
Maisie wondered if she would ever meet them.
Hugh drew up the chair from the desk and made her sit down. He knelt in front of her, took off her shoes, and dried her wet feet with a fresh towel. She closed her eyes: the sensation of the warm, soft towel on the soles of her feet was exquisite.
Her dress was wet through, and she shivered. Hugh removed his coat and boots. Maisie knew she could not get dry without taking off her dress. Underneath she was quite decent. She was not wearing knickers — only rich women did — but she had on a full-length petticoat and a chemise. Impulsively she stood up, turned her back to Hugh and said: “Will you undo me?”
She could feel his hands shaking as his fingers fumbled with the hooks-and-eyes that fastened her dress. She was nervous too, but she could not back out now. When he was done she thanked him and stepped out of the dress.
She turned to face him.
His expression was a touching mixture of embarrassment and desire. He stood like Ali Baba staring at the thieves’ treasure. She had thought vaguely that she would simply dry herself with a towel and put her dress back on later, when it had dried, but now she knew it was not going to be like that. And she was glad.
She put her hands on his cheeks, pulled his head down and kissed him. This time she opened her mouth, expecting him to do the same, but he did not. He had never kissed that way, she guessed. She teased his lips with the tip of her tongue. She sensed that he was shocked but excited too, and after a moment he opened his mouth a fraction and responded shyly with his tongue. He began to breathe harder.
After a while he broke the kiss, reached for the top of her chemise and tried to undo the button. He fumbled for a moment then grasped the garment with both hands and tore it open, sending buttons flying. His hands closed over her bare breasts and he shut his eyes and groaned. She felt as if she were melting inside. She wanted more of this, now and always.
“Maisie,” he said.
She looked at him.
“I want to …”
She smiled. “So do I.”
When the words were out she wondered where they came from. She had spoken without thinking. But she had no doubts. She wanted him more than she had ever wanted anything.
He stroked her hair. “I’ve never done it before,” he said.
“Nor have I.”
He stared at her. “But I thought—” He stopped.
She felt a spasm of anger, then controlled herself. It was her own fault if he had thought she was promiscuous. “Let’s lie down,” she said.
He sighed happily, then said: “Are you sure?”
“Am I sure?” she repeated. She could hardly believe he had said that. She had never known a man who would ask that question. They never thought about how she felt. She took his hand in hers and kissed the palm. “If I wasn’t sure before, I am now.”
She lay down on the narrow bed. The mattress was hard but the sheet was cool. He lay beside her and said: “What now?”
They were approaching the limits of her experience, but she knew the next step. “Feel me,” she said. He touched her tentatively through her clothing. Suddenly she was impatient. She pulled up her petticoat — she had nothing on underneath — and pressed his hand to her mound.
He stroked her, kissing her face, his breath hot and fast. She knew she should be afraid of getting pregnant, but she could not focus on the danger. She was out of control: the pleasure was too intense for her to think. This was as far as she had ever gone with a man, but all the same she knew exactly what she wanted next. She put her lips to his ear and murmured: “Push your finger in.”
He did so. “It’s all wet,” he said wonderingly.
“That’s to help you.”
His fingers explored her delicately. “It seems so small.”