"You don't dance at all, Doctor?"
"Years ago, when I was in India I did, but stopped when my wife died. She really enjoyed it so much that now I can't enjoy it at all.
Marvelous party, Malcolm. May I suggest we call it a night?"
Angelique glanced up at him, her smile fading, noticed the caution on his face, looked at Malcolm and saw the exhaustion. How awful he's so sick, she thought. Damn!
"It's still early," Malcolm was saying bravely, longing to lie down, "isn't it, Angelique?"
"I must confess I really am tired too," she said at once. Her fan closed, she put it down, smiled at him, Poncin and the others, preparing to leave. "Perhaps we could slip out and let the party continue..."
They made their quiet apologies to those around them. Everyone else pretended not to notice them leave but in her wake was emptiness. Outside at the door she stopped a moment. "Oh la la, I forgot my fan. I'll catch you up, my darling."
She hurried back. Poncin intercepted her.
"Mademoiselle," he said in French. "I believe this is yours."
"Ah, you're so kind." She accepted her fan, delighted that her stratagem had worked and that he was as observant as she had hoped. As he bent over her hand to kiss it she whispered in French, "I must see you tomorrow."
"Legation at noon, ask for Seratard, he won't be there."
She was brushing her hair in front of her mirror, still humming the last waltz she had danced. Which was the best? she asked herself. The best dance? That's easy, Marlowe and the polka, better than Pallidar and waltzes--you should waltz only with the love of your life, allowing the music to swim your head with adoration and longing, drifting you on the clouds, tingling and wanting as I am tonight, the best day of my life, engaged to a fine man and loved by him to distraction.
It should be the best day, but isn't.
Strange that I enjoyed this evening, and can act and think calmly, when already the day has passed, I'm overdue so probably with child of a rapist that must be ended.
She was watching her reflection as though it was another person, the brushstrokes firm, titillating her scalp and head and taking away any cobwebs, astonished that she was still alive and outwardly the same after so much agony.
Curious. Every day after the first has seemed easier.
Why is that?
I don't know. Well, never mind. Tomorrow will solve the overdue though perhaps even now I shall begin in the night and there will have been no need for all the fear and crying and crying and more fear. Tens of thousands of women have been trapped like I am trapped and still have been made whole without hurt.
Just a little drink and everything as before and no one the wiser. Except you and God! Except you and the doctor, or you and the midwife--or witch.
Enough for tonight, Angelique. Trust in God and the Blessed Mother. The Blessed Mother will help you, you are blameless. You are openly engaged to a marvelous man, somehow you will be married and live happily ever after. Tomorrow... tomorrow will begin the where and how.
Behind her Ah Soh was tidying the four-poster, picking up her stockings and underwear. The crinoline already hung on a rack with two others, and half a dozen new day dresses still wrapped in their sheaves of rice paper. Through the open window came the sound of laughter and drunken singing, and music from the Club that still showed no sign of abating.
She sighed, wanting to be back at the dance.
The brush moved more vigorously.
"Miss'y wan thing, heya?"
"No. Want to sleep."
"Ni'te Miss'y."
Angelique bolted the door after her. The connecting door to Struan's suite was closed but unbolted. By custom, as soon as she had finished her toilet, she would knock, then go and kiss him good night, perhaps chat just a little and return again, leaving the door ajar in case he had a seizure in the night. These were infrequent now, though since he had stopped the night medicine a week ago, he was very restless, hardly sleeping, but never demanding.
Again she sat at her mirror and was pleased with what she saw. Her peignoir was silk and lacy and Parisian--a locally made copy of one she had brought with her:... and you cannot believe the workmanship, Colette, or the speed of the Chinese tailor, she had written this afternoon for tomorrow's mail ship.
Now I can get anything copied. Please send me some patterns, or cuttings from La Parisienne or L'Haute Couture of the latest styles or anything wonderful--my Malcolm is so generous and so rich! He says I can order what I like!
And my ring!!!! A diamond with fourteen smaller ones around it. I asked him how on earth he had got it and where in Yokohama and he just smiled. I really must be more careful and not ask silly questions. Colette everything is so marvelous except I'm worried about his health. He improves so slowly and walks very badly. But his ardor increases, poor man, and I have to take care... Must dress for the party now but I'll write more before the post. My everlasting love for the moment.
How lucky Colette is, her pregnancy a gift of God.
Stop! No more or the tears and terror will come back. Put the problem aside. You decided what to do, if it was or if it was not. It is, so the other plan--what else can you do?
An absent touch of perfume behind her ears and on her breasts, a slight adjustment of the lace.
A gentle knock on his door. "Malcolm?"
"Come in--I'm alone."
Unexpectedly, he was not in bed but sitting in his armchair. Red silk dressing gown, eyes strange. At once some instinct put her on guard. She bolted the door as usual, and went over to him. "Not tired, my love?"
"No, and yes. You take my breath away."
He held out his hands and she came closer, heart picking up a beat. His hands were trembling. He coaxed her nearer and kissed her hands and arms and breast. For a moment she did not resist, enjoyed his adoration, wanting him, and leaned down and kissed him and allowed him to fondle her. Then, the heat mounting too swiftly, she sank on her knees beside the chair, heart pounding like his, and half broke the embrace.
"We mustn't," she whispered breathlessly...
"I know but I must, I want you so much..."
His lips were throbbing and hot and seeking and, pushed onwards, hers responded. Now his hand was caressing her thigh, feeding more fire to her loins, and then the pleasing tormenter moved higher and higher still and she wanted more but drove herself from the ever-pressing brink and again pulled away, whispering, "No, cheri." But this time he was surprisingly stronger, his other arm held her in an amorous vise, his voice and lips ever more persuasive, closer and closer but then, without thinking, he twisted too quickly and pain ripped through him. "Oh Christ!"
"What is it? Are you all right?" she said, frightened.
"Yes, yes I think so. Christ Almighty!" It took him a moment or two to recover, the surging pain lancing his ardor, that ache remaining, the other pain making it seem more strong. His hands still held on to her, still trembling but without strength. "Jesus, sorry..."
"No sorry, my darling." When, thankfully, she had recovered her own breath, she got up and poured some of the cold tea that he kept beside the bed, her loins restless and cramped and nervous, heart agitated, not wanting to stop either but must, a few more minutes and wouldn't have, must find a way to be safe, him safe, us safe--a voice shouting the litany at the forefront of her mind, "a man never marries his mistress, nothing before marriage, everything permissible after," pounded into her as soon as she could understand.
"Here," she murmured, giving him the cup.
She knelt and watched him, eyes closed, sweat staining his face and dressing gown. In a moment, most of her own unease and disquiet slid away. She put a hand on his knee and he covered it. "Being so, so close is bad for us, Malcolm," she said softly, liking him very much, loving him but not truly sure about love. "It's difficult for both of us, cheri, I want you too and love you too."
After a long time he said with difficulty, his voice low and hurting, "Yes but, but you can help."
"But we can't, not before we're married, not yet, we can't, not now."
Abruptly his pain and frustration crested at having to sit all evening and endure other men dancing her, lusting her, while he could hardly walk where a month ago he knew he was a far better dancer than any one of them, crested.