‘Feet first, Cat! It’s not that deep. What about your dress?’
‘Bugger my dress! They can dismiss me for it, and see how I care!’ she shouts; and leaps, holding fast to George’s hand. The water is only four feet deep, and she bumps her feet on the bottom, feels them sink into silt and muck. But the cold of the water is like a locked door opening, like the break of dawn. It rushes over her hot skin, through her hair, around every eyelash and into her ears, booming. Her heart opens up and pours itself out, is washed clean until no anger or fear remains. In that one instant, she is free. For the first time in my life, she thinks, knotting her limbs around George, wet arms sliding like eels to lock around his waist. She tips back her head and lets the sky reach high above her.
*
The storm begins with what has become reliable regularity. The heat and humidity build for five or six days, reaching a peak like that day’s when the air is so fat and bloated with moisture that it is hard to think, let alone to go about the day. And yet Cat’s tread was as light as a child’s, as she brought up the supper dishes. Whilst they all wilted – even Robin Durrant, whose chatter was for once subdued – she’d all but skipped about on the balls of her feet, a secretive smile playing at the corners of her mouth when she thought herself unobserved. Hester tries to imagine it is because she has the key to her room, but that alone can’t have brought about such a change, can it? She thinks of the girl’s shrieks, her crying and her begging, when her bedroom door was locked. Perhaps it is enough for her to have the key.
Hester stands at the parlour window. She has unlatched the shutters which Cat closed earlier, and folds one back to look out. The lights in the room are all off, and Hester is in her dressing gown. She went to bed at her usual hour, and woke again a short while ago. Alone, of course, with the first rumblings of thunder chasing ghoulish flickers of lightning in from the west. It is almost two in the morning, and no light comes from beneath Albert’s study door. He is not in the drawing room, nor anywhere in the house. Rain hits the window. A fitful, sparse scattering at first, and then a steady downpour. Water rolls down the glass in an unbroken wave, bounces from the garden pathway, makes a sound like a distant sea. Where are you, Bertie? She casts this sad little thought out into the night, with no hope of an answer. She can’t remember a time when she felt more alone. Another flash of lightning drenches the room, and thunder chases right after it, making Hester jump in spite of herself. There is a soft chuckle behind her and she gasps, turning quickly to find Robin Durrant walking towards her. He is wearing the same creased and crumpled trousers as he’s worn all day, his shirt undone. His chest is smooth and flat, the skin taut over the shadowed striations of his ribs. Dark hair blurs a diamond shape in the centre, reaching down towards his stomach. Hester catches her breath and looks hastily away. This is more of any man other than Albert that she has ever seen. He is broader, darker, more solid looking than her husband. He seems more animal; invulnerable.
‘Does the thunder frighten you?’ he asks softly. His friendly, affectionate tone of voice is something she has come to dread.
‘No,’ she whispers, shaking her head. She takes a step backwards but her legs bump the wide window sill, forcing her to grasp it for balance. There is nowhere for her to go. Robin saunters towards her, and stands too close. He seems to tower, though he isn’t that much taller than she. Hester looks at her feet, looks past him across the floor to the open door, and pictures herself walking through it. The scent of him fills her nostrils. Animal again, slightly stale from the heat of the day, but at the same time compelling. She fights the urge to breathe more deeply.
‘Do I scare you?’ he asks; and Hester says nothing. ‘Something must be scaring you, dear Hetty. You’re shaking like a leaf.’
‘Please …’ she manages to say, when words are snarled up and caught in her throat, refusing to be spoken. ‘Please, leave me alone.’
‘Hush now, don’t be that way. I suppose you’re watching out for Albert?’ He looks out at the crashing rain for a moment, then grunts carelessly. ‘I wish I could tell you. I know you blame me for this new-found Christian zeal of his, Hetty, but I swear I never suggested it. At least, I never meant to. His understanding of what I’ve been trying to teach him has gone awry, somewhere.’
‘You’ve driven him half mad!’ Hester’s voice is choked with emotion.
‘Not my doing! Why would I want that? He was proving a most astute pupil, and a useful colleague … at first. But don’t worry. I think he just needs to sleep. Once I’ve gone, he’ll calm down again, I dare say.’