“You have been long at your speaking,” mother said when we descended.
“There is a time for speaking. Does she not brush her hair well?” father asked.
“In her immaculacy is her salvation,” mother said. She folded her arms and gazed at me. I did not blush. The tide had receded. There was a smell of furniture polish in the room. I was whole in my wholeness. At the tea table I chewed lettuce and felt its crispness, cold to my tongue. Diamonds of water glittered on its greenness in its bowl. The maid came and went, serving her betters. She had known not the searing of the strap, the roaring of the sea about her ears, the aftermath of quiet.
The square before me opens now. Do I venture the right way or the wrong? The streets look ever much the same. Here now, there now-wrong? Where are the builders gone, the bricklayers in their billycocks, hands grey or red with dust? To some far place where hunger took them, the roads angry and hard beneath their feet, forgetting what they built-the doors finished and the windows placed, the air within closed, made ready. Spaces for movement-the grave dance of anticipations. O the poor men gone, long gone.
I glance this way and that. This street? That street? Julian ever said that I would lose myself. I am so bad in my remembering. Window sashes are raised, yet betray not the deep darknesses within, the movements of bodies, the searchings, the unread papers that the pen has left. I shall wear my grey tonight. Will Julian's mother come? The maid will be prepared, turn down the sheet.
A smell of butter. Why? From whence? I like the smell of butter. Mother said it would make me a voluptuary. I ignored her. My quietness was in my knowing.
“Laura!”
The voice that calls I know not. I walk on, my eyes imperious yet my gait subdued.
Do not swing your hips, girl.
“Laura, you are late!”
The voice again. I turn. My footsteps falter.
“Why are you late again-always late?”
From the high stone steps of a tall house the woman descends, my elbow seized. Do I wish to follow? My path is turned. The steps my little mountain to ascend.
“Go within, Laura. He is angry in his waiting. Do you forget this?”
I am shuffled, pushed, the log dark hall receives me. In my confusion I reach for a doorknob. My wrist is slapped.
“Why do you always make the same mistakes, always, always? Here now, there now, go within, to the other door. Do not remove your bonnet before you are spoken to. Why did you not wear your blue one today?”
The room I enter is a mystery of space. Too high the ceiling and too long the walls.
“She was late. Was she late?”
The man who speaks stands and regards me. He is neither thin nor portly. His eyes speak of night adventures. Once father stroked my hair at midnight and told me of tigers prowling for prey in the far jungles of India and the Orient. I have seen the high sun in its descent-have felt the cold of moonlight on my breasts, my nipples sparkling with the fire of kisses.
“She is always late-look at her bonnet-the ribbons are too bright. Stand still, girl. How old are you? Do you not remember?”
“She is twenty-two. It is known. She has not changed. Has she changed since yesterday? No, I think not.”
His voice is gentle, velvet over steel. I want his eyes to be kind yet they will not meet mine. He is perhaps too knowing. I scan the room slowly, unmoving, seeking knowingness, a recognition, rebelling at strictures that must surely seize me here. The furniture is heavy, somnolent. I know it not. It speaks of dust, of buried days. Will it look?
“She had her breakfast and lunch-she was a good girl.”
The woman speaks. Where is Julian? This house is not his house. Father will surely come, importantly, through the door, brooking no refusals. My hips stir. It is seen.
Their hands do not touch me. The man regards me, sighs, reseats himself, takes up a book. I must learn the titles of the books. All such things are important. Father instructed me. A Meissen figure takes my gaze. How inhuman the smoothness. Would I as milkmaid look so smooth, so small? Many are the ornaments, the mirrors- an elegance of shelves, a waiting of whatnots.
“She must be bathed,” the man says. “What does she want for tea?”
“Toast is her favourite. Muffins will serve her better.”
The woman pushes me. Into the hall again. Cloaks of great mystery hang upon a stand. The door stands ajar. She left it so. My eyes seek it with hopes, but it disregards me. Would that the builders would come, running over the Downs, knowing it open.
“Millie will see to you, Laura. I cannot be forever running after you. You have always been his favourite. It is known. The water is run. Let it not grow tepid, Millie- are you there, girl, there?”
“Ma'am, yes.”
She comes at a run. Seeing me, she curtsies.
“Miss Laura, you are late.”
“I have told her that she is late, told her, told her. Take her up.” The woman's voice is irritable.
At the first turning of the stairs. The bathroom is commodious. The fireplace charmed by unburned coal lies dead.
“I would have lit it if you had come late tonight, Miss.”
“Yes, Millie. It is not cold.”
“That it ain't, Miss. We 'ave the best of it here in Brighton, though some folks say Eastbourne is sunnier, but I don't believe it. They're a stuffier lot in Eastbourne, they are. Was your walk nice? You didn't meet any gentlemen, I hopes.”
There is no need to answer. I know her place, her type, her stance-the chirpy, over-anxious, quick desires to please, placate, enquire. Father told me always to disregard the speech of servants unless they were required for errands of a private nature. Unclothed, I throw back my hair and regard myself in a mirror. Was it always stained? I have been here before? Memories of brown around its edges-a splotch in the middle. Was I here before?
The water laves me. The sponge moves in her uncertain hand, drawn from its secret home in some far seabed. Has Julian's mother come?
“What is the time, Millie?”
“Close on five, Miss. He said when you come in that you was to go straight to your bedroom. After your rest.”
“Yes, of course, yes. Use more soap, you stupid girl.”
Five is too late, too late. You shall not refuse, Laura.
The door opens. The woman stands not disapproving as I dry, am dried.
“If I refuse?” I ask her. I wish to know the answer. My eyes are proud. Her stare encompasses my stare.
“You cannot. Have you ever done so? You were always good, were you not?”
“Yes,” I reply. I do not let my shoulders slump.
“There, then. Brush your hair now.”
Her voice is softer. She waits, waits in her waiting until all is done. My pubic hair is fluffed. When dry the curls stand crisp, yet move to the hand. She is younger than mother, tall and well-built. Her eyes have the look of eyes that are looked at. Her rust-coloured dress is neither poor nor opulent. Her wedding finger is unwed. She glances at my own as Millie draws my stockings on.
“Why did you wed, Laura?”
“I do not know.”
I want my voice to cry or laugh. It will do neither.
“He is weak, of course. Wear this chemise-and your boots. Your drawers are not required. Go to your room and wait. Wine will be brought. After your muffins. What a girl you are for toast and muffins. Go to your room.”
Millie is quiet. She gathers up my clothes, her hands more reverential than they were. The chemise of white batiste is short. It floats about my hips, clinging.
My room, how do I know my room, and yet I know. Along the corridor, the second door, opening upon mystery. A scent of yesterdays. Fresh linen, a white bowl on a marble stand, enclosing a white jug of pure still water. The brass rails of the bed gleam. The bedsprings tinkle to my coming. In a moment a maid enters with toast and muffins.