Beyond The Blue Mountains - Plaidy Jean (читать книги бесплатно полностью без регистрации сокращений .txt) 📗

She said, without turning her head: “Oh, is it my bath? I’m too tired now …”

“I will take the water away,” said Carolan.

The sound of her voice, cultured, unlike the husky tones of Jin, made Mrs. Masterman turn her head slowly.

“Oh…” she said.

“Oh…” And then: Take my frock and put it away, will you? It goes in the cupboard in the toilet room’ Weary eyes watched the yellow-clad figure walk across the room and stoop to pick up the dress.

“Have I seen you before?” asked Mrs. Masterman.

“I do not know,” said Carolan.

“I have seen you.”

It was not like a conversation between mistress and convict servant. It was like one lady paying a call on another.

“I think I should have remembered if I had,” said Mrs. Masterman.

“Give me one of those pills on the table, will you? A glass of water is what I have with the pill.”

Carolan was aware of Lucille Masterman’s very white hands lying on the counterpane.

Thank you. I have very bad health.”

“I am sorry,” said Carolan.

“Sometimes I scarcely sleep a wink all night.”

That must be very unpleasant.”

“It is. Thank you. Doctor Martin says these pills are wonderful.”

“I trust you find them effective?”

“I do. Although of course one gets accustomed to taking anything. Good night. Hang the dress up in the cupboard, please.”

“I will,” said Carolan.

“Good night.”

Lucille called her back when she reached the door.

“Lock it, please. And when you have locked it, will you push the key under the door?”

“Yes,” said Carolan, and went out and did so. It was rather an extraordinary experience. She felt intoxicated with success. It was the gin perhaps: it was such heady stuff. It made her excited because for the first time since she had been thrust into Newgate someone had treated her as she used to be treated in the Haredon days; and this the mistress of the house!

She opened a cupboard door. It was filled with dresses. Velvets and brocades, soft wools and silks. She rubbed her hands over some of them, and shuddered at the rasping sound they made as they caught in her rough skin. It was like a protest.

She held the blue and silver dress against her, and looked at herself in the long mirror. Carolan Haredon of Haredon! All that suffering, all that misery, had scarcely changed her at all. To wear that dress … only for an instant! To recapture the joy of going to one’s first ball!

Colour burned in her face. She tiptoed over to the door of Mr. Masterman’s room. Very cautiously she tried it. It was locked. This was safe. Mrs. Masterman was in bed. Mr. Masterman was still with some of his guests. It would only take ten minutes. Ten minutes of joy, and no fear of discovery… or very little, and she was reckless … reckless for the feel of warm water on her body and the caress of silk against her skin. She went to the hip-bath; she would be quick. She slipped off her clothes. She turned to the mirror so that she could see herself, tall and shapely, youthful, graceful. What joy it was to be free of the convict garb!

She scrubbed herself gleefully. She kept her eyes on the two doors. She could not help it, but the fear of discovery gave her an added sense of excitement.

When she stood before the mirror, clean, she felt she had washed off all the grime of Newgate and the prison ship. Perhaps some other time, when the coast was clear, she would bring the cans of water for Mrs. Masterman and use them herself.

Now just a glimpse of herself in the blue frock, and then back to the yellow.

She took it up; she slipped it over her head. She had forgotten that Mrs. Masterman was a smaller woman than she was. She struggled, and as she stood there, the frock over her head, she heard a footstep quite close. She was not sure which room it came from, Mr. Masterman’s or his wife’s. Panic seized her, she struggled. She must get into her yellow frock quickly; she was sobered suddenly; she realized what discovery would mean. Punishment… and what was punishment for a convict servant? The whip? She began to shiver, and as she stood there, with the dress half over her head, the door opened. Frantically she pulled at the dress; it fell about her bare feet, and through the mirror, for she dared not face him, she saw Mr. Masterman standing in the doorway of his room. He stood very still, like a great idol carved out of stone, awful, terrible.

He said: “What is this?” And his voice was harsh. It had a trace of the London streets in it; a hint of studied culture.

She had no words; she was dumb with terror. She could only think of the sound the whip made as it descended through the air.

“Who are you?” he demanded, and took a step towards her.

“I

don’t recognize you.”

Still she could not speak. Her mouth was dry, her throat parched.

She noted clearly the fairness of the hair about his face; the pale skin beneath it; the eyes that were grey-green like the sea on dreary days. Now those cold eyes had seen the garments lying by the hip-bath, had taken in the significance of it all.

“You’re from the kitchen,” he said.

“Yes.” Now her voice had come back she felt better. To hear it gave her courage; she felt herself once more. If she were going to be punished, she would accept punishment, and she would not let him see how frightened she was.

“And why did you do this?” he asked.

She answered simply: “She did not want her bath. I did. She told me to put that dress away; I wanted to see myself in it, so I … put it on.”

“You are a pert young woman,” he said.

“And very disrespectful.”

“You asked me,” she flashed, ‘and I answered.”

His eyes went over her, slowly, from her flushed face and tousled hair to her bare feet. It was the coldness of him that exasperated her, that aroused her fury; and when that was aroused, she could never give a thought to the consequences. A lump was in her throat; she was choking with anger and self-pity.

“I suppose you will have me whipped for this,” she said.

“I don’t care!”

“Oh? You do not mind the lash? You have experienced it? No? Is it not rather rash then to speak so lightly of it? Perhaps when you know something of it you will not be so contemptuous!”

“It is well for you to be so calm. You have not been dragged away from your home. You have not seen your father murdered, nor your mother die of neglect and cruelty. You have not lain in stinking Newgate and nearly died on a foul prison ship! You have not been taken into … into someone’s house as a slave…”

Her voice broke; tears began to stream down her face. He walked away and stood with his back to her.

“Doubtless,” he said, “You are quite innocent of any crime.”

“I am innocent!”

“Of course! So is every convict I have ever met. They only rob and murder; that is perfect innocence. Now perhaps you will be good enough to get out of your mistress’s clothes and into your own. Perhaps you will be good enough to keep to your own quarters.”

If only he had shown a little anger, she would have liked him better. It was that coldness in him which exasperated her beyond endurance.

He turned his head slightly and gave her a swift look as though he found the sight of her too loathsome to be endured for more than the briefest second.

“Please wait,” he said, ‘until I have gone. I notice you have the charming modesty of our Newgate friends!”

The door closed; she heard the key turned in the lock. She looked at herself in the mirror. Her cheeks were scarlet; her eyes brilliant with tears. How long had he stood there, watching her struggle into the frock? She put her hands to her cheeks, and a burning shame was in her eyes. The beast! The coldblooded beast! How she hated him! There were none quite as loathsome as the coldblooded. Anger one could forgive, but that cold, calculated sarcasm… She took off the dress quickly. She was terrified he would come back. She got into her own clothes; she could not help noticing, even in her distress, how different she looked. She tried to stifle her sobs. He would hear; he would smile with satisfaction, the loathsome brute! She imagined his coming to the yard to witness her punishment. It made weals on your back, Marcus said, weals that left their mark for ever, that branded you.