“Oliver! I am not being rude. Surely you can agree that it would make things easier if we knew more about our young visitor,” Eleanor says. What does this woman want from me? “What shall we call you? Jane Doe, as is the name given to the missing girls from our country? There are many of them, you know. Girls who simply disappear one day, never to be seen again.” She stirs her tea with the spoon, around and around, metal scraping off china, causing my teeth to grind. “Foolish, really; probably following some man who doesn’t want to be followed. A man with a wife, perhaps. With children. Not that girls like that care about such details.”
“What has this to do with anything?” Oliver says, scowling at his mother. “And, no, we will not call her Jane. It doesn’t suit her. I will think of something more suitable.” He finishes the porridge, pouring more cream and sugar into his bowl.
“I was thinking we could go horse-riding today,” he says as I stare at my own breakfast, willing myself to resist temptation. Girls are not allowed to want more. There is silence, and I find him looking in my direction. I point at myself to make sure, and he laughs.
“Yes, you, beautiful one.” He thinks I’m beautiful. I wish I could tell him that I think he’s beautiful too, more beautiful than any man I have ever seen, above or below the surface. “Do you want to come horse-riding with me?”
I do not know what a horse is or how I could ride one, but I smile my yes. The more time I spend with Oliver alone, the more likely it is that I shall convince him to fall in love with me. I must convince him of it. When he is in love with me, I will be safe. And once I am safe, I tell myself, I will be able to find my mother, if she is still here to be found.
“Wonderful,” he says. “I bet George’s riding gear will fit you; he is as slender as a girl.” He snaps his fingers at the servant. “Call the Delaney house. Ask their butler to send George’s riding outfit to the estate, immediately.”
“Oli,” his mother says, as the servant leaves. “The Galanis people are coming in from Athens to discuss the sale. It’s important that you—”
“Enough, Mother,” he says, slamming the spoon down on the table. “You can go in my place, can you not? You’re better at all of that stuff than I am, anyway.”
“Yes, Oli,” she says. “Of course I can.”
No. No. No.
I shake my head, backing away from these horses. They are huge animals, with slobbering mouths and stamping feet; throwing their heads back as an older man with dirty fingernails and two missing teeth tells them to hush. (“This is Billy,” Oliver had introduced us. “He’s the best groom in the country.” “She don’t got a name?” Billy asked Oliver when I remained silent. “It’s a long story,” Oliver replied.)
“What’s wrong?” Oliver asks now. “I thought you wanted to go riding?”
“Are you afraid of horses, miss?” Billy asks, pulling at the leather strips around the animals’ heads. “No need to be; Blaize and Misty are two of the gentlest creatures in the stables.”
I turn to Oliver in panic, clutching at his elbow.
“Oh, for pity’s sake,” Oliver says, clearly annoyed. I’ve only had legs for a day and already Oliver is weary of me. (…the waves taking you for their own. It is Sea Law.) I can feel an ache forming behind my eyes. I have so little time to make him love me; I cannot afford to anger him. What would my mother tell me to do if she was here? How did she manage to calm my father when he was in one of his moods? I nestle into Oliver, resting my head on his shoulder until I feel him relax. That was easier than expected.
“We’ll go on Misty together, Billy,” Oliver says. “The lady can hold on to me.” He winks. “As tightly as you need.”
And I do hold on tight. The leather seat (a saddle, Billy had called it) is solid between my legs, rubbing against that new centre in a way that makes me feel uncomfortable and restless all at once. Misty runs faster, Oliver urging the animal to pick up speed as we jump over holes in the earth, broken down fences and trickling streams. I have my arms around his waist, pressing my body into his back, the country air roaring past my ears until I am becoming frenzied with the thrill of it. I never imagined such a thing when I was under the sea.
“Woah, Misty,” Oliver says, pulling back on the straps (reins), the horse slowing until we come to a standstill. We are at a clearing in the woods, sunshine dappling through the leaves and falling on the ground in shards of light. Oliver jumps down, his thighs muscular in those tight cream trousers, (Impure thoughts, my grandmother would have said, those are not for good girls. Why does being a good girl always have to be such hard work?) and he ties the reins around the stump of a tree. Misty steps back, snorting, but gives up when he finds he cannot escape. Do all creatures who find themselves in captivity surrender so easily? Oliver reaches up and places a hand on either side of my waist, lifting me down.
“There you go,” he says as I stand before him, swallowing down the excruciating pain that my feet are subjecting me to. He points at a mountain ahead, steep, a daunting prospect at the best of times, let alone with serrated knives for bones. “Ready for a climb?”
He insists that I walk ahead of him. “Just keep to the path,” he says, and I do, each step feeling as if a steel trap is opening and closing upon my toes, the metal teeth tearing through and chewing on my bones. But I keep walking, the boughs of the trees grazing my shoulders and the top of my head. I reach down to pick one of the flowers blooming from the ground, pressing it to my nose and inhaling its scent, the strength of which I could never have imagined beneath the sea.
“Christ,” he says when we reach the top, wisps of clouds drifting below us, obscuring our view of Oliver’s kingdom. I sit down on a rock as quickly as I can, fighting the urge to throw my head to the sky and scream for oblivion, for a mercy of any kind. “I have never seen anyone move like that. Were you a dancer where you come from? You have such grace—” He snaps his fingers. “That’s it. That’s what we shall call you. Grace. It is a fitting name for one so beautiful.” He sits beside me, taking my hand in his, sweat beading his brow. “Is that okay? Do you like it?”
I will like any name you choose for me.
“Grace,” he says again. My hand is still in his, and I hope he never lets go. “The beautiful Grace.”
Later that night when Daisy pulls the riding boots off, she sees the blood spilling from the soles of my feet, and there is so much of it, this human blood, smearing on the carpet and on the sheets and all over Daisy’s hands until her fingernails are encrusted with my pain. I stare at it, fascinated, and yet I do not feel afraid.
“What is this?” Daisy asks, her eyes huge. “What have you done to yourself, miss? We have to call the doctor, miss, we have to.”
I place my finger to my lip.
“But—”
I take her stained hands in mine, urging her to keep my secret.
“Okay, miss,” she says, and she’s confused, as if unsure as to why she is agreeing to my demands. “I won’t tell nobody.” And somehow, despite how chatty I have found Daisy to be, I sense that I can trust her.
And I smile. Oliver will be mine. It is worth it. All of this will be worth it.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The next morning, Daisy brings me a draught; a “special drink”, she calls it.
“It’ll help with the pain,” she says, as she places a bronze goblet on the dresser. She nods at my feet she so carefully bandaged the night before, already soaked through with blood. “I should tell the mistress, we should get the doctor; Mrs Carlisle said I was supposed to watch for anything odd—”
I sit up straight, clutching at Daisy. I have learned since my arrival that doctors means scientists and scientists means experiments and tests and medical studies, like my grandmother warned my sisters before they travelled to the surface. Don’t get too close, she told them. Is that what happened my mother? If they allowed her to live, did they use her for scientific research, her body torn apart to help with their “enquiries”? I don’t know, of course, that’s the problem.