“Vegetarian, what nonsense,” Rupert harrumphs. “You don’t always have to come with us, Grace, you know.”
But I do have to. I have to spend as much time with Oliver as possible. So, I sit on the sidelines, watching as Oliver plays tennis or polo with his friends. I notice that George always cheers when Oliver scores a goal, holding his mallet up in delight and yelling, “Well done!” I notice that Rupert turns away at the same time, hair slicked back with sweat, teeth gritted rather than congratulating Oli. You notice a lot of things when you are forced to stay quiet.
“Fuck,” Oliver says now, as I touch the space between his shoulder blades to remind him that I am here. We are in the games room. George and Rupert and a few other men are playing something called poker in the corner; occasionally Rupert shouts that George is “cheating”. Oliver had been sitting in an armchair by the window, staring vacantly out at the sea. I did not like to see him alone, so I decided to keep him company.
“Don’t do that, Grace,” he says. “You frightened me.”
I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.
Oliver’s breathing is laboured, one hand to his chest as if to remind himself to inhale. He grabs at the glass at his elbow, draining what’s left in it. I do not like this time of the evening, when we all retire to the games room and a cabinet full of shining bottles is opened and the men fall on them as if dying of thirst. Their laughter grows louder and more meaningless until they find everything funny. I am not enjoying myself; not that it seems to matter to anyone except for George, who occasionally asks if I’m all right, if I want a drink, if I’m getting tired. The magic draught that Daisy has given me is beginning to wear off, pain crashing over me like waves tipped with shining blades.
“What’s the matter, Grace?” Oliver asks, his eyes suddenly on me.
I look over at Rupert, tormenting the young servant girl who is unlucky enough to have the night shift. I had met this same girl a few days ago; she and Daisy found me in the rose garden, sitting on a bench hewn from stone. I wanted to look as if I was enjoying the sunshine, turning my face up to meet its warmth, but truthfully, I had been compelled to sit until the throbbing in my feet subsided.
“There you are,” Daisy said. “Gorgeous weather, isn’t it? We decided to eat our lunch outside to make the most of it, don’t get too many days like this. This is my friend, Ling.” The other girl half-waved at me. “And this is Grace,” she said, Ling’s eyes widening in recognition. They settled on the bench with me, Daisy offering me some of her sandwich (Don’t worry, she said, it’s only cheese.) while Ling told me about her family, about her father who had been a doctor but who’d died last year, forcing her and her younger sister to find summer jobs in the Carlisle house to help their mother pay the bills. (It’s fine, she said, clearing her throat. We’ll be fine.) “Ling is a traditional name in my father’s homeland,” she said, as if this was something she had had to explain many times before. “It means clever. Intelligent. Dad chose it for me.” I could not imagine the Sea King ever finding such a name appropriate for a girl-baby. It will only give them ideas, he would have said.
Ling is tiny, so small that Rupert has to crouch down to whisper in her ear. She wants to escape, I can tell, but she has nowhere to run to. I am very familiar with that feeling.
“Rupe, come on,” George says, placing his cards on the table. “Leave the girl alone.”
“Shut it, Georgie Porgie.”
“I mean it, Rupert.” George gets to his feet. “Get away from her.”
“She doesn’t mind, do you, sweetheart?” I can see the tip of his tongue darting into Ling’s ear, her barely perceptible shudder. I should go over there and help, like I wish someone had intervened when Zale put his hands on me. But is it my place to do so? But maybe this type of behaviour is simply what women must withstand in order to exist in the world? We are trained to be pleasing, and to crave male attention, to see their gaze as a confirmation of our very worthiness. Are we allowed to complain, then, if the attention is not of the type we like?
“Are you tired?” Oliver asks me. “I understand, it’s getting late.” He sways as he stands, brushing up against me. I want to beg him to touch me again, and again. Is there something wrong with me? Could Zale smell this want? Is that why he did what he did?
“Where’s George gone?” Oliver asks, watching the men playing cards.
“Gone off in a huff,” Rupert says and Ling glances at the open door behind her. “He’s so boring these days.”
“Leave George alone,” Oliver says, losing interest. “Grace is tired so we’re going to call it a night.”
“Of course, mate,” Rupert says. “Whatever you want.” He smiles at Ling, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. “I have a few ideas about how I can spend the rest of the night, anyway.”
“Ready, Grace?” Oliver says, and I nod my head.
I leave that room.
I leave Ling with him.
“Apologies,” Oliver says as we climb the red-carpeted stairs to my bedroom. My feet are sinking into the fabric, and yet its luxury grants them no comfort. “I know I wasn’t much fun tonight.” The walls of the corridor are lined with images of his family, photographs, they’re called. Oliver as a child, always holding his father’s hand, his mother smiling too brightly. Alexander Carlisle, a handsome man with broad shoulders who becomes smaller with each passing year. “I’m tired.”
He tires easily, I have noticed. Daisy said his valet told them downstairs that Oliver hasn’t slept properly since the accident. Maybe he’s afraid of the darkness, the weight of an endless sleep pressing down upon him. Maybe he’s afraid he will never wake up. Maybe he’s secretly hoping he won’t. I could make you happy, Oliver. I could save you for the second time, if you would allow it.
“You are beautiful,” he says. He rests his forehead against mine, so close, and I find myself short of breath. This is it. Please, Oliver. Please kiss me.
“Is it okay if I…?” he whispers, moving his lips to mine. It feels so different to when Zale forced his tongue into my mouth that my eyes prick with tears. This is how my first kiss should have felt like. Oliver will heal me.
He pulls away, a hand against the wall to steady himself. Oli. I reach for him. “No,” he says. “I shouldn’t have done that. It’s too late and I’ve had too much to drink. And it’s too…” His face pinches. “It’s too soon, don’t you understand?”
He leaves me. And all I understand is that I am buzzing, as if every nerve ending in my body is being kissed by bees. I am alive.
I sit on my bed, re-live what just happened in graphic detail. His thigh nudging my legs apart, his fingers on my throat. That heat rising. I pull the dress up around my waist, my hand drifting to that new place, that part of me that I had not known would exist when I struck a bargain with the Sea Witch for human legs. I am made wild with longing, my fingers dipping inside the wet heart, imagining Oliver’s body on top of mine. Something akin to bliss, or maybe agony, teetering on the knife edge in between shivers from my very centre to my toes, an overwhelming relief knocking me drowsy.
I did not know such ecstasy could exist for women, is my second-last thought before I fall asleep.
I am running out of time, is the last.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Where’s Oliver?
He is not there the next morning when I go to the orangery, my skin flushing as I remember what I did in his name last night. Eleanor is at the breakfast table by herself, folders piled beside her plate as she discusses today’s schedule with her assistant, a fair-haired young man called Gerald.
“And there is that museum opening at—” She breaks off when I walk in, and Gerald pauses his incessant scribbling in that notebook he carries everywhere with him.