4
IN THE EARLY HOURS OF THE MORNING Maisie and Hugh walked north through the raw new suburbs of Fulham and South Kensington. The night became hotter and the stars disappeared. They held hands, even though their palms were sweaty in the heat. Maisie felt bewildered but happy.
Something odd had happened tonight. She did not understand it but she liked it. In the past, when men had kissed her and touched her breasts, she had felt it was part of a transaction, something she gave in return for whatever she needed from them. Tonight had been different. She had wanted him to touch her—and he had been too polite to do anything without being asked!
It had started while they were dancing. Until then she had not been aware that this was going to be radically different from any previous evening spent with an upper-class young man. Hugh was more charming than most, and he looked good in his white waistcoat and silk tie, but still he was just a nice boy. Then, on the dance floor, she had begun to think how pleasant it would be to kiss him. The feeling had got stronger as they walked around the gardens after the dancing and saw all the other courting couples. His hesitation had been engaging. Other men saw dinner and conversation as a tedious preliminary to the important business of the evening, and could hardly wait to get her in a dark place and start groping, but Hugh had been shy.
In other respects he was the opposite of shy. In the riot he had been completely fearless. After he was knocked to the ground his only concern had been to make sure the same thing did not happen to her. There was a lot more to Hugh than the average young man-about-town.
When finally she had made him understand that she wanted to be kissed, it had been delicious, quite unlike any kiss she had had before. Yet he was not skillful or experienced. Quite the reverse: he was naive and uncertain. So why had she enjoyed it so much? And why had she suddenly longed to feel his hands on her breasts?
She was not tormented by these questions, just intrigued. She was contented, walking through London in the darkness with Hugh. Now and again she felt a few drops of rain, but the threatened cloudburst did not materialize. She began to think it would be nice to be kissed again soon.
They reached Kensington Gore and turned right, along the south side of the park, heading for the city center where she lived. Hugh stopped opposite a huge house whose front was illuminated by two gaslights. He put his arm around her shoulders. “That’s my aunt Augusta’s house,” he said. “That’s where I live.”
She put her arm around his waist and stared at the house, wondering what it was like to live in such a vast mansion. She found it hard to imagine what you would do with all the rooms. After all, if you had somewhere to sleep and somewhere to cook, and perhaps the luxury of another room in which to entertain guests, what else did you need? There was no point in having two kitchens or two sitting-rooms: you could only be in one at a time. It reminded her that she and Hugh lived on separate islands in society, divided by an ocean of money and privilege. The thought troubled her. “I was born in a one-room hut,” she said.
“In the northeast?”
“No, in Russia.”
“Really? ‘Maisie Robinson’ doesn’t sound like a Russian name.”
“I was born Miriam Rabinowicz. We all changed our names when we came here.”
“Miriam,” he said softly. “I like it.” He drew her to him and kissed her. Her anxiety evaporated and she gave herself up to the sensation. He was less hesitant now: he knew what he liked. She drank his kisses thirstily, like a glass of cold water on a hot day. She hoped he would touch her breasts again.
He did not disappoint her. A moment later she felt his hand close gently over her left breast. Almost immediately her nipple grew taut, and his fingertips touched it through the silk of her dress. She felt embarrassed that her desire should be so obvious, but it only inflamed him more.
After a while she wanted to feel his body. She reached inside his dress coat and ran her hands up and down his back, feeling the hot skin through the thin cotton of his shirt. She was behaving like a man, she thought. She wondered if he minded. But she was enjoying it too much to stop.
Then it started to rain.
It happened not gradually but all at once. There was a flash of lightning, a clap of thunder right afterwards, and an instant downpour. By the time they broke the kiss their faces were wet.
Hugh seized her hand and pulled. “Let’s take shelter in the house!” he said.
They ran across the road. Hugh led her down the steps, past a sign saying “Tradesmen’s Entrance,” to the basement area. By the time they reached the doorway she was soaked to the skin. Hugh unlocked the door. Putting a finger to his lips to indicate silence, he ushered her inside.
She hesitated for a fraction of a second, wondering whether she should ask exactly what he had in mind; but the thought slipped away and she stepped through the door.
They tiptoed through a kitchen the size of a small church to a narrow staircase. Hugh put his mouth to her ear and said: “There’ll be clean towels upstairs. We’ll take the back staircase.”
She followed him up three long flights, then they passed through another door and emerged on a landing. He glanced through an open doorway into a bedroom where a night-light burned. In a normal voice he said: “Edward’s still out. There’s no one else on this floor. Aunt and Uncle’s rooms are on the floor below us and the servants above. Come.”
He led her into his bedroom and turned up the gaslight. “I’ll fetch towels,” he said, and he went out again.
She took off her hat and looked around the room. It was surprisingly small, and furnished simply, with a single bed, a dresser, a plain wardrobe, and a small desk. She had expected something much more luxurious—but Hugh was a poor relation, and his room reflected that.
She looked with interest at his things. He had a pair of silver-backed hair brushes engraved with the initials T.P.—another heirloom from his father. He was reading a book called The Handbook of Good Commercial Practice. On the desk was a framed photograph of a woman and a girl about six years old. She slid open the drawer of his bedside table. There was a Bible and another book underneath it. She moved the Bible aside and read the title of the concealed book: it was called The Duchess of Sodom. She realized she was prying. Feeling guilty, she closed the drawer quickly.
Hugh came back with a pile of towels. Maisie took one. It was warm from an airing cupboard, and she buried her wet face in it gratefully. This is what it’s like to be rich, she thought; great piles of warm towels whenever you need them. She dried her bare arms and her bosom. “Who’s the picture of?” she asked him.
“My mother and my sister. My sister was born after my father died.”
“What’s her name?”
“Dorothy. I call her Dotty. I’m very fond of her.”
“Where do they live?”
“In Folkestone, by the sea.”
Maisie wondered if she would ever meet them.
Hugh drew up the chair from the desk and made her sit down. He knelt in front of her, took off her shoes, and dried her wet feet with a fresh towel. She closed her eyes: the sensation of the warm, soft towel on the soles of her feet was exquisite.
Her dress was wet through, and she shivered. Hugh removed his coat and boots. Maisie knew she could not get dry without taking off her dress. Underneath she was quite decent. She was not wearing knickers—only rich women did—but she had on a full-length petticoat and a chemise. Impulsively she stood up, turned her back to Hugh and said: “Will you undo me?”
She could feel his hands shaking as his fingers fumbled with the hooks-and-eyes that fastened her dress. She was nervous too, but she could not back out now. When he was done she thanked him and stepped out of the dress.
She turned to face him.
His expression was a touching mixture of embarrassment and desire. He stood like Ali Baba staring at the thieves’ treasure. She had thought vaguely that she would simply dry herself with a towel and put her dress back on later, when it had dried, but now she knew it was not going to be like that. And she was glad.
She put her hands on his cheeks, pulled his head down and kissed him. This time she opened her mouth, expecting him to do the same, but he did not. He had never kissed that way, she guessed. She teased his lips with the tip of her tongue. She sensed that he was shocked but excited too, and after a moment he opened his mouth a fraction and responded shyly with his tongue. He began to breathe harder.
After a while he broke the kiss, reached for the top of her chemise and tried to undo the button. He fumbled for a moment then grasped the garment with both hands and tore it open, sending buttons flying. His hands closed over her bare breasts and he shut his eyes and groaned. She felt as if she were melting inside. She wanted more of this, now and always.
“Maisie,” he said.
She looked at him.
“I want to …”
She smiled. “So do I.”
When the words were out she wondered where they came from. She had spoken without thinking. But she had no doubts. She wanted him more than she had ever wanted anything.
He stroked her hair. “I’ve never done it before,” he said.
“Nor have I.”
He stared at her. “But I thought—” He stopped.
She felt a spasm of anger, then controlled herself. It was her own fault if he had thought she was promiscuous. “Let’s lie down,” she said.
He sighed happily, then said: “Are you sure?”
“Am I sure?” she repeated. She could hardly believe he had said that. She had never known a man who would ask that question. They never thought about how she felt. She took his hand in hers and kissed the palm. “If I wasn’t sure before, I am now.”
She lay down on the narrow bed. The mattress was hard but the sheet was cool. He lay beside her and said: “What now?”
They were approaching the limits of her experience, but she knew the next step. “Feel me,” she said. He touched her tentatively through her clothing. Suddenly she was impatient. She pulled up her petticoat—she had nothing on underneath—and pressed his hand to her mound.
He stroked her, kissing her face, his breath hot and fast. She knew she should be afraid of getting pregnant, but she could not focus on the danger. She was out of control: the pleasure was too intense for her to think. This was as far as she had ever gone with a man, but all the same she knew exactly what she wanted next. She put her lips to his ear and murmured: “Push your finger in.”
He did so. “It’s all wet,” he said wonderingly.
“That’s to help you.”
His fingers explored her delicately. “It seems so small.”
“You’ll have to be gentle,” she said, although a part of her wanted to be taken furiously.
“Shall we do it now?”
She was suddenly impatient. “Yes, please, quickly.”
She sensed him fumbling with his trousers, then he lay between her legs. She was frightened—she had heard stories about how much it hurt the first time—but she was also consumed by longing for him.
She felt him ease into her. After a moment he encountered resistance. He pushed gently, and it hurt. “Stop!” she said.
He looked at her worriedly. “I’m sorry—”
“It will be all right. Kiss me.”
He lowered his face to hers and kissed her lips, gently at first and then passionately. She put her hands on his waist, lifted her hips off the bed a little, then pulled him to her. There was a pain, sharp enough to make her cry out, then something gave way inside her and she felt a tremendous release of tension. She broke the kiss and looked at him.
“Are you all right?” he said.
She nodded. “Did I make a noise?”
“Yes, but I don’t think anyone heard.”
“Don’t stop,” she said.
He hesitated a moment longer. “Maisie,” he murmured, “is this a dream?”
“If it is, let’s not wake up yet.” She moved against him, guiding him with her hands on his hips. He followed her lead. It reminded her of how they had danced together just a few hours earlier. She gave herself up to the sensation. He began to pant.
Distantly, above the noise of his breathing and hers, she heard a door open.
She was so absorbed in her feelings and Hugh’s body that the sound failed to alarm her.
Suddenly a harsh voice shattered the mood like a stone through a window. “Well, well, Hugh—what’s all this?”
Maisie froze.
Hugh gave a despairing groan, and she felt his seed spurt warm inside her.
She wanted to cry.
The sneering voice came again. “What do you think this house is, a brothel?”
Maisie whispered: “Hugh—get off me.”
He withdrew from her and rolled off the bed. She saw his cousin Edward standing in the doorway, smoking a cigar and staring at them intently. Hugh quickly covered her with a big towel. She sat upright and pulled it up to her neck.
Edward grinned nastily. “Well, if you’ve finished I might give her a go.”
Hugh wrapped a towel around his waist. Controlling his anger with a visible effort, he said: “You’re drunk, Edward—go to your room before you say something completely unforgivable.”
Edward ignored him and approached the bed. “Why, it’s Solly Greenbourne’s dollymop! But I won’t tell him—so long as you’re nice to me.”
Maisie saw that he was in earnest, and she shuddered with loathing. She knew that some men were inflamed by a woman who had just been with another man—April had told her the slang term for a woman in that state, a buttered bun—and she knew intuitively that Edward was such a man.
Hugh was enraged. “Get out of here, you damn fool,” he said.
“Be a sport,” Edward persisted. “After all, she’s only a damn whore.” With that he reached down and snatched away Maisie’s towel.
She jumped off the bed from the other side, covering herself with her arms; but there was no need. Hugh took two strides across the little room and hit Edward a mighty punch on the nose. Blood spurted and Edward let out a roar of agony.
Edward was rendered harmless instantly, but Hugh was still angry, and he hit him again.
Edward screamed in fear and pain and blundered to the door. Hugh went after him, throwing punches at the back of his head. Edward began to yell: “Leave me alone, stop it, please!” He fell through the doorway.
Maisie followed them out. Edward was stretched out on the floor and Hugh was sitting on top of him, still hitting him. She cried: “Hugh, stop, you’ll kill him!” She tried to grab Hugh’s arms, but he was in a fury and it was hard to restrain him.
A moment later she glimpsed a movement out of the corner of her eye. She looked up and saw Hugh’s aunt Augusta standing at the top of the stairs in a black silk peignoir, staring at her. In the flickering gaslight she looked like a voluptuous ghost.
There was a strange look in Augusta’s eyes. At first Maisie could not read her expression; then, after a moment, she understood, and she was frightened.
It was a look of triumph.