Constance thought, the idea of a friend of her brother’s marrying a servant girl. She is kind and impetuous and apparently free from prejudice. Or perhaps, in spite of her sensible manner, she is just too young to have realized how unlikely this match is.
There was a tap at the door and Rosemary hurried to open it. After a murmured conversation, she returned with a tray. ‘Here is your milk and honey. Beattie wanted to come in but I have told her how tired you are. You must sleep and be fresh for tomorrow.
‘Look, while you were bathing, Beattie made up this bed—in the alcove here. When I was a child, if I was poorly, she would sleep here in order to look after me. But tonight I shall be looking after you.’
Constance allowed Rosemary to lead her over to the bed, help her off with her robe and settle the bedclothes around her. The cup of milk was placed on a small table.
‘Now I shall put out the light. The glow from the fire should be sufficient for you to drink your milk by. Don’t worry about anything. Matthew has everything organized for tomorrow. Good night, Constance.’
‘Good night, Miss Elliot.’
‘Rosemary. You must call me Rosemary, for I hope that we are going to be friends.’
‘Good night, Rosemary. And - Rosemary...’
‘Yes?’
‘I - I don’t know how to thank you. You’ve been so very kind - you and your brother...’
For a moment the younger girl looked disconcerted. It was as if she sensed but did not want to acknowledge the strength of Constance’s feelings. She looked embarrassed.
Then, ‘Oh, my dear,’ she said, ‘there’s no need, no need. I’m sure Matthew doesn’t want thanking and neither do I.’
‘Nevertheless, I’m very grateful. I hope you’ll tell him.’
‘Yes, of course, but now you must drink up your milk before it gets cold.’
Constance watched as the girl placed a cinder-guard in front of the fire. She heard her put out the light, and then the soft rustle of bed linen as she settled in her own bed. After she had finished her milk, Constance lay for some time and watched the patterns that the flames made on the ceiling. The coals shifted and settled in the grate and, for a moment, the light flared, then died again. The room grew darker.
Constance felt enfolded by warmth and comfort. She had not slept in such a soft bed with such sweet-smelling linen since she was a small child, but she could not relax entirely. The scented water in the bath had eased the aching of her body; even the burning sensation between her legs had been replaced by a nagging tenderness.
She had taken the soap and washed that part of herself until she thought she had removed every sour trace of Gerald Sowerby - and yet she could not rid herself of the fancy that she would never be clean again.
Constance moved restlessly. Would John be able to tell what had happened? She had learned enough from gossip amongst the other girls in the workhouse to know what took place between men and women but she had only a hazy idea of virginity. However, she imagined that John would never have asked her to marry him if she had not been chaste.
Am I tainted now? she wondered. Has Gerald’s action, even though it was against my will, made me impure?
When she had arrived here, earlier, Matthew had asked her if she had come to call off the wedding. For an appalling moment she had imagined that he had guessed what had happened, that her appearance had been changed by her ordeal, that her face somehow would reveal to the world what kind of woman she now was.
But, of course, that was impossible. Matthew could not know that she had been raped unless she told him. And she had told him simply that she had fallen down in the fog. He had believed her. She did not need, ever, to tell anyone any more than she had told Matthew. John would never know - must never know - what Gerald had done to her.
But if Matthew had not
There was a tap at the door and Rosemary hurried to open it. After a murmured conversation, she returned with a tray. ‘Here is your milk and honey. Beattie wanted to come in but I have told her how tired you are. You must sleep and be fresh for tomorrow.
‘Look, while you were bathing, Beattie made up this bed—in the alcove here. When I was a child, if I was poorly, she would sleep here in order to look after me. But tonight I shall be looking after you.’
Constance allowed Rosemary to lead her over to the bed, help her off with her robe and settle the bedclothes around her. The cup of milk was placed on a small table.
‘Now I shall put out the light. The glow from the fire should be sufficient for you to drink your milk by. Don’t worry about anything. Matthew has everything organized for tomorrow. Good night, Constance.’
‘Good night, Miss Elliot.’
‘Rosemary. You must call me Rosemary, for I hope that we are going to be friends.’
‘Good night, Rosemary. And - Rosemary...’
‘Yes?’
‘I - I don’t know how to thank you. You’ve been so very kind - you and your brother...’
For a moment the younger girl looked disconcerted. It was as if she sensed but did not want to acknowledge the strength of Constance’s feelings. She looked embarrassed.
Then, ‘Oh, my dear,’ she said, ‘there’s no need, no need. I’m sure Matthew doesn’t want thanking and neither do I.’
‘Nevertheless, I’m very grateful. I hope you’ll tell him.’
‘Yes, of course, but now you must drink up your milk before it gets cold.’
Constance watched as the girl placed a cinder-guard in front of the fire. She heard her put out the light, and then the soft rustle of bed linen as she settled in her own bed. After she had finished her milk, Constance lay for some time and watched the patterns that the flames made on the ceiling. The coals shifted and settled in the grate and, for a moment, the light flared, then died again. The room grew darker.
Constance felt enfolded by warmth and comfort. She had not slept in such a soft bed with such sweet-smelling linen since she was a small child, but she could not relax entirely. The scented water in the bath had eased the aching of her body; even the burning sensation between her legs had been replaced by a nagging tenderness.
She had taken the soap and washed that part of herself until she thought she had removed every sour trace of Gerald Sowerby - and yet she could not rid herself of the fancy that she would never be clean again.
Constance moved restlessly. Would John be able to tell what had happened? She had learned enough from gossip amongst the other girls in the workhouse to know what took place between men and women but she had only a hazy idea of virginity. However, she imagined that John would never have asked her to marry him if she had not been chaste.
Am I tainted now? she wondered. Has Gerald’s action, even though it was against my will, made me impure?
When she had arrived here, earlier, Matthew had asked her if she had come to call off the wedding. For an appalling moment she had imagined that he had guessed what had happened, that her appearance had been changed by her ordeal, that her face somehow would reveal to the world what kind of woman she now was.
But, of course, that was impossible. Matthew could not know that she had been raped unless she told him. And she had told him simply that she had fallen down in the fog. He had believed her. She did not need, ever, to tell anyone any more than she had told Matthew. John would never know - must never know - what Gerald had done to her.
But if Matthew had not
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