Arthur Alexander - Emily_s Lips

The noise seemed to still the very blood in her veins. The shock of it thrust her against the wet, cold bars like a blow from a battering ram. Dimly she realized that her own voice was bellowing in her ears, screaming and screaming to drown out the thunder.

She tried to pull herself together. It was just thunder. Just a big noise. Thunder couldn't hurt you. It's okay, Emily, she kept soothing herself, it's okay, it's okay. Oh God, where was Arthur?

She returned to the car, pulled out an old raincoat, closed it uselessly around her shivering body, pocketed her keys, and locked the door. She walked calmly to the gate. She could see no bell to ring. She tried the bars again. They were not locked, but they were closed by a complicated latch which. had defeated her earlier panic.

She unfastened the gate and pushed it open. The drive led in front of her. Rain pelted her from behind, and the wind seemed to lift and shove her down the road.

She felt the water seeping through coat and clothing to drench her with another ooze. Lightning struck again, and the thunder came, but she was prepared, vigilant against terror. She did not even turn her head. She clutched the coat together in front of herself with white little hands, carried her face stiffly, and marched into the utter darkness between the trees. The coat was useless, of course, better suited to a lady like drizzle than to this gale, but she kept it pulled determinedly to her as the trees whipped her and the wind rose to a howl.

Finally, the drive left the trees. She had followed pale, white stones through the darkness, all that she could see, but now she was out. again in a rolling, landscaped country which the lightning revealed to extend far along the mountain slopes in each direction. She caught glimpses of other wooded areas, of small outbuildings, of what probably should have been graceful shade trees now gusted into writhing monstrosities. Someone very substantial lived here. The name Black meant nothing to her, save that symbolically it was apt for this night.

Probably an eccentric woman of Victorian v intage, a Miss Havisham keeping herself in timeless splendor. Or, more formidable still, a tall and cadaverous gentlemen involved in mysterious experiments who would lock her in a basement and allow her only the company of his large, mute servant named, unfailingly, Igor.

Whoever it was, he was certainly enamored of seclusion. The lightning still uncovered no sign of a house. Emily was beginning to wonder whether after all if she oughtn't return to the car when the drive angled around a hillock and down, and she saw the cluster of roofs which she knew must belong to the main house. It was situated, so far as she could tell, in the fold of a hill, backed by the imposing mountains she had been trying to cross, and looking out across what was probably miles upon miles of the lowlands. Carefully s ited plantings softened the shape of the house against the hill. She noticed that before a low garage were drawn up four or five expensive cars, putting their unquestionably immaculate polishes to the great test. The house itself was wide, of stone, and three stories high. It boasted gabled roofs and turrets, and a long, wide veranda fronted it. And, to her excitement, there were lights not only in some of the upper windows but coming through a series of tall French windows along one wing.

Drenched, Emily climbed the stone steps of the veranda. The front door was dark, so she walked to the French windows instead. She would have liked to peek in to see what sort of people they were, but heavy drapes cut off her view. She straightened her hair, took a deep breath, thought for one instant of the car, and knocked.

Nothing happened.

She knocked more loudly.

Still she roused no response.

She felt rather deflated. What should she do now? She gave one more louder knock on the glass and turned to see if she might not be able to attract the attention of someone upstairs. But just as she did this, the drapes were swept aside, and she found herself looking into the handsome face of a man of about forty years who wore a.comfortable-looking smoking jacket. A look of immediate concern crossed his features, and the door was swung wide to admit her.

"Oh, thank you. Thank you. It's so wet!"

"But, my dear, of course. Whatever can have happened? Do come in."

"I ran out of gas,. you see, and I saw your gate, and I-"

"Thank God you were close by! What a terrible night to be stuck on the road."

She had entered the room by this time, and he closed the window again firmly. She stood dripping by the glass and felt intensely awkward. The room was a large one, rather baronial, and was dominated by a friendly fire in a massive, stone fireplace.

The couches and chairs looked inviting. Save for the two of them, the room was empty.

"I'm afraid I'm rather wet," she said nervously. She realized that she was shivering as well.

"Well, of course you are. Now, don't worry about the carpets. It won't hurt them. You just come over her by the fire to get warm. Come on now! I'll not have you catching pneumonia in my house." He took her elbow and guided her toward the fire. Emily felt enormously relieved to have stumbled upon such a gentleman. He would take care of her, she knew, and see that she was all right. There was nothing to worry about now. She allowed herself to be led as a little child might.

"Now, that's better, isn't it?"

"Oh yes! It's so cold out there."

"Give me your coat, my dear, and I'll just hang it out to dry."

Emily peeled out of the clinging coat. She knew her clothing was soaked, and she felt somewhat uneasy about the fact that she was not wearing a bra. She had the sort of physique which is slender but sports quite massive breasts. Her nipples, she knew, were erect with the cold and from rubbing against the wet silk of her blouse.

She was aware that this man could see most of the contours and details of her body as she struggled from the wet garment, aware also that her breasts themselves were wobbling quite obviously as they hung from her chest. In point of fact, she saw in the mirror over the fireplace, her breasts were not actually as exposed as she feared they might be. Her nipples did stand out like cones, yes, and the darker color of them could even dimly be seen through the wet silk, but the rest of her blouse did not cling too tightly. Her hair, though, was a wreck.

But after all he did not allow her to be embarrassed. He hardly glanced at her body as he took her coat. "Now." He hung the coat over his arm and asked her, "What can I do to help your'

Emily was at a loss. She supposed that she wanted to spend the night, but one could hardly ask such a thing. Mainly, toward the end of her walk, she had just wanted to get away from that awful rain. "Well, I… that is to say, I'm out of gas, don't you see, by your gate. If you had some gas… " She allowed her voice to trail away.

"Nonsense! You'll stay the night of course." He looked at her for a moment. "A nightgown, I think. Something warm and flannely. And a robe."

"Oh, but I couldn't-"

"None of that. You will, and that's all there is to it. I'll just go and fetch my wife."

And that last word resolved the issue for Emily. Any small, lingering doubts she might have had, all of the Frankenstein situations, were banished from her mind.

Here was shelter; here was peace. The fire began to warm her. "You're too kind."

"Not at all, not at all."

Before he turned, he gave her a thorough looking-over, but she did not mind any longer. If her form pleased him, it was little enough payment for the fire and his was welcome. And he was, when all was said and done, a handsome devil. She glanced his way again and discovered that she was alone.

She had a moment to look around. She didn't want to leave the fire, whose warmth was seeping slowly through her clothes, but she saw that the room was both old and tastefully appointed. It was a library, and her host had been sitting reading a volume of poetry. An empty snifter winked from the floor beside his chair.