Derek Beaven - Newton’s Niece

Charles came to call. He was shown up to my bedroom by Mary as if it were an established thing. Nobody seemed to bat an eyelid, least of all me. I read these relationships of polite force.

‘Kit. My jewel. You’re safe.’

‘Charles.’ He seized my hands and pressed them to his lips. I didn’t ask myself what was this assumed intimacy, nor on what it was based, nor what I had done to arouse it.

‘Dearest Kit. You’re as beautiful as ever.’

I looked down. He sat; as one who felt no stranger to the room. I sat too, in the chair in front of my dressing-table. I was in technical deshabillé – in that the finishing touches weren’t on yet.

‘They tell me so.’

‘I’m so glad to see you. So happy.’

‘And I to see you, Sir.’

‘I believe you are. Kit, I believe you feel for me. Am I right?’

‘Charles. As much as I’m able to feel anything, I feel for you.’

‘And you are flesh and blood. Therefore I take heart. You don’t lie to me. Although you torment me, you are honest and honourable.’

‘Torment you? How?’ I was astonished.

‘You must know.’

‘Know what? What have I done to you?’

‘You’ve robbed me of my heart. You’ve had it out of me with the oyster knife of your eyes. Now I bleed Venus’s salty fluid.’

‘That’s disgusting.’

‘You haven’t stolen my humour. But your eyebeams impale me, seriously; I can’t sleep for thinking of you. I can’t eat. It’s all the fault of your exquisite form. I blame you, Kit; your skin, your hair, your cheeks, your absolute gestures, the low sweetness of your voice. I’m on the rack of your feminine perfection.’

I stood up. ‘Come. This is a game. Where does it lead?’ I was twenty, politely losing patience. When I was a boy, I remembered for a flash, I used to think it was my fault. Turning my back, I looked out, over the yard and to the park beyond.

‘You’re very direct. You’re unlike other women. At least I’ve never met one like you. You say these outright things and I’m nonplussed. It puts me beside myself.’ He came over to stand behind me.

‘I’m different, I know it. I can’t help it.’

‘No. I don’t wish you any other way. It’s part of your beauty.’

‘My beauty. Yes.’

‘You say them with that bewitching half-smile.’

‘And …?’

‘And I’m overthrown.’

‘Do you like that? Do you like to be overthrown? Be honest with me, Charles, if you want to secure my respect.’

‘What do the poets call it? Sweet torment. Delicious agony.’

Feeling him touch my shoulder, I slipped sideways to escape, catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror as I passed it.

‘Did you love your wife?’

‘I married for career reasons.’

‘Did you come to love her?’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘Because for someone who could bid to understand the economy of a whole country, and wished patriotically to serve – I put the best construction on what I know of your past – even for a man who hoped to make a dazzling success in politics and wanted resources, marriage with a rich old woman is remarkably cynical. It’s stage comedy stuff, Charles, I believe. Was she … beautiful?’

‘You can’t interrogate me like this, Kit. You realise who I am?’

‘Very well. I shan’t interrogate you like this. What do you want of me now?’ I took up the sash I planned to wear. ‘You have a reputation about the town, I’m told.’

‘Who tells you this? What reputation do you mean?’

‘That you have pretty young society women for breakfast, and pretty young whores for supper.’

‘You believe this?’

‘Let’s merely assume there have been other women in your life. What do you do to them?’

‘What do I do? … What do you mean what do I do?’ He got up and stalked to the corner, where he sat under his portrait.

‘Charles. I want to know what’s expected of me. Here you are in my bedroom. Don’t you grasp my … my situation? My reasonable uncertainty?’ I felt myself smile suddenly. ‘Reasonable, Charles.’

‘For God’s sake, Kit, I love you. I’m the uncertain one. Do you understand? I have fallen in love with you.’

‘But what does that mean for me? What am I expected to do? Exactly.’

‘Don’t you have … some feeling for me? Kit, I’m supposed to be a busy man. A public man. And I’m … crucified. Forgive the reference.’ He put his head in his hands to hold the frustration.

I heard myself sigh as I put down my sash, although my teeth were now clenched tight. I wished I could force myself out of my body; out of the room. Instead I started untying the bows at the front of my bodice. After a while he looked up.

‘Good God. What are you doing?’

‘Undressing.’

‘Stop. Stop it at once. Do yourself up. By God’s blood you’ll see me under. Are you a whore? How many lovers have you had, Madam? And I thought I was assured of your absolute chastity.’

‘You were what? How were you assured?’

Charles looked lost. He said: ‘I’ve known you since … when was it? … Ninety-three?’

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