The adulteress

When one is as guilty as I was one suspects everything. First Evalina because we met her in the woods ... and now Hetty.

The weeks slipped by ... one very like the last. Nothing changed. Jean-Louis's pain was perhaps a little more frequent—the periods of respite fewer and less far between. And Charles and I deeper and deeper in our torrid love, with each passing week demanding more of each other, unable to keep apart, contriving meetings, loving, loving madly, hopelessly.

The summer passed and it was autumn.

There were letters from Clavering.

They longed to see me but they would not make the journey to Eversleigh because they knew how ill Jean-Louis was. But let Lottie come again with that nice governess of hers. It wasn't good for the child to spend Christmas in a house where there was sickness.

So Lottie and Miss Carter left for Clavering and Christmas passed for us at Eversleigh quietly. Hetty and James came with Isabel, Derek and Charles and we were all together on Christmas day. Jean-Louis was not well enough to be brought down but we spent a lot of time in his room and I was thankful that he felt no pain on that day.

Evalina sent messages. She was near her time and unable to come herself; but Jack Trent came over and brought little Richard with him. He was a bright boy and amused us with his chatter.

It seemed to me that he had a look of Dickon already and the thought depressed me.

So we passed into a new year.

The weather turned cold and it was hard to keep the rooms warm. Old houses were notoriously draughty and Eversleigh was no exception. Beautiful as the high-vaulted ceilings were they meant that the rooms needed great fires and even then much of the heat they provided was lost.

The cold was not good for Jean-Louis. One afternoon in February I sat with him. He had had a bad night and I had slightly increased his dose because the normal one seemed ineffective.

He talked to me in a low voice. He was so exhausted.

"Sleep," he said. "It came at last. What a relief sleep is. 'Nature's soft nurse,' Shakespeare called it. What an apt phrase."

"Rest," I said, "don't talk."

"I feel at peace now," he said. "You sitting there with the firelight playing on your face. I'd like to stay like this forever, Zipporah beside me ... and no pain ... just nothing ... Sometimes I wonder ..."

I did not speak and he closed his eyes. Then he said suddenly:

"You keep the key in that secret drawer of yours, don't you?"

I was startled and did not answer immediately.

I heard him laugh softly. "You do... . You always liked that little desk and you liked it because of the secret drawer."

"Who told you that was where I kept the key?"

"Dearest Zipporah ... am I a child not to be told these things? Even a child can reason. It's the obvious place."

"The doctor said: 'Put the key in a safe place which you know and no one else does... . You must be the only one who gives him the doses.' "

"Doctors think of their patients as children, don't they? The key is in the secret drawer. Sometimes I think it would be better if I drank enough of the stuff to let me slip quietly away."

"Please don't talk like that, Jean-Louis."

"Just this once and then I'll say no more of it. Wouldn't it be better ... Zipporah? Be honest, wouldn't it?"

"No ... nor"

"All right. I won't talk of it. Zipporah, you ought to be happy. Not sitting here with an invalid."

"I am happy. You are my husband, Jean-Louis. We ... belong together. I want to be with you. Don't you understand that?"

"Oh, my dearest ... you are so good to me."

"You excite yourself. You should rest."

He closed his eyes. There was a peaceful smile on his lips.

I prayed that he might rest peacefully that night. That the demons of pain might be kept at bay.

I could not sleep. I lay in my single bed in the dressing room and listened. He was quiet. He must be sleeping peacefully.

I thought of all he had said to me, of his tenderness and his trust; and I saw myself as a worthless woman, an adulteress who should be branded as they used to brand them, I believe, in the old days, with an A on their foreheads. He loved me absolutely and I was unworthy of his love. At times I wanted to give up everything to look after him; I did look after him, none could have nursed him better. But at the same time I was creeping off, when I could, to the bed of another man.

Life was so complicated. People were complicated. Nothing was plain black, plain white. I was kind to him; I was tender; I was never irritable. I smiled all the time; I soothed him. I had to because that was some balm to my conscience.

And as I lay there I heard movement in the room. Slowly, laboriously, Jean-Louis was getting out of bed. Had the pain started? No. It could not be. He could not get up and walk if it were so.

There was silence and then I heard the movement again. I heard the faint tapping of a stick.

Jean-Louis was coming toward the dressing room.