Corsair Pt. 01 Ch. 09: Engagement

The house at Auchencorun was quiet. In the dining room, the clock on the mantelpiece ticked. Andrew sat in the master chair at the head of the long dining table, a teacup empty in its saucer, the teapot cooling beyond.

He waited, patiently; his expression thoughtful.

Fiona came in, wearing a white tea-gown. She locked the door behind her. Andrew started up, but she laid a finger to her lips, and signed him to sit. She laid a packet of papers, and the riding crop he'd given her, on the table. Taking a matchbox from the mantel, she struck a match, and lit all six candles in the candlesticks on the dining table, although it was barely the middle of the day. She went across to the windows, and, one by one, carefully closed and barred all of the shutters. She turned, facing the table, and looked around the room, carefully.

Apparently satisfied, she brushed the cap sleeves of the tea-gown off her shoulders, and let it fall; as Andrew had guessed, it was all she wore. She pulled out the pin securing her hair, and it fell, too. She walked naked around the table to Andrew's chair, and knelt at his feet, her hair falling to the floor around her like a cloak. She bowed her head.

There was a silence; Andrew watched her, expectantly.

She looked up, meeting his eyes. "Corsair, you asked me to marry you."

"I did, Fiona."

"I have come to answer you. It is rather a long answer, but there is something I want to say first."

She waited, apparently for permission. He nodded.

"The captive of a corsair does not expect constancy of him, or fidelity, or... a lifetime's committment. She knows that he may - almost certainly will - have other captives. She knows she holds his attention only so long as... she holds his attention - no, do not say anything, yet."

Andrew laid a hand on her shoulder, and nodded. She covered it with her own hand, and continued.

"And similarly, a corsair does not trust his captive to be faithful. If he desires her constancy, he enforces it. With chains. With lock and key. Their relationship is simple. It is direct. It is honest. When the corsair lies with another, his captive is not disappointed; when he lies with her, she is grateful; when he prevents her from straying, she is valued; when she is abandoned, well, she knew this would happen - no, wait, I have more to say."

Andrew nodded again, his face a little tighter.

"Corsair, you know I came home believing that my mother's... siezure... was my doing; my doing in choosing to take a small taste of joy with you."

At last, Andrew felt he could speak. "Yes," he said.

"It was not... at least, not chiefly, so. Corsair, everything in this room is sealed by my trust in you: you must not repeat this. Not any of it. For this is the coast of skeletons."

"You have my word, Fiona."

"My mother received this letter," said Fiona, getting to her feet and opening the packet. "I'd like you to read it."

My Dear Isobel

I trust that you and Fiona find yourselves well, and that all is comfortable at Auchencorun.

As you will know, since the deaths of poor Bertie and poor Alex, I now have no legitimate heir to carry the title and the estates on. I have decided, therefore, that it will be convenient for me to marry Miss la Compte, in order to legitimise our sons Anthony and Frederick. In order to do this, I shall, of course, require a divorce from yourself.

Since, sadly, Maurice de Valois also fell in the late war, I have decided to name him as co-respondent.

If you should choose not to defend this case, I shall grant the house and policies of Auchencorun to you; if, however, you should choose to defend, I should find myself obliged to use copies of the enclosed photographs in evidence.

Yours very sincerely

Sir Roderick Campbell, Bart

"This is from your father?" Andrew looked up at Fiona, aghast.

"Yes."

"Photographs! He's blackmailing her?"

Fiona took a large monochrome photograph from the packet, and laid it on the table in front of Andrew.

Fiona's mother -- Lady Campbell -- Isobel -- looking, but for her shorter hair, disturbingly like Fiona herself - was kneeling, naked, fellating a clothed man, who was kissing another naked woman.

"This is de Valois?"

"No," said Fiona, laying down another photograph.

Lady Campbell knelt naked on a bed, in soixante-neuf with a (different) naked woman under her, while a clothed man entered her from behind.

"This is de Valois?"

"No," said Fiona, laying down another photograph, and then another. "None of them are Maurice."

"So... I'm not sure I understand... was this de Valois your mother's lover?"

"Andrew, this is hard for me to do. Please let me guide this conversation. De Valois was my mother's lover, was, I think, more loyal to her than anyone else ever was. He visited here three times during the war years, once, in 1916, for three months while he recovered from wounds. He was killed only last year, at the front. During the visit in 1916 - I was here for much of it - my mother slept always in his room; lest, she told me, he woke in pain; but even then I knew... He did wake in pain. And he had nightmares. Many men who have seen war do."

She knelt again, and took Andrew's hand.

"Corsair," she said. "We have slept together too infrequently. Do you have nightmares?"

He nodded, shortly.

"Oh, my dear," she said.

She kissed his hand, and stood again, rising gracefully amid her curtain of hair.

"There a more photographs," she said, "but most of them are of a muchness; and while I will not withhold them if you ask, there is no need for you to see them. But one more, I need you to see."

Andrew held out his hand. Fiona put a picture into it. This one had been hand-coloured.

He looked at it, and back to her.

"That is the King," he said.

"Yes... to me that hardly matters."

"It's this room - this dining table."

"Yes. The King came only once; I was fourteen, I knew nothing of this."

"And the other men? The other woman?"

"The other men don't matter. Oh, the man under my sister is her husband... Is her husband, now, they were not even engaged then. But it is my sister, Andrew. It is my sister! My father had his wife and his daughter -- and his daughter! -- photographed, each in coition with three different men simultaneously, with no mask or veil to conceal their identity -- on this dining table... and all are facing the camera, all knew the photograph was being taken. None, it seems, objects."

Tears were trickling down Fiona's cheeks. Andrew stood, and held her. She trembled in his arms.

"But that isn't the worst thing, Andrew," she whispered into his shirt. "The worst thing is that I know -- I know -- that if I had been six years older -- twenty, as I am now -- there would be three women across that table, and nine men. Andrew, I am wanton. I am ravenous for coition. I always knew that I should be. It is why I have remained a virgin until now. But you have opened Pandora's box; I am let free. I need to be contained. Can you contain me?"

Andrew, shaken, holding her soft hair, her smooth skin, her light bones, to him, nodded, dumbly. And then, because she could not see, said, with more certainty than he felt, "I shall."

For a while the room was silent but for her muffled sobs. The candleflames burned straight in the still air, reflecting in the mirrors over the mantel.

At last she pushed herself away from him, and, clawing her hair back off her face, looked up at him.

"Andrew, your family is not like this. You are, I collect, an only child?"

"I am, Fiona."

"Can you say to me with confidence that -- to the best of your knowledge and belief -- your father has always been faithful to your mother?"

"I can, Fiona."

"Can you say to me with confidence that -- to the best of your knowledge and belief -- your mother has always been faithful to your father?"

"I..." Andrew looked startled, then shocked. He looked down. And then up at her again. "I cannot. You have made me uncertain."

She took his hand, and held it in both hers against her breast. "How so?"

"I... my parents married young. But I was not born for twelve years after their marriage, and... I have said, I think, that they tried hard to have another child, and failed. I have very much a look of my mother's father, and her brothers. I do not much resemble my father."

"You fear... that you might not be his son?"

"No." Andrew shook his head, firmly. "I am his son, in all things that matter. But... it is possible that I am not his get."

"And your parents... are happy together?"

"Yes," he said. "They share a bed. They embrace and kiss when my father returns from work. They spend much time together."

"So, in your experience, marriage has meaning? It can work? Promises... can be kept? Or mostly kept?"

"Yes."

Fiona turned from him. She walked to the big central window. She paused. She looked back at him over her shoulder, her cheeks tear-stained. She turned to the window, unbarred the shutters, threw them wide. Sunlight streamed in. She swept the great sweep of her hair forward over her right shoulder so that her back was bare. She placed the palms of her hands on the sash bar, standing on tiptoe to reach it.

She spoke, facing away from him, facing the glass, the lawn, the sea.

"Corsair, I gave myself as your captive. As your captive, you may use me as you will. As your captive, you may use others and owe me nothing. As your captive, you may discard me when I no longer please you. I can live from day to day as your captive, without promises, without deceit, without need for falsehood. I can live from day to day enjoying your attention while I have it, while I am still beautiful, while my body is still young and smooth and taut. And when it ends, I was not deceived. I was not betrayed. This gift is given. It is yours. You have it.

"The riding crop you bought for me is on the table. If you want to marry me, there are two things you must do: you must beat me until I consent; and once I have consented you must never, ever, betray me. Are we clear?"

"You will honour and obey?"

"If you can make me consent."

Andrew pushed his chair back, and stood. "We're clear," he said.

He picked up the crop from the table, and flexed it between his hands.

The tack-room was dim, and dusty. Andrew ducked in through the door, and straightened. The old man was making some piece of harness; beyond that it was of leather straps and brass buckles, Andrew could not say what it might be.

"Mr Campbell," he asked, "could I ask a moment of your time?"

The old man laid the straps down, and looked up.

"Call me Iain," he said. "Folk do. Sit. What might I be doing for you, Commander Smith?"

"Call me Andrew," said Andrew, taking the indicated stool. "I must leave here soon, and there is the matter of the fire at the bothy."

"Aye...?"

"Someone here set the fire in the bothy. They set it to kill..."

"Or maybe it was nae mair as tae frighten?"

"Maybe; but, Iain, even if that is so, they knew that they risked killing. And it does not seem likely that it was me they intended, because I was not known here."

"Who, then?" asked the old man.

"Miss Fiona."

"Aye, I kenned she was there."

"She was not there," Andrew replied, sharply.

"If she was not, she meant to be there. She had been preparing the place for ten days."

He looked at Andrew, calmly, directly.

"Nobody under this roof is innocent, Andrew. You are not innocent, for if you did not lie with Miss Fiona that night you have lain with her since."

Andrew said nothing.

"Miss Fiona is no innocent. As I was mowing the lawn, I watched her oiling and cleaning the harness... and other things - in the bothy. I am no innocent. I made that harness - though not for Miss Fiona - and I knew what it was intended for. This that I'm making - Miss Fiona asked me to make it, to replace what was burned. She gave me measurements. It is someone specific she intends to be harnessed, and they are much the size of herself."

The old man sighed, and shook his head.

"You believe that someone meant to kill Miss Fiona. I do not say you are wrong. So, what do you want of me?"

"Did you set fire to the bothy?"

"I did not."

"Yet you're the only person in the household who did not come to the fire."

"I telt ye. I sleep above here. The house and the stables were between me and the bothy; and I sleep sound."

Andrew nodded.

"Aye."

There was a pause.

"I must leave here soon," said Andrew again. "I cannot leave Miss Fiona here while there is someone here who wishes to kill her."

"Aye," said the old man.

"Have you any thoughts as to who might have set the fire."

"Baxter's fine jacket was thrown out the morning after; it was well scorched. But it maybe he had that in seeking to put the fire out."

Andrew found the butler seated in his pantry, writing in a notebook. He was not normally a man who noticed much of other men's clothes, but now he was alerted to it, the butler's jacket did look distinctly shabby.

"I was sorry to hear your good jacket was ruined in the fire, Mr Baxter," he said. "That must be some loss to you."

"Aye, Commander Smith, sir, it is. But when life may be in question..."

Andrew looked at him, curiously.

"Commander Smith, the mistress did say that she would see me right in the matter of the jacket. But... now that she is... not well... sir, do you know what Miss Fiona's plans are for the household? Or will it be Sir Roderick I must apply to?"

"As to that, Mr Baxter, I can't say," said Andrew. "But what is curious to me is that when we met outside the bothy - when you came with that first bucket - you were in your shirt-sleeves. You had no jacket. So I was wondering, when did you come to take it off?"

Baxter looked shocked, confused. "I took the mistress back to the house," he said, after a moment. "She was very agitated. My jacket sleeve was smouldering. I took it off in the scullery, and threw it in the sink."

"So your jacket was smouldering and you took it off, before you came to the bothy with that bucket?" asked Andrew. "How did that come about?"

"It wasn't..." the butler was clearly frightened now. "I did only as the mistress bade me!"

"I see," said Andrew. "What was it that Lady Campbell bade you do?"

"She said to fetch the petrol can from your car. When I brought it to her by the bothy - it was dark, I could not see in, I thought you must be sleeping..."

"Go on," said Andrew, dangerously.

"She said I was to pour the petrol on the door and all across the front of the bothy. I did. She told me to light it. I struck a match and threw it towards the door, but it did not light. So I went closer and at the next match... the air around me was alight, my sleeve caught flame, I stumbled back and beat it out on the grass."

"I see," said Andrew. "And then you took Lady Campbell back to the house."

"She was most agitated," said Baxter, again. "She had asked me for absinthe, earlier."

Curiously, Andrew felt almost sorry for the man. Almost.

"You say you thought that I was asleep in there," he said. "Did you think I was alone?"

The butler now looked terrified. He shook his head, fractionally.

"So," said Andrew, "you thought that you had committed murder - double murder - and yet you went through to the scullery and took your jacket off before seeking to mount a rescue?"

"It wasn't murder! It was... just a fire!"

"Mr Baxter," said Andrew, "you know fine well that bothy had only one door - and that the only windows were on either side of the door. No one who was in there would have got out alive. You knew that."

"I only did as she bade me!"

Andrew sighed, and leant against the door jamb.

"Very well," he said. "But you present me with a dilemma. I must leave here. I cannot leave here while a person who has sought to kill Miss Fiona is present in the household. I imagine there is a police station in Tarbert? I suggest you accompany me there."

"Andrew," Fiona came into the drawing room rather more agitated than Andrew was used to see her, "Cook tells me that you have directed Mr Baxter to leave. Would you mind telling me why?"

"He confessed to setting light to the bothy," said Andrew. "I have his confession here. How is your mother?"

Fiona sighed, and folded into a seat.

"She breathes. I have managed to get some chicken soup into her. Whether there is any consciousness left I cannot tell."

She looked away through the windows for a moment, and then back at Andrew, sharply.

"Baxter lit the fire?" She was almost incredulous.

"So he said," said Andrew. He came over to her, and knelt in front of her chair, taking a hand. "There's worse."

Fiona sighed. "You had better tell me, then."

"First, he said that he believed both you and I were inside; and second, he claims that your mother directed - and supervised - him."

"Inevitably," said Fiona, quietly. "He would never have had the courage himself."

"You believe this? That your mother ordered your murder?"

She looked up at him, clear eyed.

"I did not anticipate it, dear Andrew. I should not have invited you here if I had. I did anticipate that there would be some crisis when I - when I gave myself to a man. Or when she learned that I had done so. You were not a lover she had chosen for me, and not one, I knew, that she would readily accept. I am, until my father remarries, something of an heiress; she hoped... Andrew, this will hurt you, but... I do love you, I did love you before ever you came here, but... part of the reason I chose you was because you were my choice, not her choice."

There was silence. Andrew reached a hand to cup her cheek; and then, standing, pulled her up into an embrace.

The clock on the mantel ticked.

It was dark in the guest bedroom.

"Andrew, may we talk? I mean, seriously?"

"Of course."

"You did not, I think, anticipate to stay so long. You must have business to attend...?"

"I do, yes, Fiona. I will be wanted back at the boatyard. My father has fallen lately into poor health, and I know he hopes that I may take on more of the management. But I sent a telegram before we left Campbeltown, saying that I might be delayed."

"They know where you are staying?"

"They do not, I did not think that discreet. But I said to send any message poste restante to Tarbert."

"You should go into Tarbert, then, tomorrow, in case. But Andrew, I had meant to go to Glasgow - with you if you would have me, alone otherwise. With my mother in her present state, I fear I cannot."

"Did Doctor MacIntyre give any prognosis for your mother?"

Fiona shifted in his arms.

"Not a very hopeful one. She has had a stroke, but had also taken possibly an excess of laudanum; she is unresponsive, and seems deeply so. He said that it might be days, or... she might never return to consciousness. Her vital organs continue to function, for now at least."

"That is indeed hard. A sanatorium?"

"Possibly," said Fiona. "Later. For now, there are women in the village with nursing experience."

"Yes. Fiona, when I go into Tarbert..."

"Yes?"

"I should like, if I might, to inform my parents of our engagement. May I, and if so, may I do it by telegram, or would you prefer I send it by letter?"

"If by telegram," Fiona replied thoughtfully, "then everyone in the village will know."

There was a pause.

"Let it be by telegram," she said. "Mother's collapse, and the loss of our housekeeper and now our butler, render us a subject of much gossip already. One more matter will make it no harder to bear."

"The housekeeper is also leaving?"

"Has left," said Fiona. "She left on the day... the day we... in the wood... I think, though, that it was about the fire - something about the fire - that caused her to go."