‘Where the bloody hell have you been?’ Mrs Bell snaps at her when she returns to the kitchen. ‘I’ve got the mistress clamouring for a hot water bottle and cocoa and her wool bedjacket unpacked from the winter trunk, and you nowhere to be found!’
‘It’s a thunderstorm, not a blizzard. She hardly needs a bedjacket,’ Cat says, fetching milk from the cold store and pouring it into a copper pan. The white liquid looks gorgeous against the bright metal, and she swirls it around as she sets it on the stove.
‘Whether or not she needs it, she wants it, and who are you to argue, girl?’ Mrs Bell grumbles. ‘You go and find it – it’ll be in the trunk on the far landing – and be sure to find all the mothballs from it before you give it her. I’ll do that – move away before you scald the milk!’
‘Yes, Mrs Bell,’ Cat sighs.
‘Don’t you “yes, Mrs Bell” me…’ Mrs Bell says, but can’t quite put her objection into words. She falls silent, whisking the milk vigorously and shaking her head. The whisking shakes other things too – sets up a wobble that shifts her from bosom to thigh. ‘Take a lamp with you – he doesn’t like the lights on upstairs after she’s retired,’ she calls after Cat.
‘I don’t need a lamp,’ Cat calls back, as she makes for the stairs. Within a few paces of the kitchen, her eyes have adjusted to the dark.
Hester sits shivering in bed, her toes and fingers tingling as the blood returns to them. Her head is aching after the frights of the evening. In spite of the lamps filling the room with yellow light, she thinks she can still see shadows, lurking figures in the corners of the room that vanish when she looks full at them. An evil force has entered one of our houses… Hester longs for Albert to come home and banish her fears with his calm faith and soothing presence. Gradually, she begins to relax, and has just picked up a book of homilies when a soft thump outside the room makes the breath freeze in her lungs. She waits, ears tuned for the noise to come again. And come again it does – a scuffle, a slight thudding. Hester berates herself for her fears, for believing that anything ghostly has followed her home from the seance.
‘It’s probably one of the cats, you silly girl,’ she tells herself aloud, and the very ordinariness of her own voice gives her courage. To prove that she is rational and not afraid, she gets up and crosses to the door. But with her hand on the latch she pauses, and swallows. Her throat is entirely dry. She opens the door as quietly as she can. Outside the room, the corridor is in complete darkness, and a noticeable draught noses along it, east to west. Hester makes a show of looking to either side, though her eyes see nothing but pitch blackness, an emptiness from which anything might spring. Her skin crawls and she turns to go back inside, and as she does, a figure appears right by her elbow. Hester screams, then sees the glint of dark eyes and dark hair in the light from her bedroom door. ‘Cat! Why, you scared me half to death!’ She laughs nervously.
‘Sorry, madam; I didn’t mean to. I’ve brought you your bedjacket,’ Cat says, holding out a knitted cardigan ripe with the stink of camphor.
‘Thank you, Cat,’ Hester says, her pulse still racing. Cat stands still, watching her. Hester glances at her, and again feels a rush of unease. ‘What were you doing out here in the dark? Why didn’t you bring a lamp, or put the lights on?’ she asks. Cat blinks, and regards her steadily.
‘I can see quite well in the dark,’ she replies.
‘“Black Cat”,’ Hester murmurs, the nickname coming unbidden to her lips. She sees Cat stiffen.
‘Where have you heard that?’ the girl asks abruptly. Hester swallows nervously.
‘Oh, nowhere… sorry, Cat. I didn’t mean to… Thank you for bringing me this. Please do go to bed yourself now. I won’t need anything else,’ she says hurriedly.
‘I’ll bring you the cocoa you asked for as soon as it’s ready,’ Cat contradicts her.
‘Oh, yes, of course. Of course. Thank you, Cat. Sorry.’ Hester retreats back into her room, unsure what she is apologising for. Cat is still standing in the dark corridor when she shuts the bedroom door behind her.
Albert returns not long afterwards, with a distracted look on his face. He pats Hester’s shoulders uncertainly when she flies into his arms the second he enters the room.
‘Albert! I’m so pleased to see you,’ she murmurs into his chest.
‘Are you all right, Hetty?’
‘Oh, yes. It’s just… the storm. It startled me as I walked home, that’s all,’ she says breathlessly. ‘I had to drink some cocoa to warm up again.’
‘Come now, there’s nothing to be frightened of. As Saint Paul said: “God makes His angels spirits – that is, winds – and His ministers a flaming fire.” In the wind that blows, there are living spirits; God’s angels guide the thunderclouds, and the mighty thunderclap may be a shock vibration of the air, as today’s men of science tell us, but it is also more than that – it is the voice of God Himself!’ Albert smiles, his eyes alight. Hester smiles back at him, unsure how to respond.
‘Let’s get into bed. It’s chilly tonight,’ she says.
‘Very well. It is rather late – I shan’t read for long.’ His habit is to read scripture for at least half an hour every night; with quiet concentration, like a pupil who knows he will be tested.
When at last Albert closes his book, lays his spectacles upon it and places both on the bedside table, Hester smiles. He turns out his lamp, slides lower in the bed, meshes his fingers across his chest. But his eyes stay open. Hester leaves her lamp on, and lies facing him. The storm is abating, but still the wind blows, and throws rain hard against the window pane. The room, with Hester’s lamp the only light, seems like a close cocoon, shielding them from the wild night. Perhaps it is this, perhaps it is the fright she had earlier in the evening, but Hester feels a powerful need for comfort. She yearns to be touched, to be held by her husband. She looks at his smooth face, at the warm glow of his skin, coloured from all the time he spends out of doors.
They have never even lain naked together, he on top of her or vice versa. She has never felt the press of his skin against her chest, and thinking of this makes Hester’s throat dry, makes her heart rise up and half choke her. Without a word, she moves closer to Albert, until she can lay her cheek on his shoulder. He does not move, or speak. He can’t claim to be tired when clearly his mind is oddly alert tonight. After a minute, when there is no protest at her touch, Hester raises her face again. Albert is so close she can’t focus her eyes on him properly. He is a creamy-coloured blur, soft shades of gold and brown and milky white in the half light. The smell of him fills her nose. The soap he uses to shave with, the gentle tang of his skin underneath it.
‘Oh, Albert,’ she breathes, and all her love and desire for him rush into those two words, making her voice deeper, more resonant. She lets her hands run over his chest, pressing them into the cloth of his shirt, seeking the heat of the skin underneath, the slight resistance of the sparse hair growing there. Reaching up, she presses her mouth to his, feels the wonderful warmth of his lips, the softness of them, just for an instant, before he pushes her away.