Ghosts by Gaslight - Jack Dann [154]
The fire burned low and I lit a lamp. A knock. Unsteadily, I went to the door and flung it open, expecting to find Richmond in the corridor. I was prepared to tell him that I did not have the stomach for this work and would be unable to satisfy his requirements, but it was Jane come to turn down my bed, wearing a crinoline night bonnet and a flannel dressing gown that covered her from neck to ankle. For all her matronly attire, she was no less beautiful than ever and I watched her intently, enlivened by the swell of a breast, the shape of a thigh as she bent to her task. However modestly dressed she was, her every movement was an article of seduction. She asked if there were anything further she might do for me and I bade her sit, saying that I had more questions. Yet I had none. Fuddled by drink, by the idea that I could have her, my mind emptied and, though I racked my brain, I managed to stammer a few phrases by way of preamble, yet nothing more. Once again I had the apprehension that she understood my predicament and was amused. At last I succeeded in dredging up a question that had not occurred to me before that moment . . . or if it had, I had pushed it to the back of my mental shelf.
“Christine’s resemblance to both you and Dorothea,” I said. “What part do you think it played in Richmond’s desire that you remain in the house?”
She seemed to withdraw from me. “He wanted us near to remind him of her.”
“I don’t doubt that, but there must be more to it. He makes love to you, does he not? To women who remind him of his sister?”
“It’s been more than two years since he last touched either of us. He . . . he changed. Our relationship changed. He became more like a cousin, an uncle. He cares for us now, and we for him. That is all.”
I was immoderately pleased to learn she had no current involvement with Richmond.
“That begs the issue,” I said. “He did make love to you. And he kept you here for that purpose. That he has since stopped this practice conjures other questions, but the fact remains that he chose two women who closely resemble his sister to serve as his concubines. Does this not seem a symptom of some tragic family circumstance?”
Jane frowned and spread her fingers on her knees, appearing to examine them for defect. “Dorothea has spoken to you about this?”
“I had a conversation with her earlier.”
“I . . .” She sighed and pressed the heel of one hand to her brow. “I will not speak ill of him.”
“Jane,” I said. “Men and women are often driven to extremes of behavior by emotional distress. In this life we are all at fault. None of us is simon pure, no matter how deeply we may wish it. Society may judge Richmond, but I make no judgments. If I am to determine what is going on, you must be straightforward with me. Anything you tell me will be kept in the strictest confidence.”
She searched my face and then lowered her eyes. “On occasion, with me and with Dorothea, he used her name instead of ours.”
“In passionate address?”
“Yes.” A plaintive quality expressed itself in her face and voice. “But as I said, it’s over two years since he last took either of us to bed.”
After an interval I asked, “What do you make of his use of Christine’s name in these instances?”
“I am not the doctor here,” she said firmly. “You will have to draw your own conclusions.”
“And I will. But my conclusions will be formed in large part by what you tell me.”
“Dorothea believes that . . .” She left the thought unfinished and, after an obvious internal struggle, she stood. “I’m sorry. I have chores to attend before I sleep.”
Had I not been drinking, I might have let that end the conversation, but I