Green Darkness by Anya Seton

bedroom, the atmosphere was thundrous. Richard stood on the edge of the rose Aubusson carpet staring at Celia with a black intensity which almost penetrated the barrier she had built.
    “You aren’t,” said Richard without expression, “the woman I thought I’d married, and never should have done.”
    Her spasm of sick fear Celia noted objectively, as a physical happening in midair, as it were. She took off the earrings, put them in a drawer; she wiped off her lipstick on a Kleenex. “No doubt you are quite right, Richard. I’m beginning to agree. Divorce may be a trifle difficult in England, but certainly can be managed.”
    He stared. Even without those earrings and the lipstick she was a stranger, a hostile stranger, yet her answer astounded him.
    “The Marsdons don’t get divorces . . .” he said, “I didn’t mean that, I . . .” He heard the wavering in his own voice and was angered afresh. “Did you enjoy yourself with Harry Jones in the garden?” he asked. “Did you also enjoy forcing me to open the schoolroom so as to show your power?”
    She did not answer, and he watched her slide out of her flame-colored dress, then her slip and panties. She stood naked a moment in front of the mirror, a tanagra statuette, tanned to bronze except for the tiny ivory breasts with rosy nipples, and the triangle around her hips which the bikini covered. She began brushing her hair with slow voluptuous strokes, arching her slender back. Richard watched the insolent, taunting, naked woman until the throbbing in his head descended to his loins.
    “By God,” he cried hoarsely, “
that’s
what you want! But you’ll not get it here!”
    He grabbed her around the wrist, and turning, jerked her across the carpet. Her wrist bones crunched in his grasp.
    “What’re you doing!” she cried. The fears so long contained burst through in terror. “Richard, you hurt me! Let me go! What are you doing!” She slapped his face, then let out a strangled scream as he cut his hand across her windpipe with a quick karate chop. She went limp, and he picked her up. He threw open their door and carried her through the passages and down a short flight into the old schoolroom. He flung her on the stained drugget where she lay gasping and naked, half stunned by his blow.
    Richard went into the alcove and lit the two candles. He then removed his clothes and hung them carefully on the
priedieu
; he arranged his shoes at the base. He went to the phonograph and put on the Tudor “Merry Songs of Love-Sport.” He turned up the volume. Lute, bass viol, and recorder resounded through the schoolroom in a sly, rollicking tune. Celia moaned and put a groping finger on her larynx where he had hit her.
    “Hurts . . .” she whispered. “You hate me, Richard!” She stared up at him in the wavering candlelight. “
You’re
naked—what are we doing here . . .”
    He clapped his hand roughly over her mouth. “Listen! . . .”
    Above the instruments a raucous tenor voice was singing,
     
Celia the wanton and fair
Hath now no need to despair
She hath used shameless art
To inveigle lust’s dart
 . . . And she shall suffer it now
 . . . And she shall suffer it now.
     
    “No!” she cried against his hand, “not like this, not in hate, please, not like this . . .”
    But he pinned her down and raped her savagely, while she whimpered and struggled.
    Neither of them heard the door open, nor heard Edna’s cry, “God Almighty!” Nor knew that the polka-dotted bulk stood over them. Until the song ended, and there was a pause, then Edna’s voice rose shrill and shaking. “So, I’ve caught you out, you filthy little whore, in the act, the very act! Hanging’s too good for you.”
    Richard raised his head and turned to look up at her.
    “God Almighty . . .” gasped Edna again, “I didn’t know it was
you,
Sir Richard.” She stumbled backwards, muttering and heaving. She backed out of the door, and shut it behind her with a