Midnight is a Lonely Place

© 1994

For A.J.

who thought of the title

‘Where’er we tread ’tis haunted, holy ground’.

Byron

‘C’était pendant l’horreur d’une profonde nuit…’

Racine


PROLOGUE

Her hair was the colour of newly frosted beech leaves; glossy; rich; tumbling from its combs as he pulled her against him, his lips seeking hers. His skin was tanned by the sun and the wind, hers, naked against him, white as the purest marble.

The heavy, twisted silver of the torc he wore about his arm cut into her flesh. She did not notice. She noticed nothing but the feel of his body on hers, the strength of his muscular thighs, the power of his tongue as he thrust it into her mouth as though he would devour her utterly.

‘Claudia…’

He breathed her name as a caress, a plea, a cry of anguish, and then at last a shout of triumph as he lay still, shaking, in her arms.

She smiled. Gazing up at the sky through the canopy of rustling oak leaves she was utterly content. The world had contracted into the one small clearing in the deserted woodland. Child and husband were forgotten. For this man in her arms, she was prepared to risk losing both; to risk losing her home, her position, life itself.

He stirred, and, raising himself onto his elbows, he stared down at her, his face strangely blank, his silvery eyes unseeing.

‘Claudia…’ he whispered again. He rested his face between her breasts. It was the little death; the death a man sought; the death which followed coition. He smiled, reaching his fist into her hair, holding her prisoner, tracing the line of her cheek-bones, her eyelids, with his lips. What would this woman’s husband, a son of Rome, an officer of the legion, say if he ever found out? What would he do if he learned his wife had a lover, and that the lover was a Druid Prince?

I

‘I hate being famous!’ Kate Kennedy confessed as she sat on the floor of her sister Anne’s flat. They were sharing a takeaway with a large Burmese cat called Carl Gustav Jung.

When her biography of Jane Austen was published Kate had found herself a celebrity overnight. She was invited onto talk shows, she was interviewed by three national daily newspapers and two Sundays, she toured the libraries and bookshops of Britain and she met Jon Bevan, described by the Guardian as one of England’s most brilliant young literary novelists and poets. The reason for all this interest? What the Times Literary Supplement called her ‘sizzling exposé’ of Jane’s hidden sensuality; her repressed sexuality; the passion in those well-loved, measured paragraphs.

Three weeks after meeting Jon she moved into his Kensington flat and her life changed forever.

Her elder sister and former flatmate, Anne, had remained philosophical about being deserted. (‘My dear, it was bound to happen to one of us sooner or later.’) Herself a writer – a Jungian psychologist whose library, especially the Freudian bits, Kate had ransacked when writing Jane – she had watched with amusement as Kate coped with fame. And found it wanting.

‘If you hate it so much, bow out. Become a recluse. Decline to appear, my dear. Cultivate a certain boorishness. And wear a veil.’ Anne licked soy sauce off her fingers. ‘Your sales would double overnight.’

‘Cynic.’ Kate smiled at her fondly. ‘Jon says I’m mad. He loves it, of course.’

‘I can see Jon giving up writing in the end to become a media person,’ Anne said thoughtfully. She wiped her hands on a paper napkin stamped with Chinese characters and, wrapping her arms around her legs, rested her chin thoughtfully on her knees. ‘He’s bad for you, you know, Kate. He’s a psychic vampire.’ She grinned. ‘He’s feeding off your creative energy.’

‘Rubbish.’

‘It’s true. You’ve slipped into the role of housewife and ego masseuse without even realising it. You’re besotted with him! It’s months since you got back from Italy, but you haven’t even started writing the new book yet.’

Startled by the vehemence of the statement Kate was astonished to find that she felt guilty. ‘I’m still researching.’

‘What? Love?’ Anne smiled. ‘And does Jon still think you’re mad to write about Byron at all?’

Kate nodded fondly. ‘Yes, he still thinks I’m mad. He thinks Byron is too well known. He thinks I should have plumped for someone obscure – and not so attractive,’ she added as an afterthought. ‘But I’m glad to say my editor doesn’t agree with him. She can’t wait for the book.’ She shook her head wearily, giving Carl Gustav the last, carefully-saved prawn. She had been secretly pleased and not a little flattered to find that Jon was jealous.

‘Is that why you chose Byron? Because he’s attractive?’ Anne probed further.

‘That and because I love his poetry, I adore Italy and he’s given me a chance to spend wonderful months travelling round Europe to all the places he lived.’ Kate gathered up the empty cartons from their meal. ‘And he was a genuinely fascinating man. Charismatic.’ She was watching Carl Gustav who, having crunched his prawn with great delicacy, was now meticulously washing his face and paws. ‘Actually, I am ready to start writing now. My notes are complete – at least for the first section.’

Anne shook her head. ‘I suppose I can think of worse ways of earning a living!’ She stood up and went to rummage in the fridge for a jar of coffee beans. ‘Tell me, are you and Jon still happy?’ she asked over her shoulder. ‘Really happy.’

Kate nodded.

‘Getting-married happy?’

‘No.’ Thoughtfully. Then, more adamantly, ‘No, I don’t think either of us are the marrying type. At least not at the moment.’

‘But you can see yourself living with him for a long time.’

There was a moment’s silence as Kate regarded her sister with preoccupied concentration. ‘Why do you want to know?’

‘I’ve been offered a job in Edinburgh. If I take it I’ll have to give up the flat.’

‘I see.’ Kate was silent for a moment. So, it was burning bridges time. ‘What about Carl Gustav?’

‘Oh, he’ll come with me. I’ve discussed it with him at great length.’ Anne bent down and caressed the cat lovingly. He had always been more hers than Kate’s. ‘He’s quite pro-Edinburgh, actually, aren’t you, C.J?’

‘And he approves of the job?’

‘It’s a good one. At the University. A big step up that dreadful ladder we are all supposed to mount unceasingly.’

Kate turned away, astonished by the pang of misery that had swept through her at the thought of losing Anne. ‘Have you told Mum and Dad about this?’ she said after a minute.

Anne nodded. ‘They approve and I can see them just as often from Edinburgh. It’s not as though it’s the end of the world, Kate. It’s only four hundred miles.’

Kate smiled. ‘Well, if C.J. approves, and Mum and Dad approve, it must be OK. Get rid of the flat with my blessing and I’ll try and hang on to Jon for a bit!’

But she didn’t.

It was sod’s law, she supposed, that the day after Anne moved into her new flat in Royal Circus she and Jon had their first serious row. About money. Hers.

‘How much are they going to pay you?’ He stared at her in astonishment.

She pushed the letter over to him. He read it slowly. ‘It’s an American contract! You must have known about this for months.’ He was hurt and accusing.

‘I didn’t want to tell you until it was definite. You know how long these things take -’ She had saved the news as a surprise. She had thought he would be pleased.

‘Christ! It’s iniquitous!’ Suddenly he was on his feet. ‘I get paid a paltry few hundred dollars’ advance for my last book of poetry and you -’ he spluttered with indignation, – ‘you, get that!’ He threw the letter down.

She stared at him, shocked. ‘Jon – ’

‘Well, Kate. Be realistic. You write bloody well, but it’s hardly literature!’

‘Whereas your books are?’

‘I don’t think anyone would dispute that.’

‘No. I’m sure they wouldn’t.’ She took a deep breath.

‘Oh, hey, come on.’ Suddenly he realised how much he had hurt her. Silently he cursed his flash-point temper. He put his arm round her shoulders. ‘Look, you know me. All mouth. I didn’t mean it. You are bloody good. You do enough research! Take no notice. I was just miffed. No, let’s face it, jealous.’ He gave her a hug. ‘I might even go so far as to swallow my pride and borrow some of that money off you.’

It was the first time she had heard even a hint of his financial problems.

He managed it by making her feel guilty. She saw that later. It was a subtle manipulation; a masterpiece of manoeuvring. She pushed the money at him; threw it at him; gave it to him and lent it to him, with every cheque tacitly apologising that she made money while he did not. When the end came she had less than a thousand left in the bank and no prospect, though he had promised faithfully to repay her, of any more until her next royalty cheque in the summer.

Even so, it was not the increasing pressure over money which came between them in the end. It was something sudden and quite unexpected.

It was a cold, miserable day in early December when Jon found her in the Manuscript Gallery of the British Museum standing looking down at the flat glass case where an open book stared up at her, Byron’s crabbed, slanting hand, much crossed out, flowing across the page of the dedication to ‘Don Juan’. The atmosphere of the gallery, the air conditioning, the strange false light with its muted hum were giving her a headache. She had been concentrating too long and the unexpected tap on her shoulder had given her such a fright she let out a small cry before she turned and saw who it was and remembered Jon had said he would meet her for a quick coffee.