Free The Lodger: A Novel by Louisa Treger

closer, wanting to kiss her again. But she pulled away and left the room, overwhelmed by the softness of his mouth beneath the scrape of his mustache and the web of tangled emotion it produced.
    *   *   *
    BEFORE SHE WENT down for dinner, Dorothy examined herself in the long bedroom mirror. She was revitalized; no longer the ground-down Londoner who had arrived on the Wellses’ doorstep. The removal of tension and fatigue made her face look fresher, emphasizing the softness of its lines. A brisk walk along the beach in the afternoon had brought a healthy flush to her cheeks. The gaslight showed up the gold tints in the coiled mass of her hair and the warm brown depths of her eyes.
    She made her way unhurriedly down the wide green staircase. There were raised voices coming from the drawing room. Faintly shocked, she hesitated on the landing, which was lined with bookshelves and decorated by stuffed birds. She didn’t know whether to interrupt or to tiptoe back upstairs.
    She could clearly hear Jane saying, “You seek each other’s gaze. You meet her eye, she looks away. You make her feel … desirable. ”
    Dorothy’s breath caught in her throat.
    Bertie sounded strident, cross. “This is beneath you, Jane. You know that while you stand over my life, no dalliance of this sort will ever wreck what we share. You are my fastness, my safe place. You are wedded to me—beyond jealousy.”
    Jane answered in a low voice. As hard as Dorothy strained, she couldn’t make out her words.
    There was silence. Then the sound of muffled sobbing.
    When Bertie spoke again, his tone had changed. There was a tenderness in the high voice that made it almost husky. Dorothy was intruding on something so intimate she could hardly bear it. But she couldn’t tear herself away.
    “I know I’ve been restless and peevish for the past few months,” he admitted. “When I’m at home for more than a few days at a time, I get into an impatient and claustrophobic state, I can’t help myself. I know how ugly this sounds, forgive me … the crude fact is that I have bodily appetites you are too fragile to meet. I truly love you, but I have this basic need for the thing itself. I must have it when the craving takes me, to release tension and leave my mind clear for work. You and my work are my true obsessions. The sex thing is merely refreshment. Believe me, I have no satisfaction in being enslaved to its tiresome insatiability.” He paused. “I have loved you profoundly from the first moment I met you, and I always shall. You’re my little helper and my dearest mate. You are part of me and you’ve been the making of me. Hush, my dearest love, hush. I can’t bear it when you cry like this.”
    There was silence. The stuffed pheasant next to Dorothy stared at her with glassy, accusing eyes. She imagined Bertie had taken Jane into his arms … perhaps he was kissing Jane, as he’d kissed Dorothy two short hours ago—she couldn’t stand it. She was simply “the sex thing,” a passing “refreshment.” He was using her to slake a simple hunger and facilitate his work.
    Dorothy’s face was flaming. Nausea and bile rose in her chest so powerfully, she was afraid she might be sick. She crept tremulously upstairs.
    She sent a message through the housemaid that she had a headache, and wouldn’t be joining them for dinner. Then she slipped on a coat and quietly left the house.
    It was a cool evening. A fine rain was falling, and the rich scent of damp earth rose from the ground. As Dorothy crossed the lawn, she lifted her burning face to receive the rain. Waves of anguish and shame were pouring out of her body, like a smell; the air was thick with it. This pain could not be endured. It would fade with time; it had to. She wished she could wind time forward, or go to sleep and wake up when it had stopped hurting.
    She could hear the roar of the sea below her, and wet trees sighing and rustling in the wind. It was almost dark, and the tips