Free The Misbegotten by Katherine Webb Page B

Nothing other than a faint ache that she was curious to explore; a feeling that might be satisfying to pursue, like the pressing of a bruise. But Richard had always come to his climax, gasping for breath in the crook of her neck, before she’d had a chance to examine the feeling properly. She told herself that she was happy to give satisfaction, without needing to take any for herself, but at the same time couldn’t help but feel mildly disappointed.
    But the warmth of Richard’s body, lying tangled with hers, was comforting. He felt solid, and real; something like an anchor when she had started to feel oddly cut adrift. She clasped her fingers tightly into the dense flesh of his shoulders, and pressed her cheek into the top of his head.
    ‘Are you all right, Rachel?’ he whispered.
    ‘Yes, my love,’ she said. She felt him smile.
    ‘That’s the first time you’ve called me that. Called me your love,’ he said.
    ‘Do you like me to?’
    ‘Very much so. I like it . . . very much.’ Richard’s voice was muffled, but she could hear that he was moved. She kissed his hair, and shut her eyes tight, suddenly afraid that she would start crying. She could not have said what the tears were for. ‘Are you . . . are you happy, here? With me? You have no regrets?’ he asked. Rachel did not answer at once, and Richard pulled back, rising onto his elbows above her so that she could just make out the shape of his face in the weak light from the street outside. ‘Rachel?’ he said anxiously. She put up her hand, cupped it around his chin.
    ‘I have no regrets,’ she said, hoping that this answer, to only part of his question, would be enough. Richard smiled again, and kissed her hand.
    ‘You are an angel, my love,’ he said, his voice thickening with somnolence. He returned his head to her shoulder, his chin digging into her collarbone, and was asleep within moments.
    Rachel lay awake a long while. She could smell the faint grease of Richard’s hair, and the bitter tang of the coal smuts in the grate. When he plants a child within me, my love for him will grow along with it. Then we will truly be a family, and all will be well. Through the walls came sounds of movement and words; the bass rumbling of a man’s voice, raised in anger. The wooden skeleton of the building creaked with footsteps. A cold draught seeped in around the window frame, and touched Rachel’s face with a promise of the winter that was coming. When she slept, it was to dream of a sparkling river, fast running and lively with sunlight. She both loved and feared this river, in her dream, with a foreboding like gathering thunderclouds. She seemed to hover above the water’s surface, suspended somehow; she heard a shout of fear, and it wasn’t her voice. There was a smell of green summer all around, and the notion that the pretty river wanted something from her.
    The next morning, Rachel waited until Richard had had something to eat and drink before she raised the subject of his father. He was often sullen and unhappy first thing after waking, and she had quickly learnt not to talk too much, or too loudly, until he had breakfasted. She fetched him slices of bread spread with honey, and some boiled eggs, putting them down around him as he stared at the table top and swigged from a tankard of ale.
    ‘You won’t guess who I chanced upon yesterday,’ she said, lightly, when the moment seemed right.
    ‘Oh?’ The word was spoken low, and barely interested.
    ‘Your father, Duncan Weekes.’ Rachel sat down opposite Richard, and her smile faltered in the face of his bleak expression. ‘We happened upon one another in the street, and . . .’ She trailed off. ‘He asked after you. Asked how you were,’ she said instead.
    ‘It is no business of his how I am, and you’ve no business talking to him. About me, or about anything else for that matter.’ Richard’s voice was low, but his words shocked Rachel.
    ‘But, my dear, he is your father ! And