Proud Mary

by Proud Mary (retail) (epub)

  Mary waited until the doctor climbed into his carriage and then made her way round to the back of the house. In the kitchen Bertha was seated at the white scrubbed table, her head buried in her apron. Awkwardly, Mary sat beside the maid and touched her arm lightly.

  ‘I’m so sorry about Mrs Sutton,’ Mary spoke quietly. ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’

  Bertha looked up at once, her eyes red and puffy through weeping. Her face was deathly pale and her hair dishevelled.

  ‘There’s nothing anyone can do. She’s dying, my beloved mistress is going to her great sleep and I don’t know how I’ll manage without her.’

  Mary put her arm around Bertha’s shoulder, patting her back as though she was a child.

  ‘Now listen to me,’ Mary said sternly, ‘Mrs Sutton may live for some weeks yet. I heard the doctor telling Mr Sutton, so you must be brave. Go wash away your tears and smarten yourself up a bit, you can’t let your mistress see you looking like this otherwise she’ll know something is very wrong.’ She helped Bertha to her feet. ‘Now, come on, cold water works wonders and so does a smattering of wet tea leaves wrapped in a linen handkerchief and placed on the eyes.’

  Bertha stared at her gratefully. ‘Will you take up her tray, just this once? Tell Miss Bea I’m busy in the kitchen, what with the cook off visiting her sister an’ all.’

  Mary watched as Bertha went over to the sink in the corner of the room and washed her face, allowing the cold water to trickle between her fingers. But by the way her back heaved, it was clear that she was still distressed. Mary set the tray with reluctant fingers. She meant it when she had offered her help, but for all that, she knew it was going to be an ordeal to face Mrs Sutton.

  ‘What am I to take up to her?’ Mary asked and Bertha broke into a fresh spasm of weeping, tears running down her cheeks even as she served a piece of boiled fish and spread it with butter.

  ‘This is Miss Bea’s favourite meal,’ Bertha gasped. ‘I’ve tried to give her proper food and look after her, thinking she’d be cured, but she’s never been the same since she had her babba taken away from her.’

  Mary had heard the story of Bea’s suspicious visit to Mrs Benson on Canal Street. No one knew at the time the full facts of the case, but speculation had been rife. Some believed the father of the child to be Sterling Richardson, but Mary had given little credence to that story.

  ‘I expect you think my mistress was bad to do what she did.’ Bertha rubbed at her eyes with the corner of her apron. ‘But no one knew how much she was hurting inside. Loved her man she did, but couldn’t have him. Blood of her own blood he turned out to be. A punishment, my mistress said, but she didn’t deserve fate to be so hard on her.’

  ‘I’d better go up with the tray before the food is cold,’ Mary said practically. ‘Now dry your eyes, there’s a good girl, then later you can sit with your mistress for a while.’

  The long wide staircase was filled with shadows, the scent of beeswax permeated the air and through the stained-glass windows the silver of the moon shed a diffused light on to the portraits on the wall. Mary was not given to being fanciful, but she could almost believe that the eyes of the people in the paintings followed her as she moved up towards Mrs Sutton’s room.

  ‘What is it?’ Bea’s voice was light, insubstantial, as though she had already departed this world, Mary thought with a shiver.

  ‘I’ve brought you something to eat.’ Mary crossed the room and set the tray down on the small side table. ‘It’s your favourite, so Bertha tells me, and she’s very anxious that you should eat and recover your strength.’

  Bea allowed Mary to help her into a sitting position but she shook her head when Mary made to lift the tray.

  ‘I’m not hungry and tell Bertha not to fool herself. I shall not get better, not this time.’

  Mary stood uncertainly beside the bed at a loss, not knowing what to say in view of Bea’s frankness.

  ‘Sometimes miracles happen,’ she ventured at last. Bea smiled and gestured for Mary to take a seat.

  ‘Miracles have happened for me, for I found happiness with Dean Sutton in spite of a great many difficulties. But now my share of luck has run out and I can’t say I’m sorry. I’m tired, so very tired.’

  Mary was forced to lean forward in order to catch the softly spoken words. ‘You shouldn’t be trying to talk,’ she said in concern. ‘Try to conserve your strength, won’t you?’

  Bea lifted thin fingers and brushed back a stray piece of hair from her face. After a moment her pale, limp hand fell back onto the counterpane as though even such a small effort had drained her.

  ‘I know why Dean brought you here,’ she said. ‘And please don’t think I’m blaming you. He needs a woman, a strong healthy woman and I give you both my blessing.’

  Mary turned away so that Bea would not see the expression in her eyes. In her heart and mind she had rejected Dean’s proposition, but now was not the time to say so.

  Bea closed her eyes. ‘I think the medicine Dr Thomas prescribed is making me sleepy.’ She sighed heavily. ‘He’s a good friend and he has promised not to let me suffer. What more can I ask?’

  Mary moved silently out of the room and closed the door behind her. She felt trapped, a spider caught in a web of silken thread. No one was holding her by force, yet she could not find it in her to deny Bea Sutton her peace of mind.

  As she passed the library she saw Dean sitting near the fire, his head lowered. She felt a sense of pity for him wash over her and impulsively went to him, placing her hand on his shoulder. He took it, looking up at her gratefully and pressing her fingers to his lips suddenly and with such desperation that Mary could not draw away.

  Dean spoke slowly. ‘Help me, Mary! Stay with me tonight, please.’

  Mary fought a battle with herself and lost. She could not bring herself to ignore the pain in Dean’s eyes. She sat down gingerly and watched as he poured himself a whisky, the liquid glowing amber in the light from the fire.

  ‘Dean, we must talk.’ She settled herself more comfortably against the scroll-backed sofa, rearranging her skirt around her ankles, trying to find words that would not hurt and wound.

  ‘What is it?’ He spoke almost absently, tipping the glass up to his mouth and swallowing the liquor in one quick movement.

  ‘I can’t be your mistress.’ She spoke hurriedly, the words tumbling out like pebbles into a pool and sending small whirls of emotion across the room. Dean stared at her dully as though uncomprehending and Mary took a deep breath.

  ‘I must tell you the truth. I’m in love with your brother; I can never give myself to you or any man, not now.’

  Dean brushed a hand through his springy hair that was touched at the temples with grey. Then he gave a hollow laugh and poured himself another glass of whisky before crossing the room to sit beside her.

  ‘So my brother is finally revenged.’ His words were spoken softly without anger and Mary tensed.

  ‘What do you mean?’ she asked anxiously, the blood pounding in her ears.

  ‘It’s a long story.’ Dean’s face had fallen into lines of sadness. He twirled the glass between thick fingers, staring down into the whisky as though seeing something beyond.

  ‘We were living in America, both of us very young, rivals we were always. Never had brotherly love for each other, can’t say why. At each other’s throats all the time, each trying to be top dog.’

  Dean paused and stared at Mary pityingly. ‘Brandon is still playing the same game, can’t you see that? By taking you he is simply paying me back an old score.’

  Mary’s mouth was suddenly dry. ‘Paying you back, but for what?’

  He shook his head. ‘I don’t want to hurt you, Mary but a long time ago I took Brandon’s fiancée away from him. Her name was Mary, too: Mary Anne Bloomfield. The affair caused quite a stir in our little town, me getting Brandon’s girl with child and then leaving her in the lurch. That’s the reason I was packed off to Britain, honey – the black
sheep of the family, that’s me.’

  Mary felt as though a darkness was beating at her brain. Surely there must be some mistake, Dean’s words could not be true? And yet they were, it was written in the clearness of his eyes and the timbre of his voice.

  ‘I know it must be a blow to you, Mary,’ he continued, ‘but it’s only your pride that’s hurt, you must see that.’ He took her hands and held them between his own. ‘I have been honest with you from the first time we talked, I’ve told you exactly what I want of you, no punches pulled.’

  Mary held back her tears with difficulty. She was reliving her happiness of the afternoon when she had lain in Brandon’s arms and thought she held the whole world on her grasp.

  And all the time he was taking his revenge upon his brother! He had spoken no words of love and she realised now that she had been a fool to believe he felt anything at all for her.

  ‘I can see you’re upset,’ Dean said sympathetically. ‘And I don’t blame you. My brother has a tongue of silk and words to charm the birds from the trees when necessary.’ He put a casual arm around her shoulders. ‘Put it down to experience, Mary, and remember that we all make fools of ourselves at some time in our lives – it’s inevitable.’

  Yes, she’d been a fool, she thought bitterly. She had given herself heart and soul to a man who cared nothing for anyone but himself. Would she never learn that all men wanted but one thing from a woman of her station?

  ‘And you, Dean?’ Mary moved away from him, her hands clenched at her sides. ‘What do you want of me? Am I to be just a floosie, or is it something else you have in mind for me?’

  Dean looked up at her, his eyes shadowed. ‘I just want a woman to love, Mary, is that so bad?’

  The silence was suddenly shattered by a terrified scream and Dean dropped his glass so that the amber liquid spread in a stain over the carpet. He rose to his feet, his face suddenly white, then bounded away from Mary and hurried towards the stairs, taking them two at a time. Mary followed him, her heart in her throat.

  In the bedroom Bertha was cowering against the wall, her hands covering her mouth, her eyes anguished pools of misery. She pointed speechlessly and as Mary stepped into the room behind Dean, she saw that Bea was lying half out of the bed, an empty bottle just out of reach of her slim white fingers.

  It was Dean who lifted the dead woman back into the bed, resting her gently against the pillows and closing the wide, empty eyes. He drew up a sheet and covered Bea’s face while the sounds of Bertha’s harsh laboured weeping filled the room.

  Mary moved to the window and drew the curtains, shutting out the paleness of the moon and the denseness of the star-studded night. She turned to Dean but he did not see her. His shoulders were slumped and his tread heavy as he made his way out of the room.

  * * *

  Mary stayed at Ty Mawr for the next few days promising herself that once the funeral was over she would leave Dean’s house and make a life of her own. Perhaps she would even move away from Sweyn’s Eye altogether, start afresh in a new town.

  During the daytime she worked hard at the shop, dusting and re-dusting the shelves, scrubbing the floor until the marble glowed with colour. To Mary it seemed as though she had fallen into a black abyss where there was no hope or light. From the moment Dean had told her about Brandon’s wish for revenge to the time when she had gone into the bedroom and seen Bea Sutton’s dead white face, she had been feeling as though she was living in a nightmare. It was Mrs Greenaway who pulled her up sharply.

  ‘You’re never doin’ those blasted shelves again, are you?’ The old woman stood firmly in the doorway leading from the kitchen to the shop and behind her Mary could see the two girls staring at her as though she had gone mad. And perhaps she had for a little while, she thought in surprise.

  ‘Kill yourself, that’s what you’ll do if you go on like this.’ Mrs Greenaway’s voice held sympathy but a reproof too and Mary sank down on to the high-backed chair placed near the counter for the use of customers. The duster fell idle in her lap and she sighed heavily.

  ‘Mrs Sutton is being buried today, just at this moment I suppose.’ Her eyes went to the large clock on the wall.

  ‘So what?’ Mrs Greenaway said bluntly. ‘We’re all sorry for the poor lady, but there’s nothing any of us can do; she’s been dying for years, no one expected her to last this long if the truth be told. Now, come on, Mary Jenkins, pull yourself together before you make yourself ill.’

  Mrs Greenaway rested a hand on Mary’s shoulder and her pale blue eyes looked down with as much censure in them as sympathy.

  ‘Can’t go living other people’s woes for them, can you?’ she said. ‘Oh, I know it must have been awful for you finding the poor lady as you did, but now you must put it all out of your mind, see?’

  Mary nodded, feeling suddenly weary. She put her head in her hands and closed her eyes.

  ‘Look, why not go up and lie on my bed for an hour? It will do you good to have a sleep if you ask me.’

  She nodded again, allowing herself to be drawn to her feet. Then slowly Mary climbed the stairs, her footsteps heavy. She lay down on the bright patchwork quilt and faced the wall. Her very bones seemed to ache with tiredness and her mind refused to function properly. She could not decide if it was the death of Bea Sutton or the knowledge of Brandon’s betrayal that was affecting her so badly.

  However, she must have drifted off to sleep because it was dark in the small room when she opened her eyes again. The moon was a silver orb shining in through the small window and the stars seemed close enough to touch. Mary sat up and brushed back her long hair, realising that she felt alive again. The torpor which had held her in its grip had vanished and she was tinglingly alive. She felt pain, felt it deeply whenever she thought of the events of the past few days, but at least she could come to terms with herself now.

  When she went downstairs, the shop was in darkness and a light glowed from the kitchen shining through the stained glass of the door. The scene inside was one of peace and tranquillity: Joanie was stitching a tear in the petticoat and Nerys was reading by the light of the gas lamp. Of Mrs Greenaway there was no sign.

  ‘Hello, Mary, would you like a cup of tea or something?’ Nerys put down her book. ‘The kettle is on the boil, it won’t take a minute to brew up.’ She was being treated as though she was an invalid, Mary thought ruefully, which was a clear indication of the way she had been acting recently.

  ‘I’d love some tea,’ she said gratefully, settling herself in the low rocking chair and brushing back her hair. She must look a sight, she thought, staring down at her crumpled skirt, trying vainly to smooth out the creases with her hands.

  ‘Where’s Mrs Greenaway?’ Mary asked and Joanie looked up from her sewing.

  ‘Gone to get some gin, I expect,’ she said in a matter-of-fact tone that did not fool Mary for one instant.

  ‘Come on, you’d better tell me, she’s gone to fetch someone to see me, hasn’t she? The doctor, is it?’

  The two girls fell silent, looking at each other with scared eyes, afraid to answer and yet fearful of remaining silent. ‘She’s fetching Mr Sutton,’ Nerys said at last.

  Just then the outer door opened and the two girls exchanged relieved glances. ‘There’s Mrs Greenaway now.’ Nerys rose to her feet in a fluid movement, opening the shop door and standing back a little, her eyes wide. Dean was suddenly filling the small kitchen with his presence. ‘Come on, honey,’ he said slowly. ‘I’m taking you home to Ty Mawr.’

  ‘I’m all right,’ Mary protested. ‘Whatever Mrs Greenaway has been telling you, there’s nothing wrong with me.’

  Dean took her arm, staring down at her dishevelled appearance, his eyes full of concern.

  ‘You could have fooled me, Mary,’ he said gently and his grasp on her arm was firm.

  It was chilly out in the night air and she shivered a little. Dean put out his hand to help her into the hansom cab and then sat beside her. It was as though he already owned
her, she thought with a dart of dismay.

  ‘How’s Bertha?’ She forced herself to speak normally and Dean shook his head.

  ‘Taking it badly, but then Bea was a very lovable woman. I cared for her more than anyone will ever know.’ His voice broke and Mary put her hand over his. As they clung together she felt suddenly strong. But then all her life people had leaned on her; she had needed strength to raise herself and Heath from the mire of their childhood.

  It would be wonderful to have someone strong so that she could do a bit of leaning for a change, she thought bitterly. She had believed she had found that strength in Brandon, but it had just been an illusion. When he held her close, he had taken her soul as well as her body. She grimaced to think how quickly he had cast her aside.

  * * *

  It was little more than two weeks after the funeral when Dean stealthily entered Mary’s room. She heard his soft tread on the carpet, felt the weight of him as he sank onto the bed and in her half-dreaming state, she imagined for a second that he was Brandon. She clung to his broad shoulders for a long moment, sighing softly, and she must have spoken Brandon’s name for suddenly her arms were empty.

  Dean lit the gas and stared down at her, his face white in the sudden glare.

  ‘Forget him, Mary,’ he said softly, his eyes drinking in the nakedness of her creamy skin. He leaned close to her. ‘I’ll be good to you, you’ll never lack for anything. Don’t turn me away, Mary!’

  She tried to clear her thoughts, for she was still half asleep, confused but becoming angry.

  ‘How dare you come to me now?’ she whispered. ‘Without at least allowing a time for mourning.’

  His face became hard as he pressed her back against the pillows.

  ‘What I want of you is nothing to do with my dead wife,’ he said savagely. ‘I just want to use you, as my brother did.’

  Mary’s colour rose. ‘I hate you Suttons, you’ve brought me nothing but misery! I hate the entire Sutton family, do you understand?’