Convenient Women Collection

by Delphine Woods

  ‘But I have seen him in there; he does nothing. He stares at the ceiling as he sits in the dark. It is not …’ She would not say the word normal, for that would be calling her husband mad.

  Ruth collapsed inwards, the chair squeaking under her weight. ‘I do not want to worry you – especially not now with the child – but Osborne has done this before.’ She leant closer to Cat. ‘Remember I told you a doctor was called? I didn’t tell you why.’

  She drew a handkerchief from her skirt pocket and wiped her eyes.

  ‘Walter found Osborne in his study that time, and he was just as you say; dull, lifeless. There was a map of Ireland that he’d shot through with bullets. And he’d … Well, he’d hurt himself, said he didn’t want to live any longer.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘His father’s death.’

  ‘It wasn’t his fault.’

  ‘It was supposed to be him though, you see. Osborne should have gone to Ireland. Theodore was handing all business matters to his son, preparing him for his inheritance. Osborne was meant to sort things out over there.’

  ‘Why didn’t he?’

  She smiled sadly. ‘Everyone knew the place was full of disease, that death was everywhere. He was too scared. He was like a little boy again.’

  The warmth of the fire could not penetrate Cat. ‘What happened? After Walter found him in the study?’

  ‘Walter called for the doctor, and Osborne was taken away to rest.’

  ‘And when he returned?’

  ‘Recovered, so it seemed. Osborne is not a bad man, Catherine, as you know, or you would not have married him. He is a man who has been tortured with grief. Sometimes he needs help.’

  ‘I would help him if only he would let me.’

  ‘You already do. You are Osborne’s remedy, Catherine.’ Ruth drained her cup. ‘He will mend, just give him time. For now, you must take care of yourself and your child.’

  The candle had been blown out hours ago, and the fire was dwindling. She had left the curtains open so that the moon shone in one bright beam upon her covers, and she looked out at the splatter of stars against the black sky. Her hands rested on her stomach, on the child inside her, and she caressed the soft silk bedspread. The child was her safety.

  ‘This will all be yours,’ she whispered. What a life her baby would have! She would make sure of it.

  She heard the grind of wheels outside. The weak yellow beam of the carriage’s lamp reflected in the windowpane. Boots slammed into the gravel, unsteadily. The front door opened; Dixon must still be awake, waiting for his master. One of the dogs barked, and then silence fell as she imagined Osborne staggering into the heart of the house.

  She finished her glass of water and brandy; it was a weak substitute, but it helped to calm her nerves. She scooted down the bed and rolled onto her side as heavy and uneven footsteps plodded along the landing, getting louder. She closed her eyes as the door swung open.

  He brought the stench of town with him, and the cutting tang of too much whisky and beer and tobacco and whore’s perfume. His feet dragged over the rugs, and she heard her dressing table squeak as he grabbed it to steady himself. There was a moment of quiet, and she felt the sense of eyes on her. She kept her own closed, deepened her breathing, kept her body still, as she had done so many times before.

  Then the dressing-table drawers were opening and closing, too loud to ignore. Languidly, Cat raised her hand to her face, screwing her eyes against the light from the hallway through the open door. Osborne stumbled away from the dressing table and towards her bed. His attention focused on the glass on her bedside table, and he stuck his fingers inside it, then into his mouth.

  ‘Osborne?’ She made her voice soft.

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘Where is what?’ She held out her hand, but he would not take it.

  His lips puckered as he tried to pronounce the word correctly. ‘Laudanum.’ He picked up the glass again and ran his tongue around the rim.

  ‘What do you mean, Osborne?’

  ‘The laudanum!’ He punched the glass onto the table. The room shook.

  She pushed herself up the bed, turning so her stomach was angled away from him. ‘Osborne, you are frightening me.’

  ‘Where is it, Catherine? And the wig.’

  ‘What wig?’

  He thumped the wall. The painting on the wall crashed to the floor, the scene of a countryside picnic splitting in two. He jerked his hand back and cradled it to his chest. The skin over his knuckles had ripped, and blood was beginning to seep into the creases of his fingers.

  ‘Osborne?’

  He looked at her again, the bleariness of alcohol and smoke just beginning to clear from his eyes to be replaced with tears. ‘I loved you.’

  ‘I know.’ She took his wounded hand and kissed the torn flesh, letting the blood stain her lips as he sobbed above her. She reeled him closer until he was lying beside her, his face pressed into her neck, weeping.

  ‘I loved you, Catherine.’

  ‘I love you too,’ she said, and he cried harder. ‘We are having a baby, Osborne.’ She clasped his hand over her abdomen. If only he could feel the child, feel the heartbeat! ‘You will be a wonderful father, Osborne.’

  She felt him shake his head.

  ‘You will. This child will be the most loved in the world, I vow it. I will do anything for it.’

  His sobs began to ebb. His arm grew heavier. Cat heard the words again, the breath of them against her ear before he succumbed to sleep, ‘I loved you, Catherine.’

  Chapter 25

  October 1854. Wallingham Hall.

  The rain hammered on the window and woke her. Water streaked the glass, distorting the grey world outside, and strong gusts of wind made the thin panes rattle.

  She rang for Nelly.

  ‘You’re up early, ma’am.’ Nelly brought a tray of ginger tea with her, as she had been doing these last few months. Cat poured it quickly, yearning for the bite of it to calm her nausea.

  ‘Has he gone?’

  ‘Would he go in this?’ Nelly nodded at the weather outside.

  ‘Has Dixon been called?’

  ‘A few minutes ago, ma’am.’

  That was all she needed. Cat slid her robe over her shoulders and ran out of her chamber, her feet thudding on the carpet. She stopped outside Osborne’s chamber door and heard the muffled sound of him and Dixon inside.

  She knocked. Silence.

  Then Dixon opened the door with the smallest of smiles, his eyes never wholly meeting hers.

  ‘Master Tomkins is engaged at the moment, ma’am.’

  Sweet Dixon, his face reddened with the impertinence he had been commanded to give. He lingered in the doorway, and behind him, she could see Osborne reflected in the looking glass, hiding behind the door.

  ‘Thank you, Dixon, I won’t be a moment.’ She pushed past him and faced her husband.

  Osborne strode out of his useless hiding place and glowered at Dixon.

  ‘What do you want?’ Osborne thrust his arms through his jacket, and she glimpsed the revolver already fastened in its holder.

  ‘There is a storm, Osborne. I don’t think you should go out.’

  He paced to his dresser and dragged a comb through his hair, viciously tugging out the knots. Cat had not seen him in days, ever since that night when he had searched her room. The cuts on his knuckles were black scabs now, the flesh bruised purple. He had not shaved since then, and thick stubble merged with his sideburns. The skin of his face was as grey and slick as the weather outside.

  ‘Please, Osborne, do not go out there today. It is not safe. Think of the baby, of me, worrying for you.’

  One bark of laughter. Osborne slammed the comb onto the table, then jabbed his fingers into the bowl of water and scrubbed his skin three times.

  ‘What is wrong with you? I am with child, Osborne. You have said nothing to me about it.’

  He grabbed his hat and made for the door.

  Enoug
h of this, she thought and barred his way.

  ‘You should be happy, and you are not. Why?’

  His lips worked as if he was about to answer, then he shoved her out of the way. She tripped over her feet from the force of his push and caught herself on the bed. She rounded on him, rage flaring.

  ‘What were you doing in my room? Where had you been that day?’

  He fixed his hat on his head.

  ‘Answer me! What were you doing?’ Her voice crashed off the walls.

  ‘Looking for laudanum.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘I do not have any, why would I? I have never needed it.’

  Slowly, his lips raised into a smile. ‘Liar.’

  She tried not to show her shock.

  ‘Whore,’ he hissed.

  She dropped onto the bed and held her stomach as she began to cry.

  ‘Poisoner.’

  Sickness rose up her throat, drying her tears. She swallowed it down.

  ‘Your friend Ruby told me all about you.’

  ‘She was never a friend to me. She is spiteful, Osborne. She is mean and bitter, and she never liked me. Can’t you see that she has told you nothing but lies?’

  ‘Why would she?’

  ‘To hurt me.’

  ‘She didn’t think that much of you.’ He prowled towards her. ‘I can see her in you. I can see the filth in you. She was right; you are no different from her.’

  Cat leapt to her feet and tried to shove his chest away, but she could not move him. ‘I am nothing like her!’

  ‘Vicious like her too.’

  She ran for the window as he laughed at her.

  Breathe, she told herself, clinging to the sill. She focused on the clouds, how they roiled and rolled in the sky, like one devastating iron mass.

  Be calm, be in control. The pulse in her temples began to slow.

  ‘What kind of man goes sneaking into brothels when their wife is pregnant?’ Her voice was sharp, acid. She turned to him, holding onto her hands so they would not shake.

  ‘I did not go with her.’

  ‘She is riddled, you know. All that disease.’ She let the word linger in the air. He flinched. ‘All that disease smothering you, and now you bring it into your own home.’

  ‘The only disease I have ever brought into this house is you.’

  ‘You would believe a drunken, pock-marked whore over your wife? What kind of man are you?’ She crept towards him. ‘A man who blames everyone but himself. A man who would shirk his responsibilities. Useless. A coward!’

  She did not sense the movement of his arm until his fist slammed into her face. She heard something crack somewhere near her left ear – bone on bone – as she crashed into the floor. Something else snapped, this time in her wrist. For a moment, there was nothing at all; no sound, no sight, no feeling. Then, as the light swelled in her eyes, the agony began to build.

  She tried to push herself upright, but her wrist gave way. She rolled onto her side as her face throbbed, and blinked to see Osborne finish dressing himself and stride for the door. The draught from the hallway washed over her naked ankles and slithered up her legs. Then a shadow and Nelly dropped to Cat’s side, whimpering and crying, telling Cat everything would be well and that she would get help.

  Cat waited, alone, the cold spiralling around her and pulling on her eyelids, calling for sleep, until Nelly returned with Cook. They helped her to sit up, and Cook placed her hot, dry hands on Cat’s face, looking for damage.

  ‘Don’t think anything’s broken, ma’am.’

  Cat cradled her sore wrist, and Nelly pointed it out to Cook. Glancing down, Cat saw for herself the crooked angle of it.

  ‘Call for a doctor,’ Nelly said.

  ‘No.’ Cat’s senses were returning and, though the pain was cutting, she felt the confusion beginning to end. ‘Ready a carriage, I must go to the vicarage.’

  ‘Ma’am, it’s pouring outside.’

  ‘And Osborne is out there. Mr Turner can help him like he did last time. Please, Nelly, I am fine, I shall heal.’

  ‘The baby, ma’am?’

  The baby. She grabbed her stomach and closed her eyes, wishing she could journey into herself and check on the child within. She did not feel anything strange, there was no pain inside, and there was no change between her legs.

  ‘He is well, Nelly, I am certain. Ready the carriage and help me dress. Now. We must be quick.’

  She fell out of the carriage, gripping the handle with her good hand so she did not slam into the muck. Ruth rushed out to greet her, holding out a woollen shawl which she swung over Cat’s head as protection against the weather.

  ‘What are you doing up there?’ Ruth shouted over the beating rain at the driver, still in his seat at the front of the carriage. She shook her head at him – Cat knew she would have scolded the man more had the weather not been so terrible.

  The gate squeaked shut behind her. The path to the vicarage’s front door was a mire of mud and decapitated flower heads as she stumbled across it, clinging to Ruth for support. It smelt of the earth, of the last dying scents of summer, of the coal smoke that spewed from the chimney.

  ‘Walter!’ Ruth kicked the door open and threw the shawl on the floor. The maid emerged. ‘Get me towels and make some tea, quickly!’

  The girl dipped and sprinted away. Ruth’s fingers dug into Cat’s arm, pulling her towards the parlour where the fire was banked high. She pushed Cat onto a seat and took a moment to catch her breath.

  ‘What on earth are you doing out in this, Catherine?’ She stopped short, her breath catching in her throat, her hands dashing to cover her open mouth. She dropped to her knees before Cat. ‘What has happened?’ Her fingers fluttered to Cat’s face.

  Cat flinched from the lightest touch. The bruise would be significant. ‘Osborne.’

  ‘Osborne did this?’

  Cat quivered. She felt herself slipping, her control leaking away.

  ‘Come here.’ Ruth opened her arms and Cat fell into them. She rested against Ruth’s shoulder and let the woman’s warmth radiate into her. She sobbed for everything that was happening and everything that had already happened.

  ‘The baby?’ Ruth whispered.

  ‘Well, I think.’

  Ruth’s shoulders eased, and she rubbed Cat’s back. ‘Hush now. You are safe.’

  She rocked Cat back and forth until the stinging heat in Cat’s eyes dried to a dull grittiness.

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘I tried to stop him but he … He’s out there somewhere. It’s today.’

  Ruth nodded, still stroking Cat’s back. ‘You did what you could, my dear. Wait here.’

  She bustled out of the room, screeching at the maid and shouting for her husband again.

  Cat watched the coals burn, orange in the black, molten and morphing. Bumps and groans sounded from further inside the house – furniture and bodies moving over old floorboards. Then Ruth returned carrying a tea tray, and Walter followed behind, holding a towel. He gawped at Cat’s face.

  Ruth snatched the towel from him, knelt before Cat, and began to dry her feet.

  ‘Now, here is what is going to happen,’ Ruth began. ‘You are going to get yourself warm and dry and have some tea. Then Walter is going to take you back to the Hall and wait for Osborne. You are to go to your room and keep yourself calm, all right?’

  Cat nodded. ‘Osborne?’

  ‘Leave him to Walter.’

  ‘He’s out there!’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know. But he is a grown man, Catherine. A grown man who should know better,’ she mumbled to herself as she wiped the muck off Cat’s dress. ‘He will come back when he wants. And when he does, Walter will be waiting, won’t you? Now, come on, drink your tea, my dear. Walter will talk some sense into him.’

  She stared at the darkening clouds blindly, until she realised the grey had turned to black. Still, Osborne had not returned. She dragged her gaze to Nelly, who sat
in front of the fire, picking at the hard skin on her hands.

  Mr Turner was downstairs. She had left him in the library where she thought he would be happiest, and had instructed Dixon to keep an eye on him, to make sure he was comfortable and fed and had plenty to drink.

  ‘Can I get you anything, ma’am?’ Nelly said again – the same question she had been asking all day.

  Cat shook her head which made the throbbing worse. She shielded her eyes with her hands, letting her forehead rest in her palm. She felt herself falling, drifting until she stumbled and woke herself with a start.

  ‘You should sleep, ma’am.’

  ‘I will wait for Osborne.’

  Nelly picked her hands again.

  Cat listened to the grandfather clock in the hallway. Everywhere was silent; the whole house was holding its breath, waiting. Where was he? She imagined him thrown from his horse, his body crumpled at the bottom of the hillside. She envisioned his white, bloated corpse, face down in the lake in the forest. Perhaps he had ridden all the way to Birmingham and was bringing a police force back with him.

  Nelly ran to the window. ‘He is here, ma’am!’

  Cat joined Nelly’s side, and they watched as Dixon and the groom dashed to meet him. He toppled from his stallion and into their arms. The horse was just as exhausted, its coat drenched, its chest sucking in and out as its hot breath blew white clouds in the lamplight. The rain still pounded as the groom led the horse away and Dixon draped Osborne over his shoulder.

  Cat marched for the door, but Nelly stopped her.

  ‘Please, ma’am. Mr Turner says you are to stay here, for your own safety.’

  ‘He is my husband.’

  Nelly clutched her hand. ‘Please, ma’am, I beg you. Stay here. If he hurt you again …’ Nelly’s eyes misted.

  Cat’s sharpness dissolved, and she embraced the girl; how nice it was to be looked after, to be cared for! She gripped onto Nelly, wishing the girl was Lottie or Helen, then returned to her seat.

  ‘I will wait until he is with Mr Turner. Will you go and see what is happening?’

  Nelly slipped from the room. She was good at being silent; Cat heard nothing of her footsteps as she went down to spy.