Convenient Women Collection

by Delphine Woods

  ‘You cannot just leave them in there. What will Clementine do?’

  Grabbing Beatrice’s wrist, he hurled her along the corridor and to the front door. He dragged her all the way to their cottage, his grip never easing, his strides getting longer and faster until she was struggling to breathe and tripping up behind him. She fell onto the stairs as he threw her inside.

  ‘You plotted behind my back with that woman!’ He loomed over her. Spit dashed from his lips.

  ‘We were trying to help.’

  ‘I do not need your help! I need no one’s help!’ He stalked into the kitchen and paced before the range as he raged.

  Beatrice peeled herself off the floor and tiptoed towards the table. ‘They are your family, Dougal. Your father is ill.’

  ‘I do not care. They are nothing to me.’ His voice punched the walls.

  ‘I do not understand, Dougal. Why did you never tell me about your family?’

  ‘Why would you need to know?’

  She stared at him. Her fear broke into frustration. ‘Because I am your wife!’

  ‘A damn shameful one, at that!’

  She pushed against the back of the chair. The tightness in her chest twisted; she was on the edge of tears. But she would not cry. She would not bow down to him like every other time.

  ‘What was so bad about them? Something must have been.’

  Dougal frowned and shook his head.

  ‘What did your family do for you to hate them so? What was all that about them making excuses for your father? Tell me. For I cannot understand why you would go running to someone like Hamish Montgomery otherwise.’

  Dougal licked his lips and grew still. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Clementine says he was a cruel man. You are barely able to look at the castle or step into his study – what did he do to you, Dougal?’

  She stepped towards him, for his shoulders had sunk inwards. She thought for a second that he was about to weep; she thought he was about to reveal his secrets.

  ‘Let me help you. I can, if you will only explain. What did he do, Dougal? What happened here so that you take your anger out on yourself? Why do you hurt yourself so?’

  She reached for his hand. She did not see his other fist coming for her face. The force of his blow sent her staggering into the table. Her vision blackened. Her ears rang. For a moment, the shock of it numbed her whole body, but as she straightened, she felt the sting in her cheek, and her flesh tingled as if it had been pricked with a thousand needles.

  Dougal wiped his wrist against his nose, but his fists remained tight and trembling. ‘Forgive me,’ he whispered.

  She held her face and watched him, dumbfounded. As the ringing in her ears quietened, she noticed the sound of wheels. Through the kitchen window, she saw the carriage pass by, Glenna’s and Murray’s ghostly faces pressed against the glass as they peered at the cottage. Dougal hid behind the wall.

  ‘You will never speak of them again.’ His voice was quiet. Suddenly, he seemed exhausted. ‘You will never say his name in my presence again. Do you understand?’

  She nodded. Her legs trembled as Dougal shuffled out of the room. Only when he had shut the kitchen door did she fall onto a chair and weep.

  She was sitting at the kitchen table the next day. Her elbows were sore from propping herself up, and one hand was cradling her cheek, which was swollen and tender. Dougal had gone for his afternoon walk over an hour ago, and she had been listening to the seconds tick along as she closed her eyes and thought of Effie.

  Never had she and Effie expected such lives for themselves. At home, they had buried themselves in books, reading passages aloud to one another, marvelling at the likes of Jane Eyre, Catherine Earnshaw, and Anne Catherick. They had giggled at their heroines’ tales of woe, for hadn’t life seemed so simple for Effie and Beatrice back then? Beatrice’s memories were filled with sunshine, with glasses of cool lemonade, with walks through bluebell woods searching for badger setts. If they had known that Effie would be dead within five years and that Beatrice would be married to a man she hated, would they have done it all differently? Would they have left like they always said they would? Would Beatrice have been lounging under blue French skies right now instead of shivering in a creaking old cottage, alone?

  Her fingers slipped over her wet cheek, and she blinked her eyes open. She should not think of such memories, should not dream of the life she thought they would have lived. It was too painful.

  Instead, she occupied her mind with the tasks she should be doing today. The table needed wiping; she could feel crumbs on its surface. There were mutton chops that needed cooking before they turned bad. The bedroom needed dusting, the mats needed beating, and the silver teapot could do with a polish. But she could not bring herself to stand. Was this all her life was now? How she had dreaded the thought of turning into her mother; now she realised she envied her mother’s life.

  There was a knock at the door. Only one person ever knocked.

  Beatrice rushed to her feet. She had not combed her hair, and it hung loose over her shoulders in thin waves all the way to her waist. She brushed her fingers through it, wincing as they caught in the knots. She wore one of her old gowns, a horrid dull brown colour, the material so thin in places it was almost transparent, but she did not have time to change. She grabbed a pretty pink shawl and draped it around herself. She pinched her lips together, blinked and blinked until her lashes felt drier, then went to the door.

  As usual, the dogs brushed past her legs first. She angled herself to one side so that her bruised cheek was in the shadows.

  ‘May I come in?’ Clementine smiled, but it was not her usual wide grin, and she seemed more hesitant than usual.

  Beatrice ushered her inside and busied herself with the kettle as Clementine lingered beside the table.

  ‘Sit down, if you like?’

  Clementine pulled out a chair, then seemed to change her mind. ‘I have come to see Dougal.’

  ‘Oh.’ The disappointment stung in Beatrice’s chest.

  ‘I wanted to apologise to him for yesterday.’

  ‘He is not here.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  Beatrice shrugged. She slammed the kettle over the heat, then patted Simeon’s head as he gazed up at her. ‘He is out on one of his walks.’

  ‘When will he be back?’

  ‘I don’t know. He never tells me that sort of thing.’ She leaned her hip against the wall and turned her face a little to see Clementine.

  Clementine was out of sorts. Her long white fingers fiddled uneasily with her golden necklace, and her gaze darted about the room but never rested on Beatrice.

  ‘It didn’t quite go to plan yesterday, did it?’ Clementine laughed, but it was short and hollow. ‘I should have known better.’

  The kettle whistled. Beatrice poured the water into the teapot, noticing just how grimy it was and blushing at the evidence of her slovenliness.

  ‘Will you … Will you be leaving now?’ asked Clementine.

  The kettle froze above the teapot. Beatrice considered. ‘I don’t know,’ she said honestly, for there was no point in pretending she had any say in her own fate. ‘It is Dougal’s decision.’

  ‘Yes.’ Clementine slid into a chair. There were faint purple crescents beneath her eyes, and on closer inspection, Beatrice could see that the skin of her lips was dry and cracked. ‘I do not want you to go.’

  Beatrice joined Clementine at the table. For the first time that afternoon, Clementine looked at Beatrice and gasped at the sight of her. Beatrice could not handle pity – she would break if Clementine offered kind words – so she jutted her chin out and bit her tongue.

  ‘It is nothing to worry about.’

  ‘Dougal did that to you?’

  ‘He was angry.’

  Clementine shoved her chair out and stormed towards the window. The dogs skittered away from her. ‘I am angry!’

  ‘It was my fault. Please, Clementine.’

&n
bsp; ‘Please, what?’ Clementine spun round to face Beatrice. ‘A husband has the right to beat his wife – permitted by the law of God – is that it? Is that how you will defend him?’

  ‘He was sorry for it.’

  ‘Well,’ she laughed bitterly and pushed her hands into her hips. ‘He is a changed man, then.’

  Beatrice did not understand the comment, but she would not question Clementine. She could bear no more arguments, no more shouting. She wished only for quiet, for peace. She scooped Simeon up onto her lap and nuzzled her good cheek against his head, enjoying his warmth and the comfort he brought.

  Clementine sighed and then, once composed, a small smile eased out the crease between her brows. She tiptoed to Beatrice and embraced her.

  Beatrice closed her eyes. Clementine’s arms were tight and reassuring, wrapped around her body. Her silken hair was pressed against Beatrice’s neck, and her breath traced a line along her collarbones. Beatrice forgot everything which had come before – Dougal, her mother, Effie. Consumed by Clementine, she lowered her face to search out Clementine’s and, without thinking, kissed her.

  Clementine’s lips were as dry as paper, but she tasted sweet; Beatrice detected honey on her breath as Clementine pulled away and Simeon jumped to the floor.

  ‘Forgive me,’ Beatrice whispered, but before she could finish, Clementine pressed into her, harder this time, more urgent.

  Clementine’s breath came hotly as she opened her lips against Beatrice’s. Her hands cupped Beatrice’s face and pulled her closer. Her body leaned into Beatrice’s, pinning her against the chair.

  Then the front door opened.

  The dogs sprang to their feet and, barking, dashed out of the kitchen to interrogate the intruder. It bought Beatrice time, at least. As Dougal fretted over the hounds, Clementine staggered to her feet and flicked the dust off her dress from where she had been kneeling. Beatrice ran for the range – her safe place – where she tried to appear busy as she smoothed down the hair which Clementine had fuzzed up. She traced her fingers over her lips, wondering if they really were on fire.

  ‘Mr Brown,’ Clementine said, her voice coming a little breathlessly. ‘I came to see you. I wanted to apologise for yesterday. It was all my fault; please do not blame your wife for any of it. I thought it might have cheered you, but I was wrong to interfere.’

  Beatrice sensed Dougal enter the kitchen. She did not dare look at him; her betrayal would be clear on her face.

  ‘Thank you for the apology, Mrs Montgomery.’

  The sound of the dogs’ claws on the flagstones grew louder in the silence.

  ‘I hope it has not affected your work?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘And you are happy to continue here as land steward?’

  Dougal cleared his throat. ‘It is my duty.’

  With difficulty, Beatrice contained her sigh of relief.

  ‘Marvellous.’ Clementine rubbed her hands together and grinned at Beatrice, who had finally faced the two of them.

  ‘I was thinking, Mr Brown, perhaps your wife might like to spend the afternoons with me? I understand how lonely it can be to leave one’s family and friends in order to live somewhere as remote as Dhuloch. We might sew? Paint? Do you play the piano, Mrs Brown?’

  ‘A little.’ Beatrice hardly dared speak – her eagerness would surely be evident in her voice. Neither did she dare meet the scrutiny in Dougal’s eyes.

  ‘My wife has chores to be getting on with, Mrs Montgomery. Her time is not spent idly.’

  ‘Of course not, but I will send Jean here to clean and wash when Mrs Brown is with me, and your wife will be home in time to prepare your dinner. I thought you might like to have her out of your way, Mr Brown, so you can concentrate on your work. I assure you, Jean is as quiet as a mouse.’

  Dougal’s frown was deep as he stared at Beatrice. She flicked her eyes to meet his and saw, astonishingly, what she imagined was something like guilt in them.

  ‘Would you like that, Beatrice?’

  Beatrice nodded.

  ‘You are sure she will be no bother to you, Mrs Montgomery?’

  ‘On the contrary, I should be grateful for a friend.’

  ‘Right … Well, yes.’

  Clementine flashed her teeth in a smile. ‘Wonderful. Come along, boys.’ She patted her skirts, and the dogs ambled towards her. She threw her cloak over her shoulders. ‘I shall see you tomorrow, then, Mrs Brown. Shall we say two o’clock?’

  ‘That will be fine,’ Dougal said.

  ‘I look forward to it.’ And with that, she shut the door behind her.

  Chapter 9

  In her finest afternoon gown, one she had made herself out of the most delicious blue satin, Beatrice stood beside the kitchen table, one eye on the grandfather clock in the hallway, another on the window. How the hours had stretched this morning, dragging their feet as she performed her mundane tasks, trying to stop her fingers from shaking. She had burned the bacon, overcooked the eggs, and singed the toast, but Dougal had not complained. She, meanwhile, had nibbled at a crust, unable to stomach anything more than scalding tea. Lunch had been no better.

  She had not felt like this for years. Effie had been the last person who had made her feel something like this, but with Effie there had not been the same excitement; with Effie, there had been a warmth, a sense of safety, a feeling of being right where she should have been. With Clementine there was heat, a longing for forbidden knowledge, a deep, prickling sense of danger.

  The study door opened. Beatrice dived to the sink and began to wash the dishes as Dougal entered.

  ‘You look … well.’ Dougal waited in the entrance and scratched his nose.

  ‘Thank you.’ She believed it might have been the first compliment he had ever paid her. She did not know how to take it. She dried the plates, then put them on their shelf.

  ‘Are you walking to the castle?’

  ‘I thought I would.’

  ‘Excellent.’ He nodded and rubbed his hands over the tops of his arms. ‘That is excellent.’

  She had run out of things to occupy herself with, so she perched on a chair.

  Dougal craned his neck to look into the hallway. ‘You’d best not be late.’

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Almost ten to.’

  ‘Right.’

  Beatrice stood. For a second, they faced each other, and it was as if their two years of marriage had never been. She regarded him as if she was looking at him for the first time. She noticed the smallness of his frame, the very thinness of his fingers which were banded together tightly in front of his hips. His blue eyes glowed and shimmered like water on a bright day, and as those eyes met hers she saw his fragility – how he might break any minute into a flood of tears.

  ‘It is nice to see you like this,’ he said quietly, as if he was afraid of his own words. ‘You seem … happier.’

  She could not meet his gaze any longer. Guilt pooled in her chest. ‘I am.’

  ‘You like it here?’

  She nodded.

  ‘You want to stay?’

  Again, she nodded. She did not know if this was the answer he desired, for he sighed and remained quiet for a few seconds. Then, rousing himself, he stepped aside.

  ‘I will make you late.’

  He found her cloak and helped her into it. As his fingers went to fasten the clasp, she felt the coolness emanating from them. When they accidentally brushed against her chin, Dougal quickly pushed them into his pockets.

  ‘Will you be all right for the afternoon?’ she said.

  ‘Of course.’ Already, he was retreating to his study. ‘Off you go. Enjoy yourself.’

  ‘How was he when you left?’

  Beatrice pulled the blanket over her arm against the draught. On the other side of the room, Clementine’s sleeves were pushed up as far as possible, and on her forehead there was a smear of blue paint. Her eyes kept flicking in Beatrice’s direction, cool and sharp as she examined Beatric
e’s shape so she could replicate her on canvas.

  ‘Better.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I can’t explain. Easier with me than usual, I suppose. Kind.’

  Clementine laughed. ‘You are grateful your husband is showing you kindness after two years of marriage.’

  Putting it so bluntly, Beatrice realised how absurd her marriage was to those who observed it from the outside.

  ‘I saw you when his mother asked about grandchildren. You want a child, do you not?’

  Beatrice leaned away from the arm of the chaise longue. Her right hand had lost its feeling, and she massaged it to bring some warmth to it. Glaring up at the ceiling, she saw slithers of grey sky through the gaps and silently cursed them. Her mood was growing foul. She had not expected to come to Clementine to be so interrogated. She wished for the woman’s kisses, not this cool, artistic detachment. She wished, mainly, to forget about Dougal for a while.

  ‘I never did.’ Clementine’s brush plopped into the jar of turpentine. ‘Couldn’t stand the thought of having one, in all honesty. Hamish wanted an heir, of course, but he … Well, whose fault it was we shall never know. He blamed me, as men always do.’

  Beatrice wandered to one of the tower’s windows. With the sun gone, the scenery was dull and ugly. The snow had oozed down from the surrounding mountains, and everywhere was off-white. It would turn to sludge under hooves and wheels or else freeze and become lethal. An old woman from home had once died walking to the high street; she had slipped on black ice and her head had split open, as easy as cracking an egg. They had kept her body in the mortuary for six weeks, for the ground had been too hard to dig.

  Clementine touched Beatrice’s shoulder and made her start. She wrapped her arm around Beatrice, and as she spoke, her voice was nothing more than a whisper. Her breath tickled Beatrice’s ear.

  ‘Black lake – that is what Dhuloch means. Hamish’s grandfather named it that during the castle renovations. In winter, the water really does look black, as if it is one monstrous shadow or pit. You could fall into it and be lost for all eternity.’

  The back of Beatrice’s neck crawled. Transfixed by the water, she dared not move as Clementine’s lips brushed her earlobe. Her breath rushed from her mouth.