by Jaye Peaches
“Yes. Duty.”
“Very well, return to your room and I shall come to you hence.”
She rose onto wobbly feet and stumbled out of the room, tears falling down her cheeks. Locked inside the room by a pale-faced Paul, she flung herself on the bed and wept. Tonight, she would betray Matthew. He knew it would happen, there was little he could do to prevent it, but still she would hate every second. As for the deflowering, she had to make Henry believe she was a virgin. When he entered her, she would scream as if breached and hopefully, he would see that as sufficient evidence.
She lay on the bed, as she had done so many months ago on her very first night in the house, and waited. Presently, after the sun had set, the key turned in the lock and Henry entered.
He wore breeches and a shirt, his necktie was gone. He paced the floor in circles. The light from the handful of candles created shadows that danced around the walls. Dara remained stiff and racked with guilt. She hated herself more than Lord Coleman. He was only performing his duties, as she requested, and the demands for her to explain her absence from the house were not surprising or even unfair. He had every right to her, and what little she understood of the law was that only prolonged mistreatment would justify her deserting him.
Eventually, he came to a halt at the foot of the bed, and pre-empting his request, she shifted her legs apart and lifted her gown above her knees. She stopped there, her hands shaking too much for her to move them again.
Why was he not upon her, kissing her, touching her? Should he not lust for her?
“Dammit,” he cried out in anger, and moved not toward her, but away.
The door slammed shut behind him. The key jangled in the lock.
She was quite alone in the room. Whatever Coleman wanted from her, it seemed her body was not it.
She lay unsure whether to laugh or cry at her predicament. Haunted by memories of Matthew, despised by her husband, she was a prisoner of an unknown fate. If only Matthew knew about her situation, he surely would not tolerate her suffering at the hands of his brother. He had wanted her to come back to protect her honour and it now appeared that was the very thing that Henry would destroy. She would have been better off staying at the farm and facing the consequences from the safety of Matthew’s arms. What was left to do but escape, but how?
* * *
In the dim light of early morning, Matthew went for a lengthy walk. It had become his custom since she’d left to use exercise to flush out his frustrations. Relying on the river as a guide, he came to the boundary of his land where it joined the Coleman estate. It wasn’t a sensible destination. What if he caught sight of her out riding? What if he saw his brother with her?
He clenched his fists. Anger was pointless. Jealousy on its own would destroy him. If only he had some means to bargain for her.
Amongst the tall grass and trees, the wooden structure was nearly hidden from view. Matthew had forgotten its existence. It was the old gamekeeper’s lodge. Many times as a boy, when he ventured far from his home to set rabbit snares, Matthew had watched the sun-blistered man come and go, carrying his musket and belt. One time the man had the company of a manservant from the house. Dressed in his livery, he’d looked quite out of place on the edge of the wilderness. The two had conversed, when the gamekeeper spoke, the younger one frowned in reply.
A few words had drifted to where young Matthew listened out of sight.
“I can’t stay another day, Alfie.”
“Then leave.”
“The Colemans are without honour.”
The gamekeeper had laughed. “The same could be said of the Barracloughs. If you want to make trouble, lad, break your silence, or else leave; he’ll not miss you for long.”
The glistening dew settled on the grass. Lost in thought, Matthew stared at the abandoned building. He had not forgotten the incident, he simply buried it because as a boy he had not understand the nuances and later, he chose to keep it secret for the sake of the manservant. The youth would also be older and wiser by now, and perhaps hold a different opinion of his former master. It was worth the effort to find out.
Turning on his heel, Matthew jogged, then feeling reinvigorated with optimism, he ran back to the farm.
* * *
The next day brought another summons. Another chance to confess.
Henry, far from disappointed at his failed attempt at claiming her, looked pleased with himself. Immaculate in his dress, he leaned back in his chair and drawled, mocking her.
“My dear, until you tell me where you have been, I will not bed you. You see, if this does not work, I shall divorce you on the grounds of lack of consummation, and you will be sent back to your father in disgrace. You did not please me.”
He kept the upper hand with his threat, she saw that now. That was why he had walked out of her bedroom. What other methods would he use to extract the truth? Some she feared more than others.
“Would you beat it out of me?” she asked, her knees knocking together beneath the flimsy gown. Matthew’s firm hand was one not the same as Henry’s. She had trust in the former, but not the latter. She had learnt many things while with Matthew about trust and respect; knowing when to speak up in her defence, and when to accept his actions were justified, and desired by her.
Henry stared at her in alarm. “No. Absolutely not. I’m repulsed by such a thought.”
She actually believed him. There was nothing in his face that indicated he was lying. She hid her relief. What other options were there? She’d play devil’s advocate; she needed to know how his mind worked.
“What if I confess to being with a man? Would you still divorce me?”
“Upon grounds of adultery.”
“Then I have nothing to lose either way.”
“Except the man will be hunted down and arrested. I will not be cuckolded.”
“You would expose yourself by doing so and for what purpose? I see how the gossip will spread about the county: Lord Coleman a cuckold before he even bedded his own wife. I shall make sure everyone knows you failed to consummate our marriage, is that how you would like it played out?” She called his bluff and it angered him; he slammed his hand on the table and lost all his dignified poise as he swept her letters to Estelle from the table. He feared losing his reputation as much as her.
“Goddammit, Dara, why will you not tell me his name, for you have as good as admitted it.”
“Because I don’t love you.”
“We are married. Love is inconsequential. You have nothing to support your claim that I am not your rightful husband. I’ll give you another day. Then regardless of your family’s good name, I shall bring this charade to an end.” He picked up a pen and dismissed her with a wave of his hand.
Locked again in her room, Dara sank into a heap on the floor and cried. For three days she had lived on bread and water, and been given nothing to wear but the nightgown she had worn on her first night in the house.
No books. No embroidery. No companionship.
Even Estelle was forbidden to offer comfort. It was Paul, the young manservant, who brought her food. The look on his face when he saw her weeping was as pitiful as her own.
Chapter Thirteen
There was a commotion out in the yard. Horse hooves, a wild neigh, and a raised voice calling for a Master Denzel.
Matthew scraped back his chair and went outside. He was expecting Lemuel to return with a message. It had been two days, and still Matthew had received no reply to his letter.
The rider, a young man hatted and mud-splattered, was a stranger; however, his livery was familiar and worryingly so. The colours of the finely embroidered coat and the crest on the saddle were as good as Lord Coleman’s signature.
“Master Denzel?” The man raised his hat to reveal a pensive face.
“Aye,” replied Matthew warily.
The rider slid off the horse and staggered forward. The steam rising off the horse’s shanks told Matthew the stallion had been ridden in haste.
“Come in. Take his horse, Kurt, and put it under some shade.”
“Aye, Master.”
The young man, a footman by his garb, followed Matthew into the cottage. Matthew took up position in front of the fireplace, his legs astride and hands clasped behind his back. The stance was something a ruse, because beneath his breastbone, his heart drummed and his palms were clammy. Had something terrible befallen his Dara?
“What’s your name?” he asked.
The servant was nervous, twirling his hat in circles, his eyes darting about the room in a restless way, not quite daring to look Matthew in the face.
“Paul.”
“How did you find me, Paul?” Matthew softened his voice. If the youth needed reassurances, he’d give them. “We don’t know each other.”
Paul shook his head. “No, sir, I’ve not had the pleasure of your acquaintance. I found you through a shop in town. The haberdashers on the high street.”
“Aye, I know it.” The shop Dara had visited a few weeks back.
“I went seeking... you see... I thought I’d seen her ladyship go in there, a while back, but I was told it ‘twasn’t possible, because she was away at her cousin’s.”
“You’re not making much sense to me, lad. What lady?”
“Lady Coleman. She returned a few days ago.”
“And you’ve sought me out for a reason?” Matthew’s mouth was as dry as sand. He tasted the bitter rancour of hatred brewing. Something had gone wrong.
Paul chewed on his lips.
“Go on, lad. I’ll not bite your head off. Is the lady in trouble?”
He nodded. “Yes.”
“How?”
“He came back earlier than planned.”
“His lordship?”
Another small nod.
“Before her ladyship returned?” Matthew didn’t need to hear the answer. He leaned his arm against the brick wall of the fireplace to steady himself. Coleman arriving to find his wife absent was the unfortunate scenario that hadn’t entered his head. “I take it he found out she wasn’t where she was supposed to be?”
“He sent for her, to tell her he was home early, and she didn’t come back. Only a letter from her kin. He tore it into shreds.” Given the details, Paul must have witnessed the furious reaction.
“You fear for her?”
“I do, sir. He’s kept her locked her alone in her room, day and night, demanding to know where she’s been and... with whom. He’s given her no clothes, no means to keep herself occupied, and little decent food.”
Matthew straightened up, his hands clenched into angry fists. He stifled the string of curses behind tightly pressed lips until he was able to speak without revealing the extent of his ire. Unusually for him, he was struggling with not only anger, but rampant fear. What if...
“Has he hurt her? Hit her, done something abominable? Tell me, boy!”
Paul blushed. “No, sir. He’s not laid a finger on her. Her maid has told me she’s untouched. His uncompromising interrogations keep her weary and docile. She refuses to speak.”
Matthew crashed onto the stool. He’d told her to stay quiet, he’d put her in this dangerous situation. Henry had every right to her, there was nothing Matthew could do to stop him claiming his wife, but to do so with cruelty and hatred was contemptible. Would he though? And if he hadn’t, why not? Matthew prayed the answer would come soon; where was Lemuel?
“Why have you come, Paul?” he asked.
“If he doesn’t get an answer today, sir, he’ll send her back to her family in disgrace and demand a divorce. I’ve only spent a little time with her ladyship, but I don’t want to see her unhappy, and she’s terribly miserable. He’s punishing her, which isn’t fair.”
“Fair?”
“He left her first, with no company, and little prospect of joy.”
“Aye, he did. He’s not a good husband, is he?”
Paul shook his head.
“You remembered you saw her in town and realised she’d not gone far, and that she had been in the shop. I guess the shopkeeper gave you my name.”
“She wouldn’t give out the lady’s name, but she checked her ledger for an address. She remembered the lady could not pay, and was ashamed by it, and that you, Master Denzel, came in and set up an account for her, saying you’re her uncle.”
Matthew smiled. “I think we both know I’m not her uncle.” He rose to his feet. “You want me to rescue her?”
Paul’s blush deepened. “I think whatever fate awaits her, she should not decide alone. She needs wise counselling, nothing that any of us servants can offer her. Given her refusal to speak, I assumed that during her absence, she was with somebody she likes and respects.”
Matthew rose to his feet and clamped his hand on the servant’s shoulder. “Paul, you’re a canny lad. Don’t underestimate yourself. Now, where’s his lordship today?”
“Gone hunting. He’s taken the gamekeeper. The one man he trusts above all others.”
“This is the new gamekeeper?”
Paul’s face was naturally puzzled. “How did you know?”
“Doesn’t matter. Lend me your horse, and I’ll ride to the house and fetch her out. Whatever happens next, divorce or not, she should be with somebody she trusts. Aye?”
“Yes, sir.” Paul reached into his coat pocket. “A key, sir. The back entrance to the east wing of the house. Her bedroom is up there.”
Matthew pocketed the key. “My lads will give you food, you can make your own way back. If you need an excuse, say the horse threw you while out exercising.”
He wasted no time. Collecting his riding coat and a hat, he leapt onto the saddle and barked out a string of orders to Ezekiel.
“When your brother gets back, sent him straight to Willowby Hall. Understood?”
“Master.”
Matthew ordered the horse, a frisky one, to the gate, and clipped its flanks with his heels.
The horse knew its way home. Matthew encouraged it to canter, then when he was sure he could stay atop, he galloped. They passed the copse where he’d made love to Dara, then the gatehouse and along the sweeping drive of the house. Before he reached the inner walls, where the gardens began, he climbed off the horse and released him to find the stables on his own. Matthew, using the cover of trees and hedges, made his way around to the back of the house.
He found the door, a small opening hidden behind a bush, and slotted the key in the hole. The hinges creaked. However, nobody came running, and as he crept further into the house, he realised nobody probably would. The place was barely inhabited.
Years ago, his mother had described the layout of the house in one of her rare reminiscences. Matthew recalled some of the details. He used the back stairwell to reach the upper floor. The dim corridor was lined with dusty portraits of Colemans, Henry’s ancestors, and their sombre eyes tracked him. He tried one room—the furniture was covered in sheets. The next was the same.
The third door was locked. He scratched on the wood.
“Dara?”
Listening, he waited.
“Dara, it’s me.”
* * *
She’d fallen asleep, more out of despair than exhaustion. By the end of the day, her fate would be decided. Her bags would be packed, a carriage brought around to the front steps of the hall, and a letter probably entrusted to a groom, and not her. The letter to her father, written by her unforgiving husband, would contain witless remarks about her behaviour, her lack of obedience and failure to satisfy her husband, all traits her father favoured in a young lady of nobility.
Even if Lord Coleman didn’t expose her affair, a divorce on the grounds of annulment would make it harder for her father to find a second match. Women who had not produced a child within weeks of marriage were likely never to marry again. If Dara weren’t so miserable, she might laugh at the notion she was frigid and incapable.
Far from it, she was quite a catch if any man might know the truth.
Henry would not receive any blame. Nobody would believe it was he who had failed her.
As for Matthew, she tried desperately not to think of her lover. However, the tears fell, and continued to do so in her sleep.
A strange scratching sound woke her. It was still daylight. Was Henry returned from his hunting? She lifted her head off the damp pillow and kicked back the covers.
“Dara?”
She held her breath, wondering if she was still dreaming.
“Dara, it’s me.”
She scampered over to the door. “Matthew!”
Even through the wood, she heard his sigh of relief. “The key?”
“I don’t know. I think the butler has it.”
“Damn.”
She leaned against the door. So close to him, yet still too far. She traced her finger along the wood grain. “I never told him about you.”
“I know.”
“How?”
“Paul found me. He traced me through the haberdashers.”
“He did? I’d not thought he cared.”
“He does. It seems your trip to town was fortuitous after all.”
She smiled and wiped away a tear at the same time. “Lord Coleman, Henry, means to send me home, to my parents, with my tail between my legs and no doubt some horrible pack of lies about how I’ve denied him.”
“Has he... come to you?”
She spread her fingers out, feeling the cool wood, wishing it was his warm hand, and imagining he was on the other side doing the same. “No. He came, stood at the foot of the bed, and then stormed out. I thought, if I could get him to... do it, then he could not claim I was not willing, and it would make any accusations harder to prove to the courts. He would need to petition them if he wants to remarry. And, I thought also to protect the child, to give it Henry’s name, if there is one already in my belly.”