by Meghan Sloan
Was there something deficit in her that had caused Frank to act in such a brutal way? Had she said the wrong thing, done the wrong thing, to make this happen? If she had been a different woman, might this not have occurred? She had thought that he admired her greatly, that he respected her, even if he wasn’t passionately in love with her. But he had treated her worse than he would treat a stray dog that had just wandered onto his doorstep.
Perhaps it was her fault, in some way that she could not understand.
“The trunks are all packed,” said her mother, picking up her wine glass. “Everything is in order. We will be ready to leave first thing in the morning.” She paused, gazing around the dining room with sad eyes. “That it has come to this. The solicitor was quite adamant that there was no way to reverse the sale of the house, even in these extraordinary circumstances?”
Her father shook his head, grimly. “The scoundrel was clever,” he said bitterly. “He has done everything by the book. As soon as he had secured Hetty’s dowry, he went ahead with the sale. It is all legally binding, and there is no recourse. Frank Blackmore had the right to sell this house, without Hetty’s consent, of course. That is the law of the land.”
Her mother sighed heavily. “Well, I doubt that Hetty would want to live here alone anyway after what has happened.” She turned to her daughter. “It is best that you come home, my dearest. We can protect you from the full force of the scandal, which shall inevitably come, once word gets out as to what has happened here.”
“Of course it is for the best that Hetty returns to us,” said her father, irritably. “There is no question of that. But it still makes my blood boil that he has got away with this. That he has sailed off into the sunset with Hetty’s dowry as well as the money from this house.” He turned to Hetty, staring at her with intense eyes. “He never hinted at anything that foreshadowed this? Any mention of someone that might have spurred him on to do such a drastic thing?”
Hetty’s blood ran cold. “What do you mean, Papa?”
Her father’s mouth twisted. “I am not sure exactly. But rest assured, I shall be making enquiries as to where he is and what he is doing now. I shall find the rat and find out what he is up to. There is more to this story than meets the eye.”
There was a strained silence in the room, as they all contemplated what had driven Frank Blackmore to such extreme actions.
“He did not say anything much in the note he left me,” said Hetty, in a trembling voice. “Only that he had been having doubts about the marriage in the months leading up to it. He claimed that his decision to flee was spontaneous, that he simply could not go ahead with it.”
“Poppycock,” growled her father. “We all understand that this was a calculated act. The sale of the house prior to the wedding proves it. He made very sure that he had secured your dowry and that the marriage certificate was signed before he acted, making anything that was yours legally his own. This was no spur of the moment choice. He could have backed out of the engagement at any point, but he chose not to.”
“I shall never speak to the Blackmore family again,” declared her mother, in a high, thready voice. “They are dead to us now. To think that one of their members acted in this detestable way. His mother will die of the shame of it. We are not the only ones who will suffer from that man’s actions.”
“I do not wish to associate with them, either,” said her father thoughtfully. “However, they may be useful, right now. As soon as we return to Hillsworth House, I shall be calling on them. Mrs Blackmore might know something about him that we do not. I shall press on her that it is in her benefit, as well as our own, to confess if there is anything about that man they have been hiding.”
“Such as?” asked her mother with wide eyes.
Her father sighed deeply. “Who knows, wife? He might be hiding any number of things. Perhaps he is a degenerate gambler or drinker. Perhaps he needed a large sum of money for dark purposes. It is possible.”
Hetty felt her heart thump painfully in her chest. She had never considered such things, but then, why would she? Frank Blackmore had appeared to be a perfectly respectable gentleman. And she was a young lady, who was sheltered from the seedy parts of life that her father had just spoken of. She had read her share of Gothic novels but believed that it could not be true, that people in real life could be so degenerate.
She had been sheltered and cossetted, but that was expected, for a young lady of her class. It was not unusual, in the least. It might have continued that way for the rest of her life if this had not happened to her.
She almost wished that it was true. That he was a degenerate, in some manner, and it would dissolve this kernel of doubt that this was somehow her fault. That if she had just been more charming, more beautiful, or more gifted, he would not have done this to her. He would not have rejected her in such a brutal manner. He would not have made her a laughingstock, an object of pity, in this appalling way.
She repeated the vow to herself. This would never happen to her again. No man would ever get the chance to humiliate her like this in the future.
***
The next day, she climbed into the carriage, settling herself beside her mother. Her trunks, containing all of her personal items, had been tied to it half an hour ago. She was ready, at last, to leave it all behind.
She gazed out at the townhouse, with a yearning, heavy heart. She knew that she would never see it again, or if she did, only as she passed by. She tried to imagine herself passing it at some future point, and how she would feel. Would she have to avert her eyes, the pain still as strong as it was, now? Or would the passage of time heal her fully, and she would be able to gaze upon it without a flicker of emotion?
Her eyes stung with tears as she stared at it. A two-storey sandstone house, with long windows. A high wrought-iron fence. A manicured front garden, with a line of rose bushes flanking the path towards the front door. Her new home that had been snatched from her before she had even had a chance to become familiar with it.
She heard the crack of the coachman’s whip, and they were away, the wheels slowly turning. Resolutely, she turned to the front, not looking back.
It had only been a few days ago that she had been a blushing bride, tripping down the aisle in her ivory wedding dress, a train of gossamer trailing behind her. Frank had stood at the altar, gazing at her approvingly as she had made her way slowly towards him. She had never imagined, in her wildest dreams, what was about to happen. How the dream was about to come crashing down around her.
She was still Mrs Frank Blackmore, but in name only. How could she claim to be a married lady? Because she had exchanged vows and signed a piece of paper? Frank had not even lain with her on their wedding night. She was still a maiden, as innocent as ever. In all respects, she was still Miss Henrietta Arnold. But the world did not see her that way any longer.
As the carriage turned the corner, heading out of Derrington, she contemplated what lay ahead of her. Back to her old life, as a dependent in her parents’ home, withering away, year by year. She suddenly knew that she could not endure it, but equally, what alternative was there?
She was a married woman. Divorce was out of the question. She could never marry again. She had entered a strange nether world, where she was neither married nor single. What was to become of her?
She bit her lip so hard that she almost drew blood. She must secure her future, in some way. She just had to think it through as to how that was going to be possible.
There were so few options open to women. If she were a man, she could take off, seek her fortune somewhere else, leave the past behind her. But that was not possible for a lady of her class. She was bound as surely as if she were a bird in a gilded cage.
Chapter 3
Hetty wandered down the garden path, staring at the familiar rolling green fields, in the distance. Hillsworth House was nestled in a valley. When she was a girl, she had happily explored those fields, without a care in the world.
Della, the family cocker spaniel, trailed at her feet, gazing up at her adoringly. She smiled, reaching down to caress the dog’s silky golden ears.
“What do you think,” she whispered. “Shall we go further afield today? Shall we go to the apple tree?”
The dog yelped excitedly as if she understood every word that the woman had just said. Hetty laughed, suddenly feeling her spirits lift, just a little. It would be good to go for a longer walk; she would not feel so constrained by the atmosphere in the house. Her mother’s eyes constantly watching her, anxiously, as she moved about. Her father, trying to jolly her out of her low spirits. It was becoming just a little tedious.
She opened the gate, stepping beyond the boundary, her heart lifting further at the beauty of the day. A bright summer’s day, with a clear blue sky and a sun so bright that she had to squint slightly as she walked, shielding her face with her hand. Della ran ahead, as excited as she was, to be let loose.
It had been three weeks since she had returned to Hillsworth House. Three weeks, in which she had thought constantly, almost obsessively, about what her future held. And now, a plan was forming in her mind. A plan that would protect her from ever being hurt in the way that Frank Blackmore had hurt her.
It was only last night that the epiphany had come to her, as she had been kneeling at the foot of her bed, saying her nightly prayers. It was as if God himself had reached down, placing a hand upon her forehead, and whispered it into her ear.
You could become a nun, that voice had whispered. You could join a convent. You would never have to deal with the world and all its pain and misery again.
She thought about it as she strode through the field towards the large apple tree in the distance. It was perfect, the perfect solution to the conundrum that she found herself in. If she joined an order and took the vows to become a nun, then she would have her own life, free of being dependent on her parents.
She could never marry again. That path had gone. And besides, she didn’t want to marry again. She never wanted to be vulnerable in that way; to be at the mercy of a man. Even if she was free to do so, she still would not want to do it. The very thought of it was anathema to her.
She reached the apple tree, panting slightly from the exertion. Della started to run in circles around the large trunk, barking ecstatically, almost delirious with the freedom of stretching her legs. Hetty looked up, contemplating the tree. The branches were almost overladen with their fruit, shiny, bright red apples, so large and tempting that she smiled in delight. Carefully, she reached up, picking a perfect specimen. It felt heavy and hot in her hand.
She sat down against the tree, leaning against the trunk as she took the first bite of the fruit. It was juicy and delicious. For several moments, she contentedly chewed, gazing out over the valley and Hillsworth House in the distance. It looked like a giant black square, from this vantage point, spreading out before her eyes.
Her gaze drifted to the tree. There was the remnant of an old swing that her father had built for her, back when she was little, swinging from a low branch. He had taken her here often, in those days. They would walk side by side and pick apples together before he would push her on the swing. She could still recall the wind whipping her pigtails behind her, as she had soared into the air, imagining that she was a bird with wings.
The swing was old and weathered, now, the rope fraying. For a moment, she saw herself as a little girl, laughing delightedly as she swung upon it, that feeling of pure freedom. There was no way that she could do that now. The rope would break clean away, with her weight, even if she managed to fit herself onto the wooden seat.
All things go, she thought, a trifle sadly, her mood evaporating, just a little. You can never go back to the way that things were.
It was true. She no longer belonged here in her family home. Oh, she knew that her parents would violently disagree with her and claim that this was her home forever if she wanted it to be. But the truth was she had outgrown it, just like the swing. She didn’t want to be a dependent here, aging alongside her parents, as much as she fiercely loved the place. She wanted to carve out her own life.
Only weeks ago, she had thought she finally had the chance to do it. She was ready to become a wife and the mistress of her own home. But that chance had been snatched away from her for good. God had other plans for her.
It wasn’t that she was particularly religious. She believed in God, of course, and faithfully attended Sunday services. She prayed nightly. But the thought of joining a religious order, and taking the veil, had never occurred to her before. She was honest enough with herself to know that she did not have a pure vocation for that life.
But what opportunities were available to women who desired to carve out their own way in the world? Hardly any, particularly for one of her class. Besides, a convent would be like a sanctuary for her. Within its walls, she would be safe from the pain of what lay beyond.
She could dedicate herself to good work on behalf of the needy. It would be a rewarding life, far more fulfilling than attending the tedious rounds of afternoon teas in district homes, on the arm of her mother, whispered about behind hands.
She chewed the apple thoughtfully. Out here, in the wide world, she would forever be tainted by that scandal, an object of pity. But inside the walls of a convent, she could shed it all, like a snake shedding its skin. She could become herself, once again.
She thought of her parents and how they would react when she told them. She knew they would be opposed to the idea, but she was a woman of five and twenty, after all. She was old enough to make up her own mind about her own life. And they would not stop her, once they saw how determined she was. They probably would not even blame her.
Her father had been true to his word in the ensuing weeks since she had returned here. He had called upon Mrs Blackmore, Frank’s mother, to inform her what her son had done to his daughter, and to try to ascertain if he had been hiding something sinister from them all, that had spurred him on to do what he had done.
Mrs Blackmore had been horrified, weeping copiously, barely able to speak. She had not known anything about why her son would behave in such a way. Or at least, that was what she had claimed.
Her father had hired a private investigator, trying to track where her errant husband was now. But so far, they had not had any success. Frank seemed to have disappeared entirely, fallen off the face of the earth. Hetty didn’t know if she was disappointed or glad that she would never have to confront him again.
It was over. She might never have any answers to what had been done. It was up to her, now, to pick herself up, dust herself off, and continue with her life to the best of her capabilities.
She would be a victim of circumstance no longer.
She jumped slightly at the feel of a soft head suddenly falling into her lap. Della was panting hard, her pink tongue lolling out of her mouth. Hetty reached down, caressing her, pulling at the long, velvety ears.
“Well, we should get back,” she said, gazing at the dog. “I have reached a decision, Della. And I really shouldn’t delay in telling Papa and Mama.”
The dog gazed at her, with large, limpid brown eyes, for all the world looking as if she was smiling. As if she was privy to the secret that was burning in Hetty’s chest.
They set off across the green field. Hetty tossed the apple core into the distance. Her soul expanded slightly.
She could become the master of her own destiny. She just had to convince her parents that it was a good idea.
***
She arrived back just in time for luncheon, barely having time to wash her hands before she entered the long dining room. Sometimes, if Papa were out, she and her mother would simply eat a quick luncheon in the kitchen, but if he was here, it was always more formal.
“There you are, Hetty,” said her mother, frowning slightly. “Where did you disappear to? I looked out of the window, expecting to see you in the garden, but you were nowhere in sight.”