“D’ye wish to be put in the stocks?” she demanded grimly. To Charity’s unhappy glance, she added, “Tis plain ye do not understand our customs or our ways. Tis plain ye’ve not been reared in them.”
“I’m afraid not,” admitted Charity. “You can dye the silk,” she suggested eagerly.
“But ye seem not too wicked, despite your ignorance,” continued Aunt Temperance. “This black silk can be of some use, and that russet wool and rose silk too, once they’ve been dyed more suitable colors.”
Patience looked woebegone, eyeing the gleaming rose material.
“It would seem ye weren’t in the plot,” added Aunt Temperance, considering Charity thoughtfully. “But ye’ve been the devil’s handmaiden nonetheless. He be using you for his own ends.”
“Plot? Devil?” Charity stared at her, amazed.
Suddenly Aunt Temperance got up and moved to a large corner cupboard, opened the door and took out a bundle of letters tied with a piece of twine. Silently she thrust them into Charity’s hands.
“When ye’ve read these and thought on them, we’ll speak again,” she said. “Do be takin’ this candle up with you, to light you to bed and to read what’s necessary.”
Troubled and anxious, Charity read the letters by candlelight in her small uncomfortable room. They were a shock. They were in her mother’s handwriting and had her mother’s signature plainly on them, but she still could not believe what they said. They were a masterpiece of invention. In these letters Cheltenham House became a home for Puritan orphans in which they were instructed in the True Faith and set upon the True Path. Reading them, Charity noted that the names of the various “orphans” were the names of her former schoolmates at Stéphanie’s establishment in Bath. Margaret Yorking would have been shocked to learn that her name had been appropriated for an “orphan” receiving instruction in the fictitious “orphanage” of Cheltenham House. How Jane Millwood would have howled with laughter to know her name was among those who had found “suitable posts” in the establishments of gentlefolk under Cheltenham House auspices! Each letter prettily thanked her dear brother-in-law Jason for his latest “contribution,” which would, the writer added piously, be used for “the Lord’s work.”
This was what Aunt Temperance had meant when she spoke darkly of a “plot” and suggested that Charity might be innocent of it. Overcome with shame. Charity covered her face with her hands and thought of her mother, whose desire for the impossible had driven her to such extremes in her daughter’s behalf. Wrong-headed her mother certainly had been—but oh, how much she must have loved her daughter to embark on a course that could have meant imprisonment and ruin!
Charity sighed to think she had offered poor Janet shelter here—here where she herself had no right to be! Her eyes filled with dismay. Somehow she must pay it all back. Somehow. But—her cheeks burned—her relatives knew all about this fraud now. Her aunt had wormed the information out of her as she sat unsuspecting at dinner. So, even if she did her best to make restitution—which of course meant giving up all claim to the property immediately—her mother’s name would be sullied, and to Charity that seemed the worst of all.
That must not happen!
Her lips taut, she took the letters and burned them one by one, carefully, in the candle’s flame, putting the charred remnants in the washbowl. Her mother’s name would be protected, she would see to that!
Almost with relief, she told herself there was no longer any need to pussyfoot about. She was leaving here. She would turn over everything she had to them and somehow catch up with Goodman Tolliver and accompany him back to Boston. Perhaps she could even bring some comfort to those poor victims tied to the tail of the cart! But she would get back to civilization and somehow make her way to England. There she would find a way to make good the rest of the debt owed Uncle Jason and his rightful heirs. Even if it meant going into service.
Having decided that, she went peacefully to sleep on the hard mattress that, she was sure, must have given Matthew many a backache.
In the morning she dressed in a pretty dress of sprigged muslin, cut artfully low—after all, she was leaving, why should they care what she wore—and went downstairs with a firm step.
“I burned the letters,” she announced, as she arrived in the big kitchen. “And—”
“I’d expected no better of you,” cut in her aunt, who was in the act of serving breakfast, a big white ironstone pitcher in her hand.
Charity took a deep breath and disregarded that menacing tone.
“It’s clear to me,” she said, “that through my mother I’ve done you a great wrong and I intend to make it right.”
Her aunt stared at her stolidly.
“I realize that Uncle Jason was unduly influenced—”
Her aunt cocked an eye. “D’you mean all those lies your mother writ to him?” she asked sarcastically.
Charity sighed. “I mean to forswear my inheritance, Aunt Temperance, and leave this place. I’ll catch up with Mr. Tolliver—”
“No need to catch up. He comes back through here day after tomorrow.”
“Then I’ll wait for him and go back with him to Boston, and leave as soon as I can for England.”
Her aunt’s eyes gleamed. “It speaks decent of you that you be forswearin’, but what of all the money Jason lent your mother? What of that?”
“I intend to sell my wardrobe in Boston and send you the money it brings. I’ve fifteen shillings in money which you can have on account.” She laid the coins upon the table. “I’ve tallied up from the letters what’s owing, and I—I’ll find the rest somehow.”
“Somehow!” cried her aunt. “By scandalous behavior is the only way you could be earnin’ such a sum—and mark you, there’ll be no niece of mine walkin’ the streets or dallying in taverns!”
Charity stiffened. “I hardly think—”
“Sit down!” thundered her aunt.
Charity sat.
“Now look you, we’ve come to a decision,” her aunt announced, nodding toward her silent son and daughter who sat regarding Charity with hard suspicious eyes. “Our decision be that you marry Matthew and get rid of those devil’s rags you brought with you—” she sniffed contemptuously, “and wear sober clothes like a decent woman and tuck your hair up under a cap—”
Charity found her voice. She said, astonished, “But I have no intention of marrying Cousin Matthew.”
Her aunt banged the pitcher down on the table so hard a little of the milk splashed out. “It be not a question of your intentions! Your intentions don’t signify! Tis a question of what’s to be done! If you be seen in those clothes, they’ll have you in the stocks for it.”
Charity looked unhappily down at her sprigged muslin dress, which had seemed so correct for breakfast in the country.
“Since I’m going back to Boston it can hardly matter,” she said bitterly. “Your horrible townsfolk don’t assault strangers, do they?”
Aunt Temperance’s head snapped back as if she’d been struck. “Horrible townsfolk?” she repeated stupidly, and cast a look at her son and daughter, who were gaping at this sacrilege.
“Well, what I think of them really doesn’t matter,” cried Charity, “since I’m leaving day after tomorrow!”
Her aunt considered her as if she were really seeing her as a person for the first time. “You be very young,” she said at last. “Think you on what your life will be like if you leave here with no money and no place to go. Tis your own good luck Matthew’s willing to marry you.”
“I’m sure some girl will be very lucky to get Matthew,” said Charity in an unsteady voice. “But I’m not that girl. I am leaving!”
Her aunt sneered. “You do be needing an older and wiser head to think for you.”
She stomped out, leaving Charity to breakfast in the silent disapproving company of the rejected suitor and his angry sister.
At last, to break the uncomfortable silence, Charity asked Patience ironically if she had marriage
plans, and the girl colored and compressed her lips. Matthew answered for her.
“Patience be promised to the new young preacher,” he said. “When she leaves, Mother will be needing help with the chores.”
So that was the reason Aunt Temperance wanted her to marry Matthew! To have a free servant!
Charity spent the day fuming, afraid to go to the village in any of the clothes she had brought with her lest the authorities promptly pounce on her and fasten her in the stocks: She knew she would count the hours until Goodman Tolliver came through and she could leave this miserable place. Meanwhile, she had one more night to get through.
CHAPTER 4
Charity awoke to see a shadow looming over her bed. As a scream rose in her throat, her Cousin Matthew’s voice said, “Twon’t do no good to scream.”
She realized that he was wearing only a nightshirt.
“Get out!” she cried in fury. “This is my room, Matthew. Get out of here!”
“Aye, but now it be mine again,” he said in a surly voice, moving as if to get into the bed.
Hastily, Charity leaped out of bed. If it came to a struggle between her and Cousin Matthew for possession of the room, there was no doubt who would lose. Matthew had the big bulging muscles of a farm boy who had spent his life working long hours in the fields.
“Then I will remove myself to the attic!” she cried. “But I can’t imagine why you came bursting in here in the middle of the night. You could at least allow me to remove my things by daylight!”
Matthew reached out and took hold of her wrist. His grip was awfully strong. Charity tried unsuccessfully to wriggle away.
“Matthew,” she panted. “Let go of me.”
He let go.
She strode with as much dignity as she could muster toward the door. It resisted her. She shook the latch, not comprehending.
Behind her Matthew chuckled.
So he had locked it!
Charity swung around. “Give me the key this instant!” she cried.
He shrugged. “I have none,” he said affably. “Twas Mother that locked it.”
Charity stared at him in the half-dark, her mouth gaping. It couldn’t be true! She turned to batter on the door. “Aunt Temperance, Aunt Temperance!” she cried.
“Twas her decision that we become better acquainted,” said Matthew, coming up behind her. “Since we be soon to marry, there be no harm. Not so sinful-like.” He reached for her.
Charity whirled and struck him in the face. He hardly seemed to feel the blow. He surged forward, slamming her light body against the door, pinioning her so that she could not move. She could feel his heavy muscles flex, his straining thighs hardening against her.
“Matthew!" she screamed, clawing at his face.
“That be no way to treat your future husband,” said Matthew heavily, grasping her arms. “Be ye daft? You must respect me and obey my will. Come to bed.”
Charity tried to break loose as he dragged her to the big fourposter, moving along as easily as if he had no struggling burden, and plumped her down.
“Be ye not mindful, I’ll be taking a paddle to you,” he said matter-of-factly. “Hast ever done this before?”
“Of course not!” cried Charity in outrage. “What do you take me for?”
“Mother says you have a harlot’s mind inside a virgin’s body. She did peek inside your trunks. Red dresses and ruffles and plumes.”
“Those clothes are fashionable,” panted Charity, trying to beat him off. “Ladies wear them.”
“You" he said with calm logic, “be no lady. Will you take off that nightgown or must it be I tear it off you?”
“Matthew,” pleaded Charity in rising panic, “get hold of yourself. This—this is punishable by law. You don’t want to hang, do you?”
“None will know,” he said in a surly voice, and with an angry gesture reached inside the neck of her gown and tore it straight down the center. Treacherously the moon came out just as the material ripped and Charity found herself lying in the moonlight, her body silvered by the light, her white breasts pink tipped, her stomach and hips and thighs naked and exposed under his gaze.
He whistled. “You do be marvelous pretty!”
With a sob she tried to scramble away from him, but one of his big hands caught her by an ankle and slid her bare back along the bed. Feeling the blanket rub across her buttocks, she lashed out at him with her fist. Both her hands were suddenly pinioned and held above her head as he looked down at her, his full-lipped mouth grinning broadly.
“This can be as easy or as hard as you like,” he drawled, “but it do be goin’ to end up just one way, so you make up your mind to it!”
He eased his heavy body down onto hers, sliding his nightshirt up and up until it was almost smothering her. She could feel his naked sweaty body pressed against her own shuddering slender form. As she tried to twist away, he said, “You be full of fight. That pleasures me!” His hands fastened on her breasts, squeezing savagely, and as she tried in revulsion to make a last great effort to break free, she felt a sudden sharp pain as his hardness entered her. She felt herself grow weak with pain and fear and a humiliation deeper than anything she had ever known.
The night became one long convulsive nightmare, with Cousin Matthew grunting and sweating above her, devouring her virginity, taking his fill. Charity managed to push his nightshirt from her face, and as she did she felt the wet streaks of tears on her cheeks.
Cousin Matthew, a lusty young bull in pursuit of a recalcitrant heifer, continued his labors until he was tired. Then he rolled off her.
Summoning her remaining strength, Charity eased herself out of bed and looked about for something to hit him with. Her hand seized a heavy pewter candlestick and she lifted it murderously.
Matthew, who seemed to have some sixth sense about self-preservation, jumped up in time for the striking candlestick to miss him. His consternation was very evident. He had obviously considered that once “bedded” she would become docile and pliable. Now he found he had cornered a fighting wildcat not one whit tamed by his treatment.
He seized the candlestick and flung it away. “Mother,” he yelled. “She did try to kill me!”
There were running footsteps outside. A key turned in the heavy lock and the door was flung open. Aunt Temperance stood in the doorway, looking enraged.
“He raped me!” Charity cried.
“Harlot!” hissed Aunt Temperance. “Standing there with no clothes on! Tellin’ wild lies! You did lure that boy in here!” And as Charity opened her mouth to speak, “I bid you be silent! Come out of here, Matthew. This be no place for decent folk.”
Dazed, Charity watched them go, heard the key turn again in the lock, and sank back against the bed, trembling. These people were mad! She must get out of here, she must escape. She ran to the window. It was not such a terrible drop. She hurried to the chair where she had left her clothes. It was bare.
Her trunks were gone too. All signs that she had occupied the room had been removed. Matthew with his great strength must have tiptoed in and carried everything out while she slept.
Well, she would leave in her torn nightgown then. She looked for it, but it too was missing. Matthew, she realized, had bent down just before he left. He must have scooped it up and taken it with him.
She sank down round-eyed upon the bed. She could not run out naked into the New England countryside. She was as much a prisoner here as if she were in a jail!
When morning came she wrapped a blanket around her and, pounding on the door called angrily, “Let me out! Let me out!”
Nobody came. She could smell breakfast porridge cooking downstairs and the aroma of hot bread, and found she was remarkably hungry. Nobody brought her anything to eat.
They meant to starve her into submission, she thought grimly. Well, she’d see about that! She’d get out of here and she’d bring Cousin Matthew and his confederate, Aunt Temperance, to justice! She’d prefer charges! This was a civilized Colony unde
r the English king. Rape of young ladies just wasn’t countenanced!
She saw her chance when a man arrived on horseback. He looked like a parson, she thought, as indeed he turned out to be. He’d get her out of here!
She threw open the window and leaned out, not realizing in her excitement that the sheet had come open and her breasts were exposed.
“I’m Charity Woodstock!” she called down to the man on the horse. “I’m just over from England. I own this house and my Cousin Matthew has raped me and my aunt has locked me in my room. Send the constable at once!”
The rider gawked up at her as if he were seeing an apparition, his face reddening. Suddenly a woman darted from the house, with an apron flung over her head. Aunt Temperance.
“Oh, Pastor Williams,” she cried. “Tis glad I be to see you. I be at my wits’ end! There be my niece up there with no stitch of clothes on—get you back in!” she shrieked at Charity, waving her fists. “Can you not see you aren’t decent?” She turned back to the preacher, wringing her hands. “She did come yesterday—and you should have seen the evil frumpery she was wearin’—and worse in her trunk, red dresses and satins and laces. And it were all a pack of lies about the orphanage; her mother was spendin’ the money in evil ways. Pray come in, come in, do.”
The preacher cast a last wild look upstairs at Charity’s disheveled hair and distraught face—she had by now gathered the sheet around her—and shakily dismounted allowing himself to be led into the house.
Charity listened at the door. Downstairs she could
hear the murmur of voices, and then she could hear her aunt’s words as she led the preacher upstairs to the attic. “Put her in here, I did, so she’d not influence Patience and Matthew with her evil ways. But down she came into Matthew’s room stark naked last night. Jumped right into his bed, she did! And conjured him so’s he can hardly talk.”
Charity was white with fury.
“It’s a lie!” she screamed, pounding on the door. “It’s all a lie! Don’t listen to her. Get the constable, get the magistrate, get somebody to rescue me from this place!
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