“But—” Sophie began, but let the matter drop when George glared at her from across the table.
“You will remain at home,” he said, his tone brooking no argument.
“Yes, George.”
“I’ll see you at noon.” He left the table and went to fetch his coat and hat before leaving for the shop.
Sophie remained at the table, staring at the embroidered cloth as if she were seeing it for the first time. She accepted a cup of tea from Mrs. Quarry and took a sip, hoping the strong brew would refresh her and lift her sagging spirits, but one could only expect so much of a hot drink. Sophie didn’t have much of an appetite, so she retreated to the parlor with a book and shut the door, needing some time to herself. Mrs. Quarry tended to get chatty given the opportunity, and Sophie simply couldn’t bear to listen to her blather at a time when she felt so emotionally fragile. In fact, she reflected bitterly, she felt much like a soft-boiled egg whose contents had been scooped out, leaving behind a cracked, empty shell.
She and George had been married for just over two months, but they hadn’t grown any closer in that time. George reached for her frequently when they retired but made no effort to get to know her beyond the marriage bed. He’d been solicitous and kind, until last evening, but rarely asked her anything about herself or invited comment or opinion. Now she understood why. He’d called her an ornament, and she supposed that was what she was—a comely young woman who looked pretty in the gowns he’d ordered for her and inspired other men to think George a lucky devil.
Horace Brewster had encouraged his daughter to read, to form opinions, and to join him in conversation over the supper table, but George clearly wasn’t interested in anything she had to say. She had no more value than pretty china or his new walnut writing desk. Two paths lay before her: the first being one of obedience and silence, and the second of gradually teaching George to accept her as a partner rather than just a possession to be shown off to his contemporaries. Sophie decided on the latter. She’d bide her time, but little by little, she’d show George that her opinions were well informed and worth listening to. Perhaps he’d even be proud of her if she managed to hold forth without arousing his jealousy. She highly doubted she’d see Alexander Trevor again, so that particular hurdle had already been overcome and need not be revisited.
Sophie hid in the parlor until nearly noon, when it was time to bring George his dinner. She cut two pieces of bread and placed a thick slice of ham between them, poured some cool ale into a stoppered bottle, and added a handful of strawberries from the garden. George loved strawberries, so hopefully the unexpected treat would brighten his mood. Sophie put her straw hat on over the cap to protect her complexion from the hot summer sun and set out for the shop, just down the street.
George barely acknowledged her when she came in, being in the middle of a discussion with several young men. Sophie took the basket into the tiny office at the back of the shop, where Mr. Williams was hunched over the sales ledger, then came back out, coming face to face with Alexander Trevor, whose face broke into a delighted smile.
“Mrs. Holland, what an absolute pleasure to see you again,” he exclaimed. “I came into the shop this morning hoping to ask your husband’s advice on a book I require, but running into you has made my day.”
“Good day, Mr. Trevor,” Sophie muttered, watching George’s reaction from the corner of her eye. He was still speaking to the students, but she noted the tightening of his jaw and the narrowing of his eyes as he watched Alexander Trevor.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Trevor, but I’m afraid I must get home.”
“Please, don’t leave so soon. I’ll be happy to regale you with more pirate stories if it’ll keep you from going. I confess, after two months aboard a ship, I’m starved for lively company. I’m sure Mr. Holland won’t object if I ask your opinion on this book of poetry I’ve purchased.”
He pulled out a slim volume and held it out to her. “Have you read it? John Dunne. I’ve never actually read any of his poems, but uncle insisted I acquaint myself with his work. I must admit, they’re rather good. I like his notion that no man is an island. What say you, Mrs. Holland? Do you think he’s correct?”
“Yes, I think he is,” Sophie replied. “We all need companionship, in one form or another, and affection.”
“I agree wholeheartedly. What’s life without affection?” he said, smiling into her eyes as if affection from her would make him the happiest man alive.
“Mr. Trevor, I really must get on.”
“Of course. I’m sorry to have detained you. I do hope we’ll see each other again. Soon.”
“I’m sure we shall,” Sophie mumbled as she inched toward the door, George’s gaze branding her back with its intensity. Given what had happened last night, she had no illusions. She’d pay for this flirtatious discourse, even though she’d done nothing to encourage Alexander Trevor. George could hardly punish him, so he’d take his ire out on her. She prayed she was wrong, but her insides shriveled at the thought of meeting George over the supper table that evening.
That night marked a true turning point in Sophie’s marriage. Many a husband punished his wife for her transgressions against him, but the punishments were generally limited to a tongue-lashing or a slap. Having enjoyed his supper, George ordered Sophie to come upstairs to their bedroom and told her to undress. He then pushed her over the side of the bed, lifted her shift, and administered ten lashes of his belt across her buttocks and thighs, striping the skin with angry red welts. Sophie had never known such pain or humiliation, and as her tears soaked into the flowery counterpane, she vowed never to forgive George for his harsh treatment of her.
After he finished, he cupped her sore buttock in his hand, caressing the reddened flesh as if he’d never seen anything so beautiful, then his fingers slid inside her, probing her aching privates tenderly and thoroughly. It was at that moment that Sophie realized that the purpose of the punishment had been two-fold. He was genuinely angry with her but belting her had aroused him as he’d never been aroused by her before, his shaft rock-hard as he parted her legs and slid inside her, gasping with pleasure. She wept from both pain and fear because she now knew that this would be the norm in their relationship, and any excuse would do for taking a belt to her if it meant giving George greater sexual pleasure.
Chapter 26
Sophie’s prediction had been correct, but what she hadn’t expected was George’s attitude toward this new phase in their relationship. He was always charming and upbeat the morning after, winking at Sophie over the breakfast table as if they shared a delightful secret. He carried on as if his bouts of violence were a game, often inviting her to count along as he doled out the lashes and taking his time as if he were delaying her pleasure. Ten lashes once a week weren’t enough to cause her serious harm, and the pain faded in a day or two, but every beating put a dent in her pride and diminished her self-worth, making her feel like nothing more than a whore, bought and paid for, who had to endure whatever her client demanded.
In time, Sophie came to understand that George truly believed she enjoyed her role in this twisted play. He seemed to think that having her bare bottom displayed for punishment, her tender parts clearly visible to him, aroused her as much as it did him. She often moaned when he caressed her after the beating, trying not to cry out in pain, but George took her reaction as validation that she was relishing his attentions. She begged him not to hit her, but in his mind, her fear was all a part of the plan, a ruse meant to drive him to greater heights once he finally silenced her and got on with the evening’s entertainment.
After a few torturous months, Sophie thought she’d seen the worst of her husband, but that was still to come. She was sitting in the parlor, her embroidery on her knees, when George came in, his face tight with anger. He’d gone upstairs after supper but returned a few moments later, a letter in his hand.
“Who is she referring to?” he demanded, waving the letter in Sophie’s face.
Ther
e was no use pretending. Sophie had received a letter from Agnes only that morning when the messenger from Boston arrived, bearing several parcels and letters from George’s parents, Amelia, and George’s grandmother.
“I repeat, who is she referring to when she says she still can’t find any trace of him? Who is she looking for?”
Sophie clasped her hands in her lap to keep them from trembling. “She’s referring to a childhood friend,” Sophie replied. In part, that was true. Sophie had asked Agnes to let her know if she heard any news of Teddy, but in this case, the ‘him’ in question was Sophie’s son. She’d foolishly assumed her correspondence was private, but she should have known better. George must have been reading her letters from the start. Perhaps he’d even read the letters Sophie had sent, to make sure she made no mention of his appalling behavior or complained in any way about the marriage.
“And why should you be so interested in the whereabouts of this friend?” George asked.
“We grew up together,” Sophie replied, her voice shaky.
“Did you now? And just how close were you?”
“We were just childhood friends,” Sophie insisted, hoping nothing of her feelings for Teddy showed in her face.
“You’re lying!” George roared, his face puce with anger. “Have you been playing me for a fool?”
“What? No. I simply inquired if Agnes had seen him.”
“You faithless whore!” George shouted as he advanced on her. Sophie sprang to her feet and tried to flee, but he grabbed her hair and threw her against the wall. “I’ll kill you if you so much as look at another man.”
“I haven’t,” Sophie cried.
“I saw the way you ogled that pup, Alexander Trevor. We all did. Have you lain with him?” George thundered.
“No.”
“I don’t believe you.” George’s fist slammed into her face, knocking her head against the wall. She screamed, but he didn’t stop. He hit her in the stomach and chest and kicked her once she slid to the floor, blood dripping from her split lip.
“George, please,” she begged. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“I’ll be the judge of that. From now on, you’re not to leave this house alone. Mrs. Quarry will accompany you everywhere you go and report back to me should you look at any man a second too long. And you will receive no more letters from anyone other than Amelia. Get up, you heartless bitch.”
George grabbed her under the arms and hoisted her to her feet, then dragged her from the room and toward the stairs. Sophie stumbled as he hauled her up, terrified, but George shoved her into the bedroom and locked the door, leaving her in a heap on the floor. This confrontation had not aroused him; it had unhinged him.
Sophie curled into a ball and covered her head with her hands. How was it possible for a man to go from the solicitous, shy young man she’d met at the garden party to this monster? Had he been this way all along, or did she bring this out in him in some way? Was it his jealousy that drove him mad, or some internal rage that needed to be periodically released? How could she endure being married to him for the rest of her life? Sooner or later, he’d kill her.
Chapter 27
Lauren
Spring had finally arrived, bringing warmer weather. Lauren wore a T-shirt and jeans as she followed Ryan down a narrow path between the stones. The ancient cemetery slumbered in the shadow of several large oaks, their newly unfurled leaves a juicy green against the aquamarine of the sky. Birdsong filled the air, the cemetery peaceful and quiet at that hour of the morning.
“Here they are,” Ryan said as he parked Tyler’s stroller next to a group of gray stones. The little boy was fast asleep, his hand clutching a stuffed monkey that was a favorite. “This is where the eighteenth-century Hollands are buried. I wasn’t able to locate any old parish records, but Orleans Cemetery is actually one of the oldest on Cape Cod and the one where anyone from the period we’re interested in would have been buried.”
It looked it. Many of the stones stood at odd angles, some so sunken, only their tops showed through the thick new grass. Some of the inscriptions had been obliterated by time and the ravages of weather, but Lauren noticed a carving of a winged skull above many a name, the image strangely disturbing.
“What does that mean?” she asked.
“In some instances, the winged skull simply represented death, but in others, it meant to suggest that the person’s journey wasn’t over, and they had yet to ascend to Heaven.”
“Meaning the afterlife wasn’t assured?”
“Something like that. They were a grim lot, these early settlers.”
Lauren walked along the row of stones. There were several that bore the name Holland, but she recognized only two names: Edward Holland and Sophie Holland. Edward Holland was the revolutionary Ryan had mentioned, and Sophie had to be the woman she’d seen. Lauren squatted next to the stone to examine the inscription. It was very basic, just a name and dates of birth and death. Sophie had died in January 1762, aged fifty-three.
“There’s no stone for her husband,” Lauren remarked as she got to her feet and peered at the rest of the Holland stones.
“No, there isn’t. He must be buried in Cambridge,” Ryan replied.
“Strange. You’d think husband and wife would be buried next to each other,” Lauren mused.
“I guess, but there could have been a number of situations in which they’d be buried separately.”
“Like what?”
“George Holland might have died years before her and been buried where he was living at the time. By the time his wife died, there might not have been any space next to George’s grave, or perhaps her children or grandchildren didn’t see the point of transporting her body all the way to Cambridge for burial.”
“Didn’t some of them live in Boston and Cambridge, where their book shops were located?” Lauren asked.
“Yes, but perhaps Sophie never returned to either town, for reasons we will never know,” Ryan replied.
“Do you think there’s anything in what Reverend Josiah Martins said about the house being built with blood money?”
Ryan shrugged. “The man was a raging Puritan. His idea of blood money could have been somewhat skewed. Perhaps he disapproved of the kind of books the Hollands sold in their shops and saw the profit they earned as a handout from the Devil.”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right. After all, the Hollands did sell a variety of books, not only religious texts.”
“Someone like Martins would have vehemently disapproved of the Canterbury Tales, not to mention some of the racier offerings of the time.”
Lauren raised her eyebrows in surprise. “What kind of racier offerings?” she asked, amused by Ryan’s use of the old-fashioned term. The only person she knew who would have referred to something as ‘racy’ had been her grandmother.
“There was one book I’ve recently read about. It was called The School of Venus and it had been translated from French in the late seventeenth century. It was basically a sex manual for women, complete with illustrations.”
“Do you think Holland’s Book Shoppe would have carried something like that?” Lauren asked, genuinely scandalized by the idea. She thought of colonial Bostonians as prim and proper, Puritanical even. She was well aware that her generation hadn’t invented sex, but the idea of sex manuals being openly sold in the town’s bookshops had taken her by surprise.
“They might not have displayed it publicly, but there’s always been a market for such things, and they could have stocked a few copies for their very special customers,” Ryan replied, a smile of amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Don’t tell me you’re shocked,” he teased.
“No, I’m not. Not really. We tend to think of pornography as a modern trend, but it’s been around for centuries. You’re right, Reverend Martins’ comments were probably based on nothing more than his suspicions.”
“I’m hungry,” Tyler whined. He’d just woken up and was rubbing his eyes.
“Okay, let’s get some lunch, then,” Ryan suggested. “I could really go for a lobster roll.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t join you,” Lauren replied, wishing more than anything she could spend more time in Ryan’s company. “My brother is coming up this afternoon.” Ryan looked momentarily crestfallen but didn’t complain. “Are you busy tomorrow?” Lauren asked, hoping she’d see him again soon.
“Sorry, I have plans. It’s my mom’s birthday and we’re all getting together at their place for a family lunch. Would you like to come? My parents would love to meet you,” Ryan said, but there was a wariness in his tone that wasn’t lost on Lauren. They were just getting to know each other, their relationship hovering between friendship and the possibly of something more, yet to be explored. She wasn’t ready to meet his family, nor did she think he was ready to deal with the endless questions that would surely follow should he bring her to his mom’s party.
“Thank you for the invitation, but I couldn’t possibly accept. Enjoy the party,” she said, hoping she sounded perky rather than dejected.
“Call me if you change your mind,” Ryan said.
“Daaaad!” Tyler cried. “Let’s goooo!”
“Sorry, I’d better go,” Ryan said. “Tyler gets cranky when he’s hungry, and I don’t want to keep feeding him snacks.”
“Go on,” Lauren said. “I’ll find my way home.”
She watched him push the stroller out of the cemetery, then turned and walked among the rows of stones. With Ryan gone, the cemetery no longer felt peaceful. It was eerie and silent, a city of the dead. Lauren turned on her heel and hurried toward the exit. She’d had enough of death for one day.
Chapter 28
Lauren found Xavier on the patio, sitting in one of the Adirondack chairs and looking out over the horizon. “I can see why you love it here,” he said, getting up to envelop her in a brotherly hug. “It’s beautiful. I hope I’m invited to come up on weekends once it’s warm enough to go to the beach.”
The House on the Hill: A Ghost Story Page 15