Jamie scanned the pews for any sign of Cassie, but she was not there. Neither was her fire-and-brimstone father. No doubt he preferred to make a grand entrance. He struck Jamie as the sort. A grand, ecclesiastical entrance which would signal the start of his retributive sermon. Like his brothers, Jamie staunchly faced the front defiantly in the hope they would see the vicar falter at their unexpected presence.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw a small wooden door open to the side and witnessed the object of his torment emerge. Except Jamie’s plan to avoid outright looking at the woman failed instantly. Because something was not right. Her face was pale and drawn. Dark shadows sat under her red-rimmed eyes. There was a tightness about her mouth and jaw he had not seen before and her gaze was downcast. Cassie appeared smaller, slumped and almost broken.
‘Well, that explains things,’ mumbled Joe to his left, ‘Your lady has been too ill to leave the house.’
‘Hmm.’ Jamie didn’t agree, but held his tongue. Whilst it was conceivable she had been ill—people got ill all of the time, after all—mild illness did not usually crush a person’s spirit and for some inexplicable reason he knew Cassie’s was damaged. There was no light in her eyes. No laughter. No joy. None of the things he associated with her and which drew him to her like a moth to a flame.
Jamie willed her to look across the aisle and meet his eyes, but she did not. In fact, it seemed as if she was completely unaware of the congregation at all, which only served to increase his concern. He could hardly stride over there and ask her what was wrong. Not here, where her father would hear of it, so he searched his mind for a solution. How exactly could he speak to her now when the whole town was there to bear witness?
‘Here we go.’ Joe nudged him and refocussed Jamie’s attention back to the pulpit. The door from the vestry had been dramatically thrust open and the Reverend Reeves strode out in his billowing black cassock. An overly large wooden cross attached to a leather cord dangled from his neck and he clutched an old, worn bible in one hand like an amulet to ward off evil.
Jamie had the satisfaction of seeing the slightest hesitation in the man’s gait as he spied them, although he doubted the rest of the congregation would have noticed it. The reverend placed his free hand flat on the lectern, briefly closed his eyes and inhaled deeply as if he was receiving divine strength from the Lord before speaking. Jamie recognised the reading. It was from Genesis. The tale of the fall of Sodom and Gomorrah was an obvious choice for a man intent on besmirching the Warriner name, yet he found his teeth grinding in annoyance just the same. Around him, the congregation were held spellbound by the vicar’s demonic delivery.
The man had a way with words much like his daughter did, Jamie had to give him that, although what he was saying was too much for some. Around him he saw people wince at the odd word while anxious mothers held the hands of their children in case the sermon frightened them. Nothing so dramatic had ever been seen in the tiny market town before.
The cleric paused. His eyes travelled along the row of the front pew, taking in each of the four people present quickly, before returning to burn hot with hatred directly at Jamie. He directed the next words to him, so it stood to reason Jamie stared back unmoved.
‘This week I attempted to take the word of God to Markham Manor. It pains me to tell you that it was not welcome. Like the inhabitants of Sodom and Gomorrah, the Warriner family prefer to fester in avarice and sin!’
As he had promised Jack faithfully he would not react with his usual quick temper, Jamie feigned mild amusement instead. Nobody apart from the vicar could see it and, as he had hoped, it riled the man. His eyes bulged manically and an unpleasant foamy clump of spittle gathered in the corners of his mouth—something the congregation did see and it alarmed a few more people. And who could blame them? Foaming at the mouth was not something country vicars should do.
The army had taught him that disgust, fear and dissension were contagious, therefore as weapons they were invaluable. All it took was one person to begin to turn against the Reverend Reeves and others, like sheep, would be encouraged or emboldened to follow. For the vicar’s eyes only, he stifled a minute yawn which had spectacular consequences. Arms began to wave, fingers began to point in accusation and the man began to shout quite unnecessarily. From the pews, it all appeared very aggressive. Unfriendly. Distasteful.
This was followed by a long diatribe about his awful father which Jamie was inclined to agree with. The old man had been spectacularly hideous and spiteful. Yet as shocking as it sounded second-hand, the congregation did not truly know the half of it. Not every scar on his body had been caused by Napoleon. He still bore the faint stain of the belt marks across his back which had been generously bestowed courtesy of his father. Painting was for girls. And perhaps Jamie was not quite a man. Therefore, it stood to reason the bad had to be beaten out of him. Something Jamie had endured defiantly for years.
Night after night, once his father had consumed enough brandy to feel up to the task, he would climb up the narrow wooden staircase that led to Jamie’s room. His heavy boot would always make the top stair creak. The signal that hell was about to be unleashed for Jamie’s own good. When the bedchamber door opened, the belt would be wrapped around his father’s fist, in case his disappointing son was left in any doubt of what was to come. Then he would stride to the bed, drag him out by the hair and use that belt or that fist on him until he was satisfied Jamie had learned his lesson.
He had learned a lesson, but not quite the one his odious father had intended. He had learned that the best way to fight back was to refuse to comply. He hid his fear deep inside and never cowered while the violence took place. Each time his father battered him senseless, Jamie would paint something prettier the very next day as an act of rebellion. If his paints were taken away, he used the charcoal embers from the fire to draw, or pieces of chalk dug up from the ground, using art to fortify him and show his father that his spirit could not be crushed no matter how hard his father could hit. Then one day, shortly after his fifteenth birthday, Jamie had fought back. The brandy had numbed his father’s reflexes and he had never anticipated that his artistic, girl of a son would ever retaliate, so it came as a shock to find his own belt wrapped tightly around his neck while the artist almost choked the life out of him.
In truth, the animalistic burst of violence had shocked Jamie as well. One minute he had been sound asleep and the next he was choking the life out of his father. How this state of affairs had come to pass he still did not know, except he assumed the man had attacked him in his sleep and in a daze Jamie had allowed the savage which was caged inside him to escape and wreak havoc. Only at the very last minute, when he saw his father’s eyes bulge and his face turn purple from lack of air, did he find the ability to step back. But it had taken everything he had to do so and left him oddly unsatisfied not to have finished the deed.
He learned he had tremendous physical power and the ability to separate his mind from the job which needed to be done while that power was unleashed. Both things he had harnessed and used to great effect as a soldier later on, and perhaps that night had been instrumental in his decision to join the army. It gave the terrifying savage inside him an outlet in which to channel the violence. Or perhaps that had simply been to prove a point to himself as well as his father. I might well paint flowers, but I am a man. And one to be reckoned with.
His dear papa had never returned in the night again, nor used his fists on Jamie from that day onwards. He gave his disappointing son a wide berth, which suited Jamie just fine. They didn’t converse or sit in the same room and his father never again so much as referred to him, let alone tried to disparage him. And Jamie had openly continued to paint. Still continued to paint. So his father had never won. Neither would the Reverend Reeves. Jamie stared back at him dispassionately, doing his very best impression of a man bored senseless and totally unmoved by the hate spewing from the vil
e reverend’s foaming mouth.
All at once, he felt a warmth spread up the back of his neck and sensed she was watching him.
* * *
Cassie had not expected Jamie to be sat in the church. Not really. And after three nights of incarceration she had been too traumatised to give anything much thought other than her palpable relief at being free again to pay much attention to the congregation. Her father had only released her a few minutes beforehand with the terse instruction to ‘get ready, girl!’, so she had hurried to take her seat in the church in case he changed his mind and locked her in again.
The aftermath of each new punishment always left her drained and befuddled, a state which got worse each time and took days to shake off, to such an extent that the effort of putting one foot in front of the other was almost too much. But as soon as her father had begun his litany of the Warriner family’s many flaws she suddenly had the overwhelming sense that he was there. For reasons Cassie did not understand, his presence soothed her. It did not matter that he was glaring at her father with barely disguised disgust or that he would, in all likelihood, never want to speak to her again after the sermon. He was there. That was all that mattered.
As if he sensed her watching him, he turned slightly and his intelligent bright blue eyes sought hers. It was a look which spoke volumes. She could see his concern for her clearly, saw the question about her whereabouts and knew instinctively he wanted to speak to her. She also watched his gaze flick back towards her father furtively, in case her father noticed the meaningful, silent exchange between them and she was grateful for that, too. Jamie understood there would be repercussions if her father got wind of any sort of relationship between them, even though he could have no earthly idea of exactly what those repercussions entailed, but she felt enormous relief knowing he would never approach her here.
Cassie offered him a tremulous smile to show him everything was all right, when it really wasn’t, and then directed her focus back to her father. Like the dutiful daughter he wanted her to be, hoping this was not a temporary freedom and that he would leave her unpunished for another few weeks. Her eyes wandered to an enormous statue of the crucifixion behind her father and, to blot out the sound of the terrible words filling the church, she prayed that she would miraculously find enough money to run away from her tormentor, rent a little room somewhere and never fear the sight of a lock again.
As soon as the sermon finished the church was silent. It was obvious nobody could quite believe her father had said such dreadful things about the family while they sat there in front of him. In many of the faces she saw outright sympathy for them—and felt some relief that her father might perhaps have made things inadvertently better for Jamie and his family. The way the Warriners all sat proudly without saying a word actually made the tension worse. Everyone was waiting to see how the family would react. Her father included. Cassie knew him too well not to notice he was nervous, too.
The Earl of Markham stood and solicitously helped his pregnant wife to stand. She beamed at him and threaded her arm lovingly through his before they both walked the short distance to the altar.
‘Thank you for the sermon, Reverend. It was most...enlightening.’
This caused a flurry of incredulous and slightly impressed whispers from behind and her father to snarl. Ignoring it all, he then led his wife proudly towards the door, the pair of them chatting pleasantly to each other as if nothing untoward had just transpired. Behind them, Jamie followed, walking next to a man who was the spitting image of him. One of his brothers, no doubt, although which she had no idea. As the rest of the congregation stood and began to gather themselves ready to leave, visibly deflated to have been denied a grander spectacle, Cassie watched Jamie whisper something to his brother and slip stealthily out of the church. Clearly he had had quite enough and had no intention of hanging about, not that she blamed him. Not after so much of her father’s hateful words had been directed solely at him. The devil’s own henchman. Who painted talking horses who were going to get married.
Miserably, Cassie made her way out into the churchyard to talk to her father’s parishioners. Papa was quite particular about her properly fulfilling her duties and while she was still forced to live under his roof she had no choice but to live by his rules. Normally, she quite enjoyed talking to the parishioners. It was a tiny piece of human contact in a week filled with coldness. But today she was in no mood to care. She would be stuck here and, judging by the eager faces of some of them, nobody was in a great hurry to get home today. Not when the entertainments might not yet be concluded.
Outside, she could see no sign of Jamie. Several people immediately crowded around her and began to speak with incredulity that her father had been so bold. A few congratulated her on his performance, to which Cassie could not pretend enthusiasm. Never in her entire life had she been so ashamed of being Edgar Reeves’s daughter than she was today. He had gone too far and he had lied. For a man who claimed lying was the most grievous of sins, they had spilled from his lips like a fountain, all because Jamie had had the good sense to throw him out. Cassie had seen how he had directed his poison towards Jamie and at times she had almost allowed her complete abhorrence to show on her face. If she were braver, she would have stood up and demanded her father should stop, except she could not face another minute staring at the same four walls. Walls which crept closer and closer with each passing minute, which suffocated her with their proximity and terrified her by with their impenetrable sturdiness.
‘Good morning, Miss Reeves.’ The other brother had sidled up next to her and was smiling kindly. ‘My name is Joseph Warriner.’
Cassie glanced towards her father and saw him engrossed in an impassioned conversation with quite a crowd, oblivious of her existence. ‘I am pleased to meet you, Mr Warriner.’ And then in a tiny voice she felt compelled to add an apology. ‘I am so sorry for all of the things my father said.’
He brushed it away with a smile and a casual flick of his hand. ‘We have heard worse, Miss Reeves, I can assure you. But that is neither here nor there. I have been sent on a mission by Jamie. He has told me to tell you that he has finished the pictures and that they require your approval. He said you know where to find him.’
At the same moment her father looked up to locate her, Joseph Warriner had already swiftly moved on and, to all intents and purposes to the eyes of the world, they might never have spoken at all.
Chapter Nine
It was another two days before Cassie was able to go out alone without fear of retribution. She might not be under lock and key but that did not mean her father was ready to give her all of her freedom back. There was all manner of laborious tasks which he suddenly needed doing, which would also help to purge her soul of badness, and he insisted she accompany him on visits to every parishioner who had not heard his epic denunciation of the Warriners in church, which meant she was forced to hear it regurgitated again and again. Fortunately, fate, or rather the Bishop of Nottingham, intervened and her father was summoned urgently to the diocese.
Cassie left it an hour before saddling Orange Blossom and riding into town. As soon as she could confirm that, yes, the post had left and, yes, the Reverend Reeves had been on it, did she hurriedly turn her pony towards the Markham estate.
She saw Jamie the moment she passed through the giant open gates. He was sat astride Satan, winding his way up and down the rows of trees in the orchard, looking every bit as ferocious and wild as his midnight-black horse.
‘Cassie! Are you all right?’
He manoeuvred his horse alongside hers smartly, searching her features for any sign that she was not.
‘I couldn’t get away sooner. My father needed me at home.’ But those eyes of his saw too much and she could tell he remained unconvinced. For a moment she was tempted to tell him the truth about exactly why she had been absent for almost a week, then instantly decide
d against it when she remembered how he had manhandled her father out of his home and how intensely he had offered his help if ever she needed it. If Jamie took her father to task on her behalf, no matter how tempting the fantasy of it was, she would ultimately be forbidden from ever seeing him again and would probably spend the better part of a month imprisoned in her bedchamber. Maybe longer. Her father would definitely move to another parish, as he had in the past when questions were asked about her welfare by well-meaning parishioners, and then she would lose Jamie and this lovely place in one fell swoop. It was not worth the risk. Far better to keep her punishments private until she could escape them for good. ‘And I have been ill. A bad summer cold.’
‘I see.’
Cassie knew he did and she was certain he saw everything, which made her nervous. ‘I am eager to see what you have painted. I have finished the story.’ Scribbling away into the small hours in the two days since she had been free because picking up a pen, even moving from a spot, was too terrifying with the door locked. The only way she could survive it was to climb into herself and live in the imaginary world in her head. ‘Perhaps we should ride down to the river so I can read it to you?’ Without waiting for his agreement, Cassie set Orange Blossom into a gallop, partly to escape his disconcerting gaze and partly to exorcise the demons of her incarceration. It was good to be out in the open again. Walls, doors and especially locks always put her on edge. There was nothing between her and river except half a mile of meadow, fat, woolly sheep and an infinite cloudless sky.
A Warriner to Rescue Her Page 11