Chapter Two
Roxanne drifted in the nebulous world between shadowy wakefulness and deep sleep. At times cool liquids found their way between her lips; gentle hands soothed her hot brow with cloths soaked in vinegar, or else settled her aching limbs more comfortably. Murmured voices sounded in the room, but none she could identify. She dreamed of her father again and of Edgar…hateful, frightening Edgar…reliving the dreadful experience that had begun a few months ago.
“My dear Roxanne,” the insidious voice whispered in her ear, “it’s for the best, and your poor father is so anxious for your future.”
“I can take care of myself once he has gone.”
Her own voice sounded defensive, defiant, but only as a frightened child would protest against some unwanted imposition. Edgar’s persuasive manner sapped her strength, wearied her spirit, and ground down her resolve.
She turned her back on his smiling face and gazed out the window wondering how things had gone so wrong. She had been perfectly happy here in the little village of Brentham, living in a small but pleasant cottage with her father. Horace Chesney’s claim to fame was a book, Roman Britain, which represented the apogee of his life’s work. It did not sell very many copies, but gave him status in academic circles. Horace spent his days pottering away at archaeological digs and turning over his collection of ancient coins and potsherds. Time went by and Roxanne missed what was her due—her coming out and possible introduction to polite society in the hopes of meeting an eligible man. Roxanne knew her rank did not preclude her from such a privilege, because Horace Chesney had been born a gentleman. With a small pang of regret, Roxanne realised her father had forgotten about his older sister, long settled in Bath, who would have performed the necessary honours in that smaller, but eminently suitable, spa town if London had been out of reach. Roxanne presumed Horace did not want to remember, for that would also have meant remembering his quarrel with Cecily so many years ago. Resigning herself to the inevitable, Roxanne never mentioned lost opportunities and busied herself with her father’s notes, acting as secretary, scribe, and archaeological assistant.
Then Horace fell ill without warning and his health declined with alarming rapidity. Roxanne was terrified. Her halcyon days were threatened. One day Edgar Doyle arrived on their doorstep, claiming to be a distant cousin. Roxanne hesitated, suspicious of his apparent relationship with her father and did not offer much of a welcome. Although Edgar looked a fine figure of a man, and some would call him handsome, Roxanne felt a shiver of apprehension when he entered the room. His clothes were always presentable, but Roxanne disliked his appearance no matter what he wore. Was it the loud waistcoats, the wide lapels or the too-high points of his shirt-collars, she wondered. Perhaps his braying laugh irritated her nerves too much?
However, Edgar’s singular charm had an incredible effect on Horace. The sick man sat up in bed and seemed to remember names and places that Edgar mentioned. Against her will, Roxanne admitted he might be the man he claimed to be. With Edgar so eager to sit with her father, Roxanne had time to slip away to the village to shop, to cook tempting meals for Horace, and to sleep. Edgar seemed the model of a devoted relative and even Dr. Wilson marvelled at Horace’s renewed strength. Finally the day came when they revealed their plans for her.
Roxanne sat horror-struck as her elderly father took her hand in his and murmured, “So it has all turned out well, m’dear. Edgar has asked for your hand in marriage and I have given my consent.”
Roxanne sat as if turned to stone.
“But I do not love him, Father,” she stuttered. “I cannot abide his presence!”
“Tush!” Horace soothed her. “You have no experience of men, that’s all. I know I have neglected you by not seeing to all the things a young lass should have, such as an introduction into society, meeting eligible young men, dresses, security, a home, and all that.”
“I have a home!” Roxanne exclaimed.
“Of course, this cottage is yours,” replied her father. “But to live alone! With no companion, a young woman all by herself? It will not do, m’dear. It will not do at all! What will people say?”
“I do not care what people will say,” said Roxanne through clenched teeth.
Edgar’s duplicity was clear now. His professed concern for her father had been a charade to win the ailing man’s confidence and persuade him that marriage with Edgar would be the ideal future for his daughter. Naturally, Edgar would enjoy the fact that the cottage and small piece of farmland attached would belong to Roxanne, and thereby to him as her husband, as well as any other small amount of money. Very cunning, indeed.
When Roxanne again expressed horror at the idea of marriage with the despised Edgar, Horace simply gave her a beatific smile and patted her hand.
“Edgar will be your shelter in life and once my little estate, or what remains, is wound up, you will have a small income every year. Not enough to live grandly, but I know how well you have managed for the both of us. You’ll need Edgar’s help and in time I hope you will appreciate him.”
“He is so much older than me, Father!” Roxanne exclaimed. She could not even begin to imagine the horrors of the marriage bed, with Edgar’s hot hands pawing at her skin, his leering eyes glowing in anticipation of her naked beauty, his loose wet lips pressed against hers. She shuddered.
“Not at all,” Horace rejoined, his protests an attempt to redeem Edgar in his daughter’s eyes. “You are twenty-five and he is only forty. The same difference as when I married your dear mother, bless her soul. And a well set-up man he is, too. He has pleasant looks and is not fat or physically objectionable. Now, m’dear, at twenty-five you cannot be picking and choosing.”
Horace’s implication was clear—Roxanne was on the shelf.
“Besides, an older husband is a steadying influence in a young woman’s life. It’s not likely you’ll be meeting eligible young swains here. Yes, I know the fault lies at my door, but see how well it has all turned out. He will be a fine and gentle husband for you. Your mother would have been pleased at the match if she’d been alive today.”
He clutched her hands, begged her to agree, and worked himself into such a state of anxiety over the whole issue that finally Roxanne gave in. Anything to keep her father alive. But her efforts were in vain. After giving his daughter a sealed envelope for his solicitor in London with a brief murmur about her mother’s jewels and seeing her safely married to Edgar, Horace slipped away, rambling happily to himself to the end.
The wedding performed in such haste was a blur, a brief moment in a period of tears and mourning. Edgar swept aside Roxanne’s wish to be married by Mr. Crouch, the local parson. Edgar had arranged everything already. A strange man arrived one night at an extremely late hour, and before she knew what was happening, Roxanne found herself standing next to Edgar, murmuring her marriage vows. Edgar slipped a cheap gilt band onto her finger and promised to buy her something more fitting when they went to London to hear her father’s will. Later, Roxanne thought that the parson’s speech sounded suspiciously slurred. When she brought up the matter with Edgar, he replied that the poor fellow had an impediment and it would be embarrassing to suggest inebriation when the true cause was a speech defect.
To give him his due, Edgar did not pester Roxanne with demands for his marital rights. In the few weeks following her father’s death, Edgar installed a local matron to keep Roxanne company while he went into Yorkshire, or so he said, to attend to business. He hoped that upon his return Roxanne would have shed her grief and be inclined to settle into marriage. Roxanne felt ashamed of her previous bad opinion of Edgar since his patience and solicitude seemed to indicate a degree of sensitivity unheard of in a new bridegroom. However, her sense of revulsion did not abate no matter how hard she tried to be pleasant and accept his occasional fleeting kisses on her cheek and arm slipped around her slender waist.
Edgar returned after three weeks away and tactfully suggested that they make their way to London to wind up her f
ather’s estate. Of course she was the only heir, so this was a mere formality. Edgar expressed an interest in her mother’s jewels. However, since Roxanne had never heard of the jewels before, she was unable to offer any comment on the subject. Roxanne resigned herself to the inevitable consummation of the marriage, but it never came. They travelled to London and, because the solicitor could not see them until the following day, spent the night at a respectable inn on the outskirts of the city.
Roxanne realised later she had been a fool to believe Edgar’s true nature would not be revealed in due course. They enjoyed a simple meal and retired to the bedroom soon afterwards. She felt tired from the day’s travel and hoped for a good night’s sleep. Roxanne’s heart thumped with panic when she realised that Edgar’s previous chaste attitudes had fled. He drank several bottles of wine throughout dinner and made murmured, but obviously lewd, remarks to the landlord regarding their newly-wed status. With a broad grin, the man gave them the very best room, made sure the sheets were aired, and his wife even put a small jug of flowers next to the bed to inject some festive cheer into the occasion.
Roxanne shuddered at light touches of Edgar’s hands on her waist as they trod the stairs to the bridal suite. Diving behind a screen to change, Roxanne reappeared attired in a concealing nightdress. Edgar stood at the fireplace, his foot against the fireguard. He tossed off a glass of brandy and turned to admire his bride as she emerged. His expression darkened when he saw her demure nightdress.
“Wash that for, me darlin’?” he slurred.
The lascivious tone and leering look in his eyes told Roxanne that her reprieve was over.
“I-I beg you, sir,” she stammered through dry lips, “that you will continue to afford me time to become accustomed to marriage.”
Edgar gave a loud bark of mocking laughter, a mixture of lust and contempt on his face.
“There’sh only one way to become accushtomed to being married, my love, and thash the feel of a hushband’s piece between thoshe delectable legs of yours.”
Edgar grabbed her arm and swung her towards him. He held her against his chest with a grip of iron while his hot, wet mouth roamed over her face and neck. Fastening his lips on hers, Edgar thrust his tongue into her mouth, almost choking her. With his other hand, he grabbed her hair so hard that tears of pain sprang to her eyes and she struggled in vain to free herself. Finally, he released her and flung her on the bed. He walked towards her as she lay there, dizzy and almost retching.
“You need to know what a real man’sh like, lassie,” he sneered, “and you’re about to find out what I have for you here.”
He undid his breeches and, to her horror, Roxanne saw a large, reddish thing protruding from the fuzz of black hair at his groin. Her heart plummeted into her stomach. How could she surrender her most precious possession to a man, her husband, this way? He lunged towards her and she rolled away off the bed, scrambling out of reach. But he gripped her by her long hair and dragged her towards him.
Paging through books on Roman statuary had left her in no doubt about the shape and function of the male anatomy. A life in the country also meant that Roxanne was well aware of the workings of Mother Nature, but this sight would horrify even the most enthusiastic of ladies. Roxanne lashed out at Edgar’s face, her nails scoring down the side of his cheek. He swore loudly and hit her so hard across the cheek that her head rang and she tasted blood in her mouth. Her struggles excited him even more and inflamed his desire.
“I enjoy a woman with spirit,” he snarled in her ear. “Fight me, darlin’, thash jus’ the way I like it!”
Taking advantage of her dizziness, he threw himself upon her and she felt the weight of his body pressing her into the bed. His one hand held her arm twisted behind her back while his other hand snaked under her nightdress. He thrust and ground his fingers into her sensitive skin. She cried out as his probing fingers kneaded and pinched her soft folds. Her senses reeled with the horror of violation. The pain of her twisted arm was excruciating and she felt something give in the joint of her shoulder. The agony almost made her faint.
“I’ll make a woman out of you,” he growled in her ear and thrust his tongue into her mouth again. Roxanne bit his tongue.
He swore loudly and slapped her face hard. As his kisses began to resemble bites and his fingers thrust into her with ever increasing urgency, Roxanne realised, to her dismay, that Edgar equated rape with lovemaking. Roxanne sank into a kind of stupor. He moved aside briefly and she felt his hard, ugly “thing” pushing between her thighs. His laughter sounded, triumphant, vulgar, punctuated with groans and pants as he began to hump furiously, thrusting his groin against hers. She pressed her thighs together, but his searching hand tore them apart. With a last vague idea of saving herself, she put out her free hand and her fingers closed around the cold metal of something leaning against the bedpost. A forgotten poker!
Roxanne raised the weapon and, with a desperate lunge, hit Edgar over the head. He groaned and slumped across her, his dead weight pressing even more heavily on top of her. Sobbing with fear and relief, Roxanne pushed his body away and heard it roll off the bed and land with a crash on the floor. She sat up, shaking uncontrollably, pulling the ruined shreds of her nightgown over her scratched and bleeding shoulders. She sat for a while, heaving huge, shuddering sobs, tears of pain and anguish sliding down her cheeks. Her one arm hung limp, although Roxanne did not think it was broken. It was painful, but she was sure not as painful as a broken bone. She found a scarf and tied a makeshift sling in which to settle the limb. With slow stiff steps, she staggered to the mantelpiece and poured a glass of brandy. Although she despised the fiery drink, Roxanne knew that she would soon be in a state of shock. The alcohol burned her throat, but a sense of calm began to settle upon her.
Looking around, she saw the innkeeper’s wife had thoughtfully provided a pitcher of hot water and a clean towel. Moving at snail’s pace, she cleansed every inch of her body, trying to purge herself of Edgar’s loathsome touch. Relief flooded through her as she realised she was still a virgin. He had not succeeded in his despicable plan.
She fumbled in her portmanteau and dressed in a high-necked, long-sleeved gown of mulberry kerseymere with a Spenser jacket over it. It was mid-February and warmth was essential while travelling. It seemed to take an age to dress and put on her half-boots with only one arm at her disposal. A muddled thought of her Aunt Cecily, her father’s sister whom she had never met, floated into her brain. She could flee to her aunt in Bath. Roxanne knew that seeing the solicitor, a Mr. Redburn, on the morrow was out of the question. He would be surprised at Edgar’s absence, given that Roxanne had written to inform him of her marriage. She felt so traumatised by the experience that coherence would be impossible.
Edgar! The thought struck her. What if he were dead? If she had killed him, her problems would be almost insurmountable. To accuse her husband of rape would be difficult since the innkeeper and his wife had both been aware of the wedding night and Roxanne had not appeared to be a reluctant bride. There was no legislation to protect a wife against what would be considered a husband’s normal marital rights.
Steeling herself, Roxanne tottered to the other side of the bed and gazed at the supine form of her spouse. He lay face down. The crimson pool around his head looked ominous. She tried to turn him over, a difficult task with only one hand free. As she knelt beside him and levered him onto his back, she noticed she had blood on her gown. Roxanne stared at Edgar’s dissolute flabby face. His fleshy mouth hung open. His mousy hair was matted with congealing blood. He looked still and white. There was only one thing to do. She must get away from the inn as fast as possible and leave no trace of her presence at all.
Roxanne packed all her belongings in her portmanteau. There was very little to pack since Edgar had made it clear they would be in London only for one night. She dropped the tattered nightdress onto the glowing coals and watched dispassionately as the material flamed for a brief moment and then crumbled into ash
es. She took some money from Edgar’s pockets, her father’s letter to the solicitor, and the marriage certificate, which gave her maiden name. It would be fatal to leave behind any form of identification. The portmanteau had a slit in the lining, which she used as a hiding place. Roxanne straightened up and noticed that the dark smears of blood on her dress were large, but seemed to blend in with the dull colour of the material.
“When it dries, it will not be noticeable,” she whispered to herself.
She cast a last careful glance around the room, looking for any evidence to link her with Edgar or the inn. Nothing remained but the hateful ring on her finger. She twisted it off and threw it into the glowing coals, as if to rid herself of the last remnant of his filthy hold on her.
The poker! The fire reminded her that the weapon must be cleaned and laid next to the grate. Once this was done, she pulled on her thick travelling cloak, picked up the portmanteau in her right hand and slipped out the room, closing the door behind her. She felt sure the landlord and his wife would not be quick to interrupt a honeymoon couple. If Edgar survived, he would hardly report the incident to the magistrate who would question the circumstances surrounding her flight. He would also be too embarrassed to let it be known that his wife, whom he had tried to rape, had knocked him unconscious and escaped. Perhaps he would go to Mr. Redburn tomorrow. Roxanne gave a mental shrug. The solicitor would want to see Roxanne in person and the marriage certificate before he released any funds or items of value. If Edgar did succeed in stealing what little there was in her father’s estate, it was a small price to pay for her freedom. She had no doubt that if Aunt Cecily was still alive she would hardly refuse a long-lost niece food and shelter. Bath was her destination. If her aunt was dead or disowned her, she had money to live for a short while and could look for employment. Roxanne was confident of her talents in her father’s field of interest.
Married at Midnight: An Authentic Regency Romance Page 2