“Look at me! Have you been a bad girl while you’ve been in London, Sarah?”
“No—no—I …”
“The truth!” he thundered. “You’ve lied before—remember?”
Sarah closed her eyes. She felt him release her, felt the draught of air as he drew back his hand. Then he hit her twice, once on each side of the face, with such force that she was knocked first one way and then the other.
“You’re with child, aren’t you? Aren’t you?”
“No—no,” she screamed from the floor where she had fallen, but now he grabbed hold of her arms and hauled her to her feet. He shook her like a limp rag-doll.
Her mother looked on, making no attempt to interfere this time. Beth smiled smugly.
“Who is it? Who’s—the father? Someone in London?”
Dumbly Sarah shook her head.
“Who then? Who? Not—not Henry?”
Again Sarah shook her head, this time even more vehemently.
“I know,” piped up Beth. “It’s him, isn’t it, our Sarah? It’s Guy Trent.”
“Oh my God!” groaned Joseph Miller. “I thought we’d put a stop to that!”
“Oh I’ve seen ’em,” Beth continued gleefully. “Meetin’ in the woods or the ruins. An’ I’ll tell you some’at else an’ all. Me Lady Caroline’ll be ending up the same way as our Sarah, if she dun’t watch out, with that Thomas Cole.”
“Hold your tongue, girl,” her father growled. “ That’s no concern of ourn, but this’n is!”
Again he shook Sarah savagely and then flung her away from him in disgust and stormed out of the cottage slamming the door behind him.
Sarah crumpled into a sorry heap upon the floor.
“Oh Sarah. How could you?” her mother mourned. “ How could you?”
“What’ll happen?” Beth asked pertly, seeming to enjoy the situation, though Ella, sitting in the corner rocking her doll, said not a word. Much of what was happening passed completely over her head, did not penetrate her private little world.
“ ’Cos he won’t marry her!” Beth continued. “They’re arranging for him to marry a girl from Manchester way. Louisa somebody.”
Sarah raised her tear-streaked face to look at her sister. “ What? What did you say?”
“I’m friends with Mary Tuplin, aren’t I?” Beth retorted cockily, “and Mary Tuplin’s Lady Trent’s maid, ain’t she? An’ she overhears things, doesn’t she?”
Sarah’s tears flowed afresh. So, all his sweet words, all his promises, had been idle flattery to make her give herself to him.
Sarah bowed her head in shame.
Joseph Miller did not return home until the early hours of the following morning.
“Where is she?” he demanded of his wife as he flung open the door of the bedroom they shared. Ellen Miller, awakened from her sleep, sat up, bleary eyed and startled. “ Oh Joseph, what a fright you gave me! Where have you been?”
“Where’s Sarah?” he asked again, ignoring his wife’s question.
“She—she’s gone back to the Grange.”
“God in Heaven, woman! You let her go?”
Ellen flinched in the face of his wrath. Her man was rarely moved to violent anger but when he was he was fearsome. He slammed the door behind him making the whole cottage shake. Grumbling to himself he began to take off his boots. Ellen lay back and let her eyes close, seeking the oblivion of sleep once more. But she was aroused again by her husband’s voice.
“She’s to be brought home. Henry’ll have her. I’ve fixed it all. They’re to be married quick.”
Ellen was silent. It would be for the best, she told herself, but knowing Henry’s nature she could not predict a happy future for her daughter as his wife.
Joseph Miller went to Abbeyford Grange the very next morning and explained the situation to Lady Caroline in person. He did not spare Sarah, nor himself, in telling her the full story of their family’s shame. Later Caroline faced Sarah.
“Oh Sarah, you’re a fool. Why—why did you let yourself be taken in by him?”
Fresh tears spilled over on to cheeks already puffed from a night’s weeping. Dumbly she shook her head.
Caroline sighed. “ You know he’s a rogue, don’t you? You were a plaything to him.”
Lady Caroline was confirming Sarah’s worst fears, fuelling the doubts against him which her family had already put into her mind.
“You cannot possibly have thought he would—or could marry you?” Caroline’s tone was incredulous that such a thought might ever have been entertained by a girl of Sarah’s birth. Caroline, in her blind selfishness, could not see that she herself was treading on as equally dangerous ground as Sarah, in her affair with Thomas Cole.
Sarah gulped. “He—he said—he loved me.” But the words spoken aloud in a last desperate effort, sounded unconvincing even to Sarah’s own ears.
In the harsh light of day, and in the face of cruel reality, Guy’s murmured words of love seemed only a lovely dream.
Lady Caroline sighed. “ Your father tells me you are to marry your cousin Henry.”
Sarah nodded.
“Then you had better pack your things and leave today,” Caroline said coldly, all trace of the friendliness she had previously shown her maid gone in an instant. Dejectedly Sarah left the room. Caroline clicked with exasperation. She was angry with Sarah, not so much for the girl’s sake but for her own selfish reasons. With Sarah gone, how could she send messages to Thomas?
Lord Royston had carried out his threat. Caroline was never alone and at night her bedroom door was locked. The only way she had been able to keep contact with Thomas Cole had been to send notes to him through Sarah.
Never once, though, had Thomas replied and although Sarah had repeatedly assured her mistress that Thomas was still here in Abbeyford, still employed as the bailiff, Caroline was so afraid that suddenly he would leave either by his own choice or on dismissal by her father and she would lose him.
And now even that link with her lover was broken.
“Damn Sarah Miller!” Caroline muttered crossly, her concern solely for herself. Not one moment’s thought did she spare for the unhappy Sarah and the life of misery that lay before her.
Sarah carried her bag down the lane away from Abbeyford Grange, reluctantly returning to the cottage in the village. She came to the place where the trees overhung the lane. She heard the hoofbeats behind her and his voice calling urgently, “Sarah! Sarah!”
Her heart gave a leap, but she continued walking, head bowed. Guy drew level with her and flung himself from his horse. “Sarah!”
Still she did not stop to look up.
He caught her by the shoulders and spun her round, almost throwing her off balance. His eyes were wild.
“Why, Sarah? Why?” Torment was in his voice.
So—he had heard already! Heard she was to be made to marry Henry Smithson.
“Look at me, Sarah!” Slowly she raised her eyes and looked into his face and her heart
turned over. She loved him still. Wild, reckless, irresponsible—wicked,
some would say—though he was, she would always love him.
“I must. It’s all arranged,” she said flatly.
“But—but why?”
She hung her head and murmured almost inaudibly, “I’m with
child.”
He was motionless. For a moment he seemed to stop breathing.
Then harshly he asked, “His?”
Her head snapped up, her dark eyes wide. “No—oh no!”
His anger softened. “Mine?”
She nodded and allowed him to draw her towards him, her head
against his chest, his chin resting on her dark hair.
“You can’t marry Smithson. Sarah—we’ll be married. I love you.
I told you that! Didn’t you believe me?”
“They—they said you didn’t mean it. Even Lady Caroline said
you wouldn’t marry the likes of me.”
“Well, we’ll see about that!” Guy said firmly. “ Just trust me,
Sarah. Trust me!” He held her close, fiercely protective, and she
melted against him.
Without his strength, she was lost, lonely and afraid. But as soon
as she was once more in his embrace, everything seemed to come
right.
“Never!” Sir Matthew Trent shouted, his face purple with rage. “A common village slut and you want to marry her? And a Miller too.”
Guy Trent faced his parents squarely: his father’s anger and his mother’s tears, as she lay back upon a sofa almost at the point of fainting.
“Yes—I do. I love her and she loves me.”
“Pah! Love! What has that got to do with it?” Sir Matthew bellowed. He prodded his forefinger towards his son. “ You’ll marry Louisa Marchant, boy, and be glad her father’s willing that you should!”
“I shall not. I shall marry Sarah.”
“You—will—not!” roared his father. “You’re a disgrace to the name of Trent. I’ll arrange for the girl to be sent away to have it.” Grimly he added, “She’s not the first to bear your bastard, is she? But, by God, she’d better be the last!”
“This time it’s different. The other two—well—they were nothing to me. But Sarah …”
“Have you no shame, boy? You dare to stand there and admit you’ve wronged three young girls and yet you show no remorse, no feeling …”
“I do care—about Sarah,” Guy shouted heatedly. “Not about the other two—I admit. Besides, they weren’t virgins …”
Lady Trent gave a little cry and her head lolled back.
“Hold your vulgar tongue, boy, in front of your mother.”
But Guy ignored his warning. “ But Sarah was. She belongs to me and only to me. I won’t have her married to Smithson.”
“What? What’s that?”
Sullenly Guy explained. “Her father’s arranged that she should marry Henry Smithson.”
“Smithson—my cowman?”
“Yes.”
Sir Matthew’s anger subsided and he almost beamed to realise the problem had already been half-solved for him by the girl’s father.
“There you are then. That’s the answer to everything. I’ll see young Smithson right. They must be given a cottage and …”
“No—no—no!” Guy yelled. He turned and almost ran from the room. “I won’t let her marry him—I won’t!”
The door slammed behind him, rattling Lady Trent’s fine china in its cabinet. Sir Matthew sank into a chair and exchanged a look of sheer defeat and helplessness with his wife.
Guy Trent hammered on the door of the Millers’ cottage.
“Sarah! Are you in there, Sarah! I want to talk to you.” Again he thumped on the door with his clenched fist.
The door was flung open and Guy almost hit Joseph Miller in the face as he raised his hand to strike the door again.
“Good day, Mr Trent.” Joseph’s face was a grim mask.
Guy was panting hard for he had galloped, angry and distraught, from the Manor after the heated exchange with his father.
“I want to see Sarah.”
“Sarah is—not available.”
“She is—to me!” Guy made as if to enter the cottage by force, but Joseph’s strong arm against the door frame stopped him.
“Mr Trent—we’ll settle this trouble ourselves, if you dun’t mind.”
“I’ve a right to see her.”
Joseph shook his head. “My daughter is to marry Henry Smithson.”
“Sarah! Sarah!” Guy shouted and thought he caught the sound of muffled sobbing from within the cottage.
“Let me in!” He caught hold of Joseph’s arm but the older man was bigger, tougher, stronger even than Guy Trent.
“Mr Trent,” Joseph said yet again, his patience ready to snap, “I don’t want to quarrel with you, and God knows I’ve just cause, but I’ve me home and family to think of.” He held the younger man easily at arm’s length and, though fit and strong, Guy Trent was no match for the burly farm-labourer.
“You’ve brought shame to this family and me and mine’ll not forgive you.”
“Miller, listen to me. I love Sarah. I want to marry her. Please …”
Joseph Miller shook his head. “Your sort don’t marry the likes of us, Mr Trent. You know that,” and added bitterly, “You’ll use our young lasses for your pleasure, but when it comes to marrying,” he gave a bark of wry laughter, “you’ll marry your own kind.”
“I must see her, talk to her,” Guy persisted.
“She dun’t want to see you. She’s agreed to marry young Smithson.”
Guy closed his eyes and groaned and his hands fell away from Joseph’s arm. As he felt the younger man give way, Joseph relaxed his hold. Even he was surprised by the look of utter misery on Guy Trent’s face. Perhaps he did care for Sarah—but no, marriage between them was out of the question. They were trapped by the accident of birth which separated their lives.
As Guy turned away, defeated on all sides, Joseph was moved to add, “Sarah’ll be all right. I’ll see to that.”
They were all against him. The whole village were ranged behind the Miller family against Guy Trent. Even his own parents. He didn’t even catch a glimpse of Sarah, let alone have a chance to talk to her.
If only they had let him see her, he could have persuaded her to run away with him. He knew he could! Perhaps that was the very thing they were afraid would happen.
As it was, the days slipped past towards her wedding day.
Guy made one last desperate effort to see her. He went again to the Millers’ cottage and was met at the door this time by both Joseph Miller and Henry Smithson. They would not listen to his arguments. Henry stood clenching and unclenching his fists, conscious of the desire to knock Guy Trent to the ground, to beat his face to an unrecognisable pulp, to kill him!
Already it was growing dusk as Guy Trent turned away from the Millers’ cottage and flung himself on to his horse and turned, not westwards towards the Manor but across the common and up the hill out of the valley. Away from Abbeyford—he had to get away from Abbeyford; from the Millers, from his parents—away from everyone who stood between him and Sarah.
Henry Smithson watched him go, resentment festering in his heart. Quietly he too left the Millers’ cottage, walked up the lane and across the footbridge near the ford and on up the hill, taking the right-hand fork which led to Amberly.
Although Guy Trent had galloped off in his frenzy towards the north, shrewdly Henry guessed that in his present mood he would seek the solace of drink. But he would not return to the Monk’s Arms in Abbeyford—not this night. The most likely place he would go eventually would be the inn at Amberly and, if so, then Guy Trent would return home by this route.
Silently Henry Smithson slipped into the shadows of the wood and there he lay in wait for Guy Trent.
Darkness came completely, but anger and hatred kept Henry Smithson oblivious to the cold, the damp and even his own bodily weariness after a day’s work in the fields. One thought filled his mind.
Guy Trent! He would kill Guy Trent!
Hour after hour he lay in in wait. The eeriness of the woodland by night held no fears for him; he scarcely heard the rustling undergrowth, the hooting owls, nor the incessant waterfall. His ears strained for only one sound—the sound of hoofbeats from the direction of Amberly.
In the early hours of the morning Henry moved stiffly, stamped his feet and then listened. Faintly, growing louder with each moment, came the sound for which he had waited through the long cold hours.
He slipped off his jacket and crouched low behind a bush at the side of the track through the wood as nearer and nearer came the steady rhythmic cantering hooves.
Louder and louder, nearer and nearer.
Henry leapt out from his hiding-place, flapping his coat and yelling. The horse whinnied and shied, rearing up above Henry, but he dodged to one side. The rider to
ppled from its back and the terrified animal bolted.
Henry stood over the motionless form on the ground, bent down and grasped him by his clothes. Twice as strong,’ Henry Smithson hauled him to his feet and without even giving Guy Trent time to recover his senses, to defend himself, he smashed his fist into his young master’s face.
“Take my Sarah, would you?” Henry was weeping with rage, each blow punctuated by a verbal insult. “ You pig! You—rotten—bastard! I’ll kill you …!”
Each time Guy fell to the ground, Henry pulled him up again and again. Guy Trent was senseless, could not even put up his arms to protect himself from the vicious onslaught, let alone put up any kind of defensive fight.
Finally exhausted, Henry let him fall to the ground and stood over him, swaying and panting. He aimed one last vicious kick into his victim’s groin and then turned away and stumbled through the wood, back to the sanctuary of the village leaving Guy Trent bleeding and unconscious on the cold ground.
Chapter Ten
They found him six hours later.
When Sir Matthew became aware that his son’s horse had returned home riderless, he sent some of his own household to search.
They carried him home, more dead than alive, and Sir Matthew called in the apothecary.
“Well?” he demanded as the apothecary, William Dale, came into his study after attending to Guy Trent’s injuries. He was a portly, middle-aged man, with a hearty manner.
“Ahem, well now, it seems to me that the young man’s injuries have not been caused by a mere fall from his horse. Oh dear me, no! They have been inflicted by some person or persons—I am convinced of it.”
William Dale sipped the brandy the footman handed him and watched Sir Matthew Trent’s face darken.
“Some brawl, I suppose,” Sir Matthew muttered and sighed. “The young devil’s always in some scrape or another.”
“Possibly, possibly. Remarkably good brandy this, if I may say so. But if you want my opinion, Sir Matthew, this time it was not of your son’s making.”
“What do you mean by that?”
The apothecary shrugged. “It seems to me—and I’ve seen a good few of these cases, mark you …”
“Get on with it, man,” Sir Matthew rapped testily.
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