She glared at him. “I want you to do something about my bedroom.”
His raised eyebrows formed peaks of enquiry as he pulled a chair out from the dining room table. “Why?”
“It’s so dingy. I thought you could paint the walls a lighter color, or even wallpaper would be nice.”
“There’s nothing wrong with the room. I’m too busy now to supervise such unnecessary frippery. Maybe later, when I get the nursery suite done up.”
He turned his attention to the bowl of soup Mrs. Irvine had just served.
“I could paint the room myself,” she insisted.
“You’re carrying my child. I won’t have you putting it at risk because of a foolhardy whim.”
“It’s not foolhardy. I’ll be careful. Every woman likes a pretty bedroom.”
“Forget all this nonsense. Your grandfather’s place is little better than a hovel.”
No point wasting her time in argument, but she would not give up, either. If his fancy woman could have a pretty bedroom, so could she.
The beef and vegetable soup, normally a favorite, might well have been muddy water for all the taste it had now. She picked at the well-presented meal, ate half of it then pushed the plate away.
His jaw tightened. “Don’t be so childish.”
She moved the chair back from the table and started to rise. “If you would excuse me.”
“I will not excuse you. Stay here at the table until I finish. I like company when I eat.”
“Do you have a horse I can borrow? I want to go home and visit grandfather.”
“Home! This is your home now.” He banged his cutlery down. “You’re married to me, and no, there isn’t a horse. You’ll have to wait until I have time to take you over. A woman who is breeding shouldn’t ride.”
When Beth finished her cup of tea, she returned upstairs to explore some more. The handle on the pink room door would not budge, no matter how much pressure she exerted on it. Obviously, Mrs. Irwin must have finished cleaning and locked it up.
Shrouded by neglect and dampness, the vacant rooms gave off a sour, musty smell. In one room, several trunks were stacked in a corner and she went over to them, hoping to find pictures to hang on the wall to brighten up her room. Old newspapers spilled out from an open trunk.
She rifled through a couple of them until a headline caught her eye.
‘Little girl lost.’ Discolored and musty with mildew she held the paper gingerly, as she read about six-year-old Amy Campbell who had wandered over to Mulvaney’s castle and never been seen again. The child was a second cousin to grandfather. He had once started telling her about the little girl’s disappearance until distress overcame him and he could not finish the story. He always blamed the Mulvaneys for Amy’s disappearance.
The child had played truant from school with two other little girls, and they had wandered over to the castle searching for ghosts. Amy became separated from other two who thought she had made her own way home. Beth read of the frantic searches around the castle and further afield, although they never found any trace of the child. Fergus Campbell, when interviewed, blamed the Mulvaneys for the little girl’s disappearance. Surely, they wouldn’t have had anything to do with it? Jack Mulvaney had been a sadist; even Sam said so. Fear trickled along her spine.
She searched through the other papers, no mention of little Amy in any of them. Stacking everything back inside the case, she shut the lid, regretting her curiosity. Depression weighed her down now, despair and sadness for the parents, who never found out what had happened to their child.
Making her way to the nursery, she surveyed the dirty white walls. Cobwebs hung from the ceilings and thick dust coated the bare floorboards. The carved cradle sat forlorn and sad in this large empty nursery, which had once echoed with Martin’s baby laughter. Did his mother sing him Irish lullabies?
Through an archway, she spied a scrubbed wooden table and a baby’s bath. Cleaned up and with a fresh coat of paint the nursery would be quite pleasant. If she could give Martin a son to love, perhaps it would remove his burden of bitter anger.
From the nursery, a passage led to the other wing. After a glance into a few dingy rooms filled with dusty furniture, she retraced her steps. This unused wing was spooky, she felt as if unseen eyes watched her every movement. She could hear the rustle of mice, feel the coldness seep from the walls.
* * *
Mrs. Irvine served roast pork with assorted vegetables for their evening meal, and they finished off with apple pie and cream. What a gem of a housekeeper, everything cooked to perfection.
“Your appetite has improved, I see,” Martin remarked, giving a sudden devastating smile. A dangerously handsome man when his face lost its aloofness.
To cover the confusion his smile caused, she asked. “Do you have any books I could read?”
“Didn’t I show you the library? Come and choose something you like.”
A door she had not noticed before led from the study to a large library.
“There’s a mixture of books.” Martin pointed to the crowded shelves. “Come down and help yourself whenever you wish.” He gave a brief smile. “I might do some paper work now I’m here.”
“Could I help? I can read and write.”
“Did you go to school?” His eyes registered surprise.
“Yes, grandfather made sure we always attended.”
“Very commendable of him,” he sneered. “Thank you for the offer, but I don’t need any help.”
“Sam said you blame grandfather for having your father sent to jail.” Summoning her courage, she stared him straight in the eye.
“Of course, I blame him.”
“Your father let all those immigrants die, because he kept money meant for their food.”
“I won’t listen to Campbell lies,” he gritted through thinned lips.
“It isn’t a lie.” She fought back. Why couldn’t he understand what a terrible tragedy had befallen the Campbell clan? “My aunts, uncles and cousins all died on your father’s ship. Only my father and grandparents survived.”
“There are always losses among steerage passengers. Most of those Highlanders were destitute before they even set foot on the ship.”
“It doesn’t make it right for what your father did,” she retorted. “The government gave him money to look after them. He captained a death ship.”
“You think sending my father to prison is all your grandfather did to me? It was his fault my mother killed herself.”
She gasped in horror. “Killed herself?”
“Yes. Prison turned my father into a sadist.” Martin’s face could have been hewn from granite. “Later on, rumors circulated of insanity in the family, and other scurrilous accusations spread around by your grandfather. They ruined my life.”
“Can’t you forget what happened in the past?”
“No.” The one word exploded from his mouth.
“What about me? I have cause to be bitter too!” she yelled. “I lost all my kinsfolk. What happened to Amy Campbell?”
His face turned white, a pulse convulsed in his jaw and his eyes froze over. “Get out of my sight,” he snarled.
Beth fled from the room to get away from his murderous look. Nothing to do now except prepare for bed and hope he would not come to her. Please, God, don’t let him come tonight, I couldn’t stand it.
In darkness, she waited. The clock ticked. The castle timbers creaked and groaned. Every now and again, there came a whoosh, like wind blowing through a narrow tunnel.
He did not come.
Chapter Six
Beth woke up next morning relieved to still be alone. She gingerly raised herself from the pillow because sudden movement made her nausea worse. Would this awful sickness and lethargy recede as the pregnancy advanced? Terrible to feel so weepy and exhausted all the time.
When she wandered downstairs to the kitchen, Mrs. Irvine bustled over.
“Good morning, Mrs. Mulvaney, will you breakfast here or in the dining room?”
“Here will do thank you. I don’t want anything much, toast and tea is all I can manage.”
The housekeeper’s gaze followed hers to the cup and saucer on the table, and a plate covered with toast crumbs. “The boss breakfasted hours ago.”
“If you’re busy, I can help myself.”
“No, my dear, this is what I get paid for. I could cook you pancakes.”
“No, thank you, the thought of cooked food - ugh. Will I always feel like this? I don’t know much about having babies.”
“Things improve after the first three months,” Mrs. Irvine sympathized.
* * *
After the heavy showers of rain over the last few days, the sun finally poked its head out from behind the clouds. Beth decided on a short walk to get away from the damp gloomy despair of the castle.
At a sudden commotion in the front courtyard, she rushed outside to investigate. Her hand flew to her face in horror. Two mounted police dragged several ragged aborigines along. The natives wore steel collars around their necks, a chain passing over their shoulders shackled them one behind the other. The vicious oaf in charge, roared abuse at them, while another horrible creature, led a lame packhorse.
The man in charge swept off his hat. “I’m Sergeant Cooper. Your husband home, missus?”
“Why?”
“Our pack horse threw a shoe, and I thought there might be a blacksmith here.”
“My husband is down at the stables. He’ll get one of the men to help you.”
Beth eyed the unfortunate prisoners. “Is there any need to shackle them like animals?” she demanded of the man who stayed behind. “It’s inhumane.”
“They aren’t human, they’re savages.”
“Tucker missus.” One of the aborigines gestured to his mouth.
“Shut up, you dirty heathen.”
She watched in shock as the man lashed the aborigine with a whip. “You stop this brutality at once.”
“The lash is all these murdering black devils understand.”
Raising his arm, he let the lash fall on the unfortunate prisoner again. She had never heard such vile language and wanted to put her hands over her ears to block out the sound.
“Stop it. Now.” She dashed over to him, wondering what she could do to make him stop.
“Mind your own business, missus, I know how to handle these savages. Like this, see.”
Three times in quick succession, he lashed the men, and she winced every time the whip found its mark. This evil brute would not take any notice of a woman. Sickness curdled her stomach.
She raced over to the stables.
“Martin! Martin!”
“Elizabeth, what’s wrong?” He dashed out from one of the stalls.
“Hurry, you have to come, the police are beating their aboriginal prisoners.”
“Go back to the house, I’ll send one of the men up. I’m discussing important matters with my overseer.”
“No. I need you. Please.” She wrung her hands in anguish.
“I’ll send someone up. You take things too much to heart. Just go back to the house.”
“You’re a brutal sadist like your father,” she accused, before dashing off.
“Elizabeth!” Martin strode after her.
She passed the sergeant and the lame horse.
“See one of the grooms.” She heard Martin say. By the time he caught up, they had reached the courtyard.
As the police trooper lashed into his cowered, wailing prisoners, Martin strode over, wrenched the whip away and threw it on the ground.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing? There’s no need for brutality.”
“They’re murdering heathens.”
“Get off my land,” Martin snarled. “If all those prisoners don’t arrive safely in town I’ll see the Commissioner of Police, who happens to be a personal friend of mine.”
One of the grooms had followed them. “George, get water for these poor wretches before they leave, and see whether Mrs. Irvine can rustle up some food for them.”
Beth watched the groom hurry off and Martin stood there rigid with anger. The whip still lay on the ground and hopefully, one of the horses would trample it into the mud.
George came back with water, bread and meat, and the aborigines ate ravenously. Poor men were starving. No human deserved this kind of treatment.
“Who gave them heathens food?” the sergeant demanded on his return from the stables.
“We did, and you’re going to be reported to the authorities for cruelty,” Beth told him. “Your partner over there whipped them.”
“They were insolent and threatened me,” the man whined. “I had to protect myself.”
“Liar.” Beth turned on him.
“Enough.” Martin gave Beth a furious look. “I’ll report you to your superiors next time I go into town. Now get off my land and don’t come back.”
“You’re protecting murderers. Thieving heathens who should be exterminated,” the sergeant ranted.
“I’m warning you, get off my land.”
“I’ll get you for this, Mulvaney,” the sergeant threatened.
Martin turned his back on the police. “Thanks, George.” He nodded the groom’s dismissal. “Get back to the house, Elizabeth,” he said in a low, menacing voice. “You will never speak to me like that again in front of my workers.” Turning on his heel he strode off, his rigid back a testament to his anger.
* * *
One day as Beth chatted to Sam in his garden, she glanced up to find Alistair riding up to them. He refused to dismount, but leaned down to shake Sam’s hand and pat Beth on the arm.
“How’s grandfather?” she asked.
His brow furrowed. “Doesn’t say much, he misses you a lot, though.”
“Martin wouldn’t let me ride over, said I had to wait until he could take me.”
With a nod, Sam walked away and left them together.
“Who does Mulvaney think he is, keeping you prisoner in this dungeon of a place?”
“I’m not a prisoner.” She surprised herself by jumping to Martin’s defense. “He just doesn’t want me to leave the property. Said it’s risky for me to ride a horse.” She patted her stomach.
Alistair eased one foot from the stirrup and rested his leg across the pommel, all the while keeping a watch out for Martin. After about ten minutes, he rode off, and overwhelmed with loneliness, Beth waited until he became a mere speck in the distance. They had always been close. How she missed their camaraderie.
* * *
One morning, Martin strolled up to Beth at Sam’s place. “If you can get ready straight away, I’ll drive you over to see your grandfather,” he announced with a half-smile.
Her heart lifted because he was obviously making an effort to be kind. “Thank you.”
“I’ll drive you in the buggy. I need to see a man who wants to use my stallion. I’ll leave the buggy at your grandfather’s place and ride over. I doubt if old Fergus would put the welcome mat out for me.”
“Can’t you heal the rift with him? If you made the first move,” she hesitantly suggested.
“No. We despise each other. Come along. I’ll change my shirt then I’m leaving whether you’re ready or not.”
“Goodbye, Sam.” She followed Martin out of the cottage, but he walked so fast she struggled to keep up.
“You’re going too fast.” He stopped and waited for her to catch up. “I’m sorry I made you angry. I know grandfather can be difficult, if you tried to...”
“No.”
They went upstairs together. He left her and disappeared into his dressing room. She washed and changed into a fresh blouse. It was a struggle to do up the buttons on her brown serge skirt because her waistline had started to thicken. Soon she wouldn’t be able to wear any of her clothes. Martin would have to buy her new ones.
He tapped on her door as she was tying the ribbons on her bonnet. He wore white moleskin trousers tucked into shiny black knee boots. Hi
s dark hair, wet and slicked down, still managed to curl; how she longed to run her fingers through it. His gaze swept over her, lingering longest on her stomach.
They walked to the stable yard where a groom waited with the horses. Satan was an apt name for Martin’s stallion. This huge, pure black beast looked magnificent. She put a hand out to pat his neck, his ears pricked, his eyes rolled, and even before Martin yelled a warning, she withdrew her hand.
“Never touch him, Elizabeth. Satan is not a pet, and responds only to me. Come into the stable, there’s someone I want you meet.”
She followed him inside, and saw a bay mare whose black mane and full tail glistened. “This is Miranda. From now on she’s yours.”
“Mine!” She gave a gasp of pleasure. The arched neck, the small head with the dished profile and large soft eyes attested to the fact this mare was at least half-Arab and valuable.
“My wedding gift to you,” he said in tones much softer than normal.
“Oh thank you, thank you. I’ve never owned such a beautiful horse.” She touched the sleeve of his coat. “But, but you said I shouldn’t ride now.”
“Neither you should. You can come over and make friends with her until you’re able to ride again. The grooms will exercise her in the meantime.”
Satan was hitched to the back of the buggy, and he snorted and pawed at the ground as Martin helped her up into the passenger seat.
On arrival at her grandfather’s place, Martin leapt from the buggy and lifted her down. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours.” He untied the stallion, mounted him and galloped away without a backward glance.
Beth met her grandfather halfway between the barn and the cabin, and he engulfed her in a bear hug. “Let me look at ye, lassie. Tis pale and peaky ye be. Where’s Mulvaney?”
“He’s gone to see a man on business. He drove the buggy over with the stallion tied to the back, said I shouldn’t ride now.”
“Women carrying a bairn need to take extra care.”
“Where’s Alistair?”
“He’ll be here soon, just fixing some fencing.”
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