by Gloria Cook
‘I shall always hate him for turning me out.’ Michael’s long face expressed darkness, giving him a boldness, then he became matter-of-fact. ‘Mind you, I’ve always hated him. He’s a man to be hated, and he doesn’t care a tinker’s cuss that he’s hated. I’m sorry, I suppose you only want to hear happy things on your wedding day. If I may say, you don’t look very happy.’
‘It’s a bit of a strain.’
‘I understand. Don’t let anyone bully you, Tara. Find ways to cope. It’s what I do.’
‘Thank you, Michael.’ She had thanked him because he’d brought her a small measure of comfort, and the hope that she had an ally in the house.
She lay in her marriage bed and listened. Could she hear Poltraze speaking? Was it really as threatening as Michael had stressed? Perhaps Michael was simply just imaginative. He had a studious mind and was a keen novel reader. Would the house grow content tomorrow when all the overnight guests, including her buffoon of an uncle, left? If the house was placated she would certainly feel more at ease. If only her husband would join her and this first night as man and wife would be over.
The clock chimed one o’clock. She was getting ever more irritated. Bridegrooms were supposed to be eager to consummate their vows. Joshua was unfeeling. She studied the brass carriage clock. It was a plain item. Everything in the room was the same, of distinctly undecorated masculine appeal, with no dashes of colour or frivolous lines. She’d have thought someone could have at least put some flowers in the room as a thoughtful welcome to her.
The connecting door of Joshua’s dressing room was opened, at last. Tara froze. A surge of shyness overtook her. She wanted to close her eyes and hope he would think her asleep and not disturb her, but she was too driven by demands of duty to try deception. Her eyes followed Joshua as he approached the bed.
‘I thought I’d give you time to feel settled.’ He slipped off his dressing gown and draped it over a chair and stood, a little uncertainly, Tara thought, in his nightshirt. ‘It’s been an exhausting day. You must be weary to the bones, poor thing.’
‘I can’t say I’m sorry it’s over.’ It took an effort not to choke on the words, now The Moment was nearly upon her.
He went about the room turning out the lamps, then after sliding his feet out of his slippers he got into the bed. He lay down flat, keeping to his own side. ‘I’ve had a word with Estelle. I’ve told her she must allow you to consult your dressmaker on your own from now on. The wedding dress was bloody awful. Goodness knows what sort of a statement she was trying to make through it. I’m sorry you had to endure wearing such an overdone creation. My dear, I want you to know that if you’re worried about anything you only have to come to me. I’m here to protect you.’
Tara had been lying rigidly but his kind words made her move an inch towards him. ‘Thank you, Joshua.’
He moved on to his side and edged a bit closer to her, then again, and again, as if he was trying not to rush her. Finally, she could feel his body against hers. He took her hand in his. ‘You are quite the sweetest thing, Tara. If we work together, yet allow each other space we’ll be happy that way. Do you see?’
‘Yes, Joshua.’ She didn’t mind his nearness. He was warm and smelled good. They lay, both breathing heavily, aware of the other’s noisy breath. Tara was heartened by the notion that he was nervous too. He made a little apologetic sound. Then bringing his head forward he kissed her cheek. Tara wasn’t sure if she should respond or how to. She waited. He took her hand in his, raised it to his lips and kissed it, the merest touch. She could just make out his face in the darkness and saw that he had closed his eyes. She thought it best to close hers. She was nervous but she wanted to become intimate with Joshua, to form this closest bond with him. He was a good man and she wanted their marriage to be a success. She set aside her anxieties and told herself she was lucky to have him, with his good looks and fine qualities, as her husband.
His hand began to travel over her, here and there, lightly, as if timidly, outside her nightdress. Then as if he was suddenly in a hurry he leaned over her and kissed her lips, with feather-lightness. No more kisses came. Tara thought there should be more kisses. He touched her neck and cupped a hand over her breast, for a second. Tara breathed in deeply. His hand made a tentative journey to her most womanly region. He took it away almost at once and moved to his side of the bed. ‘It’s been a long trying day for you, my dear. You’ve had enough to put up with. We’ll . . . join together another time. You get some sleep. You deserve it. I’m a light sleeper myself. I always rise very early. I might get up through the night. I’ll try not to disturb you. You have breakfast in bed tomorrow. I’ll see you at luncheon. Goodnight, Tara.’ He turned away from her.
‘Goodnight Joshua.’ She put her back to his back, not sure whether to be pleased about him being sensitive towards her or to be dreadfully disappointed. She was still awake when he got up about an hour later and left the room.
Laketon Kivell was waiting for Joshua in the hut in the woods, lying on the bunk in pitch blackness. He had turned out the lantern, unable to bear to look at the cosy and sumptuous additions Joshua had added to make this meeting place their very own. Nothing would be the same again now he was bound to that whey-faced girl, now Joshua was no longer exclusively his. Joshua had promised he’d not take her tonight and Laketon believed him, but the very thought of the man he loved sharing a bed with anyone else for even a few minutes tormented him, scourged him, mocked him.
Damn Darius Nankervis and his wishes! Damn life! Damn the order of things that denied him and Joshua the freedom to express their love. He hated sharing anything, Joshua most of all. When Joshua did pierce the girl – and he’d have to continue doing so until she had delivered a living male child, the heir that was demanded – he could then shun his wife, but he’d have a son to pull at his attention then.
In Laketon’s grasp was a wine bottle and he lifted it to his full lips and drained the last drop. Then he hurled it across the hut where it smashed loudly against the wall. It was a dangerous, selfish thing to do. Joshua might walk into the splinters in the darkness and hurt himself, but Joshua knew the risks at the beginning when taking up with him, he knew wild and dangerous Kivell blood flowed through his veins. Today Joshua had obeyed his father, and even though he’d had no choice, Laketon considered that it was only him he should answer to.
Twelve
‘Can I come in?’ Morton hovered at Sylvia’s bedroom door. Before she told him to go away, as she always did, he added quickly, ‘I told Amy I’d come up and collect your lunch tray. She said you’ve got an upset tummy.’
‘It’s just a bit of wind.’ Sylvia stared straight ahead, grim and unyielding. ‘I’ve eaten all I want to. You can take the tray downstairs.’
Morton shot to the tray, which Sylvia had set aside on a nearby chair – before this he wouldn’t have dreamed of doing anything considered as women’s work. ‘You’ve hardly touched your food again, dear. Is the wind bad? I could slip along to the apothecary and get something for you.’
‘I’ll be fine.’ She did not move a muscle but her eyes glinted with irritation that he was there.
Morton lingered. ‘Sol Kivell’s here today.’
‘I know.’
‘He’s a good worker.’
‘I know. Pity you didn’t think the same about my son.’ Why on earth was he complimenting Sol? Sol was only ever terse and uncooperative with him.
‘I do regret the way I treated the boy, Sylvia. I want you to believe that.’
‘My son had a name. Toby.’
Morton gave a silly, unsure laugh. ‘Trouble with me, I’m too much of a perfectionist. I should have been more patient with Toby, I can see that now. My father was hard on me. You know how he was. I thought it was how all men behaved with their sons. To get the best out of them.’
‘You were hard on Toby because he was small and sensitive. I told you often enough to be kinder to him, to show him the love of the Lord Jesus, but you�
��d never listen. You were a bully and a tormentor. It’s no good trying to get round me.’ She was certain he wanted life to return to normal so he could use her in bed again after the birth of the child, and it disgusted her.
Morton loitered in the room, his desperate mind trying to come up with something to break down Sylvia’s hostile barrier. He knew she had never loved him but they had been mainly content in the early years – until Toby had been born. Sylvia had called the scrawny boy ‘the apple of her eye’, and Amy had doted on him. As the series of miscarriages had left him without the kind of son he’d desired, he’d fitted more and more into the character Sylvia had just given him. Now the chances were good of Sylvia giving birth to a live child he hated the thought of being left out of his family for good. ‘I know I did wrong. At least, despite Sol being a Kivell, he’s someone whom Toby liked and trusted. Toby might have been glad Sol’s taken his place.’
Sylvia tightened her lips. It should not have been necessary for anyone else to work at Toby’s bench. Whether Titus Kivell would have demanded his son be given a job if Toby had not died was irrelevant to her. ‘Sol’s not going to be here much longer. Then what?’ Go. Go. Get out of my room. Get out of my life.
Morton didn’t answer. The future, at least for Sylvia and Amy, was more uncertain than they thought. ‘Sol’s mentioned that he’s heard the squire’s already preparing to leave for London. Things are going to be different round here now, I shouldn’t wonder. Might be better.’ Morton tried a friendly grin, the way it emerged made him look stupid.
‘I know about the squire. And Sol told that to Amy, not you. Don’t try to pretend you like the young man.’
Morton’s pointed chin fell nearly to his chest. He hated Sol to bursting point, but he needed him. He’d spent too much time with his paramour, a rough-mannered, quick-witted vamp, who was a specialist in her trade. He had thought Marcie Dunn enormous fun and thought himself clever and sharp to be living a double life. He had fallen in with Marcie’s wild friends. Drinking and cards was their favourite pastime and the stakes had got out of hand. Morton was a poor player and to keep up – and Marcie’s services didn’t come cheap – he hadn’t paid a bill for over a year. With the unpaid work he’d been forced to do for the wretched squire it meant he was in serious debt. If Sol could be persuaded to come every day, at the worthy pace he worked, and if he, himself, refused to join in any more gambling, Morton saw a glimmer of a way out of his problems. He had been foolish and now he must mend his ways – except for Marcie, he couldn’t give up that side of life. And with rage simmering inside him, he had to keep grovelling to his wife. ‘Please, Sylvia, don’t keep on behaving coldly. Please don’t keep shutting me out. It’s driving me crazy.’
‘Good.’ Sylvia finally looked at him, with abrasiveness, without pity. His mien was pathetic, she wanted to slap his face. Ignoring the pain in her back she let rip, ‘Perhaps you’ll understand how you made poor Toby feel! You shut him out of your heart. You made him feel inferior. You made his life hardly worth living. I’ve had plenty of time to think, laid up in the house, time to think about what happened. Toby could have climbed that tree and jumped! He might have felt it was the only way out. You terrorized him, your own son, Morton Lewarne. You threatened to send him down into the darkness of the mine. It’s you who should be suffering darkness. The eternal kind!’
Morton could barely keep himself in check. The woman should know her place, her main duty was to him, no matter what went on inside her silly head. Silly? She was a disobedient, oh-so-respectable bitch. ‘Don’t go on like this, you’ll make yourself ill.’
‘You don’t care how I feel! You only care about what’s good for you. Oh, get out, before I forget myself and throw something at you.’ Sylvia searched about the bed looking for something with which to carry out her threat.
‘Damn you!’ Morton could take no more. All thoughts of wheedling Sol Kivell into full-time employment were forgotten and if Kivell wasn’t downstairs at this moment he’d slap Sylvia across the mouth. He hoped she’d die giving birth and the baby with her. Then he’d ask Marcie to marry him and have his comforts always at hand. If Amy didn’t like it she could move out. And the village could go to hell for all he cared. In fact, he didn’t really have to care that much because he had a way out of his troubles, and if things didn’t pick up soon, he’d damn well take it. He stamped out of the room.
‘The same to you!’ Sylvia shouted after him. ‘You didn’t even take the tray with you!’ She lay back on the pillows and cried. Her beliefs told her it was wrong not to make an effort to forgive Morton but she couldn’t. Losing Toby had made life unbearable in her home and the baby inside her was keeping her a prisoner in it. And God forgive her, she didn’t want this baby. She was afraid of how she would feel if it survived the birth and she had to rear it. If it wasn’t for Amy, she’d wish the confinement would be the end of her.
Before she’d dried her eyes, Amy rushed into the room. ‘Oh, Mum, I came up when I heard the raised voices. What did he say to upset you?’
‘At first he tried to get back into my good books. I can’t stand him . . .’ Sylvia stopped because she felt it wasn’t fair to burden her daughter with how she felt about her husband. Sylvia wiped her eyes with her shawl and put on a watery smile. ‘Oh, take no notice of me, I’m just being silly, my love. You’re such a good girl, Amy. I’m sorry I’ve been keeping you close to home.’
‘That doesn’t matter, Mum. Tell me what the tears were about. It might help if you talk about it.’
‘I’ll be all right when I’m up and about again. Has Sol said anything new about Toby today?’
‘I haven’t had the chance to talk to him yet. Mum, won’t you try to eat something?’
Sylvia shook her head. ‘I think I’ll try to have a rest.’
Amy took the tray and went downstairs. She doubted if the pain of the wind apparent on her mother’s face would allow her to sleep.
Sol was sitting at the lunch table. ‘Your father rushed through here like his heels were on fire. He’s gone out with the cart. Trouble?’
‘Oh, mind your own business!’ At times like this when she was anxious she saw this man as an intruder.
Sol leaned back in his chair and stretched his arms up high and then wide, as if he couldn’t be more relaxed. ‘It’s his business you should be concerned about. Someone’s due here this afternoon from Poltraze, with a view to giving Morton a commission for work at the Dower House. Perhaps he’s gone for that sandalwood he failed to collect the other day. I’ve a feeling he won’t be back for some time.’
Dumping the tray down on the table, Amy placed her hands on her hips. ‘Then you can cut your break short and get back to the workshop and make sure everything’s in order.’
‘I don’t take orders from Morton and I’m sure as hell not going to take any from you.’ He smiled, amused and smirking.
Amy muttered a sharp retort under her breath. Her father often slipped away for lengthy periods that seemed to have nothing to do with work. If he didn’t come back soon a good commission could be lost, making a sizeable dent in his reputation, and he’d never get work at Poltraze again. It was out of the question for Sol to negotiate on her father’s behalf. He had no loyalty to the business anyway and would be pleased if Laketon Kivell made a successful deal instead. She would have to ask the Poltraze steward if it was possible he could come back another day and hope he would agree.
Sol took out the makings for a smoke. A letter came with them from his pocket and fell to the floor. Amy glanced down. ‘Wait a minute, that’s addressed to me!’
He beat her in picking it up. ‘Oh, I forgot about this. It was brought over by someone from the big house. I saved him the trouble of bringing it to the door.’
‘You had no right! How dare you keep this from me.’
He shrugged as if he didn’t care about her indignation. He made for the back door.
Amy put herself in front of it. ‘No, you don’t. Well?’
<
br /> ‘Well, what?’
‘I want an explanation.’ She waved the letter in front of his eyes.
‘I forgot I had the letter.’
‘Oh, don’t give me that. You’re not the sort to forget anything.’
He put his head to the side, making his long hair sweep on his hefty shoulder, and he smiled in a way, Amy decided, that would melt any other girl’s heart. ‘I intended to give it to you the moment Morton wasn’t around. I thought you’d want to keep your own life private from him. I wasn’t going to keep it from you, Amy.’
‘Oh.’ She frowned, unsure if she should feel sorry about her anger, or foolish, or still cross with him for withholding her property.
‘Well?’
‘Well, what?’
‘You owe me an apology.’
‘Never on my life!’
He studied her. ‘You look really pretty when you’re fierce.’
‘What? I’ll thank you to keep that sort of stupid, insincere talk for the women who frequent the Nankervis Arms!’ She tried not to let him see how rattled she was. Her attitude was fully justified, but a part of her was pleased to receive a compliment from him. She stood in the kitchen, her heart racing, listening to him laughing at her, and opening and closing the back door, then whistling merrily as he strode off for his smoke.
Raising her chin in an effort to forget the interchange, after all, compliments to a woman came two a farthing to a roguish womanizer like him, she opened the letter from Tara. It read:
My dear Amy, It was so good to see you, and Sarah Hichens, waiting outside the church on my wedding day. It gave me some much needed courage. It is very strange to be a married woman and it will take time to adjust to all the changes. I am pleased to tell you that Joshua is very understanding. He has agreed with me that I am unlikely to make honest friends among the local ladies and that there will be times when I shall be quite lonely. He has kindly suggested, therefore, that I call on you soon. I do not wish to impose myself on you yet – you and your dear mother will have a lot to do concerning her confinement. Pray, write to me and tell me when it is a convenient time for me to come. I shall be very grateful to receive a reply with all your news. Yours sincerely, Tara.