Trapped

by Freda Lightfoot

  Trapped

  Freda Lightfoot

  Originally published 2008 by Hodder & Stoughton Ltd. 338 Euston Road,

  London NW1 3BH

  Copyright © 2008 and 2012 by Freda Lightfoot Limited.

  All rights reserved.

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher. Nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  ISBN 978-0-9568119-5-0

  This edition published by Freda Lightfoot 2012

  ‘I was engaged with the story from page one. She piles horror on horror – rape, torture, sexual humiliation, incest, suicide - but she keeps you reading!’

  Historical Novels Review Nov 2009 on House of Angels

  ‘a fascinating, richly detailed setting with a dramatic plot brimming with enough scandal, passion, and danger for a Jackie Collins’ novel.’

  Booklist on Hostage Queen

  ‘This is a book I couldn’t put down . . . a great read!’

  South Wales Evening Post on The Girl From Poorhouse Lane

  ‘Another heartwarming tale from a master story-teller. For All Our Tomorrows.’

  Lancashire Evening Post

  ‘A stirring tale of a woman with an iron purpose’ The Keswick Reminder on The Favourite Child. (a top 20 in the Sunday Times hardback bestseller list)

  ‘Kitty Little is a charming novel encompassing the provincial theatre of the early 20th century, the horrors of warfare and timeless affairs of the heart.’

  The West Briton

  Luckpenny Land

  ‘paints a vivid picture of life on the fells during the war. Enhanced by fine historical detail and strong characterisation it is an endearing story...’

  Westmorland Gazette

  ‘An enthralling wartime page-turner.’ www.Bol.com on For All Our Tomorrows.

  ‘An inspiring novel about accepting change and bravely facing the future.’

  The Daily Telegraph on Ruby McBride

  Description

  ‘I’m lying sobbing on the floor, head reeling, unable to believe that my husband of just four weeks has knocked me flying.’

  Carly Stanton is a lucky girl. Newly married to the man of her dreams, a beautiful home with her family close by and with a job she adores. But all is not quite as it seems. Oliver Stanton may be charming and utterly gorgeous with dark good looks and captivating blue-grey eyes, as well as being successful and financially secure, but once the ring is on her finger, Carly discovers there’s a darker side to his nature.

  He is possessive and controlling, sapping her confidence so that she feels as if she is living on a knife edge, her nerves in shreds. Carly knows that she desperately needs help before he destroys her. But who can she turn to? Not her family who think he is Mr. Wonderful. As Oliver’s cruelty escalates, can Carly find a way out of the marriage trap?

  Chapter One

  I’m lying sobbing on the floor, head reeling, unable to believe that my husband of just four weeks has knocked me flying. The force of the blow took me completely by surprise and I’m huddled in a tiny ball, shaking with shock.

  He’s saying that it’s all my fault, that I drove him to lose his temper because I provoked him, and as I sob I’m thinking that maybe he’s right in a way.

  I’d told him about the anonymous letter, the one my parents received only days before our wedding, warning me that he’d been seen kissing another girl, Sandra or Shirley, I can’t quite remember. He fiercely denied it, of course, and I can see now that it was stupid of me to even joke about Oliver cheating on me.

  We’d got back home this evening after a meal out, just the two of us to our favourite Italian restaurant. I’d slipped out of my dress and was hanging it in the wardrobe when, quite out of the blue, he asked me why I’d flirted with the waiter.

  I couldn’t help but laugh at the very idea of my looking at another man, let alone flirting with one so soon after our honeymoon. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Oliver. Why would I?’ I went to rub myself against him, clad only in my skimpy black bra and panties, wanting to tease him into a better mood. We’d enjoyed a bottle of muscadet with the meal, and I was in the mood for loving, not a silly quarrel.

  ‘Because you’re a stunning girl and it was obvious the guy couldn’t take his eyes off you,’ Oliver said, his usually handsome face cold and unsmiling.

  The compliment touched me deeply. I’d never thought of myself as stunning. Reasonably attractive perhaps, some might even say pretty with my fair hair framing a heart-shaped face in a tapered cut and a thick fringe above big amber eyes. But I’m not thin enough, or tall enough to ever be classed as beautiful. It took weeks to trim off half a stone for my wedding and hone my curvy figure, more kindly termed voluptuous by my lovely new husband, till I felt slender enough to show off the satin sheath dress I’d set my heart on. Even then my bottom stuck out too much and I had to keep hoisting up the strapless bra in an effort to control my ample cleavage. No, indeed, I’m not at all the sort of girl to cause men’s heads to turn. Not stunning at all. More the girl-next-door type.

  Which was one reason I couldn’t believe my good luck when I hooked up with Oliver Sheldon. I met him on a girls’ night out at a club in Manchester. I’m not usually into clubbing, being too shy to be comfortable in crowds, and some guy was giving me a hard time, harassing me to dance with him when I really had no wish to. Oliver stepped in to rescue me like the gentleman he is. I spent the rest of the evening in his arms, which turned my friends green with envy.

  He was good company, great fun, and charming. He’s an accountant working for a large reputable firm in Lancaster, although now that we’re married he’s been transferred to the Kendal branch. He’s the dynamic sort and promotion is on the cards. He’s also utterly gorgeous with dark good looks and captivating grey-blue eyes. I guessed he could have his pick of any girl but for some reason he chose me, claiming I was the sweetest of the bunch. I’ve been pinching myself ever since. So for him now to be jealous of me, instead of the other way round, seems incredible, and surely proof of his deep feelings for me.

  ‘Oh, don’t I just love it when you’re jealous,’ I teased, kissing his perfect, aquiline nose.

  His face seemed to darken and his jaw tightened, forming a thin white line of tension above his upper lip. ‘Is that why you encouraged him, in order to wind me up?’

  ’For goodness sake, I didn’t encourage him. Like I say, why would I? I never even noticed the flipping waiter.’ It was then that I foolishly mentioned the letter.

  I saw anger flare instantly in his pale eyes. ‘Who sent it?’ he shouted, furious there should be gossip about him behind his back.

  I seemed to find this question funny, and foolishly giggled. ‘It was anonymous, darling, so I wouldn’t know, would I? Maybe it was from one of your jealous ex-girl friends?’ I teased.

  My joke fell on stony ground as he didn’t even listen when I tried to say how my parents hadn’t mentioned it at the time, had thrown the letter straight on the fire. His face was contorted with rage, then, quite out of the blue, he gave me a shove, digging me painfully in the shoulder and sending me sprawling. I must have caught my heel in the rug, he surely couldn’t have meant to knock me down?

  I like to think I’m reasonably intelligent, ambitious in a modest sort of way, even if I am a bit of a wall-flower at social occ
asions. I certainly don’t believe that allowing a man to knock me about is the right way to behave. I was filled with a sudden spurt of anger, and, being the sort of girl who’s always been ready to stand up for myself, I quickly got to my feet and pushed him right back.

  ‘Hey, what the hell are you doing? You made me trip!’

  But this wasn’t a silly squabble with my sister Jo-Jo in junior school, this was a grown man, and with barely a pause he strikes me full across the face with the flat of his hand. This time the blow sends me crashing to the ground where I crack my head on the polished, cedar-wood floor boards. The room seems to tilt around me and I fear I’m going to lose consciousness.

  Which is how I come to be lying here, sobbing my heart out.

  Seconds later he’s by my side, cradling me in his arms. ‘Carly, darling, I’m so sorry. I can’t think what came over me.’ There are tears in his eyes as he strokes strands of damp hair from my face, kissing me as I continue to sob. ‘I never meant to hurt you, but you know I can’t bear the thought of you with another man.’

  ‘Y-you h-hit me,’ I cry, unable to believe what’s happened. ‘How could you do that? What on earth were you thinking of? You knocked me down!’

  ‘It was meant to be just a tap, a little reprimand. I really don’t appreciate my own strength. I’m so sorry, darling. It’s all your own silly fault though,’ he gently scolds, ‘for making me love you so much.’ He kisses my trembling mouth, thumbs the tears from my cheeks. ‘Let me help you up, sweetie. Are you okay?’ He’s running a hand over my bare stomach and thighs, checking for bruises, and my traitorous flesh is responding. I love him so much, and we’ve been married barely a month, after all, so how can I resist him?

  ‘You really shouldn’t provoke me, you silly goose. You know how much I care about you, and the last few months have been so stressful with the wedding and everything.’

  My heart softens as I see the depth of his remorse, feel the power of his love as his skilled fingers slip off my bra and slide down my panties. He knows just where and how to apply the right degree of seductive pressure to have me gasping with need in seconds. Then he’s inside me, right there on the hard wooden floor, filling me, holding me tightly in his arms and to my shame I am responding.

  Later, as I lie curled beside him in our huge new King-sized bed, I think that maybe he’s right about the wedding. It was indeed stressful. Could it be anything else when two families who are little more than strangers are brought together for the first time? And no one could call my own family easy to get along with.

  Mum smiling tightly as she politely touches cheeks with Mrs Sheldon, plainly revealing, to me at least, how she was mentally comparing her own store-bought dress and jacket with that of the chic designer outfit worn by Oliver’s more affluent mother.

  My sister preening herself in her ice blue bridesmaid’s dress, looking harassed as she desperately sought to avoid the sticky fingers of fifteen month old Ryan, her youngest.

  And my father constantly whispering in my ear, ‘Are you sure you want to do this? It’s not too late to back out.’ Dad wasn’t quite so enamoured of my choice of husband as Mum, even though he liked Oliver and was grateful for his willingness to help with trimming the hedge, or fixing the car. Poor Dad found it hard to let me go. ‘You hardly know him,’ he kept saying over and over again in the weeks leading up to the wedding. ‘You’re only young, where’s the rush?’

  I would sigh and remind him we’d been going out together for nearly a year, that I was twenty-five and old enough to make up my own mind.

  Mum, however, whole-heartedly approved. ‘Such a lovely man,’ she said when first she met Oliver, and hasn’t stopped singing his praises since. She thinks he’s the bee’s knees and is completely bowled over by his charm. For once in her life she didn’t complain that she had enough to do looking after Gran and Grandpa without helping to organise a big wedding. Nor did she moan about how fussy Oliver was for insisting on the most expensive hotel in which to hold the reception, a full three course meal rather than a finger buffet, what a big family he had compared to ours, or who was paying for it all? Even when he generously offered to contribute a large sum towards the cost she declined gracefully, saying it was their privilege to pay, as parents of the bride. I could hardly believe my ears. My parents aren’t well off and it was quite a stretch for them.

  But then she could see how happy we were together.

  From the moment I first met him, Oliver has made no attempt to disguise his utter devotion to me. He has this happy knack of making me feel special.

  ‘You’re the girl for me,’ he would say. ‘You are my life!’

  No one was allowed to criticise anything I wore, anything I said, or even to swear in front of me, particularly not my tempestuous sister or he’d severely rebuke her, much to Jo-Jo’s annoyance.

  ‘He’s such a prude,’ she’d bitterly complain. ‘I don’t understand what you see in the guy.’

  ‘Oliver has high standards, that’s all, and he loves me.’

  ‘He needs to get real,’ she’d scoff.

  It was true that he did put me on some sort of pedestal which felt wonderful, almost unbelievable that a gorgeous man should care for me so much. I was always the shy mouse at school, the plain, dumpy one with braces on my teeth and more than a smattering of freckles. The one who never got the guy.

  ‘You’re a rogue,’ I’d say to him, loving him for the way he was always so adoring and protective towards me.

  Throughout all the months we went out together Oliver showed himself as forever loving, tender, and most considerate.

  He sent me roses every single week, took me out for romantic meals and on regular trips to the movies or the theatre by the lake, where he’d whisper in my ear how much he was aching to make love to me while I was trying to concentrate on the film or the play. He did this once when we were supposed to be taking tea with my grandparents, which was so embarrassing.

  ‘I can’t help myself. I just love you so much,’ he’d say, whenever I gently scolded him for being so naughty.

  How could I blame him? We couldn’t seem to get enough of each other. He took me on a weekend trip to Paris and spoiled me rotten, which was so romantic. The best hotel, finest cuisine, the most expensive shows. Nothing was too much trouble. But my favourite times were when we were alone in his flat, or the times he would drive us out to a quiet spot by Coniston Water where we’d enjoy a champagne picnic, then make love beneath the canopy of green.

  He made it clear from the start that I’m the only girl for him, so why do I sometimes find it hard to believe in his love and allow myself to be truly happy? Why do I still have doubts?

  I was so crazy about him I’d quite happily have moved in with him once it became obvious we both felt the same way about each other. Oliver, however, wasn’t satisfied with that. He was determined to make me his wife, wanting to provide me with the very best of everything. He’d talk for hours about the dream home he planned for us with a designer kitchen and two bathrooms, tastefully furnished in pale neutral shades, wired for internet access and with high-tech sound systems. He had his eye on a four bedroom detached being built on a new estate on the edge of a pretty village not too far from my parents who live in Kendal. How could I protest that a small traditional cottage would do just as well so long as we were together? Nothing was more important to him than the wonderful future he planned for us.

  I was surprised and excited by his proposal of marriage, carried away by his enthusiasm and his dreams, so if I suffered any niggling doubts that it was all a bit of a rush, that maybe we should perhaps live together in his rented flat for a while first, I pushed those worries to one side.

  We’re in love, I thought. What can possibly go wrong?

  It was Jo-Jo, naturally, who told me about the letter. Never one to miss an opportunity to put one over on me, she seemed to take great pleasure in the process. She’s been jealous of me, as the baby sister, for as long as I can remember, and fo
r no good reason that I can think of. My marrying a good looking man with a comfortable life-style hasn’t helped in this respect. Even though she is herself happily married to the ever patient Ed who absolutely adores her, has three lovely kids, a garden, a large car, even a mutt of a dog, all the accoutrements for a happy life. Yet, despite what for some women would be everything they could wish for, my good fortune still seems to increase her own sense of inadequacy.

  ‘Has Mum told you about the anonymous letter?’ She tossed this little fire cracker into my lap as I was checking out the seating plan for the reception just days before the wedding.

  My beloved sister was supposed to be helping by setting the gifts out on display, together with their appropriate card, although she kept breaking off to pluck her eyebrows, or buff her nails, making it clear she was bored by the whole performance. My thoughts had been up in the clouds, mentally flying to Italy on my honeymoon with my wonderful new husband, but her words brought me down to earth with a bump.

  ‘What letter?’ This was the first I’d heard of any letter. Mum had made no mention of it, so I’d no idea what she was talking about. ‘When did she get it?’

  ‘Oh, a week or two ago, I believe.’ Jo-Jo gave one of her artless little shrugs, pouting her pretty lips as she coated them with plum coloured lipstick. ‘It was utterly malicious so she burnt it. Probably didn’t mention it because she didn’t want to upset you.’

  So why did you, you nasty little bitch? I thought, loathing myself for feeling so distrustful of my own sister, yet hating her for putting me in this invidious position. If someone really had sent Mum and Dad a malicious, anonymous letter about Oliver, was this the right time to reveal it, just days before our wedding?

  ‘So what did it say then, this letter?’