by Janet Woods
The atmosphere was fraught with tension. Her nerves were strung so tightly they seemed to vibrate with warning. She was frightened she’d say something wrong, do something wrong, or display her humble background so it could be remarked on by Edward.
So the evening proceeded. Edward was so exceedingly polite and distant she wanted to leap upon him and strangle him with her bare hands. Then he began to bring her into the discussion, starting each sentence with, ‘Wouldn’t you agree, Siana . . .’ so she was forced to either argue or side with him. Invariably, she took the latter course because she thought he was waiting to pounce and pour scorn on her uninformed opinion.
Francis kept himself under control but his tongue grew increasingly barbed as his patience decreased. His eyes glittered with anger. Eventually, he took his leave, seemingly relieved to have got through the evening without losing his temper altogether.
‘Oh, must you go?’ Edward tossed at him carelessly. ‘Siana and I were so enjoying your company, weren’t we, my dearest?’
‘It was lovely to see you,’ she said, her voice thick because she felt miserable and angry at the same time and wanted to burst into tears.
Later, when Edward came through to her room she said, ‘It was a horrible evening.’
He came up behind her at the dressing table. ‘Really? I didn’t notice anything untoward. But you really must learn not to take your husband to task in front of guests, my darling. Remember, Daisy would be in the workhouse if I had not taken her in.’
Tempted to remind him it was Francis who had saved the child’s life, she managed to bite her tongue in time. ‘Do not imagine I’m not grateful for that. If my conduct has given you cause for complaint please tell me now.’
His hands went to her shoulders, kneading at the tension in her muscles. His voice was a soft whisper against her ear as his hands `. ‘You must never give me cause for complaint.’
She experienced a moment of fright, then, heart beating wildly, she pulled his hands down. ‘Please do not do that, Edward.’
His arms circled her body, his tongue slid along her bare shoulders. ‘Such pretty, translucent skin,’ he murmured and gently nipped her, a ruse almost guaranteed to arouse her.
But for the first time since their marriage Siana didn’t welcome his attention. ‘I’m tired, Edward.’
‘Too tired to accommodate your husband, my dear?’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘you are in a strange mood and . . . I don’t feel accommodating.’
‘Am I to take it you’re vexed with me?’ He laughed then, and taking her chin between his forefinger and thumb looked into her eyes for a moment. ‘Then I will be quick so you can get some rest.’ Pushing her backwards onto the bed, he threw her skirts up over her head, held her there with one hand and ripped her undergarments away.
There were no words of love, no lead up of loving caresses, just a terrible, insulting assault on her body that seemed to go on for ever as he thrust himself between her thighs. But there was no joy for him in this rape either, for his manliness failed him before conclusion.
Tears trickled down her cheeks as she remembered her mother being subjected to similar treatment at the hands of Bill Skinner. At least Edward hadn’t beaten her too.
‘See what you have done to me,’ he shouted and, cursing horribly, he pulled himself out of her. His footsteps echoed across the floor. The door slammed. There was a click of a key in the lock, then another.
Rising from the bed she tried the doors. Both of them were locked! ‘Edward?’ she said against the panel. ‘Don’t be angry with me. I can’t bear it.’
He didn’t answer her.
She thought she heard someone give a soft chuckle and whisper his name against her ear. ‘Edward.’ She whipped around to encounter nothing but flickering shadows.
It had been a female voice, sibilant and soft and came from she knew not where. Something moved in the shadows. Shivers raced up her spine and she told herself not to be silly, nothing moved, nothing spoke. It was the strange, fey sense she’d inherited from her great-grandmother. Her mother had told her not to be frightened of it.
Yet that same sense now spoke strongly to her of doom. She began to weep, then sob, eventually crying herself to sleep.
Later, Edward came to sit by her bedside. He was sorry he’d been angry with her, sorry he’d almost lost his control. Her chamber was cold. Odd, he thought, because the night was warm. The candle guttered and shadows leapt.
Patricia’s bed had been in the same position. She’d been asleep when he’d put her out of her misery. He picked up a pillow. It had been so easy to cut off her air. A short struggle . . . but she wasn’t struggling now!
‘What the hell am I doing!’ he muttered in alarm and dashed the pillow to the floor.
Siana hauled some air into her lungs but didn’t wake. He kissed her tear-stained cheek. ‘Forgive me, my sweeting.’
Her eyes fluttered open and she whispered something he couldn’t quite catch. He sat by her side all night, watching the rise and fall of her breathing, loving her, this girl who was giving him so much – and hating himself for making her unhappy.
She woke early and gazed at him. Awareness came into her eyes, then pain. ‘How long have you been there?’
‘All night.’ That he’d caused such an expression in her eyes distressed him. ‘My darling, I love you too much,’ he said.
‘Edward.’ His name trembled in the air, so soft and unsure it captivated him.
She smiled and held out her arms to him. When she took him first into the warmth of her arms, then into her bed and her body, the shadows of the room retreated and he was made a whole man again.
It was the last Sunday in June. Daisy was suffering from mild quinsy and had been left at home with the nursery maid.
The sermon had been over-long. Richard White was tediously pedantic in his oratory and Siana was pleased the service was over.
It was a warm day. The sun was high overhead as the carriage travelled through a lane of plane and oak trees which met overhead in a loosely woven ceiling of light and dark greens.
Siana slid her hand into Edward’s. She’d learned he was a man who needed to know he was appreciated. He was also a man of exceedingly generous nature, and that appreciation was rewarded by an abundance of gifts and goodwill on his part. Although she never sought to capitalize on that, his nature did encourage her to respond to the goodness in him.
She’d decided she would not like to cross him, though. He carried with him a core of ruthlessness, the demonstration of which she’d witnessed more than once. Something took over his nature. It was as if good and bad worked independently inside him.
Today, he’d been in an expansive mood and had allowed her to visit her father for a short while after the Sunday service. She had found Gruffydd Evans seated in an arbour, his nose buried in a book. When she had cleared her throat, he’d glanced up, startled. Tears had turned his blue eyes into a sea of emotion. Her father’s appearance had improved, but the tortured expression in his eyes had been hard to bear.
‘Daughter,’ he’d said, his voice raw with pain, ‘I did not expect you to consider me worthy of another thought. You look well in lavender, like bluebells in the woods.’
‘Ah . . .you must have the soul of a poet.’
‘I’m Welsh. The men of Wales are all poets.’
‘One day I must visit the place of my birth. Perhaps my great-grandmother Lewis is still alive and would like to meet me.’
‘Beware, girl. That one is a pagan priestess who placed her curse upon me.’
‘The sight is a gift given to the few and used only for good, or so my mother said. My husband says a curse can only come true if the mind believes it and makes it real.’
‘Your husband should learn some humility, lest the Lord find him lacking.’
Siana hadn’t thought Edward would countenance such a scathing notion from the Lord.
‘My husband is humble when the need arises. He is disapprovin
g of our connection, but has permitted a short meeting between us today. We must make the most of it.’
Edward had been strolling in the garden with Richard White. She’d felt his glance seek her out and she had sent him a small, grateful smile before turning back to the preacher.
‘Mrs Leeman tells me you are improving.’
‘I’m growing stronger, it’s true. My heart is still in turmoil, though. Yesterday, however, the reverend took me to pray at your mother’s grave and I found a moment of peace.’
She had hesitated before tentatively asking, ‘Has Dr Matheson been to see you? He was going to bring his daughters to meet me but was not in church today.’
‘I understand he was called urgently to the bedside of a sinner in childbirth. The woman is suffering mightily for the sin of conception out of wedlock.’
‘Sin!’ She had struggled to contain a flare of anger as her hands strayed protectively to her belly. ‘You think a child born of love is a sin?’
‘This one was conceived in lust, I believe, for the woman has taken another woman’s husband unto her loins and his seed into her womb.’
‘What of the man’s sin?’
‘He will be punished, as are all men for their lusts.’ He had fallen silent for a moment, then said in a low voice. ‘Would you forgive me the sin against your mother, then?’
‘How can I? You forced yourself upon her and only she can know what suffering it cost her. But whilst I condemn your behaviour, I cannot help but be glad you sinned. If you had not, then I would neither exist nor experience the happiness I now enjoy.’
‘Such happiness cannot last, for the sins of the parents are visited on the child.’ He had leaned forward, his eyes fired with the inner zeal of a true evangelist. ‘Did you know your husband is a whore-monger who sups off the sweat and blood of others? Whilst you enjoy the food on his table and parade in your fine silks and conceit, you mock God, daughter. The people who work to feed your vanity die from disease and starvation caused by the conditions they live in.’
She had not wished to hear this harsh condemnation of the man who had taken her from that same poverty. Annoyed with him for pointing out the truth she chose to forget, she had snapped, ‘I will hear no more of your bitter invective against my husband. Nor will I shoulder the sin on your conscience.’ She had turned and hurried away, to the haven that was Edward, where she and her sister would never know hunger or want again.
Now, as the carriage headed back towards the manor and as Edward’s hand tightened around hers and her mouth accepted his possessive caress, she tried not to think of the heartache and poverty of her upbringing. That she couldn’t dispel the seed of doubt Gruffydd Evans had planted in her mind – that she might have sold her soul to the devil and her body to Edward, and the two just might be one and the same – troubled her.
Edward controlled her, true. But it was a pleasant prison, without bars and with no punishment or want. Her every wish was his command. The trouble was, his every command seemed to have become her wish.
She turned to gaze at the handsome profile with its classic nose, full-lipped mouth and haughty, tilted chin. He turned towards her. His tawny eyes met hers, confident and untroubled.
‘What is it, my dearest?’
‘What would you do if I ever disobeyed you, Edward?’
A moment of truth passed between them as he weighed up this small challenge from her; as he acknowledged something in himself and measured it in his response. It was a moment when she saw the darkness gather in his eyes. Then his expression was masked, and he shrugged. ‘It would be advisable if you didn’t, I think.’
When she gave a small shiver, he gave a slightly reflective smile and turned to gaze out of the window.
They arrived home to find chaos. Rooms had been ransacked, most of the silver was missing and Siana’s jewellery case had been stolen.
‘Daisy!’ she cried out and raced pell-mell upstairs to the nursery.
Her sister was safe, being cuddled on the lap of the nursery maid. The child was rosy-cheeked with fever as she slept, her breath a husky rasp.
Thank God she is safe, was Siana’s first thought. But was she? Giving her sister a considering glance, she reflected that she might need to send for Francis.
‘The nursery maid heard nothing untoward, but the nursery is situated at the back of the house,’ she reported to Edward.
‘I’m aware of where it’s situated,’ he said, not bothering to hide his exasperation. She backed away from the sting of his reply, unable to hide the wound it caused her.
He gave her a searching glance, muttered an apology then gently touched her face and turned to stride off when the sound of muffled thumps and shouts were heard.
The two servants left behind were discovered sore-headed, hog-tied and secured in a closet. The thieves were long gone. The servants had seen or heard nothing prior to being cudgelled from behind. They received a severe tongue-lashing for their lack of vigilance from their incensed master, despite their sorry state.
When the rest of the servants arrived back from the church service, they were rounded up to go after the thieves. But when they reached the stables it was to find the horses had been driven off into the forest.
Edward soundly cursed everyone concerned. Only the steward, Jed Hawkins, had a horse and the coachman was obliged to saddle up the carriage horses so the three of them could make a foray into the forest to retrieve the scattered stock.
Siana saw to the injured servants whilst they were gone, swathing their broken heads in bandages. When Edward returned, she hoped the sight of the bandages might divert his feelings towards compassion rather than anger.
Edward was somewhat mollified when he found the hay cart sunk to its axles in a boggy patch, the manor cart horse trapped between the shafts. The mare’s hind legs were half buried. Her flanks strained and her forelegs tramped the muck as she tried to pull herself and the cart free of the sticky mud.
‘Be still, my beauty,’ the groom whispered to her. The animal immediately stood patiently, her tail flicking at the flies that swarmed to bother her.
‘There’s a good old girl, then. We’ll soon have thee out.’ Between them, they dug around her buried hind legs with their hands and heaved and pushed the cart. Finally, they managed to get the gentle giant free. The animal emerged with a sucking noise and plodded forward a few paces. They were covered in mud when they finished
‘Off thee goes now, back to the stable, old girl. I’ll see to thee when I get back,’ the groom said as he turned the cart around and sent the animal plodding back towards the manor.
Edward gazed at the footprints in the mud. ‘One of them is a lad by the looks of these footprints.’ Jed was staring at them. ‘That’s odd.’
‘What is?’
‘The larger footprints.’
‘What’s odd about them, man?’ Jed Hawkins looked perplexed. ‘It’s only a left foot.’
Where the right footprints should be were neat, round holes filled with water. Edward’s smile was not pleasant. He knew exactly who it was now. Hadn’t he helped Francis remove that leg himself?
‘The only person I know of with one leg is Tom Skinner. The smaller footprint must belong to his brother, Josh.’
‘But I heard Tom Skinner is near to death.’
‘Obviously he’s not as sick as he pretends. Come, gentlemen, let’s round up the horses, then we’ll go and pay the patient a visit. And I want everything on the road stopped and searched until my property is found. The Skinners must be apprehended on sight. I’m determined to rid the district of that vermin if I die in the attempt.’
But Tom Skinner’s bed was vacated and he was no longer in residence.
With the aid of Siana’s mare, Tom and Hannah reached Blandford after night had fallen. It didn’t take them long to complete their business transaction.
They headed for Poole. They used a twisting, roundabout route, covering the eight or so miles over two nights, forced to hole up during
the day and avoid the main roads. Once in the harbour town, they ignored the public inns, sleeping in a merchant’s stable accessed from a dark laneway. The merchant himself was in London.
The same lad who stabled Siana’s horse, fetched them a jug of ale and a meat pie apiece from the inn. The boy was deaf and dumb and had the look of an idiot. Yet he was well aware of the benefits of using the premises to run his own business when his master was absent.
Hannah fingered the diamond headband she wore around her neck. She hadn’t sold it with the other stuff. Instead, she’d removed it from Siana’s jewellery box to hang around her grubby neck. It was a pretty thing, the reflection of the stones shining against her fingers in the lantern light.
She was filled with envy at the thought of Siana having such nice things to wear. The headband would be her stake for when she reached London. She gazed at her brother, who was snoring like a stuck pig. She scowled. The greedy bastard hadn’t given her a penny yet. He probably never would.
She crept across the floor and gently patted his pockets. Suddenly his arm lashed out. His clenched fist caught her across the nose as she was back-handed across the stall.
‘Try that again and I’ll kill you,’ he muttered and turned away from her.
Whimpering, Hannah cowered in a corner, nursing her swelling face and bruised eyes.
A false dawn was just breaking when she woke. Tom was still asleep. He looked like something from a nightmare. She shuddered.
The boy was nowhere to be seen. He’d left them bread and cheese and a jug of water. Tom had payed him in advance the night before.
Hannah ate her share, washing it down with the water. She took out the boning knife, gazing at its thin, sharp blade. Now for Ben Collins and the whore Isabelle. She knew where the fat cow lived. She could get it done before they woke, and Ben would hang for the deed.
Siana’s horse gazed at her from the next stall, then bared her yellow teeth and snickered. ‘Stupid beast. You look pretty, but you bain’t good for nothin’ but carting a toff on your back. Only she be no toff. That be a peasant’s arse she puts on your bleddy back.’