Sweet Asylum

by Tracy L. Ward

  The driver lowered his gaze. “Never thought I see the likes of you asking to come to a place such as this,” he said.

  “A place such as this?” Margaret asked.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You mean the gambling?”

  Walter nodded hesitantly, perhaps knowing he was overstepping his place.

  “I am not here for any gambling,” she said. “Only to visit a friend.” Margaret checked the placement of her hat. “I think I shall walk home. It isn’t far.”

  “Do you think it wise, my lady?” the driver asked.

  “Probably not,” Margaret answered honestly. “But I enjoy the exercise.”

  Margaret began making her way toward the house, scanning the yard for Ivy.

  “Miss Marshall?” Garret’s voice came from behind her as she crossed in front of the barn. When Margaret turned she saw him walking toward them with another tall, lanky man just behind him. The man walked with a distinct limp in his left leg, scuffing his boot along the gravel and dirt, sending plumes of dust into the hair about his feet.

  “Mr. Owen,” Margaret said, employing great effort to sound cheerful. “I have come to call on Ivy. I thought maybe she’d enjoy a walk with me.”

  “Delightful. She’d enjoy that very much. First, allow me to introduce my brother, Samuel.”

  The tall, lanky man bowed his head slightly as Margaret said hello. “You must be brawn of this operation,” she said, noting how much taller and wider Samuel was compared to Garret.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  And the quieter one, as well.

  “I’ll take you to Ivy,” Garret said, gesturing toward the house.

  Garret led the way to the back of the house, where a small gazebo stood with a little round table and a set of two chairs beneath its shelter. “She’s been very quiet today, miss,” Garret said quietly before they reached Ivy.

  “Oh?”

  “She will be pleased you are here. It may even lift her spirits.” He offered a gentle smile before taking his leave.

  Ivy sat in one of the chairs, staring at something in her lap. As Margaret grew near she could see it was a tiny Bible and a small bundle she could not make out. She could hear Ivy muttering to herself.

  “Ivy?”

  “Margaret!” Ivy jumped to her feet when she saw Margaret.

  “Some light reading?” Margaret said, pointing to the palm-sized Bible. She held out her hand, asking to have a closer look at the edition. Thumbing through the thin pages, she squinted at the tiny typeset. A few passages were underlined in pencil.

  “Tell me your favourite passage,” Margaret asked, smiling at the prospect of having a common ground.

  “Oh, I don’t read it,” Ivy said. “With this in my hands, Garret thinks I am praying and he leaves me alone,” Ivy explained. “It’s the only peace and quiet I am permitted.”

  “Dear me,” Margaret whispered. Margaret looked to Ivy, who seemed to be avoiding her gaze. She looked back at the dreary house and shuddered at its foreboding. She wondered who spied on them from behind the curtains and shadows of the windows. “Let’s walk,” Margaret said, standing suddenly. She looped her arm into Ivy’s and pulled her up.

  For a moment, Ivy looked elated. But her expression betrayed her fear when she stole a glance back at the house. “Father says I’m no longer allowed to go off on my own.”

  “You’re not alone. You are with me,” Margaret answered gaily as she pulled Ivy away. “Besides, I already told your brother I intend to take you for a walk.” Margaret herself could feel the tension release from her own shoulders as they stepped farther and farther away.

  They walked for some time, first through the narrow woods that skirted the Summer Hill property before the path spit them out onto the top of a grassy clearing. A few oaks stood guard over the crest of an embankment, their roots exposed where the sod and dirt had eroded away to the river far below. Margaret and Ivy inched closer, eager to have a look. The waters, swollen from the torrents of recent rain, rushed energetically along, barring access to the meadow on the other side.

  “How far down is it?” Margaret asked, using the trunk of a tree to keep her on the top of the hill.

  The drop was considerable, as if the earth had been cut away by a giant’s carving knife. In front of them, Margaret and Ivy looked over the fields and forest. A small town could be seen, marked especially by the steeple of a church obscured by a cluster of trees. The sight was humbling, reminding Margaret how insignificant she was compared to the vastness of the world.

  Ivy smiled, amused by Margaret’s interest. “There’s a path,” she explained.

  Margaret’s gaze followed the steep trail, which resembled nothing of a walkable path, and saw a makeshift foot bridge at the bottom that crossed the water amongst some trees.

  “Samuel and his friend Matthew tried to scale down it last year,” Ivy said, breaking Margaret’s reverie.

  “They did not succeed?”

  Ivy shook her head. “Sam fell and broke his leg. That’s why he walks with a limp.” Ivy came to the other side of the oak trunk and looked over the edge. “It’s his portion of the curse,” Ivy explained.

  “Curse?” Margaret instinctively stepped away.

  Ivy nodded but showed no interest in elaborating. She turned and began a slow walk farther along the path.

  “What about Matthew?” Margaret called out against the gentle roar of the wind. “What happened to him?” she pressed.

  “He died.”

  They took a path that skirted the edge of the fields. The crops, sorghum and amaranth, looked to be struggling in the compacted earth. It had been a strange spring with excessive periods of rain and hardly enough sun to complete their circle of life. Margaret fingered the stout plants as they walked by.

  “Who tends your fields?” she asked. “Garret?”

  Ivy shook her head. “Samuel did but his leg bothers him too much,” she said. “We’ve had to hire some boys from the village. His curse is affecting us all.”

  “Why do you speak of curses? Surely you can’t believe in them?” Margaret asked without bothering to hide her amusement. She knew superstition abounded in the countryside but never met someone who tied so many reasonable events back to one.

  “But I do,” Ivy said. “We live in a cursed land, afforded by cursed means.”

  Ivy continued walking and Margaret kept pace. “The gambling?”

  Ivy said nothing.

  “What’s your portion of the curse?” Margaret asked, afraid of the answer she’d be given.

  “Grandfather says I shouldn’t talk about it.” Ivy said. “I think it will make you even more afraid.”

  Margaret shook her head. “I’m not afraid.”

  A smile began to form on Ivy’s lips. “Yes, you are.”

  If Margaret were honest with Ivy she’d have admit that Summer Hill Farm set her nerves on edge. As soon as she had stepped near the house she’d felt the burden of a hundred eyes bearing down on her. She swore she could hear whispers in the wind and cautions amongst the trees. Everything felt heavy on Margaret’s chest, ushering her away and back to the safety of The Briar.

  “Your brother should have let me fall,” Ivy said suddenly, her tone serious. “It would have been better for everyone had I died.”

  “Why are speaking this way?”

  A look of panic came over Ivy as she placed a hand on her lower abdomen and started to walk away.

  “Ivy, stop please.” Margaret pulled back on Ivy’s arm. “Tell me why you are so scared!”

  Ivy stopped and turned to Margaret so quickly Margaret was almost knocked back from the shock. “Because I am with child.” Ivy’s voice faltered slightly before she was able to gain control. “And I would rather die a thousand deaths than bring another soul into that godforsaken house.”

  Margaret and Ivy made their way back to the house in nagging silence. There were innumerable questions Margaret wished to ask but did not dare. Nothing could have been
more impertinent than to ask who the father of her unborn child was, so Margaret kept her questions to herself while hoping Ivy would choose to confide in her. Margaret couldn’t imagine she had much support from her family; unwed mothers most often didn’t. If Ivy was isolated from her family now, she’d be entirely disowned if her condition were revealed. Death would be very appealing, given the circumstances. Margaret closed her eyes and shook her head, trying in vain to push down a discomfort that churned inside her. She had been right. Ivy was in desperate need.

  As they neared the barn, the hooves of a horse could be heard thudding the wooden floor. Seconds later a sleek black horse appeared at the door, led by an older gentleman who held tightly to the beast’s harness. Rearing up and pounding his front hooves into the dirt of the road, the horse pulled at his restraints.

  The man jerked back on the leather straps and then struck the horse on the neck with an open palm. “Son of a bitch,” the man hissed through gritted teeth.

  Margaret heard Ivy gasp. “Father.”

  This time the animal sent out a great whinny of pain and bowed its head, all the while stomping its rear legs. Mr. Owen held fast to the harness with one hand and used the thick leather whip in the other to hit the flank of the horse while he pulled the horse from the barn. The horse turned, pulling his hind legs away from the man who beat him. So the man used the whip on the horse’s face, striking him again and again in a needless succession of brutality.

  A spectacle now, stable hands and other visitors to the farm stopped their activities to watch, but no one attempted to intervene.

  Margaret stepped forward, raising her hands up to halt the abuse before she felt Ivy’s hand tightly grasp her own. A sideways look to Ivy revealed a terrified expression and a subtle shake of the head. A warning.

  When Margaret looked back she saw Garret and Sam grabbing the reins and pulling the horse from their father’s frantic lashings.

  “I’ll teach you to buck on me!” their father said, taking one last swing, ignoring Samuel’s attempts to shield the horse.

  CRACK! The whip came down on Samuel, catching his forearm and cheekbone. Ivy gasped and raised her hands to her face to hide her tears.

  “Father!” Garret pushed his father back from the horse and placed himself in front of Samuel, who held his arm where the whip snapped on his flesh.

  Margaret rushed to Samuel to survey the damage. The flesh of his arm reddened as she watched and she could see an abrasion as wide as her thumbnail on his cheek.

  “He’s a brute!” Margaret pronounced.

  “It’s the drink,” Samuel said quietly, so only Margaret could hear.

  “What’s she doing here!” Mr. Owen yelled from behind them. Margaret turned cautiously and saw that Garret had been successful in taking the whip from their father.

  “He needs a doctor,” she proclaimed, not bothering to hide her disgust. She turned back to Samuel, who was blotting the cut with his palm and then inspecting the amount of blood. “My brother, he can give you a stitch,” she said quietly.

  “You’re the one from The Briar then?”

  Margaret stood tall and met Mr. Owen’s gaze squarely. “Lady Margaret Marshall, daughter of the Earl of Montcliff,” Margaret answered haughtily. Normally, she’d not have reminded people of her father’s position in the peerage, but she wanted to use her family’s title to ensure the man dared not harm her.

  He stumbled as he took a few steps toward her. Clearly, he was inebriated, and Margaret had already decided he was an angry drunk. “Aren’t you just like the rest of ’em,” he said, sending spittle in their direction, “thinking ye can come here and spy on me and my family.” He stopped a pace from Margaret, towering at least a foot over her. He looked far more haggard than one would expect for someone his age. His skin looked dark and crisp due to years of work in the unrelenting sun. Pockmarks scarred his jowls and neck, a condition that made it hard for Margaret to look him in the eyes as she ought. “You think I need you skulking about?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “It’s bad enough you try to take my daughter from me, now you want my son.” The old man’s words ran together into one. Margaret glanced over her shoulder to Ivy, who had taken hold of Margaret’s arm. Angry drunk men were immune to soothing tones and attempts at resolution. They only knew pain and fear.

  Ivy began pulling Margaret away. “Let’s away, Miss Margaret,” she said in a desperate whisper.

  “Your brother needs a few stitches,” Margaret said.

  “He’ll need plenty more than that when I am done with him!” Ivy’s father charged for Samuel again. Margaret and Ivy tried to run, pulling at Samuel’s arm to get him away, but Mr. Owen reached them before they could move. Margaret was pushed to the side roughly. Both she and Ivy fell to the gravel. By the time they scrambled to their feet Samuel and his father were caught in a struggle, each one throwing fists with one hand while holding the other back with the other. It truly wasn’t a fair fight. Samuel was taller, bigger, and completely sober. He hit his father reluctantly, obviously not wanting to cause the man harm, but also needing to defend himself against the onslaught. When Garret placed himself between them the struggle ended with a single blow. Mr. Owen stumbled to the ground with blood pouring from his nose.

  Garret gestured for some farmhands to come forward. “Take him to the house and clean him up,” he said, slightly out of breath. The men obliged and gathered their assignment from the dust.

  Margaret found herself pulled away by Ivy but she couldn’t take her eyes from the drunken man, now moaning and writhing in pain as he held a hand to his nose. “Grandfather won’t like this,” Ivy said under her breath.

  Garret dusted off his hat on his pant leg as he walked toward Margaret.

  “Were you hurt?” he asked.

  Margaret shook her head slightly, unable to fully commit to the action because of the shock. She hadn’t expected Mr. Owen to react to her the way he did, and she certainly did not see Garret as the type of man who’d be able to defeat a man with one strike, even a drunken one.

  “Ivy, see that Lady Margaret gets to her carriage,” Garret said, gesturing toward the lane that would take her from the property. Ivy stepped forward, keeping a watchful eye on her father, and looped her arm around Margaret’s.

  “I told my driver to go,” Margaret said, turning in place to follow Garret as he paced.

  Garret pointed farther down the lane. Walter was just beyond the barn, running toward the crowd and the dust that had been kicked up. Looking beyond him, Margaret could see the horse team beneath the shade. A look of relief came over the driver when he saw Margaret unharmed.

  “Come, miss,” Ivy said, her voice shaky.

  Seeing the girls coming, Walter turned and hurried back to the carriage to ready the horses.

  With each step that took her farther from the house Margaret felt greater relief. The carriage wasn’t far and Margaret knew it had just been Garret’s way of removing her from the embarrassing scene.

  “Would you believe me if I told you he won’t remember it in the morning?” Ivy said once they were out of earshot of the others.

  “I believe you,” Margaret answered. “I am well aware of the effects of drink.”

  Ainsley’s love affair with his flask had taught her a number of things about the effects of alcohol and the various forms of drunkenness it provoked. “Perhaps he grieves for your mother,” Margaret offered, remembering what Bethany had told her.

  Ivy shook her head. “No, he’s always been like this. My mother’s death was her reward for having survived this for as many years as she did.” She stole a glance back at the house but kept pace with Margaret.

  Halfway between the house and the carriage, with Walter preparing the team for their departure, Margaret turned and took both Ivy’s hands in her own, a gesture that forced Ivy to look at her squarely and not avoid what Margaret so desperately wanted to say.

  “Ivy, have you told anyone of the child you ca
rry?” she asked, giving a quick glance over the girl’s shoulder to make sure they would not be overheard. “The child’s father even?”

  Ivy shook her head slowly. “I have confided in no one,” she said, “only you.”

  Margaret wasn’t so sure she wanted such a distinction. “How far along are you?”

  Ivy swallowed, most likely unsure. “I don’t know. A few weeks I suppose,” she offered.

  “Is the man in a position to marry you? It can be arranged in a matter of days. No one has to know.”

  Ivy tried to avoid Margaret’s gaze but Margaret moved wherever the girl’s eyes went.

  “He must be held to account. It is as much his child as yours.” Margaret searched Ivy’s face but saw nothing. It was if the girl pretended not to hear her. “Very well,” Margaret said, her plan defeated.

  She couldn’t imagine what Mr. Owen’s response would be were he to find out. It was still unclear to Margaret whether he intended to do her harm. “I can see now why you are afraid,” Margaret said at last.

  She glanced over her shoulder to the carriage that waited. Walter was no doubt eager to get Margaret home. Ivy must have seen it as well.

  “You should go, Lady Margaret,” she said, her voice low.

  Margaret hesitated and then nodded but still did not release Ivy’s hand. “You will come to me, won’t you,” she asked, “if there is anything you need?”

  Ivy nodded and gave a half smile before pulling her hands away.

  Margaret was not ready for their parley to end. There was so much she needed to know: who the father was, how she came to be pregnant out of wedlock, but most important of all, how she planned to hide her pregnancy from her father. She wanted to reassure Ivy that everything would be all right, that she would help and even give her sanctuary should it come to that.

  She had an uneasy feeling about leaving Ivy behind, a trepidation that she could not shake even as the carriage rolled down the hill and away from Summer Hill. On her way home, she vacillated between telling Ivy’s secret to Peter, to see what counsel he could give, or remaining mum. In the end, she decided it was not her secret to tell.