I nodded in agreement. I did know there were no church bells ringing under that water. But I also knew what I’d heard, and it wasn’t my imagination – that was Dave’s rationalisation for anything I said that he didn’t like. Nor was it the first time I’d heard the bells. I picked up my tea and followed him back inside; I’d lost the dream that had woken me – all I could remember was a sense of a black abyss and fear, and that could mean anything or nothing, I might as well try and go back to sleep.
I paused in the doorway and turned back to the view. Everything seemed peaceful out there, but I could have sworn I’d heard the bells again, just faintly, when I’d reached for the door.
I climbed into bed and curled up against my husband, grateful for his warmth.
‘God, you’re freezing, Emma, come here.’ Dave pulled the covers up around my chin and pulled me closer to him. ‘This has really got to you, hasn’t it? It’s just a bit of left over nightmare, that’s all, nothing to worry about.’
‘No, there were stories, as a kid. Hearing the bells meant something, something bad, but I can’t remember what.’
‘Shush, they were stories – you of all people know the power of those. The bells are in your imagination, they’re not an omen. Nothing bad’s going to happen, they were just stories.’
He stroked my face and I lifted it, ready for his kiss, but I couldn’t shake the foreboding that gripped me. Dave’s kisses grew more urgent and he moved on top of me, kissing my neck, then pushed my vest top up and kissed my breasts, my belly, then lower. I tangled my fingers in his hair, losing myself in the familiar sensations, in the feel of him, and gradually forgot my fears.
*
Later I lay in his arms listening to his gentle snores, but was still unable to settle myself. I thought back to the day I’d met him five years ago. I was still writing my first pirate novel and had been in my favourite coffee shop, scribbling away. I’d lost myself in those beautiful old sailing ships, and it had taken a while for me to realise someone was speaking to me.
When I looked up, I realised the coffee shop was full and this man wanted to sit at my table. I must have been ignoring him for some time because he seemed both embarrassed and cross, and I moved my bag and papers to give him room. I tried to get back to the Caribbean, but the spell had been broken. I smiled politely while inwardly cursing him for disturbing me.
‘What are you writing about?’
‘The Zephyr,’ I answered. ‘Pirates for girls.’
‘What?’
‘The Zephyr is my fictional pirate ship.’
‘I see. Why the Zephyr?’
‘It’s named for Zephyrus, one of the Greek wind gods. Isn’t it a wonderful word? I like how it looks on the page almost as much as how it sounds. Zephyr.’
He nodded. ‘Pirates for girls? So – Johnny Depp?’ He chuckled.
‘No, not that kind of pirates for girls,’ I answered, smiling back in spite of myself. ‘Although they are in the Caribbean. I’m fascinated by those wonderful old sailing ships and the life they promised. Did you know the pirates of the Caribbean were the most democratic society of their time? And the cruellest – and greediest of course. There’s a lesson in there,’ I babbled, hardly aware of what I was saying.
‘What, dictatorships are kinder?’ he asked, his eyebrows raised.
‘No, of course not, I just find it ironic, that’s all. That the same men who prized freedom so highly wasted it so extravagantly.’
He smiled and held his right hand across the table. ‘David Moorcroft,’ he introduced himself.
‘Emma Carter.’ I shook his hand. He was quite good looking: dark hair, blue eyes, quite heavily built. He had a dimple on one side of his mouth – the right – a cleft chin and a slightly too heavy brow. He was clean shaven and wore a suit.
‘What do you do?’ I asked, nosey as ever – an essential attribute for a writer.
‘Architect,’ he replied. ‘What do you do?’
I stared at him, then my manuscript in surprise. ‘I’m a writer.’ I laughed. ‘Well, trying to be anyway – all I need is an agent and a publisher, and I’ll have cracked it!’
He smiled. A year later I had a publishing deal and we were married.
Chapter 11 - Jennet
20th August 1776
I turned over on to my side, pulled the fleece tightly around me, and sighed in frustration. I had no idea what time it were, but I should have been asleep hours ago. I sighed again. Richard Ramsgill. I could not get him out of my head. Images of him pouring his whiskybae, holding my hand, the look on his face when he had talked of Mam, the feel of his whiskers on my face . . .
I turned on to my other side and hugged the memory of his kiss close to me, my body warming as I stroked my cheek with my fingers. He were the only person who were happy to talk to me about Mam and Pa. Oh Mary Farmer tried, but she were more interested in keeping me busy so that I did not talk about them – or even think about them. But how could I not? The house had always been filled with them – Mam’s cooking and the strange smells of the healing preparations she made all day long. The nights filled with Pa’s snores and grunts and . . . other sounds.
Nobody in the village mentioned them – some would not look at me and even walked away when they saw me coming. Frightened my bad luck would rub off on them, no doubt. Cowards. I scowled.
But I were not completely alone. Richard Ramsgill looked at me, talked to me, touched me . . .
I turned over again, this time with a grin. He had loved Mam; he had only married Elizabeth because he could not have Mam. And now he loved me. So what if he were over forty and I were fifteen? I were a woman, of marriageable age – and a catch now with my own farm. A small one, aye, nowt like the size of the Ramsgills’ holdings, and plenty of women my age married older, wealthy men. I frowned, remembering Elizabeth – she were not much older. Well, so what if he were already married? He must know what he were doing. Perhaps Elizabeth were ill and he were thinking of the future – a future with me?
Even if Elizabeth were well, Richard Ramsgill could do what he liked in this valley – the only men who could stand up to him were his father and his brother, Thomas, or “our Thom” as Richard called him. If Richard Ramsgill wanted me, there were nowt his wife could do about it. And I needed him, I needed a friend and I needed a friend’s help. I could have lost this farm if he had not stood up to Thomas and found out the truth of the inheritable tenancy and the rights it gave me with the enclosures. And he had offered to send a man to help on the farm – I would not be able to manage the sheep without that. It had taken all three of us to gather enough winter fodder for them last year – I would not be able to do that on my own this time. No, I were lucky – lucky to have such a good friend, whatever Mary Farmer said about him.
I rolled over again, then sat up with a start at a noise outside. I sat as still as I could, then jumped when someone hammered on the door. I dared not move.
‘Jennet! Jennet, is thee there, lass? Quick, let me in before some bugger sees me!’
Richard Ramsgill! I jumped out of bed and ran downstairs to the door. I smoothed my old linen shift and my hair as best I could, knowing I must look a right sight after all my tossing and turning.
He banged on the door again. Called my name. My heart leaping, I opened the door.
He swayed in the doorway, framed by the feeble pre-dawn light. I stepped aside to let him in and poked the fire back into life, excitement shivering through me as I thought of Mary Farmer watching from her window and seeing a Ramsgill at my door at dawn. How horrified she would be!
‘Lass,’ he said as he tried to run his fingers through my hair, then grabbed my shoulder as he nearly fell. I grunted, but kept my feet and put my hands on his chest to steady him.
‘What’s thee done to me, lass? Been at Gate all night, couldn’t stop thinking ‘bout thee. Bewitched me, thee has, bewitched me with Alice’s eyes.’ He kissed me. Roughly this time, his whiskers �
� the feel of which I had so enjoyed earlier – scratched my face. He stank and tasted of Robert Grange’s strong beer. Smelled like Pa after he had celebrated the sale of the wethers or a good lambing.
‘Shouldn’t be here, lass, shouldn’t be here. Can’t be anywhere else, can’t help mesen.’ He kissed me again, and I felt warmth flood through my body at the insistent pressure of his mouth. His arms circled me – holding me tight. I never wanted him to let me go. I stumbled back with the weight of him and he came with me.
‘Oh aye, lass, aye.’ I could feel a hardness against my belly, which were fluttering like dragonflies darting over the marshes, and my breath grew harder and sharper. I moved my hands over his chest, copying the way he stroked my back, my waist, my backside.
I stepped back from him again to catch my breath, overwhelmed. Nowt like this had happened to me before. Oh, Arthur Weaver had stolen a kiss last Mayday, and it had been nice, but he were only a boy – he had not made my heart pound like this, my chest heave with the effort of drawing breath. He were not a man, not like Richard Ramsgill.
‘What’s up, lass? Thee knows I love thee, don’t thee? Thee knows thee’s bewitched me with her eyes, got me thinking ‘bout nowt else? Bewitched me with her eyes,’ he said again. ‘But thee’s not her, is thee lass? Thee’s even more beautiful. Thy hair . . .’ He paused, this time managing to run his hand through it, carrying on, stroking my back through my thin shift, my body shuddering at his touch. ‘Thee wouldn’t forsake me for a stranger, would thee, lass? Would thee?’ he asked again, more forcefully.
‘No,’ I whispered, then said it again, louder. ‘No, I won’t forsake thee, Mr. Ramsgill.’
He laughed. ‘Mr. Ramsgill, is it? I think we’re beyond misters, lass. Call me Richard.’ He pulled back. ‘Only when we’re alone, though. Only when we’re alone. Ahh!’ He had spotted his hip flask on the table. ‘Thought I might’ve left that here.’ He lurched over, grabbed it, uncorked it and took a deep draught. ‘Here, thee too, lass. It’s cold, thee’s shivering, this’ll warm thee up.’
I took the flask from him and sipped it, managing not to cough. I had drunk some earlier, trying to feel closer to him after he had left, and the fire of it did not shock me any more.
‘Aye, that’s right lass, getting a taste for it, ain’t thee? Just like thy mam. Have some more, go on, there’s plenty.’ I took a longer drink, and this time did cough. He laughed and I joined in, passing the flask back to him. He drank deeply and looked around him.
He moved to the staircase, then up, and I hurried after him, my heart thumping and my mouth dry. What on earth were he doing? I followed him to my bedroom door which I had left open, my mattress visible in the dim light. He went in and stood by it, then turned to me. ‘Come here, lass.’
My heart beat faster again, but I did not move. I suddenly felt scared. What does he want me to do? I don’t know what to do!
‘Come on, lass, there’s nowt to be afeared of.’ He held out his hand to me and my body moved towards him, almost of its own will. Were I really going to do this? With Richard Ramsgill? Were Richard Ramsgill really going to do this with me?
He grabbed my arm when I got close enough and fell backwards on to the mattress, pulling me with him. I cried out in surprise and we both laughed. ‘Aye, that’s right, lass. Nowt to be afeared of. Nowt at all.’
He kissed me again, not quite so roughly as before, and I hardly noticed the taste of the beer now – I could only taste whiskybae. One hand were behind my head holding my face to his, and the other were on my backside again. I felt a cold draught as my shift were pulled up, his hand gathering fold after fold as he exposed my skin to the cold air. I shivered.
‘Thee cold, lass?’
‘No. No, I’m not,’ I whispered and he smiled, then rolled us over so I were lying on my back underneath him, my shift around my hips. He propped himself up on his arms and stared at me, his eyes drifting from my face, lingering on my chest, then further down to the tops of my legs now visible below the shift.
‘Take it off,’ he whispered, his voice hoarse. ‘Take it off, I want to see thee.’
I did not move for a moment. Do I dare? Do I really dare to do as he asks? His eyes rose to my face and, as we stared into each other, I slipped two shaking hands between us and grabbed hold of my shift. I took a deep breath and slowly started to pull the old, thin linen up my body. I lifted my hips to free the material and it were bunched around my waist. Then I stopped. I could not lift it further without sitting up and I could not sit up when he were leaning so closely over me. He realised my problem and reared up, kneeling astride my thighs and I pulled the shift further, raising my upper body as I did so. His eyes had left mine and I pulled my belly in tight as it came into his view, my breath coming in little gasps as I watched his eyes caress my exposed body. Is he smiling? It’s hard to tell in the gloom.
I took a deep breath and pulled my shift higher, amazed at my daring, my . . . my . . . wantonness. Aye, that were the word, my wantonness, and I realised I wanted this, I wanted to be with this man. I wanted never to be alone again. I drew a deep breath and pulled the shift over my breasts – I were almost sitting up now, then further until it were over my head and gone.
‘Ahh, that’s good, lass, oh aye, that’s good.’ I lay back down, naked, beneath him and he reached out to touch my breast – my left one first, his hand stroking it, circling the nipple, then cupping it and squeezing. Now both his hands kneaded my flesh and I gasped as he gripped too hard and pain shot through me.
‘Aye, thee likes that don’t thee, lass?’
‘Mm,’ I groaned and arched my back into his grip.
He stood suddenly and I looked at him in bewilderment. What have I done wrong? Then I realised he were fumbling with his clothes and they piled up around his feet. Jacket, shirt, breeches.
I stared at him. I had seen naked men before – it were impossible not to when families lived so closely together – but I had never seen a naked man like this before. He laughed and his hand closed around himself, moving rhythmically as I watched, then he moved and were once again astride me. I reached out to touch his chest and he grabbed my hand to move it lower until I had hold of him. His hand closed around mine and he made the same movements. I tightened my grip and soon I were doing it on my own, his breathing hoarse and his hands on my breasts again. Then they were moving lower, over my belly and lower still.
I froze, my legs tight together and my hand still. He reached between his legs and started my hand moving again, then reached back to me.
‘It’s all righ.t lass, there’s nowt to worry about. Relax.’ He leaned down and kissed me, and I took a deep breath and relaxed. He pushed his hand between us.
‘Oh.’ I gasped as I felt his finger, slippery with a wetness I had not realised were there.
‘Aye that’s it, lass, move thy legs a bit.’
I did as he asked and his finger delved deeper and started moving.
‘Oh!’ I said again, surprised at the sensations this simple movement were causing. I parted my legs a little more. He moved his finger lower and probed, then smiled. ‘Ahh, I’m the first. That’s good, lass, that’s good. Just relax.’
He leaned over me and took hold of himself. I pulled my hand away and rested it on his thigh. He moved closer, till he were almost lying on top of me. I could not see his face; he were looking down there, and I raised my head, trying to see what he were doing. Then I cried out in pain as he stabbed into me.
‘Don’t worry, lass, just relax, it’s right. Won’t hurt no more now.’
I stared at the roof. I had not expected pain. Mam had not sounded in pain at night with Pa.
He pulled away, then back in. It did not hurt as much this time and I started to relax. Again, again and again. Then he groaned and fell on top of me. I held him, not knowing what to do.
‘Ahh, that were good, lass.’
I had no idea what to say, so stayed quiet. He were heavy and I stru
ggled to breathe. Finally, he rolled off me and we lay side by side in silence.
Once his breathing slowed, he heaved himself off the bed and scrabbled for his clothes. My hand found my shift and I shrugged it on, feeling exposed. Fully dressed now, he leaned over and kissed me. ‘Good, really good, but got to get back, work to be done.’ He stroked my face. ‘Beautiful,’ he said. ‘Beautiful, I’ll see thee soon.’
When he had gone, I hugged myself. I were truly a woman now. And not just any woman – Richard Ramsgill’s woman. I smiled.
Chapter 12 - Emma
31st August 2012
I woke once again sitting up in bed, heart pounding.
‘What is it, not another one?’
‘No, not a nightmare – a memory. Sorry to wake you, Dave.’ I couldn’t say any more and got out of bed. Dave followed me to the bathroom.
‘What? What is it?’
‘Nothing.’ I stroked his face to reassure him and did my best to smile. ‘Honestly, it’s ok, just a scare from the haunted house I’d forgotten about.’
‘The haunted house?’
‘Yes, Mark and Kathy’s place before they did it up. Just kids’ fanciful stuff. It’s nothing really.’
He said nothing for a while then, ‘Tell me again, why did you want to build here? I thought this was a happy place for you.’
‘Yes, so did I. It was. It is. I don’t know what’s going on – you’re probably right, it’s just my imagination working overtime – maybe it’ll all make a good book!’
‘Let’s hope. Are you sure you’re all right?’ he asked again.
‘Yes, nothing a hot shower won’t fix,’ I replied firmly. ‘Now go downstairs and put the coffee on.’
Brushing my teeth, I looked out of the window and up the hill to the haunted house. For a moment I saw it as it had been when I was a child: decrepit, burnt and filthy with a fallen down animal shed and a low dry stone wall running up the side. There had been no high garden walls or security cameras then. Hell, there’d been no glass in the windows or a staircase, and it had only been inhabited by sheep and cows.
The Haunting of Thores-Cross Page 5