by Mary Wood
‘Her deliveries?’
‘Aye, she brings all the Breckton young ’uns into the world – has done since as long as I can remember. And as most of them come during the night, she often loses her sleep. Anyroad, the point is most of them drop more young ’uns than rabbits do, so she’s always busy trying to keep up with them all.’
‘Ha, Isabella! You’re a tonic, even when you don’t know you are. Well . . .’ Andrew couldn’t finish his sentence for laughing, but then a more serious thought hit him: how come these women could ‘drop more young ’uns than rabbits do’ and not have problems like Dvina had? Oh, he knew infant mortality was high amongst them, which was down to many things and saddened him, but they did carry their babies fullterm. What was the secret to that? Not that he had the time or inclination to discuss the matter with this servant girl. ‘Well, I’ll not keep you, and I have to get over to Hensal Grange. How long are you at home for?’
‘I have three days, sir, as I missed having my day off last month and the month before, with all that was going on.’
‘I’ll be in touch. Just give me time to speak to my wife about the situation, as I think there might be a solution to your mother wanting to stay on with us . . . Look, it isn’t common knowledge yet – nor do I want it to be, as it’s early days – but Mrs Harvey is expecting a baby. The thought has occurred to me that maybe your mother could assist her over the next few months. She must have a good knowledge of these things, and perhaps her advice would help prevent another loss.’
‘Eeh, I’m reet pleased for you, sir. It’s nice to hear some good news at last. And I know me ma could help; she’s known for coaxing along any as has trouble getting to full-term. She’s like a sponge – like knowledge has just soaked into her from nowhere. Even Dr Payne consults her on occasions, which gives her a real kick into boastful land. You should see her strut around, like she’s a doctor herself or sommat.’
Isabella never failed to make him laugh. Boastful land, indeed! Where did she get her sayings from? Her mother had always made Andrew laugh in the past, too, but of late she had been very weary and had lost some of her zest. If Dvina agreed, and Mrs Harman gave up the drudgery of kitchen work and took on the care of Dvina in a nursing capacity, maybe she’d get back her jovial way of looking at life. If she did, she’d be good for Dvina, keep her spirits up. And who knows, maybe she could help this child make it into the world. ‘Well, goodbye, Isabella. Take care and enjoy your break. I’ll speak to you soon. In fact, come up to the house at two tomorrow afternoon. I think I may have some news for you by then.’
He waved to her as he rode off. Issy felt her mood lift. She’d many a time longed to work nearer to home, and had wanted of late to have her ma give up the long hours of standing on her feet. It seemed both things could come true at last, and she knew her ma could help Miss Dvina. Funny how she still thought of Mrs Harvey as Miss Dvina, though she’d have to be careful not to use that term to her face, if things did work out how Mr Harvey had said.
It’s strange, she thought, but the last couple of times Miss Dvina had been pregnant, her ma had said she could have prevented the losses. She’d said as much to Dr Payne, but he’d not wanted her to interfere with the gentry. He was glad of her help with the working class, though, as she saved him money and time.
Issy wasn’t sure what it was her ma did, though she knew it must be something to do with her herbal potions, her good advice and the general reassurance she gave. Maybe if she lived at home, her ma would teach her. This thought warmed her as she realized it was work she’d love to do.
After she’d walked another couple of miles, Issy remembered her other worry and wished she’d broached it with Mr Harvey. In her last letter her ma had told her how worried she was about keeping on her cottage. It seemed there were plans to bring in more men, now that Tacker’s Mine was joining Hensal Grange Mine. She’d heard how all the widows might have to leave, at least those with no young ’uns still dependent on them. Not that there was many of them left now: most women had remarried or left the area. But her ma still lived in the cottage she had shared with Da, and in which she herself had been born. How would she cope with having to leave it?
A movement in the bushes made her jump. The smell of wood burning and the sounds of a fire crackling heightened her sense that someone was in the thicket. She looked around her, and the vastness of the wide-open space increased her fear. No cottage or building was in sight. The hills to the left stood looking back at her, barren and rugged. Sheep dotted the field to her right. Something had spooked them and they had set off running, their bleats blotting out all other sound as Issy stood still listening. Her breath laboured in her lungs and sweat stood out on her forehead. How many times had she walked this route and never had a care? Now it seemed like a frightening place.
A twig snapped, and Issy’s body stiffened. Maybe it was a poacher. The thicket was a good place to set snares: its dense foliage attracted the rabbits, and she’d heard of wild boar in the area. If it wasn’t for the tinge of smoke, she’d have thought an animal was responsible for the noises. The painful thumping of her heart against her ribs warned her of danger. Pollyanna Smith had been attacked on her way home a few weeks ago, and said she thought her attacker was a gypsy. Issy shuddered as she remembered what had happened to Polly. She had lost more than her wages . . .
A voice came from the thicket and the accent told her he was one of the Irish: ‘Aren’t you a bonny looker? Will you throw me your purse, or have I to take it from you?’
Though fearing for her life, she stood firm. ‘You leave me alone. Mr Harvey has just ridden past. If I scream he will come back, and then you will catch it.’
‘I was for seeing Mr Harvey meself, so I was, and I watched him talking to you. He has long gone and won’t be for helping you. Now throw me your purse and I might let you go unharmed.’
Issy peered in the direction of the voice, but she couldn’t make out who he was or how big he was. Her purse held three months’ wages. This was money she and Ma needed to survive, especially if they’d to look for somewhere to rent in the near future. She decided to try to bluff her way out of giving it up. ‘I haven’t any money on me. I’m just out for a walk.’
‘Don’t be giving me that. Sure I know who you are and where you work. You have a good position, so you do, and you haven’t been home for a while. So it’s heavy that your purse is, if I am guessing right.’
The bushes parted. A large man stood in front of her, a scarf covering his face, like the highwaymen whose pictures she’d seen in the books she used to read as a child.
‘In fact, I’ve a mind to take more than your money. I have it on good word you haven’t been taken down before, Isabella Harman, and I think I am the man to be putting that right.’
‘No, no! You can have me money. Here.’ She threw her purse at him and turned away ready to run, but his hands grasped her from behind. She kicked her legs back, trying to aim for his crotch. She knew that would disable him, but he was nimble and moved his body out of her way.
‘You vixen! Is it that you are trying to damage me manhood? Well, the only damage it’s going to have is in breaking you in, you old spinster. What is it you are now? Mid-twenties at least, and you still a virgin. Yet you’ve been ripe for the pleasure of a man this good while.’
As he spoke he wrestled her to the ground. Before Issy could right herself enough to stop him, he had both her hands trapped under his knees. He sat back on his haunches, and his hands went to his buttons.
‘No, please don’t! Don’t . . .’ She twisted her body, trying to dislodge him, but she couldn’t. ‘No . . . No!’
Her screams assaulted her own ears, but did nothing to help her. His hand lashed her face. A stinging pain from her eye to her chin made her catch her breath in her lungs. Blood trickled into her mouth. His weight crushed her arms. She tried not to watch, but as she turned her head she saw what he’d released from his trousers. Her heart beat despair through her body, but she co
uldn’t take her eyes from it. His laugh brought her eyes to his face, and there she read the depths of his lust. His voice thick and husky, he said, ‘Is it to your liking, then?’
She turned her head away, but then a searing pain ripped her as he yanked her by her hair, forcing her to look at him.
‘You’re going to have this, as sure as there is a sun in the sky, spinster.’ He moved his knee off her left arm and started to tug her skirts up above her knee. She writhed about as much as she could, flailing at him with her free arm, but she could not free herself. His knee prised open her legs, and his hand pushed up her bloomers.
‘No, don’t . . . No . . .’ Her voice hung in the depths of nowhere as she took the weight of his body. She could do nothing.
It didn’t hurt when he entered her. She supposed the fumbling she and Denny had engaged in, and enjoyed so much as a forerunner to being husband and wife, had paved the way for a man to do such a thing to her. But though she felt no physical pain, the hurt to the very core of her was immense. How could this vile man do this to her? Oh, God . . .
His body thrust into hers. The stones of the rough ground beneath her dug into her back. She pushed him, hit out at him, begged him to stop, but none of it made a difference. His pleasure hollered from him. His sweat dripped onto her, and with his hands he ripped open her bodice. The breeze chilled her exposed breasts. He stopped his pounding and grabbed her upper arms, holding them so that she could no longer hit him, then he lowered his head, manoeuvred his scarf up so that she still couldn’t see his face and began to lick and suck her breasts. This shocked her. He’d stopped being rough and caressed her with his tongue whilst he moved gently in and out of her. To her intense shame, something in her responded to this treatment. Feelings she couldn’t understand, but didn’t want to stop, took her over. She willed them to increase, knowing they would intensify – she wanted them to. Oh, God, what was happening to her? Why did she want this? It was wrong . . . wrong . . .
Her body started to writhe with him, instead of against him, as it took the onslaught of the thrills sizzling through her, fragmenting her resolve to fight. When he released her nipple and looked up, he said, ‘Good girl, that’s right. It is for you to enjoy, my lovely. That’s right, so it is – take it, take it . . .’
The feeling that took her as he thrust ever deeper into her forced a cry from her. The shame of her mixed with the heightening of the pleasure he gave her. Her inner self fought with the part of her that knew she should resist; she begged him to stop, even while wanting him not to, as the feeling built in violent waves of pleasure that she could hardly bear. His moans joined hers as he held himself stiff. She felt him pulsate inside her and she was lost . . .
After a moment it passed and he slumped down onto her. Tears flowed down her cheeks. Drained of energy, she lay still under him until he rolled off. Something about his silence disturbed her. Moving away from him, she went to rise, but he pulled her back down. ‘’Tis sorry I am for taking you in such a way. But ’tis as I am glad for knowing you enjoyed it, too.’
‘I didn’t, you filthy scum. You bastard! Leave me alone. Let me go!’
‘Is it a teasing bitch as you are? Didn’t I feel the pleasure I gave you rock your very being? Are you to deny that, Isabella?’
‘Who are you? How do you know me?’ Her voice shook with the emotion still vibrating through her. She went to grab his scarf, wanting confirmation of who she knew him to be. He stayed her hand, and she said, ‘If you were a man, you’d take off that scarf and show your face to me.’ She straightened her skirt down and did up her bodice. ‘I hope the law catch you. You think you can waylay women and steal their money and rape them at will, but they’ll catch you, and then you’ll hang. And I’ll be outside the gate cheering when you do. Now let me go.’
‘Ha, ’tis funny you are. Off you go, I’ve no more use for you. But if you be wanting some of the same, just come down to the Irish quarter and ask for the traveller . . .’ His laughter echoed around the silent valley as he stood up, pulled up his trousers and did up the buttons, before picking up her purse and disappearing back into the thicket.
Issy tried to stand. Her legs shook. Sobs racked her body. Disgust with herself shuddered through her. Pulling her shawl around her, she bent her head and started to run. But then she stopped; she needed to see him, get a description of him. No other lass should have to face an attack by him, and this resolve gave her courage. She stood for a moment and thought it through. If she turned into the thicket, she could approach his camp from the clearing just beyond. She’d be able to see the smoke from there and follow the trail to it. As long as she kept in the shadow of the trees he wouldn’t see her, and he wouldn’t be looking out anyway, as her seeking him out would be the last thing he’d expect.
She had him in her view, watching the water that he splashed himself with run off his naked, bronzed body. If only he would turn around. Not that she needed him to, in order to know his identity: seeing his painted Vardo had given her an inkling of who he was. It had been many years since he had been in the area, but it could be the travelling lad who used to visit every season and help on the land. She couldn’t remember his name, but Mr Harvey would, as he used to welcome him and give him work.
A sick disgust settled in her when he did face her. It was him! He stopped rubbing himself down and looked over to where she stood. Every nerve, every sinew of her body froze. He cocked his head and peered harder, then laughed and shouted over, ‘Is it that you have come for more?’ She shrank back. When he spoke again his voice had lost its humour. ‘Just let me put me clothes on and it’ll be your last breath you are for taking.’
Branches clawed at her hair as she stumbled through the thicket. Daring to look back, she could no longer see him or his camp. Gasping in air, it took all her effort to keep up the pace she had set. But she had to get away . . .
A crack split the space around her, setting up a mayhem of birds taking to the air. Their cries and squawks deafened her, and a rabbit scuttled past. Issy stood still, unable to move for fear. He had a gun! Sweat trickled down her cold body. Her throat ached. Everything around her settled back to normal, leaving her stranded in a silent cocoon. Footsteps snapped twigs and crunched through the natural debris of the woodland. They stopped. A gun cocked. Her legs shook. She waited.
A mocking laugh snapped her nerves. ‘Not this time, spinster, but you’re marked, if it’s the law you think to put on me. I will be after doing you a favour in return. Haven’t I heard you have a sick mother? If you’re not for wanting her dispatched to her maker before her time, then be after keeping your mouth shut.’
The footsteps retreated, and with the relief of this Issy found she could move again. She made it to the nearest tree, slumped against it and wept. After a moment, trying to piece together the fragments of herself, she set off for home. When she came to the road, she started to run and didn’t stop until she came to the Miners’ Row. Slowing her pace, she tried to look as if nothing had happened, keeping her head down and praying no one would come out and stop her. It wasn’t to be. Gertie – the one to pass on any gossip to, if you wanted it spreading – stepped out of her door just as she came up to it, saying, ‘Issy, love, what’s happened? Oh God, your face!’
Her mind instantly gave her a lie as she pulled her shawl tight around her. ‘I went into the thicket to have a pee. Oh, Gertie, love, I lost me purse. I didn’t notice till I’d walked a mile or so. I had to go back to look for it. I tripped and fell and hit me head. I . . . I’ve lost all me wages.’
A sob wrenched from Issy, hurting her breastbone and making her want to give into Gertie’s suggestion as she said, ‘Aw, lass. Come on inside. Me ma’ll help you. She’ll clean you up. And don’t worry about your purse. It’ll still be there; no one goes in them woods. We’ll get a few of us together tomorrow and go and look, eh?’
If her lie had been the truth, Gertie’s words would have soothed her, but instead the thought of the deceit she’d have to ke
ep up made Issy sick to the stomach. And what would she say if that bastard had planted a babby inside her? Oh, God, she couldn’t think on that. She just needed to get home to bathe the filth from her and shut the nightmare out of her life.
‘I won’t, Gertie, if you don’t mind. Me ma’ll be in soon, and she’ll see to me. Ta, though, for your thoughts, and don’t go looking for me purse. I have a mind you won’t find it. We’ll have to stand the loss.’ The thought of the gypsy seeing them and thinking they were looking for him terrified her.
Gertie hugged her to her. ‘All right, love, if that’s what you want. I’ll look in on you later. And don’t worry: when that thing happened to Pollyanna, them at the social club all chipped in for her. When they hear of this, I’m sure as they’ll be doing the same.’
‘Don’t, Gertie. Please don’t be telling anyone. Leave it be, eh?’
Gertie looked at her. A shadow of shock passed over her face as she said, ‘Issy, no, lass . . .’
‘Look, love, I lost me purse. That’s all. If you never do owt else for me, just accept that and keep your mouth shut. Promise me.’
‘Aye, alreet. Keep your hair under its pins. I were only trying to help.’
Using the last of her strength, Issy took hold of Gertie’s hand. ‘I know, love. You have a kind heart, but in this case least said, the safer I’ll be.’
‘Oh, Issy . . . alreet, love, but you know I’m here for you.’ She hated deceiving Gertie, but she had no choice, and she wasn’t at all sure she’d managed it. Gertie could be canny about things, but although she liked to spread a snippet if she got hold of one, she had no harm in the bones of her and Issy felt she could trust her on this.
When she reached home, she let herself in and sank to the floor. Her body wept with every part of itself, but her mind held onto a small pocket of the feelings that had assaulted her very being and turned the vileness of it against her: accusing her, telling her that in the end she herself was to blame and that she’d given in to her own awakening. Realizing this made her look at her barren life and want more than the existence she had now. But not more in the form of a babby, though. Not that, please God, not that . . .