by Anne Brear
She whimpered deep in her throat. ‘No. We…we try to be careful. I-’ Lord, what am I saying?
‘I wouldn’t be. I’d like to see you swell with my child.’
She took a step back, breathing fast.
He paused in his gouging. ‘Look.’ He indicated his artwork on the trunk.
She leant as far as she could to see without actually moving closer to him. Her eyes widened. IG + NP was crudely etched.
‘See Belle? While ever this tree stands, we are recorded as being here, alive, together.’
‘It proves nothing-’
A flush crept up his neck. ‘Go home.’
‘P…pardon?’
He tucked his knife away into his trouser pocket and dusted his hands together. ‘I said go home.’
‘You’re allowing me to go?’ A high note of hysteria came into her voice.
His smile was slow coming, but full of wickedness. ‘For now, yes. I have enjoyed our time together. I am in no hurry at the moment, to take our… friendship to the next stage.’
Isabelle’s feet seemed rooted into the soil, unable to move.
‘Unless you wish to invite me for some tea and a slice of your delicious pie?’
She backed from him, watching him. Her foot caught on a tree root and she stumbled in her haste to put distance between them.
‘Good bye, Belle, until we meet again.’
Stifling a cry, she turned and ran. Lifting her skirts high, she scrambled up the wooded slope. Her spine tingled, believing he pursued her, his hands outreaching, his face turning into the slobbering vicious face of a rabid wolf.
Breaking out of the wood, she crossed the lane and nearly fell over the stile. Once on the open fields she increased her speed. Blood pounded in her ears making her deaf to his footsteps. Fear urged her on, but the instinct to look behind her was too strong. Tearfully, she glanced over her shoulder. Nothing. The wood receded. All that moved was the grass she disturbed with her racing. Slowing, gasping for air, she staggered towards the gate leading into the house field. Her fingers were clumsy as she unlatched the gate and swung it open. When she turned to fasten it, she jumped. In the distance he stood atop of the stile, watching.
Isabelle sucked much needed air into her lungs. Finding the strength and courage she didn’t know she owned, she gradually turned away and made herself walk, not run, towards the yard and the farm buildings.
Humiliation, combined with terror, opened the door to her rage. White-hot fury fed on her fear. Again he had scared her witless. The weeks leading up to her wedding came back to her in vivid memory. If he had left her alone, she wouldn’t have seen the need to rush into marriage with Farrell. She could have taken her time to advertise and may be selected from a few other men…
Once inside the yard, she checked that others hadn’t returned. The quietness told her she was still alone. She hurried into the house and locked the kitchen door before shooting the bolt home on the scullery door. Exhausted, she laid her head against the door’s cool timber. In silence she allowed the tears to fall.
Chapter Eleven
Isabelle stirred the bubbling blackberry jam. The delicious aroma of sweetened fruit filled the kitchen. In the oven, three pear and apple pies cooked, while on the sideboard, five more pies cooled. Already packed in the larder were four dozen jam tarts and two currant loaves. Tomorrow, for the first time in months, she was to sit at her stall again. Ethan’s handouts had kept her from trading at the market, but he was in York now on business and her money was running short.
At the table, her father sat quietly, peeling and seeding lemons for her to use in the lemon butter she was making next. The situation with her father hadn’t altered. The ice wall she had erected between them stood sound, and since he showed little of the illness that plagued him at the moment, she had no inclination to soften her stance towards him. He treated her with polite respect and she him with frosty tolerance. The boys accepted this as an unspoken truce between them.
Outside, the late September sunshine assisted in keeping Autumn at bay. The nights had grown a little cooler, but the days remained pleasant for the last of the harvesting. Looking through the window, Isabelle smiled. Hughie and Bertie carried a full sack each. Noisily, they tumbled into the kitchen, bringing with them the scent of grass and squashed fruit.
‘That’s the last of the plums, Belle.’ Hughie panted, placing the sack against the table leg. ‘Flossy and her piglets are enjoying the windfalls. Though the new nanny goat isn’t too happy at sharing the orchard with them.’
‘Did you restack the stones on the west field wall?’ Isabelle took the jam off the heat and started ladling it into jars. ‘I don’t want the nanny getting out again. She’ll be close to delivering her kid soon.’
Hughie poured out two glasses of watered down cider and handed one to Bertie. ‘We fixed it.’
‘And did you water those two new apple trees I planted?’
‘Yes, Bertie did that while I fixed the wall.’
Isabelle opened the first sack and took out a purple plum. She smelt its ripeness and grinned at Bertie. ‘How many did you eat, little brother?’
He tucked his chin on his chest and held up two fingers.
‘Only two?’ Isabelle laughed.
Slowly, he unfolded two more fingers.
‘Yes, I thought so. Well, if your stomach gripes you, don’t come crying to me.’ She winked and took out more plums. In a large bowl filled with water, she washed them.
Aaron reached over for them. ‘Here give them to me, Belle. I’ll get them ready for the pot.’
She nodded her thanks and became annoyed when a blush warmed her cheeks. Why did he always make her feel guilty about the cool way she dealt with him? She had nothing to be guilty about. It was he who should be burdened with his conscience.
Isabelle checked the jars of cooling jam and then grabbed her oven towel, took the pies from oven and set them on the table. ‘I’ll go out and collect the last of the elderberry, now these pies are done. We might be able to make a bottle or two of wine. I asked Mrs Jackson, the cobbler’s wife for the recipe. If I make it now, we’ll have it to drink in February.’ She picked up her basket and snips, but paused near the dresser to sniff at the vase of roses. Flowers from the front garden filled the house. In each room, she left a bouquet that stood in anything that held water – jugs, tins, jars, and chipped glasses.
At the doorway, she turned back to Hughie. ‘You and Bertie can go pick the peas for dinner. Also, I need some mint for the potatoes and sticks of rhubarb. I’ll stew the rhubarb and some apples for afters.’
Leaving the kitchen, she walked down the passageway to the front room. This room she had transformed over the summer. In here, she had polished the furniture with beeswax until it shone, the rugs had been beaten, the curtains washed, the floor scrubbed. Ethan’s presents added to the comfort. A landscape to go on the wall. A tapestry frame and silks. The fireplace had a shiny new grate and a fancy worked screen in a mahogany stand. Again flowers decorated every surface. Books, given by Ethan, sat in rows on shelfs fitted to the far wall. On the new green sofa lay her rust-coloured scarf, another present from Ethan. He’d given it to her on the day he returned from London.
She sighed now, thinking of that day. His divorce hearing had been given the date of April twenty-first of next year. Ethan’s emotions swung between satisfaction at receiving a date and the frustration of having to wait. Her soothing comments mollified him some, and he left her with a promise to meet after church on Sunday.
Thankfully, her monthly curse had prevented him from becoming too amorous in the wood and she, forever keeping an eye out for the presence of Neville Peacock, cut their meeting short. Briefly, she thought to tell Ethan about her surprise visit from Neville, but knew only trouble would result from sharing her secret. Ethan would hunt Neville down and there would be bloodshed.
Tossing her head and dismissing her disturbing thoughts, Isabelle left the sitting room and unbolted the front
door. Once out in the sunshine, her spirits lifted. The garden greeted her like an old friend. The little white briar rose still flowered by the gate, as did the climbing rose along the house wall. Beds of chrysanthemums grew well, ready for their burst of show in November. A magnificent old magnolia grew in the far corner and she loved to bury her nose in its cream flowers. Now cleared of choking weeds, the fuchsias’ beautiful bells hung delicately and always raised a smile in her. Michaelmas daisies, so large and abundant with glorious colour, spilled out of their beds and crowded the path. After the drabness of the workhouse, she revelled in the colourful glory.
Turning away from the garden, Isabelle headed down the rarely visited right side of the house. All that grew here were bushes of gooseberry and the large elderberry tree. She had noticed the fruit on it from the upstairs bedroom window. The tree’s top branches reached below the sill. A month ago, she had leaned out and touched the flowers and then detected the darkening berries.
Placing her basket on the ground in the shade cast by the house, she picked up her snips and pulled the first branch to her. She hummed a little as she worked.
Since the episode in the wood with Neville she had not ventured further than the orchard behind the sheds, except for Sundays when she went to church in Heptonstall and met Ethan in the wood later in the afternoon.
In the last three weeks since Neville’s visit, she had kept a constant vigil on the wood whenever she was outside, wondering if he watched from within its darkness. She looked for signs of his presence nearer the farm, but nothing revealed his existence. As the days went by and she saw nothing of him, she began to relax. He lived in Halifax. It would be impossible for him to be watching the farm every moment of every day. It seemed ridiculous that he should continue to stalk her. Never would she wander alone in the woods again. Surely he would know this now? What hope did he have of finding her alone when she lived with three others?
Anger filled her at Neville’s deviousness. Her plans for putting him in his place grew large and rewarding. Only, in the quiet moments as she worked or dozed, his long sallow face would leer at her and her heart would beat as fast as it did when she ran from him.
The sound of carriage wheels and hooves on the dusty road before the house, alerted her to the present. Sometimes, Ethan called in on his way home from Halifax and her stomach twisted in expectation of seeing him. As the trundling sound slowed, Isabelle dropped her snips and walked back to the corner of the house. It was him!
The Harrington coat of arms displayed in gold stood out well against the black paint of the carriage. Gathering her skirts with one hand, she tidied her hair with the other and ran across the garden.
She smiled at the driver as he climbed down and opened the carriage door. He was a pleasant fellow whom she always gave a drink to whenever he brought Ethan to the farm. ‘Good day, Brown. It is a beautiful day, is it not?’
Brown’s eyes widened and he hurriedly ducked his head, touching his fingers to his hat’s brim in acknowledgment.
Isabelle faltered, her smile slipped at his refusal to greet her as he had in the past. Swiftly, her attention was diverted to the tall woman descending the carriage step. The magnificence of her pale copper dress, her strands of pearls and the serene oval face Isabelle glimpsed from beneath a short veil blurred her senses. Her heart fluttered wildly in her chest like a caged bird. The blood drained from her face.
Standing straight and dignified, holding on to the ivory handle of a cream parasol, the woman stared about before resting her gaze on Isabelle. ‘I am Elizabeth Harrington.’
‘How…How do you do, Mrs Harrington.’ Isabelle locked her knees to keep from crumbling to the ground. The enormity of the situation hit her like a lightning bolt. Ethan’s mother!
‘You know who I am?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘I would wish to speak in private, if I may?’
Isabelle sucked in a quick breath and stepped back. ‘Of course. Shall we go inside?’
Elizabeth Harrington’s gaze darted to the house and she hesitated a fraction before nodding.
Leading the way along the path, Isabelle sent a silent prayer of thanks that the sitting room looked at its best. Inside, she glanced up the hallway. Aaron stood in the kitchen watching her. Sensing her distress, he gently closed the passage door. She sent up another prayer and showed Ethan’s mother into the sitting room. ‘Please be seated.’
Elizabeth took note of the room and a little colour came into her cheeks. She perched herself on the edge of the sofa. ‘A… pleasant room.’
‘Thank you.’ Isabelle bit her lip and closed the door. In horror she noticed the purple fruit stains on her fingers and abruptly stuffed her hands into the folds of her grey skirt. ‘Would you care for some tea, Mrs Harrington?’
‘That is kind of you, but no.’ Elizabeth gripped the parasol handle more tightly. ‘This is not a social call, Mrs Farrell.’
For some reason this saddened Isabelle. She bent her head and sighed. What possessed her to think it would be anything different? She and Ethan flouted every social rule. Of course his mother and every other decent citizen of the area would be uncharitable towards them once they knew.
Silence stretched and Isabelle didn’t know how to break it.
Elizabeth lifted her chin. ‘I am aware of the relationship you share with my son, Mrs Farrell. My visit here today has been planned for some time. Yet, I had hoped my son would come to his senses and discard you to save me from this embarrassment.’
She bowed her head and searched for something to say.
Elizabeth stood and walked to the window. ‘My son is weak where you are concerned. I confess I have never seen him behave this way before, and therefore I concluded that I must speak with you instead.’
Raising her eyes, Isabelle stared at the older woman. Instinctively, she knew what she wanted and pained lanced her heart. ‘You want me to give him up.’
‘Naturally! You are both married!’
Isabelle welcomed the other woman’s heated emotion as it stirred within her a dormant frustration that the man she loved she couldn’t have. Irritation at this woman’s highhanded manner made her tone sharp. ‘You do not have to remind me, Mrs Harrington, that I am married. It is a fact I live with every moment of every day.’
‘But you choose to ignore it!’
‘I didn’t wake up one morning and decide to fall in love with another man!’ Isabelle stared at her, defiant. ‘Do you think that I wanted to love your son? That it is easy living my life loving Ethan as I do and knowing there is no hope for us?’
Elizabeth stiffened at the mention of his name. ‘You should have been stronger and denied your feelings.’
She shrugged, the anger left her at the truth of the statement. ‘Perhaps.’ She stared blindly at the empty fire grate. ‘You may not believe me when I say I tried, but I did, truly.’ Her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Only the force of him was too difficult to resist. I couldn’t ignore the care he had for me. His gentleness, his concern awakened a need in me I didn’t know existed. He wrapped his love around me like a warm blanket. Then I realised that this was all new to him too. Ethan needs my affection just as much as I need his.’ She turned to stare at Elizabeth. ‘I suppose I am weak too for I cannot defend myself against his love. It’s too powerful.’
Elizabeth’s throat worked. ‘It is wrong. This concerns more than just you and my son. He wants to divorce his wife! Don’t you see what is happening here? All that we know, all that makes us who we are is at stake. He threatens everything this family stands for. All because of you.’ Furious tears glistened in her brown eyes. ‘I cannot let him do this.’
***
The cries of the stallholders faded into nothing. Isabelle sat on her stool in a small world of her own. She served her customers in a daze, her mind constantly repeated the meeting with Ethan’s mother. She knew Ethan’s family would not be pleased with his decision to divorce Clarice, but she hadn’t expected the guilt she woul
d feel over her part in it.
Without warning something hit Isabelle on the side of her head. Stunned, she touched the spot as darts of pain made stars dazzle before her eyes. Looking up, she just managed to duck another object, but not before she made out Marge Wilmot, laughing in the crowd.
Marge’s fist held another piece of fruit and she flung it with increased effort. ‘We don’t want the likes of you here, Mrs Farrell! Trollop. Wait til yer husband’s home, then we’ll see what happens to yer then. He’ll not be happy knowing that his wife has strayed.’
‘Whore!’ another voice shouted.
‘Harrington’s floozy!’
The gathering crowd paused in their shopping to stare at the spectacle. Murmurs of disapproval grew. Women closed ranks to nod and sniff condemnation at her.
Isabelle felt all the blood drain from her face. They know! Her thoughts scattered as an apple skimmed her shoulder. She stood in frozen shock. A split mouldy orange hit her skirts, spraying juice over the material.
From out of the crowd, a lanky man pushed his way clear. Neville Peacock. He grinned like the devil and slowly approached her stall.
Isabelle’s eyes widened in apprehension. Cold sweat trickled down her back. Her mouth went dry as he leisurely picked up one of her lemon curd tarts and casually dropped it on the ground at his feet. His eyes never left hers.
Neville turned to the gathering. ‘We must not sully ourselves by sampling the food this harlot sells. She is not fit to be among decent people. She brings shame to the respectable women of this town by flaunting herself before you. Brazen!’
She croaked a strangled cry as his hand reached for a pie and within seconds it joined the tart on dirty cobbles.
Marge Wilmot’s laugh rang out clear and loud over the stunned stillness.
Murmurs grew again, but Isabelle was trapped in a world of silent agony. She couldn’t drag her gaze from Neville’s as with a small shrug he swept his arm wide across the table and sent the entire stock to the ground.