by Anne Brear
Isabelle swore under her breath a word she’d often heard Farrell say. The thought of her husband made her gag again, but she fought it. She mustn’t let him suspect. She shied away from the notion of telling anyone, even Ethan. No one could know, not yet. For a little while longer the secret was hers alone as she dealt with this new change in her life.
‘Belle.’
Her father’s weak call filtered through her thoughts. ‘I’m coming.’ Within moments she had clipped on her front-fastening corset over her chemise and pulled on her petticoats and grey service dress. How she looked was of little importance now. Her hair she drew into a tight bun at the nape of her neck and she slipped her feet into worn, low-heeled shoes.
Gaps in the drawn curtains allowed weak morning sunshine to light the room. From outside came the sounds of the farm awakening to a new day. Another day of Isabelle trying her best to keep Farrell away from tormenting her brothers. Another day of wondering whether her father would live to see the sunset.
‘Did you sleep well?’ She propped her father up with more pillows and then helped him sip a spoonful of the foul smelling medicine the doctor left yesterday.
‘It no…longer…matters.’ He coughed and moaned in pain from the action.
‘Do you need the bottle?’
He shook his head a fraction and closed his eyes. ‘Sore…’
‘Where?’
‘Backside…’
‘I know, Father, but it hurts you even more when I turn you onto your side.’
He sighed. ‘So sore…’
Isabelle turned as the door opened and Bertie stuck his head into the room. ‘Come in, Bertie and sit with Father while I go make breakfast.’
The small boy sidled into the room and sat in the chair by the bed. ‘Is he better, Belle?’
‘No, darling. Remember what I said?’ She ruffled his hair, hating to see the sadness in his eyes.
He nodded and gazed at the man who hardly resembled the father they both knew.
‘I’ll call you when your breakfast is ready. Has Hughie gone out?’
Bertie nodded. ‘He’s milking.’
She patted his shoulder and left them.
Downstairs there was no sign of Farrell and with a prayer of thanks sent heavenward, she began making their breakfast of porridge, fried ham and eggs and a large pot of tea.
Since the fight with Ethan, Farrell had taken to drinking heavily every night. Most times he went out to the public houses in Heptonstall and came back in the wee hours of the night to stagger upstairs and into bed, or sometimes he would fall asleep at the kitchen table. Not once had he touched her, for which, she was deeply thankful, but instead he’d started arguing with Hughie. He picked faults with everything Hughie said or did. Many times he backhanded her brother for the smallest thing. So far she had managed to come between them and prevent Hughie from losing his temper and trying to lash out at Farrell. Isabelle shuddered to think what Farrell would do to him if he did.
How long she could continue living like this she dreaded to think. Against all odds her father clung to life, delaying her and the boys flight to freedom.
The bubbling porridge drew her attention from where she stood at the table cutting slices of bread. Food was becoming short, as was her money. She lifted the pot from the range and sat it on the table. At the same time Hughie walked in from the scullery with a bucket of milk.
He quickly looked around, she knew, for Farrell.
‘He’s still asleep.’ She gave him a tight smile and ladled porridge into one bowl for him and another for her.
Nodding, Hughie placed the bucket on the floor and then pulled out a chair. ‘One of the pullets died in the night, but the other eight are doing well. I think there’s three cocks and the rest are hens in that last hatching.’
‘Good.’ She sat down and ate, surprised by how hungry she was. ‘The cocks will do for the winter pot.’ It occurred to her suddenly that they might not be here come next winter. Their father wouldn’t last much longer and then she’d be with Ethan. She held onto that glimmer of hope.
Hughie ate in silence for a while before lifting his gaze to her. ‘What’s to happen, Belle?’
‘I don’t know, pet.’
Determination entered his eyes. ‘I’ll not stay here much longer if he doesn’t stop bothering me.’
‘But-’
‘Nothing you say will sway me from leaving.’
Her stomach tightened at the idea of him leaving, roaming the streets looking for work, for shelter. ‘Things will change once father…’
‘You think so?’ Hughie sniffed. ‘I doubt it.’ He lowered his spoon. ‘Why hasn’t Mr Harrington had him arrested for stealing? Surely he hasn’t forgotten last winter when he stole his wife’s jewellery?’
Isabelle stiffened. The mere mention of Ethan filled her with a desperate longing. ‘Mr…Mr Harrington holds us in high regard… I believe he wouldn’t like to see us…shamed by Farrell’s actions.’
Hughie’s eyes narrowed, and at the moment he looked very much like their father. ‘You and he… I mean what Farrell accuses you of being…with Harrington… Is it true?’
She closed her eyes and sagged against the back of the chair. He asked the one thing she didn’t want him to. Hatred for Farrell rose, blocking out all rational thought for a moment. His drunken, filthy shouts of her whoring herself was often a daily occurrence and most times she had tried to shield the boys from hearing him, but obviously she had failed.
‘I want the truth, Belle. I’m not a child any more so don’t treat me like one.’
She looked at him. It was true. He had grown into a young man and worked like a full-grown one. Still, no matter his age or maturity, she hated him thinking any less of her and being a mistress was nothing to be proud of. ‘Very well, yes, I love Ethan Harrington and he loves me.’
Hughie nodded just once.
Isabelle ached inside for disappointing him. ‘I’m sorry, Hugh.’
‘So why hasn’t Farrell been arrested then? Who cares about scandal as long as we’re free from him?’
‘Farrell has threatened to harm me if Ethan comes near. I…we can’t take the risk of Farrell hurting one of us. While ever father lingers we are stuck here, but the minute the funeral has taken place, I’ll plan for us to leave. I promise.’
‘You better, because I’ll not stay after the funeral.’ He shifted uneasily in his chair, his expression haunted. ‘With or without you, I’m leaving. I’ve had enough.’
‘I know it’s been difficult, awful. I’m sorry.’ She paused, hearing footsteps on the stairs.
Hughie sprang to his feet. ‘I’m off to check the traps.’ He was out the door before she could utter a word.
As silent as a shadow, Bertie sidled into the room and to her side. ‘Da’s asleep. Can I have something to eat now?’
Isabelle let out a long breath and relaxed her tensed shoulders. ‘Of course, dearest. Sit down.’
‘Belle?’
‘Yes, pet?’ She passed a full bowl of porridge over to him.
‘Will Da die today?’ His pale eyes seemed large in his small face.
‘I don’t know, sweetling.’
‘Will you send me away if he does?’
She stopped wiping her hands on her apron and stared at him. ‘No. Never. You are my brother and will live with me always or at least until you’re grown and married.’ She smiled at him, hoping to ease his worry. ‘Don’t ever think I don’t want you.’ She kissed the top of his head.
Bertie’s chin wobbled. ‘He said that soon I’ll be living in the boys’ home.’
‘He? Who said that?’
Bertie ducked his head to his chest as Farrell lumbered into the room, scratching his stomach and scowling. ‘I want tea.’
Isabelle’s stomach clenched. ‘There’s plenty in the pot.’
Farrell’s hand lashed out and caught her a stinging blow to the side of her head. Isabelle stumbled, moaning in pain. Stars danced before her water
ing eyes.
Calmly, as if nothing untoward had happened, Farrell pulled out a chair and slumped into it.
Infuriated and totally astounded that he would hit her again, Isabelle picked up the carving knife and waved it in front of his face. ‘Don’t you ever touch me again! Do you hear?’
Farrell yawned and dismissed her with a flick of his fingers. ‘Put that down and get me some tea.’ He smirked at her outrage. ‘Do you honestly think I would listen to Harrington?’
The knife wavered in her hand as she frowned. ‘You aren’t to touch me or Ethan will go to the authorities.’
Farrell scratched his crotch. ‘Harrington will never know.’
Isabelle swayed. ‘What do you mean?’
‘As of this moment, you aren’t to leave the house.’ He glanced in Bertie’s direction. ‘Any of you.’
The warmth drained from her face. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. It’s not possible. The animals-’
‘Once yer father has met his maker, and I’ve sold all the livestock, we’ll be leaving here.’ Farrell casually inspected his fingernails and then looked up at her. ‘I hear America is called, The Land of the Free.’
Chapter Fifteen
Hamish rubbed his finger around the rim of his glass, watching Ethan pace the drawing room floor. Fine lines etched from Ethan’s nose to mouth. A colourful bruise blackened one eye, but his split lip had healed. He’d lost weight, grey peppered his hair now, and he was edgy the whole time.
With a sigh of resignation, Hamish placed his whiskey on the rosewood occasional table and stood. ‘Right, my good fellow, time for a game of billiards. I have the need to thrash you once more.’ He tried to joke, to bring Ethan out of his remorseful mood, but he might as well have spoken to the potted orchids in the conservatory for all the response he got.
Ethan, frowning, his mind obviously elsewhere, kicked at a fallen log in the fire grate. ‘I don’t understand it, Hamish. No word from her in over a week.’
‘I’m-’
‘I know she told me to stay away but I assumed she would go to the wood whenever she could. She knew I’d be there waiting for her every day.’ Ethan banged his fist on the mantelpiece. ‘I should have told her to meet me there. What a fool I was to not arrange a time each day.’
‘She-’
‘What a fool I was to agree for her to stay there!’ Ethan, his face savaged by pain, flung his glass into the back of the fire and turned for the door as a footman rushed into the room at the sound of smashing glass. ‘I cannot stand to wait a minute longer!’
Hamish swiftly strode to his side and grabbed his upper arm. ‘Enough man! You must stop this obsession.’
Ethan stared at him as though he had two heads. ‘Obsession? You call my love for Isabelle an obsession?’
‘Yes I do and it is.’ Hamish ran his fingers through his hair and confident that Ethan would remain in the room, he dismissed the servant and went to the drinks tray. ‘She has a husband. You have a wife. What do you plan to do? Run away together? What about your responsibilities here? What about your mother and Clarice?’
Ethan flopped down on a leather-backed wing chair that had been his father’s favourite. ‘I want her safe, Hamish. I can install her in one of my houses somewhere and know that she is away from him until we can sort out this mess.’
Hamish poured them both a brandy and walked over to hand Ethan his. ‘I understand that, of course I do, but you charging over there, all hot-blooded will not help her. If he saw you coming from a window, who knows what he’d do to her? You’ve said yourself, he’s a madman.’
Ethan sipped the drink and a little colour washed his cheeks. ‘I cannot bear the waiting. It tears at my guts like a knife.’
Sitting back on the sofa, Hamish gulped his drink and summoned his courage to face her once more. ‘What if…What if I was to pay a visit on her?’
***
Hughie smiled as Isabelle entered the bedroom. His gaze flickered to their father’s face. ‘Father’s sleeping.’
‘Good. I’ve put yours and Bertie’s dinner on the tray and it’s in your room. Go eat before it gets cold.’
‘Where’s Bertie?’ Hughie stood and stretched his cramped muscles.
‘Already eating.’ Isabelle kissed Hughie’s cheek. ‘Go now.’
‘Will you be all right?’
‘Of course. Farrell is downstairs haggling with some fellow over the sheep price and after that he’ll have his dinner. We shouldn’t hear from him for at least an hour or two.’
Once Hughie had left the room, Isabelle checked on her father and then took the chair to the window. From her knitting basket she took out the small garment she worked on whenever no one was with her. It gave her a secret thrill to work on the baby’s first garment, although she was quick to hide it in the bottom of her basket should anyone disturb her.
Aaron made a small noise, and she paused to peer across the room at him. Confident he didn’t need her, she took up her needles again and let her mind drift.
For the last seven days, Farrell had been true to his word and kept them within the confines of the house. He had locked every door and pocketed the keys. He watched the boys do their chores, milking, fetching wood or water, collecting eggs, all the while carrying a horse whip in his hand should they try to escape, and she could do nothing but observe and worry from the window of her locked prison.
Thankfully, he hadn’t hit her again. She placed her hand over her stomach. She had to be careful and do nothing to antagonise Farrell into lashing out, not that he needed an excuse to cause her harm, but the child required her protection.
Farrell refused to enter the sickroom and so it had become their sanctuary. At night, the boys quietly sat in the corner and played cards or dice. Sometimes, Hughie read from the husbandry book. Their father was barely conscious now, and floated in and out of wakefulness.
Another noise came from the bed and her head lifted again. She replaced her knitting in the basket and went to soothe him.
‘Belle?’ His voice was only a whisper, his eyelids fluttered.
‘Yes, Father, it’s me. Rest now.’ She sat on the edge of the bed and laid his hand on her lap and stroked it. His paper-thin skin had a sallow tinge.
‘You… no longer… hate me?’
Her heart somersaulted and goosebumps rose on her skin. ‘No, Father. I don’t hate you any more.’ Admitting it felt good, a release. She didn’t know when she had stopped hating him. It had been a gradual thawing.
‘Never meant…to hurt…you all.’
Tears pricked her eyes. ‘It’s all in the past now.’
‘Love…you.’
A tear trickled down her cheek and dropped onto their joined hands. She bent over and kissed his forehead. ‘And I love you.’
He looked at her for a moment, his pale eyes, the mirror of her own, glowed with a special message of love and then slowly his eyelids closed.
She went and fetched her chair and sat down beside the bed, holding his hand as he slept.
Outside the window the shadows lengthened and twilight called the birds to roost. Isabelle snatched a few minutes of sleep between her father’s twitching and the boys coming in to add wood to the fire and bring her cups of tea.
Close to midnight, she rose and lit the lamp. Her neck was stiff and rubbing it, she gazed down at her father. A chill covered her skin, for she knew the signs. She had witnessed both her mother’s and sister’s death. Each inhalation he took had a long pause between. She began to count the seconds after each breath, holding her own breath until she was forced to gulp air. She couldn’t keep the same rhythm he had.
The time stretched. Beyond the window the world was silent and black. Isabelle dithered, wondering if she should waken the boys, but their father was past conversation now, past saying good bye.
Blinking back tears, she sat on the edge of the chair and held his hand, watching his face closely.
After a few minutes, she realised he hadn’t taken a breath. His chest
didn’t move. Slowly, she bent over and placed her ear over his heart. Nothing.
Isabelle rested back against the chair. It was finished. He had left her again.
***
Hamish lifted his hand and rapped three times on the front door of the farm house. After a moment he heard rustling, cursing, a key in the lock and the bolt sliding back. The door opened and the man he guessed to be Isabelle’s husband peered at him with bleary eyes.
‘Aye? What yer want?’ Farrell barked. ‘Yer the undertaker?’
Undertaker? Hamish stiffened at the insult. ‘No. I’m here to speak with Isabelle Farrell.’
The other man’s small eyes narrowed and his expression changed to one of wariness. ‘Oh aye, what yer want with her?’
He thought quickly, worried he wouldn’t be able to get past this bull-headed husband. If they were expecting an undertaker then someone had died. ‘It… It is about the funeral service. Does…does she wish for flowers? Lilies perhaps? And hymns?’
Farrell stepped back, blinking and shaking his head. ‘Christ, how am I ter know? I don’t care either. I ain’t paying for it, I’ve told her. He can be buried in a pauper’s grave as far as I’m concerned! He’s her father, let her deal with it.’
‘I understand. Perhaps I could speak with Mrs Farrell?’
‘Well, yer can’t stay long as she’s busy cooking me dinner.’ Farrell opened the door wider and allowed him over the threshold. ‘Wait ‘ere.’
As Farrell disappeared down the far end and closed the door, Hamish glanced around the dim hallway. He smelt damp. His quick thinking had got him inside, but now the reality sank in. Isabelle’s father had died and she’d be in mourning. Would she want to see him? She’d be expecting someone from the church…