Outcast

by Josephine Cox

  Emma said as much now to Mrs Manfred, before asking in a shy, quiet voice, ‘How am I to behave . . . as his wife, Manny?’ So acutely embarrassed was Emma by her own question, that she withdrew her gaze from the older woman’s face and rested it on the floor.

  Mrs Manfred’s answer was given with great love, and tempered by an awareness of Emma’s innocence in such matters. ‘Behave as he wants you to. Behave sensibly and don’t be afraid, for I’m sure Gregory won’t hurt you, child. When he speaks softly to you, just listen quietly and know that he loves you. When you see his nakedness and he takes you in his arms, comfort yourself with the fact that he will be gentle . . . for Gregory Denton seems to be a tender-hearted fellow. And when he makes love to you, think on pleasant things . . . fill your heart with gladness, and it won’t seem as terrible as you anticipate.’

  Without lifting her face, which by now was suffused with a burning pinkness, Emma murmured her thanks, adding, ‘I’ll try to remember everything you’ve told me, Manny.’ But, in her heart, she was still terrified of the ordeal to come. Unable to stop herself, she contemplated the fact that, if it was Marlow’s bed she was going to, the prospect would not seem anywhere near as harrowing!

  The day of Emma’s wedding might have been a day in the middle of summer rather than January, for it was warm and filled with sunshine. The little church was packed as Emma came up the aisle to the resounding music of the organ. Everyone agreed that, in her lovely silk ivory gown, with a simple spray of yellow rosebuds in her hands, she was the most beautiful bride they had ever seen. On this splendid occasion, her rich, burnished hair was swept into clutches of ringlets either side of her head, secured by delicate mother-of-pearl combs.

  As she knelt before the altar, Emma turned to look into Gregory’s face. What she saw were the proud eyes of a man who adored her, and she felt ashamed that, on first waking that very morning, her thoughts had been drawn not to Gregory, but to Marlow Tanner. For his part, what Gregory saw as he looked deep into Emma’s magnificent grey eyes, was a host of emotions which greatly moved him. He saw her fear, and prayed that it was not fear of him; he saw trust and compassion; he believed he saw the glimmer of love – but it seemed a sad kind of love, for there was pain in Emma’s eyes, not joy. There was kindness also, and such strength that it made him tremble inside. Yet, in spite of all this and of the all-consuming love he felt for Emma, Gregory Denton was afraid. From the first moment Emma had been promised to him, he had been afraid – afraid he might lose her. Now, even while he heard her speak the marriage vows, he was mortally afraid that she might never love him in the way he loved her. He was afraid of the change she would find in her way of life, and he knew it would be difficult for Emma to adjust. Yet, for all his fears, Gregory Denton had hope – hope for their future together, and hope for Emma’s lasting affection.

  In the celebrations which followed, Breckleton House echoed to the sound of music and dancing. Throughout the evening, a wide variety of guests mingled in and out of the rooms; some were business acquaintances of Caleb Crowther, dressed in dark formal wear, others belonged to Agnes Crowther’s social circle, and were serious-faced and full of meaningless talk; and there were those known only to Martha and her intended, colourful in dress and loud of voice, and all of whom constantly pecked Emma on the face and forgot her name!

  Emma was pleased to spend a few quiet moments in the company of Silas Trent, who took the opportunity to remind her, ‘Don’t forget, Emma. If ever you need a friend . . .’ Whereupon she thanked him once more and assured him that she would not forget, but that, ‘I am now in the hands of a good man, and doubt that I’ll ever need to take you up on your kind offer.’

  Three times Emma made a gentle approach to old Mrs Denton, and three times she was made to feel so uncomfortable that she tactfully gave up the effort.

  It was some way past nine p.m. when Emma saw Caleb Crowther leading Gregory into the study. Ten minutes later they both emerged, seeming pleased with themselves and crossing the room in opposite directions – the older man to rejoin his cronies, and the younger to firstly join his mother, and then to hurriedly make his way towards Emma. Emma, meanwhile, had observed how stony-faced her mother-in-law appeared during the few exchanged words with her attentive son.

  When Gregory told Emma, ‘Please make your goodbyes, Emma, for it’s time we left,’ Emma’s heart sank. This was the moment she had been dreading – when they must depart for that little house on Montague Street where the presence of old Mrs Denton brooded in every dark corner. Emma lost count of the number of times Gregory had apologised for the fact that ‘I had it in mind to take you to Scarborough for a week, but, what with my duties at work and Mother being in such delicate health, well . . . I know you understand, Emma.’ Emma understood all right. She understood that, on this occasion, at least, she was not of paramount importance in her new husband’s life – first came his work, then came his elderly mother and then came his wife. Emma understood and, for the first time, she saw the imperfections in Gregory’s love for her. Yet, she weighed that up against the imperfections in her love for him, and believed that it was she, not he, who had need to apologize.

  When the word was given that the newly-weds were about to leave, well-wishers came from all sides.

  ‘Good fortune,’ said one.

  ‘May you be blessed with many children,’ said another.

  ‘I don’t suppose we shall have occasion to see each other often,’ remarked Martha, with her arm linked boldly in that of Silas Trent’s, and a cunning look on her face.

  ‘Quite!’ rejoined Agnes Crowther, whose hands were stiffly joined and pointed to Paradise.

  The sentiments of Emma’s aunt and cousin were echoed by Caleb Crowther’s remark, ‘Emma is a married woman now, and all responsibility for her has gone from this house.’ Then, addressing himself not to Emma, but to her husband, he continued, ‘Thomas has instructions to deliver your wife’s belongings to your house first thing in the morning. I believe Mrs Manfred has the matter in hand.’ Giving a sly look and lowering his voice, he surreptitiously patted Gregory Denton’s jacket above his waistcoat pocket. ‘You have the most important item right there. Be frugal with it, Denton . . . for it was hard earned!’ When Gregory nodded and made the observation, ‘I know how careful Thadius Grady was, and I shall be equally careful with what he has entrusted to me, Mr Crowther, sir,’ Emma knew at once that they were discussing the marriage fund left by her papa, and which she suspected, like her, must now be the responsibility of her husband. The knowledge that she was no longer under the jurisdiction of Caleb Crowther gave her a curious feeling of satisfaction and a sense of freedom – but the latter was cruelly curtailed when Gregory remarked, ‘Come along, Emma. It’s been a long, exhausting day for Mother, and she’s ready for her bed.’

  Before Emma climbed into the carriage, she clung to Mrs Manfred, who on impulse had thrown her arms around her. ‘Oh, Manny!’ she murmured, in a quiet voice unheard by anyone else, ‘Pray for me, eh?’

  When the older woman held her at arm’s length to say in an equally soft voice, ‘Emma Grady, your strength is in yourself! I’ll just pray that you use it well,’ there were tears in her eyes, and in Emma’s also.

  ‘You will come and see me, won’t you, Manny?’ Emma felt the need for that reassurance.

  ‘You see if I don’t!’ came the retort in a choking voice. ‘You just see if I don’t!’

  When a third voice interrupted, saying, ‘Of course you’ll be welcome at my house, Mrs . . . Manfred. But please don’t forget that it is my house, and that your own duties as far as Emma’s concerned, are at an end. She is, after all, answerable to my son now,’ both Mrs Manfred and Emma abruptly looked up at the carriage where old Mrs Denton was leaning forward on the edge of her seat. The conniving smile on her face was not pleasant, and nor was her voice as she instructed Emma, ‘It’s time we went, young lady! Afore the cold gets into my poor old bones.’

  The big mantelpiece clock struck
eleven, and Emma wondered who was more loath to climb the dark narrow stairway to bed. Certainly the thought gave her little comfort, and neither Gregory nor old Mrs Denton seemed prepared to make a move.

  On returning to the house on Montague Street, the elderly woman had made a great fuss about folks wasting good money on fancies and fripperies, but then, ‘folks such as the Crowthers are partial to showing off and making fine displays!’ With that said, she had taken off her cloak and bonnet, which she promptly handed to Emma with the curt instruction, ‘Put the bonnet carefully on to the peg. And make sure that you drape my cloak inside out . . . it keeps the dust from settling on the outer material.’ From the hallway, where she took care to do exactly as she was told for fear of alienating old Mrs Denton any further, Emma could hear the conversation now taking place in the back parlour. First she heard Gregory’s voice pointing out to his mother how late the hour was, and did she not think it was time he helped her up to her bed? Then came the surly reply that it was not for him to say when she should go to her bed! And, what was more, she should like him to prepare her a hot drink, which ‘might well help me to sleep all the better, and keep me unawares of what’s going on in the dark under my own roof!’

  Hurrying back down the passage and into the parlour, Emma pleaded with Gregory, who was already on his way into the adjoining scullery, ‘Let me do it, Gregory . . . please?’ Of a sudden she would have done anything to escape the scathing eyes which constantly sought her out, and, if the truth be told, she resented Gregory being used in such a way.

  ‘Why, thank you, Emma.’ Gregory was obviously delighted, ‘Come on then, I’ll show you how Mother likes her drink made up.’

  ‘You’ll do no such thing!’ Old Mrs Denton had grabbed her walking-stick from its resting place beside the fire-range, and was hitting it on the floor with increasing agitation. ‘I want nobody else messing with my drink . . . nor my food, neither! You see to it, Gregory,’ she said in an authoritative voice, ‘same as you’ve always done. Or I shall simply go without!’

  ‘But I’d enjoy preparing your drink, Mrs Denton,’ Emma intervened, her sympathy for Gregory tempered by his obvious inability to stand up to this spoilt and vindictive old sourpuss.

  At Emma’s protest, old Mrs Denton gave out a gasp, then followed a choking cough. Quickly recovering, she fixed Emma with narrowed eyes, and in a low voice said, ‘When I speak to Gregory, I expect him to reply. You being his wife does not give you the right to interrupt a conversation between mother and son.’ Pausing, she glanced from Emma to Gregory, who seemed to be about to defend Emma. Seeing this, she immediately bestowed on Emma a begrudging half-smile, saying in a more friendly manner, ‘You are young and you have a lot to learn about your duties as a wife. The first thing you need to learn is that your husband’s word is law. Please remember that.’ She began struggling to her feet, and, in a pitiful voice, pleaded with Gregory, ‘See me to my bed, son. I feel faint after a most tiring day. I don’t want a drink now, because if I ever tried to swallow it, I think I might be ill.’

  As Gregory lit a new candle from the sideboard, cupped his hand beneath his mother’s elbow, and led her from the room, neither of them looked back at Emma, who had seated herself on the horse-hair stand-chair by the scullery door. She sat with her head dejectedly bent forward, her thoughts in turmoil. When, a moment later, she heard Gregory’s footsteps hurrying down the stairs towards her, she put her head in her hands and shut her eyes tight. ‘Oh, Manny!’ she whispered, ‘I pray I’ll remember everything you told me.’

  So many things rushed through Emma’s mind as Gregory led her by candlelight, so tenderly, up the stairs and into the bedroom which was to be theirs. It was a good deal smaller than old Mrs Denton’s, and was situated directly at the top of the stairs. From its long, narrow windows, the flag-stoned yard could be seen and the mill chimneys stretching out beyond. The furniture was of the same dark wood and practical design as the rest of the furniture throughout the house. Beneath the window stood a sturdy squat chest of drawers with a dark-framed mirror standing on top of it, together with two glass containers and a small crucifix on a stand. Either side of this chest of drawers was a rush-seated chair. Fitted into the alcove on one side of the floral-tiled fireplace was a deep, handsome wardrobe with shiny brass handles. In the other alcove was a smaller, more dainty wardrobe of exactly the same pattern, but with a fancy scalloped pelmet above.

  As they entered the room, Emma caught sight of the bed itself. Her first impression was that it was immense. Indeed, standing close to it, she found that it almost reached up to her chest. For Emma, the tall, panelled ends resembled the confines of a coffin – this image being reinforced by the raised laurel leaves and sprigs of lilies carved in every deep, dark panel. The eiderdown was clearly woven from home-made patchwork, with each piece in the most ghastly of colours. The thought crossed Emma’s mind whether old Mrs Denton had deliberately chosen such a cover in the hope that it would make Emma as sick as she herself professed to be! If Emma had been brought into this bedroom under different circumstances, she might have seen the funny side of it. But, as it was, the forbidding atmosphere of the room and that hideous eiderdown, only served to make her feel even more nervous than she already was.

  As though sensing her fear, Gregory put the candlestick down on to the chest of drawers, then, touching her shoulder lightly, smiled at her with gentleness. Bending to kiss her softly on the forehead, he murmured, ‘Emma! Emma!’ all the while letting his hand slide slowly down her back. ‘If only you knew how long and how often I’ve dared to dream of this night.’ For a moment longer he gazed into her eyes and, in spite of the knot of fear inside her, Emma could feel the warmth of his love spilling from his gaze to wrap softly about her, and her heart was filled with gratitude when he said in a quiet voice, ‘I’ll leave you alone a while, Emma . . . I’m going downstairs to make sure the house is secured.’ Emma had seen for herself just how meticulously Gregory had bolted all the doors and checked the windows downstairs and knew that, being the good and considerate person he was, he was giving her the opportunity to undress away from his eyes. In a quiet voice, she thanked him.

  By the time Gregory returned to the bedroom, Emma had taken off her dress, petticoats and undergarments and having laid them over one of the chairs, she had taken the white cotton nightgown from the valise, which Thomas had brought to the house the previous day. Then, with every limb shivering – more from fear than cold – she had climbed into that great bed and slithered down into its icy interior as far as she possibly could. When Gregory came into the room, holding another candlestick, only Emma’s frightened eyes could be seen, peering apprehensively from the bed into the shadows where he stood.

  The sight seemed to amuse him as, giving a soft laugh, he said affectionately, ‘What a child you do seem, Emma.’ But Emma wondered how he could make so light of the situation when to her it was a most traumatic and nerve-wracking experience.

  Gregory sensed Emma’s nervousness as she shyly watched him, and the smile slid from his face to be replaced by a deeply serious expression. His eyes, which still held Emma’s fearful gaze, seemed to darken until, in the candlelight, they appeared almost black.

  For Emma the tension was unbearable as he continued to gaze at her in that most unsettling manner. He blew out the candle in his hand and placed it beside the still-lighted one on the chest of drawers. Making no effort to blow this one out, he proceeded to undress with slow and fumbling movements. Emma was completely mesmerized by the gradual unveiling of Gregory’s body, and was unable to avert her eyes despite her deeper instincts which told her to. Witnessing Gregory’s awkwardness, she was comforted by the realization that he too was nervous about the ordeal which awaited them.

  Silhouetted in the candlelight with the shadows moving all about him, Gregory stood for a moment in his nakedness. Still Emma could not avert her eyes; she noticed how slim he was; how narrow and well-proportioned his shoulders were – almost like a woman’s, she tho
ught with surprise. But when he turned slightly to round the foot of the bed and approach her, Emma saw how naive she had been! Quickly, and with all of her fears cruelly returned, she looked away. But the image of this man exposed in a way she had never known, would not leave her. As he slid into the bed beside her, Emma was still afraid and trembling; but she also shivered with a murmuring of excitement which surprised her.

  As his warm nakedness touched her, Emma tried hard not to cry out. When he murmured softly in her ear, ‘I do love you so, Emma,’ she began to melt inside. And when he began kissing her hair, then her neck, and roving his hand towards her breast, Emma tried desperately to recall Manny’s words, ‘When he makes love to you, Emma, think on pleasant things.’ Emma tried to do this now. She thought about flowers and little creatures, about sunny days and rippling brooks; and, as her thoughts dwelt on these things, they conjured up memories of other, happier days in the past when she laughed out loud and felt joy in her heart.

  Before Emma could deny it, there he was – Marlow! With his dark, handsome features and laughing eyes he looked just as he had on their first meeting when he had been stripped to the waist, resembling a bronzed god. She could hear his voice, murmuring softly of love. But, no, it wasn’t his voice! It was that of her husband. They weren’t Marlow’s gentle fingers which caressed her breast – they were Gregory’s. The kisses being rained on her face and body were indeed gentle and loving, but they weren’t fired with a passion intense enough to light her own. They weren’t fervent or teasing enough. They didn’t demand that which, deep within her, was waiting to be stirred. The voice whispering in her ear wasn’t evocative and trembling, nor was it filled with that excitement and animation which would lift her out of herself. The body which pushed against hers didn’t awaken that within her which cried out to be released and fulfilled. In that instant of realization, Emma hid something precious deep within her that she knew she could never share with Gregory; she could share it with only one man. . .