A Wicked Deception

by Tanner, Margaret

  Chapter Ten

  Melanie shoved the fine clothes Michael had bought her into a trunk. The sight of pretty pastel gowns curdled her stomach with distaste. What a trusting fool she had been. She wanted to throw them in a fire and burn them. Stand and watch the flames devour every last shred, but she denied herself this luxury because she might be able to sell those that couldn’t be cut down for baby clothes. How could she bear to dress her baby in such tainted garments? Sheer desperation.

  She laid both hands flat against her stomach and splayed her fingers. Was there a slight thickening? Oh poor little baby, I don’t hate you. You are as much a victim of Michael’s treachery as I am. I’m scared I won’t be able to love you as a mother should.

  A fist hammered on her door.

  “Are you packed yet?” Peter yelled. “We have to leave now. I want to be gone before Pendelbury takes possession. Otherwise we won’t even have a coach to travel in.”

  Melanie dragged the trunk out into the hallway, too heavy to lift, she bounced it downstairs. Peter had disappeared and the servants refused to lift a finger. Who could blame them? Unless the new owner kept them on they would be homeless and destitute as well.

  “Melanie, can you help me with my trunk?” Ann called down the stairs.

  With a sigh, she trudged upstairs to help. Still no sign of Peter. How could a young man be so selfish? He obviously had no real concept of what he had done. A pregnant woman shouldn’t have to lug heavy things around. Ann’s trunk felt like it was packed with bricks. They grabbed a handle each and dragged it to the staircase. Each time they bumped it down a step, pain shot up Melanie’s arm. Her breath came out in short, labored gasps and her heart rate escalated.

  “What’s in here?” she panted.

  Ann’s eyes, red and swollen from crying, stood out against her white face and crimson blotches marred the once perfect skin. “My linen and some books.”

  “Books! What do we need books for?”

  “We’ll need something to read and we can sell them afterwards. Several of them are valuable first editions that my father collected over the years. I’m not letting David Pendelbury have them.” Her eyes glistened with tears. “I don’t think I’ll be able to survive this.”

  “You will,” Melanie reassured. “We have to.”

  At last, Peter returned, driving a small open coach pulled by two black horses. A scowl marred his handsome features. “If we don’t leave here before Pendelbury arrives, we’ll have to walk.”

  “Help us with these trunks,” Ann said. “Melanie and I dragged them downstairs, but we can’t lift them.”

  “Oh, very well. Bloody servants. There’s gratitude for you.”

  “You can’t blame them,” Ann shot back. “Thanks to you, they’ll be homeless like us.”

  “Hell’s teeth,” he snarled.

  “Don’t fight, you two.” Melanie interrupted what could quickly become a heated argument. “If we’re going to survive, we have to work together and not snipe at each other all the time.”

  Peter grunted something incomprehensible, but he did step down from the coach to pick up Ann’s trunk. “God, this is heavy. What did you pack? Bricks?”

  “A few of father’s books, some blankets, linen. There’s another trunk upstairs with my clothes.” She hurried off and returned clutching a small carpet bag.

  “My jewelry,” she followed Melanie’s gaze. “I haven’t got much left. Peter rifled through my drawer and stole most of it.”

  “I bloody needed the money.”

  Melanie turned a gasp of shock into a cough. No point antagonizing him with criticism.

  Peter stomped off to retrieve Ann’s other trunk. He dumped it in the coach without speaking then headed back inside. On his return he carried a brown leather case with gold fittings. Between the three of them their worldly possessions consisted of several trunks, Ann’s jewelry bag, two horses and a coach.

  They journeyed along in a silence broken intermittently by Ann’s sobs. Peter drove staring straight ahead, his features set into sullen lines. They passed through several small villages then travelled over the moors, mile upon mile of brooding emptiness.

  Dusk fell as they left the main road. A sliver of foreboding slid up Melanie’s spine when Peter stopped the horses at a dark stone cottage with age blackened door and window surrounds. The place seemed to blend into the landscape, lonely, bleak. Melanie alighted.

  “This is it?” Ann clutched her shawl more tightly around her. “We have to live here?”

  “Yes, until I can get some money. We’ll be out of here in a few weeks at most.”

  Melanie shivered. The cottage looked spooky, and it was summer time. What would it be like covered in snow?

  The hinges screeched as the door swung back. They followed Peter across the threshold. A damp mustiness assaulted her nostrils. Clearly, no one had been here in years.

  Peter clomped around until he found a lamp. On his third attempt he managed to get it to splutter into life. Without a word he dumped it on a wooden table.

  Even in the subdued light Melanie noticed inches of dust coating everything. The floors were of cobblestone, the walls appeared whitewashed beneath their grimy coat. No stove, just a large stone fireplace with a blackened pot dangling from a chain fastened to the inside of the chimney. Above the mantel someone had hammered up a deer’s head. It might have been a glorious trophy once, but was now moth-eaten, filthy, and one of the giant antlers had snapped off.

  “I can’t live here,” Ann wailed. “It’s primitive and filthy.”

  “You’ll have to,” Peter snapped. “Do you think I like it? Bloody hovel.”

  “I’m sure we’ll all feel better in the morning,” Melanie consoled, wondering why she had to be the strong one. The last time she was in a dingy hut like this was in Ballarat, cradling a bleeding Robbie in her arms. She had been brave then. Could she resurrect this courage?

  Hours had passed since lunch at a wayside inn, where Ann had used a couple of her precious sovereigns to pay for their meal and buy bread, cheese and a bottle of cider to take with them. Peter had no money, Melanie only a few pennies.

  By the light of the small lamp they ate the bread and cheese, washed down with a few swigs of apple cider.

  “I remember father saying he nearly fell down the well when he was drunk, so there must be one out the back,” Peter said.

  “Why don’t we organize where we’re going to sleep before it gets too dark, in case the lamp goes out?” Melanie didn’t like the way it flickered and spluttered.

  Two back rooms each contained a timber slatted single bed and nothing else. No mattress. No pillow.

  “Someone must have broken in and stolen everything,” Ann said. “From what I remember of grandfather, he liked his creature comforts even on a hunting trip.”

  “You ladies have the bedrooms,” Peter said, “I’ll sleep on the floor in the kitchen.”

  Taken on face value it sounded like a gentlemanly gesture. Did he have a conscience after all? Melanie found that hard to believe.

  Maybe sleeping on the floor wouldn’t be such a hardship after all. She was too exhausted and traumatized to dwell on that for now.

  Peter dragged in their trunks and deposited them on the kitchen floor. “There’s a stable of sorts out the back, plenty of firewood too.” He swung on his heel and strode outside.

  “I can’t put my good linen on those beds,” Ann wailed. “They’re too filthy.”

  “Maybe if we wrapped ourselves in a blanket for tonight,” Melanie suggested. “We could clean the place up in the morning and make it more presentable. My head is thumping.” She feared her skull would split in half and spill the contents out.

  “I’m a selfish beast.” Ann gave her a hug. “I’m not used to having to do things for myself, and I keep forgetting your delicate state.”

  “I wish I could forget about it.” Melanie couldn’t help the bitterness edging her tone. “It’s like a heavy black shroud pressing me i
nto the ground.”

  “We’ll have to pretend you’re widowed like me otherwise we’ll receive no help from the villagers. Some of these places are steeped in religious superstition and pious bigotry. They could even drive us away from here.” Ann picked up Melanie’s left hand. “I’ve got a plain gold wedding ring you can wear.”

  Melanie shuddered. She had read about what religious zealots did to fallen women and their bastard children. She couldn’t risk it, even if it meant living a lie.

  Peter breezed into the kitchen. “Things will seem better in the morning.”

  No wonder he sounded so chirpy. His breath reeked of alcohol. He must have been outside drinking and didn’t even have the decency to bring in a few logs so they could light a fire. Selfish, like all the other male aristocrats she had come in contact with. Michael, of course, was despicable as well.

  Peter stayed in the kitchen; she and Ann retired to bed. Wrapped in a blanket and lying on bare wooden slats without a pillow, Melanie closed her eyes and tried to sleep. Images of her comfortable homestead and the happy life she had lived in Ballarat paraded through her head.

  Someone betrayed us, Robbie’s ghostly voice whispered from the grave. She closed her eyes tightly to shut off the tears. Where was James? Hunted down like a wild dog? Dead maybe? He was tenacious, brave too, but in a different way to Robbie. He thought things through, whereas Robbie always acted on impulse. She had to believe her brother was safe. That one day they would both return to Ballarat and pick up the threads of their old life. What of Uncle Alex? He would be a broken man. Surely he would not stay on the goldfields now, not when their homestead would be empty. What a sad, lonely old man he would be without Robbie, her or James.

  Next morning, Melanie awoke to a sliver of sunlight penetrating the grime on the window. Every muscle and bone screamed in agony as she eased herself out of bed. Her headache had gone, but nausea rolled around in the pit of her stomach. She dressed, plaited her hair and wandered out into the kitchen. The sun rode high in the sky so she must have slept in, even on the hard uncomfortable bed. Dirt and dried leaves littered the kitchen floor. A rotting piece of carpet lay in one corner.

  A full bucket of water stood on the table, Peter must have been to the well. A few words scrawled on the wall with charcoal caught her eye. A rush of foreboding raced through her. The brevity of it chilled her. I am leaving. There’s a well out back. Water good to drink. Goodbye. Peter.

  Just like that. He had abandoned them in the middle of nowhere and taken the coach and horses, left them to their own devices with no means of transport. Didn’t care whether they lived or died, bad enough him doing something so despicable to her, but his sister? She staggered outside and vomited on the grass.

  Ann’s screams rent the air, truly horrible to hear. Melanie dashed inside. Her friend marched around the kitchen, beating her chest, pulling her hair.

  “How could he do this to me?”

  “Stop it! You’ll injure yourself.” She grabbed Ann’s flailing arms. “We have to be calm, rational. Work out what to do. I feel like screaming too, but if I do we’re both dead. My baby too.”

  With strength dredged from God alone knew where, she led Ann to one of the battered wooden chairs. “We can survive this if we help each other. There’s obviously water in the well, so that’s something. We’ll have to work out what we need. Make a list, then try to find our way into the village and buy the necessities. With clean hay we could make our own mattresses and pillows. I’ve seen it done on the goldfields. You did bring your sewing box?”

  “Y … yes,” Ann blubbered. “I … I never travel anywhere without it.”

  “Good.”

  A battered tin mug floated in the water bucket. Melanie half filled it and took a tentative sip. The cold, slightly brackish water was drinkable. She drained the mug, filled it up again and handed it to Ann. After a nervous sip, she too emptied it in a few gulps.

  They shared the last of the bread. Dry and unpalatable as it was, they needed to eat every crumb.

  Behind a thick wall of spider webs Melanie discovered a floor to ceiling corner shelf. With a stick she gingerly poked away the cobwebs. “Look, I’ve found a few things!” A blackened kettle, a tin dish, and several dirty china cups and bowls were buried under a thick layer of dust. There was also a broom and an axe.

  “I’ll light the fire so we can boil the water for a cup of tea and a wash.”

  “I bought my favorite silver teapot,” Anne said, “and a box of tea leaves.”

  “See, it won’t be so bad,” Melanie lied. “Being organized is the key to our survival. We might be able to buy a cow in the village, even chickens for eggs. I have to see if there is an outhouse. I’ll wet myself otherwise.”

  Melanie opened the kitchen door, which led on to an overgrown courtyard. Ann followed her into what once must have been a herb garden. Outside, the early summer sun shone from a clear blue sky lifting her spirits. A forest of oak trees enclosed the cottage. The interwoven branches formed a green canopy through which slanting sunlight filtered.

  The wooden outhouse listed drunkenly as if it might tumble down any day. Inside a splintered wooden seat covered a yawning hole. She dusted away the cobwebs and dead spiders with a piece of material ripped from her petticoat, while Ann stood with a horrified expression on her face.

  They made their way to the woodshed which at one time must have been a stable or small barn. A couple of old bridles dangled from a rack on one wall and a large horseshoe hung above the entrance.

  “For good luck,” Ann muttered. Melanie bit back on a hysterical laugh.

  Stacks of wood had been piled up in one corner, probably dead tree branches from the forest floor, the majority of it uncut.

  “Can you use an axe?” Ann asked, staring at the pile of dead tree branches slung in one corner.

  “Yes, I often did it at home.” She had cut wood on a regular basis when James had been away or too busy. Venting her anger and frustration on logs always had a calming effect on her.

  “I’m good at growing herbs,” Ann said. “Geoffrey always told me I had a green thumb.”

  They left the barn and traipsed towards a small orchard. Most of the trees looked dead, lifeless branches reaching skywards as if begging for divine help. Melanie dashed over to an apple tree with Ann a couple of paces behind. Laughing and yelling they grabbed at the fruit and gobbled it down. Never had anything tasted so sweet.

  “Once we get a decent fire going, we can stew some of these,” Melanie said. “I don’t mind cooking, but I hate cleaning up afterwards.”

  Ann smiled for the first time in days. The sun must have infused her with its warmth, bolstered her hope. “I enjoy cooking, but I’ve never had to clean up the mess I made. Geoffrey insisted I at least have a scullery maid. I still miss him.” The light that had infused her eyes only seconds ago was replaced by a desperate sadness.

  “Dear Ann.” Melanie took her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I know how you feel. I’ll never forget Robbie.”

  They gathered up several of the smaller branches and carried them inside, eager to organize their bedding and food supplies.

  “Do you have any money left?” Melanie asked.

  “No. Peter must have gone through my purse before he left this morning. I’ve only got a few pennies.” Ann held her head in her hands and wailed. “How could my brother do such a horrid thing to me?”

  “I don’t know. Desperation and selfishness can turn men into beasts. Look at what Michael did to me, purely out of selfishness and lust.” Stop being bitter, she inwardly admonished herself. You’ll destroy yourself if you keep this up.

  “Let’s try and find the nearest village,” Melanie suggested.

  Ann stumbled to her bedroom and her piercing scream rent the air. She rushed out to the kitchen, tears pouring down her cheeks. “Peter took what was left of my jewelry.”

  “What!”

  “This was my mother’s ring.” Ann sniffed, as she gave Melanie
the plain gold wedding band. “He didn’t find this or a few other pieces that belonged to mother. I kept them separate.”

  How could a man do this to his sister? How much lower could Peter sink?

  Ann swatted the tears away. “Deep down I’m not surprised. I would never have admitted it before, could hardly bear to think about it, but Peter has been a lying thief most of his life.”

  “Oh no!”

  “Yes. He was expelled from two different boarding schools for theft. Even as a schoolboy he gambled. I wanted to believe he would stop, but deep down I knew he wouldn’t. He’s like Michael Guilford, with a gambling addiction they won’t or can’t control.” She dangled a gold locket in front of Melanie. “My mother told me this had been given to her by an admirer, before she met my father. We’ll sell that first. I hope the village has a pawnshop.”

  “It’s awful you having to sell your mother’s things.”

  “What else can we do?”

  One minute Ann was resolute, the next, a trembling, weeping wreck. Melanie no longer knew who the real Ann was.

  “I wonder whether we could get some kind of work in the village?” Melanie mused as she closed the front door.

  As they headed towards the road they had driven on yesterday, Anne surprised her by saying. “Maybe I could teach the piano.”

  Melanie linked arms with her. “There could be a rich squire with daughters wanting to learn the piano.”

  On the road, a rather generous description as two carriages could barely pass each other, stood a weathered sign post. Haverstock – 1 mile.

  The village of Haverstock consisted of a winding cobblestone street, with grey stone cottages on one side and a couple of shops and a small tearoom on the other. Dull, old and somber, even in the sunlight.

  A large stone church with a high bell tower reigned over the village. Perched on a hill, it held a commanding view of the countryside. With her thumb, Melanie stroked the gold wedding band.

  They had worked out their story as they walked along. Melanie would be Mrs. O’Dea, the widow of Ann’s cousin who had been killed on the Australian goldfields.