by Tania Crosse
Her shoes clicked on the tiled hall floor as she flounced away. Tresca watched her, and then fled up the stairs.
‘Good night, Mother.’
‘I can see nothing good about this night if you insist on carrying on with this charade. I assume you are going to do the gentlemanly thing and sleep in another room, seeing as the slut is obviously not in love with you? And hopefully you will come to your senses and have the marriage annulled on grounds of non-consummation.’
‘That might be a trifle hard to prove, don’t you think, as Tresca is already with child?’ Morgan suggested. ‘Besides, I happen to love her, and although Mr O’Mahoney was her true love, she is not without feelings of fondness towards me, and she knows what marriage entails.’
‘I don’t suppose the little whore cares. So go on. Ruin your life anyway. But don’t come crying to me when it all goes wrong.’
‘It won’t,’ he answered grimly, and turned into his bedroom.
Tresca was sitting by the dressing table in her nightdress, brushing out her hair. She was exhausted, her senses drained, but to see Morgan enter the room she had believed would be hers alone, locking the door behind him, made her heart thump in her chest. She turned, startled with fear as she watched him sit down on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands.
‘M–Morgan, I thought you said—’
He lifted his head, wetting his lips as he met her gaze. ‘I know. And it was my intention to sleep in the guest room. But Mother wants me to have our marriage annulled for non-consummation.’
‘W–what?’
‘So I want her to think we’ll be cementing our marriage tonight. But don’t worry, I’ll keep my promise. But it does mean I need to sleep in here with you. On . . . oh dear, I don’t fancy the floor. So . . . would you mind? I can put the bolster between us, see? Oh, Lord, this truly isn’t what I planned.’
Tresca gulped, her heart rearing in her chest. It wasn’t what she had planned, either. Could she really trust Morgan? Good God, she barely knew him! He had always been thoughtful and polite, but he was so very subservient to his dragon of a mother. And yet today he had done nothing but defy the old crow. Give her a dose of her own medicine, although his arguments had been couched in far more civil terms than hers had been. But now Tresca had little choice but to nod her consent.
‘Thank you,’ Morgan mumbled, and began to undress.
Tresca watched him, mesmerized by the day’s events. He peeled off his upper garments first, and at the sight of his bare flesh, something in the very core of her yearned brokenly for the broad, powerfully muscled chest that had lit a fire deep down in her belly. Morgan was of a far slighter build, and yet there was a wiry strength to his shoulders that wasn’t displeasing. Tresca pulled herself up short, suddenly aware that she was inspecting him, and she averted her eyes. She could hardly expect him to respect her privacy if she wasn’t respecting his. If that was indeed what he planned to do, and it hadn’t all been a deceptive ruse on his part.
She heard the creak of bed springs, and when she looked back, Morgan was snuggling down on his side of the bed. Dragging herself across the room, Tresca slid in beside him on the other side of the bolster. She had brought with her the pretty lamp Connor had rescued for her, setting it up next to her on the bedside table. Now she turned the wick down low, but didn’t extinguish the tiny flame entirely. If Morgan tried to force himself on her, she wanted to be able to see enough to defend herself. Besides, the lamp made her feel that Connor was close.
Oh, Connor, I’m so sorry, she whispered to him inside her head. I feel as if I’ve betrayed you, but I had to do it for the sake of our child. She pulled the covers up to her chin and stared into the shadows.
Morgan emerged from the dining room having finished his breakfast before leaving for the shop. Work provided an unbelievable escape from the palpable tension that percolated through the house, and he pitied poor Tresca who spent more time there than he did. She went out as much as possible, visiting Vera or Mrs Edwards or any of her other friends in the street. Jane had a new dairymaid, but Tresca almost lived there, even serving in the shop. Charity Trembath could hardly object since she was nothing but a jumped-up shopkeeper herself – as Jane went to great and bitter lengths to declare!
Sometimes, if his mother wasn’t going to be there, Tresca would accompany Morgan to the shop in West Street. Those were his favourite days, when he could look after her in a way that was impossible under his mother’s scornful eye. Even when, with spring on the way, he had merely come home with a small bunch of daffodils still in bud for his pregnant wife, Charity had snipped off their heads in a malicious rage. But today Tresca was going to the shop with him, and being a mild, sunny day, he was planning on taking her for a stroll along the old canal at lunchtime. He was looking forward immensely to this humble pleasure and whistled softly as he climbed the stairs.
The door to the marital bedroom was open. As he reached the landing, Morgan heard a crash and the sound of shattering glass. Then a thin wail of despair which he recognized as Tresca’s voice. He dashed to the doorway. Tresca was standing by the wardrobe, both hands over her mouth in horror, her eyes wild and bolting. Having started her daily round of cleaning, Mrs Lancaster was by the bedside table, waving her feather duster in the air, and Tresca’s beloved lamp lay in fragments on the polished floorboards.
‘Oh dear,’ Mrs Lancaster pronounced, her voice laced with sarcasm. ‘I seem to have knocked over your lamp. What a pity.’
‘What’s all this fuss about?’ Charity demanded, appearing behind Morgan.
‘Oh, just the lamp, Mrs Trembath.’
Morgan glanced over his shoulder at his mother, and the rage seethed inside him as he caught the supercilious, knowing look that was exchanged between the two women. He drew in his breath to say something, choking on his anger, but before he could think of any words, Tresca let out a strangling scream and stumbled to her knees among the broken pieces, trying frantically to scoop them up in her hands and put them back together. In a trice, Morgan was behind her, trying to stop her as already the shards of glass and china were slicing into her skin and blood was starting to drip from her fingers. She tried to fight him off, shaking in violent spasms, sobbing as she continued to scrabble among the splinters before Morgan managed to drag her to her feet.
‘This is all your doing, isn’t it?’ he spat at his mother.
‘No, it was merely an accident,’ she purred back.
But she watched as Tresca turned to Morgan, weeping brokenly against his chest as he held her so very tightly, smoothing her hair and comforting her like a small child. Charity pursed her lips as she turned away. She might have achieved one of her aims – she had learnt how much the lamp had meant to her daughter-in-law – but she hadn’t meant it to drive the bitch and her son closer together. Still, it was early days.
Twenty-Five
Tresca waddled over to the window. She prayed the baby would put in an appearance soon; it felt so enormous within her bulging stomach. When Dr Greenwood had examined her the previous day, he had patted her hand encouragingly as he had left the room.
‘Send for me the minute her labour starts,’ he had said to the young girl’s stony-faced mother-in-law as she had shown him down the stairs. ‘It feels like a big baby and it could be a difficult birth. But don’t say anything to our little mother. I don’t want her worried before it all starts.’
‘Of course not, Doctor,’ Charity had simpered.
Now, Tresca drew back the bedroom curtains to a grey, drizzling morning. What a pity. Friday the thirtieth of May 1890, the day of the ceremonies to open the new railway line. Connor would have been so proud to be among the crowd in his Sunday best, displaying his waistcoat with its umpteen shining buttons. Strange the way navvies vied with each other to have the highest number of the shiniest buttons. To Connor it would have been a mark of his seniority among the two thousand or so railway workers who had constructed this new line.
The knife twisted i
n Tresca’s side. She crossed her hand over her stomach, realizing the baby’s kicking had broken through her sad reverie. She had hoped against hope, but there was still no sign of Connor. He had disappeared without trace.
‘Well, I must be off. You will be all right, won’t you?’
Tresca brushed away her tears as Morgan came into the room. Dear, kind Morgan. She mustn’t let him see. It almost seemed as if the child really was his. She recalled the day he had seen her skirt lift as the baby had kicked vigorously. His face had lit up like a young schoolboy’s.
‘Can I . . . feel it?’ he had asked hesitantly.
She had raised her eyes to his, such a wondrous, happy moment. ‘Yes. Give me your hand.’
She could feel him trembling as she placed his palm over the spot where she had just experienced movement. A second later, the baby had obligingly kicked again, and Morgan had laughed aloud, his eyes dancing in wonderment. They had put their heads together, joined in happiness.
The moment had drawn them closer together. As Tresca had grown larger and become more uncomfortable in bed, they had dispensed with the bolster. Morgan never once erred from his side, but had gone down to the kitchen in the middle of the night to fetch her some milk whenever she couldn’t sleep. Dear Morgan. Even when his mother’s acid tongue got the better of him, Tresca could only feel pity. He was doing his best, and without him God knew what might have happened to her. Quite often were the occasions when Tresca had been overwhelmed with gratitude and fondness, and brushed a kiss of affection on his cheek, making him blush.
‘Yes, I’ll be fine, Morgan, thank you,’ she answered him now.
‘Only I won’t be able to come home at lunchtime. I’m expecting a large delivery and I need to be there. And Mother’s planning to go to the opening of the railway this morning.’
‘Yes, I know. I expect half the town will be there.’
‘Perhaps not with the rain, but it’ll be quite an event anyway. I understand they’re bringing a train from Lydford with all the dignitaries on board. Stopping at Brentor first and then here.’ Morgan’s brow creased into a frown. ‘You won’t be going, will you? I don’t want you being jostled about.’
‘No, I don’t really feel like it. I’ll be able to see the train going over the viaduct from the window here. So you get off to work and don’t worry about me.’
Morgan dropped a kiss on her forehead and then hurried out of the door. Tresca turned back to the window, ignoring the tightening in her belly. She’d had this feeling many times over the last couple of weeks, but they were practice contractions, Dr Greenwood had said. But this morning they were stronger and more regular, and she was sure the baby wouldn’t be long.
She heard the front door close and saw Morgan step out into the street below. She waved down at him as he glanced up and waved back. He had already turned away down the hill when Tresca’s belly suddenly clenched so viciously that it took her breath away and she found herself bending over the deep windowsill to support herself. The pain brought tears to her eyes. Oh, please, Morgan, stop! But he had already passed beneath the viaduct and was out of sight.
It seemed an eternity before the cramping eased and Tresca released a tearing sigh of relief. Well, this was it. Her labour had truly started. She would have to get downstairs and ask Charity to send for the doctor. But she had scarcely reached the bed when the crippling pain came again, and she grasped on to the brass bedstead. Oh, Lord. And then she felt something snap inside her and a stream of something warm and wet poured down the insides of her thighs and into a puddle on the floor.
Her fingers closed even more tightly around the brass rod. She tried to call out, but she couldn’t find the breath until the contraction had passed. Gingerly she hobbled to the far side of the bedstead, but as she eyed the distance to the door, the pain attacked her yet again, even more strongly than before. This time, she managed to cry out. No one came. It was half an hour later when she had crawled on her hands and knees to the door, that Charity finally opened it, dressed in her outdoor clothes, and stared down at Tresca in disdain.
‘Get up off the floor, girl,’ she barked.
‘I–I can’t—’
‘For heaven’s sake, it’s only your labour starting.’
‘But my waters have broken and it shouldn’t be coming so fast. I’m sure we should send for Dr Greenwood—’
‘Oh, don’t make such a fuss. It’ll be hours yet. Let’s get you back into bed.’
She grasped Tresca’s arm and hauled her to her feet, dragging her back to the bed. She pushed her down on to the mattress, lifted up her legs in one swift movement and then pulled up the covers, tucking them in so tightly that Tresca could barely move.
‘You’ll feel better now,’ she said, her voice as cold as granite. ‘Get some rest. You’ll need your strength for the actual birth.’
‘Please, Mother-in-law,’ Tresca begged. ‘I’m certain there be summat – something – amiss. The pains shouldn’t be coming so quickly so soon and—’
‘Nonsense. It’ll be hours before you need the doctor. I was a day and a half with Morgan. You’re just being hysterical. Typical of your class.’
‘Oh, no, I’m not, you mean old—’
She broke off as the agony ripped through her again and this time she scarcely managed to stifle her scream. Dear God, she was sure this wasn’t right. Her fingers clawed at the blankets and she tried to draw up her knees, but the tightly tucked bedclothes prevented it. Her eyes stretched wide, savage with terror, as she gazed up at Charity’s wooden expression.
‘Mrs Lancaster and I are off to the opening ceremony,’ Charity declared, pulling on her gloves. ‘When we get back, we’ll see if I need to fetch the doctor then.’
Tresca felt the strength drain out through her fingertips. Surely the witch wasn’t going to leave her all alone in the house like this! How long would the proceedings at the station take? Could she possibly last that long? Oh, no, she could feel it coming again and bit down hard on her lip. But the torture was too great and she screamed aloud. No one heard her, though the empty house resounded with her cries.
She must, must fight this. When the contraction was over, she gritted her teeth and kicking her weak legs against the blankets, finally freed herself. The battle exhausted her, but after the next crippling pain, she threw back the covers. There was no way she could get downstairs to the front door and alert some passer-by. She was saturated in sweat, drowning in a weakness she had never experienced before. As she sat up, her head swam giddily, making her feel dizzy and nauseous. And when she glanced down, she gaped in horror at the bright red stain spreading through her nightdress and over the sheets.
Oh, God. Bella. Dying alone in a pool of blood.
‘No!’ Her howl of terror spiralled to the ceiling.
The crowd at the brand new station applauded the speech by Tavistock’s ex-portreeve and then a reply was given by a jolly railway official. The small band struck up again, masking the quiet hiss of steam coming from the gleaming engine waiting patiently by the platform like some massive gentle giant. Then the dignitaries climbed back on board, the driver pulled the whistle, and with a soft lurch, the engine’s wheels began to turn. The train inched out on to the viaduct, gathering power as it disappeared into the cutting on the far side.
The spectators lingered for a few minutes despite the rain. Vera glanced around her. A few navvies had proudly watched the final act in the completion of the line they had toiled like slaves to build, but virtually all that hardy breed had moved on to pastures new. And where was Connor? Vera pondered sadly. Would they ever know what had happened to him? Poor Tresca. But her marriage to Morgan seemed to be a success in some strange way, and Vera was thankful for that.
There was Mrs Trembath Senior now with her housekeeper, each sheltering under an umbrella. Vera wove a path through the dispersing crowd, catching them as they turned away.
‘Good morning, Mrs Trembath,’ she addressed them politely, and Charity gave her
an equally polite nod, for here was a young woman who would have made Morgan a far more suitable wife than that trollop who had ensnared him and was carrying the illegitimate child of another man – and a coarse Irish navvy at that!
‘A little short and sweet, the ceremony, don’t you think?’ Vera went on, feeling she must say something before she came to the question she really wanted to ask. ‘Especially when the new line will be part of our lives from now on?’
‘Personally I wish the viaduct didn’t pass so near to our residence. Sadly, my dear departed husband took a ten-year lease on our property, but now I should prefer to live somewhere more suited to our status.’
Charity didn’t add that despite being double-fronted and having an enormous garden, the house had never pleased her. Bannawell Street had always been one of the most overcrowded places in the town, with some very dubious residents. When it had provided popular lodgings for the navvies, it had been the last straw. At least they had all departed now – if only one of them hadn’t left behind a brat that was going to be brought up as her grandchild. Still, if the girl and the bastard died while she was out – which she prayed fervently that they would – the status quo in their own house would be restored. Charity might even manipulate Morgan into finding a second wife in the young lady who stood before her now.
Vera, though, inwardly cringed at the woman’s outrageous snobbery. ‘Perhaps you would prefer somewhere like Watts Road?’ she suggested, tamping down her true feelings. ‘But may I ask how young Mrs Trembath is today?’
‘She’s well enough,’ Charity replied, the lie coming easily to her lips. ‘But in her condition, it wasn’t wise for her to attend the ceremony. Now, Mrs Lancaster is to help me choose a new hat for the coming season. So, if you would excuse us?’
Vera watched as they headed off towards the town, and her brow dipped in a frown. Why would they go shopping when it was raining – and quite hard now? She had caught an odd, sly expression in Mrs Trembath’s shifty eyes. And as Vera, too, set off downhill, she found herself hurrying. She overtook the two women, but instead of going down Drake Road, which had been built specifically to provide access to the new station from the town centre, she cut through Barley Market Street towards Tresca’s home.