Unto Death

by Lena West

  “Yes, yes, man. Get on with it, will you.” Thomas flapped a hand at Will. “We haven't got all day to stand around gossiping.”

  “It ain't gossip, sir. That it ain't. I couldn't find anybody about, and then I heard old Archie's missus talkin'. Doan know who to; didn't see, like, but I gotta know it's a bloke cause o' what they was talkin' about. Anyways, I ducked back outta sight. Doan like crossin' that lady, not if I doan hafta. So, there I was, tucked down outta sight, but hearin' ever word she said. Boss, I'm not makin' this up, but I reckon she were settin' sum bloke up to hurt our Miss Lucy. She give 'im a wad of cash and tole him to git a message ta Stephen's missus ta bring a cart down ta the level crossin out along the back road.”

  Will gulped, coming to a halt and looking Thomas directly in the eye, willing him to believe his words.

  “She tole him, when the missus arrived to ave 'is way wiv her. Said when he heared voices, ta leave 'er there in the open where she'd be sure ta be seen by them as she'd be sendin' along ta find 'er. Sounded real mean, she did, Boss. Mean and nasty.”

  Thomas goggled at him. Surely such a tale couldn't be true! Not even Isabella Cummings could be so evil. What had Lucy ever done to her? But while Will Murphy could spin a yarn with the best of them, he wasn't a liar. If corroboration was needed of the veracity of his story, the naked fear on his face was enough. Improbable as it seemed, Thomas believed the man.

  “Wot we gunna do, Boss? We gotta save Miss Lucy.”

  There was no time to waste in further discussion, and Thomas wasted none.

  “Stephen's down the line about half a mile. You get him and go with him to the crossing; and be quick about it. I'll head in the opposite direction and hope I'm in time to stop Lucy before she gets there. Go, man!”

  ***

  “Hey, missus.”

  Lucy turned to see an Aboriginal child, the progeny of one of the native stockmen who worked on Eden Vale.

  “Hello, Benny. Did you come to share my biscuits?”

  “Na, missus,” he said, eyes on his grubby, bare feet. He took one anyway when she held out the plate.

  “Ta. Good tucker. Bloke said ta tell ye Mr Stephen got hurt. You're ta bring the cart ta the level crossin' on the back road.”

  “Oh. My goodness.”

  Lucy sprang to her feet, upsetting her teacup in its saucer. “What happened, Benny? How bad is he hurt?”

  But Benny knew no more and ran off to play with his mates.

  “Pete! Pete!”

  Lucy yelled, running to meet the gardener half way.

  “Pete, Stephen's been hurt. Benny brought me a message. I'm to take the cart to fetch him home. Will you harness up for me, please, while I fetch the first aid box.”

  In no time at all, after a hasty word to Bridget and the girls, Lucy was rattling along the rough track that was the shortest route she knew to her destination.

  ***

  “Stephen! Stephen! Where are you? Somebody answer me, please. Stephen!”

  The young bay gelding was fresh, and Lucy had pushed him hard over the two miles she'd had to travel. Now here she was, in record time, yelling her head off, and there was nobody to be seen.

  She jumped down, tying the horse to a shady tree, and began looking about her. There was a path along the creek bank; maybe Stephen was further into the bush, not right next to the road. She ran back to get the first aid box, to save coming back for it if it should be needed.

  The attack was so sudden, she had no warning; no time to scream for help.

  She'd been grabbed from behind, her attacker clamping one meaty paw over her mouth. There was no escape. Tossing her head from side to side, at the same time kicking backwards in the hope of catching his shins with her boots, she loosened the grip on her mouth slightly.

  Making the most of even so tiny an opportunity, she bit down hard, exerting all the pressure she could bring to bear on the fingers that had forced their way between her lips. The hot, coppery taste of blood mingled with the rancid odour of unwashed, sweaty skin, making her gag, but she held on gamely. He swore at her, calling her string of foul names she'd never heard before.

  Ripping his hand free, he hit her, a great, open-handed swipe across the side of her head, knocking her to the ground where she lay half stunned, ears ringing from the blow. Dazed, she was too slow moving to escape.

  The brute was on her again before she could scramble to her feet, ripping at her bodice to expose her breasts. He grabbed at her, fingers digging into the soft globe of tender flesh, squeezing and twisting viciously.

  Lucy screamed; and screamed again.

  The scariest part was the bag with two slits for his eyes that covered his whole head rendering him completely anonymous. That and the deadly silence of his attack, apart from the curses when she bit him. There was no way she would be able to recognise him again.

  She hit out at him, but her feeble blows achieved nothing. He was a great bull of a man who had no trouble controlling her.

  Abandoning her mangled breast, he reached down, tossing her skirts above her waist. He ripped her underwear, tearing her pantaloons from her body. Coarse, blunt fingers probed obscenely between her legs.

  She screamed again. Another blow to the side of her head rendered her almost unconscious.

  Her attacker fumbled with the opening in his trousers, hauling his grossly enlarged member into the open. Wedging his knees between hers, he forced Lucy's legs apart.

  When it seemed all was lost, salvation arrived.

  Lucy heard the thunder of hooves and her husband's furious voice yelling oaths every bit as horrible as the ones used by her assailant. These, though, were music to her ears.

  The brute leapt to his feet, clutching at his trousers, and ran off into the bush. The diminishing thuds of hooves as he made his getaway came to their ears moments later. Right then, Lucy didn't care, that would come later. For now, all she could think of was being safe.

  Safe in her husband's arms.

  By the time Stephen reached her, Lucy was huddled into a ball, crying in great convulsive sobs. She'd dragged her skirts down to cover her nakedness and was clutching the tattered shreds of her bodice together over her breasts.

  Stephen flung himself onto the ground beside her and lifted his wife gently into his lap.

  Wrapping his arms around her, he let her tears soak the shoulder of his shirt. Rocking her to and fro, he comforted her with formless murmurings.

  Lucy heard the clatter of hooves on gravel signalling new arrivals, other voices inquiring as to her welfare, but couldn't respond. She was sure at least one of them was Thomas, and, was that Pete? He must have saddled up and followed her as soon as she left. These men were friends, but she just couldn't stop crying.

  Someone was helping Stephen to his feet, urgently telling him to do something. What? She struggled against his strong, confining hold; sudden fear engulfing her once more. Was that man returning? She didn't want to be hurt again. Stephen's soothing voice calmed her.

  “Hush now, Darling. Everything is alright, I'm just moving you into the shade.”

  She held the front of his shirt in a death grip as he staggered to his feet, holding her in his arms, high against his chest, and quickly ducked behind the bushes out of sight.

  “Shush Darling,” he urged again, muffling her sobs against his broad chest. “Not a sound now, Lucy darling. Absolutely quiet if you can. There's other people coming up the road. Don't want them to see you like this, do you?”

  Lucy gave a tiny shake of her head. Gasping and gulping she struggled to stem her tears, trembling in her husband's protective arms.

  Thomas stepped out of the creekside glade towards the road where it crossed the ford.

  After Will’s tale he was not in the least surprised to see Isabella Cummings in the midst of a party of riders from Mannering Park the nearest property to Eden Vale on this side.

  “Mark. Good morning.”

  He nodded to Isabella, Miss Forster and the Mannering children,
issuing a general greeting.

  “Thomas Fortescue!” Isabella exclaimed.

  “What are you doing here?”

  She'd expected to see Lucy on the ground in the glade, a man she would then convince the others was Lucy's lover, running off, leaving her in a state of undress, exposed to the eyes of her neighbours. It wouldn't take long for a scandal of such gigantic proportions to do the rounds of the whole district. And she would have her revenge.

  Instead, the only ones here were Thomas Fortescue and a couple of his men.

  Where was Jake, Archibald’s new foreman, whom she had hired to do her dirty work? More to the point, where was Miss oh-so-pure-and-sweet Lucy Fortescue? It was inconceivable to Isabella that her carefully thought-out scheme should have come to nought. Damn the bloody Fortescues. Why did they always have to come out on top?

  “I hardly think it necessary to account for my presence on my own land, Mrs Cummings,” Thomas drawled, staring down his nose, “but since you ask, we were checking water levels along the creek. It's been very dry for the time of year. If it doesn't rain soon, we'll be facing a drought before many more weeks.”

  He fell back on the farmers' perennial lament. It stuck in his gullet, being civil to that infernal bitch. She deserved to be horsewhipped at the very least, only he was hamstrung by consideration of Lucy's reputation.

  Isabella had come close to succeeding with her evil plot. He still didn't know how badly hurt Lucy was, although Will seemed to think he and Stephen had arrived in the nick of time.

  “But there's only three of you here, and four horses and a cart. I believe you're up to something.”

  Isabella was tenaciously trying to wring a scandal from the scantiest of evidence.

  This time Rosie Mannering, Mark's outspoken younger sister laughed and provided an answer that satisfied all except Isabella.

  “That's Sultan under the tree. I'll bet Stephen and Lucy have snuck off together. I think it's so sweet. They're so much in love they can hardly bear to be apart for half an hour.”

  “Rosie, mind your tongue or Mum will be after you with a switch. Mrs Cummings, the rest of you lot, come on or we'll be late. Cheerio, Mr Fortescue, Will.”

  With that Mark raised a finger to the brim of his hat and led his party off down the road. Nobody moved till they were well out of sight round the next corner.

  “You can bring her back now, son,” Thomas finally called, walking over to hold the bushes aside. “How badly are you hurt, Lass? Did you know him?”

  Lucy, still sheltered by her husband's arms, shook her head, struggling to find her voice.

  “No more than a few bruises, Dad. Stephen rescued me in time. A few more seconds, though and …” she shuddered.

  The thought of what had so nearly happened would haunt her forever. She forced herself to concentrate. If there was to be any hope of catching her assailant, she had to give them all the information she could.

  “He had a mask. A bag with eye holes was tied over his head. All I could see were his eyes. Horrible dark eyes, leering at me.”

  She turned her face back into Stephen's shoulder, fighting back a fresh bout of weeping.

  “I'm sorry. I'm not much help, am I?”

  “Don't worry about it darling. Will and I both got a good look at the bastard before he scarpered, and neither of us recognised him either with that mask hiding his face.”

  Stephen lifted her onto the cart and wrapped her in the blanket she'd tossed in to wrap around him if he'd been badly hurt.

  “Pete, tie the horses on behind, and you drive,” Stephen ordered, climbing up and scooping Lucy onto his lap once more.

  “Oh!” Lucy exclaimed, fingering the old blanket. “I remember now. Benny, you know Benny, don't you?”

  All three men nodded. Benny was a real character; everyone on Eden Vale knew him quite well.

  “It was Benny. He came to tell me a man had given him a message for me. He said you were here by the crossing, Stephen. Hurt. I should bring the cart.”

  “Good girl. We'll have a little chat with young Benny and see if he can tell us who sent him. Take her home now, son, and look after her.”

  Head down, misery inherent in his slumped posture, Stephen nodded. Concern for Lucy mixed with guilt at knowing the attack on her was all his fault, made speech impossible. He wanted to be the one who found the villain. There would be no more attacks on women if he did. But Lucy needed him. No way could he leave her to Old Pete's care to go rampaging after her assailant, much as being left out of the hunt galled him.

  “Stop! I remember something more.”

  Just as Pete turned the cart onto the road, Lucy turned in her seat, looking over Stephen's shoulder at Thomas.

  “I bit him on the hand; his fingers, I think. Hard enough to draw blood. There should be a mark.”

  The onset of uncontrollable shivers drained her of her last ounce of strength. The foul coppery taste of blood was still in her mouth, the remembered smell of it filling her nostrils once more. She could feel the vile assault of those coarse, meaty fingers probing her most private places.

  “I want to go home,” she wept. “Take me home Stephen.”

  He pulled her close, both arms wrapped protectively around her. Placing a tender kiss on the top of her bent head, he rocked her, smoothing the hair from her hot brow, letting her cry herself out. He prayed she would recover from her ordeal, that it wouldn't leave her emotionally scarred for life.

  Pete, shook his head, wondering what the world was coming to, when a woman wasn't safe on her own property.

  He slapped the reins to set the horse in motion and took the two of them home.

  15

  I have devised a plan to discover who it is who befouls my nest. I'll share it with you if you like. Or even if you don't like. Ha!

  I'm going to pretend to take a trip to Newcastle. They'll see me ride off as usual; saddlebags filled with supplies for the journey and smart clothes to wear in town. Colt holstered at my side.

  Samuel Colt was a real genius, you know, and his revolver is ideal for my purpose; reliable, multiple shots without reloading, and accurate at close range. Perfect for a man on a mission like mine. Colt revolver? I hear you ask.

  Well, I tell you, there are bushrangers, escaped convicts and a plethora of poisonous snakes.

  A man never knows when he might have need of a weapon he can rely on in the Australian bush.

  Or even his own home if …

  “Bathwater for my wife, Bridget. In the bedroom, not the bath house.”

  Bridget goggled at Stephen. It wasn't his curt order that galvanised her into action, but the sight of him carrying a blanket-wrapped Lucy; tearstained, dirty and shrinking from view. Something very bad had happened, that was for sure. It was Pete, arriving soon after, who told her.

  He'd sidled into the kitchen while she was filling hot water jugs to top up the tub she'd dragged into Stephen's and Lucy's bedroom, where Stephen had lit a fire in the hearth, although one was hardly needed on such a warm day.

  Pete looked around to be sure the girls were out of hearing, then very quietly gave Bridget the bare bones of the story as he knew it.

  “Sum bastard attacked our missus. She's really upset, but yer Will was there first wiv Mr Stephen, and they chased 'im orf before he had 'is way wiv 'er. He'd knocked 'er about a bit, though. The boss an' Will were goin' after the dirty blighter. You look after 'er, Bridget, and doan be boverin 'er wiv questions, like.”

  Bridget was shocked to the core. Such a thing had never happened on The Ridge before. She hadn't heard the whole story, she was certain, but what she had heard was bad enough.

  Will would be sure to know more when he came in. She got on with preparing the bath.

  Stephen sat in the bedroom chair, rocking Lucy in his arms, whispering soothing nothings in her ear. She'd stopped crying, but her convulsive shivering worried him. She'd complained in a tiny, woebegone voice, so scarily different to her normal cheerful tones, that she was col
d. On such a warm day, the cold had to be a result of shock. There was no way he would be leaving her on her own until she showed a marked improvement.

  When Bridget silently whisked herself out the door, shutting it behind her, he carefully peeled Lucy out of the dirty, tattered remnants of her clothing and carried her to the tub, lowering her into the warm water. His blood boiled at the sight of the livid bruises on Lucy's soft breasts and head.

  Suppressing his rage didn't diminish it by one iota. Stephen couldn't even bear to think about the part played by his lover. Not once did he doubt Will, whose story had proved correct in every detail.

  How he'd had the strength not to rush out and confront Isabella when she came boldly riding up and trying to blacken Lucy's good name, he didn't know. Yes, he did, though. The need to protect his innocent Lucy from further hurt gave him all the strength he needed. Then, and now, when she was relying solely on him for comfort.

  As gently as he could, Stephen washed the dust and tears from her face. When he started on her body, Lucy became agitated, whimpering and pushing at his hands.

  “No. No. Leave me alone.”

  “Shush, Darling. Shush. It's me. Your Stephen. Let me help. You're not strong enough to do this alone.”

  He caught her hands, holding them until she recognised his voice and stilled. After that she sat, pathetically patient, until he finished washing her body and then her hair. He lifted her out of the rapidly cooling water and towelled her dry. Stephen even remembered the violet-scented talcum powder his wife favoured, vigorously shaking a cloud of white powder into the air so it seemed as much settled on the floor as on his wife's body. Like a little girl, she put her hands up to help him slip one of the pretty, embroidered nightgowns she'd rarely worn since their wedding, over her head.

  When Stephen took her hand, she let him lead her to the dressing table and, listless as a rag doll, sat on the stool while he combed the tangles from her damp hair. He turned the bed covers back, picked her up once more and lay her down, pulling the sheets up to her chin.