Unto Death

by Lena West

  Stephen couldn't bear the blankness in her eyes; or the way she turned away slightly when he leaned down to brush his lips over hers, so that his kiss missed its target and landed on her pallid cheek instead. To hide his distress, he busied himself dragging the tub onto the veranda, tossing the towels and discarded clothing out too.

  Bridget, who'd been keeping a watchful eye on what she and the girls had dubbed the honeymoon suite, came tapping on the door with a pot of hot chocolate.

  “For Miss Lucy, Mr Stephen. Try to get it down her,” she whispered. “I put a good dose of laudanum in it to help the dear girl sleep.”

  Not lingering, Bridget set about clearing away the bath things. When it came to the torn clothes, she was undecided what action to take. These soiled rags were young Mrs Fortescue's property; she didn't have the right to dispose of them. She looked back through the French doors into the bedroom where her mistress lay, as pale as death, and muttered to herself.

  Rights be damned! No-one was going to mend these torn garments. The lass wouldn't ever want to see these clothes again; any of them. Bridget scooped them up and headed straight for the orchard behind the stables where Pete was burning rubbish in the incinerator. When he saw what she was about, he stood aside to allow her to throw the armful of ruined fabric into the heart of the fire.

  Not even the pretty buttons which would normally have been reused, were saved.

  ***

  All afternoon Stephen sat slumped in the armchair he'd dragged over to the side of the bed, watching his wife sleep. Her colour had improved, he thought, stroking her tumbled curls back from her forehead, although that may only have been wishful thinking. With the laudanum guaranteeing her a deep sleep, Lucy never stirred.

  He had no distraction from his anguished thoughts. No surcease from the guilt gnawing at his insides. Near the beginning of his vigil, Bridget brought him a tray with tea and sandwiches. He drained the pot, but the bread and meat lodged in his throat, threatening to choke him. Unable to swallow the food, he left the sandwiches to dry out on the plate.

  Their edges curled as they became steadily drier and less appetising. In the end, unable to bear the sight of them, he threw them out on the lawn for the magpies to squabble over. Later still, Bridget brought more tea but he still couldn't face food.

  Just on dusk, Stephen heard his father return, weariness evident in his dragging footsteps.

  Calling for Bridget to sit with Lucy, he followed his father into the library, finding him pouring himself a generous measure of whisky. Raising a brow in his son's direction, he held the decanter over a second glass. Stephen shook his head.

  If he had a drink, he was afraid that with the weight of his guilty conscience he wouldn't be able to stop at one. Tonight, he couldn't afford the easy relief of losing himself in the bottle. If Lucy woke, needing him, he wanted to be clear headed. Thomas replaced the stopper and set the decanter down. With a weary sigh, he sank into his armchair, watching his son pace restlessly back and forth.

  “Did you find the bastard? I should have been the one to go after him, not you, only I don't see how I could have left Lucy at such a time.”

  Thomas shook his head.

  “No, no, boy. You did right to stay with your wife. If you'd gone with us and we found the bugger, you'd have torn him limb from limb; and where would that have left Lucy when the gossips cottoned on to the story? No, it was better that Will and I did all there was to do, but he was too wily for us. We tried to talk to Benny on the way home tonight, but the whole family went walkabout before we got to them.”

  He ran his hand tiredly over his eyes.

  “I reckon the boy was too scared to talk to us, although we both know where the brute came from.”

  Stephen flinched from the accusation in his father's direct stare.

  “It's all my fault, isn't it? I'm the one responsible for bringing this trouble to our door. For getting Lucy hurt.”

  He bowed his head, eyes closing to hold back shameful tears.

  “I'm so ashamed, Dad. You tried to tell me, but I was too pigheaded to listen. When I married Lucy all that with Isabella should have been at an end. I still loved her, though, and I let her lead me into betraying Lucy's trust. I was too weak to give Isabella up. I really like Lucy though, Dad. She's special. I tried so hard not to let her be tainted by my affair with Isabella; and now this!”

  He flung his hands in the air, his anguished gaze looking to his father for answers and absolution.

  Answers he already knew.

  Absolution wasn't in his father's power to grant. If he wanted absolution, he'd have to earn it from a higher power.

  He paced a bit more, Thomas's eyes, heavy with the heart-rending pain of a parent who couldn't save his child from the consequences of his own actions, following his progress.

  “What happens now, Stephen?”

  “I do what I should have done months ago.” Stephen cast himself into his chair, his face buried in his hands.

  He'd expected a lecture from his father, but no lecture was forthcoming. This awful conversation might have been more bearable if his father had ranted at him and rained recriminations down on his deserving head, as if he was still a foolish boy. Why did Dad have to choose this, of all times, to finally begin treating him as a man? When he didn't feel in any way worthy of the honour?

  But he'd been claiming for ages he wasn't a child any longer. How could he complain now that Dad finally treated him as an adult?

  A man was responsible for his own actions; and the direct consequences of those actions. This whole episode showed him in the worst possible light; as the stupid, arrogant, self-centred child he really was.

  Had been.

  No longer could he afford the luxury of childishly blaming others when the blame lay fairly and squarely in his court. Stephen looked up, determination strengthening his haggard features.

  “A very large part of me still loves Isabella. That part finds it hard to accept she could do this, you know. Only, Will Murphy doesn't lie. I haven't been able to spare Isabella much time lately, though, and she's been sharp with me. If she'd attacked me, I could understand it, but why did she pick on Lucy? That's what I can't understand at all, Dad. You needn't worry, though. I won't be seeing her again. From now on I'll do what I should have done from the first. I'll devote myself one hundred percent to my wife.”

  ***

  Lucy woke in the middle of the night to see Stephen asleep in the armchair beside her, his head tilted back at what must be a dreadfully uncomfortable angle. She felt so confused and woolly-headed. Why was he over there, sleeping in the chair instead of in bed with her?

  She lay still, the eerie call of a mopoke on the hunt the only sound disturbing the silence of the night. As the laudanum-induced stupor cleared, bit by bit, it all came back to her in a rush. Remembering the horrifying details of the attack, she shuddered, uttering a quickly stifled cry. Stephen snorted, the breath catching in his throat.

  “Wha … What? Lucy!”

  He jerked awake, immediately leaning forward, hand lifted to her forehead to check for fever.

  “You're awake, darling. How do you feel?”

  “Alright. I think. Stephen, my mind feels like cotton wool. I can't think properly.”

  “That's just the laudanum. Bridget put a dose in your cocoa so you could sleep.”

  He poured a glass of water from the jug on the bedside table.

  Suddenly aware of the scratchy dryness in her throat, Lucy pushed herself into a sitting position and reached for the glass.

  “Whoa there, Lu. Easy now.”

  Stephen steadied the glass as Lucy gulped its contents down in great mouthfuls, only realising how very thirsty she was when the deliciously cool, refreshing liquid hit the parched linings of her mouth and throat.

  The glass empty, she held it out for a refill, this time taking the time to sip and savour. She handed the glass back to Stephen before it was completely empty.

  “Thank you, Steph
en. I've had enough. Darling …”

  She hesitated, not really wanting to discuss the attack, but desperate to know she was safe.

  “Did you catch him?”

  Anxious, she hung on his reply. He reached for her hands, loosening their grip on the bed covers.

  “No,” he shook his head.

  “The bastard got away. I'm not going to apologise for my language, Lucy. In this situation, it's hard to think in moderate terms.”

  Lucy nodded. She didn't know any words strong enough to describe that despicable excuse for a man and had no objections whatsoever to her husband's use of swear words to describe him.

  “Any man who can do to a woman what that brute did to you deserves to be hunted down and shot, like a rabid dog. We're still looking for him, Lu. In the meantime, you're quite safe. I'll be taking the very best care of you. Lie down now and go back to sleep.”

  Lucy snuggled back down in the bed, then sat up straight again when she saw Stephen rearranging his rangy body in the armchair.

  “You don't have to sleep there, Darling. Please, come to bed.”

  “Are you sure? I was afraid you might be scared if you woke up next to a man, even though it was only me.”

  “Oh, Stephen, you're so very good to me and I haven't even thanked you. I might have been scared before, but I won't be now. Come to bed.”

  A tentative half-smile flickered on her lips as she turned the covers back on his side of the bed.

  “If you're sure, Lu.”

  Stephen stood, stretching cramped muscles, and began unbuttoning his shirt. Suddenly he stopped undressing and walked across the room to begin rummaging through the drawers of his tallboy.

  “What are you looking for?”

  “My nightshirts.”

  They hadn't been needed since he'd moved into this room with his wife, and now when he did need them, he couldn't find them. Frustrated, he shoved the drawer shut with a bang. Caught unawares by this answer, Lucy laughed, choking it off in mid chuckle.

  “You never wear a nightshirt, Darling. Don't bother. Really. I like the feel of your warm body next to me.”

  Stephen wasted no more time hunting for elusive nightshirts. He settled beneath the covers, being careful not to encroach on Lucy's space.

  They lay there, side by side, neither able to bridge the gap.

  “When I was little and hurt myself, Mama would kiss me better. Will you kiss me, Stephen?”

  Desperation made Lucy’s voice so low and wobbly Stephen barely heard her words.

  His heart aching fit to break, Stephen propped himself up on his elbow and leaned over, kissing her gently on the forehead. With his free hand, he smoothed her hair back, then pulled the blanket up to her chin. He lay down, carefully resuming his distant location.

  Lucy turned away from him, curled in a tight ball that surely couldn't be comfortable. No more comfortable than his own straight-as-a-board posture. A short time later, a muffled sob reached his ears.

  With a silent curse for the perpetrator of his wife's distress, Stephen rolled her into his arms. Sure enough, tears were tracking silently down her cheeks. She gulped, trying unsuccessfully to stem the flow; struggling to free herself from his arms.

  “Let me go. Stephen, please let me go. You don't have to force yourself to do this, you know.”

  “Force myself?”

  Stephen reared back, his arms falling away. Recovering from the shock of Lucy's accusation, he took her by the shoulders, waiting till she raised overflowing eyes to his.

  “What are you talking about, Lucy? Just what is it you think I'm forcing myself to do?”

  He gave her a tiny shake, determined to get to the bottom of this problem, and waited. Lucy was crying in earnest now, so he had to wait some time. Her answer, when it came, was akin to a hammer blow, right between the eyes.

  “T...t...touching me. You're so disgusted, you can hardly stand to touch me. Much less kiss me ... or ... or anything.”

  “Oh Lu, you're so, so wrong.”

  This time when he reached for her, he pulled her right up onto his lap, wrapping both arms around her in a fierce hug.

  “You're my wife, Lucy darling, and very, very precious to me. All I want is to protect you and care for you. That's why I held back just now. I was terrified of frightening you. I thought you'd need time to recover before you'd welcome my attentions. How could you ever disgust me? You are completely innocent of any wrong-doing.”

  He smoothed the hair from her forehead and tipped her face up so he could gauge her reception of his words.

  “Nothing you have done, or that has been done to you, would serve to give me a disgust of you, dearest Lucy.”

  As if to emphasise his words, he kissed her on the lips; a long, gentle, tender kiss, full of caring and affection.

  When he drew back, Lucy gazed up at him in wonderment.

  “You mean what you said? Really mean it, don't you? Oh Stephen, you're so good.”

  At this moment, the wrong he'd done her was far removed from her mind. She threw her arms around his neck, holding him to her as if she were attempting to mould them into one flesh, and kissed him with all the pent-up longing and relief in her heart. One kiss led to another, and it wasn't long before Stephen forgot his scruples, and made love with his wife, gently and tenderly, his remorse bringing the tears to his eyes as he did so.

  Afterwards, while they lay basking in the warm afterglow of intimacy, Lucy kissed Stephen just before drifting off to sleep.

  “Thank you, Stephen darling. You're the very best of husbands. I didn't know your loving was exactly what I needed to make me feel clean and whole again. Even though that evil brute didn't enter me in the end, thanks to your timely rescue, I felt dirty. Violated. You've healed me, even if I do have nightmares for a while.”

  Stephen's guilt threatened to overcome him. He was so unworthy of his sweet Lucy's trust and loyalty. For now, he was. One day though, he swore, he would earn the right to claim them.

  16

  As well as my trusty Colt, I'll have need of a spyglass, since after all, spying is the primary object of my mission. The glass will enable me to acquire first-hand proof of her betrayal, and, at a safe distance, learn the identity of her partner in crime. Then …

  But I mustn't rush ahead of myself. Mustn't reveal too much at this early stage.

  Soon, though … Wait. You'll see.

  “Simon Mannering has been a good friend to me, the best of neighbours, since we both settled in the district as young men. We can't not turn up at his fiftieth birthday party. It simply wouldn't do. Thank the lord it's in the afternoon, not a formal affair lasting half the night.”

  Thomas was discussing the tea party they were all scheduled to attend the day after the attack on Lucy.

  Both men had fussed over her no end when she insisted she was well enough to join them at the breakfast table. She thanked Heaven for Bridget Murphy's gruff “Good lass,” accompanied by an approving pat on the back.

  Why did men persist in treating women as if they were made of porcelain, too fragile to stand up to life's knocks?

  Physically, Lucy wasn't much hurt, and instinct led her to believe she'd recover from the dreadful shock of the attack far more quickly if she took up the reins of her normal, everyday life. She simply couldn't bear the thought of being confined to her room and pandered to as if she were an invalid, with nothing to do but dwell on her fears, and so she'd told them both.

  “Stephen, my boy, you and I can go and we'll make Lucy's excuses. No-one will question it if we say she's not well.” Thomas turned to Lucy, “You'll be quite safe here with Bridget and the girls to watch out for you. I'll tell Will to stay close as well.”

  Lucy drew in a deep breath, prepared to argue; to insist on getting her own way on this issue.

  “No, Dad. I woke early, and I did some hard thinking while I waited for the rest of you to wake. There was nothing random about yesterday’s attack on me. It was deliberately planned. Calculated. Re
member the message that sent me rushing off on my own? I believe the purpose of the attack was to destroy my reputation in the eyes of our neighbours; though who would have reason to harm me, and in such a terrible way, I can't imagine.”

  Actually, that was a blatant lie. She could imagine quite a lot more than she was prepared to say. It wouldn't serve her purpose to openly accuse the woman, and risk alienating Stephen at this crucial time in their marital relationship, but she'd be willing to bet money, Isabella Cummings had a hand in it somewhere. Her enemy had lost a lot of minor battles recently, and, in retrospect, Lucy believed her vicious enough to seek vengeance. She raised a hand to still the spate of arguments the men were about to give utterance to.

  “There had to be some fell purpose in the planning. If I hide myself away, the perpetrator may spread nasty rumours to compensate for my not being discovered when the party from Mannering Park came riding by yesterday. Far too opportunely, I believe. If all of you hadn't come to my rescue, they would have been treated to a frightful show and I wouldn't be able to hold my head up in public today. I need to be present to counter such an attack.”

  She caught Thomas's eye, holding it for a significant moment. He answered with a tiny nod, indicating he took her meaning. Lucy was sure he had suspicions of his own, similar in kind to hers. Although they'd never shared confidences, she'd overheard enough from time to time to place him as a tacit ally in her war against Isabella Cummings. Lucy, calmly munching on a slice of toast slathered in Bridget's plum jam, left it to Thomas to convince Stephen.

  “It's all very well, Lucy, to say you need to be seen, but it will be a dreadful strain on your nerves.”

  Lucy tilted her chin rebelliously, but Stephen continued quickly before she could launch her protest.

  “You know you're not really strong enough yet. And besides, how do you suggest we explain that awful bruise on your face?”

  Lucy had forgotten the nasty bruise on her temple, sustained when the vile beast whacked her across the head for biting him. It was one among many painting her body in splotches of red and purple. Stephen was right; it had to be believably explained away or she'd be just as exposed to rumour as if she stayed home.