Unto Death

by Lena West

  “That's easy, that is.”

  Three pairs of eyes turned expectantly to Bridget, bringing fresh toast for the men.

  “You tripped over Tabby, Miss Lucy, and came a cropper. Bashed your poor head against the stair post out on the veranda, and twisted your ankle falling down the back steps. An accident like that ought to account for any number of bruises, and Mr Stephen's right, it will be an awful strain to be rushing about chatting all afternoon. The twisted ankle will let you sit quietly, too.”

  “Perfect,” Lucy applauded. “It's not fair to Tabby, though. You'd never do such a thing, would you, Puss?”

  She picked the cat up from his station under her chair where she surreptitiously slipped him bits from her plate. He got the last of her bacon by way of an apology.

  And so it was, that when they set out that afternoon, Lucy's ankle was heavily strapped while a flower-bedecked, wide-brimmed hat hid most of her visible bruises. She hobbled with the aid of a cane, and when they arrived, Stephen swept her up in his arms and carried her to a comfortable seat in the shade.

  Mrs Mannering tutted and fussed, sending her daughter Rosie to fetch an ottoman to elevate Lucy's ankle. It meant she was confined to a chair among the older ladies, but that suited her fragile nerves quite well.

  She was a wee bit more delicate than she'd let on to her menfolk. Even as well protected as she had been, she'd had to struggle to control the irrational fear she felt away from the security of the homestead. The drive along the bush roads had been quite an ordeal. Thank goodness, she felt more comfortable in the midst of the crowd of fellow guests.

  Stephen, settling in a chair at her side, was gratifyingly attentive. Protective. Enough so, to be playfully twitted by Hetty McGowan about his devotion to his new bride. The only blight remaining on Lucy's pleasure was the presence of Isabella Cummings, flaunting her beauty, and making herself the centre of attention as usual. If looks could kill, Isabella's glare on seeing her arrive in Stephen's arms, would have slain her on the spot.

  Stephen, however, when he fetched a cold drink for Lucy, overheard a whisper insinuating his wife's involvement in some scandalous doings. He scotched that rumour with an icy stare and a few well-chosen pithy comments, but he was frowning, still concerned on Lucy's behalf.

  “Darling, something has upset you. Tell me,” she commanded softly.

  Hetty McGowan, on Lucy's other side, had ears to put any fox to shame. She heard his whispered reply and hastened to reassure them both.

  “It was that dreadful Cummings woman started that up that absurd rumour.”

  “But you’re not to worry. We,” she indicated the matriarchs who set the tone of local society, “soon put an end to her nonsense. Don't you worry, my dears, nothing will come of it. You'll see. Don't let that nasty cat bother you, Lucy dear. She's jealous of your youth and beauty, and because you're so popular. And so I'll tell anyone so foolish as to give credence to her sly innuendos.”

  Murmurs of agreement endorsed Hetty's assertion. Lucy relaxed, safe and cosseted in the centre of her coterie of sympathetic older ladies.

  Until, that is, Stephen, steely determination adding years to his visage, muttered, “I'll be right back,” and made a beeline for the rose garden on the far side of the lawn.

  Lucy's eyes narrowed and her lips clenched on her outrage as she watched.

  His route led him quite close to Isabella, holding court among a group of the more impressionable men as usual. As he passed he caught her eye and signalled with a nod, perceptible only to someone watching as closely as Lucy was.

  Archibald, wandering aimlessly by, brightened on recognising Lucy. He promptly claimed Stephen's vacant chair, engaging her in a conversation about his beloved birds. Lucy quite liked the old chap, but it was hard to concentrate on his rambling discourse while keeping a weather eye on the pair locked in earnest conversation behind a shield of rose bushes.

  ***

  “Stephen. Dearest Stephen,” Isabella gushed, raising a hand to stroke his cheek.

  Her unsmiling quarry stepped aside. Rebuffed, she allowed her hand to fall to her side.

  “Why did you do it, Isabella?”

  Time was short and their meeting too public for beating about the bush.

  “Why Darling, whatever do you mean?” Isabella pouted, on top of her flirtatious form. “Really, Darling, I've no idea what you mean.”

  “I know you were responsible for yesterday's attack on my wife, so don't lie to me. Why, Isabella?”

  Squirming under a grim, adamant stare, the like of which she'd not imagined Stephen capable, she cast about in her fertile brain for an excuse. Owning up to her deed hadn't been included in her plans, but if he knew everything, as he said …

  “But Stephen dearest, I did it for us,” she ad libbed. She made a grab for his hands, only once again he evaded her touch.

  “For us! Are you out of your mind, Isabella? How can you claim harming Lucy was for us!”

  His questions were no less shouted for being hissed in a barely audible whisper.

  “Of course it was for us, darling.” Isabella was getting into her stride now, using voice, eyes and her charms as seductively as she knew how.

  “It's a pity something went wrong with the original plan, but if you go the right way about it here today, all my effort won't be wasted. With Lucy thoroughly disgraced, you'd be within your rights to repudiate her.”

  She flirted coquettishly over her fan, sure he’d applaud her cleverness.

  “Then, you see, Darling, when you don't have to spend all your time tediously dancing attendance on her, you’ll have time for us again.”

  Stephen's countenance grew thunderous, and Isabella rushed on, suddenly afraid she’d miscalculated.

  “Don't you see, darling? It really was all for us. I love you so much.”

  She blinked very quickly, generating a sheen of moisture in her eyes, seeking to regain her advantage.

  “You can't imagine how devastated I've felt every time you failed me.”

  A calculated half sob leant emphasis to her claim. Stephen's heart clenched in his breast, at the sight of tears filling those beautiful dark eyes, but he reminded himself of the great harm she had done yesterday and, to a lesser extent, attempted today, and stuck to his guns.

  Isabella faltered to a halt, her words seeming to have no effect on Stephen other than to strengthen his resistance to her blandishments.

  How dare he be angry with her. Instead, he should have been grovelling at her feet, and thanking her for smoothing their path, the stupid boy.

  Stephen stared at her, utterly aghast, recalling Lucy's shock and paralysing fear yesterday. Yesterday she had needed him, only him, and it had near broken his heart to see her reduced to such a parlous state.

  Today, she'd recovered enough to find the strength to face the world, but he knew the toll this afternoon's event was taking on her courage.

  Damn it all! he thought. Lucy is my wife. Isabella had no right siccing that brute onto her.

  It had to end.

  Here. Now.

  He loved Isabella, but her demands on that love had dragged his honour down and trampled it into the mud. He had been the stupid boy his father had accused him of being. If ever he was to regain his self-respect and become, once again, a man of honour, then, here and now, he had to cast off his mistress and take responsibility for his marriage. He had to live by his vows.

  He had to grow up.

  He straightened to his full height and stepped back, steeling himself to say, calmly and precisely, what needed to be said.

  “You've run mad, Isabella. Quite mad, to imagine I'd condone such evil. Your precious scheme has backfired on you; instead of drawing us closer, it's had quite the opposite effect. Thanks to you, there is no 'us', Isabella. Not any longer. Don't send for me again. If I see another of your notes, I'll throw it on the fire, unopened.”

  “You'll be sorry you turned your back on me, Stephen Fortescue,” Isabella hissed, rage at h
is insult turning her beauty into an ugly parody of its normal state as she dropped all loving pretences.

  “How dare you call me mad! I'll make sure you're good and sorry! You and your precious wife!”

  Without so much as a fare-thee-well or a backward glance, Stephen turned, heart too heavy for further futile argument, and stalked off, pausing briefly to whip out his pocketknife to cut one perfect pink rosebud, which he made a pretty show of presenting to Lucy with a flourish.

  “The roses are at their glorious best, Lucy dearest, and since you can't admire them except at a distance, I fetched this one to you for your enjoyment.”

  “It's so beautiful, and such a lovely thought.” She held the flower to her nose, inhaling its scent. “Thank you Darling.”

  Unable to reach him from her chair, Lucy blew a kiss instead. A concerted 'Aah' rose from their audience.

  So much for repudiating my wife, Stephen thought.

  After that little display, no-one would believe a word anybody uttered against Lucy. Pain stabbed at his heart, knowing he'd lost the one woman he would ever love, but the die was cast.

  From now on he'd be true to Lucy in deed, if not always in thought.

  ***

  Exhausted, Lucy retired early that night. After she left the room, Thomas poured a glass of port for himself, handing a second one to Stephen.

  “I saw you talking with Mrs Cummings this afternoon. All sorted?”

  “Yes, but …” Thomas cast a sharp glance towards his son.

  “But what, Stephen?”

  “I'm not sure, Dad. She took it badly, when I told her it was finished between us. It really is, Dad,” he hastened to reassure him.

  “She admitted responsibility for the attack on Lucy, and that was something I could never forgive, let alone condone.”

  “Good. You've done the responsible thing, my boy. You may be upset about it now, but I promise you, if you concentrate on doing right by Lucy, you'll soon find yourself easier in your mind.”

  Part of him regretted the role he'd played in breaking his son's heart, but any alliance with that harpy was simply intolerable; for so many reasons.

  Thomas truly believed his words to be the truth, and not mere platitudes.

  Stephen paced, pausing to take a sip of his port now and then. He wished he could leave it at that, and not have to further expose his foolishness to his father, only he couldn't.

  “Dad. Listen. The thing is, …”

  Damn

  This was so bloody hard. He inhaled sharply and started again.

  “Isabella was really angry with me. She threatened me; and not only me, Lucy as well. I think she must be mad. She'd have to be, wouldn't she, to do what she's already done?” It was the only excuse his anguished heart could accept.

  “She was proud of it Dad. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. Surely no sane person would behave so outrageously.”

  He shook his head and paced again, coming to a halt staring out the window into the black night. He looked over his shoulder to where his father sat, attentive to his every move; his every word.

  “Now I'm scared she might try something terrible again.”

  Thomas pushed himself to his feet, going to clap a supportive hand upon Stephen's shoulder.

  “It's a bad situation, son, but forewarned is forearmed. I'll set a guard about our girl and tell her to stay close to the house unless accompanied by one of us. No. no, don't worry,” he caught a glimpse of the alarm on Stephen's face.

  “I'll use yesterday as an excuse. It's up to you whether or not you tell her about Isabella. I want your promise, though, son. You be careful of yourself, too.”

  Thomas sat, lost in thought for some time after Stephen left him. The situation his children were caught up in, was a real mess, to which he had yet to arrive at proper solution.

  He couldn't keep a guard about them indefinitely. Apart from the men being needed to work the property, neither Stephen nor Lucy were likely to tolerate such precautions for longer than a week or two.

  Much as he hated to be parted from them, it seemed safest to send them away for a time. They could go on a visit to Lucy's family. Then, if he hadn't come up with a plan to defuse the danger threatening them, he'd send them off to Queensland to investigate that second property he'd been considering.

  ***

  Frustration chafed at Lucy's peace of mind, and she came near to casting her embroidery forcefully over the veranda rail.

  For days past, her footsteps had been dogged by the vigilant posse of guards Thomas had surrounded her with. If she dared to set foot in the garden, a very burly, tough-looking young man with a colt revolver strapped about his waist trailed after her; quite blatantly making not the slightest pretence of helping Pete.

  Even now, she could see him lurking purposefully near the herb garden. She was forbidden the unfettered freedom of riding out on Snowflake, or driving the gig whenever she wished. Not that she wanted to just yet. She still had panic attacks at odd moments.

  Even when accompanied by either Stephen or Thomas, there was still an armed escort a short distance behind. She understood the need; she really did. Agreed with it, even. Yet, though she was still too frightened from her horrific experience to want to be alone in the bush, the constant surveillance irked her. How long would this parlous state of affairs continue? Would she never feel safe again?

  The only good thing about this week was her husband's loving devotion, but even that proved cloying after a time. She couldn't help a wry smile at herself when she realised that. Thinking of Stephen, she frowned.

  In spite of his loving attentions, why did she sometimes feel he was present only in a corporeal sense? She could swear he'd been nowhere near Isabella Cummings since that tense meeting she'd witnessed from a distance on the afternoon of Simon Mannering's birthday.

  At first, she'd been exultant, thinking her enemy routed for the last time, but since she'd noticed the way Stephen distanced himself spiritually, even in their most intimate moments, she feared her victory might prove to be of the pyrrhic variety.

  She was running out of time. Having missed her monthly flow for the second time, it seemed her fond hopes of being with child were confirmed. Soon, it would become impossible to conceal her condition, especially from one who knew her body as intimately as her husband did.

  Instinctively, she was aware a baby would bind him to her as nothing else would; only it would be so much more fulfilling, for both of them, if he learned to love her freely and without restraints, for herself alone. She longed to share her good news, but decided to refrain as long as nature permitted.

  Unless there was a marked change for the better in their relationship.

  17

  So now for the fond farewells. Mustn't deviate one iota from my usual practice, must I? Don't want to arouse their suspicions. I want them to adhere to their usual practices, also.

  Another week of being guarded when not pent up in the house passed on leaden feet. At least tonight they'd escape the confines of the homestead for a few hours. March was drawing to a close, and the McGowan's were holding their traditional dinner party to celebrate the Autumnal Equinox. Lucy had enquired how this particular tradition came about, but no-one seemed to know. It was simply an established fact that on the Friday nearest to the Equinox, John and Hetty McGowan hosted a formal dinner at Braeside, their comfortable, sprawling homestead, inviting all their neighbours.

  Impending release from her period of enforced incarceration reduced Lucy to a state of giddy excitement.

  Colleen and Deirdre giggled with her while they helped her into her gown, a flattering pale green satin sprigged with the tiniest of white dots. On her honeymoon in Sydney, she'd thought it needlessly extravagant when Stephen insisted she buy it, but now she was glad she had a fresh, new gown to give her spirits a much-needed boost.

  Deirdre clasped the pearls Grandmama had given her when she'd made her debut last year, round her neck and she slipped the matching pearl drops
through the holes in her earlobes. They suited the gown to perfection, as she'd been sure they would. Colleen bent to fasten a matching ornament in her hair.

  “Ooh, Mrs Lucy, you do look a treat.”

  Deirdre clasped her hands at her breast, a look of envy on her freckled face.

  “Thanks to the help you and Colleen have given me. Thank you both so much.”

  Lucy posed one last moment, twirling in front of the mirror, admiring the picture she made of a perfectly presented young lady, before declaring herself satisfied. Picking up her gloves, fan and reticule, she danced down the hall to present herself to her menfolk.

  “At last, Lass. Thought we'd never get away, you were taking so long primping and preening,” Thomas teased, more than half serious.

  “Ah, but Dad, I do believe the results are worth the wait.” Ever gallant, Stephen came to her rescue, rewarded by a kiss blown the width of the room.

  “You're a feast for the eyes, Lucy darling.”

  “Absolutely correct, Son. Now, can we please get along. I'd like to get off the road before it's completely dark. Thank goodness there's a moon tonight to light our way home. Or at least there will be unless those clouds building up on the horizon completely cover it.”

  ***

  The setting sun sent its last scarlet banners streaming across the cloud-dappled sky as the carriage drew to a halt. The Eden Vale party stood spellbound for the few short minutes it took for the red to darken to purple, before Thomas ushered them up to the front door of Braeside where their host and hostess welcomed them in.

  All the usual families were present, including the Cummingses, whose company Lucy could happily have done without. Just when Stephen was becoming more settled, he didn't need disturbing reminders of the past.

  How she wished Isabella Cummings would pack her bags and disappear from her life, and more especially, from Stephen's life, forever.

  “Spots!”

  Isabella sneered, taking in Lucy's elegant new gown.