by Tania Crosse
‘Well now, Rose,’ he whispered, his voice thick. ‘Take off your nightdress and let me see what I’ve married.’
Rose blinked at him as some sickening horror lacerated her heart. Had she heard right, her confounded brain demanded, as a vile, disgusted realization began to dawn. She reared away, pressing herself into the pillows.
Charles’s eyes opened wide, and he threw up his head with a snort. ‘Good God!’ he groaned in disbelief. ‘Do you really not know? Has no one ever told you what happens between a man and his wife?’ He stared at her ashen, rigid face, and then his lips curved into a wry smile. ‘Well, I suppose it will be even more pleasurable to show you, my darling. Now, if you won’t take off your nightdress,’ he said as he saw her fists tightening about the top of the blankets, ‘I’ll have to do it for you. Now don’t look so disapproving, Rose. This is what you get married for! Millions of couples all over the world will be doing it as we speak.’
Rose could not move. Every muscle in her body was paralysed, apart from her heart that hammered frantically in her frozen chest. Her eyes stared sightlessly at his lecherous smile, her pupils so wide with fear that the cobalt of the irises had all but disappeared. Her small hands were powerless as Charles wrenched the bedclothes from their grasp and flung them aside, and as his fingers tore hungrily at the buttons of her nightgown, a petrified whimper did no more than flutter in her throat. She wanted to fight back, but was weighed down like a block of granite and could only lie there motionless as he took her exposed breasts, kneading their fullness and moaning her name against their milky whiteness.
It was only when he started to fumble with the hem of her nightgown, drawing it up to her waist and forcing her knees apart, that her instinct to protect herself was galvanized into action. She lashed out, pummelling his shoulders and writhing beneath him like some madwoman from an asylum. But above her, Charles’s face hardened, his eyes narrowed with anger, for if she would not give it to him freely, he would take her by force. He was not particularly muscled, but he was tall and stronger than her, and in the lamplight, she caught one stunned glimpse of the hideous thing that stuck out from between his legs before he plunged it into that innermost part of her she had hitherto hardly known existed. The chilling shock made her hold her breath until the pain seared into her, slicing at her tender flesh, and she screamed aloud. Charles’s sweating hand clamped over her mouth, choking her, stopping her from breathing. Her senses reeled away and she struggled viciously, hysterically, her muscles straining crazedly as he rammed himself ever more forcefully into her in a grunting frenzy. And then suddenly he stopped for just one split second before his body gave one mighty shudder and he cried out her name before he fell down on top of her, panting heavily and pinning her to the bed.
‘Oh, Rose, oh, my darling,’ Charles murmured hotly into her ear. ‘I love you so much. You’ll never know how I’ve yearned for this. You were wonderful, moving like that. Oh, my little Rose.’
His words came at her through a fog. He moved away, blew out the small flame in the lamp, then came back to kiss her once more before he settled himself on his side of the bed, sighing contentedly. Rose lay, as rigid as a stone, staring into the blackness until her eyes adjusted to the slither of moonlight that filtered through the curtains. Charles, her husband, had taken himself from her, but her insides still burned, scorched, as if the red-hot poker were still being thrust into her. For ten minutes, perhaps more, she didn’t dare to move for fear it would increase the pain. Charles’s heavy, steady breathing beside her at last began to seep into her numbed mind, convincing her he was asleep, and slowly, gingerly, she rolled on to her side with her back to her new husband, and drew up her knees, oblivious to the silent tears that were dripping down her cheeks. She felt dirty. Abused. Ashamed. And yet she had done nothing wrong. It was all falling into place now. That was why her father had not been happy about the marriage. Why he had spoken about love and passion, although quite why love should make anyone want to do what she had just been subjected to was beyond her. But Charles had just done that appalling thing to her because he loved her. She could not blame him. But . . . if only she’d known! Why hadn’t her father told her! But then . . . how could he have done? The accident had weakened him not only in body but in spirit also. And it wasn’t the sort of thing a man could tell his daughter about, was it? Sons, perhaps, and surely it would have been a mother’s role to . . .
She bit down on her thumb, something she had never done even as a child. And for the first time in her life, she missed the mother she had never known. Florrie had been her mother, a devoted servant, but perhaps it hadn’t been her place to speak of such . . . delicate matters. And perhaps Florrie herself didn’t know. There had been no Mr Bennett. Like so many in her position, she had assumed the title of ‘Mrs’ because cooks and housekeepers were expected to be married women or widows. It gave the household respectability. What a ridiculous convention . . .
And what a ridiculous farce life was, if everything was supposed to be so upright, and yet that was what went on at night between married couples. And all that jolly celebration of a wedding ceremony, just so as that could take place! She had thought marriage consisted of romantic walks, friendship . . . What a fool she had been.
Her heart closed in a bitter fist. All those dreams she’d had, and now she was imprisoned just as surely as the convicts just a few miles across the moor. Except that in five, ten years’ time, they could look forward to being released, whereas she was trapped for life. Till death us do part. With my body I thee worship. Worship! It was hardly how she would put it.
The acrimonious, livid thoughts tumbled in her head, firing her own anger, her own wretchedness until the morning light began to creep into the luxurious bedroom, and outside the moorland birds were twittering their chorus to the new day. Finally, when her soul was saturated with misery, it could take no more, and her exhausted mind took refuge in sleep . . .
Charles’s warm, moist kisses on the creamy skin at her throat brought her from her fitful slumber. Her eyes sprang open, and there was his face, so full of love, hanging over her. He smiled, stroking a hank of her long, lustrous tresses.
‘Oh, my lovely girl,’ he muttered. ‘I hope you slept well.’
He didn’t wait for an answer, but was running his hand up and down her arm, and then the inside of her thigh, his fingers seeking out the place his body had possessed the previous night. Rose’s shattered soul had no time to blink away the sleep before the hideous memory slashed at her in all its foul clarity. She could not go through that again, and a spark of flashing rage whipped her tongue to a cutting sharpness.
‘No, Charles! Get off me!’ And she pushed hard against his shoulders.
But he only grinned back. ‘Oh, come, my lovely girl! This is what we got married for!’
His words were like shards of glass in her heart, bleeding the fight from her soul. It was useless. But she couldn’t . . . ‘Oh, please, Charles,’ she begged him, tears of desperation, of hopelessness, glittering in her terrified eyes. ‘It hurts!’ she moaned, just praying . . .
‘Only at first,’ he said gently. ‘You’ll get used to it. Now just try and relax, and it won’t hurt so much.’
A groan of resentment drowned somewhere inside her. She was beaten. And it wasn’t Charles’s fault. She turned her head away, lying as still as a corpse as he did what he had to do to her frail, aching body. When he entered her, the agony ripped through her again, and she rammed her fist into her mouth to stifle her screams, biting down through her knuckles. No one must hear. Her father must not know. He must not know that this diabolical thing that was being done to her was pure torture. She had married Charles because she thought she loved him. Now she knew that she didn’t. But it was too late. Charles had always been kind and generous, but now she realized she had bought security for herself and her father with her body, and there was nothing she could do about it.
Charles had finished, and he rolled on to his back with a satia
ted sigh before propping himself on one elbow and gazing down at her, his eyes crinkled softly at the corners. ‘You are so beautiful,’ he whispered, his voice quavering with passion. ‘You’ll come to enjoy it soon, I promise. Oh, I must be the luckiest man alive!’ He jumped up in the bed, spreading his arms wide above his head in a gesture of sheer jubilation that under other circumstances would have made her laugh. ‘Now, what would my beautiful wife like for breakfast? No, don’t tell me! I’ll make it a surprise! I’ll go down and speak to Cook, and you shall have breakfast in bed. And think what you’d like to do on the first day of our married life. It’s such a lovely day, how about a walk over the moor?’
He had slipped into his dressing gown and slippers, and with a grand flourish, plucked one of the red roses from the vase on the dressing table, placing it reverently on her chest before taking her limp hand and kissing it, first her wrist and then working his way up her arm. One final kiss on the tip of her nose, and he was gone, singing tunelessly on the top of his voice as he waltzed along the landing and down the stairs.
Rose realized she had been holding her breath, and now she released it in a broken sigh. Charles was as ecstatic in his love as she was devastated by it. Oh, God in heaven, what had she done? She rolled dejectedly out of bed and on to her feet, for she could not stay there, between the sheets where it had happened, a moment longer. But as she dragged herself across the floor, the pain cut into her and she could hardly walk. She staggered into the bathroom, blindly, only her instincts functioning. She used the chamber pot, hoping it would bring some relief, but it only stung her bruised flesh more deeply, and when she looked down, there was blood on her thighs.
A whimper of despair uttered from her lips. This was to be her life from now on, with no escape, and she must keep the agony of it to herself. Her heart was empty, beyond tears, and all she wanted just now was to free herself from the physical suffering that bore into the very core of her. There was water in one of the huge jugs on the washstand. Cold water that had stood there all night. She tore off her nightdress and setting the matching china bowl on the floor, crouched down over it and poured the cooling water over that intimate part of her, soothing the soreness and washing away the filth and degradation. The morning air brushed against her naked skin and made her want to weep. Could she ever feel as she should, ever truly love a man so deeply that she could give herself willingly to him? Even take pleasure from it herself?
Now she would never know.
Eleven
‘Would you like another cup, Rose?’ Florrie asked, dropping the ‘Miss’ Charles had instructed her to use, seeing as the master was in his study attending to the pile of business correspondence that had arrived that morning.
Rose looked up from the book she was reading. The three of them – Henry in his invalid chair, Rose and Florrie – were taking morning coffee on the terrace of Fencott Place, for the fine summer weather, amazingly, was holding. It was ten days since the grand celebration of Miss Rose Maddiford’s marriage to Mr Charles Chadwick, ten days in which she had realized she had made the greatest mistake of her life – except when she studied her father, who was being so well fed and cared for, and appeared healthier now than at any time since the accident. It was worth the terrible ordeal she was subjected to every night and most mornings, at least it seemed so at moments like this when peace and harmony comforted her bruised heart. And yesterday, her ‘monthly’ had started, and she had welcomed the few hours of painful cramps because it seemed it would provide her with several days’ respite from Charles’s onslaughts. It still hurt her dreadfully, although possibly a little less than at first, but she felt so degraded, so filthy and ashamed afterwards, and perhaps she always would. But those minutes of vile obscenity – for thank goodness that was as long as it lasted – were locked away in a nightmare of bitter shadows during the bright sunny days in between, when Charles was everything a loving, attentive husband should be. More so, for he was clearly reluctant to leave her side for more than a minute.
Indeed, he came hurriedly out on to the terrace now before Rose even had time to reply to Florrie’s question. His face was set in a deep scowl that, Rose considered, robbed him of his handsome looks, and he came to stand behind her, laying his hands on her shoulders with an irritated sigh.
‘I’m afraid I must go into Princetown to send a telegram,’ he announced. ‘The telegraph office will be open, I take it?’
‘Oh, yes.’ Rose deliberately patted one of his hands in a show of affection she did not feel, for at that moment, Henry had glanced across at them. But her sharp mind was busy inventing an excuse not to accompany Charles if he invited her to do so. ‘For such a small and isolated place, we’re lucky to have one, but I suppose ’tis because of the prison.’
‘Having dangerous convicts on one’s doorstep can have its advantages, then,’ Charles muttered grimly.
‘They’re not all dangerous,’ Rose corrected, leaping at the opportunity to disagree with him. ‘Some are forgers . . . or thieves. Not necessarily violent.’
‘Well, my dear, I don’t have time to argue about that now.’ Charles cut her short with uncharacteristic crispness. ‘I must get to Princetown as soon as possible, and I’ll have to wait for a reply, so I’ll be some time. You could come with me if you don’t mind the waiting. We could have lunch at the Duchy Hotel.’
Rose felt her heart thump in her chest as she whipped up the courage to defy her husband for the first time. ‘Well, if you don’t mind, darling,’ she said, lifting her vivid smile to him, ‘I think I’ll go out on poor Gospel. We haven’t been out for a ride since before our marriage, and the poor animal will be champing at the bit. Literally,’ she added with a forced grin.
‘All right, sweetheart, but take care on that monster.’ Charles dropped a swift kiss on the top of her head, and then, pulling on his coat which he had left on the back of one of the garden chairs, strode back into the house and, they assumed, away down the front driveway.
Relief swamped Rose’s limbs and for a few seconds, she slumped in her chair before stretching with delight. She was free. Free! For a few hours, she could be her old self again, carefree, reckless Rose Maddiford, and her spirit soared.
She leapt to her feet. ‘I’d better go and change, then!’ she declared brightly, and as she sprang forward, Henry caught her hand.
‘You are happy, then, my child?’ he asked mildly.
Rose looked down on him, and her chest squeezed painfully. ‘Oh, yes!’ she cried, the lie burning her lips as she forced them into a broad smile. It wasn’t as difficult as she had imagined, for she was becoming used to the deception. Henry must never know. And besides, the thought of racing hell-for-leather across the moors, alone, on Gospel’s back, filled her with joy.
The gelding kicked up his heels when he saw the saddle, and as Rose slipped on his bridle and fastened the chin strap he shook his head vigorously in eager anticipation. The warm weather meant he had remained out in the field overnight for the past few weeks, as having something of the thoroughbred in him, this was not sensible for much of the year. But even so, he was as desperate as his mistress for a long, mad, un-restrained gallop.
They paid a visit to the gunpowder mills first, avoiding the old house where the new manager was now installed, since it held too many memories of a life when Rose had been truly happy. But she chatted with many of the workers, catching up on all the news and taking tea in Mrs Roach’s cottage surrounded by her growing brood. And then she and Gospel took a vast circular route across to the East Dart and down the riverbank to the stone bridge and ancient clapper bridge at Postbridge. They continued along to the swirling waters at Dartmeet before charging westward back across the open moor towards home, Rose’s wild hair streaming out behind her as she crouched down over Gospel’s flowing mane. As his strong legs ate up the miles, the wind rushed through Rose’s head, blasting away the anger and resentment from her soul.
Charles was waiting for her as she crossed the stable yard wit
h the heavy saddle, humming to herself with relaxed pleasure. She stopped, her heart immediately gripped with defiance.
‘Where the hell have you been?’ Charles demanded.
Rose lifted her chin, squaring her shoulders so that, unwittingly, her breasts jutted out pertly, causing the saliva to run in Charles’s mouth. ‘Out for a ride,’ she frowned at him in exasperation. ‘Just like I told you.’
‘But you’ve been hours! It’s half-past three, for God’s sake!’
‘So?’ she shrugged as she tried to push past him. Yes, she thought. Five hours of sheer bliss. Away from you.
But he caught her by the arm so that she was swung round to face him. ‘So?’ he repeated angrily. ‘I’ve been worried sick! Anything could have happened to you!’
‘I’ve told you afore, I’m perfectly safe when I’m out on Gospel. Now, if you don’t mind, this saddle’s heavy.’
‘Oh, of course,’ Charles murmured, and shaking his head as if coming to his senses, he relieved her of the said item and followed her into the tack room.
‘And now I’m really thirsty,’ she told him tersely as she hung Gospel’s bridle on its hook.
‘Well, it’s lucky Cook has just brought out some lemonade, then, isn’t it?’ he answered with equal acidity.
Rose flicked her head and, neatly sidestepping him, strode out of the yard and across to the terrace. But for the changed position of the sun, the scene was almost as she had left it earlier that morning. Henry glanced up with an unconcerned smile as he sipped at a glass of freshly made lemonade.