A Country Marriage

by Sandra Jane Goddard

  ‘Just worn out.’ She had been on the point of confessing that she was well and truly fed up with her husband, but recognised just in time how that would only invite the sort of discussion that she could well do without. In Ellen’s eyes, George was well on the road to sainthood.

  ‘Me too,’ she heard Ellen agreeing. ‘Don’t Rachel look pretty though?’

  Waving away a determined wasp, she didn’t even bother to follow Ellen’s gaze.

  ‘Seems to me all the Troke girls look pretty… with their shiny red hair and milky skin. I can’t imagine there’s an ugly one amongst them.’

  ‘Oh dear, you are tired, aren’t you? Look, why don’t you slip across to the house and sneak a lie down? After all, it ain’t your family’s weddin’. Most likely no one will notice you’re gone and then you can come back over later, all nice an’ refreshed. I’m tempted meself, you know. After all, this’ll carry on for hours yet.’

  Slowly, she shook her head.

  ‘I’d like to but for certain someone would take offence.’

  ‘Oh well, think on it. But if later on, you can’t find me anywhere, then you’ll know where I’ve gone. Just don’t go letting on!’

  Feeling a pat on her arm, she looked up to follow Ellen’s progress through the throng to where she could see Will. It was all very well for her; if she was to tell her husband that she was worn out then no doubt he would suggest that she went to bed anyway. Not George, though. No, he would simply tell her to stop looking so miserable. Struck by a twinge of guilt and the fear that he might at this very moment be watching her, she looked hastily about but, as usual, he was nowhere to be seen.

  On the far side of the barn, though, she could see that the fiddler was about to call the first dance and found herself watching as what appeared to be the entire Troke family formed two lines in the centre of the floor. At the far end of the row she had no difficulty in making out the blonde head of Francis standing opposite what she imagined to be one of his flame-haired cousins, and although the fiddle and the flute were barely audible above the boisterous banter, when the two rows of partners eventually settled into the rhythm, the synchronised dipping and bobbing of so many red heads made for quite a sight.

  With the first dance coming to a close, a second was quickly called and a new set of dancers gathered, the thick dust they kicked up from the floor obscuring their feet. From her vantage point in the shadows, she gave a grudging smile as she noticed how the effects of the ale and cider seemed to be leaving more and more of them out of position or facing entirely the wrong way.

  When the musicians took a break for refreshments she looked once again about the barn. It had been a tedious evening, all told; she still hadn’t set eyes on George, let alone danced with him. Not that it particularly mattered, since all she really wanted to do was go to sleep. But there would be no chance of that happening any time soon since George would never leave a randy until he had no choice but to cave to exhaustion. And to cap it all, by the look of everyone else she was the only one not enjoying herself. Well, if she couldn’t go home to her bed, then perhaps a breath of fresher air might help; might, in fact, lift her mood and make the rest of the evening more bearable.

  Once out in the yard she was surprised to find daylight still holding out against the dusk, and for some reason that alone seemed sufficient to brighten her spirits. She had always thought that May evenings were some of the nicest, anyway, and with less weariness to her step she strolled as far as the gate pillar, its drunken angle suggesting that it too had been partaking of the merriment.

  ‘Oh, for goodness sake,’ she chided herself, unable to ignore the sounds of the gaiety carrying on without her. If there was one thing she disliked in other people it was self-pity and so, swivelling on the spot, she decided to head back. Yes: she would see whether Will needed a partner for one of the next dances and if not – given that he was always in great demand – then she would persuade Robert to accompany her instead. Sometimes, she reflected, she really was her own worst enemy, dwelling on petty things to the point that they made her miserable. After all, look how she had fretted over George’s behaviour, and how foolish she had felt after discovering what lay behind it. This, she reminded herself with a wag of her finger, was a randy, and since they were few and far between, then it was up to her to make the most of it.

  ‘Well, hello!’ Crashing against her face she felt a shirt – a very warm and earthy-smelling shirt – that snatched her breath and brought her to an unexpected stop. And, at the feel of a hand steadying her arm, she looked up. ‘Not quite what I had in mind when I told you to come and find me, but pleasing all the same.’

  Taking a hasty step backwards, she ducked her head. His hand, though, remained where it was, hot and clammy on her arm. Of all of the people – all of the people – here tonight, it had to be Francis Troke that she was careless enough to collide with.

  ‘Forgive me.’

  ‘No forgiveness necessary, although I trust you ain’t hurt?’

  ‘Perfectly unhurt, thank you.’

  ‘Well,’ he continued, his voice sounding as though it was inappropriately close to her ear, ‘don’t forget that dance you promised me,’ and with his words seeming to trickle down her neck, she skirted around him and plunged through the door into the clamour and the heat of the continuing revelry.

  Unsettled, though, she wandered aimlessly, keeping to the shadows and hoping rather contrarily now that she wouldn’t come across George. A few minutes ago, her idea to come back and enjoy the randy had seemed appealing, but the truth was that she was so weary that all she really wanted to do was to sit down. With all of the formerly quiet corners now filled with guests, she had just settled upon going across to join Lottie and Ma Strong sitting on a bench when she once again felt a hand grasp her arm. With a brisk rebuke forming on her tongue, she spun around.

  ‘Da-ance… with my w-wife?’

  With her eyes wide, she shut her mouth. George. Although, with his hair dishevelled and his eyes glazed, she might have been forgiven for not immediately recognising him, and confused by the sudden bitter taste in her mouth, she nodded and let him lead her over to the assembling dancers. The atmosphere away from the doors was even more close and sultry, and with a tired sigh she took her place in the row of women, glancing without enthusiasm along the line of men opposite: George: Will of course, Robert surprisingly, her father-in-law and then, at the very end, Francis. The weakening of her knees beneath her was, she knew for certain, on his account, but with the musicians striking a chord and her husband making an ungainly attempt at a bow in front of her, she had no choice but to curtsey back and join in.

  Between the grittiness of the fiddle scraping its tune, the band of tightness encircling her skull and the force with which George was – inadvertently, it seemed – gripping her fingers, her discomfort felt beyond her power to endure. Why couldn’t he have just left her alone? Why, now, at this late stage of the evening, had he bothered to ask her to dance? But then, at the sight of how unsteady he was on his feet and how far behind the music he was, she was unable to prevent her lips forming into a kind of ironic grin. And when the moment for the first partner-change eventually came, she watched without surprise as he fumbled her hand across to Will.

  Will, though, proved to be still as nimble on his feet as when she had watched him earlier. And, delighted by the way that he led her deftly about, she smiled back at him, the crispness of his steps a perfect match for the clarity of the notes of the flute. And when the passage of music ended, he handed her with immaculate timing on to Robert, who, in contrast, and looking rather weary, missed a couple of the direction changes, for which he apologised profusely and blushed deeply, seemingly relieved when the time came to pass her on to his father.

  She couldn’t recall having danced with Thomas before but quickly found that he was both skilled and surprisingly agile. But, acutely aware of who was going to be her next partner, she missed a step, only adding to the agitation she felt as
, inescapably, she was handed on to Francis.

  Giddy; she felt so giddy. And the air was so thick and muggy that there was no earthly chance of regaining her composure, either. And that was without the fact that he now had hold of her hand; that he could probably feel through her fingers the rapid pace of her heartbeat. Was that possible? Well, if he could, then he could: either way there was nothing she could do about it. Nor was there anything she could have done about the distantly familiar shock of excitement that had run through her insides at the very moment that he had touched her. He knew of her turmoil anyway; knew that she was relishing his grasp – warm and soft and sensual – and there could be no mistaking either that when the dance required him to put his arm around her waist, he knew that she found his touch exhilarating. With the seductive and compelling beat of the tabor to urge them on, she willed fiercely for this turn not to end, but even while she was praying for it, she could hear that the refrain was drawing to a close. In a hot and heady whirl, oblivious to everything else, she felt him hook her arm in his, and as he spun her around for the final time, she felt certain that she was no longer in her own body. But all too soon it was time for the cast off; for him to release her to skip back along the line of clapping dancers to return to George.

  Arriving back in front of him, hoping with all of her might that she didn’t look as bewildered as she felt, and grateful that he seemed too far gone to pay heed anyway, she didn’t think she had ever felt so laden with regret; so hollow; so utterly disappointed. But somehow, her legs carried her on until the moment when the music stopped and she tried to stand still, the room continuing to spin without her until, eventually, she was able to focus on George bowing exuberantly in front of her and then sinking to the floor.

  Alongside her, she could hear a woman’s breathless laughter and turned her head to see Annie, doubled over next to him.

  ‘Oh dear Lord… I fear… I’m too old… for this. Far too old.’

  ‘No,’ Will was disagreeing, shaking his head and supporting her on his arm, ‘…you saw… Pa just then… so there’s hope… for all of us… yet.’

  Then, as she took in the sight of George crumpled in a heap, she heard Annie go on to observe, ‘I doubt you’ll get much trouble from him tonight; there’s a skinful if ever I saw one.’

  ‘Aye,’ she replied between breaths. ‘Looks like he’s been at the cider, although he don’t normally touch it.’ With Annie wandering away, still laughing, she stared down at her drunken husband, thinking that it truly was the final straw. ‘George?’

  He looked up at her, blinking.

  ‘Annie? You still there?’

  ‘No, George,’ she replied and held out her hand to him. ‘It’s me, only you’re far and away too befuddled with drink to see it.’

  With considerable effort, he staggered to his feet.

  ‘Oh, there you are, Mary, my wife.’

  ‘Oh for goodness sake, George!’ she groaned, buckling under his weight as he leant on her shoulder.

  ‘You know I think I should tell you… that I done a bad thing.’

  ‘I can see that.’ Despite her resolve, the sight of his face, gripped by concentration, made her shake her head and then smile. This evening might have been miserable but, in truth, little of the fault could be apportioned to George, and at this precise moment, despite being horribly drunk, he looked unusually happy; carefree, even.

  ‘Can you? Can you see it?’

  ‘No need to go looking so surprised, George, we can all of us see you been at the cider – an’ you know how bad that gets you.’

  ‘No, no. Well, cider… aye… maybe just little taste but not that thing, another thing… a terrible, bad thing… not that I meant for it… but Annie, she…’

  Sagging beneath his weight, she shook her head. What drivel. Well there could be no mistaking that tomorrow, come reckoning time, he would pay the price for this with an almighty sore head.

  ‘Whoa, George, c’mon brother.’ To her relief, Will seemed to be coming to her aid; relieving her of his bulk.

  ‘Good job he don’t make a habit of this,’ she remarked to him. Her husband, though, slipped through his brother’s arms to collapse in a heap at their feet, and staring down at him, she shook her head. ‘Only, I don’t know which is worse; that he’s so drunken or that he’s talking such gibberish.’

  ‘Aye. I don’t recall seeing him like this in many a year. I’ve hardly seen him all night anyway, let alone seen him on the cider. And he’s going to be difficult to get up the hill to Keeper’s Cottage in such a state, too.’

  She had been thinking much the same thing and had been on the point of concluding that there was really only one thing for it.

  ‘I suppose we could always leave him there to sleep it off—’ but before she had the chance to look to Will for a response, seemingly from nowhere, Francis Troke had arrived and was starting to pull George to his feet. What was he doing? And why wasn’t Will stopping him? With George hanging from his shoulder, though, Francis was already – by means of half-dragging and half-walking her husband – persuading him towards the door. And when he cast a look back over his shoulder, she noticed that it was directed at Will rather than herself.

  ‘Should I put him… in the cart?’

  ‘Aye, much obliged to you. I’ll come and take him up home,’ she heard Will responding.

  To her dismay, though, Francis seemed to have other ideas.

  ‘No, it’s all right. It’s on my way. Are you ready, Mary?’

  Feeling Will’s eyes upon her, she hesitated. Clearly, there was a right answer and a wrong answer to his question, but which was which? Yes or no? Ride – to all intents and purposes alone – with Francis in the cart or err on the side of propriety and decline an innocent offer of help?

  ‘I have to fetch Jacob,’ she muttered, and turned about, her quandary leaving her momentarily unable to remember where he was. What foolishness, though! Why would Will – or indeed anyone else for that matter – judge her for accepting the kindness of a family friend? And why was she so concerned that they would suspect anything, anyway? There was nothing to suspect! Nothing had happened. At least, not beyond the confines of her mind, it hadn’t.

  ‘Will you fare all right with him in that state or do you want me to come up and help?’ Will wanted to know when she returned with Jacob in her arms.

  She shook her head and then nodded. Oh for goodness sake – why was everyone being so considerate?

  ‘I’ll be fine. Thank you, though,’ she replied, allowing him to help her up onto the cart.

  So close yet again to Francis, she held herself rigid and heard him tell the horse to walk on. Francis Troke was taking her home. How on earth had this come about? And what, precisely, was this, anyway? Did he genuinely intend simply to help her? Or did he have something entirely different in mind?

  Once they were beyond the torch-lit yard, she felt him looking across at her, but the only way she could think to quell the excitement surging through her seemed to involve pretending that he wasn’t there. And, as though coming to her aid in the matter, a coarse snoring erupted behind her, while at the same moment, from where he was clutched to her chest, her son offered a disgruntled whimper.

  In the darkness, Francis had to coax the reluctant horse to cross the ford, and in that moment, her eyes wandered to the pool of lantern light and the movement of his hands on the reins. Despite the chill of the night, they would still feel warm and—

  ‘Stop there a moment.’ She looked about. Unbelievably, they were already at Keeper’s Cottage, and when he jumped down from the cart she watched him reach to unhook the lantern and then followed its bobbing progress towards her. ‘Give me your hand.’ No. She couldn’t trust herself; not to feel his grasp, she couldn’t. ‘Mary, come on: don’t be foolish. ’Tis pitch black an’ you can’t risk falling, not with Jacob in your arms.’ He was right of course; it would be easy to misplace her foot and fall and so, somehow, she managed to extend her hand and let him h
elp her to the ground. ‘Now, let’s get you two inside and then I’ll come back for George,’ he was saying but this time, when he reached for her hand to guide her down the steps, she took it, the comfort and reassurance of his warm grasp as frightening as she had known it would be.

  A step ahead of her, she watched him push open the door, place the lantern on the table and then wait while she crossed the room to lay her sleeping son in his cradle. And when she turned back towards him, her eyes fell once again on his hands as they removed the smoke-stained chimney of the oil lamp and his fingers offered the wick carefully into the flame of the lantern. When it flickered to life, a dull pool of yellow light drew her eyes to his face and the sight of him looking back at her. In that split of a second, cocooned in the anonymity of the night, she felt for certain that there was no one else on earth but the two of them. And if, all along, it had been his intention to ignite her desire for him, then she realised that he couldn’t have staged it more perfectly.

  ‘Thank you.’ Her voice, sounding uneven, seemed barely to disturb the silence.

  ‘Pleased for the chance to be of service,’ he replied equally softly and, letting out a long and tremulous breath, she lowered her eyes. It was hopeless; despite everything that was wrong about it, she still longed desperately for him to kiss her again. ‘So what are we going to do with your husband, then?’

  She blinked rapidly. Her husband. Yes. Entirely unprepared for being torn from the realisation that every inch of her body was still willing him to touch her, her mind seemed unable to address the matter.

  ‘Um… best put him there, on the pallet bed.’ In the name of all that’s holy, pull yourself together, woman. Nothing can happen, so think! ‘Yes, I fancy he’s so drunken he’d sleep in a mud pool.’

  ‘Bide here then and I’ll fetch him in.’

  When he disappeared up the bank and into the night, she went to stand in the doorway, desperate to think of a reason for him to stay. Despite all of the hostility she had once felt towards him, she knew that, just now, when they had been in the cart, she would have let him take her, willingly and completely in his thrall, to the farthest corner of the land; and although she recognised it for the ludicrous notion that it was, she longed for him to suggest it. But instead, what she heard was the sound of him struggling down the steps, her snoring husband over his shoulder. Having never seen anyone manoeuvre someone the size of George with such ease, she quickly moved around the table to help him lower his inert form onto the pallet bed.