‘Don’t leave it too long before you visit me again.’ Edward Summers was always disappointed when his old friends the Thorntons returned to America.
‘We’ll keep in touch, Edward, and we’ll certainly be back… but never again in November. It’s too darned cold!’ Jonathan Thornton manoeuvred his wife into the motor vehicle then climbed in beside her. In a minute they were going down the long winding drive, and the ever-vigilant housekeeper was hurriedly wheeling Edward Summers back into the house, out of the damp November air.
From her bedroom window above, Scarlet had watched the proceedings with passing interest. During the week when the Thorntons had stayed at Selworthy Manor she had come to dislike the wealthy Jonathan Thornton, whom she saw as a pompous, arrogant man. She suspected that, although he obviously idolised his wife, he had an unhealthy appetite for the opposite sex. It was there, in the sly appreciative way he looked at her when he thought he was not observed. And in the quiet intimate manner in which he spoke to her out of earshot of the others. Her every instinct told Scarlet that he was a man to be avoided.
For a long time after the Thorntons had departed, Scarlet’s dark eyes scoured the skyline beyond the vast meticulous tended gardens. Would Garrett never come home? How long and empty the days were when he was obliged to leave her in order to execute his father’s business affairs; a demanding and profitable business that incorporated the overseeing of twelve tenanted sheep-farms and a vast herd of prime cattle spread over more than five hundred acres. There was a workforce of forty men, but even they must be directed and controlled. Since Edward Summers’s crippling illness, that awesome responsibility had fallen on the quiet capable shoulders of his son.
Scarlet was under no illusion where Edward Summers was concerned. He was a proud man who, though he had conceded to her having a room in his house, disliked her intensely. He saw Scarlet and the child she carried as a threat to his son’s future. Yet he was shrewd enough to realise that Garrett would leave Selworthy Manor rather than lose his precious Scarlet. It was a thorn in his side but, to keep his only son there where he belonged, Edward Summers was prepared to suffer the blacksmith’s daughter, albeit reluctantly. Besides which, if an opportunity presented itself whereby he might split the two of them asunder, he would not hesitate to exploit it to the full. And though he was outraged by Scarlet’s stubborn refusal to be rushed into marriage, he saw it also as a situation he might turn to his advantage.
Selworthy Manor was a large grand house in the old tradition, built with white stone and having numerous deep bay windows. It was both magnificent and inviting. Inside it was equally impressive, with its broad galleried stairway, vast hall and wood panelled walls. There was an air of wealth and pride about it. Throughout its entirety it was furnished in only the very best that money could buy. On a bright day the sun poured in through every window, giving the house an inspiring air of light and spaciousness. Scarlet was made to compare the manor with the dark brooding Greystone House, with its many narrow forbidding corridors and that terrible oppressive air that seemed to linger with you long after you had departed. The comparison was stark. Like night and day, she thought. But, in one disturbing way, they were alike. Each was a prison.
In the six weeks and more that Scarlet had been here, she had grown lonely and morose. At first Garrett had taken her along on his supervisory visits to the outlying farms, and it had relieved the awful loneliness which seemed to engulf her. But then she grew cumbersome and prone to bouts of nausea. Garrett became increasingly concerned for her and eventually insisted that she should remain behind at the house, promising, ‘I won’t stay away a minute longer than I have to.’ So she had spent her days walking the lovely grounds and sitting in her splendid room, painstakingly embroidering the exquisite shawl he had bought for the child, and wondering whether Shelagh might soon come and see her as she had promised. There were times, in these last few days, when Scarlet had been tempted to go herself to see John and Shelagh. But each time she had been deterred by many things: the prospect of perhaps coming face to face with her father was an unnerving thought. She could never forget the wild murderous look in his eyes when he had physically ejected her from the house and warned her to keep away. ‘You’re no daughter of mine.’ The most disturbing thing to Scarlet was that, even in her acute pain and distress, she should have been gladdened by his words. Yet she was not. She felt an outcast and though the bond between herself and her father was one of cruelty, debauchery and terror, it was nevertheless a bond that had been forged so intimately over the years that when it was broken, she felt cut adrift, abandoned, and terrified of all that was strange to her. Only Garrett and the thought of her child stood between her and a dangerous inexplicable yearning to return to Greystone House. Nor was she happy, being forever restless and afraid. Garrett did not understand her, how could he? He was not her father; he was not Silas!
Suddenly there came over Scarlet an overwhelming desire to put distance between herself and this beautiful house that could never be home to her. She needed to feel the magic of the moors around her. Her need became a compulsion.
‘No, miss… don’t take him!’ The stable boy was horrified to see Scarlet saddling up the big bay hunter. ‘He’s got a real vicious streak. It’ll be dark soon, and the moors can be treacherous,’ he appeared to blush, ‘especially for someone in your condition.’
‘Don’t worry. I’ve grown up around horses,’ Scarlet assured him as she swung her misshapen frame into the saddle. She winced at the jagged pain that tore through her back. ‘I know the moors like the lines of my hand,’ she called, kicking the horse into an easy canter.
After a while Scarlet gave her horse free rein, and though she was greatly exhilarated by the ensuing furious gallop across the open moors, she knew how foolish it was to indulge in such demanding pursuits. The niggling pain in her back and side became increasingly insistent. But for some reason Scarlet felt wickedly rebellious, compelled to strike out at those who constantly sought to imprison her wild free spirit. There was hatred in her, burning and fierce, yet mingling with the hatred was an overwhelming need for love. There were times when she felt desperately lonely, afraid and vulnerable. It was then, in her most insecure moments, when she craved for love of any kind.
Presently, when every bone in her body was jarred and hurting, Scarlet slowed the mount to a gentler pace and headed for a narrow path that would take her through the valley and out by the bridleway above the river. There she would rest awhile and take stock of all that had happened. Oh, it was good to be riding again, to feel the fresh wind in her face and to know that she could go alone deep into the moors, to the secret places she had found as a child. The moors were a kindred spirit, never demanding, always comforting. Here she could regain partial peace of mind, in the way she always had. Already her spirit was uplifted.
In her glorious freedom, Scarlet lost all sense of time. Soon the darkness began creeping into the bright sky, layering it with long grey shadows and plunging the moors into uneasy twilight. This was the time of day Scarlet loved best. On and on they went, the horse picking his way carefully in the growing darkness and Scarlet coaxing him on with loving words. He sensed her gentleness and was calmed. After following the winding river for what seemed an age, they came to the cliff top where the river ran away down into the dells. Beyond was the sea, stretched out like an inky canvas, the flickering daylight touching the tips of the waves with shimmering crescents of light. The sky was darker now, almost black and festooned with scintillating stars that to Scarlet seemed more beautiful than she could ever remember. The sound of the gently lapping ocean was like a lullaby to her ears. She watched as the waves began to grow agitated, spewing wild frothy mountains over the rocks below, then dissolving to gather strength before surging forward again and again with relentless force. In the turbulent waters Scarlet saw a familiar face, small and haunted, with wide china blue eyes: her mother’s eyes. And she hated herself for not having the courage to give herself up to th
e same watery grave.
Deeply disturbed by tormenting memories, Scarlet urged the horse ever onwards, deeper into the moors, and on towards the spinney where she thought to rest awhile before turning back. Turning back! To what, she asked herself. She was not comforted by the answer.
When at last Scarlet brought her mount to rest on the edge of the spinney, the twilight had given way to impenetrable blackness. The niggling pain in her back had become a crippling sensation, and her insides were gripped by a strange compulsion that almost bent her double. She knew instinctively that the child was impatient to be born. In the distance some way down the valley was a cottage; there was a light burning there. Gratefully, Scarlet began her way towards it.
‘Easy, boy… easy.’ Scarlet slid from the horse’s back, unable to stifle the cry when her whole body was convulsed in gripping pain. Tethering the bay nearby, she stumbled towards the cottage door, the deluge of agony raging through her with such frenzy that she felt her senses dimming. When the door was inched open and the arms reached out to embrace her, she sank gratefully into them, succumbing at last to the darkness that sucked her ever downwards.
Small brilliant lights flickered all around her. For a moment, Scarlet imagined herself to be underneath a sky dotted with stars. A strange feeling took hold of her as she raised her dark eyes upwards. She saw the thick oak beams and grey walls in between; she saw the patterned curtain across the window, and the shape of the candles in their brass holders. Of course! She was inside the cottage. She should feel safe and warm. But she was mortally afraid, and her every limb was trembling. The pain was stronger inside her, more rhythmic and insistent. Someone was there, in the shadows. Thank God! She tried to move, but was held fast. ‘Who’s there?’ she asked, peering into the gloom, her voice marbled with fear and suffering. A tide of relief swept through her when the figure ventured forward, dark and silent, its hollow face bent towards her. ‘Help me,’ she pleaded, her eyes beseeching. ‘The child… I need your help.’ When there came no answer, Scarlet grew alarmed. She would have risen towards the stranger, but was horrified to find that she was pinned fast. Paramount in her anguished mind was the child struggling inside her, struggling with such frenzy that erupted in every corner of her body with unbearable agony. Her senses were slipping away. She must hold on! ‘Who are you?… Why won’t you help me?’ she pleaded. The figure came forward, its footsteps soundless, its two arms held high. ‘No! PLEASE GOD, NO!’ Scarlet saw its evil intention and her terrified cry echoed against her brain as though in a nightmare. In that same nightmare she saw the glinting blade of the cleaver as it swung towards her. Fragmented visions of a blood-splattered apron leapt into her horrified mind. In the distance she heard the unearthly screams. Were they hers… those awful screams that rent the air? She struggled and fought; in vain.
‘Scarlet!… Scarlet for God’s sake, where are you?’ Garrett’s frantic voice sailed into her mind and in that split second of deliverance she glanced up. The candlelight played tricks in and out of that sinister hollow face; she imagined the eyes deep within, and the name fell involuntarily from her lips in an awesome whisper. ‘Silas!’ There was a quickened movement, something was swiftly drawn over her body, then the figure turned and melted into the shadows. She was safe. Dear God, she was safe. For now!
‘It’s true, I tell you!’ Scarlet rounded on Garrett, her dark eyes ablaze and defiant. ‘There was someone in that cottage… I was tied down. Don’t treat me like an idiot. For God’s sake, Garrett… I know what I saw!’
At once Garrett was full of remorse. He came forward to where Scarlet was seated, his shoulders stooped and a look of dejection in his candid hazel eyes. ‘Don’t torment yourself,’ he begged her, ‘you were in so much pain and confusion… it’s only natural that your imagination should play tricks. When we found you, you were almost out of your mind about the baby. Oh, look sweetheart… there was no one there but you… I swear it.’
‘Then what about the candles?’ Scarlet had raised the same issue so many times, and each time Garrett had patiently explained that, when he and two of his men found her, she was alone. There was no sign of anyone else.
‘You must have lit them, before you lost consciousness.’
‘I was tied down… did you not find a rope… a strap?’
‘Nothing, I promise. You were not tied down. You know how we searched the cottage when you wouldn’t be calmed. There was no sign of anyone having been there… except you. Even the dust and cobwebs were virtually undisturbed.’ He sat on the bed beside her and gathered her hand into his. ‘Believe me, Scarlet… it was all in your imagination.’ He laughed, but not unkindly, ‘And who would want to kill you, my darling?… Why?’ He was at his wits’ end. Scarlet seemed obsessed with the crazy belief that someone had meant to take her life that night, nearly two weeks ago. ‘Answer me, Scarlet… why do you think anyone would want to kill you? The idea’s not only unthinkable, but bordering on hysteria.’
Scarlet chose not to answer. Instead she went to the small wooden cradle which was bedecked in white frilly curtains and pretty ribbons. Here she spent a long precious moment gazing at the child warmly curled in the softest shawl. She bent to touch her finger against the tiny pink face, and her heart spilled over with love. If she had nothing else in the whole world, she had this little darling creature that was her own flesh and blood; hers and Silas’s. SILAS! Was he the hooded stranger at the cottage? Did he want her and the child dead? The thought was too awful to contemplate, and yet, and yet! Shivering, she thrust him from her mind, resolving at the same time to keep her own counsel from now on. Garrett had begun to suspect she might be unbalanced. He would never believe her; his soul was too gentle and innocent to understand such violent thoughts. What could he know about the darker emotions, of horror, revenge, and a love so interlaced with fear and hatred that by its very nature it must transcend all that was decent. NO! Garrett could never truly comprehend the tortured thing that was her soul. No one could. She would never again speak to him of her fears. Yet for the sake of her daughter, Cassie, she must be ever vigilant, always watchful for the one who would harm them both. Immersed in Scarlet’s deepest trembling heart was the image of that hooded face and the eyes set back in the darkness. SILAS! More than ever, the name was synonymous with all that tormented her.
‘Put it all behind you, my love,’ Garrett pleaded now. He made no move to cross the room towards her, but remained with his back to the window, his adoring eyes drinking in the beauty that was Scarlet. He had never seen her more devastatingly lovely. In the flowing crimson robe, with her long black hair loose about her shoulders, there was something primeval and untouchable about her. But the fact did not deter him. He wanted Scarlet for his wife, more than he had ever wanted anything, and he was astonished at the lengths he was prepared to go to, in order to secure her for his own. Nothing else mattered! Not his father, or his father’s fortune; not even his own life, because without Scarlet that life would be worthless. He watched her now, bending over the cradle and murmuring to the child, her child. Another man’s child! He visibly squirmed as he was made to imagine Scarlet locked in another man’s arms. When the thought became tortuous, he deliberately smothered it, seizing on the desperate hope that soon she would agree to become his wife. Spurred on by this belief, he came to her side and, placing his hands on her shoulders, he turned her round to face him. ‘No one will ever hurt you… or the child, not while I’m alive. I promise you that, Scarlet. Only… let me take you for my wife, that’s all I ask.’ When she raised her dark tempestuous eyes he was taken aback by their exquisite beauty. For a long agonising moment she stared at him, the blackness in her profound gaze seeming to glisten like the slivers of shattered glass. He never knew what she was thinking. It was unnerving.
‘Please, Garrett.’ There was desolation in her voice. ‘I’ve told you… I will think about it. But not now, not yet.’
‘Soon then.’ There arose in him an overwhelming desire to hurt her. But then he
was mortified by such thoughts. ‘I love you, Scarlet. I need you.’ His voice was a caress. ‘You and the child. You need me also. All I want is to take care of you both.’
‘I know, and I really will decide, soon… you have my word.’ Her eyes were bright with pain and he hated himself for intimidating her. Slowly he bent his head towards her. He would have kissed her, but she lowered her eyes, remaining passive, unreceptive, yet not resisting. The temptation was lost, and he withdrew. ‘Remember, Scarlet… I can give you a home, security, and a great deal of love. You have everything to gain, and nothing to lose.’ His voice was harsh, but the entreaty was tinged with fear. ‘I don’t want to lose you, Scarlet. I’ll make no demands on you,’ he promised. And Scarlet knew he meant every word.
Later, when Garrett had departed the house to carry out the duties of the estate, Scarlet had a visitor. It was Shelagh.
‘For a moment there, I didn’t think that surly-faced housekeeper was going to let me in,’ Shelagh laughed, embracing Scarlet and remarking how well she looked.
‘I’m fine now,’ Scarlet assured her. She was overjoyed to see the one who had so earnestly befriended her when she was at her lowest ebb. ‘The housekeeper resents my being here,’ she explained. ‘She’s ruled the roost for so long that another female in the house represents a threat to her authority.’
‘Two females!’ Shelagh reminded her, going to the crib and gazing on the sleeping child. ‘Don’t forget this little mite.’ She made no attempt to take the child out, apologising, ‘I’m so awkward with tiny babies. But, oh, she’s lovely, Scarlet! What have you decided to call her?’
‘Cassie.’ Scarlet’s pride was evident in her voice. ‘It suits her,’ Shelagh declared. Then, coyly, ‘And will that be Cassie Pengally… or Cassie Summers?’ When she saw Scarlet’s expression darken, she was immediately penitent. ‘Oh, Scarlet… take no notice of me. I was never one to be discreet. Of course, that’s your business. Forgive me?’
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