‘I have been schooled to be a dutiful wife, ma’am. I should not disgrace him.’
‘Your mother’s behaviour brought disgrace to her family. I shall not risk you bringing the same to mine.’
At the mention of her mother, Beth forgot her growing dislike of Edgar and became anxious. ‘Then you do know who my mother was, ma’am?’ she asked.
‘Of course I do not! Nor should I wish to. One of your parents may or may not have been well-born. I know that my grandfather was a lord and one day my son – my son will—’
‘Mama! Not in front of the girl.’
Mrs Collins tried to compose herself. ‘No – no, of course not. Perhaps she should take her meals in the kitchen.’
Beth blinked as she absorbed this knowledge of Edgar’s family and addressed him. ‘Is this true, sir? Your great-grandfather was a lord?’
Mrs Collins was unable to conceal her agitation. But, Beth realised, it was not wholly because of her presence. The older woman’s eyes were glassy and a fleck of spittle had gathered in the corner of her mouth. It was Mrs Collins’s own kin who were causing her such distress as she muttered, ‘If it were not for my mother’s foolishness I should be moving in the highest circles in society. My son will not suffer as I do.’
Beth wondered who their aristocratic ancestor was. She considered that if Edgar was truly related by birth, the fact that he had little money ought not to make a difference to his being accepted by them, unless the family rift ran deep. Beth became curious about his errant grandmother’s behaviour.
Edgar ignored her question about his ancestor. Mrs Collins stood up and said, ‘I am tired. It has been a long day and I have to prepare for Settle.’ She appeared to be talking to the air above Edgar’s head and added, ‘While you are away, the girl will eat in the kitchen with Roberts and his wife. They will show her everything she needs to know to fill her days on the farm.’
Beth rose to her feet and picked up her pudding plate to place on the sideboard. She cleared the other pots and waited by Edgar’s chair for him to drain his tankard. As she took it from him, he leaned towards her and she felt the palm of his hand run up the back of her leg under the edge of her drawers until it found the naked skin of her thigh above her stocking and garter. He pinched the flesh making her jump and she almost dropped the tankard.
‘Finish your chores and go to bed. Wait for me in my chamber,’ he murmured.
Beth padded along the landing to Edgar’s bedchamber in her felt slippers, wearing her new nightgown and robe. She had made them all herself from grey flannel but had had no lace and very little time to spend on adornments. Inside, she wandered around with her candle gazing at the wood-panelled walls, commodious cupboards and chests of drawers. There was easily room enough for both of them and she resolved to tell Edgar so in the morning. She crossed to the leaded window that overlooked the approach to the farmhouse and fingered the heavy curtains made from the same woven tapestry as the drapes hanging from the bedposts. There was a small fire in the grate. She hoisted herself onto the bed and wondered whether to climb inside.
She decided not. Earlier, Edgar had made a wrong assumption that she was eager for this aspect of her marriage. If the truth be told she was as anxious of what was to come as she had been standing in the draughty church porch waiting for her first sight of him. Hastily, she jumped down and sat on the upholstered couch at the end of the bed. If only she knew more of what to expect. She yawned and pulled at several pins holding the coils of her abundant fair hair, letting it fall in waves over her shoulders. Her head drooped. It had been a long day and she, too, was tired.
The door opened, banged against the wall and a cold draught rushed into the room. Beth twisted around swiftly to see Edgar sway against the jamb. She shivered and pulled the edges of her robe together. She welcomed its warmth and serviceability but realised it did nothing to enhance her appearance.
Edgar sat down heavily on the bed, flopped backwards and stuck out one of his feet. ‘Well, girl, come over here and take off my boots.’
When she did so without question he sat up and watched her, slowly unbuttoning his jacket and waistcoat. Her hands shook as she placed his riding boots in the hearth and heard him say, ‘You’ve not done this before, have you?’
‘Of course not, sir!’ She was shocked he even considered such a wicked thought of her.
‘Of course not, sir,’ he mimicked her innocent tones and warned, ‘I hope you are truthful as well as a maid.’
Nervous, she replied hastily, ‘I am, sir!’
He found this amusing and stood up to remove his clothes. ‘Take off that nun’s habit and get into bed.’
She supposed he meant her dressing robe because she agreed with his description of it and obeyed him as swiftly as she could, hiding her voluminously swathed body under the bedding. Her heart thumped in her breast as she waited. He had his back to her as he pulled on his nightshirt and she gazed in fascination at his male form, broad and muscular with lean buttocks that were smaller than she would have imagined – if her thoughts had ever strayed in that way. She began to tremble slightly, but it was from fear rather than excitement. She hoped he would be kinder in this aspect of their marriage than his manner towards her so far had indicated.
‘Every night when I am home, when I tell you to go to your chamber,’ he said as he climbed in beside her, ‘you will wait for me here, like this, in my bed.’
He half crouched over her, breathing heavily. She could smell brandy on his breath and waited for him to kiss her but he didn’t and a mixture of other aromas crowded her senses: sweat and wet wool from his body, stale food and tobacco on his breath. His chin had produced stubble since the morning and some parts of his unclothed body were covered with dark hair.
He pushed her nightgown up around her waist, did the same with his own nightshirt, and straddled her body on his knees. He seemed to tower above her for a few seconds before it happened. Then suddenly he was lying on top of her, her face was muffled by the coarse hair on his chest and his weight forced the breath out of her body. One of his knees pushed her thighs wide apart and he was prodding and poking her private area with his – not his fingers, for his hands were moving underneath her back to lift her towards him as this hard – hard thing – jabbed and poked at her softness. Instinctively she shrivelled away from him trying to shrink into the soft feather mattress. But he would not let her. She was held against him by one of his arms while his other hand descended to her private area to push aside her flesh and guide himself into her. It wouldn’t go in. Why wouldn’t it go in? She had seen animals do this in the fields and it should be easy. Something must be wrong. She tensed against him hoping he would stop. But he did not. He pressed her body against his and rammed into her until she yelped with pain and he was inside her.
He had really hurt her and she suppressed a cry in her throat. He was such a heavy weight on top of her and this – this hard thing inside her was rough and large. The hurting continued. Surely this is not how it is meant to be? She stared wild-eyed at the darkness. It felt as though he was tearing her flesh apart as he pushed and shoved at her. His rutting became more frantic, increasing her soreness. He began to grunt like a pig until he let out a strangled groan and arched away, putting a strain on her back as he did. She yelped again and realised that this was far too painful to continue. She must insist that he stop. But she did not need to. He let her go and flopped forward smothering her face with his sweaty hairy chest.
He was still inside her and she felt a pulsing sensation. The hardness melted away but her flesh was stinging. He lay motionless on top of her for quite a few minutes before she heard a snore, and then another as he drifted into sleep. She was trapped beneath his heavy body, hardly able to breath with a hurting back and a sore private area that she wanted to wash and dress with salve.
As she considered what she should do next she understood why Mrs Barden had not been willing to talk of this particular wifely duty. It was surely the most drea
dful part of marriage and there was no wonder she wished to ignore it. Dear Lord, if any woman knew beforehand what she would have to endure she would never willingly agree to any marriage! Although this bed was large and soft, Beth thought fondly of her narrow mattress in the small chamber overlooking the farmyard and wondered anxiously how often Edgar would be at home, meaning she must do this.
He snorted loudly and shifted so she tried to move from under him but he was too heavy. When finally her face was free she wiped the sweat off her face, closed her eyes and, exhausted, fell asleep herself. The next thing she was aware of was his knee between hers and his weight bearing down on her again. Bleary-eyed and hardly aware of what was happening, she made an attempt to push him off and roll away, protesting, ‘Not again, Edgar. Please allow me to sleep.’
He grasped her shoulder painfully and said, ‘Stay where you are, girl.’
Angered by his rudeness she breathed hoarsely, ‘Do not address me in that manner. I am your wife.’
‘Then behave like one,’ he answered, shoving both his knees between her legs and pushing them apart.
His hardness was obvious to her and she groaned. He was a big man and already she ached and was sore from his attentions. He invaded her roughly, not caring that she was in pain and whimpering. She bit back her cries, aware that her duty as his wife was to satisfy his needs in this respect. But there was need and there was greed, she thought as she turned her face away from him and stared wide-eyed past his shoulder to the dark wood panelling of the walls. He seemed in such a hurry that she thought it would be over quickly but he rutted and sweated for what seemed like an age until she grew hot underneath him. How much longer must she endure this suffering, she begged silently?
However she did not know whether to be thankful or horrified when the bedchamber door opened suddenly. Beth’s eyes swivelled towards it. Surely a servant would knock first? But it was not a servant. Mrs Collins walked in, fully dressed and carrying a lighted lamp. Beth’s eyelids closed with embarrassment. Had she no concept of what her son might be doing on his wedding night? What on earth could she want of him at such a late hour?
‘That is enough, Edgar,’ Mrs Collins said.
He stopped his fruitless thrusting and twisted his head sideways and groaned.
‘I said that is enough. I heard you with her earlier and once is sufficient.’
Beth saw his flushed angry face in the lamplight. ‘Go away, Mama,’ he growled.
‘Remember to whom you are speaking!’ she snapped and marched across the chamber. ‘Remember also that you are a gentleman and she is nothing. Already, she seeks to rob you of your strength.’
It is not I who rob him, Beth thought. I know it is my duty to serve my husband’s needs, but surely he must have a care for my comfort in return! If anyone was robbed in this bed, it was her. She felt he had taken her against her will in a most cruel and callous manner without the slightest regard for her sensibilities. He had not treated her as his wife; rather, she felt as though she were nothing more to him than a common street woman, paid to relieve his urges. She realised, with increasing unease, that his past life must have included such activity.
But Beth’s feelings were not the concern of either mother or son. Mrs Collins threw back the covers exposing their naked bodies and legs. To her surprise, Edgar obeyed his mother and rolled away from her. Cold air rushed into the fetid space between them and riffled over Beth’s naked skin. She felt a blush rise to her cheeks as she struggled to push down the folds of her nightgown. In the lamplight she noticed smudges of blood on the white cotton and more on the linen bed-sheets. Her embarrassment turned to anger as Mrs Collins stared at her dishevelled appearance with an expression of pure disgust. Beth clenched her jaw and demanded, ‘Am I not allowed my privacy, madam?’
Her answer was a cold accusing glare as though the whole of this incident were her fault. ‘You, girl, go back to your chamber now.’
Beth considered disobeying her and held her eyes for as long as she dare. What kind of mother was she to invade her son’s bedchamber on his wedding night and then insult his wife?
Edgar sat on the edge of the bed and pushed his feet into carpet shoes. ‘Go on, then. Do as Mama says,’ he muttered, taking the robe his mother handed to him. He added, as though making an excuse, ‘I’m tired.’
Mrs Collins’s face grew even sourer. ‘Do not develop a taste for fornication with servant girls until your position with his lordship is secured.’
Beth was astounded. She was not a servant girl and as far as she was concerned, Edgar already had a taste for excess.
‘The girl will not be with you,’ Mrs Collins continued, ‘and your behaviour must be impeccable at all times.’
He responded to his mother with a nod and half turned. ‘Do as Mama says.’
This time Beth was thankful to obey and escape to her small, sparsely furnished chamber.
Chapter 3
The sound of someone raking a fire roused her the following morning. Her chamber was over the kitchen and she lay awake in the darkness thinking that this used to be her task at the Bardens’. She washed in cold water, applied salve to her sore areas and dressed quickly, knotting a woollen shawl firmly around her shoulders. Her candle had burned down so she pulled on a cap as best she could and went downstairs. A fire was already drawing in the cavernous hall and a lamp glowed through the open door to the kitchen.
‘Good morning, Mrs Roberts.’
‘At last. Put the porridge on and set a skillet to heat then see if there are any eggs.’
Beth obeyed silently and escaped to find the hen coop as soon as she found a bowl. Dark grey streaks were lightening the eastern sky and contrasting starkly with the menacing dark outcrops of rock. She searched everywhere but it was too early in the year for hens to be laying, she thought as she fastened the latch to the nesting boxes.
‘Here, take these indoors.’
‘Oh, Mr Roberts! You startled me.’
He placed a couple of eggs in her empty bowl. ‘Wild duck,’ he said. ‘They’ll do for the Yorkshires this dinner time.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Have you ever milked a cow?’
She shook her head.
‘I’ll show you after breakfast. The dairy will be your job from now.’
Beth’s eyes widened. She didn’t know the first thing about dairy work! But she supposed she could learn and at least she would be out of the house and away from Mrs Collins. And Edgar, she thought with mixed feelings. She did not like her husband. He was inconsiderate and brutish. His mother seemed to control him in some ways yet indulge him in others.
‘We’ve only the one cow and she’s getting on in years, but we keep a couple of milking ewes to eke out.’
‘Do you look after the sheep as well, Mr Roberts?’
‘That’s Abel’s job. He’s taken them out on the fell now the snows have gone. He prefers it out there, he does. I tend the pony and keep the trap looking nice, and I look after Master Edgar’s hunter when he’s home.’
‘We have a trap? I shall be able to go to market. Is Settle the nearest?’
‘You’ll be kept busy here, my lass. Anyway, Master Edgar is off again today.’
‘Today? I thought it was tomorrow.’
‘We’re short on flour. I’ll drive them as far as Settle in the vicar’s carriage with our pony in tow and bring him back, packhorse style.’
So this is how it is to be, she thought: her husband away shooting and ingratiating himself with his estranged aristocratic kin while she is left behind with the servants to run the farm.
‘Is the vicar’s parish local?’
‘He’s not from round here but Master Edgar has known him since schooldays.’
The sky was a lighter grey already and Beth’s mood lifted. Mrs Collins, too, would be absent for several days giving her a chance to become familiar with her new routine. She was overwhelmed by a feeling of reprieve that she would not be subjected to another brutal invasio
n of her body tonight. Indeed, Edgar might not be back for weeks, giving her torn flesh time to heal.
In contrast to Blackstone, food was plentiful at High Fell Farm. Roberts tended a small garden and a pigsty as well as the stable and she had noticed a leaden trough in the scullery for curing the flitches and hams. In the kitchen, Mrs Roberts gave Beth more orders and stood back to watch but after a few minutes left her to pour hot water into waiting ewers to be carried upstairs. Her husband brought in kindling and peat for the fires and Beth followed him to the dining hall to lay the table.
She took the porridge in when she heard Mrs Collins come downstairs and later, when Edgar joined her, she carried through a covered dish of aromatic sizzling bacon to join them for her own breakfast. She heard Edgar raise his voice and slowed, hovering in the shadows.
‘I want more money than this, Mama. I need outfits for shooting and balls, a new gun and a respectable manservant. Milo has agreed to ride with me to Leeds. He has been a good friend to me of late and I must repay his generosity, too.’
‘He has a living, does he not?’
‘Yes, but he’s not a rector, Mama. He’s only a vicar with a stipend. You know how much it costs to keep a carriage and a hunter.’
‘Well, you must have the best for the Abbey.’ Mrs Collins slid several bags of coins across the table.
Edgar opened one and took out a few sovereigns. ‘So must you, Mama. Why not order a new gown from the drapers in Settle?’
Beth heard the chink of coins. ‘I shall,’ his mother replied. ‘Make sure you go to the best outfitter in Leeds for your clothes and purchase a portmanteau for your onward journey to the South Riding. The manservant you engage will carry it on the post and you must pay him too. He will be your valet at the Abbey. A gentleman does not travel without his valet.’
‘His lordship will be aware that I am a farmer, Mama.’
The Lost And Found Girl Page 3