What could I say? What could I do? There was nothing for it but to let go this conversation that was clearly distressing to my dear, sweet grandmama. And before I knew it, I was once again being carried along on the tide of preparations for the wedding.
* * *
It dawned, my wedding day, bright and clear, like most of the other days that summer. But there was no sunshine in my heart, only a fog as thick and dark as the one which clouded my mind.
Grandfather was to assist the bishop with the ceremony and Great-Uncle Charles was too tottery to give me away, so it was Theo who rode beside me in the carriage, Theo who lent me his arm as we stood at the back of the cathedral and looked down the long aisle to where Mr Paterson waited.
The cathedral was full, a sea of faces turned to look at me, but I did not look at them. I saw nothing but Mr Paterson waiting for me, and even that was tinged with a sense of unreality. I heard nothing but the pounding of blood in my ears. I felt nothing. I was too numb.
Theo smiled at me encouragingly as we started the long walk, and squeezed my hand, which lay in the crook of his arm. But I could not smile back. For the life of me, I could not smile back.
‘You must be the loveliest bride this cathedral has ever seen,’ he murmured in my ear. ‘I wish it was me you were marrying, Davina.’
I could have wished it too. Though I was no more in love with Theo than I was with Mr Paterson, at least he was closer to me in age, at least he was able to make me laugh, at least we shared some sort of rapport. But he could not wish it all that much, I thought, since he had arranged this marriage. All very well for him to say he desired me: he desired the advantages my union with Mr Paterson would bring him more.
And so we moved down the aisle with a ripple of admiration following, and I took my place beside my future husband at the altar rail.
When the bishop spoke the words asking if there were any just cause or impediment to the marriage taking place, I caught my breath, remembering Richard Wells’ assertion that I was not free to wed. But no one spoke; one could have dropped a pin and heard it fall in the hush that descended on the packed cathedral. And then we were making our vows, Mr Paterson in a firm, rolling voice that must have carried to every lofty corner, me in a low whisper. And the bishop was proclaiming us man and wife and asking God’s blessing on our union.
It was done. Nothing could save me now. My legs trembled beneath the ivory silk of my skirts, my heart was heavy. But somehow I held myself erect, somehow I forced a smile to my lips, somehow I managed not to lean too heavily on Mr Paterson’s arm as we made our way back down the aisle to the door of the cathedral.
We came out into the bright sunshine to the clamour of pealing bells and the excited congratulations of the guests.
And then I saw him. A tall, weatherbeaten figure standing on the opposite side of the street, his face, in contrast to all the smiling ones, grim and drawn.
For just a moment our eyes met, and that tantalizing twist of emotion stirred in me, a sense of longing so great that I wanted nothing more in the whole world than to throw down my wedding bouquet and run to him. And as I stared at him, my heart seeming to reach out to his across the width of the street, he bent down so that for a moment he was lost to my view behind the crowd of onlookers that had gathered. Then he straightened, and to my astonishment I saw that he now held a child in his arms. A little girl, not much more than a toddler, whose hair shone bright gold in the sunlight.
Breath caught in my throat. The sight of Richard Wells – the brooding, wholly masculine man whom Theo had described as ‘dangerous’ – with a child in his arms startled me so that I had not a single coherent thought. The way he held her, as if he was perfectly comfortable with doing so, the way her small fair head leaned so trustingly against his dark one, was so surprising I could only stare, open-mouthed, whilst emotions I could not identify raged through me like forest fire through dry brush.
Mr Paterson said something to me – I scarcely heard him, and then a crowd of smiling guests enveloped us and a cloud of rose petals obscured my vision of the man who called to me with every fibre of his unknown being and the child he held in his arms. And when they cleared, he had gone.
Frantic suddenly, I scoured the street for them: they were nowhere to be seen. I wondered for an insane moment if I had imagined it – that he had not been there at all and he and the child were just a product of my fevered imagination. But I knew I had not imagined it.
Richard Wells had come to the cathedral to see for himself whether I had gone through with the marriage he had sought to prevent me making, and when he saw that I had, he had slipped away.
But who was the child he had brought with him? And why had he brought her? Simply to see a bride in all her wedding finery, because he knew the spectacle would please her? Or for some other, inexplicable reason? I did not know, and in all likelihood, never would.
I was now Mrs John Paterson, my life changed for ever. I was tied, till death us do part, to the man who was now my husband.
Seven
I remember very little of the wedding breakfast but the simpering, gushing and weeping of the female guests and the unashamed imbibing of copious amounts of liquor by the men. I remember even less of changing from my wedding gown into my new travelling outfit, helped by the girl Mr Paterson had engaged to be my personal maid, and watched, misty-eyed, by Grandmama.
‘You look beautiful, Davina,’ she said, and I suppose the outfit was very likely finer than any she had ever seen, and more fashionable by far than any that the ladies of Grandfather’s parish wore to church on Sundays. It consisted of a redingote gown in pink, rucked at the hem and neck, and a short black double-breasted jacket with wide lapels and sleeves. To complete the ensemble the milliner had made me a green felt hat with pink ribbons which matched exactly the colour of my gown, and pink gloves.
‘Beautiful,’ Grandmama said, brushing an imaginary speck of dust from my shoulder and tweaking the buttons, quite unnecessarily, since Perrett, my new maid, had done an excellent job. She had been trained in a most aristocratic household, Mr Paterson had told me, and came to me with excellent references.
‘And now,’ Grandmama said, leaning close so that she could speak softly, ‘now, at last, you will be safe, my dear.’
Safe. The word reverberated with a hollow echo in the mists that had descended to envelop me. Safe – but from whom? From the so-called ‘dangerous’ man who had stood to watch me emerge from the cathedral, tenderly holding a child in his arms? How could such a man pose any real threat to me? The now familiar compulsion ached once more in me, the longing for I knew not what, but which was so strong it was an almost physical pain. And with it the fear of what it might be that I longed for with every fibre of my being.
Safe from myself and my dangerous desires. No – not safe from my desires – they were with me still. Safe from where they might lead me, yes. Safe, as a bird in a cage is safe when all freedom is lost. I had briefly glimpsed what might lie beyond the bars that had contained me for the past two years since I had awoken to find myself in the small, dark bedroom at the rectory, where the creeper grew thick around the window and the branches of a great sycamore tree blotted out the sun, and now it was lost to me again. Even if memory returned to free my mind, yet still I was a prisoner, bound by the vows I had made in the presence of God and the assembled congregation.
The knowledge pressed down on me like a great weight and I retreated once more into the hinterland where thoughts and feelings were disconnected from reality, whilst I went through the motions of what I must do.
Mr Paterson had planned a wedding tour to celebrate our marriage. We were to travel to Weymouth and spend the night there before setting sail for France. When he had first talked of it, I had imagined we would sail out of Bristol on one of his own ships, but he had other ideas. For one thing, his fleet were all tied up with his various trading enterprises; for another, he was concerned that, since I had never been to sea before, the crossing
should be as short as possible.
‘Seasickness can be very unpleasant,’ he had said. ‘It disappears as if by magic the moment one sets foot on dry land again, but whilst it lasts, the sufferer truly believes his last day has come. I want you to have happy memories of the first days of our marriage, my dear, not nightmarish ones. We’ll travel down to the south coast and set out from there, on a ship better equipped for the comfort of passengers than my own.’
And so it was that, as soon as I was ready, we climbed into the carriage – not the landaulet, but a much larger and grander vehicle – with Thomas in the driver’s seat and all our trunks and the servants who were to accompany us packed into another carriage behind.
The entire assembly came to wave us off, with the exception of Great-Uncle Charles, who had imbibed a little too much wine but was blaming the leg pains he said he was plagued by for his inability to walk steadily.
Grandmama and Aunt Linnie were tearful, Grandfather silent and a little disapproving of what he saw as excessive sentiment. As if to distance himself from the proceedings, which, in his opinion, detracted from the solemnity of the marriage rites, he stood a little apart, head bowed, hands clasped, and I had to make a small detour in order to kiss him goodbye. And then we were in the carriage, pulling away, and Mr Paterson’s moist palm was covering my hand, lifting it to rest on his plump, silk-covered thigh, and beaming with satisfaction.
‘A good day, Davina. Everything went off without a hitch, exactly to plan. Did you enjoy it, my dear?’
‘Yes,’ I lied. ‘It was wonderful.’
‘And that is only the beginning of your new life. I intend to spoil you shamelessly. You will love France and Italy, I know. Though the French are a strange people – and quarrelsome – they can be hospitable, too, once we get away from the cities and into the countryside. Or perhaps it’s just that they know a good thing when they see one!’ He laughed, and patted his money pouch. ‘Money talks, Davina, never forget it. Money can buy respect and friendship as well as fine wine and good food.’
And a wife, I thought bitterly.
‘And it’s something you won’t have to be short of ever again,’ he went on. ‘Whatever you fancy, my dear, just name it, and it’s yours. Whatever. Don’t be afraid to ask, now, will you? It’s been a long time since I was party to a woman’s whims, and I can’t pretend I ever understood them very well. So don’t be shy. Just appraise me of your desires, and I’ll see you’re not disappointed.’
‘Thank you,’ I said quite formally. ‘You are very kind.’
‘Kind? No!’ He chuckled. ‘It’s myself I’m thinking of. If you’re happy, then I shall be happy too. And I assure you, I shall not hesitate to make my desires clear to you, my dear. Honesty in a relationship is by far the best policy, don’t you think?’
His plump, moist fingers tightened over my hand and moved it a little higher on his thigh, closer to his groin. Some nerve tightened inside me, and every muscle seemed to shrink away from him. This was what I had been dreading, the enforced intimacy of the wedded state; my side of the bargain. But I forced myself to remain immobile, willed my fingers not to tremble, and sought not to think about the duties I would soon be called upon to perform.
I had no choice, and repellent though the very idea was to me, I did not want to hurt Mr Paterson’s feelings. He had shown me nothing but kindness; it was not his fault that he was old and fat. It was not his fault that I did not love him and never could. It was not his fault that he was not…
Again I saw the tall lean figure of Richard Wells in my mind’s eye; again I felt a pang of longing for some half-remembered delight, and, with an effort, closed my mind to it. Tonight I must lie with my husband in some strange bed and submit to his embraces. And somehow I must hide my revulsion and behave as a good wife should.
It was my duty now. Pleasure did not enter into it. I had entered into a solemn and binding arrangement. And I must fulfil my part in it, whether I wanted to or not.
* * *
In the event I was spared the worst of what I dreaded, that night at least.
By the time we reached the inn where we were to spend the night, it was late. We were shown to our suite of rooms on the first floor, and Mr Paterson declared his need for a jug of good porter and went off downstairs to sup it in the public bar.
When Perrett had helped me undress and put on my nightgown, I went to the window and threw it open, for the room was hot and airless. There was a smell of salt in the breeze that came wafting in, and I could hear the lap of the sea, rhythmic and somehow somnolent in the still darkness, and it stirred some distant memory of forgotten happiness and went some way to calming my shattered nerves.
After a little while I went to the bed and lay down on the lumpy mattress, pulling the sheets up to my chin, and I was drifting towards an exhausted sleep when a tap on the door brought me back to full consciousness.
‘Are you still awake, my dear?’
It was Mr Paterson.
I lay still and silent, hoping he would think I was asleep and not wish to disturb me, but it was not to be. A board creaked and I saw his heavy form silhouetted against the moonlit window.
‘Now, now, Davina, I know you are teasing me,’ he said playfully. His voice was a little slurred. ‘You are a naughty girl to arouse an old man so and leave him cold. You are awake, aren’t you? Come, it’s no use pretending!’
‘Mr Paterson…’ I murmured faintly, trying to sound sleepy and a little bemused, as if he had just woken me.
‘John!’ he insisted groggily. ‘How often do I have to ask you to call me John?’
‘John,’ I repeated obediently.
He was getting undressed now, rather unsteadily, stumbling around somewhat as he pulled off his breeches and shirt and let them drop on to the floor. For a moment I had a glimpse of his vast, naked body, and then he put on a voluminous nightshirt, which he must have collected from his own room on his way to mine, for it was certainly not there when I had retired. Although it made him faintly ridiculous, I felt a moment’s sharp gratitude that I did not have to endure the feel of him completely naked. Then the bed dipped alarmingly as he lowered himself on to it and pulled me into his arms.
His mouth was wet and slobbery on mine, his breath smelling of the porter he had lately consumed; he scrabbled up my nightgown and his own and rolled on top of me. I gasped as the weight of him forced the air out of my lungs, and waited apprehensively for the pain I had been led to believe I would feel when he entered me.
It did not come. Just the discomfort of his heavy body thrashing about on mine and the rather unpleasant sensation of something soft and flabby between my legs. For an eternity, it seemed, I waited. Then, with a groan, Mr Paterson rolled off me and I could breathe again.
‘I’m sorry, my dear.’ He sounded regretful, awkward almost. ‘It seems I must disappoint us both. Too much wine and porter, I expect. Oh well, there will be other times, and plenty of them. A good night’s sleep, a dose of sea air, and I’ll soon be myself again, no doubt.’
I said nothing; what was there for me to say?
‘Do you want me to sleep beside you, or would you prefer me to retire to my own room?’ he asked.
Relief at my reprieve and a sense of duty made me magnanimous.
‘Whichever you choose,’ I whispered.
‘Oh, better my own room, I think,’ he sighed after a moment’s hesitation. ‘I snore like a pig when I’ve had too much to drink, or so I’m told.’
He climbed off the mattress. ‘You get your beauty sleep, little one,’ he said, his voice still slurred. ‘You’ll need it, and your strength, for the voyage tomorrow.’
He leaned over and kissed me again, almost losing his balance as he did so. Then, leaving his clothing where he had dropped it, he staggered from the room and I was alone.
I lay for a moment, unmoving. I could still taste the porter from his mouth, still smell the faint rancid odour of his sweat on the sheets. Then the wretchedness washed over me
in a great, relentless tide. I turned my face into the pillow and wept soundlessly.
I think I must still have been weeping when exhaustion finally overcame me and I slept. But my last conscious thought was of a man with a child in his arms, my last feeling an ache of emptiness both deep inside me, and in my huddled arms.
* * *
We sailed on the morning tide. In spite of the feeling of depression that had been with me when I woke, and which remained whilst we breakfasted and made ready for the voyage, I felt my spirits lift a little with the fresh, salty smell of the harbour, so different to the river stench which pervaded Bristol, and with the excitement of seeing the sailors, nimble as monkeys, swarming up the double masts to unfurl the sheets of canvas sail. In spite of everything, it was something of an adventure, and as I stood on deck with Mr Paterson, watching the waves swirl around the hull and the land recede until it was little more than a blur on the horizon, I thought that perhaps my new life did, after all, have its compensations.
We went to the bows then, and for an hour or so I stood entranced, watching the endless procession of the waves and enjoying the keen cut of the wind on my face. My wilful hair had long since come loose from its pins, blowing about and whipping my flushed cheeks, but I could not care, and Mr Paterson did not seem to mind either.
‘You look a little windswept, my dear,’ he said with a smile, taking one long strand and curling it round his fingers, and I did not even flinch.
Mr Paterson was in good humour this morning, and he made no mention of last night’s fiasco. As for me, I put it to the back of my mind too, determined to make the most of this new experience. The night ahead, and all the nights to come, seemed a long way off. I schooled myself not to think about them, and lived merely for the moment.
Forgotten Destiny Page 10