Tara (16 page)

Mabel curled up tightly, too scared even to think, willing Papa to change his mind.

'Get out of here,' he shouted, grabbing the strap from Polly's hand and pushing her out of the door. 'If you hadn't been so weak this wouldn't have happened.'

He wound the leather round his big fist and lifted his arm.

'Turn over, girl!' he ordered.

Her dress was thin cotton with just one petticoat beneath, and as the strap cracked in the air she knew clothes would offer no protection.

It licked across her back with such force the pain took her breath away. Again the crack and this time she screamed out in agony. On and on he went, lash after lash, on her back, buttocks and thighs until finally she hadn't the strength to shout or even flinch.

It was then she realised he enjoyed inflicting pain. This wasn't really about what she'd done, but a sadistic act that gave him pleasure.

'You'll stay in here until I see repentance.' His voice trembled in the way another man's might after making love. She remembered then the farm boy he'd beaten nearly senseless several years earlier for some trivial misdemeanour. Mother had found him unconscious in the barn and dressed his wounds. The silence she had maintained about the whole incident, the way she got the boy home to his family, now took on a whole new meaning.

'If that man comes sniffing around here he'll get the same,' her father added. 'You are my property. Don't ever forget that!'

The door slammed, the key turned in the lock.

The pain she'd felt during the beating was nothing to the aftermath. It was as if a fiendish torturer prodded her slowly with a red-hot poker, paused to re-heat it, then drew it malevolently across her flesh. Hating was all she had left – imagining her father falling on to his plough, trampled by his bull or burning slowly in a fire.

'It's all your fault, woman,' she heard him snarl at her mother in the kitchen below. 'You encouraged her high and mighty ideas. If I'd had my way she would have been married off a year ago. No man will want her now.'

She heard Emily shutting up the stable and her mother shooing the chickens into the hen house, but neither of them came to her. A rattling of plates, scraping chairs on the flagstone floor and a meal eaten in silence.

It was much later when she heard his feet on the stairs. His stumbling footsteps indicated he had been drinking and she braced herself for more abuse, but moments later the creak of bedsprings and his boots dropping to the floor told her that for tonight at least he had put her out of his mind. Snoring from across the landing soon confirmed it.

'Mabel!' Emily whispered through the keyhole. 'Are you all right?'

Mabel raised her head an inch. It was daring for her sister to take such a chance, for they both knew if Papa caught her at the door she would be punished too.

Emily was like her mother, timid, gentle and kind-hearted, with blonde shiny hair and soft brown eyes.

'I'm fine,' she forced herself to call back. 'Go to bed, Emily.'

There was no sound of movement and she guessed her sister was crouching there in the dark, aching with helplessness.

'I'm on your side,' Emily whispered back and Mabel could imagine her round, sweet face damp with tears. 'I hate Papa!'

Later still the key turned quietly in the lock. She heard a faint shuffle of slippers on the bare boards and the golden glow of a candle crept into the room.

Mabel was too weak and stiff even to turn her head. She was still in the same position her father had left her, lying sideways across the bed. She was so cold she felt she could die, her teeth chattered, yet her back was on fire and she had sweat on her brow.

'My darling. What am I to do?'

Mabel lifted her head enough to see her mother. She was in her long white nightgown, a cap over her hair. Her eyes were puffy with prolonged crying and she looked old and haggard in the candlelight.

'Was I really so bad I deserved this?'

'Nothing is bad enough to make you beat a child like that,' Polly whispered. 'Let me see to it!'

Her dress was split open with the force of the blows, the fabric congealed with blood from the wounds. Gently her mother softened the blood by bathing it, gradually peeling away the material to expose Mabel's entire back. Polly's sharp intake of breath proved the sight was shocking.

'Lift up just a bit,' she whispered. 'Let me get your petticoat, and drawers off. I've got some ointment to soothe it here.'

Mabel could see them both reflected now in the mirror. Her slim back and taut small buttocks were dark red, glistening where the skin was broken. Her mother bent over her, gently smearing on the ointment, hardly daring to touch. A soft nightdress was slid over her head. She was moved round so her head lay on the pillows, and covered with a warm quilt.

'I'm just going down to make you a drink,' Polly whispered.

Mabel recognised from her childhood the evil-tasting liquid as a herb tea to bring down fever and reduce pain. She drank it eagerly, wanting nothing more than oblivion.

'I'll come back tomorrow when he's out in the fields.' Polly bent over her to kiss her cheek. 'I'm so sorry.'

'It's done now.' Mabel's voice was just a weak croak. 'I'll be gone as soon as I can walk again.'

'Don't go.' The words came out with a sob.

'I have to, Mother. I think I'm having a baby.'

She waited for a gasp, and then the recriminations, but to her surprise there was nothing but a cool hand on her cheek, a caress of profound tenderness.

'Don't tell Papa, will you? He'd kill me.'

Polly didn't answer immediately and for a moment Mabel wondered if she'd been wrong to confide in her.

'Is this man kind?'

'Kinder than Papa,' was all she could manage, and she buried her face in the pillow.

It was three days before Mabel could get up without assistance and every pain-filled hour was filled with hate.

She would never forgive him. She would go to London. Even if Arthur didn't want her bruised and pregnant then she would find a job and a room somewhere. While James Brady was alive she would never enter the farm again.

By the end of a week she could dress herself and the door was left unlocked, which meant her father expected her to come out and beg his forgiveness. Her back still hurt, many of the lacerations were still weeping, but she knew she didn't dare stay any longer. Slowly she gathered together a few things in a carpet bag.

'You're going?' Her mother's eyes fell to the bag packed in readiness by the bed when she brought in some dinner.

'Tonight. I'll walk to Bristol.'

'You can't walk fifteen miles.' Polly's hand flew to her mouth in horror. 'Wait till tomorrow, I'll ask John Ames to take you on his cart.'

'No, Mother.' Mabel was resolute. 'John Ames would talk. All I ask is that you lend me some money for the train to London. I'll send it back as soon as I can.'

Polly could see cold determination on her daughter's beautiful face.

'How will I know you're safe?' She reached out for her hand, tears rolling down her cheeks.

'I'll send word to Reverend Grey,' Mabel whispered. 'I wish you could come with me, but I'll be back one day to dance on his grave, just you wait.'

'Don't tell Emily.' Polly stifled a sob. 'She's been breaking her heart over all this, but if she knows you're going she just might let it slip to her father.'

Mabel knew what her mother meant. Papa would be likely to punish Emily for aiding and abetting, and though she ached to say goodbye to her sister it was impossible.

Mabel heard the church clock strike one as she closed the bedroom door behind her. She had waited till Papa was snoring, her mother lying beside him awake and tense. She sneaked one last look at Emily asleep in bed, a plump arm curled round her sweet, innocent face.

Holding her breath she crept down the stairs and out into the night. The five pounds hoarded by her mother over the years, intended for her daughters' weddings, was tucked into her bodice. Her carpet bag held a change of clothing and Arthur's few letters; not a photograph, a book or any other reminder of her family. The stripes on her back were all she needed to remind her of her father. Mother and Emily would stay in her heart.

Her back stung intolerably. The weals opened up again as she walked and she could feel her chemise stuck with drying blood. It wasicy cold, pitch dark and every mile past bare fields seemed like ten. Dawn's first light was penetrating the inky sky as she reached the outskirts of Bristol and down the hill she could see Temple Meads station in the distance.

It was ten at night before she sank on to a bed in a cheap hotel in Paddington, too exhausted even to undress.

A rap on the door woke Mabel and she was surprised to find it was dark again outside. That morning she had posted a letter to Arthur with her address, then gone back to bed again.

Every bone in her body ached as she got up, lit the gas light and made her way to the door. Her feet were blistered and swollen and her stomach was churning.

She expected the housekeeper, as she had only paid in advance for one night. But it was Arthur. He leaned nonchalantly against the wall, a bunch of wilted roses in his hand, hat tucked under his arm.

'Arthur!' Her head spun and she had to hold on to the door for support. 'You came!'

His smile vanished. He took a step nearer then stopped short.

'What is it, Mabel?' He seemed poised to move away. 'No letter for over a week from you, then that sharp little note. And you look so ill.'

'I couldn't write,' she blurted out, tears pricking her eyelids. She knew she looked frightful. Her face was white, hair lank and unwashed since the beating, and her old flannel nightdress was fit only for dusters.

All that week in her room she had kept herself sane by remembering him. Picturing him in the park in his grey suit and top-hat; in the restaurant in his dinner jacket; but mostly imagining the way he'd looked when he held her in his arms, loving and tender. Now he seemed taller somehow, shoulders broader and his face brown from the sun. His slightly upturned nose and wide, soft mouth made her heart leap, yet his blue
eyes
seemed cold now, and suspicious.

'I've got something to tell you,' she whispered. 'I want you to hear me out. Then tell me how you feel.'

He came into the little room, shut the door behind him and sat down. The light caught the angles of his cheekbones; his lips curved into an amused smile.

'Aren't you going to kiss me first?' he asked.

She shook her head and even that gentle movement sent stabs of pain through her back.

'I'm going to have a baby, Arthur,' she said softly, searching his face for evidence of his real feelings. 'I've run away from home and I've got very little money.'

This wasn't how she'd envisaged their reunion. She'd expected a letter first, arranging a meeting. She would have bathed and washed her hair, dressed up and flirted with him until she felt certain of him. Now she had to tell him the truth straight out and take the risk that he would make his excuses and run away.

Arthur put one hand over his eyes and slumped back in the chair. Of all the girls he had known, Mabel was the only one he'd dreamed about continuously. He'd done his best to put her out of his mind, even toyed with not opening her letters and moving on from his lodgings. Yet he'd written back to her, and his heart had leaped when he found the note from her this evening. But now here she was, looking ill and neglected, saying she was expecting his child. Should he run for the door, get out now before he got trapped?

'You don't have to marry me,' she said in a low voice. 'I'll find a job and even a room of my own. All I want for now is some help until I can get on my feet.'

Even pale and worn she looked beautiful, the dark circles under her eyes emphasising their colour and size. But it was the sweet bravery in her direct approach that made him leap up and take her in his arms.

'Oh, darling,' he said. 'Don't make me out to be a cad.'

He felt her wince as his hands touched her back and instinct told him it was with pain, not revulsion. Without saying a word he turned her round and, taking the hem of her nightgown, lifted it up.

The weals began at mid calf, growing bigger as his eyes swept up over her buttocks and waist. But on her back they were some three inches across, in places still weeping. Her tiny shoulder blades stood out like small wings.

'Who did this?' he gasped.

'Papa,' she said simply. 'He didn't even know about the baby. He'd have killed me if he knew everything.'

He wanted to hold her more than anything in the world, but his arms would only cause her more pain.

'I love you, darling,' he whispered, taking her hands in his and kissing them. 'You brave, sweet girl. I could kill that brute!'

'Can I stay with you?' She looked up at him, her lips trembling, amber eyes full of doubt.

'Of course.' He sighed deeply, suddenly knowing he wanted her by his side forever, even with the burden of a child. 'The only trouble is I haven't much cash at the moment. I'm trying to arrange some business. I didn't expect this.'

'I won't cost you much.' She sat down on the bed looking up at him. 'I'll help you with things. I don't mind living in one little room for the time being. If you really do love me we'll find a way.'

It was only later, when he'd moved her to a better hotel further along Praed Street and tucked her back into bed, that Arthur knew he'd have to admit things about himself to Mabel that he normally concealed.

He had taken off his jacket, waistcoat and stiff collar, and in his white round-necked shirt he looked boyish and far less intimidating. He lay on the bed next to her, leaning up on his elbow.

'I'm not quite what I seem, Mabel,' he said softly, bending to kiss her mouth. 'I know you think I'm a gentleman and perhaps I've led you to think I have business interests.'

'You haven't?'

He shook his head, dropping his eyes.

'In India the old colonels used to call me a bounder.' He half smiled at her look of surprise. 'Loosely,that means I live off my wits. To do that I've had to fool people.'