The Bride's Farewell (14 page)

But he was back, with a twist of paper and instructions for Pell to hold Dicken while he placed one hand over the dog’s muzzle, parted the lips of the wound, and poured a vivid yellow powder straight into the suppurating flesh. The dog struggled wildly, but Pell kept one hand firmly against his flank and the other on his shoulder, and Dogman talked to him in the low voice Pell remembered from the fair. After a few attempts to struggle free, Dicken dropped back, exhausted.

Dogman stroked his head and stood up. “Get him to take water if you can.” And then, without looking at Pell, he went out.

Pell sat with her dog, thinking of every animal she’d ever nursed, the ones she’d saved and the others. She tried to dribble water down his throat, but his head lolled sideways, so watery saliva spooled out onto the dirt floor. His eyes looked sunken and he panted in harsh, ugly rasps that sucked his rib cage nearly flat. He no longer seemed to recognize her voice.

At twilight she left him to fetch water from the well and escape the sound of his breathing. When she returned sometime later, he lifted his head a little in greeting. Later that night, he managed to swallow when she dribbled water into his mouth, and feebly tried to lap more. She let him drink until his head rolled back and his eyes closed, then ran to the kennels to find Dogman and give him the news. He didn’t change expression, only tapped his pipe against one leg and nodded, and when she thanked him he turned his back on her and appeared not to have heard.

Pell kept Dicken away from the kennels for more than a week, until he had lost his limp and the wound began to turn pale and flat. She and Dogman encountered each other more frequently, whether by chance or design was impossible to know. She was less careful to avoid him, but he was no more cordial than before. He continued to treat his animals with more courtesy than he treated her, acknowledging her not at all.

By this time, Pell and the baker’s girl had become familiar enough to exchange histories, for surely it was the responsibility of itinerant buyers of bread to provide not only rabbits and pheasants in exchange, but stories as well. Pell’s story of leaving Nomansland greatly pleased Eliza, who had seen her sister married off to a man in greater need of a servant, she said, than a wife. She had watched her sister grow ill with overwork, and finally die of a fever caught after the birth of her third daughter. At the funeral, the husband had turned the children over to Eliza and refused to have them back, saying he had no use for girls. The three children were all that remained of her sister’s short life, and for Eliza and her brother, surrogate parents to the unwanted babes, they served as lasting, hungry reminders of only one of the ways a marriage might end.

Eliza told this story with mournful satisfaction, and swore to Pell that she would never marry. Her vow inspired sympathy from Pell, who chose not to notice how well such a position suited the girl’s plain face and advanced years.

In exchange, Pell gradually revealed her reasons for leaving home, and much of what had happened since, and Eliza listened to what she called Pell’s “adventures” with the rapt attention of a woman who has never strayed more than a mile or two from her place of birth. When it came to the reality of Pell’s life in the woods, however, Eliza had no interest, and clung to her own version of the story.

There was, of course, no flirtation with Dogman to pass the hours the way Eliza insisted upon imagining it, and the freezing shed was not nearly so adorable and snug as she painted it. Pell’s days were spent covered in rabbit blood and gore, collecting wood and plucking birds, fetching heavy buckets of water from the well, and worrying about the months to come. The dairy money was nearly gone, and when winter rabbits became scarce she would have nothing left to barter. Her gray woolen dress had been patched so many times that the apron she wore could no longer be depended upon to conceal the holes. She saved her stockings by walking barefoot except on the very worst days, and meanwhile grudged the farthing’s worth of wool it took to mend them. It grew colder day by day, and how she would cope when the ground froze hard she had no idea.

She voiced these doubts to her friend, and Eliza’s eyes widened. “Can you knead bread and shape loaves?” she asked.

Pell nodded. Despite her preference for outdoor pursuits, she could bake as well as any girl brought up in a village too small for its own bakery.

“Well, come here and assist us! William and I are always in need of help, and we’ll pay you in bread when money’s short. You might even stay here with us if you can be parted from your poacher. We’d have a lovely time, like sisters!”

Pell accepted the offer with gratitude. She dreaded the relentless hardship of winter and imagined a room with a fire and perhaps even hot water to wash. Despite her misgivings about Eliza, the possibility of paid work refueled her optimism. She suspected that her habit of conversing with Dicken was making her odder and less fit for human society with each passing day. The few villagers who greeted her did so warily, for a girl of her age and uncertain provenance living in an unclear arrangement with the local poacher did not comply with anyone’s idea of respectability.

There were even some who imagined—with a thrill of outrage—that Pell might attempt to attend the village church, and steps were taken to cope with so heinous a situation should it arise. Such were the amusements of village life.

Twenty-six

E
liza’s brother William, older by four or five years, shared with his sister a wide, open face in which there was nothing of malice, though in his case not much of wit, either. According to their father’s last will and testament, the bakery belonged to the son, but for the past seven years it had been Eliza who worked long hours kneading bread, keeping the accounts, negotiating at market for the sacks of grain necessary to their trade, and supervising the shop, on top of cleaning, cooking, sewing, and caring for the three orphaned girls. William’s contributions were more abstract. He provided a “manly presence,” as he described it, to prevent his sister from being cheated by dishonest vendors, stood at the front of the shop smiling broadly at the customers, and relit the ovens when the overworked Eliza allowed them to go cold. Although the little girls would soon be old enough to help in the shop, William felt that the time had come to acquire a son and heir. And, thus, a wife.

He might have had more luck with village girls had there been more of them, but an epidemic of fever twenty years earlier had led to a shortage, which made Pell’s mysterious arrival in the village appear all the more providential. After their first meeting, William declared that—despite Pell’s ambiguous situation—he had at last found the woman he would marry. This declaration caused Eliza great delight; the fact that Pell showed no signs of being similarly inclined discouraged neither of them.

In spite of the positive aspects of her appearance, Pell arrived in the village with so many real and suspected blights against goodness and decency that no family could have considered her an acceptable match. But between Eliza and William there was no parent to object, and together they felt that they would be doing the girl a great favor by agreeing to overlook her many disadvantages.

And so the die was cast.

A number of little social engagements followed, each couched in the most innocent of terms. A supper, attended by all three, was a pleasant affair. A little tea party, presided over by Eliza, was considered perfectly successful, despite the fact that every guest but Pell declined to attend.

“Could you come to town on Friday,” Eliza asked, a few days later, “and help in the shop? Christmas is coming, and we have far more work than we two can manage.”

Pell was glad to oblige, glad for the pay and the occupation. That Eliza was missing when she arrived did not surprise her in the least, for the little girls were often ailing, or the accounts required updating, or the house needed sweeping. Pell and William worked quietly side by side for most of the morning, with Dicken asleep outside. Pell took on the lion’s share of mixing and measuring, shaping the bread dough into squares and oblongs, and carefully timing them in the big brick oven. She noticed that William seemed preoccupied, on several occasions standing for long minutes in the center of the room, clasping and unclasping his hands and moving his lips silently. He worked uncomfortably close to her, and though she was invariably polite, she thought how much she’d rather share these chores with Eliza than with her strange, awkward brother.

Eliza appeared once or twice, pulling her brother aside for some consultation or other, which Pell ignored. Until, at the very last, he turned to her, trembling, with trickles of sweat carving trails in the floury surface of his face.

“What is it, William?” Pell moved toward him with concern. “Are you unwell?”

For an answer, he dropped to his knees and buried his head in her skirts, his powerful arms wrapped viselike around her thighs. “I love you, Miss Ridley,” came the muffled voice, as she struggled to free herself, “and I wish above all things to make you my wife.”

The horror of the scene came over her slowly. So unexpected was his declaration that her first reaction was disbelief. “Please stand up, William, please. You . . . you are very kind, and I am flattered by your offer, but surely you must see that I can not possibly marry you.”

He did not loosen his grip. “You must. I wish it above all things.”

“Let me go, William, please.” She saw the color begin to rise in his face and felt the first stirrings of unease. “William? William, I beg you . . . let me go.” The first time she said his name, it was with all of the civility she could muster, but when he not only failed to release her but pressed his head more firmly into her skirts, she began to push against his shoulders and then to shout, pounding his back with her fists. “Let me go! William, for pity’s sake! What would Eliza think?” If only her friend would return and put a stop to the awful scene. But if Eliza could hear, she made no move to help.

“Give me the answer I require!” moaned William, nuzzling deep between her thighs, his huge hands grasping and clutching at her.

Pell struggled with all her strength. “Let me go!” she cried, and finally, simply, “
Stop!
”

This word appeared at last to penetrate the deep haze of his passion. He dropped his arms to his sides, hanging his head like a great ruined beast as she staggered backward. For an instant she watched in horror, certain that he would begin to sob, and her brain swam with panic and doubt. Had she inspired the misunderstanding? Had she somehow led him to believe she felt something for him? Nothing could have been further from the truth. She reached out and placed one hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, William, I would not knowingly hurt you—”

He raised his head, unable to see anything but the carefully constructed plans for his future in ruins. Roaring his pain like a wounded bull, he clambered to his feet and clamped a huge hand on her arm. “You would not hurt me? Would not
hurt me?
” He seemed blind, now, with humiliation and fury. And then he hit her hard across the face, the force of the blow hurling her across the room, smashing her head against the hot iron of the oven door. She tried to catch herself, but twisted round on one arm as she fell. He followed, lifting her up once more as she struggled against him, crying and shouting for help. Grasping her by the hair, he trapped her against the wall, pushed her head back, and shoved his mouth on top of hers, pressing his great flaccid tongue between her lips and forcing himself hard against her.

“William!” Eliza flew across to him and he let Pell drop, staggering back with a moan of pain as if he, not she, were the injured party.

“Thank God,” murmured Pell. “Thank God you’ve arrived. . . .”

Eliza looked at her, and her features expressed not sympathy but anger. “What did you say to him? What did you say to provoke him?”

Pell balanced carefully on both feet, swaying with pain, her face already beginning to swell, the blood streaming down from a gash above one eye, her left arm cradled in her right. She faced Eliza with dignity. “I said I would not marry him. Would you expect me to be convinced otherwise by his argument?”

Cheeks flaming, Eliza turned away. “How else did you expect him to react? He was terribly disappointed, weren’t you, my poor William?”

William stood panting and close to tears. He nodded, dumbly, like a child.

“Won’t you reconsider, Pell?” Eliza’s voice had turned dripping and golden, like syrup. “It was only the sincerity of his passion that carried him away, wasn’t it, Will? He’ll make a wonderful husband.”

As Pell moved toward the door, Eliza went to her brother, embracing him and tenderly wiping the tears from his eyes as she kissed him over and over on his face and lips. “Don’t cry, dear William, don’t cry. Pell
will
marry you after all, of course she will. Won’t you, dear? Don’t cry, dearest. There, there.”