The Straw Halter
Authors: Joan M. Moules
Joan M. Moules
For Marion and Henry
With Love
B
etsy stood proudly, her dark hair gleaming with vitality, her deep-blue eyes searching the faces as they moved along. All around her the bustle of the fair went on,
stall-holders
calling their wares, and the smell and movement of cattle only a few yards away from where she waited with the man who was about to sell her. The pungent smell of sausages cooking drifted across to where they were standing and she wondered whether by the evening she would be cooking a meal for a man as yet unknown to her.
Betsy knew she was beautiful and intelligent above her station. She knew also that a farmer looked for practical skills more than physical attributes in a wife and, in spite of her
confident
bearing, she was worried.
She could cook, milk, churn butter and cream as well as any of those alongside her, who sagged, heads down, in a manner suggesting compliance and unquestioning obedience to their husband and master.
Yet she could see it in the men’s eyes as she boldly stared them out. They were impressed, but they never paused, never asked whether she was of any use to a farmer beyond satisfying
his sexual needs, and he could do that outside of a wife. Those buying today wanted above all else a woman who would work, do her duty about raising a family and …
The man who stood in front of her now was short, his
square-jawed
chin giving him a fierce and determined look, but his eyes betrayed a slight hesitation. He stood looking for a few seconds and she lowered her own gaze. She knew she was too arrogant. The husband who was selling her had repeatedly told her so.
‘I am the master. I give the orders. You obey.’
He wasn’t selling her because she was lazy, but because she had failed to give him the son he craved.
‘You’re barren,’ he taunted her, ‘a beautiful, barren bitch.’
The farmer turned to the girl standing next to her – a soft, blue-eyed, rosy-cheeked lass who looked much too young to become a wife, but had the rounded sturdiness that indicated she could work all the hours that were needed, and produce a line of sons to till the land. There was a murmur of voices and when Betsy looked up the thickset prospective buyer had moved on and another was now gazing at her. He grinned, and she was sure he winked, then he too went further along the line where half a dozen others waited while the men standing near them talked and laughed together.
Some day, said the voice inside her, the voice that always seemed to land her in trouble, some day this will be like a bad dream. Women will be men’s partners, they will share, they will not be sold like cattle in the market-place and at the fairs. Betsy knew that most of the others with her there today accepted their fate, but she never had.
Given in marriage to George Hatton three years ago when she was fifteen, she had rebelled from the start.
‘I’m not like the others, I’ve learnt things,’ she told him. ‘I want to be a helpmeet not a servant.’
George, startled, had replied, ‘You will be a good wife. You will work on the farm, in the kitchen, and you will bear my sons and daughters. If you do well there’ll be no complaints, you’re a comely-looking wench and I’ll take pleasure in you.’
Now he was selling her, the ultimate humiliation in her eyes. Tears threatened and she blinked hard, gazing
downwards
as the others were, but for a different reason. She would not let them see her tears, for they might attribute them wrongly.
The stern-looking man was back, and now he stepped closer and spoke to her. ‘What be your name then?’
His voice was out of keeping with his appearance. It wasn’t harsh, as his face was. His voice and his eyes, which were looking at her intently now, were almost gentle.
‘Betsy – sir.’
‘Can you milk and bake?’
‘Yes.’
‘And make butter and cheese?’
She nodded her head.
‘Answer in the proper manner.’
‘Yes.’ This time there was a long pause before she added very, very softly, ‘sir.’
She saw the glimmer of a smile in his eyes and her interest was aroused. This man was different from most of them. He didn’t shout because she wasn’t as servile as the rest. In fact he seemed amused.
Betsy felt her temper rising. She had no desire to amuse either. She stared him out and had the satisfaction of seeing him move on again.
George Hatton, standing behind her leaned over and said, ‘Behave yourself. If you come back with me you’ll pay for this.’
Ten minutes, ten humiliating minutes later, as other men gave her the eye, and made lewd suggestions, but didn’t buy, he was back. She had watched many being led away, happy in the knowledge they would have a roof over their heads and food in their bellies for the next six months at least, and longer if they gave satisfaction in every direction. She knew she was being foolish with her stubborn daring. Why couldn’t she be as subservient as most of the girls here today? What was it that drove her to antagonize every man who looked?
She knew the answer of course, but seemed incapable of suppressing the angry pride inside herself, the pride that told her she was man’s equal. The farmer was speaking to her again and so engrossed was she in her own thoughts she hadn’t realized.
‘Pardon, sir?’ she said.
‘I asked if you were healthy?’
Her chin rose defiantly, dark-blue eyes sparked with anger and as the husband who was selling her started to answer she said, ‘Of course. I would not stand here in the market if it were otherwise. I am not a cheat.’
She watched a dark shadow pass over the prospective buyer’s face, saw his knuckles showing strain in his clenched fists, and knew that once again her unruly tongue and quick temper had worked against her. Yet he did not move but continued to gaze at her, the expression on his thickset features unfathomable.
He reached for her hands and inspected them thoroughly. This time she did not obey her natural instinct to pull them away, but allowed them to be ruthlessly scrutinized. Abruptly he let them go. ‘I’ll take you,’ he said.
She felt a quick surge of jubilation. For he had said the words to her and not to the man who was selling her, and was even now standing with the halter at the ready. Wasn’t this proof that you need not be totally without voice? His face and bearing were ungainly, he was a deal older than she was, yet there was something in his manner that told her he would be a good and fair master. While he conducted the business of buying her she lifted her head high and smiled broadly at everyone who looked, men, women and children alike.
Her happiness was short-lived however, when he slipped the straw halter around her neck and prepared to lead her away.
‘I will come without that.’
‘It is right,’ he answered, ‘it proves I have bought you and not stolen you.’
‘It makes me as a beast in the field, and the Bible says man has dominion over the fish of the sea, over the fowl of the air, and over the cattle.…’
‘But you are a woman, not a man. Woman was made from Man’s rib.’
‘I–’
‘I am, however, happy to see that you know your Bible. We shall read some tonight after we have eaten. Come now, for I can see you would not wish me to carry you off. And when we are out of sight of the market I will take the halter from your neck.’
Betsy was silent. Better surely to go along with this than to fight him here. She saw that her man must be left his pride – he would be a brave one indeed to go against tradition. She knew without doubt that if she made a fuss he would sling her over his shoulder and carry her away like a dead beast.
She allowed herself to be led out of the market, and when she
had scrambled on to the farm cart which was with the others in the yard, he checked his horse then climbed into the
driving-seat
and they set off. Her fingers closed round the device circling her neck, yet instinct told her to bide her time. Less than a quarter of a mile along the dusty track he reined the horse in and came round to the back of the cart.
‘Here,’ he said roughly, ‘lean forward.’ With gentle fingers he lifted the halter from her neck. ‘It is only made of straw,’ he said quietly, ‘hardly worth making such a fuss about. It will take us an hour to be home, are you comfortable, Betsy?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘Don’t you wish to know my name?’
She inclined her head and this gesture, as it had back there in the market place, seemed to rouse him to anger.
‘Answer when you are spoken to.’
‘Yes.’
‘It is Daniel. Does that make you think of anything from your Bible?’
Wonderingly she gazed at him. ‘He was thrown to the lions but God shut the lions’ mouths and they did not hurt him.’
‘And I will not hurt you, Betsy.’ Reaching further into the cart he pulled her forward and his lips touched hers, softly at first, then harder and harder, with a hungry passion. Then with one swift movement he was in the cart, his hands fumbling with the petticoats beneath her skirt.
Betsy pushed him away with all her might, and saw the amazement and anger in his eyes even as he fell to the ground. The horse, frightened by the commotion, suddenly took off and Betsy scrambled to the front of the cart where she grabbed the reins, managing to bring him to a stop several yards along the dusty lane. She talked soothingly to the beast and when she
glanced round saw that her new husband was brushing himself down. Then he strode to the cart, anger in every movement, grabbed the reins from her and set off at such a pace that she clung to the side in her desperation not to be tipped out. After a while he slowed the pace but it was well under the hour when they reached the farmhouse. Betsy found it the most frightening ride of her life.
‘Go inside and look around while I see to the horse,’ Daniel said when they reached the farmhouse. It was the first time he had spoken to her since the tumble from the cart and she felt both relief and apprehension at the sound of his voice. Her mother had warned her often enough about her quick temper, ‘Watch it girl,’ she used to say, ‘or it will get you into trouble.’
Daniel had the right to do what he would now. She would grow used to it, but that sudden onslaught had taken her by surprise. He was no better than the rest of them in spite of that gentle voice. He unlocked the door, then moved away without looking directly at her, and as she stepped over the threshold she felt a tremendous fear about the future with this man.
Her three years with George Hatton had been hard. She had discovered how mean he was, and how single-minded. But at least he hadn’t paraded her round the market at the end of a rope as some did, before standing her in the line of wives for sale, and for that she felt grateful. She had told Daniel she wasn’t a cheat but he only asked about her freedom from disease, and she spoke the truth. He had not mentioned fertility and the main reason George Hatton had sold her was because she had not conceived, in spite of his persistence. Would this be the same, night after night, often several times, in a desperate effort to have a son?
She moved further into the farmhouse kitchen and looked
around her. Suddenly desperately tired she pulled a wooden chair from beneath the table and sat down. Resting her arms on the table she thought about the evening and night ahead and said a silent prayer that her new husband would leave her alone for a few hours at least. A resigned feeling came over her as she relived those moments on the road when she had fought him. No doubt she would suffer for that. A dry sob escaped her lips and she nestled her face into her arms to stifle it. Daniel found her like that ten minutes or so later when he returned. At first he thought she had collapsed, but when he bent over her he realized she was asleep. A strange expression flitted across his face as he gazed at her. She stirred and looked up.
‘I’m – sorry. I must have fallen asleep,’ she said, embarrassed that he should discover her like this.
‘I’m not surprised, it has been a long day. Stay there and I will fetch you a drink, then we shall talk.’ He wasn’t asking, he was telling her, and although her instinct was to busy herself with these tasks now, she sat on and listened to the domestic sounds around her. When he placed two tankards of ale on the table and pulled out another chair to sit beside her she turned to face him, very conscious of their physical nearness to each other.
‘Do not be afraid of me, Betsy. I have a temper, as you seem to have also. Nothing wrong in that. I – I should have waited until we reached Redwood and I now regret that I did not, but, although I am years older than you, I am a man with passionate blood in my veins and you set it racing as never before.’
Abruptly he pushed his chair back and stood up, ‘Now drink up, then I will show you round the place. I’ll take mine in the other room where I have things to attend to.’
Betsy knew she had aroused him again and when he had gone she took several deep breaths, then sipped the ale he had
brought to her. It was stronger than she was used to. In a short while he returned and took her over the farmhouse.
They went upstairs first. There was a main bedroom which housed a double bed, a sturdy dark wooden wardrobe, an equally dark chest of drawers and a marble washstand containing a jug and basin. Another smaller room was furnished with a single bed and smaller chest and a chair. Downstairs next to the kitchen was a room with a large desk, a heavy
dining-table
, four chairs upholstered in green and two brown leather armchairs. The curtains were of heavy velvet, again in dark brown and the whole effect was depressing. ‘Well that’s it, Betsy. Come, I’ll show you the farm while it is still light.’
‘The closet is here,’ he said, indicating a small shed in the garden, ‘I will wait if you wish to relieve yourself.’ She shook her head and they continued on the tour. ‘The well is over here and the dairy there.’ He waved his hand in the general
direction
. ‘Mixed farming, cows, sheep, and crops. The shepherd lives in his own cottage and Jim the farm-hand lives along the lane and comes in every day. Redwood is a small farm, but we have a busy life and there will be plenty for you to do, mostly in the house and dairy but outside on the farm too if I need you there.’