Standing at the window of her bedroom, Marianna looked out at the depressing morning scene. It was raining hard, and wet leaves brought down by the night’s high winds lay spattered all across the street and pavements. A baker’s delivery man, his head and shoulders draped in sacking, his laden basket covered with a piece of grimy canvas, scurried towards the area steps and clanged the iron gate behind him.
But Marianna had cocooned herself from the dreariness and the chill, letting her mind carry her to another place, another clime. She was lost in a lovely dream ... golden mists of sunlight filtering through the trees, the sweet sound of birdsong and the trickling levada, the cool feel of water between her bare toes, the fragrance of ferns and moss and the abounding wild flowers. And Jacinto sitting beside her, his proud face stern with concentration as he read aloud from the book they held between them, his quick grin that made his dark eyes dance ....
With an aching sadness Marianna turned from the window and rang for her maid. A few minutes later Hilda appeared bearing a tray of tea.
‘Morning, ma’am. And a right dull old morning it is, too.’ She went to the windows and looped back the curtains. ‘Still, the weather don’t really matter when you’re in London, do it, ma’am?’
To avoid meeting the direct glance of Hilda’s sharp eyes, Marianna busied herself searching for a handkerchief in the sleeve of her wrapper. Would her ordeal in the night be revealed in her face, she wondered wretchedly, for everyone to see? How much did the girl know and understand of such matters? What would she be able to interpret from the stains on the bed sheets?
‘I would like a bath,’ she said with a shudder.
‘Yes’m. It’ll be ready in a few ticks. It’s ever so easy here with that huge water boiler thing they keeps on the go permanent.’
‘Is Mr Penfold up yet?’ she inquired, after a moment.
‘Ooh, yes’m. The master’s up and had his breakfast and left the house long since.’
‘Left the house?’
‘He’s gone to his firm, I expect, ma’am. Where he sees to all them ships of his, an’ that.’
Without a word to her! Yet it was a relief to Marianna that she would not have to encounter her husband yet awhile.
In less than fifteen minutes Hilda returned with another maid, bearing large steaming copper cans which they emptied into the hip bath that was placed behind a chinoiserie screen. Marianna stepped into the perfumed water, almost as hot as she could bear it, and soaped and scoured herself all over with the flannel cloth, hoping to rid her body of its feeling of contamination.
Her maid, who was laying out Marianne’s clothes, said chattily, ‘The master left special instructions that you was to be reminded about the dressmaker, ma’am.’
‘The dressmaker? What is this, Hilda?’
‘Why, she’s coming this morning, ma’am. Eleven o’clock, the master said.’
William might have told her! It seemed autocratic in the extreme that he should arrange such a personal aspect of her life as this, without even bothering to consult her wishes first.
‘Oh yes, of course,’ she said. ‘How silly of me, I was quite forgetting.’
Marianna interviewed the dressmaker in her boudoir, feeling that this was appropriate. Mrs Christabel Prebble had such a commanding presence that the young assistant who followed in her wake seemed no more than a scurrying mouse. Mrs Prebble was an extremely large woman of Linguareira’s proportions, and was so tight-laced as to be rendered somewhat breathless.
‘Miss Larkhay — forward with the designs, if you please. Now, madam...’ She paused while casting an assessing glance over Marianna, then amended, ‘Now, my dear ... that good husband of yours is the most generous of men, is he not? “See that my bride is suitable fitted-out for the coming winter,” was his instruction to me. “There is to be no stinting, Mrs Prebble.” Those were his very words. “You are to be her guide and mentor and ensure that she has everything she will require.”’
Marianna felt compelled to answer the implied criticism. ‘I had little time in which to prepare for my wedding, you see. It wasn’t possible, before I left Madeira, to put together a complete trousseau.’
‘I quite understand. Besides which, in such an outlandish place, there wouldn’t be the artistes of the profession. That stands to reason.’
‘Madeira is not an outlandish place.’
Mrs Prebble smiled condescendingly. ‘Well, it isn’t England, my dear, let’s put it in those words. It’s not exactly the hub of civilization.’
‘May we please get on,’ Marianna said stiffly.
Leafing through the portfolio set before her on the pedestal table, it seemed to Marianna that all the clothes depicted were of a style more suited to the maiden she had been before her marriage, rather than to the wife she had now become.
‘Did you make the white voile dress that was delivered for me yesterday, Mrs Prebble?’ she inquired.
‘Indeed I did! Were you not delighted with it? Normally, of course, I always insist on giving my clients personal fittings — that’s only fair to my reputation. But in this case I obliged Mr Penfold, because he wanted the dress made in a great hurry. For an appointment at a photographic studio, he explained.
Marianna took a deep breath. ‘As a matter of fact, Mrs Prebble, I thought the dress rather too youthful for me in style. And I find the same fault with every one of these designs you are showing me now. So I would like to see some that are more ... more mature.’
The dressmaker shook her head. ‘Your husband himself selected these sketches from my large range, and just left it to you and me to decide which particular ones you are to have ... and the colour and fabric and trimmings, etcetera.’
‘But I don’t approve of any of them.’
‘I’m afraid it wouldn’t do at all to go against Mr Penfold’s wishes, my dear — for either of us.’
Their eyes met, and it was Marianna who glanced away. But she went on doggedly, ‘There is no point in my looking further at these sketches. Kindly show me some others.’
‘That would not be possible, Mrs Penfold, as I have been at pains to explain.’
‘In which case,’ Marianna said with dignity, ‘I must thank you for calling and bid you good-day.’
The dressmaker did not take affront and sweep out of the house, as Marianna had expected. She tried to cajole her, advising her earnestly to be sensible and count her blessings. If a wealthy gentleman like Mr Penfold had the fancy to dress his wife in the apparel of a sweet young girl, well, where was the harm? Didn’t it only indicate how protective he felt towards her? And of course Mr Penfold was a goodly number of years older than herself, so it was understandable that he should look upon her in a somewhat different light than he would a wife of more his own generation.
‘Stop it,’ cried Marianna, covering her ears. ‘Will you please leave, this minute?’
The hours of the day dragged slowly by. She made a poor luncheon, seated in lonely state in the dining room, which was a gloomy, overbearing chamber. What little light seeped in through the lace curtains was at once swallowed up by the mulberry coloured walls and heavy pieces of mahogany furniture. Afterwards, she retired to the morning room and endeavoured to screen off the joyless present and lose herself in sketching, letting her pencil have its way. Again and again it was a face which emerged on the paper, always the same face — Jacinto’s face. Marianna screwed up her drawings and tossed them into the fire. With a numbing sense of pain she watched them scorch and curl.
It was late in the afternoon when Marianna heard sounds that signalled her husband’s arrival home. She dreaded having to meet him after last night, but she took a grip on herself and went down to the hall. She intended, without preamble, to tell William what she had done regarding the dressmaker, and why. It was a matter, quite simply, of making him understand that she was a woman now, not a child, and expected to be treated as such.
Foster was just taking his master’s hat and coat. Shaking with nerves, Marianna began, ‘I should like to speak to you at once, William.’
His smile was mechanical and did not reach his eyes. ‘In the drawing room, then.’ To the manservant, he said, ‘Whisky, right away.’
When they were upstairs, her husband went to the fire and stood with his back to it, hands linked behind him. His expression was cold.
‘Well, Marianna?’
But Foster would be appearing at any moment with the whisky. With a servant present, she could not make the little speech she had prepared. Instead, she said, ‘I ... I did not realize you would be out today, William.’
He said nothing, as if feeling that no comment or explanation was called for. To Marianna’s relief the footman entered at that moment. Setting down the salver on a side table, he mixed whisky and soda as his master liked it.
‘Will that be all, sir?’
‘Yes.’
The man withdrew and Marianna said at once, while she still had the courage, ‘Why did you not tell me that you had arranged for a dressmaker to call today?’
Her husband held up his whisky glass to the gaslight. ‘I left a message for you,’ he said.
‘Yes, a message — a fait accompli. You did not see fit to discuss it with me.’
‘What was there to discuss? Mrs Prebble is one of the best dressmakers in London.’
‘I don’t doubt that for one moment. But I found my choice of style was restricted to a small selection previously made by you.’
He sipped his whisky and waited for Marianna to continue. She stumbled on, ‘I cannot accept that I am to be allowed no freedom at all, William, even in the matter of my own clothes. So ... so I sent Mrs Prebble away.’
‘You did what?
‘I sent her away.’ She was trembling now, wishing desperately that she had been more circumspect in challenging her husband. But the deed was done and there was no going back. She watched as he swung round to lodge his whisky glass on the high mantelpiece before turning to face her again.
‘That was a grossly impertinent thing to do,’ he said, and there was a steel edge to his voice. ‘You had better understand that I will not tolerate such willful behaviour. I am in half a mind to put you across my knee here and now, and administer a thoroughly good chastisement. I warn you that I shall not hesitate to do so, if you do not mend your ways.’
Outraged, Marianna started to protest, but he interrupted her sharply. ‘Be silent! You are to go up to your room this minute and write a letter of apology to Mrs Prebble, requesting her to be so good as to call again in the morning.’
‘William, you cannot expect me to —’
‘You will do as I tell you. And when the letter is written, bring it to me to approve and I will have it delivered by hand at once. Be off with you!’
To be dismissed like a child from her own drawing room! Marianna stalked out and ran upstairs with fires of rebellion raging. But if she did not do as her husband commanded, he would carry out his threat to chastise her physically — she had no doubt of that. In bitter resentment, she took a seat at the escritoire in her bedroom and drew out writing paper and pen. For a long time she pondered over the exact tone to adopt, that she might retain a shred of dignity. She spoiled at least a dozen sheets of paper before finally giving up in despair and writing meekly. Dear Mrs Prebble, I am sorry that I was so rude to you this morning and must ask your pardon. I shall be obliged if you could arrange to call here again tomorrow morning. Yours sincerely, Marianna Penfold.
‘It will do,’ her husband conceded when she showed him the letter.
Marianna spent a lonely evening. William joined her at the dinner table but was silent and withdrawn as on the previous evening. Afterwards, she tried to settle with a book of poetry in the drawing room, but was far too unhappy to make any sense of the words. She rose to her feet and wandered about the room, touching the smoothness of porcelain, the coolness of bronze, and giving a few moments’ idle study to one or another of the paintings on the walls. She moved to the piano and, lifting the lid, struck a few keys at random. The pure notes shivered on the silent air and died. She stood for a long while staring at her reflection in the Napoleonic mirror on the chimneypiece. There was a pallor to her face, and dark smudges of shadow beneath her eyes.
The coals in the fire shifted with a rustling sound, and Marianna reached a sudden decision. Her husband’s displeasure, his enmity, was more than she could bear. She would go to him now and somehow, without arousing him to fresh anger, she would win back his favour. If a change was to be made in their relationship towards a greater degree of personal freedom for her, then it must be done slowly, one small step at a time.
William was in his study. So intent was she on putting her plan into effect that she entered without waiting for a reply to her knock. She found her husband seated at his desk, his back to the door. He did not turn his head but asked in a strangely muffled voice, ‘Is that you, Marianna?’
‘Yes, it is I.’
She took a step or two nearer, then halted in dismay. Spread out on his desk were the photographs taken yesterday, each set in an oval mount with an engraved border of leaves. In one that she could see — and her cheeks flamed at the sight — she was almost totally naked.
Her husband turned slowly in his chair. ‘Yes, my dear, you see what I have here. They were delivered half an hour ago.’ With a tired gesture he removed his spectacles, and Marianna saw to her consternation that his eyes glittered with tears. His tone was wistful as he went on, ‘I told you yesterday that I would have a permanent reminder in these photographs of how you looked in your purity and innocence. But I never dreamed I would so soon need to be reminded.’
‘I ... I don’t understand, William. Why should you need pictures to remind you of me, when I am here?’
‘Who is it now stands before me in this room?’ he demanded sorrowfully. ‘Not the sweet little innocent so touchingly portrayed here. Alas, alas, she is gone from me now, gone for ever. My precious angel child is tarnished beyond redemption.’
‘Tarnished?’ protested Marianna, her resolution to be cautious deserting her. ‘Just because I ordered a dressmaker from the house?’
He made an angry dismissal with his hand. ‘That was mere willfulness, which I have corrected. No, Marianna, I am speaking of the temptress you played last night. Ah yes, you held out the apple and made me eat of it. You ... the beloved little virgin I held in such reverence. How could you?’
She stared at him, too bemused to feel truly indignant.
‘William, you came to my bed — you forced yourself upon me.’
‘I am a man, Marianna, and a man’s flesh is weak. You used the shameless wiles of a woman, when you should have been content to remain an innocent child.’
‘I am a woman!’ she cried, and despite herself she felt a stir of pride. ‘I... I expect to bear your children.’
He turned a heavy glance upon her, as if she had offended him afresh. ‘Do you not mourn, Marianna, for what you have lost?’
‘I fail to see why I should.’
For long moments he looked at her with reproach so deep it was akin to repugnance. Then he heaved a sigh that seemed to shudder through his entire frame. ‘You had better go away and search your heart. Endeavour to feel a sense of repentance.’
‘You are a vile hypocrite to say that,’ she flashed. ‘If either one of us should feel repentance, William, it is you.’
At the blaze in his eyes, Marianna wished to heaven that she had restrained her tongue. But it was too late for regrets. Her husband snatched up the heavy boxwood ruler on the desk.
‘By God, I gave you fair warning, you wicked, willful child! If a thrashing is the only way to make you heed me, then so be it.’
Although Marianna twisted and turned to escape the grip of his hands, he held her without effort. Flinging her across the back of the armchair, he dragged her clothing aside and brought down the ruler on her exposed buttocks with vicious force. And then again, and again.
‘Please, William,’ she begged him, ‘please don’t.’
But the thrashing continued without mercy. Before her husband had done, Marianna was sobbing helplessly — from both the pain and the terrible humiliation. Never before in her life had she been beaten.
‘Now, get up and go to your room!’ he commanded, when at last it was over.
She rose slowly, shakily, and straightened her disordered skirts. Her thighs were so bruised that she could scarcely stand. William had turned away from her and stood with a hand on the mantelpiece, staring down into the fire. He was breathing heavily, and there were beads of perspiration on his brow. In her fury and outrage, Marianna wanted to scream at him, to berate him with bitter scorn, to express her contempt for a man who could so misuse his superior strength. But she was too afraid of provoking a fresh storm of violence. So she left the room without speaking a word. Painfully, on trembling legs, she climbed the staircase to the sanctuary of her bedroom.
Much later, as Marianna lay sleepless in the dark, William came to her. He crossed the room quietly and stood at the bedside. Her whole body went cold and she was filled with dread. Was there no end to the humiliation she had to suffer?
Then, astonishingly, he was slipping gently into her bed, enfolding her tenderly in his arms, drawing her close and touching his lips to her hair, his voice a husky whisper.
‘Ah, my little darling ... my own pettikins! William had to reproach you, he had to be stern. But all that is done with now, and I find it in my heart to forgive you. Alas, alas, my Marianna is no longer a beautiful, unsullied little angel, but I love her still. Yes, I forgive you, my treasure, I forgive you. William cannot be so cruel as to remain cross with his sweet precious. There ... a kiss for my beloved, and another. How your little heart flutters against my hand. You are overjoyed, are you not, that your Billykins has forgiven you?’
Marianna lay rigid and unresponsive as his hands caressed her body and stroked her hair. Then slowly, gradually, from a sense of utter despair, she softened and allowed herself to be moulded more pliantly against him. She must cling to her husband’s love, on whatever terms it was offered. There was nothing else for her now.
* * * *
Travelling back in the train to Hampshire, after a mortifying interview in which the dressmaker had taken no pains to conceal her triumph, Marianna turned her thoughts to the letter she would write to her father enlarging upon-the few hastily-penned lines that had announced her safe arrival in England. Such a lot would have to be omitted, for it would be unfair to burden papa with her misery. She must try to give an impression of being happy, and in truth there was much she could write about favourably — the charm of the English countryside, the grandeur of Highmount, the many wonders of London. And she could say, too, how she yearned to see him again, how eagerly she looked forward to her first visit home. Home! It would always be how she thought of Madeira. She would beseech her father to write to her at length, telling her of everything that had happened since her departure, giving the fullest news of everyone she knew.
Madeira seemed so infinitely far away and beyond her reach. If only, she thought with a throb of longing, a telescope could really be powerful enough to bridge such a vast distance, so that she could see again the island’s mist-wreathed mountains, its sunny terraced slopes, could look once more upon the faces of the people she loved.
The landau, its hood raised against the drizzling rain, was waiting for them at the station. Marianna was grateful that few people were abroad to be acknowledged; the elderly vicar, riding by, gave them a bow from the saddle. At Highmount, the park looked bleak and windswept.
Jenson, holding a large umbrella, was already at the foot of the steps as the carriage drew up. He carried a silver salver, which he held out to William.
‘This telegraph has just arrived, sir. I thought you should have it at once.’
William slit the envelope and withdrew the flimsy sheet. He studied it briefly, eyebrows raised. Then he said, ‘It’s from my agent in Madeira. Come with me to my study, Marianna, I have something to tell you.’
Harriet appeared as they crossed the staircase hall—Marianna walking stiffly from the thrashing she had received — but William waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. Marianna had a brief glimpse of his sister-in-law’s affronted expression, and then they were in the study with the door
‘Sit down, my dearest.’ He poured a small measure from a decanter and held the glass out to her. ‘Take a sip of brandy, it will help to brace you.’
She sipped obediently as she stared up at him, pierced through with anxiety. ‘What is it, William? News from home? Is it something to do with papa?’
‘I’m afraid so. My child, you must be very brave.’
‘Is papa ill? Then I must go to him ... I must set out immediately.’ She sprang to her feet, but her husband pressed her back into the chair.
‘It is too late for that,’ he said sombrely.
‘Too late?’
‘Your papa has passed away. A stroke.’ Marianna scarcely heard the rest above the thudding of her pulses, the sound of her anguished sobbing. ‘Try to comfort yourself with the knowledge that he did not suffer ... quite instantaneous ... did not linger ... no pain.’
William held her close against him, stroking her hair, gently patting her shoulder while his voice continued, soothing, trying to console. It was minutes on end before Marianna could utter a word through the thickness of tears that choked her throat. Then it was a cry from the heart.
‘Oh, what am I to do, what am I to do? How shall I bear it?’
Her husband eased her back from him and tilted her chin to look into her face. His expression held reproach.
‘My sweet darling girl, what are you saying? Your father’s death is very tragic, a grievous loss for us both, for he was a dear friend of mine. But we have each other, my beloved, for ever and always. You must look to your William for everything, little one. I shall be your whole life now.’