James was buried in the church in Bristol where they’d married, and Mr Caldicott, Papa’s man of business, commissioned the Greenway Brothers to erect a headstone. Guilt rankled, but Mary couldn’t bring herself to tell anyone that the Greenways would be the last people James would have wanted to create the monument to commemorate his life.
The household closed ranks. Curtains were drawn and doors covered in black wreaths, the clocks stopped at the very hour of James’s death. Although Mrs Rudge, Leah and Mudd refused to acknowledge that her foolish actions had caused the stallion to rear—that she was in any way responsible for James’s death—it did little to lighten the darkness engulfing her.
Days merged into nights and nights into horrifying dreams peppered with accusations and guilt. Not only guilt for her role in James’s accident but also, in the darkest moments of the night, the knowledge that James’s death had brought her relief.
The sun continued to rise every morning, bringing with it the warmest summer for years, but she remained in her bedchamber, convinced Mrs Rudge or Leah would somehow read in her face her innermost thoughts, and know that she had wished James gone.
And all the while her belly grew, larger and larger, as if defying her despondency.
Leah and Mrs Rudge tried to convince her that it was her responsibility to ensure the best for the new baby and constantly brought George to visit her, recounting his newly acquired skills, his ability to sit and pull himself onto his feet, pointing out his chubby legs and radiant smile, his curiosity and awareness and his fascination with water, inherited no doubt from his father. But she couldn’t find the energy or the courage to bear the burden of her guilt. Had she deliberately leapt from the path, startled the horse? The thoughts whirled round and round in her head.
In the end it was Leah who rescued her from the doldrums— after she lost her temper. ‘You’re thankless and ungrateful,’ Leah harrumphed, arms akimbo, staring down at Mary’s huddled form.
Mary turned her face into the pillow and closed her eyes, but Leah simply moved to the other side of bed, scraped Mary’s hair back from her face and peered deep into her eyes.
‘What’s the matter with you? You’ve got more than most women ever have, a beautiful bonny baby boy and another child on the way, to look after you in your old age, a wonderful home, more money than I’ll ever see in my lifetime.’ She paused, pinched her lips together, then exhaled. ‘It’s time this grieving stopped. It’s not as though you loved the man.’
Mary pushed into a sitting position, her mouth yawning wide. ‘He was my husband.’ The man Papa had chosen for her, had trusted with his most treasured possessions.
‘He was a tyrant, a drunken sot, and you were nothing more to him than a brood mare.’ Leah’s words filled the room like gathering storm clouds, swallowing every breath of air. She snatched up the untouched breakfast tray. ‘And if you don’t eat something soon that baby ain’t going to thrive and you’ll have more misery on your plate.’
Dumbstruck, Mary sat staring at the slammed door. Her face heated, and she dropped her head into her hands, diminished, embarrassed, weak—as though James’s conduct was her fault, that she shouldn’t have behaved in such a way to cause him to treat her so badly. Lifting her head, she ran her fingers through her hair and scraped it back from her face. Her skin felt taut, and a band of metal tightened around her head.
She should never have married James, never have blindly accepted Papa’s carefully orchestrated matchmaking. He’d been so convinced he had covered every eventuality in the marriage settlement, it hadn’t crossed his mind to consider Captain Fripp, a man he’d known and respected for many years, would care any less for his daughter than he did. The shock of Papa’s death, his unexpected departure from her life, had rendered her incapable of a single independent thought and she had fallen into the role James had carved for her. In truth Papa had handed her, and his hard-earned paradise, over on a platter to a man who had blindsided him. She might as well have been sold into slavery. It was not what Papa intended for her and she had no one to blame but herself.
She had blithely accepted the role James forced upon her, allowed him to dominate and isolate her. He had manipulated and humiliated her, chipped away at her sense of safety and independence.
She, like every other woman, had the right to pursue her own interests. James might have been her husband, but fate had decreed he was no longer her keeper. It was enough.
Liberated by the truth, she felt the clouds lift, and her self-confidence stirred, slowly flexing its long unused muscles. After a few moments she swung her legs over the edge of the bed; the room tilted but she sucked in a fortifying breath and persevered. With each step her legs gained strength and, tottering over to the window, she drew back the curtains. The summer sun streamed in.
In another four months the baby would arrive; nothing would change that. In the meantime, she had no one to answer to, and the house was her own, as she had always dreamt. Finally, she had no need to dance to any man’s tune.
The mirror told an ugly story. Her hair hung in lank strands, accentuating her pale, greasy face, and deep, dark smudges shadowed her eyes. She picked at her chapped lips and pinched her cheeks—to no avail.
Leah’s words played over and over an unyielding refrain— tyrant, drunken sot, brood mare—and try as she might, she couldn’t summon any argument. She drew in a deep breath, and with it the sour odour of her body, and she shuddered. A sluggish movement coursed through her, and as she cradled her stomach the baby twisted beneath her fingers, reminding her of its existence—she wouldn’t live with another death on her conscience.
She poured a drink from the carafe beside the bed and sipped the cool water, staring out past the garden to the woodland beyond. She shuddered. She’d never walk there again—Mrs Rudge’s tales of the bluebell fairies had more to them than she’d allowed. She shook the thought away before the great black clouds descended again and instead inhaled the warm, sweet-smelling air drifting in the window from the lilacs outside, bringing with it the promise of the future. She picked up the little bell Mrs Rudge had placed on the table, and rang it, then she opened her clothes press. All her gowns had disappeared from the hanging space, apart from the heavy silk she’d worn to the funeral, and another lightweight, pitch-black crepe gown.
By the time Leah’s face appeared around the door she’d arranged the conveniently placed crepe on the bed. ‘I’d like to take a bath, Leah, and could you perhaps bring me a cup of tea and a biscuit or two. I missed my breakfast.’ She offered a frail, sheepish grin— more of a grimace, truth be told.
Leah beamed. ‘I’ll be back in the twitch of a lamb’s tail. Mrs Rudge’s made some fruit cake, I’ll bring some of that with the tea.’ Without waiting for a reply, she clattered back downstairs.