BOSTON MASSACHUSETTS
Mother and father raised me as a proper English woman. Mother was demure and gentle. She expected to be treated as a lady and deferred to by her husband. I modeled myself after her.
When my father died, I was on my own in America and found myself needing to work in a shop to supplement my small inheritance. It wasn’t my plan to marry, but with circumstances as they were, I found it necessary. Charles was not the ideal candidate for a husband. He was gruff, even when he tried to be charming. His grammar skills, an embarrassment. His personal hygiene habits, poor. In many ways, our marriage was an arrangement. It met both of our needs. He wanted a proper wife to enhance his image as a businessman. I wanted security. I loved him in a pitying sort of way. He suffered a difficult childhood and persevered, becoming successful despite his limited intellect. He didn’t press me when I insisted our marital relations occur only at the time of the month when we were likely to conceive a child. It’s the way of a proper English woman.
Neither of us were experienced in the bed. No words of love or endearment were exchanged. Each encounter repulsed me more. Charles was clumsy and brutish. He laid on top of me, crushing me with his weight. I endured his grunting and wheezing in my ears and held my breath for fear of smelling his. It was as if he was mating with a cow. I tolerated it for seven months before conceiving Charles.
The fragile strings holding us together as husband and wife frayed after my son’s birth. I devoted myself to him. Charles spent his time making money. It was not my intent to have another child. Margaret’s father was raving mad drunk the night he forced himself on me. It’s a wonder the child is so lovely, given the circumstances of her conception. He stopped visiting my room after that. The stench of cheap perfume convinced me he was satisfying himself at the local brothel. The years passed. I cared for the children, he immersed himself in Beacon Antiques. It seemed the arrangement worked for us both.
William cooked and a scrubwoman cleaned once a week. As the children grew, our needs changed. I wanted a nanny to take them to the park and help with their studies. Charles was reluctant, but acquiesced. Anne, our first nanny, and I became friends. She was a young, innocent girl, fresh from Ireland. I enjoyed the company of another woman in the house. It was less than a year after she arrived I learned she was carrying my husband’s child. There was no discussion with me. He kept the baby girl and shipped Anne back to Ireland. I can’t recall feeling such rage. I defied him and sent for Moira.
It’s not my nature to be confrontational, but after learning he abused Anne, I threatened him. He seemed to find humor in my anger. He threw back his head, exposing inflamed gums and rotted teeth. The notion of me, a scorned wife, leaving him and taking the children, amused him. When he stopped laughing, anger occupied his face. I didn’t see it coming, but I heard the thud and in an instant realized he’d punched me in the cheek. The protruding knuckles of his fat fist broke the skin on my face. He hit me again in the stomach. I fell to the floor and he kicked me in the kidney. He was screaming, but I couldn’t hear his words.
I endured a flurry of kicks from his booted foot. I crawled across the floor to escape his rage and huddled in a corner. He stopped and put his scarlet face close to mine. His glassy eyes bulged as he pulled my hair and bent my head back. He spoke, saliva spraying my face, his breath toxic.
“After you greet your newest little Harpie, you’ll stay in your bedroom. No one threatens Charles Brennan. You are my possession, as are the children. Threaten me again or leave your bedroom, and I’ll divorce you. I’ll say you are a whore and see you begging in the streets. You are a woman. You have no rights to my property or my children. Remember Rose, it’s the bedroom for you or the streets.”
I nursed my wounds and cared for the children until Moira arrived. Her spirit impressed me, even if her domestic skills were inferior. My husband’s cold stares warned me to retreat to my room. If I was with the children, he’d walk up behind me and pinch and twist the skin on my back. My last act of defiance was to send for Moira’s cousin. With me locked away, it would take two to care for my children and tend to the housework.
I passed the days alone in my darkened room. Sweet Moira brought meals and tea. She’d tell me of the children’s activities and progress with their studies. At night, I’d tiptoe to Charles’ and Margaret’s room and watch them sleep.
On several occasions, in the subtlest way, I asked Moira how she and Mr. Brennan got on. Each time she assured me, if anything, he ignored her. I was at peace knowing she was safe. Perhaps my threat had some effect.
Katie was different. She changed after Moira moved out. At first I thought she was missing her cousin. The words were never spoken between us, but I knew. The innocence was gone from her face. He was brutalizing her. I was helpless. I prayed she’d move on before becoming pregnant, like Anne. It’s too late. She’s with child.
I tried my best. I couldn’t stand up to him and risk being put to the streets and losing my children altogether. I stole ten thousand dollars from the cash box he hides in his library. He pummeled me about the face when he discovered it missing. I’m scarred from the cuts his prized Georgian diamond cluster ring left below my left eye. I convinced him I gave it to charity. This time I came closer to being put out. He warned, “I’ll let this go with just a beating. Defy me again, Rose, and you’ll be spreading your legs for sailors on the docks and thanking them for scraps of food. Mark my words.”
I offered the beating as penance for my cowardice. I believed he’d put me out if I stood up to him. Sending the money for the nursing school was all I could do to save Katie. It was that or kill him.