Martin used to beat Tessa, but the admittance of this would have been too painful. She’d never told anyone, especially not Brandon. Her twin might have been a gentle soul, but he was also a black belt in aikido. He would have done more than just kick Martin’s ass if he’d known. Brandon would have killed him.
More than wanting to keep Martin from harm, Tessa didn’t mention the abuse because she was ashamed of it, of what her family would think of her. Even now, hundreds of miles away from Martin—free from him at last—she couldn’t bear to say the words aloud, because she still felt self-conscious, like Rene would look at her differently, think about her differently if he knew the truth.
It had started almost immediately, within days of her arrival at the Davenant house. Women among the Brethren tended to all of the daily household duties, from cooking to cleaning, childcare to laundry, and everything else in between. At the Nobles’ great house, Tessa had helped her mother teaching the elementary-aged children, offering instruction in reading and writing, as well as offering ballet classes. Tessa had received extensive private training for years in classical dance, gifts from both her father and grandmother Eleanor. She’d assumed this experience would be well put to use under the Davenants’ roof, but had been surprised and disappointed when Monica had assigned her to work in the laundry instead.
“Working with children is a privilege reserved for older women and established wives,” Monica had told her with an air of icy disdain. “Not for lesser wives little more than children themselves.”
Tessa had known next to nothing about laundry, though she’d struggled to learn. Two days after becoming Martin’s bride, she’d been awoken in the wee hours of the morning by the sharp report of her bedroom door flying open, slamming into the wall. She’d sat up in bed, frightened and bewildered, as had her cousin Alexandra from the adjacent bed. A silhouetted figure had plowed across the room, stomping noisily, and Tessa had a bleary, startled moment to realize it was Martin.
She’d thought at first, and to her dismay, that he’d come to her for sex again. He’d already come once and she’d stayed still as a board beneath him while he’d gone about his business, grunting in her ear and crushing against her. They hadn’t exchanged a word, and Martin had come and gone from the room hardly making a sound.
That night, however, his hand had clamped so hard against her arm, seizing her above the crook of her elbow, that his fingers had left bruises. “What is this?” he’d demanded, shoving something in her face. He’d flapped it furiously, a white cotton shirt. “Tell me what this is supposed to be!”
He’d dragged her out of bed and down the corridor, forcing her in staggering tow. Because Martin expected his wives to be ready to accommodate his desires on any given night, none were allowed to sleep in nightgowns. Tessa had been naked, frightened, fighting against tears as Martin had marched her downstairs to the basement laundry room.
Here, he snapped on the lights, and a flood of brilliant, dazzling fluorescents had spilled down against the rows of stark white washing machines and industrial-sized dryers.
“Do you expect me to wear this?” Martin had shouted, again shoving the shirt in her face. “I want starch in my shirts, enough to hold some shape, and creases in the middle of the sleeves, not off to one goddamn side!” He’d struck her, sending her crashing to the floor. Tessa had sprawled against the linoleum tiles and blinked dazedly at the sudden spray of lights dancing in front of her eyes.
Martin had beaten her that night, stripping his belt from the waistband of his slacks and swinging it, driving the strap over and over against her shoulders, buttocks and spine. He’d grabbed her by the hair and hauled her, stumbling and weeping, to her feet. “Wash it,” he’d ordered, pushing the shirt into her hands. “Then dry it. Then iron it again. Correctly.”
For four years, the abuse she’d suffered at Martin’s hands had been routine. At least twice each week, he’d fly into a rage and lay into her. Sometimes he’d settle for simply slapping her with his hand a time or two, but most of the time, he opted to use his belt. And Tessa hadn’t been the only recipient; her cousin Alexandra was also beaten, as were all of Martin’s wives…except for Monica. Martin had never raised his hand to his first bride, which had only made Tessa hate Monica all the more.
I’m sorry I can’t tell you the truth, Rene, she thought. Growing up, she’d always been resilient and feisty, the strong one between her and Brandon, who’d been unafraid to stand up to anyone—even the Grandfather—in her brother’s defense.
“You remind me so much of myself sometimes, I’d swear I was looking in a mirror,” Eleanor used to tell Tessa fondly.
Eleanor would have never allowed anyone to beat her, much less her own husband. And until that first night, when Martin had taken his belt and whipped her, Tessa would have expected nothing less from herself. She’d hoped that incident had been a fluke, something that would never happen again, but it hadn’t, and her humiliation and despair had only grown with each new and terrible occasion.
Tessa didn’t want Rene to know. Since the incident at the rest stop, that antagonistic tension between them had been gone, and she liked the way things were now, friendly and comfortable. She didn’t want to ruin it, the way she knew she would if she said anything. He’d look at her differently, down on her again. The way Martin used to.
They arrived in Anthony, New Mexico, shortly after six o’clock that evening, still well ahead of Lina and Brandon. They stopped at a Super 8 Motel so they could get a room in the meantime.
“My wallet’s in my back pocket,” Rene said, leaning forward in his seat and craning his uninjured arm behind him. “Hang on…”
“Do you want me to get it?” she asked, and he raised his brow, smirking wryly.
“You trying to cop a feel of my ass, pischouette?”
She laughed as he handed her the wallet. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
She paid in cash. When the clerk had asked if she wanted a double or king-sized room, she was at a loss. “What’s the difference?”
“How many beds do you need?” the clerk replied.
Rene had gotten them a suite the night before, with one bed but a separate living room. “I’m not much on sleeping,” he’d told her. “This way, I can stay up and watch TV and you can close the door and get some shut-eye.”
So Tessa asked for one bed, and was somewhat dismayed when she unlocked the door to their room and got exactly what she’d requested. And not a single thing more.
Rene, at least, enjoyed a good laugh over it. “Ça ne fait rien,” he told her. Never mind. “I’ll sleep on the recliner, pischouette. You take the bed.”
She’d protested. After all, he was hurt, and that should have taken precedence over any misguided sense of chivalry he might have been feeling.
“I’ll make a deal with you, how about that?” Rene said with a glance at his watch. “We’ve got at least two hours before Lina and Brandon get here. How about I stretch out on the bed and nap in the meantime?”
She agreed, parking herself in the cornflower blue recliner so that he couldn’t renege on his end of the deal. He chuckled but hadn’t argued with her, and lay down on the bed while she turned on the TV.
She channel-surfed for a while, thumbing through a seemingly endless array of infomercials, evening news broadcasts, televised court shows and cartoons before turning off the television in bored exasperation. Rene had fallen asleep, but it didn’t seem to be restful, she realized. He moaned quietly, squirming slightly atop the comforter, and Tessa stood to check on him.
“Rene?” she asked softly. Clearly he was still in pain, despite his reassurances to the contrary and his attempts to act like everything was fine. His face was slightly flushed, peppered lightly with perspiration, his brows lifted slightly, his expression twisted with distress. He murmured something breathlessly but she couldn’t make out the words.
“It’s all right,” Tessa said, brushing his hair back from his face. She lay down facing him, curled up on the mattress. It was something she and Brandon used to do as children. She’d been afraid of the dark and would steal into his bedroom at night, crawling into bed with him. They’d lie facing each other, and she’d fall asleep, safe in her twin’s company, comforted by his presence.
She felt somewhat foolish but didn’t know what else to do for Rene; he was in pain, and there was nothing she could offer besides comfort that would take that away from him. He was hurting, and it was all her fault; he’d been shot because he’d tried to protect her.
“It’s all right,” she said again, whispering as she reached between them, finding his uninjured hand. She let her fingers slide between his, and his restless murmuring quieted as he fell still, relaxing.
It was nice, being close to him—more than she would have expected. I could get used to this, she thought. The warmth of his body seeped through his clothes, enveloping her and she closed her eyes as it lulled her to sleep.