The talented mrs greenwa.., p.5
The Talented Mrs Greenway, page 5
Whatever was he talking about? ‘I beg your pardon?’ She had no paramour. She’d barely set foot outside the house in the last six months. Her mouth gaped and she snatched at the paper in his hand.
With one look at the bold, sprawling handwriting an uncontrollable shudder swept her body—Francis’s letter, which had accompanied Chambers’s treatise. How had James come by it? Surely Mrs Rudge hadn’t taken it upon herself to interfere.
The worn, curled paper spiralled in the breeze wafting through the open window and fluttered to the floor.
‘Where is this book?’ He swiped his hand across the tabletop, scattering the contents across the room.
‘Stop! Stop!’ Mary leapt to her feet, arms spread, trying to save the precious manuscripts and journals. ‘It’s not here. I returned it.’
A horrible silence descended. James’s face seemed to swell, and his eyes, normally hidden in folds of flesh, became round and wide. ‘Returned it,’ he bellowed. ‘Returned it?’
‘To Mr Greenway’s offices in Mangotsfield. Leah and Mudd chaperoned me. Mr Greenway was working on the assembly rooms in Clifton. He’s responsible for overseeing the building, he is the architect.’
She didn’t see the blow coming, just heard the sound, skin hitting bone, a resounding thud and then a surge of indescribable pain. Her ears rang and the air wavered.
Trying to ease the throbbing, she cradled her cheek. James loomed over her, incandescent with rage. She took a step back. Her foot skidded from under her, taking her balance with it.
An explosion of white-hot pain racked her body and her world fractured and darkened.
When Leah placed little George in Mary’s arms and she stared into his soft brown eyes her heart contracted with a love so fierce she vowed to protect him forever. No matter how difficult James might make her life, he would never lay a hand on her son. A calmness descended; after years of failure, she had fulfilled her role. Not only that, but she also had someone to love, her own flesh and blood. She lifted him close, sniffed his shock of dark hair, kissed his button nose. James would never raise his hand to him; she would defend him with her life.
Once Mary was clean and tidy, Mrs Rudge ushered James into the bedchamber. He strode to her side, chest puffed out. With a look of sanctimonious satisfaction, he reached for his swaddled son. She nursed him close and turned her body to shield him.
With a frown, James reached for George again.
‘Come, Mary, give the babe to his father.’ Mrs Rudge leant over the bed.
Sucking in a deep breath, she relinquished her hold and Mrs Rudge placed George in his father’s arms. James uttered not a word, not that there was any need. The smirk on his face said it all, and for a moment she felt for him. He’d truly believed she’d never produce an heir, that he’d never hold his son in his arms— perhaps there was something to Mrs Rudge’s whispered reference that she’d overheard in the kitchens. The French Disease, common amongst sailors, regardless of their rank, often stripped a man of his ability to sire a child. She’d never raised the matter with him—she hadn’t dared.
James carried his son to the window, held him up, examined his fingers and toes, and turned him this way and that. Then, with a grunt that she took to be approval, he handed him back and left the room.
Mrs Rudge found a lovely woman, a Mrs Porlock, from one of the local villages to act as wet nurse. She exuded a sense of peace and calm and quickly settled George into a routine that would have pleased an admiral of the fleet, never mind a mere captain. But after only a couple of weeks James’s enthusiasm for his son wavered and faded, and once again he took to spending more and more time in Bath, although he returned most evenings. He made no further mention of Francis’s letter or her trip to Clifton, nor did he apologise for his brutish attack that had brought on George’s arrival.
More than anything else Mary wanted a breath of fresh air. Summer had truly arrived in a blaze of cerulean skies and long twilights. She felt superfluous, her time with baby George restricted to a visit before Mrs Porlock settled him for the evening. Despite her protestations, James and Mrs Rudge insisted she remain in her bedchamber, fed nothing more than weak tea and watery soups. How she longed for a roasted chicken, gravy rich with cooking juices, potatoes basted in goose fat. As the days turned into a month, she began to feel she’d been dealt a life sentence.
Shunning Mrs Rudge’s constant fussing, she resumed her normal habits, insisting the windows should be opened, refusing to take an invalid’s meals, and returning to her beloved library, but what she truly longed for was freedom, to see the world beyond the confines of Manali, to walk in the footsteps of Lady Wilbraham.
‘Leah, would you find my bonnet, the one with the blue ribbons. I want to take a drive. Ask Mudd to prepare the carriage.’
‘Oh, ma’am, are you sure you’re strong enough?’
‘I am perfectly well.’
‘I’ll ask Mrs Rudge.’
Was she to be kept as a prisoner in her own house? ‘Why don’t you come with me, Leah? That should allay Mrs Rudge’s concerns.’
Leah’s face broke into a bright smile, giving Mary the sneaking suspicion she’d been manipulated, but no matter—she enjoyed Leah’s company. ‘Go and tell Mudd to prepare the carriage, and find your bonnet. I’ll meet you outside.’
Leah bounced off and Mary collected her sketchpad from her desk, picked up a pencil and went downstairs. The door to James’s study was open so she stuck her head inside. She hadn’t seen him for days, maybe even a week, not that she had enquired about his movements.
The curtains were tied back, the windows were wide open and an array of brushes and buckets littered the floor in front of the fireplace, evidence that Janey, the maid-of-all-work, had once again become sidetracked and abandoned her task half-finished. It also answered her question. James was not at home and not expected back for some time.
She wandered over to the desk, as usual strewn with ledgers, receipts, bills and a half-empty decanter of brandy. Francis’s letter lay to one side, crumpled as though it had been screwed up and then smoothed again, and beneath it a half-written page.
Tilting her face to one side she focussed, her hand hovering, fingers clenching and unclenching. She glanced over her shoulder. Not a sound and no one in sight.
James’s spider-like handwriting slashed across the page, his anger obvious in the splotches of ink and hastily scratched-out words. From what she could decipher he was replying to a letter from Francis. It had nothing to do with the letter Francis had written to her, or her visit to Clifton; instead James denied he had agreed to any preliminary plans being drawn up for Manali. She flipped over the sheet of paper and found a reference that brought a sense of vertigo. Clutching the side of the desk, she read on:
Any further contact between yourself and my wife will cease and should you or your brothers set foot on the estate I will ensure your name is dragged through the mire and you never work in Bath or Bristol again.
Her pulse raced and she snatched an irate breath. It was outrageous. What right had James to determine her pastimes? He had his friends in Bath and London, his horses—why, he spent more time and money on horses than he did on her or even his long-awaited heir. Why couldn’t she have married a man who shared her interests? Someone who recognised her as a person, not a chattel. There was nothing in Lady Wilbraham’s journal that even hinted at her husband’s lack of support. Why, they’d even spent their honeymoon exploring the architectural wonders of Europe.
‘Are you ready, ma’am?’ Leah’s face peeped around the corner of the door. ‘Mudd’s got the carriage. He wants to know where we’re going and how long we’ll be. Says he’s still got work to do in the stables.’
‘I’m quite ready.’
Mudd fussed like an old woman, handed her up and tucked a blanket over her knees. ‘Where would you like to go?’
‘Thornbury Castle.’ The words popped out of Mary’s mouth like a cherry pit.
‘Thornbury? Why would you want to go there?’
Truthfully, she hadn’t even thought of going until that very moment. ‘It’s only twelve miles away. Hurry up, Mudd, we haven’t got all day if you have tasks to complete,’ she snapped before she had the opportunity to think better of her decision. She pushed the blanket off her knees, leaving poor Leah scrabbling around the floor of the carriage when it lurched horribly as Mudd swung out onto the road.
‘What is this place we’re going to? I’ve never heard of it. Is it a real castle?’ Leah asked once she’d crawled up on the seat.
‘I’ve never been there but I heard all about it from Mr Greenway. He’s drawn up some plans for renovations. Did you know he’s related to the Duke of Norfolk?’
Leah huffed. ‘How would I? Never met the man. Though I seem to be hearing a lot about him—what with you and Mudd going on and … you know the captain ain’t going to be too pleased if he finds out where you’ve been.’
‘And how’s that going to happen?’ Mary narrowed her eyes and pinned Leah with a stern gaze.
‘Oh, my lips are sealed, ma’am. Same as Mudd’s.’
Not sealed too tightly, otherwise Mudd wouldn’t have been talking to Leah about Francis. Her stomach sank. Had he told James about their trip to Clifton? He wouldn’t have. His loyalty rested with her. He’d been with them for years, started as a stable boy, long before she’d married James. He’d taught her to ride a horse and drive the carriage, spent hours with her exploring the countryside, as her groom, and they’d struck up quite a friendship. She’d trust him with her life.
The carriage bowled along with both Mary and Leah lost in their own thoughts, although occasionally Mary caught what might be a sideways glance from Leah.
‘We should be there before long.’ Mary broke the silence hoping to distract Leah from her musing. ‘When the castle was built it was thought to be one of the most magnificent of the time, back in the reign of Henry VIII. Kings and queens and dukes have lived there for hundreds of years.’ She dredged up everything she could remember Francis saying. How she wished she’d thought to see if there was anything in Papa’s library about the place before she’d embarked on this foolhardy whim. ‘It’s got castellated towers,’ she added lamely.
‘Cast-a-what?’
‘Towers and battlements to defend the castle from attack.’
Leah peered out of the window. ‘I think we might be there then. Looks a bit of a wreck to me.’
Mary followed Leah’s finger to the roofline appearing through the trees. ‘That’s why Mr Greenway is preparing plans for renovations.’
‘Mr Greenway—right.’ Leah’s eyebrows danced and her face lit with a knowing grin.
She really must stop talking about Francis. Somehow he seemed to occupy far too many of her thoughts. No one could question the fact that he cut a fine figure in his green velvet coat but there was more that kept him in her thoughts. It was his attitude towards her. He hadn’t questioned her interest in architecture, had encouraged her, shared his plans of Thornbury Castle and treated her as an equal. She let out a long sigh and snatched a glance at Leah, hoping she hadn’t noticed anything untoward in her expression. ‘We’ll be there soon.’
When they finally drew to a halt at the intricate Gothic gatehouse Mudd opened the door. ‘Doesn’t look like there’s anyone about. Leastways if they are they wouldn’t be too comfortable. Look over there.’ He pointed to the crumbling facade. ‘Want me to go and see if they’re ready to receive you?’
Mary cleared her throat. ‘We’re not expected. I just wanted to take a drive. Some fresh air, clear my head …’ Her words dried. ‘Just follow the road around the perimeter. I’m simply interested in the buildings.’ She gave a nonchalant wave of her hand to dismiss him.
Mudd walked the horses past the ornate, Gothic gatehouse and around the carriageway. The place might have fallen into disrepair but nevertheless there was something very appealing about it, straight out of a fairy tale, with an octagonal tower, turrets, chimneys and walled courtyards. In her mind’s eye she could see how Francis’s designs would bring the castle back to life. It would be an expansive project and cost a fortune—but then maybe dukes could afford to indulge their fantasies.
Once they’d made a full circuit Mary stuck her head out of the window. ‘Thank you, Mudd, I think it’s time we returned. I’d hate to keep you from your work.’
As was so often the case with return trips, they were back at Manali in half the time it had taken to get to Thornbury. Mudd trudged off to deal with the horses and Leah scuttled into the kitchen, leaving Mary a trifle bewildered and discombobulated. She’d missed her afternoon visit with George, and Mrs Porlock didn’t appreciate interruptions to the strict routine she’d established.
Mary wandered into the library and threw herself down in the big leather armchair, inhaling the faint scent of bergamot, a subtle reminder of Papa. There was no pleasure in an interest if it wasn’t shared. She pulled her sketchpad towards her and chewed the end of her pencil.
No one built castles anymore, but she did love the romance of the turrets and the arched windows and doors. Her pencil flew across the page as a smaller, more intimate creation appeared, with traceried windows, octagonal battlemented towers all around a central courtyard and a matching gatehouse. As her designs took shape her thoughts settled. She would not subdue her interest in architecture because society, and James, deemed the art the realm of men, and one day she would design—not restore, but design— a castle, maybe a fort and a great bridge. Meanwhile she would dedicate her time to creating her own architectural portfolio.
With a wry smile, she closed her sketchpad and sat staring out of the window as the twilight turned the sky to indigo and a bone-white moon rose.
Five
1808
James barged into the library and threw himself down. Despite the early hour, he had been drinking; his bulbous nose glowed, and vivid purple spider veins traced his cheeks. Mary concentrated on her drawing, not wanting him to know she was watching him. He pushed on the table, attempted to stand, failed miserably and slumped back in the chair.
Some moments later he made a second attempt, succeeded, and staggered down the length of the table towards her. ‘What’s this?’ The flat of his hand hit the table with a resounding thump, the inkpot jumped and an icy sense of dread shivered across her shoulders. With a shaking hand she pulled the ink closer and dipped her nib. If she could maintain a sense of calm, perhaps he would be soothed. ‘Just a drawing.’ She added a line to the octagonal tower.
He pushed her arm aside and snatched at her sketchpad. Her good intentions took flight, and she slammed her nib down. A blob of ink landed on the sleeve of his linen shirt. His face paled as he looked down at it, then back at her. His eyes narrowed and the sound of his laboured breathing filled the room.
She threw back the chair and lunged for the door—too late. Grabbing a fistful of her hair, he swung her around and tossed her aside. She crashed to her knees, her scalp burning, and scrambled beneath the table.
His meaty fist reached for her again and hauled her out by the hair, flipping her over onto the carpet and knocking the breath from her lungs. Turning her head, she sank her teeth into his hand and kicked out, but he slapped her away like a persistent fly, knelt on her legs and pinned her to the ground, raised his arm and backhanded her across the face.
A high-pitched roaring filled her ears and scattered starbursts filled her vision.
Before she could regain her senses, James pressed his riding jacket down over her face, blinding her. She could smell nothing but the overpowering stench of him, the brandy he drank, the pomade he used and the rank odour of his unwashed body.
She tried to suck in a breath, sensed him fumbling at his clothes, felt warm flesh, and in that moment his intention became clear. She gave an enormous lurch and almost managed to toss him aside, lashing out with her arms, scratching at his face, and squealing as loudly as she could, praying Mrs Rudge, Leah, Mudd, God, anyone, would rescue her.
His stinking jacket tightened, muffling her cries, smothering her airways, suffocating her. Blood trickled down the back of her throat and she sank back in despair, her body limp.
James lifted his weight, and she tossed aside his jacket, sucked in a breath of air and for a heartbeat believed it over until her skirt came up, covering her head. She tightened her muscles, clamped her legs, but his knee forced down and he shoved his way between her thighs, pinned her arms and crushed her beneath his heaving chest.
As he thrust into her, she let herself drift away, as she always did, thought of the books on the table, beautiful buildings, and in her mind created the perfect house she would design, where she would live, without him, free to follow her dreams.
James’s vicious, thrusting climax drove her spine into the hard floor and a moment later he rolled off her and lay panting. Too wary to move, she stayed motionless, hoping he would follow his usual practice and leave her be.
After a few moments he drew down her skirt, wiped the blood and semen off himself with his handkerchief, picked up his coat— frowning at the stain where her nose had bled—and without a backwards glance, left the room.
Mary lay still. Her head and face throbbed, and blood trickled from her nose into her mouth, coppery and salty. She wiped it away with the back of her hand and rolled onto her hands and knees. Her back ached and her hips jarred as though they’d been wrenched from their sockets. A deep ache flamed in her lower belly.
She rocked back on her haunches and waited until her breathing settled, then, with the aid of the table, shakily found her feet. A gush of warmth ran down her legs. She staggered across the carpet to the door, reaching for the handle. He would never touch her again. He would never lay his hands on George. She would move into the gatehouse, raise George, and James could continue to live the life he preferred—his horses, the gambling, the drinking and socialising—the women too. She had no doubt there were others but unsurprisingly, it didn’t matter to her at all.
