The Guardian of Secrets: And Her Deathly Pact (3 page)

Chapter 1

Kent, England, 1912

E
ven before Merrill Farm came into view, one could see the three tall chimney stacks against a skyline of dark slate-coloured clouds. The red-brick manor stood proudly on top of a steep hill overlooking the small Kentish village of Goudhurst, and it was surrounded by old trees so leafy in the summer that even the sun’s golden rays barely penetrated its windows. A stone wall surrounding a narrow but elegant lawn to the front enclosed the main building, which for all its grandeur, looked tired, damp, and dull with age. The kitchen door, situated at the rear of the house, opened out into a large cobbled yard with a path that led to the stables, barns, and small individual herb gardens that lined the high walls that separated the house from the land. Outside the walls, another long winding path snaked its way through the apple groves and ended at the stream that nestled behind a tall oak tree.

The railway line, only a short distance away, shuddered twice a day under the whistling shrill of the London train and rang out over the hills and into the valley below, never failing to startle the grazing cows that congregated there.

The village of Goudhurst was about three miles away from the farm, but there was a shortcut up on the railway embankment, onto the single track and then along the line. A footpath then led directly into the village, entering it just to the right of the village hall and pond. At the top end of the road, the burning smell of the forge mingled with the ale in the Goudhurst Arms pub, and on the other side of the street were the bakery, post office, and church.

Merrill Farm looked down on the village, and from the upstairs bedroom windows, one could see the main street and everything in it in detail. The farm was likened to the village manor and its occupants, the gentry. Most in the village thought that this title was only fair, for Merrill Farm, with its great acres, was beyond doubt the biggest and most prosperous farm in the county. Hop gardens complemented the grazing grounds where Peter Merrill housed his cows and prize bulls. Apple orchards, vegetable tracts, fallow ground, and fields housing cows spread for miles across the Kentish countryside. Peter Merrill’s new farming methods and machinery, the first of their kind, were the envy of even bigger farms to the north. He was a visionary, and there was nothing he didn’t know about farming.

The Merrill family had always been rich, and the farm had been left to Peter Merrill with a healthy bank balance, a well-ordered team of farm labourers, and an abundance of eager hop pickers who’d been working the Merrill land for generations. Hop pickers came every summer; families, couples, and single London men were happy to camp out in Merrill Farm’s lower fields adjacent to the hop gardens. They stayed in huts built by Peter Merrill’s father, and they housed entire families who made them homely by putting curtains on the windows and turning upside-down boxes, covered with tablecloths, into the family dining tables. They filled palliasses and pillows with straw. They put apple boxes containing their belongings on shelves on the walls and then covered them with sheets so that they were out of sight. There they stayed until the end of September, working eight-hour days, six days a week, happy to be out of the London smog and in good country air. The children thrived, and the farm made huge profits, for they worked for not much more than the price of food, board, and all the health benefits that went with it.

It was a cold November evening, and rain gaining momentum drummed against the inside of the kitchen window ledge and streamed down the wooden cupboards beneath to form a puddle on the floor. Celia Merrill Dobbs, bathing in a hot tub brimming with bubbles, dipped her head under the water to keep warm against the cold night air, simultaneously cursing the day. Emerging, she listened to the rainwater dripping and watched the puddle on the floor grow almost as wide as the bathtub. As it grew, so did her anger. She pinched her nose, dipped underneath the bubbles again, and then came up sharply, adding to the circumference of the puddle and even more to her misery.

She wiped the foamy bubbles from her face with hands that shook with rage and attempted without success to hold back the tears that had been threatening for days. She had asked her father and her husband to see to the broken windowpane in the kitchen so many times now that she’d lost count. Her father claimed that he was too busy to tend to unimportant jobs like broken windows. He was too busy for anything to do with the farm nowadays. She hardly ever saw him. He was distracted when she did, and nights of cosy conversations by the fire with him were all but over.

Her husband, Joseph, ignored her altogether, preferring to spend all his time in the village pub. She was still a bride yet felt neglected by the man she had only just married.

When she felt the first miserable tear fall from her eye, she tried once again to understand why her life was in such a shambles. Since her marriage to Joseph Dobbs, she had found herself inexplicably lonely and more miserable than she could ever remember. Joseph had formed the habit of staying away for days on end, and she had concluded that she was as unimportant as the broken window, as insignificant as an old piece of furniture, and as invisible as air. She didn’t know where Joseph went or whom he was with, but he had found a bed elsewhere. She was convinced of that. She also believed that he was eating someone else’s home-cooked meals and that unseen hands were tending to his usual jobs around the farm, for most nights, his dinners lay cold and wasted on the table and no one ever came to the door complaining that there was a backlog of work anywhere on the farm. If only he would talk to her, she thought angrily. If only someone, anyone, would talk to her!

She scrubbed her body and her hair until her body glistened in the candlelight and her head ached. Her life was a complete mess. It hurt. Everything hurt.

She sank deeper into the water, steadied her breathing, and let out a luxurious sigh. It wasn’t often that she had the house to herself, she thought, looking on the bright side. Mrs Baxter, the housekeeper, had gone to her sister’s for the weekend, but she was the one person who was
always
around, mothering her, smothering her, and driving her mad at times with her incessant gossiping about her neighbours in the village. Celia frowned and scolded herself for thinking about Mrs Baxter in that way: she wasn’t being fair, for without her mothering and smothering, the loneliness would be even more unbearable.

She squeezed the soap between her hands and watched it jump into the air, splash into the water, and sink to the bottom. Mrs Baxter’s timely absence had given her the perfect opportunity to do what she had to do, say what she had to say, and be done with it. But it would probably be easier to catch a fox with bare hands than corner her new husband and trap him in conversation, she thought nervously. She had tried on numerous occasions, but Joseph seemed even more intent on avoiding her than her father was.

Sometimes she hated being in love. She hated the emptiness of always wanting Joseph, the pain of never receiving his attention, and the sadness she felt would eventually break her heart. Tears formed in the corners of her eyes, and she blinked them away. She’d been married for three months, three whole months. Yet Joseph had never touched her, never made love to her, never even seen her naked body or held her in his arms. She had tried to be what she thought he wanted and what he needed. She paid great attention to her appearance, her clothes, and her hair. She was well mannered and could hold a conversation as well as any other woman she knew. She was told that she was beautiful, although she had never thought so herself, and she had been told often that Joseph was the lucky one, not the other way about. So what had gone wrong?

Had she imagined or simply believed in his love because she’d been so desperate to have it? She saw love in his eyes the day they wed; she would swear on it, swear on her father’s Bible. He had held her hand and told her that she meant the world to him, saying that he would be by her side forever. He’d kissed her in front of everyone, and she had breathed in his love. Yet now, when he eventually came home at night and climbed into bed with her, she breathed in nothing but cold rejection. She touched him sometimes during the night. She felt his body cringe and then tighten up into a ball, and he’d roll over to the very edge of the bed, escaping from her as though her hands held some kind of deadly disease. She asked herself repeatedly what had she done to drive him away, but she had no answers, only more questions, always questions.

Tears rolled down her cheeks, and she covered her face with her hands. Her body shook, and she sobbed so much that she barely had time to breathe. Her world, her dreams, and all the happiness she had foreseen on her wedding day had turned to dust and despair.

Joseph Dobbs, trudging through the snow towards her father’s house and pushing it aside with his boots as though it were as light as a feather, had come into her life as suddenly as the snow on that winter afternoon. He’d sat at the kitchen table, thin, gaunt, starved for a hot meal and any type of work that would allow him to survive the winter; and later, he wooed her, courted her with words of love, and turned her world upside down.

Feeling hot stinging tears again, she got out of the tub. She shivered and grabbed a towel, wrapping it tightly round her body, and then sat on a stool by the fire. She dabbed her eyes, blew her nose, picked up another towel, and vigorously rubbed her hair. She would not suffer this intolerable situation any longer, she promised herself. She would go insane if she had to spend another night listening for Joseph’s footsteps on the stairs, feigning sleep to avoid confrontation and lying awake all night, praying for the gentlest touch from his hand. She would wait up for him tonight, even if it took all night. She would make him tell her the truth, even if the truth hurt her, and she would finally know for sure if he loved her or not!

A small fire and candles cast soft shadows in the parlour. The scene was set; the mood was right. Celia had brushed her hair until her head tingled, and it now lay in soft waves to her waist. She was dressed in her favourite gown—overdressed, perhaps, but she had deemed the dress the right choice given the occasion. She curled up in her father’s armchair and fought sleep. It was late, but she would not budge until she heard her husband’s footsteps in the hallway. She would not move an inch until the matter of their cold and estranged marriage had been resolved.

The front door banged shut, vibrating the china ornaments on the sideboard and toppling an old photograph that was balanced precariously against the wall where the sideboard stood. Celia jumped, startled and disoriented. She had her eyes closed and was fearful of what she might see and what she might hear. She breathed with shallow breaths and tried not to swallow the lump in her throat or cough. She heard him stagger through the hallway and stop just inside the parlour room door. She smelled the whisky on him and felt his contempt as surely as hearing the spoken word itself or seeing it on his face. She cautiously half opened her eyes and watched him spit on the floor before pouring himself a whisky from her father’s crystal decanter, but she still did nothing. He turned and looked at her sleeping figure in the armchair, screwed up his face, cocked his head to one side, and then slurred:

“Where have you been, Joseph? Why don’t you spend more time with me? What am I doing wrong, Joseph? Stupid whore, your very existence is the reason I am never here and why I don’t want to spend time with you. Living in the same house as you is enough to send me into a fucking loony bin!”

He took a sip of whisky, shuddered, and slurred again: “I’ve been patient… patient as any man could be… but no more, no more… snotty-nosed cow!”

Celia continued to breathe softly but unintentionally shifted her body in the chair. She couldn’t believe what she’d just heard. He couldn’t be talking about her. He loved her! He moved closer, and she felt his breath on her hair. He was so close now that the rancid smell of alcohol and sweat almost made her choke, but still she feigned sleep. A hand suddenly gripped her neck, squeezing her throat shut. She gasped for air and opened her eyes wide, her head still spinning from his cruel words. His drunken face danced before her, and she realised that she was unable to breathe. He was killing her, murdering her in cold blood! Why?

He slackened his grip and jerked her head up with his fingers, saying, “Bitch!”

“Joseph, stop it… What are you doing?” she managed in a shocked whisper.

Joseph tightened his grip on her throat again, this time using both hands. Celia’s mouth was wide open, gasping for air. She had no breath left in her body, and Joseph was just a hazy outline. She was going to die now, she believed with a strange sense of acceptance. She choked again.

Joseph lifted her out of the chair by her neck, and she thought it would snap. Only her toes were left touching the ground, and she heard him giggle ridiculously. Without warning, he pushed her back into the armchair and released her. She sat half on and half off the chair, holding her neck and gasping open-mouthed for air. She looked up and saw him clearly now.

Joseph took a step backwards, bent down, and pushed his head forwards until his nose was almost touching hers:

“What’s happening, Joseph? Why, Joseph?” He mimicked her cruelly.

“I’ll tell you what’s happening… I fucking hate you! Every time I have to get into bed with you, I want to kick you out of it! The way you smell with that rancid perfume poured over your skinny bones night after night, the way you talk with a fucking plum in your mouth… and your fucking pathetic whining! Do you really think I’m interested in you, that I could even like you? Is that what you thought, eh?”

Celia coughed and spluttered, still seeking air. Her wide eyes searched his face. She held her breath then and sat perfectly still. She understood nothing except the hatred she saw in his eyes.

“Joseph, why are you doing this to me?” she asked him with a croaky voice.

“Because you’re nothing!” he screamed. “You’re a piece of cow dung under my shoe. You’re like fucking lice that I can’t get rid of… Everything about you disgusts me! Do you understand? I said, do you understand?” He had acted the part of loving husband for too long, he thought just then, but no matter how hard he still tried to hide his disgust, his hatred for the bitch sitting in front of him could stay hidden no longer. Maybe she would leave him alone now, he thought, staggering backwards just before he was about to fall into the chair.