The Guardian of Secrets: And Her Deathly Pact (8 page)

She nodded. Joseph took a slug of whisky straight from the bottle and banged it down on the table. “And don’t even think about leaving me, Celia, or asking for a divorce. I’ll never give you one. Till death us do part; remember that the next time you rile me.”

Celia’s nails dug so deeply into the palm of her hands that she was sure they would bleed. He was walking all over her, trampling her into the ground. Her head spun with orders and threats, but with those thoughts came defiance and anger.

“Joseph!” she blurted out just as he stood up. “Do you really hate me that much? Couldn’t you at least try to make our marriage work? Would you at least talk to me as though I’m a human being? I want nothing from you. I will ask for nothing except for a civil word every now and then, but I am not a dog. I am your wife so kindly treat me like one. You really hurt me, and I didn’t tell. I even forgave you. So could we not try? We should at least behave like a normal husband and wife; otherwise, people in the village will talk, and they’ll eventually conclude that you’re desperate to hide from them. If you hit me again, they’ll know it was you.”

“It that a threat? That sounds like a threat to me, Celia… Is it?”

“No, of course not. I just meant that I won’t be able to lie again to my aunt. She won’t believe me the next time—that’s all I’m saying. She’s clever, Joseph. I don’t even think she believes our story about my falling down the stairs.”

Joseph digested the words, reluctant agreement spreading across his face.

“Joseph, couldn’t you make an effort?” Celia tried again. “I have just lost my father, and my only crime is that I loved you and thought you loved me too. I promise not to annoy you anymore, about anything. I just want a peace between us.”

She stopped talking. She was surprised that he’d allowed her to speak for so long. The thought struck her that maybe, just maybe, she’d reached some decent part of him. Maybe he had nothing to do with her father’s death, and maybe he was even a little sorry for the pain he’d caused her.

“Here we go again with your poor little
me,
me,
me
act. Christ, do you ever think about anybody else’s feelings? No, you don’t. It’s always about me, me, me… I miss your father too, you know, and you seem to forget that he left the farm to me, not to you, so get this into your thick skull: the farm has nothing to do with you, nothing, so there’s no need for me to discuss anything with you. It’s mine unless we have a kid who’s eighteen, and that’s never going to happen, believe me. You were part of a deal I had with your father, that’s all. I never wanted you, and I never will. Now, for Christ’s sake, get lost and leave me alone!”

Celia fled from the chair and raced upstairs to the haven of her bedroom, grateful that at least he didn’t want to share her bed anymore. The thought of having to live with him sickened her more than ever now, but she’d play his game. That’s what she’d do—play the game until she had the proof, and then she’d spit on him when he was led away to the gallows.

Joseph poured himself another drink. He’d never been so humiliated in his entire life. Peter had double-crossed him, and he hadn’t even seen it coming. Over the last few days, his mind had been working overtime, and he’d planned his future as heir to the farm. Today’s announcement had changed everything, and all he could hope for now was a miserable life with the bitch upstairs and the thirty thousand pounds she’d get in two years’ time. Still, looking on the bright side, that lawyer Ayres need never know half of what went on at the farm. For starters, he didn’t know Joseph Dobbs or how he operated. He could hide money, sift it out of the profits, sell a couple of cows every now and again, and Ayres would never suspect a thing.

He lit a cigarette and sat with his legs on the table, bottle of whisky in his hand, and thought again about Celia upstairs. Her inheritance would come through in two years. By that time, he’d have sucked the farm’s profits dry. He’d have more than enough money in his pockets to walk away without looking back and more than enough power to get into the biggest poker games in London. This situation was not forever. It was just a means to an end, and as long as Celia didn’t get in his way, he’d be lenient with her.

Chapter 7

S
ince the funeral, Celia’s life had become a monotonous routine of cat and mouse. Joseph had formed the habit of leaving the house before she opened her bedroom door in the morning, and he came home long after she’d gone to bed. She passed her days doing what any wife would do in a large house that required hours of attention every day. The wood for the stove had to be collected every morning for without it, she could neither cook nor keep warm. Joseph’s clothes, which were far from the normal farmer’s attire, constantly needed washing or mending. She got her housekeeping money on a Friday, and with it she supplied the household with groceries for the week. She went for long walks in the fields in the small amount of spare time afforded to her, and when Joseph had eaten his evening meal, she sought the sanctuary of her own bedroom.

Friday was the best day of the week for Celia. It was the only day she was given permission to leave the farm to spend some time with Mrs Baxter. She was a great comfort to her. Joseph never knew that she went there, and he was never mentioned on her visits, but Celia suspected that Mrs Baxter had a good idea of what was going on up at the farm.

She was lonely, so lonely she thought she’d die of it. Joseph had forbidden John Sweeny and Derek Pike to eat breakfast in the kitchen or to even go near the house, and she missed the friendly banter she’d grown up with. Her father had never stood on ceremony. He had never been a snob and had shared many breakfasts in the crowded kitchen with the farm labourers before leaving for the long days in the hop gardens.

On a particularly cold morning, she looked out the kitchen window and up at the grey sky. It was threatening to snow again, she thought, pulling down the sleeves of her father’s long woollen jumper. She turned and put her hand to her head; it was cold and clammy. She stumbled towards a chair, seeing stars dance in front of her eyes. The room spun, and she fell to the floor and into darkness.

When she opened her eyes, she laid her hands on her stomach and looked up at the kitchen ceiling. She touched her breasts. They were tender and swollen. She ran her hands across her tummy again and felt a nauseous wave rise to her throat. She stood on shaky legs, grabbed on to the kitchen sink, and looked around the room. Everything was in full flow. The fire was lit; the stove alight, ready for pots to boil potatoes; clothes waiting to be ironed; and bread browning in the oven. She was unsure about what to do, as Joseph would probably be in for lunch. Her first thought was that she couldn’t leave.

She sat at the table and calculated how much time it would take to get to the village, see Dr Sutton, and get back before Joseph appeared. He hadn’t been in for lunch for days; in fact, she’d only seen him two or three times all week. Maybe he wouldn’t come back today. She went to the window and saw the first flurry of snow. The snow wouldn’t deter her; she had to have her suspicions confirmed, had to know if it was possible that she’d become pregnant when she’d only ever been touched once. She looked once more at the blazing fire and decided. She’d douse it, halt the cooking, and go to Mrs Baxter. She had to know, and Mrs Baxter would know what to do and what to say.

Mrs Baxter took a shocked Celia to Mary Shields’s tea room, where they ordered tea and fruitcake. Celia gulped down the tea but told Mrs Baxter that she couldn’t even think about eating. She was pregnant!

Mrs Baxter studied Celia’s pale face lost in some distant place. “You must eat something, dear. You’re far too thin, and you’re eating for two now, remember,” she said.

Celia smiled. “Yes, I know, but I still can’t believe it. Me, a mother!”

“Celia, love, becoming a mother is the most natural thing in the world… You are happy about it, aren’t you?”

Celia smiled again, but her mind was racing. She couldn’t really say that she was happy about it. A baby would complicate matters even further, especially a baby born out of hatred, not love. Joseph would be angry. He hated her, and he would hate the child she was carrying. Could she keep it a secret for a while longer? she wondered. Then she dismissed the idea. Could she have it at all, or should she get rid of it as though it never existed? Ashamed of those terrible thoughts, she said, “Yes, yes, of course I’m happy. It’s just that it’s all so unexpected.”

“Well, dear, there’s nothing surprising about a married woman having a child. As I said, it’s the most natural thing in the world. I was never fortunate enough to have a baby. You were the closest thing to a daughter I ever had and now I feel even you’ve gone, as I barely see you now, so be grateful that you’ve got a husband, and a family coming.”

“I am grateful for everything I have, including you, Mrs Baxter. It’s just that I don’t think I’m ready to be a mother. I miss my father; I wish he were here.”

She sipped her tea and thought about what she’d just said. Should she be excited? Happy? What was there to be excited and happy about when there would be hell to pay?

“Of course, dear,” Mrs Baxter said. “I know you must want your father, but I believe that when our loved ones pass from this world, they don’t go far away. They’re always with us, in our hearts and in our minds, and I just know he’s here with you right now, beaming with pride. You just hold on to that.”

“I will, Mrs Baxter, I will.”

Joseph sat at the kitchen table, cupping a whisky in one hand and a cigarette in the other. His sullen expression caused Celia to hesitate at the door, for it was obvious to her that he knew she was there, yet he neither spoke nor looked in her direction. Celia’s first thought was that the kitchen was freezing cold and she had nothing ready to feed him; Joseph would not forgive that mortal sin. Why did he have to turn up today of all days, she then thought, walking with hurried steps towards the pantry.

Joseph’s voice boomed behind her. “Well, woman, where’s my lunch? Why is it so fucking cold in here, and where the fuck have you been until now?”

Celia stood perfectly still. She kept her head bowed and steeled herself towards the point of no return, for she knew that as soon as she opened her mouth, she was doomed.

“I’m sorry, Joseph. I had to go to the village.”

“Why? What for? I told you Friday was shopping day… Didn’t I tell you that? Anyway, what did you have to buy that was so important?”

“Nothing. I bought nothing.”

“Then why the fuck did you go?”

“I had to go.”

“Celia, just answer the bloody question will you!”

“Joseph, I am answering your question. I had to go… You see, I had to see the doctor.”

“A doctor? What for?”

“Well…”

“No, don’t bother. I don’t care. I’ll talk to you later about this. Just get my fucking lunch. I’m working my arse off to put food on the table, so the least you can do is get it there on time. What do you do all day? Nothing, that’s what you do; you sit around on your fat arse feeling sorry for yourself. How do you think that makes me feel? Do you think that’s right, eh?”

Celia took a jar of pickled eggs out of the pantry with a rare scowl on her face. “I work just as hard as you, Joseph, keeping this house clean, making sure you have clean clothes, and walking around all day just to stay out of your way!” she wanted to scream. Instead, she bit her lip, put some bread and cheese onto a plate, and reached for a large bowl of creamed rice sitting on the window ledge.

She placed the food in front of him, hoping that he’d be satisfied, and walked towards the kitchen door. At this point, she usually left him to eat alone, but today was different. She stood for a moment at the door and watched in disgust as he shoved a whole egg into his mouth, puffing out his cheeks like a squirrel. He bit and chewed open-mouthed, hard yoke escaping through lips coated in saliva, and when he’d swallowed the last of it, he burped loudly. She watched him unseen from the doorway, wondering how she could possibly allow such a man to become the father of her child when the sight of him made her feel sick to the stomach. He ate like an animal and behaved like one too. But the decision had to be made now. She would either tell him about the baby or go to a woman she’d heard about outside the village; a witch some said, the kind of woman who could get rid of unwanted babies.

She stood a moment longer and then unconsciously glided her hands over the gentle swell of her belly. Sorrow crushed her like weighted guilt; she couldn’t get rid of the life growing inside her. She would have it, love it, and Joseph would be a father whether he or she liked it or not! She took a deep breath and walked back into the kitchen.

“Joseph, I’m having a baby.”

Joseph swallowed the last of his third pickled egg and stared at her open-mouthed. For the first time, Celia saw him lost for words and unsure of himself.

“That’s why I went to the doctor,” she said, taking advantage of his silence. “I’m sorry, but I had to have it confirmed.”

“You’re pregnant?” Joseph said, not seeming to understanding the words.

“Yes. I am.”

“You… you’re pregnant?”

“Yes.”

When she answered this time, she was more afraid than the last. Joseph faced her now, not with an expression of disbelief on his face but with a hatred that chilled her to the bone.

Joseph threw down the bread knife that he’d just picked up, knocking the salt pot over and spilling the salt onto the plate of cheese. “How can this be happening to me?” he said. He shook his head as though the gesture would clear it. “I only touched you the once! Once… you evil cow! This is what you wanted all along. You wanted to get pregnant so that I would lose the farm to your brat. Well, let me tell you something. It’s hard enough having to feed and clothe you, so how the fuck do you think I’m going to manage with another mouth to feed!”

“It takes two to make a baby, and we’re not poor,” Celia said before she could stop herself.

“Let me be the judge of that. Get rid of it. I don’t want it!”

“No, I won’t get rid of it. How could you even say that? Just because you hate me doesn’t mean you have to hate your own child.”

“What did you say?”

“I said I’m having this baby. I won’t kill it just because you find it an inconvenience.”

“Then don’t think I’m going to pay for it! It’s in your belly so don’t ask me for anything extra. What, am I supposed to be happy? Is that what you thought, that I’d want this? That I’d like you more? Well, I don’t. If you want it, you have it. I hope it kills you in the process!”

Celia’s hatred, coupled with thoughts of revenge, surfaced. His words had cut like a knife. Thoughts that were usually well hidden threatened to spill out of her mouth. Grief and anger took hold of her tongue, and she found herself without fear and with enough pent-up anger to kill the man in front of her.

“You’re a pig!” she screamed. “I hate you. I wish you were dead. You did this to me, and it’s just as much your responsibility as it is mine! Do you think I enjoyed it, that I liked you putting your filthy hands on my body? You disgust me, Joseph Dobbs!”

Joseph moved suddenly, springing from his chair like a wildcat. She covered her face, and he grabbed the back of her neck, pulling her towards him, holding her captive with one hand. She stood as still as a statue, her chin resting on his hand, and watched him drag the bowl of rice towards him. He balanced it on the palm of his hand and she stopped breathing just as he guided her head into it with a quick, painful jerk. Blinded, she continued to hold her breath as her face was pushed deeper and deeper into the lumpy cold liquid. When he finally pulled her out of it, she sucked in some air, along with some rice. She coughed and spat out the rice that had lodged in her throat. She heard him curse her and the baby in a fowl language she never knew existed before throwing her to the floor like a rag doll.

She lay there dazed and terrified. Joseph lifted the bowl above her head, and she looked up to see the creamy rice slowly tip out of it. The rice felt icy cold as it covered her head and trickled down her breast to rest on her lap. She stared stupidly at the mess and then wiped her eyes.

“Don’t worry, Celia. These hands will never touch you again, not in that way, not even if you grovel at my feet because you want me. Oh, yes, Celia, I know what it is you want, and you can forget it! I don’t want to have you again, and I don’t want to have your fucking brat crawling under my feet either. And you answer me like that again and I’ll kill you. Now clean up this mess!”

She wasn’t hurt, not really. She had spoken out, and she had lived to tell the tale. Her head ached. She lit a fire and then washed her hair. Want him? Desire him? She laughed. The only thing she wanted or desired was to see him dangle at the end of a rope.

She sat at the table with a cup of hot tea, pondering her future, a future now very different to the one she’d envisaged. Having a baby would change everything. She could not and would not live like this any longer. The thought of her unborn baby growing up with Joseph Dobbs as his or her father didn’t bear thinking about. Something would have to be done now. She’d been such a coward all these months, a weak pathetic creature without an ounce of courage, but now she would have to be strong for the baby’s sake and for her own salvation.