The Promise (17 page)

‘So I am to be sacrificed instead?’

Papa winced, and turned away as if unable to witness the pain he had caused me. ‘If I could find any other way …’

My fate, it appeared, was sealed.

It was a beautiful sunny day in the fall, the ships in the bay looking like toys set out on a sheet of blue, a cloudless sky above. Egrets and sandpipers paddled and pecked at tidbits in the mud, swallows swooped and dived, and somewhere a meadowlark sang. But my heart felt grey and leaden as Papa led me down the aisle in the church I had attended regularly from being a small child. My sister followed behind, preening herself in her new rose-sprigged gown, although I knew she ached for the chance to be the bride, and not simply a maid of honour.

My bridegroom, still little more than a stranger to me, stood waiting at the altar rail. He certainly cut a fine figure in his grey broadcloth suit, glossy dark hair and handsome looks, but my heart sank to my satin slippers as my father passed my hand to his. His grip was cold and somehow remote, as if he were oblivious to my presence. He did not even trouble to turn and glance at me in that moment, let alone offer a smile of encouragement or word of reassurance. I might just as easily have been a parcel, or a stray horse put into his hand, rather than the woman he was about to marry.

How had it come to this, I thought? Why had Ellis not returned? Where was he? Did he think of me, or even remember who I was?

It was only as I repeated the prescribed words spoken by the pastor that the full import of what was happening dawned upon me. ‘Till death us do part,’ I obediently intoned. Vows meant to last for life. Promises that were irrevocable.

Like it or not, I had, in very truth, become Drew Kemp’s wife. There followed the usual rejoicing and congratulations that you find at weddings, in my case from giggling cousins and approving aunts. My bouquet was tossed and caught by my silly sister who claimed to be green with envy, and spent the next several minutes flirting with my husband to prove her point. Even Maura hovered about him like some adoring nymph. Wine flowed, the finest food specially ordered by Mama was served, but I could eat or drink none of it. There was dancing and music, but all I could think of as my new husband whirled me on to the dance floor was that these were not the right arms, this was not the right moment for marriage. This was not the man I loved.

What had I done? What had my father done? I looked into Papa’s eyes and saw his shame.

Should I have fought him more, put more effort into my rebellion, forced my proud mother to sell her precious inheritance, even move out of her fine mansion? I could not ask such a terrible thing of her. It was unthinkable. I would much rather sacrifice my own happiness than hers. And where could I have turned for help? Aunts, uncles, cousins, my entire family thought Kemp something of a catch. Prue, and even my own maid, were equally enchanted, so there would have been no assistance forthcoming from that quarter had I recklessly decided to run off with my sailor.

Besides, my beloved Ellis was far away at sea, enjoying life on some far distant shore.

The truth of it was that I was young, barely eighteen, trained to be dutiful and in no position to disobey my father or devastate my mother. All I could do was cling to the reassurances offered by dearest Prue, that at least I would remain close to my family, that I would enjoy wealth and position in society, and have some sort of freedom.

And if my heart longed for romance, still ached for a certain young sailor, then I could only hope the pain of losing him would pass in time.

How wrong I was, on every count.

The first hint of reality came within hours, on my wedding night. My parents and sister drove home in their carriage, tired and content, while I went with my new husband to his house on Nob Hill. Maura came with me. We were shown into a lavishly appointed bedroom, all frills and furbelows in yellow and powder blue, a room that seemed entirely inappropriate for a single male. Had he decked it out purposely to please his new bride? Or had it once been his mother’s boudoir, I wondered, where she had entertained her many lovers? Whatever its origin I was thankful to at last stop this pretence of revelling in new-found matrimonial joy. I sank on to the dressing stool with a sigh. My relief, however, was short-lived. Maura had barely begun to unlace, unbutton and unpin me, when Kemp burst in without even knocking. My maid was instantly dismissed, and I was alone with my new husband.

‘Take them off,’ he ordered, the moment the door had closed on her retreating figure.

I stared at him dumbstruck for some long seconds, looking about me in cold panic. No maid to help, not even a screen to hide behind. I had never taken off so much as a slipper in front of a man before, not even my beloved Ellis. Surely he couldn’t seriously expect me to disrobe before him? As he lounged in a chair opposite, hooking one leg over an arm, he made it very clear that was exactly what he demanded. Even so …

‘I-I beg your pardon?’ I stammered.

‘Your gown and underthings, take them off.’

‘B-but I shall need Maura, and a degree of privacy. Pray allow me some respect.’ I wanted to tell him that I was shy, and a virgin, but did not know how. He clearly thought my blushes highly amusing.

‘Privacy, my dear, is not the privilege of married ladies. As my wife you will dance to my tune. Now remove your clothes this instant. If you do not, then I shall do it for you.’

There was no doubt in my mind that this was no idle threat. With trembling fingers I fumbled with buttons, pulled off my gloves, my shoes and stockings one by one, took off the circlet of rosebuds from my hair, my jewels and rings, everything I could think of whilst remaining fully clothed. He sat smiling, his eyes fixed on me throughout this pantomime, like some lascivious creature from a netherworld. Eventually, there were no more accessories to remove, nothing further I could do to delay the inevitable. Lifting my chin high, I made one last
plea. ‘A gentleman would withdraw and return when a lady was properly attired in her night things.’

‘Ah, but I am not a gentleman, not in the sense that you mean. And there is nothing more diverting than watching a lady undress.’

I gaped at him. ‘What a wicked thing to say! I assure you my parents would never have given their consent to this marriage had they known I would be so ill-treated.’

He laughed at that, as well he might. ‘Your parents sold you to the highest bidder. They bought you position and status in society, a rich husband who would add to their own rapidly diminishing fortune through a most profitable business arrangement. You were merely a part of that deal, a bargaining chip at the casino table.’

I gave a little cry of distress but still I hesitated, my arms clamped about me, shielding my bosom as tears slid silently down my cheeks. I was filled with a cold fear, and a terrible sense of loathing. Mama had done her duty, so far as a lady of her gentility was able, in explaining the duties of the bedchamber to me. I’d thought I was not entirely ignorant on the subject, and I had welcomed and enjoyed the many kisses Ellis had given me.

But this was different to anything I had imagined. This man was making it very clear that he cared nothing for my feelings. He spoke of me as if I were a possession, an object he had purchased and could treat as he pleased.

Losing patience, he stepped forward, pushed my hands aside and stripped the gown from me. He swiftly unlaced my corset, a task Maura had not been allowed to do, and ripped it from me. Slipping my camisole from my
shoulders, within seconds the garment was on the floor, followed by my petticoats and drawers, then he stood back for a long moment to examine every bare inch of me. I burnt with humiliation. To stand thus, naked as the day I was born, before this man was abominable, but he wasn’t done with me yet.

Stretching out a hand he squeezed one breast. ‘Hm, not exactly voluptuous, are you? Pity. Still, pert enough, I suppose, if rather small.’

I was utterly mortified.

Was this how a husband usually looked at his wife, as if she were a piece of merchandise he must scrutinise in every detail? I half prayed that since he’d found a flaw in me, he might agree to return me as unwanted goods. ‘Turn around, let me see the rest of you.’ He smoothed a hand over my rump, and my hopes were instantly dashed. ‘That’s better. Soft and round as a ripe peach.’

My heart almost stopped with fear, and I closed my eyes so that he would not see how they sparkled with tears. Was this the joy of the wedding night my mother had haltingly hinted at? Was this what I had dreamt of as a young innocent girl? Aware of my blush spreading to every exposed part of me, I must have let some plea or whimper escape my tightly pursed lips, for he chuckled.

‘No nightgown yet, my lovely. There’s business to be done.’ And shoving me down on to the rose-pink satin quilt, he eased himself free of his trousers, parted my soft thighs and thrust into me. The shock of it, and the pain, was overwhelming. I felt I would surely split in two, his grunting, sweating body obscene as it pounded against
mine. He made no attempt to kiss or fondle me, did not trouble to prepare me in any way to receive him, or allow me a moment to catch my breath.

I doubt the act itself took more than a few minutes, although it felt like hours, a lifetime in fact. I might have screamed from the pain had I not been all too aware of servants listening at doors, of Maura hovering nearby, and the certain knowledge that there was no one to come and rescue me.

I belonged entirely to Drew Kemp now, and, as he’d made very clear, he could do with me as he willed. If I did not comply, he would destroy my entire family. With a wisdom beyond my years I did not fight him. I bit my lip till it bled and wept silent tears of anguish for what might have been.

But had I had access to that barman’s gun I’d once flourished with such crazed bravado, I would not have hesitated to use it.

It was a Friday and Chrissie was sitting on an orange box sipping her morning coffee when the doorbell rang. Her heart leapt, as it always did at the sound, knowing it would be Ben. He’d measured for the wardrobe, dropped off the timber, and already started work on the bookshelves in the shop. She glanced at her watch. Eleven-fifteen. He was late this morning, he usually started work by eight. She’d been coming earlier herself for the last week or two, wanting to get the work finished.

Chrissie gazed down at herself in rueful dismay. Trouble was, he always saw her looking her worst. Old overalls, hair in a turban, paint on her face, and stinking of turps.

‘The way to a man’s heart indeed.’ The bell rang again, for much longer this time. ‘OK, OK, hold your horses, I’m coming.’

Quickly wiping the worst of the paint from her hands,
which left her smelling even more strongly of turpentine, Chrissie ran down the stairs, worrying slightly about the lunch she’d been invited to share with Ben and his family on Sunday. She’d put it off as long as she could but would certainly look smart for that, and remember to be on her best behaviour with Karen around. She flung open the shop door, ready to share the joke at being caught looking a mess yet again, but her smile instantly died.

‘What the—?’ She couldn’t quite believe her eyes.

‘Ah, good, I got the right address, then. May I come in?’

‘Peter!’ Just a few weeks ago she’d quietly celebrated her freedom, believing she’d at last got the message through that it was all over between them. Now here he was turning up in her life yet again like the proverbial bad penny.

‘Chrissie, darling, I’ve missed you so.’ He leant over to kiss her but she managed to turn her face at the last moment, so that the kiss landed on her cheek instead.

She instinctively found herself comparing Peter’s dry hard mouth to Ben’s more generous one. The memory of Ben’s kiss, so soft and warm, brought a sudden ache to her heart. But then Ben was more generous and caring in every way, while Peter seemed increasingly repressed and withdrawn. Even his brown hair was plastered down with Brylcreem, not a strand allowed to escape, and his eyes had a deadness in them. His narrow face with its close-set eyes and pointed chin rarely smiled, and it saddened her to see him looking even more mournful than usual. But she was also astonished she’d felt any
sort of affection for this man, who already felt like a stranger to her.

‘What on earth are you doing here?’

He scowled, not looking pleased by her lack of welcome. Chrissie could tell at once that he was in one of his black moods, the kind she’d come to dread. He was a man of inconsistencies, one minute all agreeable, affable and obliging, nothing too much trouble, the next as if the devil himself was sitting on his shoulders.

She made no move to let him in. ‘How did you know where I was? I mean, how did you get this address? I only took this place over a few weeks ago and—’ Now he did smile, in that patronising way he had as if she were a small child and life was far too complicated for her to understand. ‘If you’ll let me in, instead of keeping me freezing on your doorstep, I’ll be happy to explain.’

With reluctance Chrissie pushed open the door and allowed him to follow her up the stairs to the flat, bracing herself for the inevitable put-down. She was not disappointed. The look of disdain on his face as he walked into the living room spoke volumes. Even Chrissie privately acknowledged the place was not looking its best, being empty save for paint pots and brushes, rolls of wallpaper, a decorating table and the orange box upon which reposed a half-eaten sandwich on a cracked plate.

‘Good Lord, what on earth possessed you to take this place on? I’ve seen dog kennels more habitable – and bigger, for that matter.’

Chrissie couldn’t help but compare his reaction to that of Ben’s. How approving and optimistic Ben had been, at
once seeing the potential in the little shop and flat above, despite its diminutive size. Peter saw only its deficiencies, which said so much about their respective characters. She put on her brightest voice. ‘Actually, I rather like the place. Once I’ve done it up, I shall be very cosy here.’

‘More likely suffer from claustrophobia.’

‘Are you going to tell me why you’re here?’

‘Are
you
going to offer your neglected fiancé some refreshments?’

She felt again that combination of despair and furious exasperation at Peter’s great talent for blithely ignoring everything she said to him. He seemed to do exactly as he pleased, making arbitrary decisions without reference to her. Not even asking first if it would be convenient for him to call. Come to think of it, when had he ever warned her of any decision he made? This notion she’d had that he would do whatever she wished or asked of him had all been a clever ploy on his part in order to control her without actually seeming to. She shuddered at the thought. He declined to explain the purpose of his visit until he’d downed two mugs of tea and eaten most of the biscuits out of the tin. With her patience fast running out, Chrissie tried again. ‘So, are you going to explain how you found me?’

‘It was surprisingly easy. I paid a call upon Vanessa yesterday, and accidentally came upon the advertisement you used to book your holiday.’

‘You went snooping through my mother’s things?’

‘Of course not. I found it lying about on a table somewhere, can’t exactly remember. You know how Vanessa never tidies up after herself.’

Chrissie couldn’t believe she’d been so careless as to leave that paper lying about. More likely he had indeed gone searching for evidence. It was certainly not beyond his devious nature to go nosing into cupboards and drawers, seeking clues.

Peter merely smiled. ‘You’d rather foolishly drawn a ring around the one for Rosegill Hall, and, noticing that something was obviously troubling Vanessa following your recent visit, I asked her what was wrong. She refused to say, but admitted that you’d decided to relocate north and open a small shop. It wasn’t difficult to put two and two together.’ He grinned at her, rather like a Cheshire cat that had swallowed an entire pot of cream.

‘OK, so you’ve found out where I’m living. I still don’t understand why you’re here. We agreed this is supposed to be a new beginning. For us both,’ she pointedly added.

‘No harm in my checking that my fiancée is well, is there?’

‘For the hundredth time I am not, and never will be, your fiancée.’

Ignoring her interruption, Peter went on, ‘I thought it only polite for me to pay you a visit, just to make sure you were settling in after all this unnecessary trauma. And your dear mother was distraught. I called at the Hall first. It was the old woman who directed me here.’

‘Mrs Gorran?’ Chrissie made a mental note to speak to the housekeeper on matters of privacy, although it would be a bit like closing the stable door after the horse had bolted.

‘No, the other one. Mrs Cowper, is it? She gave me your new address readily enough when I introduced
myself as your fiancé. Although I must say she seemed quite surprised when I happened to mention, in passing, that you two must be related. She is your grandmother, I presume?’

Chrissie felt as if every drop of blood was draining from her body. She went hot and cold all over, and actually started to shake. ‘H-how did you—’

‘Know? I really can’t remember. Ah yes, it was something your mother said. Dear Vanessa asked if it mattered if she hadn’t used her correct maiden name when opening an account. It obviously troubled her and I was able to advise her, as a bank clerk, that there is nothing illegal in calling yourself by any name you choose.’

‘And she told you what it was, did she?’ Chrissie wondered how many gins that had taken.

Peter shrugged. ‘She did happen to mention it in passing and when I saw the advertisement I put two and two together. It seemed the logical conclusion for your reason to visit such a backwater. Why, does it matter?’

Chrissie was at a loss for words. Of course it mattered! It mattered so much she’d been obliged to deceive her grandmother. She’d so wanted to tell the old lady the truth herself, gently and carefully, not have it applied with a blunt instrument by a perfect stranger. But she couldn’t say any of this to Peter, not without owning up to the fact that she’d lied to Georgia from the start.

‘I believe you did this on purpose to make trouble. You must be aware by now that my mother has some unresolved issues with her family, and because I’d let you
down you decided you’d come and stir things up a bit, to pay me back. That’s the nub of it, isn’t it? Some sort of cheap revenge for my leaving you?’

His expression of feigned innocence made her almost want to vomit.

‘Chrissie, dear, it was nothing of the sort. I wanted only to give you every opportunity to come home, with me,’ he mildly pointed out, in his most reasonable tone.

‘I’m not coming home with you, ever! This is my home now, not London. And this really is none of your business, Peter. I don’t understand why you thought it necessary to mention any possible family connection.’

‘It seemed the right thing to do. I’m family too, after all. Well, almost, as I explained to her.’

Chrissie’s patience finally snapped. ‘No, Peter, you are not!’ Fury was now replacing her distress, and she longed to lash out and smack that self-satisfied smirk off his face. Not that it would do any good. Arguing with Peter was like battling with blancmange. You were never able to make any impact as it just wobbled away from you.

He gazed at her, completely unmoved by her anger. ‘I must admit the old dear wasn’t too welcoming, or friendly for that matter.’

The hollow feeling in the pit of Chrissie’s stomach yawned wider. ‘W-what was her reaction?’

‘She slammed the door in my face, then I heard a crash, rather as if the old bird had collapsed.’

‘Oh, dear heaven, what have you done?’ Chrissie
practically did likewise to this most unwelcome visitor, then grabbing her coat and bag she hurried to the telephone box at the end of the street and called her mother.

Vanessa had refused to come, on the grounds that Chrissie had got herself into this mess, therefore it was up to her to find a solution. There seemed no alternative but to see Georgia forthwith, and offer a most humble apology. Taking a breath to steady her nerves Chrissie grasped the heavy knocker, its gargoyle grin almost mocking her. The front door, built of strong solid oak with many curlicues and studs, was opened by Mrs Gorran, and Chrissie was made instantly aware, if only by the grim expression on her face, that she knew. The housekeeper’s stance was rather as if she were guarding the gates of Paradise, across whose threshold no mere mortal would be allowed to cross.

Chrissie felt as if she were some loathsome creature that had crawled out from under a stone.

‘G-good m-morning, I wondered if …’ She cleared her throat, tried again. ‘May I speak with Mrs Cowper, please?’

‘The mistress is unwell and not accepting callers.’ The housekeeper’s tone was icily cold, brooking no argument.

‘I-I’m sorry to hear that. Perhaps what I have to say might make her feel better.’

‘I very much doubt it. I rather think you’ve already done sufficient damage to Mrs Cowper’s health. Her heart is not strong and the doctor has prescribed rest.’

‘Oh!’ Worse and worse. Had the news of her deceit brought on a heart attack? Chrissie felt sick at the thought. ‘Perhaps I may speak to her later then, when she is feeling more herself.’

‘We’ll see.’ She began to close the door. Recklessly, Chrissie stuck her foot in the gap.

‘It wasn’t my idea not to tell. It was my mother’s.’ She sensed rather than heard the startled gasp in response to this plea, and there was a slight slackening of the woman’s tight grip on the door.

‘Your
mother
?’

Encouraged, Chrissie ploughed on. ‘You do remember my mother? Of course you do.’

‘It was a long time ago,’ the older woman said, her tone softening slightly with nostalgia as she clearly recalled the child and young girl she’d once nursed and no doubt been fond of. ‘Are you saying that Vanessa sent you?’

‘I’m afraid not. It was entirely my idea to come here,’ Chrissie admitted. ‘I thought I could help to mend bridges between her and Georgia, heal whatever had driven them apart, only my mother was so distressed by the idea she made me promise not to say who I was. Even when Peter told me what he’d done, that he’d revealed who I really was, I rang Mum to tell her, but she point-blank refused to come anywhere near, insisting that would only make things worse.’

‘I see.’ The older woman seemed disappointed by this news, as if her own bright hopes for a reconciliation had also been dashed.

‘I’m so very sorry, Mrs Gorran, about all of this.’
Impulsively, Chrissie reached out to clasp the other woman’s hands in an effort to plead her case. ‘Please believe me when I say that I meant no harm. At least allow me to apologise, to try to put things right.’

‘The harm has already been done, I’m afraid. Old wounds have been reopened, and I doubt those can ever be healed.’ The housekeeper drew up her spine, ramrod straight. ‘The young master, Mr Ryall, arrived earlier. I believe he would like a word, if you’re agreeable?’

A hollow sensation opened inside Chrissie. This must be the uncle she’d never met, hadn’t even known existed, who hadn’t spoken to his sister in sixteen years. The one who, according to Ben, constantly urged his mother to sell up or move out of Rosegill Hall and allow him to take it over. This didn’t seem quite the moment for, and certainly not the way she would have wanted, their first meeting to take place.

‘That would be lovely,’ she said, putting as brave a face on as she could. And Mrs Gorran stepped back on the black and white tiled floor and allowed her to enter.

Chrissie was deeply aware of the slow thud of her heart as she was shown into the library. Her immediate impression was of a small cosy room, cluttered with books. These were stacked untidily on wall-to-wall shelves, on circular tables, on window sills, or left lying about on worn wing-backed chairs. She could imagine her grandmother sitting here of an evening, a glowing fire burning in the iron grate as she savoured the delights of her favourite authors.