by Jana Petken
The rain was now falling in horizontal sheets across the narrow road and was accompanied by streaks of lightning. Celia looked up at the sky and was blinded by the force of the wind. Bitterness and anger surfaced, making her unconsciously lengthen her stride. Nature was showering its grief, she thought. It was pouring down on the land for a man who’d spent his life lovingly tending it, a man taken away before the autumn of his life. She took the last few steps to the place of no return; this is where she would say goodbye to him, where she had said goodbye to her mother a few years earlier. This is where she would come for solace in the months and maybe years to come, where she would continue to grieve for the life she’d lost and the life she still had to live.
Her mother’s headstone had been removed temporarily to allow her father’s name to join hers, and as Celia stared at the hole in the ground, she felt a cold shiver run up and down her spine. She inexplicably sensed that months and years would never come … and that she would be joining them both soon enough.
The house was filled with mourners. Joseph sat apart from the crowd on the hard-backed chair in the corner of the parlour. He wore a serious and mournful expression, drank a small sherry, and ate one of Mrs Baxter’s apple tarts.
Celia watched Joseph out the corner of her eye and knew exactly what he was thinking. If only she had the courage at that very moment to voice her suspicions, tell everyone about what he’d done to her, demand that he be thrown out, that would be the end of the nightmare. She sighed. She didn’t have the courage. She was a coward and a liar.
Celia scanned the room. Tom Butcher and John Malone stood in the far corner, glasses of sherry looking peculiarly tiny in their big country hands. They were her father’s closest friends, each knowing him since childhood. They were whispering to each other, deep in conversation. Their wives, along with Mary Shields, sat in a perfectly straight line on the couch, neither speaking nor drinking. Celia couldn’t help but notice that Mary Shields was particularly upset. She was staring unseeingly, her eyes so swollen that she could hardly keep them open. Her father’s lover, Celia voiced to herself, was suffering just as much as she was. The police had questioned Mary several times that week after she’d informed them that Peter had spent his last evening with her. She later told them, and afterwards Celia, that she had planned to marry Peter, and that he was going to inform her and Joseph of this the night he died.
Celia saw Simon Ayres, the family lawyer, standing at the window and staring out at the rain. She felt sorry for him most of all, for he had the unenviable task of reading the will after the mourners left. Simon Ayres was a man dedicated to his work, someone who had been in her life forever, and he was a most loyal friend to her father. She had not had a lengthy conversation with him since his arrival earlier that morning, and she would not have one now. He was like family to her, and his task would be a difficult one, for it would be conducted in a most businesslike manner. She had no clue about what he might say or what effect the outcome of the will would have on her life, but as she continued to study his pensive demeanour, she had a sudden but clear premonition that the reading would not go well. She would not speak to him or influence his professional neutrality in any way, of course, but she prayed that he would get the whole thing over as quickly as possible.
She moved to the far corner of the room and stood against the wall, hoping that she could somehow become invisible. She cast her eyes around the crowded room again and thanked God that at least the wake was going well and that everyone seemed to be enjoying the company. She watched Mrs Baxter handing sandwiches to John Sweeny and Derek Pike, two of the regular labourers who’d been working at Merrill Farm for years. They thanked her and then carried on talking with hushed voices. As usual, Mrs Baxter had taken over, and Celia had never been so grateful. Mathew Greene, the vicar, was talking to her aunt Marie, and every now and again, they looked in her direction. Everyone seemed to be whispering in a conspiracy that didn’t involve her. She had to get out of the room. She didn’t want their pity; she didn’t deserve it.
Marie Osborne made her excuses to the vicar and followed Celia. Marie had noticed a dramatic change in her niece since the wedding. She was painfully thin, sullen, and withdrawn to such an extent that they had barely shared two words together since her arrival. One of her eyes was slightly swollen, whilst her cheek had the yellowish pallor of a fading bruise. Celia’s injuries had shocked her to the core, and the reason she gave for them was as believable as the old king’s faithfulness to the queen!
Marie passed Joseph on her way out of the room. Her first impressions of him had not altered in the last few months. She was experienced in the ways of men and had been in their company in places that no wives would dare to go, or be allowed to go. Respected as a renowned painter, an intelligent conversationalist, and a woman of substantial independent wealth, she was in a position to move in most circles. She had met royalty, politicians, and men of great standing. But she had also known gamblers and drunks who had lost their entire fortunes, turning into rogues with their reputations in tatters. She was convinced that Joseph Dobbs was such a man, although he’d never had a fortune and she believed the term ‘rogue’ was not a word strong enough to describe him; he was so much more than that.
Celia was busying herself in the kitchen, loading a tray with pastries brought by Mary Shields. Her head was bowed, and she made a point of ignoring her aunt, who was leaning against the frame of the open door:
“Celia, put down that tray. Walk with me,” she heard her aunt say in a manner that broached no argument.
Celia hid her face; her aunt was the last person she wanted to have a conversation with. She was sure that she would blurt something out to her in a moment of weakness.
“No, I can’t just now, Auntie. I have to help Mrs Baxter,” she said.
“Now, Celia. I am not taking no for an answer.”
Celia took off her apron, put on her coat, and buttoned it right to the top button with fingers that shook with apprehension. Her aunt would undoubtedly ask her about the bruises, and she would keep asking until she got a satisfactory answer. If only Joseph hadn’t marked her face. She’d thought about that all week. If he had left her face alone, she would not have had to endure the endless badgering from Sergeant Butler, Mrs Baxter, and her aunt, who’d always had the knack of getting her to open up entirely. No one else had that affect on her. She suddenly wanted to laugh. She had accepted Joseph’s beating, and now she was berating him for not doing a proper job of it. She stifled a nervous giggle and followed obediently behind her aunt, who was marching down the orchard path like a soldier going into battle and looking forward to it.
As Celia walked, she steadied herself and planned her defence. The next few minutes would be crucial. She would have to guard her tone and her words. She was determined to keep her secret safe, as Joseph would kill her if the truth came out. When they reached the wooden bench at the bottom of the narrow lawn, they sat down, wrapping their shawls tightly around their heads against the cold, damp air.
“My darling Celia,” Marie began. “I can only imagine your pain. This has been a dreadful shock for you, for all of us.
“Auntie, I just don’t understand why this happened … Why Papa?” She looked at her aunt for the first time.
“I don’t know, dear. It’s all so senseless and incomprehensible. We may never accept his death, even if his murderer is caught, but your father wouldn’t want to see you like this, darling. Why, you’re nothing but skin and bones. You must look after yourself better. Making yourself ill won’t bring your father back to you.”
Celia lowered her head and focused her eyes on her hands folded on her lap. If she spoke now, a flood of tears would surely follow.
“Celia, I asked you about what happened to your face when I arrived, and I have to tell you that I don’t believe you fell down the stairs. I’m sorry, but I don’t. Tell me the truth now. Please tell me what happened. You’ll feel so much better if you do.”
“Don’t worry about me, Auntie. I really did slip coming down the stairs.” Celia said, finding her voice at last. “Why would you think differently? I slipped, and it was a silly thing to do. It could have happened to anyone, so why do you find it so unbelievable? Please, Auntie, don’t ask me about it again. My father’s dead and what happened to me pales in comparison.”
She looked deeply into her aunt’s eyes. There was no pity there, only disappointment. “Did you know that my father was going to marry Mary Shields?” she asked, trying to change the subject.
“No,” Marie said, not quite sounding truthful.
“Me neither. I can’t believe he didn’t tell me. I wonder how many other secrets went to the grave with him.”
“Your father was still a relatively young man, Celia dear. It was inevitable that he’d want to share his life with another woman. That’s the way of men.”
“Yes, Auntie, I know, but all the same, he should have told me. We never kept secrets from one another, ever. I would have been happy for him.”
“I know that, and he knew that too. He probably felt guilty for keeping it from you, but I think he just felt that you weren’t ready to accept another woman in your life. He loved your mother so much, and he loved you more than life itself. You do know that, don’t you?”
“Yes, of course I do. I’m sorry. I’m just angry at everything and with everyone at the moment. I can’t explain it. I feel so abandoned, and I just want him back. I didn’t even get to say goodbye to him.”
“And I didn’t get the answers I was looking for,” Marie said.
Celia stood up, pulled the shawl even tighter across her face, and hid her eyes from the pity she saw.
“Auntie, I want to go in now so no more questions, please. I can’t … I just can’t …”
Watching her aunt shake her head in defeat, she felt utterly ashamed of herself, but as they walked towards the house, she also accepted that her silence and the consequences that would come from it had irreversibly sealed her fate. She longed to tell her aunt the truth, that her husband had beaten her, that he had violated her body. That she thought he was her father’s killer. But if she did, she would have to deal with the questions and ramifications. She needed more time to think, to clear her head, for her shame was almost too much to bear now.
Her pitiful behaviour on the day Sergeant Butler told her the news was humiliating beyond words. She had believed in Joseph’s love for her. She had pretended that he still did love her, even after the news of her father’s death. If others learned the truth, found out that her husband had raped her and that she suspected that he had killed her father, she would be even more humiliated. Her vanity and her blind obsession with love may have caused her father’s death, and she alone would carry the burden of that knowledge. She alone would have to live with the consequences. She could not, would not, condemn the man she’d married to the whole world without proof of guilt, solid proof. Her job now would be to find the evidence, even if it meant having to share her home with Joseph Dobbs in the meantime.
The two women reached the front door just in time to see the last of the mourners leave. The vicar, staggering and slightly the worse for wear after drinking too much sweet sherry, led the procession down the long path. John Malone, Tom Butcher, and their wives escorted Mary Shields, who was still crying and looking as though she was incapable of supporting herself. Mrs Baxter, carrying her bag and coat, was also crying. Celia quickened her step and reached the old woman just as she was about to climb the three steps that led to the main gate.
“Mrs Baxter, you’re leaving too?” she asked.
Mrs Baxter tossed her head and sniffed into her handkerchief. She sobbed again and then spoke in a muffled voice, barely audible. “Yes, I must get off, and I have to tell you, Celia, that I’m flabbergasted and disappointed in you. Your husband has told me not to come back, today of all days. Really, couldn’t you have told me yourself instead of leaving it to him to do your dirty work?”
“What are you talking about, Mrs Baxter? Of course you’re coming back. You know I can’t do without you.”
Mrs Baxter sniffed again, then straightened herself and shot an angry glance at Joseph, who was still standing at the front door, talking to Simon Ayres.
“Well, you will have to do without me from now on because your husband has sacked me!” she shouted. “I just don’t understand. I swear I don’t know what I’ve done wrong. After all these years of service, I can’t believe it!”
“Maybe you should have a word with Joseph, Celia, dear,” Marie said, clearly trying to defuse the situation.
Celia nodded in agreement. “Yes, yes, of course I will. I’m sure this is all a big misunderstanding. Mrs Baxter, I assure you I know nothing about this. I’ll sort it out, I promise. You go home now, and I’ll come and see you tomorrow.”
Mrs Baxter kissed her and then, with the help of Tom Butcher’s wife, climbed the steps to the gate and caught up with the departing procession.
Celia was furious. Her head was aching, and she felt like screaming at the whole world. How dare Joseph, she thought all the way into the house. Mrs Baxter had been at the farm for as long as she could remember. She was as much a member of the family as Joseph. How could he take it upon himself to dispose of her like that, without a word? Merrill Farm was hers, not his!
Chapter 6
The moment had arrived, and Celia steeled herself to face it. Joseph was already seated at the parlour room table with Simon Ayres, and she felt his cold stare before she’d even sat down with her aunt. The reading of her father’s will was about to take place, and as she looked across the table at her husband, she decided that the question of Mrs Baxter’s future would have to wait. For now, she would have to concentrate on her own.
Simon Ayres was a man of high moral standing and had a reputation for being scrupulous and diligent in his work. Celia had known him all her life, and she was sure that his appearance hadn’t changed since she was a girl. He was short in stature, with a potbelly that hung over his trousers. He always wore his trousers a size too big for him, and they were accompanied with braces of various colours, depending on what day of the week it was. His mop of white hair was in startling contrast to his black whiskers, which were thick and curly at the ends, but they didn’t hide his generous smile or his infectious laughter. He could never be called a handsome man, but he was the kindest, gentlest man she’d ever known, and she trusted him implicitly.
As Celia watched Simon Ayres shuffle through his papers at the top end of the table she could only surmise that this would be a task he hadn’t been looking forward to. She was sure that it would be one of the saddest duties he’d ever have to perform and she pitied him. He looked up and Celia inadvertently sucked in her breath. The atmosphere was tense, and she suspected that nothing was going to be straightforward today. She could smell Joseph’s greed and briefly looked in his direction before returning her attention to Simon Ayres. He checked the papers in front of him once more and then he spoke.
“Well,” Simon Ayres said to the others, “this is a sad day for all of us, so let’s get it over with, shall we?”
Celia nodded in agreement, She felt resurrected somewhat. Now was not the time to wallow in self-pity, she decided. For once in her life, she would be strong. She would now know if Joseph’s words bore any truth, and if they did, she would fight with every fibre of her being to keep Merrill Farm true to her father’s memory. Joseph would not take her heritage or destroy her father’s life’s work.
Simon Ayres interrupted her thoughts with a cough that got everyone’s attention.
“This is the last will and testament of Peter George Merrill, who, on signing this document, was of sound mind and body. George Cromwell, of Lewisham, South East London, and myself, Simon Ayres, of Mayfair, London, witnessed this testament in the presence of Peter George Merrill on the fourteenth of October in this present year, nineteen twelve. I will now read the will …
“‘I, Peter George Me
rrill, of sound mind and body, do bequeath to my daughter, Celia Lillian Merrill, the sum of thirty thousand pounds, to be realised on her twentieth birthday …’”
With this said, Simon Ayres paused, took off his glasses, and directed his eyes towards Celia. “Celia, your father nominated me as the executor of his will; therefore, I shall, with your permission, keep these funds in trust for you in the interim period.”
Celia nodded her head.
“Now moving on …
“‘To my dear wife’s sister, Miss Marie Osborne, I leave my gold pocket watch, a gift from her to me on my wedding day. To Mrs Mavis Baxter of Goudhurst, I bequeath the sum of five hundred pounds for her faithful service to my family. And finally, to my son-in-law, Joseph Dobbs, I leave the Merrill Farm estate, in its entirety, in his capable hands.’”
Simon read the farm’s inventory aloud and finished by saying, “‘And the house and all other farm equipment listed in this document.’”
The mood at the table deepened. Celia stared straight ahead, concentrating on the portrait of her mother that hung on the wall. Her head was now screaming with pain, and she instinctively touched the lump on her scalp. She tried to sort out the jumbled thoughts, but the pain in her head was becoming so severe that she thought she would faint right there at the table. Her father’s face danced in her mind’s eye, and at that moment, she hated him just as much as she hated Joseph. She had lost everything. She wanted to die right there and then. She wanted the floor to open up and swallow her. She wanted to kill Joseph and throw his corpse to the pigs. Her father had betrayed her. He had let her down in the most callous and thoughtless way. Joseph had told the truth; she would never be free of him now. She could never tell him to leave. The farm was his!
