by Maggie Ford
Please! The prayer ripped through Emma. Please, Martin, don’t say any more. We mustn’t give ourselves away, not yet.
Was Theo aware how close to the truth he was? So dangerously close. Her eyes sought Martin’s, beseeching him to keep his temper.
‘I’m sorry I ruined the act, Theo,’ she blurted. ‘I have to blame myself for thinking I was a lot stronger than I was. Please, my dear, don’t be angry with me.’
To her relief Theo’s indignation melted like ice cream before her abject plea, as he probably saw in her the pliant, vulnerable woman ready and willing to become his obedient wife. She cringed inwardly at what she could descend to, but it had its desired effect of allaying a dangerous situation.
‘Of course, my dear.’
He bent and dropped a kiss on her cheek, his beard which had once felt soft against her skin now causing a disagreeable sensation that made her think of the hair of some dead creature. How could she have ever thought of that touch as pleasant?
He straightened up, confident of his forgiveness. ‘Rest now. You’ll be home by tomorrow afternoon, my dear. As for myself, I must go and see what damage has been done. Martin, we will leave her to rest.’
She watched them go. With Theo marching ahead, Martin turned back briefly to mouth a furtive kiss towards her. She in turn blew one back, made happy by the thought of those two air-borne kisses meeting halfway, like secret lovers. That’s what they were, he and she, secret lovers. But not secret for much longer, she hoped.
She was being made to stay in for another day while the cause of her illness was diagnosed. Frowned on by starchy nurses in their stiff aprons and caps, and presented with the expressionless face of the doctor, the only bright spot was visitors’ hour. Theo having announced he would be unable to come owing to some business, she had Martin all to herself. Her last chance before being sent home tomorrow morning, and her heart rose at the sight of him among the ingress of visitors looking for their sick relatives.
As he sat in the black, tall-backed chair beside her bed, she held out her arms to receive him with no danger of interruption from Theo. His kiss sweet on her lips, his words, ‘I love you so much,’ spread contentment through her whole body like warm honey. If only it could go on for ever.
He came in through the glass doors on the heels of the last trickle of visitors. Amelia’s bed was at the far end of the long, narrow ward, beds lining each side, each occupant with a visitor, the ward echoing to subdued chatter.
Amelia too had a visitor. They hadn’t seen him, but he’d seen them. Martin’s hand on her arm, their lips so close they might have just parted from a kiss. From here he could have mistaken close conversation for a lovers’ kiss, but he knew he hadn’t.
His expression impassive, he approached, saw them spring back from one another as they spotted him, like children caught stealing.
Martin’s voice was loud. ‘So you hope to be out tomorrow morning.’ He glanced at Theo in feigned surprise. ‘Oh, hello, Theo, old man. You said you wouldn’t be here today. So I thought I’d pop in, see how she was.’
Amelia too was smiling, her smile strained, but that could still be from weakness. He presented both of them with a reciprocal greeting, revealing teeth that to him felt like the fangs of a stalking tiger.
‘I didn’t think to see you here, Martin. Did you not think to tell me that you had decided to visit my intended bride?’
Not waiting for Martin’s answer, nor expecting one, he leaned over and dropped a kiss on Amelia’s cheek. It was flushed and felt far too warm. He was only too aware of the cause. But tomorrow it would flame to his own caress. That she’d transferred her affections to someone else would make no difference. He would bring her back to him with or without her consent. He must marry her as soon as possible, woo her if needs must. And she would be his wife whether she wanted to or not. As for Martin …
Even as he sat on the chair Martin had vacated for him, he was hatching plans – weighing them and their consequences. To tell Martin he no longer needed him in the act meant that Amelia would leave too. He needed a better thought-out solution, one that could be executed without losing Amelia. Something final. It needed a good deal of thought.
Chapter Thirty-One
Her collapse on stage had only enhanced Theo’s reputation and brought audiences flocking to see an act that had so terrified his female assistant that she had passed out from fear, or so the press wrote, their natural instinct to disparage but in fact merely recruiting the curious.
The Palace’s manager said he’d never had it so good. People were forsaking the Chinese conjuror at the Tivoli to swarm to the Palace Theatre to see the Great Theodore.
Despite Martin’s misgivings and her own better judgment, Emma was back working the next day. The two days’ rest in hospital and one at home had helped, that and her own willpower. The scimitar illusion went without a hitch that first night and continued to do so. Theo was being deeply attentive and loving towards her, and considerate of her still delicate condition as he put it, and she could almost forgive him. Martin he mostly ignored.
Despite all Theo’s efforts, there was still a side of him she had begun to silently loathe, his amorous side. Tonight he was far from happy with her.
‘When do you think you will feel ready to receive me, my love?’ he muttered when yet again she said she wasn’t ready as he lay beside her.
‘It takes time,’ she explained. ‘I’m still very sensitive there.’
It was true to some extent – she was not exactly sore but the fear of any interference to her still tender parts made her flinch from his touch.
‘You have had more than a week to get over this, Amelia.’
‘I know, and I expect it must seem a long time to you, Theo. But to me it still feels like only yesterday.’ She didn’t think she’d ever get over it, would ever again be able to accept his touch in that region.
It would be different with Martin. He was the man she loved and who loved her and whom she knew would be considerate of her feelings. Slowly he was restoring her confidence in herself with understanding and patience. With Theo, she knew that would never happen, not after what he had made her do.
Even now, ignoring her plea, his hand was wandering over her body. ‘I don’t know what you mean, my dearest,’ he was saying seductively.
No, he wouldn’t know. He never would. His voice carried the slow, smouldering tone that she hated. ‘But I will help you, my darling.’
He would talk at length, ignore any protest, then take her whether she cried out against it or not. His sole aim in life had always been to have his own way and tonight would be no different. Her body now lay under his as he droned on in that deep and awful calm tone of his.
‘I shall soon be your husband and you my wife, and for a long time now we’ve been married in all but name.’ The voice grew harsh. ‘I don’t think it is your parts that are sensitive, my dear, but yourself.’
‘No.’
‘I feel your affection for me has faded a little.’ His weight was pinning her beneath him.
‘No.’ The lie trembled on her lips.
‘Then you are merely a little wound-up, my dearest, and not sure what you want. I shall help you relax. I shall be tender and respect your sensitivity, but I do have the right since we are virtually husband and wife. Enjoy my love, my darling wife, let me into your secret world.’
Her secret world – was he talking of her body or what lay in her heart, her love for Martin, his love for her?
His weight made it hard to breathe. She began to fight against him to try and regain her breath. Suddenly his hand was at her throat, the other dragging up her nightgown, her legs being forced apart; all the time he was crooning in her ear that he would make her feel better again, would help to return her to her normal self, that from now on they’d be so much closer and more loving to each other, and that he planned to bring the wedding to next month instead of May, and have done with waiting.
She had never seen hi
m this harsh, savage. Almost stifled, she was given no consideration, no tenderness or respect for her sensitivity as he had promised, his needs all that mattered to him, and even as she hurt, she stifled her cries lest he lose his temper with her and grow even more savage.
Neither he nor Martin saw her leave the next morning, Martin in his own rooms, Theo enjoying his ablutions. She could hear him singing – a deep, quite melodious voice, but she derived no joy from it, except as an indication of his remaining there for some time yet.
She rose, dressed hurriedly, listening for any sign of his leaving the bathroom. With her winter coat over her arm and the small, unobtrusive hat she’d chosen in her hand, not even daring to answer nature’s morning call, she hurried out of the apartment, for once praying not to bump into Martin opening the door of his apartment. It would mean explanations, and she couldn’t have borne to have him see her eyes swollen from crying. She was thankful at last to be down the stairs, having not been discovered by either.
Theo, coming back into the bedroom, would find her gone. Thinking her still asleep, he’d leaned over to brush her temple with his lips, before going out of the room. It had been all she could do not to wince, and when he’d gone, she had taken a corner of the bed sheet, wet it with her tongue, and had viciously scrubbed the spot his lips had touched.
She didn’t care what he might think when he found her not there. He’d demand to know where she’d been and, being told, would ask if she had said things to her mother that he’d rather not have her know, but she no longer cared. She’d not seen her mother since that terrible business, and Mum was now the only person she felt she could turn to.
In the foyer of the apartment block, donning the hat and coat, she was acutely aware of needing to pay a visit, but there were public toilets not far away, by the crossroads, steps leading down to below street level. In the seclusion of a cubicle, she dissolved into a bout of weeping, unable to help herself. Recovering, she washed her hands and face at a basin, ready to walk through the back streets to where her mother lived.
It wasn’t too far and should have been a pleasant walk, a sunny March morning giving a touch of spring. But she felt nothing other than the need to get to her destination.
She was welcomed in a way she’d become used to of late, Mum at last appreciative of what had been done for her. Her miseries behind her, she looked brighter, younger, gazing out on the world with more hopeful eyes, and all while Emma’s own outlook was becoming more and more miserable.
This morning it showed. Mum took one look at her and almost pulled her in through the door.
‘What in God’s name … Em, you look awful! What’s ’appened?’
Emma almost fell into her arms. Mum, never a demonstrative woman, was taken somewhat aback.
‘Oh, Mum,’ she burst out. ‘I can’t take any more.’
Led to the settee, she sobbed out last night’s ordeal and everything leading up to it. Mum, sitting beside her, listened in silence to the end. When she spoke it was in the tone of an outraged parent but which sounded to Emma to be directed solely at her.
‘First yer let that dirty old bugger get you pregnant, then yer let ’im make yer get rid of it. ’Ow can yer be such a bloody, silly little fool?’
‘You don’t know ’im!’ she sobbed. ‘And I didn’t get rid of it – I told you they done something while I was unconscious.’
‘But yer went along with it up until yer took fright.’
Emma stared at her mother in disbelief. ‘Ain’t yer got just one kind word ter say to me, Mum?’ she asked, imploring tenderness in a way that seemed now to come naturally. To her astonishment she found herself enclosed in her mother’s arms, her mother’s tone softening though dark with anger.
‘Luvvy – I know what some men can be like. Not yer Dad – the salt of the earth, yer Dad – but what neighbours ’ave told me of bein’ browbeaten by their men. But I thought yer was made of stronger stuff. I brought you up ter look after yerself and you ain’t no child no more. Why didn’t yer keep legs tergether and tell ’im ter keep ’is whatsit to hisself? You ain’t even married to ’im.’
‘He’s not the sort of man you can tell what to do,’ Emma said against her mother’s shoulder in this unaccustomed embrace.
Her mother gave a disparaging snort. ‘Yer should of left ’im a long time ago. Oh, my poor Emily!’
It was rarely Mum called her Emily, said only on occasions that called for sympathy, like when she’d hurt herself as a child. ‘You should of come ter me first, luv,’ she crooned. ‘Faced with a choice like that.’
‘I couldn’t. I was so ashamed.’
‘Ashamed? After all yer’ve done for us, me and Ben – this nice place, you coming ter see us against that vile sod’s wishes? He may be famous but he ain’t in my eyes. Man like that don’t deserve to live. I’d like ter kill ’im meself, I would. Em, yer’ve got ter leave ’im.’
The door to Ben’s bedroom opened. He had obviously been listening to all that had been said. She should have known. This time though, there was no sarcasm. He was filled with fury, his eyes blazing. His voice grated like a knife against stone.
‘So! Showing ’is true colours at last, is he? So much fer them what thinks they’re a cut above the likes of us! You an’ yer fine living.’
Emma felt too humiliated to retaliate, but her mother glared up at him. ‘Shut up, you daft bugger! She’s had enough ter put up with, without you sticking in yer two-penn’orth.’
‘Someone ’as to,’ he said, coming into the room. ‘It’s someone like me she needs. Someone what can defend ’er. Seems she ain’t got no one and I ain’t standing ’ere and see ’er treated like she ain’t worth the likes of that bleeder’s spit.’
He closed the door on Clara, who had made to follow him out of their bedroom, and turned back to Emma. ‘This is between me an’ ’im now. And this time I mean it. I’ll show ’im he can’t abuse me sister like he’s done and think he can get away with it. I’ve been up ter some tricks in me time, but, Gawdstruth, I’ve never treated a woman like he’s treated ’er. And I’ll get ’im for it, if it’s wiv me last breath,’ he vowed darkly.
Clara had opened the door again. ‘Git back in there. This ain’t none of your business!’ he yelled at her.
‘I’m family too,’ she shot back at him, her small face tight. ‘I ain’t goin’ ter be ’prisoned in me own bedroom.’
‘Christ Almighty!’ Ben bellowed. ‘It’s all bloody women in this bleedin’ place. A man can’t air ’is feelings without some woman puts ’er spoke in. I’m slinging me ’ook out for a bit o’ peace.’
Pushing past Emma, he grabbed his jacket and flat cap off the back of a chair. Shoving the cap on his head as if owing it a grudge, he turned back to Emma. ‘I’m goin’ ter get ’im, don’t you worry. I ain’t seeing ’im ill use yer. I’m gonna do fer ’im, I promise. This time I will. Gawd strike me dead if I don’t.’
As he lumbered past, the front door slamming behind him, Clara came quietly forward and touched Emma’s arm with her free hand.
‘Don’t mind him, Emma. He’s all wind and you-know-what.’
But for once Emma was only too gratified to have a champion, if only her brother, confident that when confronted by Ben’s hulk, Theo would be the most subdued man anyone could imagine. So long as Ben didn’t forget all about those brave vows in the next pint of porter.
There had been a sense of satisfaction in the way he had subdued her, the way she had submitted to him. Theo smiled. In three weeks, long enough for banns to be called, he’d have all the marriage arrangements in place. It would be a splendid wedding, taking place in one of the best of London’s churches, a host of celebrated names invited, the reception at the Savoy. He would find Amelia the most fashionable and costly wedding gown, and champagne would flow like the River Thames. No expense would be spared on this.
When she saw all that he had done for her, she would love him and him alone, seeing at last the wonderful life he would give h
er. She’d forget this silly affection for Martin Page, who thought he could lure her into some dreary, humdrum life, which was all he had to offer, whether his family had money or not. What the Great Theodore would give her would be a life of excitement, a host of society friends, endless parties, constant change and a thrilling existence. What more could a girl want?
It was Martin he needed to concentrate his thoughts on – Martin, who had tried to turn her head as he had caused his first wife’s head to turn. He was a womaniser and the world would be better off without him.
No good informing him he was no longer needed. The way Amelia had looked at him in the hospital, if he left she might follow. The only way to rid himself of the wretch would be by some fatal accident. With Martin out of the way she’d soon forget. They would be married and her life would be sweet and contented. He’d buy her the world if need be. He was going to the very top of his profession and she along with him. But no more talk of babies, and no more Martin.
He felt very good as he made his way down the hall to their bedroom, a smile of contentment on his face. He had the means to rid himself of Martin easily enough. The scene hovered before his eyes: the Sword Cabinet, basically a square box raised off the floor by four legs, containing two hinged mirrors and slots for inserting fifteen swords, shown to the audience as being hard, genuine steel and sharp-pointed, capable of stabbing through human flesh as well as piercing the displayed wooden block.
Somehow it must be arranged that Martin take Amelia’s place the night it would be done. The mirrors of the cabinet folded out of sight, Martin clearly seen inside the small box – the front being closed, he would pull the mirrors together in front of himself, concealed behind them so that a number of swords inserted would be reflected as twice that many by the mirrors as the doors were opened to show an apparently empty cabinet but for the mass of blades, the other four inserted with force behind the hidden man.
