Marriage by Capture

by Margaret Rome

  He continued quietly, sounding as if his mind were far away, yet from the look in his eyes she guessed that he was reliving some nightmare. 'I moved out of the woodland into a clearing and saw the pond lying clear and limpid, a silver mirror with a reflection on its surface of tall spruces and in its depths the distinct outline of every submerged pebble. It was so peaceful, not so much as a breeze rustling through the trees, no lap of water, even the birds were silent. Then I spotted movement among the branches of felled trees fringing the pond and as I approached I saw a young beaver had obviously been attacked by an otter, bloody, bowed, and obviously in the last throes of death.' He hesitated, seeming to find difficulty in finding the words to go on then, sounding almost pleading, he continued, 'Instant death is merciful compared with hours of torment, Claire. In the animal world the struggle for survival is fierce, each species, however fleet of floot, however cunning, however strong, lives in fear of some predator, even the insect larva that thrives in ponds supplies the frog with food, and the frog in turn makes a meal for the snake.'

  'But what about the beaver?' she urged, impatient of what seemed to be digression. 'You managed to save it, I hope?'

  'If it had been possible I would have done so,' he grated harshly, 'but as it was I had no option but to put it out of its misery as quickly and efficiently as was possible with the means available.'

  'Which was…?' she questioned, feeling suddenly queasy.

  'A length of twine carried for use as a snare—but only if survival should warrant it,' he stressed quickly. 'Rangers are dedicated to the saving of animal life, they will not kill unless their own lives depend upon it.'

  'So you strangled the beaver,' she concluded sadly.

  'Cured him,' he corrected quietly. 'Death is the cure of all pain and diseases.'

  The word acted like a signal to her brain. Cured! He had implied that Pete had been cured!

  Wide-eyed with horror, she jumped to her feet. 'Where's Pete?' she choked through a throat so tight she felt strangled. 'I want to see him now, this minute!'

  'Claire…!' His look of appeal was confirmation enough. With a cry of revulsion she backed away from his outstretched hand and ran wildly out of the cottage. There were very few places where a lamb could be hidden, so desperately she ransacked with her eyes the empty outhouses, the smithy, then finally ran towards what once had been a weaver's shed that housed a loom that had sometimes been worked by candlelight, weaving flannel for seamen, petticoats for their wives, plaid bedcovers and sheets of fine Manx linen.

  'Claire, don't go in there!'

  Ignoring his shout, she stumbled inside and hesitated, blinking rapidly. In the few seconds it took for her eyes to adjust to the darkened interior Rolf reached her side. Grabbing her by the shoulder, he pulled her roughly outside, but not before she had had time to notice the still form wrapped in a blanket lying in the far corner of the shed.

  'Murderer!' she screamed, wrenching out of his arms to stumble round the corner of the shed where she was violently sick.

  He was considerate enough to leave her alone until she was partially composed, yet when she finally swung her trembling body erect she was blind to the taut whiteness of his face, uncaring of the agony in his eyes. 'Please, chérie, try to understand why I had to do it—he had developed pneumonia and hadn't the slightest chance of making a recovery, which is why I had no alternative but to put him out of his misery.'

  'You murdered him,' she croaked, 'simply to assuage the bloodlust of savages that runs in your veins! You killed him, like the wolf you are, viciously, coldbloodedly, because last night he dared to get in your way. Yet at the same time you've brought me alive—alive with a hatred I never dreamt myself capable of feeling for another living soul. Thank you,' she hated him with livid, tortured eyes, 'for completing my education. Before I met you I was ignorant of humiliation, degradation, and self-loathing, but with you as my teacher I've become expert at exploring the depths of shame!'

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Rolf had become careless. On her way back from a long, exhausting walk Claire rounded the corner of an outhouse and saw that the car in which they had driven to the cottage had been left parked with the key still in the ignition. Dully she eyed it, insensible at first to its implications, then like a key unlocking the gates of a prison cell her mind clicked and she stared transfixed at the sleek, powerful car that suddenly represented escape into freedom, release from the nightmare situation that had erupted yesterday morning and had grown more unbearably fraught with every passing hour.

  Was it really only twenty-four hours since she had discovered Pete's limp little body? she wondered, pressing shaking hands against eyes that felt sunk into her head, left dry and aching after a deluge of bewildered tears. Was it only twenty-four hours since she had discovered that the man she had married, the man whose persuasive charm had undermined her defences to such an extent she had begun to welcome his intimate caresses and savagely demanding kisses, was a monster, a wolf in sheep's clothing, so lacking in conscience and sensitivity he had not hesitated to savage the defenceless creature that had unwittingly stumbled in his path?

  She hiccoughed a sob, but had no tears left to shed; they had all been spilt yesterday, along the cliff path as she had run to put as much distance as possible between herself and Pete's slayer; on the shore where she had sat huddled for many shocked hours, impervious to chill, uncaring of the incoming tide.

  The sea had been almost lapping her feet when Rolf had found her, a numbed statue of misery, on the sickle of sand that was all that was left of the bay that became submerged by each high tide. He had spared no time on words but with his face grimly set had plucked her from the sand and carried her, a struggling, screaming virago, up the treacherous cliff path. One false step would have sent them both plunging to the shore, but the touch of his hands had resurrected her into livid, hate-filled life, rendering her beyond caring.

  'Don't touch me!' she had screamed in a voice so harsh and croaked it was indistinguishable from the cry of the gulls wheeling overhead. 'I can't bear your loathsome, bloodied hands!'

  Impassive as an Indian chief conditioned to enduring torture without betraying pain, he had ignored her shrinking revulsion and had even mustered sufficient control to set her gently upon her feet when they were a safe distance from the jagged cliff edge.

  'You're far too shocked and hungry to know what you're saying,' he had dared to pity, 'you haven't eaten a bite all day. Come along, supper's ready and waiting to be served.'

  Through a red haze of anger she heard her own, wildly hysterical reply. 'And I suppose Pete is on the menu! Will you be serving him stewed, roasted or grilled?'

  Then, nauseated by her own sick humour, she had clasped her hand across her mouth, stomach heaving, and aimed a last arrow of loathing before speeding off towards the cottage where she had spent the rest of the tormented night shivering in her bed.

  A movement in the doorway of the cottage alerted her to the danger of allowing him to suspect her interest in the car. She dodged out of sight and reappeared a few moments later strolling from a different direction.

  'Did you enjoy your walk?' He sounded pleasantly disposed, but when she grew near she saw that his eyes held the bleakness of a man who had almost given up hope.

  'Enjoy…?' Her voice rang hollow. 'I've forgotten the meaning of the word.'

  He was blocking the doorway, so she had no choice but to wait until he decided to allow her to pass. 'I heard you go out at daybreak,' he continued, determined not to be riled 'seemingly without bothering about food. You must try to eat, Claire, otherwise you will make yourself ill.'

  'Then what will you do,' she tilted hardly, 'cure by the garrotte?' She sliced a suggestive finger across her throat.

  Before her hand could be lowered it was clamped within a steel-fingered vice. 'Don't try me too hard, Claire,' he warned, thin-lipped. 'You seem determined to make me lose my temper, but I'm equally determined that you will not. You've been badly shocked, n
aive, cosseted child that you are, by one of the crueller facts of life, which is why I've tolerated your wild, unjust accusation, but the novelty of coping with the tantrums of a child bride is growing wearisome,' his soft, threatening tone filled her with terror, 'so I'm giving you one last chance to grow up voluntarily, the easy way. I'm going fishing,' he clamped, dropping her hand as if he felt it red hot, 'for the rest of today I shall be out in the dinghy, leaving you time to come to your senses. Make good use of your solitude, for if I return at nightfall to a sulky, sullen child you will leave me no choice but to force you into painful maturity!'

  Long after he had gone Claire remained staring at the red weal curled around her wrist, a slave band impressed upon her flesh by hard possessive fingers. Tonight, with or without her consent, he intended to claim his rights, to force her into the role of a dutiful, spiritless squaw. Thank God he had forgotten about the car!

  Without waiting to pack her things, without bothering even to pin up her hair that yesterday had dried into a swirling golden cloud around her shoulders, she raced towards the car and in an ague of trembling turned the key in the ignition. Softly the engine growled into life, reminding her of the other forest predator from whom she was fleeing. Half expecting to see him loping in pursuit, she cast a nervous glance across her shoulder, then, assured that the coast was clear, she pressed down upon the clutch, engaged gear, and nervously accelerated.

  She had only a vague notion of the direction in which she should head, but as there was only a narrow lane running past the cottage she opted for returning in the direction from which they had come, knowing that beyond the stretch of moorland she would eventually come to a minor road. Although, even if Rolf should have changed his mind and returned to the cottage there was no way he could catch up with her, her heart was thumping and her palms sticky with sweat by the time she reached the road and then inevitably a signpost. The white arm pointing her way home acted like a spur, urging her to take more and more risks as she sped along deserted roads until the countryside became blessedly familiar. Hours seemed to have passed by the time she turned into a gravelled drive and drew the car to a halt before the entrance to her home. Feeling she had driven in a marathon, she forced buckling knees to support her up a flight of steps, fumbled open the door, then stumbled over the threshold.

  'Good morning, mademoiselle, can I be of any help?' The faintly accented voice, the uplifted, finely-defined eyebrows, seemed vaguely familiar to Claire as she stared at the woman who had stepped into the hall and was looking askance, regarding her as one might a disreputable intruder.

  'Who are you?' she croaked, wondering how the slim, beautifully-matured woman of fashion had come to take up residence in her father's house.

  'It is I who should be asking that question, n'est-ce pas?' Her tinkling laughter sounded strangely out of place in surroundings which over the years had known only quiet, respectful silence.

  'I belong here,' Claire replied, feeling immediately convinced that she did not.

  'I don't understand,' the stranger frowned as she stepped forward. 'So far as I am aware, Monsieur Foxdale has but one daughter who, just a few days ago, was married to my son.'

  'To your… son!' Stupidly Claire stared at Rolf's mother, wondering how she could have overlooked their many likenesses, the twinkling eyes, the curled-up mouth, the dark hair and eyes, the very determined chin.

  Unwilling comprehension had already begun to dawn in his mother's eyes when Claire stumbled forward, on the verge of collapse, and sobbed, 'I'm Claire…'

  The following half hour passed as if in a dream. Afterwards she could barely recall being half carried, half pushed, towards a couch in an adjacent room, being stretched out flat with pillows tucked beneath her head, being fussed over with a concern that flooded her unhappy eyes with tears of gratitude.

  'How long is it since you have eaten, chérie?' The question was kindly put yet demanded a truthful answer.

  'Hours… days… oh, I'm not sure!'

  'I thought as much! Stay where you are, don't dare to move,' Madame Ramsey ordered with an authority that reminded Claire of her son, 'I'll be back in a matter of minutes.'

  As good as her word, she returned carrying a tray laden with a bowl of soup, a glass of milk, and a plateful of thinly sliced bread and butter.

  'I do hope your father's housekeeper won't mind my taking liberties in her kitchen,' she smiled, urging Claire into a sitting position. 'She has been given the day off to attend the Tynwald Ceremony and your father is also there, so the house is empty except for myself. Fortunately, providence decreed that I should delay leaving for the ceremony until after I'd received an expected telephone call, otherwise we might have returned to find an insensible girl on the doorstep. Explanations can wait,' she scolded when Claire tried to interrupt, 'I don't want to hear a word until you've finished this soup.'

  Obediently as a child Claire submitted to being spoonfed with soup and coaxed into eating bread and butter until the bowl was empty and only crumbs remained upon the plate. Feeling infinitely stronger, she settled back against the arm of the couch to sip milk that seemed bland and tasteless compared with Margot's rich, creamy offering.

  Shyly she smiled at Rolf's mother, very conscious of her puzzled stare.

  'Forgive me, chérie, but you are so totally unlike the description I have been given of my new daughter-in-law. Invariably, and with monotonous regularity, the adjectives used were: elegant, dignified, aloof, calm and, of course, very beautiful— which is the only one with which I find myself able to agree. The impression I had formed caused me to dread our first meeting because I felt sure that I would fall short of your high standards, so I can't tell you what a relief it was when a very human girl fell into my arms, dishevelled, wild-eyed, torn ragged with emotion. And now, mon enfant,' she cocked her head to one side, 'are you feeling strong enough to tell me what my clumsy, impatient son has done to bring such a look of sadness to your eyes?'

  Claire found it amazingly easy to pour out her heart to the kind woman who was so sure of her place in her son's affections she was generously willing to share him. She missed out nothing, beginning with his ruthless exploitation of Jonathan's lapse; the way he had forced her into marriage against her will; the deprivation she had been made to endure in the primitive cottage and ending finally, with many gulps and sobs, by outlining the episode that had culminated in the lamb's death. Her grey eyes looked tortured as she faltered out the last pain-racked words, her eyes blurred with the dregs of tears that had been so copiously shed she felt certain she would never be capable of weeping again.

  For a long time there was silence as Madame Ramsey fought unsuccessfully to control expressions of surprise, dismay, and even horror. Though her maternal pride had been shaken, her voice rang with utter disbelief when at last she managed a reply.

  'I find it impossible to believe such accusations are being levelled against my son. No, no, chérie!' she waved a dissenting hand when Claire tried to protest. 'I do not try to suggest that you lie, merely that you must in some way have been misled, have misconstrued Rolf's motives. What have you done to each other, you two,' she threw up her hands with true Gallic excitability, 'how have you managed such a reversal of nature, turning a dignified young woman into an hysterical wreck and a man renowned for his compassion towards animals into a slaughtering monster? Such a phenomenon is too incredible to be believed. When Rolf telephoned the news that he was about to be married I formed the impression that he was very much in love with his "princess" as he called you, and that you were in love with him. Somewhere along the line something has gone very, very wrong.'

  'Your son was never in love with me,' Claire disputed bitterly. 'He found me physically attractive, he wanted me, and, as you are no doubt aware, he always gets what he wants.'

  'And usually deserves what he gets,' his mother assured her quietly, 'because once he has decided that something is worth fighting for he dedicates heart and mind to his cause. Both animals and humans ha
ve benefited from his dogged determination to right any wrong, he fought a hard battle with the authorities until conservation laws were introduced and some species of animals threatened by extinction were declared protected. The injustices suffered by the Indians were always to him a festering sore and they, too, have cause to feel grateful for the single-minded manner in which he fought for rights which otherwise they might never have achieved. Even as a boy,' her eyes became misty, 'he was passionately dedicated to easing the suffering of injured animals, our home became a hospital for the halt, lame and blind, a place of healing from which the timid gained strength and where the wild invariably became tame. Yet there was a time, ma chérie, when for his own sake I thought seriously of forbidding further activity because even though he achieved such a high rate of success I many times discovered him in bed sobbing over the loss of an animal that had been too far gone to benefit from his care. So you see, knowing my son as I do, I cannot accept that he would do deliberate harm to any living creature.'

  'I've seen him myself,' Claire insisted shakily, strangely eager to be convinced, 'setting snares and traps to capture animals for the pot!'

  Madame Ramsey nodded, seemingly quite unconcerned. 'And he does it well, does he not? He has his Cree friends to thank for his ability to ensure survival and I suspect, though he has never admitted it, that during his sojourns in the north-woods he has many times become lost and had cause to be grateful to his teachers. All decent human beings abhor cruelty, but ask yourself, my dear,' she urged softly, 'how many of us are such purists that we refuse to eat the flesh of fish, fowl or animal?'

  Claire blushed, conscious that the mild rebuke was justified, and forced herself to stammer the very personal question.

  'Didn't it bother you, marrying into a family possessing a strain of Indian blood?'