“Letter?” Carrie’s voice was shrill. “ What letter?”
“I left a letter with Luke telling you where I’d gone. Telling you I’d be back for you.”
Carrie closed her eyes and groaned. “ Oh, no, no! Jamie – Luke’s dead. He was hurt. There was a fight between your farmworkers and the navvies. Lloyd,” she gestured with her hand behind her towards the man sitting so silent and still in the trap, unable to hear their words and yet torn with jealousy to see them together, “tried to save him, but he died three days after. Jamie, he murmured about a letter – I couldn’t understand. And there was no letter on him, I know …”
Grim-faced, Jamie said bitterly, “Your father must have found it.”
Carrie gasped and the picture of Evan Smithson bending over Luke’s still form as she had returned to tend his wounds flashed across her mind, his hand, as he stood up and turned towards her, inside his own coat pocket. In that moment Carrie hated her father.
“So, he’s got what he wanted,” Jamie said. “My land, Grandfather’s death – and you married to Foster!”
“Your grandfather?”
Jamie’s head dropped. “ Yes – I found him this morning. He must have been dead a – couple of days. He – he’d killed himself.”
“Oh, Jamie,” Carrie whispered, horrified. “I’m so sorry.”
There was nothing left to say. Their emotions were too deep for words. Gently, Jamie took her arm, turned her round and led her back to Lloyd Foster.
As Jamie helped Carrie into the trap the two men’s eyes met. There was no animosity between them, more a look of understanding and mutual pity, for whilst one had lost her, the other had not won her love. There was an unspoken request in Jamie’s eyes. ‘ Take care of her, be good to her’, and an answering promise in Lloyd Foster’s, yet not a word was spoken.
Lloyd Foster slapped the reins and the trap jerked forward. Twisting round, Carrie watched Jamie’s figure grow smaller and smaller as she was carried away from him.
Just once, he raised his hand in a final farewell.
Chapter Five
They travelled for several days, stopping at wayside inns, making for London.
That first night, their wedding night, she sat in the bedroom, tense and fearful, waiting for him to come to her. She sat by the window, shivering and staring out into the darkness, seeing nothing, but determined to stay as far away from the big double bed as she could. She kept her eyes averted from it, trembling at the thought of what she must endure.
Carrie was no maiden, afraid of the unknown. Her fear lay only in that, having known the joys of loving with Jamie, she must now submit to the passions of a man she did not love.
They had been welcomed into the inn by the beaming landlord, who, though she could see the question in his eyes, politely ignored the incongruity of a well-dressed gentleman accompanied by a gypsy girl.
“I’ll be wantin’ a double room,” Lloyd Foster had said firmly, and Carrie had felt a twinge of revulsion at the thought of what was to happen that night. “An’ mind the bed is clean and warm for my wife, an’ a fire in the grate.”
“Of course, sir. Mary Ellen,” the landlord had shouted to one of the kitchen maids, “ away and prepare the room, girl – the best front bedroom.” He had turned back to Lloyd. “And you’ll be wanting refreshment, sir, I don’t doubt. Now we have a nice roast veal, and some of the best wine this side the Channel, sir.”
Bowing, he had ushered Lloyd and Carrie to high-backed bench seats in a secluded corner. Two brass candlesticks with lighted candles stood on the table. They sat opposite each other and waited for their meal to be served. Carrie’s violet eyes were dark, the soft candlelight highlighting her beauty, but she was unaware of her own appearance. All her senses prickled at the nearness of the man sitting so close, his knees accidentally touching hers beneath the table. Though the meal was such as she had never tasted before – tender veal, sparkling wine which tickled her nose as she raised the glass to her lips, a sweet of delicious meringue and fresh cream, and coffee, real, steaming hot coffee, fresh and fragrant – Carrie could not enjoy it. She felt as if she could never enjoy life itself again.
Now, as she sat in the bedroom, she felt such a loneliness that she had never before known. Always, she had fought for survival. She had been the strength her weaker brothers – and even her mother – had leaned on. And now, plucked from their midst, even with the promise of security and comfort, she felt bereft. Torn away from all she knew, all that was familiar and – worst of all – torn from the very first man with whom she had fallen in love …
The bedroom door opened with a scrape and she jumped and turned to see Lloyd Foster standing in the doorway. He came in and closed the door behind him and stood looking at her. The silence between them lengthened until it grated on her nerves. She turned back to gazing out of the window, even though she could see nothing through the blackness. She was acutely aware of him standing behind her. She felt a shiver down her spine as he crossed the room and moved close to her.
He reached out and touched her shoulder and she flinched from his touch. He sprang away as if burned. “ So, that is how it is to be, is it?” His voice was low with emotion. “ Rough I may be, but I’m no ignorant brute. But you’re my wife, and, by God, you’ll be my wife!”
Gone was his joviality. There was no mistaking the steel in his voice. Carrie shuddered. She had heard it before, but never directed at herself until this moment. He turned and strode from the room, banging the door behind him. As she heard his feet clatter down the stairs, Carrie could only feel relief.
Lloyd Foster made his way to the saloon bar, where he drank steadily through the night until drunkenness dulled his frustrated passion for his bride.
The following day, much to Carrie’s surprise, Lloyd Foster seemed to have recovered his usual cheerful spirits. He laughed loudly with the innkeeper, tipped the stable boy lavishly for looking after the horse and was courteous towards Carrie. She avoided meeting his gaze and so did not see for herself the pain deep in his eyes, hidden by his outward show of good humour. She was quiet, withdrawn into her own private misery, repulsing all attempts Foster made to reach her.
They travelled on, Carrie sullen and silent, Foster singing Irish folksongs at the top of his loud and surprisingly tuneful voice. They stayed in a pleasant hotel in London, though where Foster slept Carrie never knew nor cared to enquire, for each night she slept alone.
He took her to the shops and insisted she should buy herself a trousseau, but Carrie had no idea how a lady should dress and was at the mercy of the dressmaker. All manner of clothing was laid before her, such items as she had never seen, let alone possessed. Flannel vests, cotton chemises, petticoats, corsets, cotton drawers, white thread stockings, coloured silk stockings, kid gloves, silk gloves, morning dresses and afternoon dresses of silk cashmere, black silk skirts and bodices, two evening gowns and a white lace ball gown, so beautiful it took Carrie’s breath away. Shawls and cloaks and hats, even a parasol edged with lace. Neat button boots and shoes for day and evening wear which Carrie’s feet had never known.
“I can’t accept all this,” she hissed at Lloyd Foster, gesturing towards all the garments being wrapped by the willing assistants.
“Ah, so you can find it in you to speak to me,” Lloyd said, his mouth smiling but his eyes reproachful. It was the first time she had spoken to him since their marriage – except to answer his questions in sullen monosyllables. “And you will accept it. It is a husband’s duty to provide for his wife, is it not, now?”
Her violet eyes flashed – the first time she had shown any spark of life since leaving Abbeyford.
“I’ll not be bought!” She glared at him, standing facing him in the centre of the fashionable shop, her hands on her hips.
“Oh, an’ I love you when you’re angry,” Lloyd Foster’s booming laugh rang out, causing the dressmaker to ‘tut-tut’ and her young assistants to giggle to each other. Carrie stamped her foot, causin
g the girls to give little shrieks of horror. It was the behaviour they were not accustomed to seeing in their shop – not the behaviour of a lady!
“I’m serious – even if you’re not,” Carrie cried angrily.
“Oh, me darlin’, I was never more serious in the whole of me life.” The hint of steel was in his eyes again. He took hold of her wrist, and though he only held her lightly with one hand, she could feel the strength in his fingers. “You will accept these gifts, my lovely wife!” The accent on the last word was audible only to Carrie.
Thwarted, she flounced out of the shop and stood waiting for him in the street outside. He sauntered out in due course, now seeming quite unperturbed by her outburst.
As they walked along she stole a glance at him. Wherever he was, she thought, he seemed at ease. Whether it was amongst the navvies, covered with dust, or with Squire Trent playing cards, or here in the fashionable quarter of London, he was equally at home and – amazingly – accepted. Whilst she felt a misfit, a dirty, dishevelled gypsy with no manners and no idea of etiquette.
She was quiet now and as they walked along she looked about her at the shops, at the grand carriages, at the coachmen and footmen in their smart liveried uniforms, and at the noblemen and fashionable ladies inside the carriages. Lloyd walked at her side, smartly dressed as ever in a well-cut suit, a brightly coloured waistcoat, his watch-chain looped across his broad chest, and swinging a cane.
Suddenly he reached down and took her hand and drew it through his arm. She could feel the curious glances of the passers-by and the colour rose in her cheeks.
“You see, me darlin’,” Lloyd was saying in his lilting brogue. “I want to see you dressed in fine silks and satins. You’ve the beauty of a fine lady already, me darlin’, all you’re needin’ is the fine feathers. Do y’hear me now? There’s so many places I can take you. Now, wouldn’t you like to play the fine lady?”
Carrie was silent.
She supposed she should feel gratitude to him for his generosity, but she could not forgive him for having aided her father in tricking her into this marriage, tearing her from the arms of her lover. But as the days passed into weeks and months, she found she could not help being caught up in the excited bustle of the vast city. The shops fascinated her, the fancy carriages, the beautifully dressed ladies in the silks and velvets. She even had a maid of her very own now – a young girl who helped her dress her hair and bedeck herself in her new finery.
Away from Abbeyford, away from all the squalor and hardship of her former life, away from the anguish of losing her brother, Luke, of seeing her mother weary and beaten, away from her brutish, obsessed father and with so much that was new to interest her, she found the pain begin to lessen and her natural vitality slowly reassert itself.
Carrie Smithson Foster was a survivor. She was strong and blessed with a natural zest for life that could not, would not, be beaten or bowed for long.
In the company of Lloyd Foster’s jovial spirit, she could not remain locked in her private misery for ever, so resolutely she raised her head, accepted his gifts and determined to make the best of the situation. She could not forgive him or give herself to him willingly – but between them, on the surface at least, there was an uneasy kind of truce.
Carrie still slept alone and never troubled to enquire where, or how, her husband spent his nights.
Lloyd was true to his promise. He introduced her to a life she had never dreamed existed. True it was not the life of aristocratic Society – those doors were closed even to Lloyd Foster. But they found their niche amongst the middle-class, well-to-do, ‘respectable’ Victorians. Carrie began to enjoy her new role, laughing secretly at the thought of the astonishment on the faces of these fine ladies if they knew of her past life – her impoverished childhood and harsh living. Now she mimicked their manner of speaking, their elegant way of walking, their affectations, yet she never lost her earthy honesty, her strength of will.
Yet, deep in her heart, she was lonely for sight of Jamie. Gladly she would have forsaken all this luxury – and more – for one kiss from her lover.
“Now, you sit here at this table, me darlin’, and I’ll be fetchin’ you some ginger beer.”
Carrie sat down at the table in the tea-garden to which Lloyd had brought her. It was April, over four months since she had left Abbeyford – and Jamie. Amidst the hustle of the tea-garden, Carrie felt the loneliness steal over her. She looked about her at the happy families – mothers in their beribboned bonnets, their wide crinolines spread about them, leaning down to tend their small children. The gentlemen in their pink shirts and blue waistcoats seemed to gravitate to one corner of the garden, where they smoked their cigars and leant on their canes, with their tall silk hats at a rakish angle.
“Here we are, me darlin’,” Lloyd placed a glass of ginger beer on the table before her and a dish of winkles. “Now – you’ll be all right for a moment, I just have a little business to attend to,” and, weaving his way between the tables, avoiding two boys chasing each other across the grass, Lloyd went to join the other gentlemen.
Carrie saw them greet him like a friend – he was obviously known to three or four of them.
It was a huge place where they were, on the banks of the river Thames. Far in one corner, Carrie could see a crowd clustering round a balloonist who was making ready to begin his ascent. She did not join the crowd but watched with casual interest from where she was sitting. The spring day was surprisingly warm here in the sheltered tea-garden. In her wide-skirted crinoline with its numerous petticoats and the close-fitting bonnet beneath which her hair was arranged into a neat chignon, she felt uncomfortably restricted and hot. In that moment she longed for the freedom she had known last summer, her black hair flying loose, her bare feet running through the long grass to the abbey ruins to meet Jamie.
Tears prickled her eyelids and she sighed. Now it could never be. She was here in London, dressed in fine clothes, trying to ape the lady, married to a man she hated.
But did she really hate him? Carrie turned her gaze to where her husband stood. At that moment he threw back his head and laughed at something one of the other men had said, a loud, infectious sound that caused those nearby to smile too.
He was certainly a fine figure of a man, a man any woman could be proud to marry – any woman but Carrie, whose heart belonged to another!
She turned her eyes away again and watched the balloonist as he rose, a little jerkily at first, above the ground. The crowd ‘oh’ed’ and ‘ah’ed’ and then he was soaring above their heads and drifting away from them across the Thames.
You are married to Lloyd Foster, Carrie told herself sharply. He treats you well and your life is more comfortable and luxurious than you had ever believed possible for the gypsy Carrie Smithson. You had better make the best of it! But her heart longed for Jamie to see her dressed in fine clothes. How much more worthy of being his wife she was now than she had been a year ago.
That evening, back in their hotel room, Lloyd suddenly said, “Now, me darlin’, how would you like to be goin’ to Paris?”
Carrie swung round to face him, unable for once to prevent him seeing the joy shining in her eyes. “ Paris? Do you mean it?”
“Now would I be jokin’ about a t’ing like that?”
She put her head on one side and regarded him thoughtfully. “We’ll be coming back, won’t we?”
Lloyd Foster avoided her gaze. “Ah, well, now, an’ that’s a little difficult to be sayin’. You see, I’ve got to earn a livin’ for us, haven’t I now?”
Carrie’s mouth tightened. “ I thought you’d made your fortune at the expense of others. Twisting people out of their inheritance by taking advantage of a drunkard seems to be your way!”
It was the first time they had spoken of it, although always it lay like a barrier between them.
“I’ll not suffer your reproaches the rest of our lives,” he growled. Carrie said nothing and the silence between them grew as they glared
at each other, challenging. Suddenly, as if unable to bear it any longer, Lloyd strode towards her and took her in his arms. His mouth was upon hers, his hands tearing at her clothing. For a moment she struggled, but he was too strong for her. He took her, not brutally as she had feared, but demandingly, possessively.
“You are mine,” he muttered against her cheek, “all mine. God knows how I’ve waited this long!”
Afterwards he left her abruptly without another word. She lay in the double bed, her emotions in a turmoil. She knew now what it must have cost Lloyd Foster these past months to stay away from her bed. Since that tentative approach the very first night when she had cringed from him he had never again made any attempt to touch her. Not until now.
Now, finally, as they had quarrelled openly his passions had boiled over and he could no longer hold back.
“Possess my body he may,” she promised herself, “ but my heart – never! He took me away from Jamie,” she told herself fiercely. But Lloyd is your husband, her conscience reminded her, and he has been good to you.
In Paris they stayed in a fine hotel. Lloyd took her dining in the best restaurants and courted her with gifts. “Didn’t I say you’d be the fine lady, me darlin’? You’re every bit as lovely as these Society ladies, so you are.”
Paris was a truly romantic city. Carrie was caught up in the whirl of the life there. Everything she saw she committed to memory and learnt from it, so swiftly that soon she was able to move in the middle-class society with ease as if she had been born into such circles and not bred in a mud hut, with bare feet and scarcely a wrap to keep her warm in winter!
She heard no news from England. Not of her family, nor of Jamie Trent. Though Lloyd came to her often now, many nights she still slept alone. Occasionally, she wondered where her husband went when he was not by her side.
He took her through France and, as winter encroached, they moved south until they reached Cannes.
Abbeyford Remembered Page 8
