Without a Mother's Love

by Catherine King

  In the candlelight she saw him smiling crookedly. Then he became impatient with her, pushing her onto the bed and throwing her skirts over her head to claw at her drawers.‘You’re wasting my time,’ he breathed angrily.

  She heard the fabric rip and struggled to breathe. He cared not for how she felt about the arrangement. He meant to have his due. She wondered if he would hit her if she fought him and guessed he might. She rolled away from him and half fell off the bed, intending to leave the chamber.

  He was a lithe, agile man and caught her wrist again. He tugged down one of the cords that held back the bed curtains and began to tie her hand to the bedpost. He was agitated and talking breathlessly as he bound her. ‘You may do this willingly or not. As you wish.’

  When he took her other hand to tie that as well, she became frightened. Would he beat her into submission? She was helpless and exposed in front of this stranger.

  She feared also for Hesley’s respect of her. Her husband had set such little value on her virtue, yet it was not the quantity of coin that enraged her. It was that he had used her as a gambling stake without a second thought. He had gone too far this time.

  Jessup stood by the bed and picked up a fly swat from the mantelshelf. It whistled through the air as he struck it against the bedpost. ‘That is a warning. Next time it’ll be your flesh.’

  He would beat her! She had no wish to be injured. ‘I’ll do it!’ she cried. ‘I’ll undress and do as you ask.’

  He smiled at her, a sneering grin that caused her stomach to lurch as he unbuttoned his breeches.

  ‘Untie me,’ she asked quietly. ‘Please.’

  He freed her quickly and, frightened for her safety, she kept her word.

  Shakily, she took off her silken skirts and lace drawers and dropped them to the floor. The buttons on her bodice were fiddly and her fingers trembled. He became impatient, and tore them away.

  ‘And the corset,’ he barked, and pushed her onto the bed again.

  Quaking with fear, she unhooked the front, which fell aside, leaving her in a fine muslin chemise that skimmed her shoulders and reached her thighs. She sat on the edge of the bed, shuddering with despair.

  Was this what her marriage had come to? She was being forced to give herself to a stranger to pay her husband’s gambling debt.

  She heard the lawyer take a ragged breath and in the candlelight saw his arousal. She could not do this. She had to get out of the room. Somehow. How far was it to the door? How many seconds did she need to unlock it?

  ‘And this,’ he ordered, hooking the fly swat under the edge of her chemise. ‘Off.’

  ‘No.’

  He whipped the swat across her back. She winced and drew her chemise over her head. Then, suddenly, he was on top of her, his open mouth over her face as if he were trying to devour her. She turned her head away and he bit sharply at her earlobe.

  He spread himself over her, his weight pressing her into the feather mattress. Her flailing arms made no impression on him as he grasped her thighs and pushed them apart. She struggled in an attempt to fight him off and her body recoiled when he mauled her private parts. She protested, shrivelling beneath him, tensing the muscles of her lower regions. But he laughed, with a harsh snarl that disgusted as well as frightened her. She did not touch him with her hands and when his face came near her as he shoved and rutted she kept her head turned away. Her eyes focused on the grotesque moving shadow cast on the wall by the candle flame and she wondered how much longer she could endure her life at Hill Top House.

  As this stranger indulged himself with her body she remembered the pain of her wedding night. In her childhood innocence she had thought then that this was a kind of punishment to be endured as a wife. Miss Trent had assured her it was not, but she had been wrong.

  Pleasure for gentlemen meant grief for their ladies. When she was used like this, it was the worst kind of pain for any woman to endure. It did not hurt her in any physical way. The ache went deeper, stamping on her core, killing any vestige of affection or sympathy she might feel for any life that had ever touched hers.

  Jessup’s use of her body was over quickly. But, unlike Hesley, he did not need her assistance to repeat his actions. Her eyes watched the flickering shadows on the wall as she pondered the irony of being grateful for that.

  Her assailant was unaware of how much she hated him. She could not move beneath his weight as he fondled and invaded her until he was exhausted.Then he climbed off her and rolled onto his back, sweating silently in the cold, dark room. Presently, he reached for his jacket and searched for a cigar, which he lit from the candle flame.The smell reminded her of Uncle Hesley. She hated Jessup as much as she hated her uncle. She curled away from him. She hated her husband for humiliating her in this way. She hated everything in this house. Miss Trent had known what to do when she had suffered here. Miss Trent had fled. So would she.

  At first light she dressed in a comfortable day gown from last year’s wardrobe as though she would be spending the day pickling vegetables or making cordials. She asked Eliza to serve her an early breakfast before Mrs Cookson stirred. Then she went across to the stable and ordered the lad to harness the pony and trap. She thought no further than getting away from Hill Top House.

  She wondered if she dare go to her aunt Caroline’s. But she thought not. The Tylers were respectable, and however much they hated the Mextons, they would urge her to return to her husband. Perhaps even send for him to take her back. Why wouldn’t they desert her, as Jared had when she needed him? She closed her eyes at the memory. Why couldn’t he have loved her as she did him? They could have run away together and she wouldn’t be alone like this. Cold, lonely and unloved.

  Well, she didn’t want anybody’s love now. Not if they would let her down. From now on she would live her life on her own. She did not know how. Fearfully she wondered what she would do as she rattled down the valley through the early-morning mists. But she had decided on one thing. She would never go back to Hill Top House. Not while her husband or his grandfather lived there.

  As she approached the town she realized how noticeable she was in the trap. Few knew her well for she visited rarely and only then for the draper and the dressmaker. The miller delivered flour to Hill Top House but he was out of the town on the Grassborough road. The butcher called, too, and stayed for refreshment with Mrs Cookson. He would recognize her. She stopped at a watering trough and tethered the pony. A farm cart rumbled by.

  When the road was clear she pulled down her small travelling bag from the trap and, hitching up her skirts, climbed over the dry-stone wall to cross the fields, running for the sanctuary of a copse. She looked back when she was under cover of the trees. All was quiet. At the other side of the wood she shaded her eyes against the sun. The navigation glinted in the valley. Sheffield one way, or Doncaster the other? She had until nightfall to decide.

  Chapter 22

  The early sun had given way to clouds and by the afternoon she was hungry. She had not brought food with her. In her anxiety to get away from Hesley she had not thought beyond the little money she had and her jewels. They had belonged to her mother and she hated to part with them. But she had no idea how she would survive outside Hill Top House unless she sold them.

  Cold stream water refreshed her and the hunger pangs receded as she took her rough descent through woods and fields towards the waterway is the valley. She was used to physical exercise from labouring in her garden, but fear of the unknown life before her made her tense and her body ached. She found a sheltered grassy slope to rest until nightfall.

  The next thing she knew she was being woken by rain on her face and it was dark. Very dark. She had never been away from the house at night. She had no lantern and clouds shielded the moon. For the first time since she had left that morning she was frightened. This was more than just the fear of hunger and fatigue. Vagabonds were out at night, with cudgels and knives, and she was alone.

  But she was free. She was free of the humil
iation that Hesley had heaped on her - and the freedom to starve was better than suffering at his bidding. But perhaps not the freedom to die. She pulled her hood over her bonnet and stealthily followed the stream downhill until a cluster of cottages loomed in front of her. She crept around them until she located a track. This, surely, would lead her into the town? But what would she do then? Already she was feeling faint with hunger again.

  The stone buildings of the town square, dominated by the majestic spire of the church, were familiar although all was in darkness. Perhaps she could sleep in the church and be away before dawn. She remembered Mrs Cookson talking of a pie-seller who visited the beast market and began to climb the hill past the church, wondering if he had lingered, drinking his profits at the tavern.

  ‘Boy! Come here,’ Olivia called, to the ragged group hanging around the door, and held up a coin. ‘Fetch me some food. Do not tell anyone who it is for.’

  He took her coin and ran back to the tavern. But he did not go in, and the other children followed him as he ran past the entrance and disappeared into the darkness. How stupid of her! Servants obeyed her, but why should anyone else? She wondered if she dared go in herself. What if the butcher were in there celebrating a good day at the market? She approached a dingy window and lingered in the shadows.

  ‘Are you looking for business? ’Cos if you are I’ll thank you to move on.This is my patch.’A woman of her own age loomed out of the shadows. In spite of the chilly air her gown was cut low at the neck and half of her skirt was hitched into her garter to expose a worn shoe and a white leg without a stocking. The woman looked her up and down. ‘You won’t get no trade dressed like that, love. Pretty face, though.’

  The woman smelled of drink but Olivia was too exhausted to be concerned. She placed her bag by the wall and leaned against the damp stone. ‘I - I’m hungry.’

  ‘Aren’t we all? Wait there.’ The woman went inside and, through the dimly lit glass, Olivia glimpsed the drinkers, men in moleskins and tweeds who should have been in their homes at this late hour. She heard their raucous laughter. She undid the fastenings on her cloak to locate her leather purse, lodged safely in the inside pocket. She would need another coin for the food.

  ‘This one?’ She was startled by the male voice. He had come outside with the woman and he flung back both sides of her cloak to look at her. Then he tipped her chin up towards the yellow glow from the window. ‘Aye, you’re right. She is a pretty one. Well, my dear, why don’t you come with me?’ He tossed the woman a coin and she disappeared into the tavern.

  He was respectably dressed and reminded her of the pit manager at Mexton. But he also smelled of drink and tobacco, which reminded her of Uncle Hesley. She backed away, alarmed.

  ‘Hey! Where are yer going?’ He grabbed at her cloak and hauled her towards him. ‘I’ve just paid good money for you.’

  He had no food for her - he had bought her, as Jessup had last night. She kicked his shins and wriggled out of her cloak, leaving it trailing in his hands. She ran across the dirt track, soft underfoot with mud and droppings from the earlier beast market, and into the darkness of the buildings beyond.

  ‘Come back ’ere!’ the man shouted. She heard him yelp, and when she glanced back he had stumbled over her cloak and was cursing the mire on his own clothes.

  She hid in the shadows and caught her breath. Her money was tied inside her cloak! And her jewels were in her bag, which was still by the tavern wall where she had placed it. She would have to go back. She waited for the man to leave and picked her way back through the mud. But her cloak and bag had gone. Taken, she guessed, by the woman.

  She had lost her money and her jewels, and her boots smelled of the privy in high summer. She was cold and hungry. Her back, legs and arms were tired and sore. Dear heaven, she would not survive if she could not look after herself better than this. None of her reading had prepared her for life on the streets. She realized that she did not have the wit to survive in this dangerous place alone after dark. Not yet, she thought with determination. She would learn. Others had and so could she. But she dared not linger. Hunger must wait. She had to find somewhere safe to spend the night.

  Olivia hurried to the back of the building where she might find an outhouse or stable. But this was a tavern, not an inn. There were no horses, no kitchen to prepare food for hungry travellers, only a locked brew-house and a stinking yard that was dark and empty. Too frightened to approach a door for help, she did not know what to do next. She sat on a mounting stone and thought briefly of her foolishness in leaving her home without a thought for where she would go and how she would survive.

  No, she was not foolish. She could not, would not, go back to the humiliation and misery of Hill Top House. But cold fear crept around her heart. She had to get away from the town, where she might be recognized by tradesmen and word sent to Hesley. It would be better to go now, at night, when decent folk were asleep in their beds. She shivered. She no longer had a cloak to protect her from the weather. But she straightened her spine.Without her bag to weigh her down she could move more swiftly, more quietly, and out of sight.

  She stumbled down the hill to the navigation, keeping close to the walls and avoiding any building with a glimmer of light at its window. After a while she forgot her hunger as her legs grew tired. She chose the Doncaster direction, she knew not why, only that she had heard Sheffield, though nearer, was the worst for smoke and squalor. And there was more farmland towards Doncaster in which she felt she might be safer.

  She followed the towpath past the iron works and the wharves, past empty and laden barges moored for the night. She went around locks and under bridges until she was dropping with weakness and fatigue. She must not faint! If she rested she might fall asleep and freeze to death by the canal. She did not want to die. She shivered and wrapped her arms round herself for warmth. Then, with a flash of inspiration, she hoisted her skirts and stepped out of her thick petticoat. The cold air swirled around her legs until the heavy skirt fell back into place. Quickly, she slipped the warm flannel over her head so that it formed a cloak and tied the tapes about her neck.

  It began to rain, a steady, soaking drizzle, so she found shelter under a bridge. It was dry at least, but the chill penetrated her bones. Why was it always colder by water? It weakened her so much that she could barely stand. She leaned against the brickwork for support. Her head spun and her vision, such as it was at dead of night, blurred. She was going to faint. Her eyes were closing. She must pray. Yes. Her prayers, learned by heart from Miss Trent, would keep her safe. The words came and went in her mind as consciousness ebbed. She was in God’s hands now.

  It was still dark when Olivia woke, stiff and thirsty, dishevelled and grubby. Her feet and hands were freezing. Her corset was digging painfully into her flesh where she had slept on it. She wanted to take it off, but she needed its warmth. As she emerged from under the bridge she saw that the sky had cleared and the first signs of dawn were easing away the blackness of the night.

  She heard a distant voice - ‘Gerrup, girl, goo on, goo on’ - and glimpsed a cowman bringing in his herd for milking. A farm! Food and drink! She retreated under the bridge until he had passed overhead with his six cows.There was enough light for her to make out a cowshed in the distance and a barn. There would be a pump for water and warm straw, perhaps, to comfort her stiffness.

  The cowman led one of his beasts into the barn; she was lowing constantly and her belly bulged on both sides. There goes my resting-place, she thought. He was unlikely to leave his beast for any length of time until she had calved. But a young girl joined him to herd the others into the milking shed. Perhaps she would let Olivia have a ladle of milk.

  Olivia approached cautiously and leaned against one of the wooden stalls. ‘Good morning, miss. I wonder if I may have some milk?’

  The maid jumped. ‘Ooh! Where you come from?’

  ‘The canal.’

  ‘Traveller, are you?

  ‘Yes.’

&n
bsp; ‘You got summat to put it in?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘You must be new on the barges not to know to bring a can,’ the girl scoffed.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, it’s not far. Go back and get one and I’ll fill it for you.’

  ‘May I - could I have some to drink first?’

  ‘If you milk her yoursen, aye. Mam’s poorly today and I’m on me own. There’s a stool and bucket over there.’

  Olivia looked around. ‘I - I don’t know how.’

  ‘You don’t know how to milk a cow? Blooming ’eck, I’ve been milking since I were walking!’

  Olivia guessed this was not quite true. At Hill Top House she had learned how to scald cream and churn butter, but the farmhands, assisted by Mary and Eliza, milked the cows. Why hadn’t she waited to plan her escape? Had she left in too much haste? Never! She could not have tolerated Hesley and his ways a minute longer. She had made the right decision and she would not go back. Ever.

  But she must have food and shelter. And work of some sort for she had no money. Unless . . . She fingered her gold wedding band. ‘I’m very hungry,’ she muttered.

  ‘Wait till this is full, then.’The young girl squeezed the cow’s udder rhythmically for several minutes. Then she stood up, lifting the heavy wooden bucket with both hands.

  ‘Perhaps a little of that?’ Olivia ventured.

  ‘Don’t you go putting no dirty hands in there! It’s for cheese.’ She went through a gap in the stone wall and returned with an empty bucket.

  ‘You have cheese?’

  ‘You want some o’ that an’ all?’

  ‘And some bread. How much will that be?’

  ‘I’ll have to go indoors for bread.’

  ‘Please?’ she begged.

  The girl stared at her. ‘You don’t look like you’ve come off the barges.’

  Olivia thought again of how hopeless she was at finding food and drink. She must do better than this or she would die. She felt faint and staggered. ‘Some water, please.’