‘I didn't expect to be dragged through a marsh.’ Lalage scowled at the guide. ‘Well, Mr Freeman, it's getting dark. Time we went back, I think.’
* * * *
‘What we must do,’ said Lalage, as she and Alex ate supper before a blazing fire, ‘is ruin her. Before she ruins us. Think, Alex! What can we tell Ellis? What would he believe?’
Alex frowned. ‘We'll tell Ellis nothing which is untrue,’ he replied. ‘Oh, Lally! Don't be so dramatic. As if she wants to ruin us. As if she thinks of us at all.’
‘I expect she thinks of us day and night.’ Lalage pushed her plate aside. Having sent the maidservant away, she began to undress herself. Unfastening her gown, she let it slide to the floor.
‘She plots,’ she muttered, tugging at her laces. ‘She schemes. She makes plans. She'll get her way, you mark my words.’ Now, Lalage began to sob. ‘If she takes Ellis, I don't know what I'll do!’
‘Well, he's not married to her yet.’ Shrugging off his own clothes, Alex yawned. ‘There's no wedding arranged.’
‘There will be!’ Still in her shift, Lalage walked across the room. Pulling off her rings, she tossed them into their boxes, one by one by one. She stared into the red glow of the fire. ‘Ellis is determined,’ she whispered. ‘Once he gets an idea in his head, that's it. There's no stopping him. He — ’
‘Lally, that's enough.’ Alex went to her. Taking her in his arms, he kissed her neck. ‘I don't want to hear any more about this so–called engagement,’ he murmured, into her hair. ‘I'm sick and tired of the whole subject. Do you understand?’
‘But, Alex — ’
‘You're getting yourself all worked up about nothing.’ Alex shrugged. ‘Oh, I admit he's besotted,’ he agreed. ‘I accept that he's behaving as if Miss Searle is the only woman in creation. He's haring off to Birmingham at all hours of the day and night. But what do you think happens when they meet?’
‘I — ’
‘You don't know, so I'll tell you. They go to some dirty little flea–run of a private brothel. He rogers her till he's exhausted. He comes home and stays there contented until he wants her again.’
Alex kissed Lalage's cheek. ‘Darling, Miss Searle is a whim. A passion which will wear itself out. He's had mistresses before. This particular trollop is merely the latest to take his fancy. She won't be the last.’
‘No, Alex. You're wrong. I — ’
‘Lally, he's notorious! At fifteen, he'd already had half a dozen chambermaids. God only knows how many bastards of his are gambolling about the estate. Ellis likes women, certainly. But he'll never restrict himself to one alone.’
Again, Alex shrugged. ‘Oh, he might marry some day,’ he conceded. ‘But then, he'll take a wife of his own class. He'll sire a dozen children, and leave her to raise his brood while he goes his own way. You'll see.’
But Lalage was not to be comforted. ‘He's doing it to spite me,’ she said. ‘That night when I suggested the three of us went to bed together, he was disgusted. He's paying me back.’
‘Don't be ridiculous.’ Alex laughed. ‘Ellis thought it was a stupid idea, that's all. He simply doesn't want you, or not in that way.’
‘But he loved me once! He — ’
‘He loves you still.’ Alex kissed her again. ‘So do I. Come to bed.’
‘I don't want to.’
‘You do.’
‘I said, I don't!’ But, all the same, Lalage's eyes glittered. Her cheeks grew red.
Alex grinned. ‘Shall we do it in comfort?’ he asked. ‘Shall we be gentle and loving, shall we kiss and hug and be kind? Or shall we play a different game?’
‘Let's hurt each other.’ Now, Lalage's eyes grew huge. ‘Let's bite and scratch. Make each other cry.’
‘Very well.’ Alex grasped her shoulders. ‘Lie on the floor, then,’ he whispered. ‘No, not on the hearth rug. Lie down over there, on the cold, hard floor.’
* * * *
Lalage lay on her back, naked and bleeding. Scraped and grazed by rough wooden floorboards, she had long, jagged splinters in her shoulders, dirt and blood under her finger nails, and dust in her hair. Cold now, she wanted to cover herself. To sit wrapped in a blanket by the fire.
She lifted her hips. ‘Alex,’ she whispered. ‘Let me get up.’
Alex groaned. But then, obligingly, he rolled away.
Lalage sat up. Gingerly, she touched herself.
She was very sore, but she was also dry. Bone dry. Once again, Alex had done it his way, had withdrawn before any seed was spilled, had cheated her of what she wanted most.
Sitting by the fire, Lalage began to cry.
Chapter 13
By the time she and Ellis met again, Rebecca had passed a week of absolute misery. Even the factory hands, who were not on the whole a sensitive or imaginative set of men, observed Miss Searle was out of sorts. Unusually sharp, maddeningly hyper–critical, she countermanded her own orders, argued with people who agreed with her already, and found faults where none existed.
‘It's the woman in ‘er,’ averred Michael Cuthbertson profoundly, as he and Peter Crewe sat together in an outhouse which they regarded as their own private dining room, eating their mid–day meal. ‘Old Mr Searle, he should've wed a girl like her long before now. Put her in harness, like. Not left her to gallop about the meadow all by herself, without bit or bridle, lacking a man's control.’
‘I reckon she does very well.’ Unwilling to run his employer down — or at any rate, not while he owed her money – Peter Crewe ate the last fragment of his pasty. He wiped his face on the back of his hand. ‘Considerin’ she's just a lass, I think she manages the place handily. She's — ’
‘She's in need of a husband.’ Michael Cuthbertson grinned. ‘She's in heat! That's why she's so fidgety. Why nothin's right for her these days.’
‘Oh.’ Peter Crewe shrugged.
‘If she had a man to advise ‘er, look — to guide ‘er by day and see she's properly served at night — well, she'd get on much better than she does now.
‘A woman needs a firm hand. Don't care who she is, she can't get on without a man to lead ‘er. To show ‘er the way. Law o’ nature, that is.’
‘Is it, now?’ Peter Crewe shrugged again. He got up. ‘Best get back,’ he muttered. ‘Don't want her goin’ for me again. Had a bellyful this morning.’
The two craftsmen walked into the polishing shop where, as if to underline the justice of Michael Cuthbertson's remarks, they found Rebecca snapping and snarling at one of the apprentices. ‘I'm telling you, George Warner,’ she cried, her voice shrill with irritation, ‘I'm telling you now, and the rest of you may listen! This is not a charity school for idle cripples, where the halt and the lame may while away their days. This is not an asylum, where the simple–minded may beguile their empty hours with a little light handicraft!
‘This is a manufactory. I will have those who work here earn their money. Any who feel disposed to shirk may go and find other masters, for I will not pay good wages for slovenly work!’
Slamming the offending candlestick down on the bench, Rebecca turned to leave. Nervously, Michael Cuthbertson and Peter Crewe looked at her.
‘Ah. Michael.’ Rebecca fixed him with an ice–blue glare. ‘George here is one of your little flock, is he not? Have you anything to say in his defence?’
Michael blinked. ‘Well, Miss Searle,’ he began, ‘I admit the boy's backward. He's maybe a little clumsy, too. But he's still learning. If he's allowed to go a bit slower, like, he'll make fewer mistakes. As Mr Searle always used to say, the boys — ’
‘Mr Searle?’ Rebecca's blue eyes flashed. Losing her temper completely, she grabbed Michael by the collar. She shook him. ‘Don't you ever mention Mr Searle to me!’ she cried.
Storming out of the workshop, she swept across the yard. The men heard her office door slam.
‘It's as I said.’ Michael Cuthbertson went to his own bench. He picked up his hammer. ‘Needs a husband,’ he muttered. ‘Needs a man, to
show her what's what. If she were my lass, I'd tan her backside good and proper. So help me I would!’
* * * *
Rebecca sat her her office, grinding her teeth. Mr Searle, indeed! How dare that man invoke Jeremy Searle!
For a day or two after Lyddy had made her astonishing confession, Rebecca hardly gave her grandfather any thought at all. She'd been trying to digest the fact that she was Lyddy's daughter. Lyddy's illegitimate daughter, to boot.
But, by the Thursday of that traumatic week, Rebecca had begun to look back over her childhood. Then she thought of Jeremy Searle a great deal.
How could he have been so cruel? So deceitful? So mean? It wasn't just that he had lied and deceived. He had forced his wife and daughter to lie, too.
Although Rebecca could understand why Jeremy had not wanted the world to know his private family business, she could not forgive him for deceiving her. She hated him now. If she could have dug him up and spat at him, she'd have done it. Then smashed his headstone and desecrated his grave.
She decided to tell Ellis everything. Then, after he'd turned away in disgust, she would immerse herself in her work. She would never think of marriage again.
For now, the very idea of being a wife, of giving up her own identity to become some man's chattel, was abhorrent. Rebecca Searle would be a great manufacturer. The most ambitious, the most ingenious the town had ever seen. She would show Hollis and his friends what she was made of. If anyone tried to cross her, she would destroy him. She would leave him bruised and bleeding in the dirt.
* * * *
When Ellis called again, that Sunday afternoon, Rebecca was waiting for him. Clad in her drabbest clothes, her hair was plainly dressed and her demeanour subdued. Her face wore an expression of solemnity better suited to a funeral, or a wake.
Returning her lover's greeting with the coolest of nods, she let herself out of the house. She took Ellis through the yard, out of the side gate, then led him down a lane full of high, blank–walled warehouses. Such dreary surroundings were the perfect setting for what she had to say.
Ellis did not care where he walked. Rebecca's coolness, however, did upset him. When he spoke, when he asked how she did, if she'd been well since he saw her last, she replied in sniffs, grimaces or monosyllabic murmurs. If she replied at all.
As they came to the end of the lane and began to cross a piece of waste ground on which spoil heaps festered and general household rubbish lay rotting all around, Rebecca found her voice at last. ‘Mr Darrow,’ she began, ‘I must — ’
‘Ellis, if you please.’ Encouragingly, Ellis smiled. ‘You've said my Christian name at least once. You could say it again, if you try. My dear Rebecca, since we last met, I have been so — ’
‘Mr Darrow!’ Rebecca would not, could not look at him. ‘Please, don't talk like this! Will you hear what I have to say?’
‘Well?’ Ellis was disposed to indulge her. ‘What is it?’
‘Since we met last,’ replied Rebecca carefully, ‘I have been told something which amazed me. It concerns the circumstances of my birth. Because of these, it is impossible for me to accept your offer of marriage.’
‘I see.’ Ellis did not seem the least bit perturbed. ‘So — what are these particular circumstances? More to the point, why do they so disastrously affect you and me?’
Rebecca grimaced. She cleared her throat. She might as well spell it out, she thought. Wrapping the sordid truth in fancy phrases would serve no purpose at all. ‘Since speaking to you last,’ she began, ‘I have learned who my parents were.’
‘Your parents?’ Ellis shrugged. ‘Well, I — ’
‘Please, Mr Darrow! Don't interrupt me.’ Now, Rebecca was as pale as her snow–white neckerchief. ‘I had always assumed — been told, in fact — I was an orphan. That my mother had died in childbirth. That my father had deserted us, never to be heard of again.
‘But, last week, I learned my mother is in fact the woman I've always called Aunt. Her name is Lyddy Searle. My father was Henry Lowell.’ Rebecca stared straight ahead. ‘The world,’ she continued doggedly, ‘has a host of names for the children of unions such as theirs. Names I do not care to repeat, and with which I hope you are too generous to insult me.
‘All the same, you will wish to withdraw your offer of marriage forthwith. But, to spare you that embarrassment, I shall assume you never made it. I release you from any obligation. Consider your words unsaid.’
Ellis was silent. To fill this yawning void, Rebecca felt obliged to talk on. ‘Mr Darrow,’ she cried, ‘I know all this must both shock and disgust you. That now you must hate the idea of even speaking to someone like me. I — ’
‘Don't be absurd!’ Ellis glared at her. ‘Nothing has changed.’
‘What?’ Astonished, Rebecca stared up at him. ‘Mr Darrow, did you understand me? I told you — ’
‘That your parents were Lydia Searle and Henry Lowell.’ Ellis looked grave. ‘I'm surprised you think I must be shocked by something which is common enough. I'm sorry you expect me to despise you for it. That you think I shall hold you responsible for the failings of others.’
‘Oh.’ Incredulous, Rebecca gaped. ‘All this week,’ she murmured, ‘all this awful, miserable week, every hour of every day, I've been worrying and fretting about this. I've wondered what I should tell you. How I should tell it. Yet you take it all so calmly, you — ’
‘That's probably because I know most of the facts already.’
‘You do?’ Rebecca's head spun. She thought she might faint. To stop her falling, Ellis took her arm. Gratefully, she leaned against him. ‘How do you know?’ she demanded, weakly. ‘Who told you?’
‘No one told me. I worked it out for myself.’ Ellis covered Rebecca's hand with his. ‘When I was speaking to you once, you happened to mention that your aunt's name is Lyddy. I wondered then. Lyddy Searle is not a very ordinary name.
‘My family has close connections with the Lowells. In fact, I spent much of my childhood on Henry Lowell's estate. I was staying at the house when he — well, when you were first known to have been conceived.’
Ellis began to walk on. Rebecca walked too. Traversing the waste ground, they came to a block of warehouses with factories adjacent. They went up a narrow alley.
Now, Ellis slipped his arm around Rebecca's waist. ‘I forgot all about the Searles,’ he continued. ‘After all, they meant nothing to me. But then, years later, I learned Miss Searle's child had been a daughter.’
‘How did you discover that?’
‘I simply heard of it.’ Lightly, Ellis touched Rebecca's face. Turning it towards him, he looked into her eyes. ‘My dear Rebecca,’ he cried, ‘I did not investigate you! I have never enquired into your affairs. Mere accidents made these things known to me.’
‘All the same, you knew.’ Stricken, Rebecca looked back at him. ‘So you thought me a liar. That I deliberately passed my mother off as my aunt. Now you assume I am dishonest and scheming. That when you first asked me to be your wife, I was too cowardly to confess. That only an unquiet conscience made me tell the truth today.’
‘No!’ Ellis shook his head. ‘I assumed no such thing. I didn't consider it at all.’
‘Didn't you?’
‘Well — I suppose I thought it strange to tell the story which you did. But I hoped — no, I was sure — you would eventually confide in me.’
‘I see.’ Rebecca wanted to weep. ‘I understand you perfectly now.’
‘Do you?’ Ellis took her by the shoulders. ‘Rebecca,’ he said gravely, ‘please don't think I had doubts about your personal worth. I asked you to marry me because I love you. For all I care, your parents could be a pair of colliers. Or the King and Queen of England. It doesn't matter to me.
‘But now, I don't merely love you. I admire and honour you, too. You are brave and you are honest — you have courage and compassion, as well. My darling Rebecca, say you'll be my wife!’
Rebecca said nothing. So Ellis took her in his arms, and
held her.
They stood in silence for a minute. Two minutes. Then Ellis spoke again. ‘There's something you ought to know,’ he said. He stroked a stray lock of hair back under her bonnet. ‘You see, you're not the only one who needs to confess.’
‘Oh?’ Rebecca looked up at him. What could Ellis have to tell? Did he have a mistress, perhaps? One whom he would not, or could not give up? Might he have a bastard child of his own? That would account for his indulgent attitude towards her own illegitimate state. ‘Well?’ she demanded, bracing herself for the worst.
‘Henry Lowell left you some money,’ was the reply.
‘Indeed?’ Rebecca kept her voice neutral. ‘I see.’
‘It is a substantial sum.’ Watching Rebecca carefully, Ellis was relieved beyond expression to see she was not impressed. No spasm of greed, nor even a glimmer of interest, flickered across her pretty face. ‘I assume it would be worth having,’ he said.
‘Do you?’ Rebecca shook her head. ‘Is this bequest in your brother–in–law's trust?’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘Does he mean to make it over to me?’
‘Well, he did.’ Ellis shrugged. ‘Just recently, however, he and my sister suffered a financial disaster. They lost most of their property. So now they are very poor. At present, they could not afford to pay you even a little of what you are owed. Perhaps they never will be able to.’ Ellis took a deep breath. ‘I don't think you'll press the point, will you?’
Rebecca bit her lip. ‘You say they are poor,’ she murmured. ‘How poor?’
Ellis shrugged again. ‘Poverty is always relative,’ he replied. ‘Alex Lowell grew up in luxury, you see. To be living in straitened circumstances is new to him. He doesn't know — ’
‘I doubt if he knows what poverty is!’ Rebecca's blue eyes flashed. ‘You say he's poor. By that, I suppose you mean he cannot keep himself in fancy clothes. Or indulge himself at the table. Or play for high stakes at cards, or dice.’
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