Blackened Cottage

by A. E. Richards

  “Are you eager for our night to commence?” he asks.

  I hesitate, unsure how to respond. I cannot tell him that no, I am not. The last thing on earth I want to do is share my body with a beast like you. But the truth is not what he desires. I think briefly of Morna, of what she must have suffered.

  “I am looking forward to this night,” I begin, “however, I am feeling unwell so we may need to postpone this evening’s meeting until tomorrow.”

  Mortimer’s eyes narrow darkly. I tense, watching, waiting.

  “Is it because I will not allow you to go outside and choose a plant with Clara?” he says.

  I nod tentatively, sensing that this is an explanation he will find acceptable.

  “Well then,” he says standing up and offering me his hand, “I suppose I must allow you this one request.”

  He smiles and gestures towards the bedroom door.

  Hesitantly, I walk to the door, open it and slide out into the other room. Mortimer follows a slight distance, stopping beside me and resting his hand on the small of my back.

  “Clara!” he barks.

  She stands up instantly, dropping her book, which clatters to the floor. More bruises muddy her complexion. Though she is in the far corner of the room, I can see her body shaking.

  “Yes Father?”

  “You will accompany Lissssbeth on a short walk through the woods to find a plant for our home. For some reason that I cannot fathom, my new wife wishes to become better acquainted with you.”

  Clara looks in surprise from Mortimer to me.

  “Get to it girl!” he snaps.

  Immediately, Clara rushes to the front door and opens it for me.

  I cannot believe my luck. Walking to the door, a hand on my shoulder stops me. In my ear, Mortimer whispers, “If you do not return in ten minutes, I shall come to find you, and I will find you. Do you understand, darling?”

  I nod and, for a fleeting second, Clara’s eyes meet mine. She is so young, so fragile, so lost. Her gaze shrieks of fear. I know in that instant that if I cannot make her flee with me, she will return to this place, to Mortimer, and she will die.

  “Swear you will return,” he hisses.

  “I swear it. In ten minutes, we shall return, both of us.”

  Ostensibly satisfied, his lips press against my temple as his fingers dig into my injured wrists, “When you return, I shall send Clara to town for some supplies and while she is gone, we shall be together properly for the first time. How do you like the sound of that my darling?”

  Squirming, struggling not to tremble, I murmur, “I like the sound of that very much.”

  Mortimer releases me. His scorching stare follows me as I stumble after Clara and close the door behind us. I am tempted to tell her to run straight away, but, fearing that he may hear me, I stay silent.

  The sun is set high in a pallid sky, but a punitive wind whips about the trees lashing at our faces.

  Grabbing Clara’s small hand, I speed up my walk, pulling her away from the cottage.

  She does not try to pull away but squeaks, “What are you doing?”

  “Getting us to a place of safety,” I say.

  “But, but, did you not hear what Father said? He desires us back in only a few short minutes.”

  “I heard him and I have chosen to ignore him.”

  Clara stops walking and wrenches her hand out of mine, “You, you cannot do that!”

  “Oh yes I can,” I say firmly, “if we go back, he will force himself on me and he will beat you until you bleed and beg for mercy. Is that what you want?”

  “No, but, but…” she trails off, her eyes frantic, “he will find us and when he does…”

  Gripping her hands, I look directly into her wild green eyes, “If we do not move now, he will find us. Look Clara, you have a choice, a choice that will decide the rest of your life, however long it may be, and I am thinking that it will be not be very long at all if you go back to him right now. I am sorry to tell you this, but, in truth, this is a choice between living and dying. If you return to that dreadful place, you will die. HE WILL KILL YOU. Do you understand? But if you choose to come with me, you will live out a full and happy life. I will make sure of it. The question is, are you brave enough to make the right choice? Think about your Mama. Think how she suffered. Think what she would want you to do right now. You have a grandmother who lives in these woods. Her name is Sorcha. She is very old. If you go back to that terrible man, who will never get to meet her, but if you join me now, I will take you to her. I promise. Trust me Clara. Trust me.”

  Gently, I take hold of her ice cold hand and blow warmth into her fingertips. The wind swirls around us, whistling shrilly, twirling our hair and battering our faces.

  Her eyes refocus on mine and her jaw sets. The answer is written in her eyes.

  “I know of a place not far from here where we can hide,” she whispers.

  I nod and allow her to lead the way through the woods - anxiously aware that we have not travelled far from the cottage and that nearly ten minutes have passed already. Any moment, Mortimer will leave the house and come to find us.

  *

  Diary,

  My love, my Lisbeth, at last, she knows the truth. She loves me again. But we cannot be together.

  It seems that we are punished by fate. Not only have we lost our children in death, we have lost each other in life.

  We will never be together. I will never see her again.

  I am torn to pieces. My heart hurts so much. I cannot handle this pain. Not anymore, not like this.

  I said farewell to Jean-Bernard. I think he knows what I am going to do.

  This will definitely be the last time I write.

  I go now to find a place to die.

  Charles

  *

  We run through the woods, constantly glancing over our shoulders. So far, neither of us has sighted Mortimer.

  “Are we nearly there?” I pant.

  “Yes,” she replies.

  Clara’s hand is hot and small in mine. She cannot be much older than sixteen; the age that Bethan was when her life so cruelly ended.

  I want to protect this young girl from Mortimer, from a life of undiluted despair and terror. Her bravery astounds me. I cannot let her down. Having urged her to run, should Mortimer catch us, catch her…the thought sends chills down my neck.

  We reach some bushes that look vaguely familiar, and suddenly it dawns on me where we are. My gaze travels upwards and onwards to a small cottage, a small cottage with black walls. Black walls. Blackened Cottage! Charles!

  Dark emotions and memories surge within my breast yet I feel as though I am seeing the building for the first time. Trailing wisteria now graces the walls, its green vines and lilac tendrils softening the harsh black, bringing beauty to the bleak cottage.

  Clara tugs me on and we reach the end of the back garden. Together we run across the makeshift bridge and up the garden which is wilder than ever with long sweeping grass and rampant nettles, the wind rushing at us, pushing us back.

  My hope that Charles is here is fleeting; no light is on in the cottage. No-one is home.

  I test the back door. It is unlocked. We rush inside and I guide Clara through the kitchen, past my husband’s study and into the living room.

  Sun shines in through the windows, but the low ceilings, black beams and unlit fire maintain a dim, shadowy light.

  We smile at each other through the gloom. We have made it! Clara’s small face is transformed into a rare, delicate beauty, red ringlets falling over her eyes like a pink-cheeked cherub.

  “Would you mind lighting the fire?” I say, “I shall fetch the makings for tea.”

  I enter the kitchen, excitement buzzing around my heart like a bumble bee around a succulent rose. Charles may not be here at present, but at some point he will return, and when he does he shall have the best surprise of his life!

  Moving to the cupboard, I pluck up two tea cups and lift the teapot, gl
ad to find it containing enough water.

  Turning towards the window, I think I catch sight of something as it darts behind a bush. I gasp and my hand flies to my pounding heart. Leaning closer to the glass I squint against the sun, but nothing moves out there other than the leaves and the grass as they are subjected to the wind’s vicious onslaught. Still, I cannot shake the feeling that something was there. Perhaps it was just a cat or a rabbit, but I have to be sure. I will not rest easy until I have checked.

  Glancing around the kitchen, I see the rolling pin and pick it up. Slowly, I exit the kitchen by the back door and step down into the wild grass. The wind assaults my ears; howling, moaning, wailing, loud, bitter and violent, invasive and chilling.

  I take one small step. My heart is clanging, head ringing. Despite the frigid wind, my skin is afire with dread. I look at my hand. The knuckles are white from gripping the rolling pin too tightly. I relax my grip a little, but not much.

  I take another small step. And another. And another. Nothing moves save nature’s greenery.

  I stride forward this time, confidence growing. If Mortimer had followed us to Blackened Cottage, surely one of us would have spotted him.

  Peering around a tree trunk, I see nothing. My grip on the rolling pin relaxes even more. I stride down to the river at the end of the garden, recalling my imagined adventures with Bethan. Loss bites at me and tears bead in the corners of my eyes. Blinking, I turn back and walk up the garden. He is not here. My tension evaporates.

  Stepping into the kitchen, I try to close the door behind me, but it will not co-operate. Turning, I push my body weight into the door, but the wind is too strong; it is pushing back. Irritated, I place the rolling pin on the counter and push with both hands and my chest. Finally, it clicks shut. Frowning, I turn and pick up the teapot in one hand and the teacups in the other, and walk through the kitchen into the living room.

  Clara kneels dutifully in front of the fire stoking the flames.

  She looks up at me, stands and relieves me of the tea pot which she places on the rack above the fire.

  “Please, sit down awhile,” I say indicating a small armchair, “I shall fetch us some blankets.”

  Running up the stairs, I listen to the creaking floorboards as I walk across the small landing. I pause outside the big room; the room that I formerly thought belonged to Eddie and his imaginary friend Jack. It is strange to know that neither Eddie nor Bethan ever set foot in this cottage.

  I turn and enter my room. It looks the very same. The bed has not been touched. The blankets remain crumpled, the pillow hanging over the edge of the mattress. On my desk sits my quill and ink pot, a piece of blank parchment and the vase of flowers that Jean-Bernard gave me, now dead.

  Slowly, I reach down and pull open the desk drawer. Inside, are hundreds of diary entries along with a pile of neatly folded letters bound by a blue ribbon - letters to Mama. Tears come slowly, building and building, as the enormity of my three year delusion takes hold.

  I crawl onto the bed and curl into a ball, hugging my knees to my chest as I try to reconcile myself to the truth. But everything is out; I am finally letting it go as Reverend Pettigrew says.

  I start to run through all of the terrible things I have been through. I cannot help it. My tears fall heavier, faster. My chest heaves and I gasp for breath as my breathing intensifies.

  After a while, how long precisely I know not, I uncurl and slowly sit up. My head is foggy, my eyelids swollen.

  Guilt pinches me; Clara! She is alone downstairs and has been for some time. Hurriedly, I gather up some blankets, leave my room and cross the landing. I jog down the stairs and enter the living room.

  “I am so sorry Clara. I…”

  Clara is sitting in the armchair asleep. Villette – how long since I have seen her soft white fur – lies on Clara’s lap, also sleeping. I creep up to the chair, lightly stroke my kitten’s dandelion fur and wrap a blanket around Clara’s shoulders. She moans but does not wake. Turning slowly, I tiptoe over to the fire and sit cross-legged in front of it. The small clock on the mantelpiece reads two o’ clock. I wonder when Charles shall come home. The thought fills me with glorious anticipation.

  Thirsty, I glance around to look for the teapot – Clara must have moved it when it boiled – and my breath catches.

  Mortimer is here, in this very room, looking down at me with a smirk on his lips.

  Everything stands still and goes very quiet.

  “Hello darling,” he whispers.

  In his right hand, he holds the shotgun.

  “If you come quietly, I shall leave her alone,” he says, glancing in Clara’s direction, “after all, it is you and you alone who I want.”

  I shakily get to my feet, hoping all the while that Clara does not wake up.

  As I turn to face Mortimer, I wonder that it does not occur to him that his daughter may lead someone back to his cottage to find me.

  “I shall take full possession of you in the woods and then I shall dig your grave while you lie in the dirt writhing in agony. I shall sit and watch you bleed to death and then I will chop you into pieces and bury you. You have proven today that you are not to be trusted. This is the only prudent action that remains I am afraid. It is God’s will.”

  For a fleeting moment he appears genuinely upset; in the next, his eyes darken and his lips twist into a smirk. Shouldering the shotgun, he seizes my waist and throws me over his shoulder. I gasp for breath as the impact winds me. I want to pummel my fists into his back, scream and struggle, but I cannot for fear of awakening Clara and turning his merciless attention to her.

  Helpless tears roll down my cheeks as he carries me through the kitchen into the garden.

  Charles will never find me now. He will never know that I returned to him, body, mind and soul before I died.

  Despair more wretched than any since the loss of Eddie and Bethan overpowers all else, and, hopeless and defeated, my spirit can battle on no longer.

  Closing my eyes, I detach myself from reality, preparing for the unspeakable violence that shall soon be thrust upon me.

  CHAPTER 26

  SACRIFICE

  After a short trek through the woods, Mortimer heaves my weary body off his shoulder and roughly pushes me onto the hard ground. He swiftly straddles me, crushing my thighs with his knees, hands wrapped tightly around my wrists forcing them down into the damp soil.

  I squeeze my eyes shut, willing it to be over. In the blacks of my lids, a round circle hovers, burnt orange: the sun’s shadow. The wind thrashes my hair, my face; a dancing, laughing, mocking vortex, so alive, so free.

  I know Mortimer is staring down at me; I can feel his eagerness, sense his soulless eyes burning into mine, hear his rapid breathing, smell the sour stench of his breath and body. I cannot help tensing every muscle, but I do not move. My fight is gone. To struggle is pointless – I know that now. He has won.

  “Open your eyes,” he murmurs.

  I obey instantly. Turning my head and looking to the right to avoid eye contact, I see the shot gun leaning against a thick tree trunk. The tree is only an arm’s length away. Given the strength of the wind, it is surprising that the gun still stands. The bark on the tree is grey, dry and peeling. Its roots spread far from the base, so strong, rigid and unyielding. If only my flesh were so durable.

  “Look at me,” Mortimer says softly.

  Immediately, I turn and meet his eyes. They are the colour of the bark: a lifeless, ashen hue. He trails his tongue over his upper lip and smiles, revealing those brown, rotten teeth.

  “I like it when you are so eager to please me,” he says, letting go of my left wrist and stroking his index finger down the side of my face.

  I do not even flinch. On command, my body is growing increasingly numb as my mind distances itself from reality. I have accepted my fate. Mortimer will make me suffer and I will die and Charles…I must not think of Charles, of what could have been. Thoughts of my husband shall serve only to deepen my
torture.

  My one consolation is that I have freed Clara from a lifetime of suffering. In a way, I have sacrificed my life for hers, and I take a little comfort in that one thought.

  “Look at me, connect with me,” Mortimer growls.

  I obey.

  “Good girl,” he whispers, holding my chin and lightly stroking his thumb down my neck, “perhaps I have been a little rash with my decision. Perhaps, given more time and training, you will make a good wife.”

  Alarm pushes through my barrier – no! I do not want to go through more uncertainty. I want this over with. Why can he not just kill me?

  He must see my eyes widen for the softness in his face abruptly dies. His teeth clench, his jaw hardens and his eyes narrow darkly.

  “No. I do not believe I have been rash. You are a treacherous little whore like Judas and you must be punished!”

  I feel the sting of his palm and I gasp. Again, he hits me. I cry out, tears beading. He laughs and savagely grasps my hair in both hands. Standing clumsily, he drags me across the mud by my hair. My scalp screams – the pain is too much- clumps of hair come away, torn out, but I do not struggle. The less I struggle, the quicker it will be over. My body must be a dead weight, but he pulls me along the woodland floor with remarkable speed.

  He stops, moves to stand above me and spits, “You deceived me and thus you deceived the good Lord, and for that you must be mightily punished!”

  He kicks my side hard, once, twice. I did not know such pain existed. It is worse than child birth, worse than anything I have ever known. I curl up into the foetal position, try to swallow the nausea and the searing waves of pain that ripple through my core, shaking my body, making me wish I could die. Still I do not fight back.

  “Whore!” he snarls, and grabbing my waist he turns me onto my front and pushes me face down into the dirt.

  I can barely breathe. Mud seeps up my nose and I have no channel through which to inhale. Panic overwhelms everything, hot, agonising, mind-crushing panic. Even though I want to give in, I start to fight back. Almost of their own volition, my legs begin to thrash and thrash and kick and scream. I want to live – I must live – I have to live. Charles loves me. He loves me. I must survive to tell him I love him, to make him aware that I am me, I am his.