Matron looked at Mr Beale and at his nod, smiled. ‘Yes, Hughie shouldn’t be a problem. He can work on the farm too.’
‘A farm.’ Isabelle mulled the words around in her mind. Gradually her imagination came alive and sparked her interest. A farm with fields of baby animals, wild flowers… Living in the country away from the fumes of the city, away from the traffic and noise.
‘He is a moorland farmer.’
Her mind whirled. To move away or to stay in town? To marry a farmer or a man with a business? She had seen wife advertisements in the paper, especially if the man was venturing to a new country. Maybe she could take an enormous gamble and marry someone emigrating to Canada, America or Australia? But would they take the expense of Hughie? She put her hand to her head, her thoughts whirling around. Here she was contemplating the other side of the world when she couldn’t even comprehend living just miles away further up the valley!
Matron tapped her foot. ‘Well?’
Isabelle bit her bottom lip. ‘Is there any other person you know who might want a wife? Maybe I should place an advertisement in the newspaper?’
Matron held up her hand. ‘Let us speak with Mr Beale’s cousin and see what we make of that first, yes? A farmer’s wife is a desirable position.’
Isabelle remembered Sally’s words. Take little steps, Belle, little steps. Suddenly, she nodded. ‘Thank you, Mrs Peacock and you, Mr Beale.’
She left them and walked back along the corridor deep in thought. A farm. The air would be fresh and clean not full of smoke like Halifax. It might be just what they needed. Hughie was good with plants; he often worked in the workhouse gardens. He would grow into a fine man living in the clean air and eating fresh food.
Reaching the hallway leading to the kitchens, Isabelle paused and nibbled her fingertips. Her thoughts ran wild, warming to the idea. She could be a farmer’s wife, she was certain of that. She could keep chickens and bake bread like her grandfather’s old cook taught her. She straightened her shoulders at the thought. Yes, that would do nicely.
Abruptly, a hand clamped over her mouth. Isabelle jerked in terror. Grabbed around the waist, she was wrenched off her feet and carried into the nearest room – the linen room. She fought against the restraint, kicking widely, but her skirts muted any impact she made.
In a swift movement, her attacker banged up against the wall of shelves holding sheets, towels and pillowcases. Faded light filtered in through a high dirty window and it was enough for her to see the excited eyes of Neville Peacock. She thrashed her head but his grip over her mouth pushed her head back hard against the wooden shelf.
‘Keep still, my lass.’
His hold made it impossible to talk and she dragged in shallow quick breaths through her nose.
‘You’ll like it, I promise.’ His knee edged her legs apart, but he soon realised that to lift her skirts he would have to free one hand. He took his hand away from her mouth and next his tongue bombarded her lips, edging its way past her teeth.
Bile rose in her throat. She wrenched her face away, but his lips followed, leaving wet kisses across her cheek. She gagged. Cold air touched her thighs as he raised her skirts high over her stockings. Furious at the invasion, she growled and bit his tongue so hard blood spurted into her mouth.
He howled in pain and backhanded her in the face. ‘You bitch!’
Stars burst before her eyes like fireworks on Guy Fawke’s night. The confined room spun around her. Dazed, she gripped a shelf to steady herself. Tears blurred her vision as she spat and coughed.
Neville leant against the opposite wall, one hand over his mouth, his eyes closed. Blood trickled between his fingers and ran down his chin to drip on his white shirt.
Isabelle heaved and dashed for the door. Whipping it open, she glanced back at him before hurrying out.
Matron stopped mid-stride, startled by her flight. Her gaze narrowed as she swept it from Isabelle to the linen room door.
Wordlessly, Isabelle shook her head and darted away. Her heart pounded, threatening to explode in her chest. The echoes of her running footsteps bouncing off the walls sounded loud in her ears. She had to leave this place!
A Baron in Her Bed Page 26
