by Téa Cooper
Satisfied the fire would catch, she stood and brought the cup to her lips, permitting her eyes to wander to the box on the tabletop covered in blooms of teal that matched Lady Alice’s corset. Half the pleasure was in the packaging, and with Jane’s nimble fingers and artistic talent the box was as beautiful as its contents.
She lifted the lid on the box, inhaling the scent of the dried rose petals Jane had added, and peeled back the fine paper wrapping. Running the back of her hand across the satin, she admired the delicate embroidery framing the two ripples of lace below the bustline. Unable to resist, she took it from the box and held it up to the light to examine it. Not a stitch out of place. The tiny metal clasps down the front were evenly spaced and she knew the measurements would be perfect. Lady Alice would be thrilled, and so would her husband.
This additional pleasure in her business, knowing she was doing more for these women than she’d ever dreamed possible, made the job all the more enjoyable. And to think at first she’d thought to hide her corsetry skills and concentrate on simple dressmaking and alterations. How wrong she’d been. But then she’d been wrong about so many things before she’d settled in Wollombi.
Wrong in believing that she could never care for a man. Carrick had proved to her that love and caring could exist between a man and a woman. She hadn’t been spoiled for love and Ruan’s conception was not the way it was meant to be. When Carrick came back she’d tell him how much he meant to her. And maybe, just maybe he’d kiss her again. That little twist deep in the pit of her stomach tightened and twirled.
Smoothing the silky material, she lowered the corset back into the box and wrapped the paper over it, settled the lid and tied the deep-blue bow.
Lady Alice had said she’d send someone early to collect her corset. She’d asked for it to be wrapped in simple brown paper. She wanted it kept a secret. As Roisin tied the final knot in the string to hold the brown paper in place, a knock sounded at the door. She straightened her skirt and patted her hair into place, then cast a quick glance around the room before turning to the street door. Before her fingers reached the knob the knocker sounded again, impatient, insistent, demanding. Surely she hadn’t taken that long to answer.
‘Open up.’
‘One moment.’ She swung back the door and her mind emptied.
‘Do you intend to keep me standing here all morning?’
She scooted out of the way and held the door wide as the man barged past her into the parlour and raised his hand to the flames.
She couldn’t say his name, couldn’t squeeze even a breath between her lips.
Her heart gave one rapid thump and then seemed to stop. She went cold to the marrow.
‘I am sent here like some lackey to collect a package for my wife. Hurry, girl, I haven’t all day.’
She battled against the shock clogging her mind. Why had she let him in? She had to get him out. Had to deal with it herself. There was no one to turn to. He turned his pale eyes on her and the same icy shaft of fear pierced her. The familiar breadth of his shoulders. One had pinned her to the wall while his hands had groped beneath her petticoats. He still carried the ebony cane. There was no mistake. Bile rose in her throat and she forced it down, snatching a shaky breath.
He tapped his cane against his boot in his impatience. The vision of him raising it and bringing it down on her shoulders time after time was imprinted in her mind. There was no mistake. He rapped on the floor twice and his head came up.
The blood drained from his face, making the marks from the sun stand out on his nose. He recovered in the blink of his colourless lashes. ‘Well, well. A pretty pass. It seems I have been searching in the wrong places.’
A sick giddiness overcame her and she reached for the table. He had recognised her, of that there was no doubt. She was stronger than this. She had to be. His gaze raked her face and his thin lips lifted in a sardonic grimace.
She couldn’t have come so far, worked so hard to just give up in a moment. She’d ignore it. She’d give him the package he’d come for and tell him to—
The package. For his wife.
For a moment time stood still as she gaped at the man. His wife. Lady Alice? She moved on shaky legs to the table and picked up the box, holding it out in front of her like some talisman to ward off an evil spirit. For evil he was. Nothing would ever convince her otherwise.
He narrowed his eyes and reached out for the package. He was going to go. She wouldn’t ask for money. It was a small price to pay to get him to leave. Just go. The words cleared the rising mist in her brain, brought her back to her senses.
‘It seems you may have more than this,’ he rapped his cane on the box, ‘to which I am entitled.’
He hadn’t called her by name, didn’t know that she’d taken Aunt Lil’s name. Was he toying with her? How foolish, of course she couldn’t deceive him. She had to stand up to him.
‘I have nothing else of yours, sir.’ She dropped a small curtsy and slid the box across the table.
He ignored it and slammed his cane down on the tabletop. The sound reverberated through the room, through the house. Dear God, it might bring Jane running or worse, Ruan.
‘Roisin. Imagine that I should find you here, though if I had paid sufficient attention to my wife’s ramblings, I might have put two and two together. Of course one wouldn’t find in Wollombi a seamstress who could work magic. Seamstress. Pah! Do she, and her fine friends the Winchesters, know that they are patronising a whore?’
‘I am no whore, sir.’
Dankworth laughed, a cruel sound that sent shivers across her skin.
‘I know otherwise. And can prove it.’ He cast his gaze around the room as if searching for something that would indicate her whore-like status. Jewelled lights perhaps? A random piece of clothing, thrown in a fit of passion? The evidence of carousing, of liquor and the scent of debauchery. He failed and his lip curled. ‘Where is my son?’ He punctuated each word with a rap of his cane.
She shook her head. If she cried could she convince him Ruan had died? That he no longer existed? What in God’s name had made her think she could hide from this man? She should have left, gone further, set sail for England, India, Ireland even. Anywhere. What a fool she was. And she’d invited Lady Alice into her home. His wife! Tried her very best to make her desirable, to please her husband. God forbid. Dankworth, here in Wollombi!
He stepped nearer. A fist of fear squeezed her innards and she gagged at the familiar smell of brandy and sour sweat; unwashed and dirty despite his fine clothing. In a moment she was back in the past. Back in the dark, rat-infested alley pinned against a wall. Begging, begging him to leave her alone.
His fingers dug into her arm as he pulled her close, so close she could see the twitch in his cheek muscles. His flat eyes icy with disdain. She’d thwart him. He would not have Ruan. Fury and malevolence rolled out of him, almost smothering her. She stared blankly at her scissors sitting on the top of the trunk. If she stretched out her hand she could almost reach them, then he’d die. And Ruan would be safe.
Her throat closed and her chest tightened. She kept her eyes on his and slid her hand across the top of the trunk. ‘Let me go before someone comes. I’m expecting clients.’ Her fingers brushed the handle of the scissors. If she could only reach them …
He jerked her chin up, his fingers biting. ‘Where is he?’ Spittle showered her face, the very spittle she’d rejected, spat back at him as he had taken her brutally against the wall behind Aunt Lil’s. Caught her when she was least expecting it, walking hand-in-hand with her mother, laughing and singing. Her anguished cries played once more in her ears, mixed with the screams as the remembered pain laced through her.
Not again. He wouldn’t hurt her again. She’d been young, unknowing, a mere girl, just shy of her fifteenth birthday. Not now. She’d lost too much at this man’s hands and she wouldn’t lose again. She drew herself up, standing on the tips of her toes, breathing deep until their eyes were level. ‘You can’t h
ave him. He is not your son.’
His arm snaked around her waist, gripped tighter, squeezing the air from her lungs, forcing her to inhale another sickening gulp of his rancid odour.
‘He is my son and I’ll have him.’ The vile man nuzzled her neck, and then dropped his voice until his foul breath dampened her skin and he whispered, ‘Don’t be so foolish, my dear. You have tried to run and hide, but I have found you. I’ll always find you. And I have the law on my side. He is my son.’
His hand slid from her cheek to her throat and squeezed. She dragged her gaze away from the growing bulge in his trousers and prayed it was her imagination resurrecting those horrific moments. He’d taken her once, before she’d known better. It wouldn’t happen again. For a moment the picture of Lady Alice rose in her mind. The corset she had wanted to woo her husband with. Why could they not produce a child of their own? There was nothing lacking in Dankworth. Ruan was the living proof of that.
‘You will not have him.’ Her fingers reached out, closer to the scissors.
‘My dear,’ his voice, almost cajoling, wrapped around her, a diamond python squeezing the very breath from her lungs. ‘Don’t be so selfish. Think what I can do for the boy. I can give him more than you ever dreamed. He is my heir. You will be well cared for. I want nothing from you other than my son.’
‘He is not here.’
A pale-tinged eyebrow disappeared into his shock of strawberry-blond hair, so like Ruan’s it made her heart shudder. She’d blotted out all memory of this man, blocked the vision of him, yet every day she looked at his mirror image.
The patter of feet. A cry and the door flew open. Ruan stood, a smile creasing his face, his hair on end from the night’s sleep and dangling from his hand, a possum tail. ‘Look, look, another present. I found it on the end of my bed when I woke. It’s a possum tail.’
She stepped in front of Dankworth, shielding Ruan, the scissors forgotten. ‘Go. Leave now. You are not wanted.’ The imprint of the harshness of her words scored Ruan’s face as if she’d hit him and his lower lip trembled. Why? Why in God’s name had she spoiled him so? Why wasn’t he a child who never dared to speak, never interrupted, and lived his life believing he had no right? It was her fault. She’d brought him up to be so confident, without that he’d be in no danger now.
‘Young man.’ Dankworth took a step towards him, the expression on his face half tender, half lascivious, one hand reaching out to stroke Ruan’s hair. Cold dread raked her as Ruan’s eyes sought hers in a mute plea.
‘Go now. Go to Jane.’ She glared at Ruan. What harm would a little hurt do now, compared to what might happen if Dankworth got his way?
Ruan stared at her, his wide eyes full of tears and his lower lip trembling, then turned and ran down the hallway. Dear God, let him find Jane. Let Jane have the sense to take him away. If only Carrick were here.
She slammed the door behind Ruan, turned and stood, arms outstretched. It was a futile gesture, yet it gave her strength. He could have her. Do what he would with her, but he wouldn’t touch Ruan.
‘Tempting, my dear, but unnecessary. He’s mine and I’ll have him. You are tarnished goods and do not interest me.’
She licked her lips, her throat dry as dust. She had no more words.
‘The law is on my side. He is my son and I have every right to claim him.’ His hand reached into his pocket and he withdrew a handful of notes and coins and threw them onto the table. ‘There’s a lot more when you hand over the boy.’ He tucked his cane under his arm and grasped the box and stepped closer to her.
The fetid smell of sweat, or perhaps her own fear, enveloped her.
‘Think on it and we will speak again now I know where to find you.’ His backhanded slap sent her sprawling, her mind spinning, her legs no longer capable of holding her upright.
The sound of his retreating footsteps reverberated inside her head and her eyes blurred. Her thoughts reduced to nothing more than a jumble of confused and conflicting emotions. She closed her eyes and concentrated on the insurmountable task of dragging air into her lungs.
How long she stayed there curled in a ball, she didn’t know. It wasn’t until the cold wind worked its way into her consciousness that she dragged herself to her feet and closed the door. Would that it were so easy to shut out the past.
She staggered down the hallway, her hands on either wall for support, until she reached the kitchen. Nothing had changed. The room appeared cosy, the fire burned in the grate, the billy whistled on the hob, yet she was cold, so very, very cold. She clutched her hands around her shoulders and pushed against the back door. It swung free. ‘Ruan. Ruan! Where are you?’ Please let him be with Jane.
‘Mam!’ He flew across the yard, wrapping his arms tight around her waist. She clutched him close and let out a long, shuddering sigh and then held him away from her. ‘Are you all right? Where’s Jane?’
‘I didn’t get her. Carrick said I had to keep an eye out for you while he was away with Slinger.’ He hugged her even tighter. ‘Has the man gone?’
She groaned and placed one hand flat against the wall for support. ‘Where did you go?’
‘Who was that man? Why was he so angry?’
‘He came to collect something. Something I’d made.’ Something she wished she’d never become involved in. ‘He wasn’t happy with my work.’ She hated lying to Ruan, but what else could she say?
He’s your father, the most awful man who ever drew breath, the man who raped me and killed your grandmother. The only person I have ever wished dead.
‘I like your sewing. You’re very clever.’ He led her to the chair by the fire. ‘Shall I make you some breakfast?’ Concern plastered his little face.
‘Jane will be here in a minute. Go and get dressed. You’ll be late for school.’
‘I’m not going to school. I have to stay here with you.’
She started to shake her head, then stopped. No, she wouldn’t send him to school. Not with Dankworth in town. She needed to keep Ruan close where she could see him. ‘Thank you.’ She gave a feeble smile as he stroked the hair back from her forehead, his small hand soft against her clammy skin.
The back door swung open and she jumped to her feet, sending the chair flying backwards. ‘Jane!’ Her legs began to shake. She hugged herself tight, closed her eyes and rocked to and fro, willing away the memory of Dankworth’s face.
‘What happened? Oh my goodness. Sit down.’
She collapsed into the chair, her heart thundering, and buried her face in her hands.
‘A man came. He didn’t like Mam’s work and he got angry.’
She lifted her head in time to see the frown cross Jane’s forehead, a flicker of confusion in her eyes.
‘Go and get dressed, Ruan. I’ll make some breakfast.’ Jane busied herself at the fire, pouring milk over the porridge and emptying the tealeaves from the billy. ‘Go now, Ruan. Hurry up. I’ll take care of your mam.’
Appeased, Ruan vanished, his feet pattering up the ladder to the attic.
Jane knelt at her side. ‘What happened?’ she hissed. ‘Who was it?’
‘Lady Alice’s husband. Mr Dankworth.’
‘And he wasn’t happy with our work? It was perfect. Was he angry? Because of the corset?’
What could she say? She shook her head, more in despair than anything else. If she told Jane the truth then what would she think?
‘Drink this.’ Jane pushed a cup of steaming tea into her shaking hands. ‘I’ll see to Ruan’s breakfast. So he can get to school.’
‘No school. Not today.’
‘He won’t like that.’
‘He says he’s going to take care of me. Carrick told him to.’ She gave a paltry smile, more of a grimace really. What she wouldn’t give for Carrick to be here, to wrap his big, strong arms around her and hold her tight.
Dankworth’s shadow hung over Roisin like a miasma, stripping the joy from her life. Dreams laced with dread and foreboding haunted her nights. If she gla
nced out of the window she saw shadows lurking in the frosty moonlight, only to discover it was the wind, the movement of the trees—an illusion. It didn’t feel like an illusion.
When she slept she jolted awake twenty times a night with her heart hammering and her breath burning in her lungs. Wrapped in her quilt, she sat in front of the dying embers of the fire until the shaking stopped.
Was it him she’d felt watching her? Watching from the shadows. He’d be back. He always came back. The knowledge made her cold and queasy.
Even when Elsie presented her with the news that the Winchesters and their highfalutin friends had left the valley and returned to Sydney for the Governor’s Ball, she still couldn’t shake the sense of doom sitting like a lead weight in her stomach.
In the end she let Ruan go to school, insisting on accompanying him both ways. Her eyes constantly scanning the village for any sight of Dankworth, or worse, some henchman sent to do his squalid work. Searching the street as she’d done in Sydney. Looking over her shoulder, anxiety sparking at the slightest sound or footfall.
Without Jane, the work she had wouldn’t have been done. She fussed over her like a mother hen, trying to make her eat. Roisin wasn’t sick, though she might as well be. Dark shadows ringed her eyes and her cheekbones stood out like one of Ruan’s skeletons. Even he was quiet, subdued, keeping the kindling pile high and stacking the logs in the basket by the fire. Somehow she had to get through this until Carrick returned. She couldn’t keep running, and besides, she didn’t want to. She wanted Carrick.
