He muttered something, and when she raised her head he looked down into her eyes. ‘I’ve done it again, I’ve killed another man.’
‘No, no, Manuel, no. It . . . it was the wood falling on him. But . . . but he may be all right, we don’t know.’
‘I’ve killed another man. What is it that is on me?’ He pressed her gently from him and looked at his hands, turning them over a number of times as if he hadn’t seen them before.
When she began to cry he did not comfort her, he seemed unaware that she was weeping, he just sat looking at his hands hanging between his knees.
She said now brokenly, ‘You did it in my defence; he . . . he was insulting me.’
‘They used to cut them off in some parts for killing a man.’ He raised his right hand and examined it again. Then, getting to his feet, he went and stood looking into the fire and with his back to her and his voice more normal now, he said, ‘I couldn’t bear prison, I would rather they hanged me.’
‘Don’t talk like that, please.’ She dragged him round and pressed him to her, and now, his hand on her hair, stroking it gently, he said, ‘It’s true. I would wither away behind walls. I’ve . . . I’ve been in the open all me life, I couldn’t stand it, I know the limit of me strength, I’d rather be hung right off.’
‘Oh, Manuel.’ Her head began to roll on her shoulders in despair. ‘I’m to blame, I’m the cause of it all, I’ve brought this upon you. If it weren’t for me . . . ’
‘Be quiet. What has to be will be, the pattern was cut out a long time ago.’
‘What are we going to do?’
‘Wait, just wait.’
They waited for another hour, scarcely speaking, sitting hand in hand before the fire, and then Mr Carpenter came in. He spoke as he opened the door. ‘Are you there?’ he said.
They got to their feet and stood staring at him, and it was a few seconds before he could speak for his breath was coming in gasps as if he had been hurrying, and what he said was, ‘How long would it take you to get the caravan on the road again?’
‘He’s dead then?’ Manuel’s voice sounded thin.
‘No, no, he’s not dead.’
‘He’s not dead?’ Manuel’s head and shoulders seemed to fall forward over the old man.
‘No, he’s got a dislocated jaw and his shoulder’s out and there’s some concussion I think, but he’s far from dead. But even so it means trouble for you. I’ve sent for the doctor, but she’s sent for the police. At present she’s worked up and in a state and I can’t do much with her for she’s determined to get rid of you. You might as well know she’s jealous of you both; I was foolish in singing your praises. By tomorrow morning I may have made her see sense, but by that time you could be in jail and a charge against you, so my advice to you is to take to the road for a while, for a week or two.’ He looked from one to the other and smiled at them now. ‘It won’t do you any harm, a sort of holiday. And then make your way back. But don’t come straight here, make your way to Darlington first and I’ll leave a message for you at the shop if everything is all right, you understand?’
‘Yes, Sir.’ Manuel’s body seemed to have become deflated with relief. ‘And thank you, Sir. Oh, thank you.’
‘Well, don’t delay now. Pack up what you need and get off. They could be here within the next two hours. But even if she still wants to lay the charge they couldn’t do much searching for you in the dark. I think you’d be well advised to keep moving during the night and keep clear of the towns for they could send a runner ahead.’ He now put his hand in his pocket and, drawing out an envelope, added, ‘There’s what’s owing to you both, and a little over. And remember, I’ll be glad to see you back.’
Annabella came forward now and stood before the old man and, taking his hand, she pressed it tightly in her own, saying, ‘Thank you for your kindness, Mr Carpenter. And . . . and we shall find some way to repay you, believe me we shall.’
‘It’s all right, me dear.’ He nodded at her, pressed her hand in return, then said sadly, ‘That this should happen on such a night.’ Then he turned from her and went out, leaving his words ringing in both their heads. ‘That this should happen on such a night.’ It was, Manuel thought, as if God were stepping in at the last minute to prevent him committing a sacrilege. But ’twas no sacrilege, she was his wife; she was not a Lagrange, a high-born lady, she was bred of common people, and very common, and she was his wife.
And Annabella’s mind was racing around the thought, I’m fated to bring ill luck to him.
But their thinking did not stop them bustling, and within a matter of minutes they had gathered up their few belongings and their kitchen utensils and bundled them all into the sheepskin bag, which they had already come to look upon as a souvenir of those days that were over, and, lastly, Annabella wrung out the dress. Then they went cautiously through the back way and to the field, and having harnessed to the van a surprised and sleepy horse and lit one small lamp, Manuel led the animal on to the road; and he stayed at its head for the next three hours, and there wasn’t a word exchanged between him and Annabella, sitting stiffly, holding the reins on the box seat.
It was around two o’clock in the morning when he drew the horse on to a green siding and said in a voice that sounded like a croak, ‘I’ll rest him for a while, and we could have a hot drink. It’s bitter.’
When they were in the caravan with the light between them, he looked at her white face. Then putting his hands out to her, he muttered, ‘Oh, Annabella!’ and she came into his arms and they stood close, but quietly. They did not even kiss or strain to one another. There seemed to be a blight on them both. Pushing her gently from him now, he said, ‘I won’t light the stove, it’ll take too long. I’ll make a fire outside.’
‘Where are we now, Manuel?’
‘I’m not sure, it’s a strange road. I turned north at the crossroads leading to Bildershaw because that way you go into Bishop Auckland. I would say we’re some way between Midridge and Mordon. There’s villages and towns around here, we’ll have to wind our way atween them.’
He went out and she sat down on the bed at the end of the caravan, the bed that could be used as a double bed but which had been hers alone during their days of travel. Now the bed did not concern her. She joined her hands tightly between her knees. It was an attitude she hadn’t assumed before, but never before had she been so afraid. In the past she had known fear, but for herself; this fear she had for Manuel was churning her bowels and making her want to retch. What would happen if that woman did send the police after them? The answer her mind gave to this question was not, ‘What would become of me then?’ but, ‘How will Manuel endure it?’ As he had said, he had spent all his life in the open and he would not be able to stand being shut in for weeks on end, months, even years. Oh, dear, dear God.
As Manuel came up the steps with the black can of tea in his hand he saw her for the moment in the lantern light, huddled up, her hands between her knees, her body rocking. Putting the can quickly on the table, he went to her and sat on the bed beside her, then took her into his arms again and pressed her head into his shoulder, saying, ‘It’s all right. It’s all right. Everything will be all right. But listen to me, I’ve been thinking.’ He now put his hand gently under her chin and brought her wet face up to his, ‘Now look, this is just in case, a precaution, a sort of precaution in case that woman carries out her threat. I’m going to give you me belt.’ He stood up now, unbuttoned his coat and pulled his shirt up out of his trousers and unlaced the flannel belt from his waist.
With her fingers over her mouth, she looked at the bare flesh of her husband’s stomach as he carried out, what was to her, a very personal act and she protested weakly, ‘No, no, Manuel.’
What he said to this, and somewhat harshly now was, ‘Yes, yes. Stand up with you. Now lift your dress up an’ your petticoat.’
She stared at him for a moment and her head made an almost imperceptible motion that meant she couldn’t comply; then slowly she was pulling her skirt up to her waist, and then her top petticoat, disclosing her faded and worn silk one that barely covered her frilled bloomers.
Manuel was kneeling on the floor now, his eyes on the belt, but every detail of her stark clear in his mind making his blood race and his stomach churn and his hands sweat. She was his wife, it could happen now. It was no sacrilege. To hell with such thoughts. But if he should drop a child into her the first time what then? and she was left alone, for how long? How long would they give him for what he had done? A month? Six months? No, a year more like.
He said without looking up, ‘See these pockets, they’re all round it. There’s twenty-seven sovereigns in them altogether. Wherever you go don’t take it off even when you’re sleeping, only to wash, and then keep it to hand . . . And, and look.’ He put his hand into an inside pocket. ‘I’ll put our marriage certificate in an’ all, it’s the safest place.’
‘But . . . but, Manuel.’ She had dropped the petticoat down but was still holding her skirt up, and she went towards him, ‘But you don’t think they will . . . ?’
‘No, no.’ He lifted his head and looked at her. ‘But it’s best to be on the safe side, and I was thinking out there’ – he didn’t say the sound of that galloping horse had put the thought into his mind – ‘I was thinking out there we’ll make for the Spennymoor road.’
‘Spennymoor?’ The word was soft and high. ‘But . . . but that’s on the road to Durham.’
‘Yes; but there’s woods and caves around there, we could hide more easily I think, at least for the fortnight or so as Mr Carpenter advised, And then we’ll make our way back again . . . Lift your petticoat.’
Again slowly she raised her petticoat, now keeping her eyes fixed on the caravan wall where the picture of a long boat was fading away. When she felt his hands go round her waist and his fingers move over the steels of her corsets as he pulled the laces of the belt tight, she shivered. His voice was thick and low as he said, ‘Wear it near your flesh after this.’
She made no answer, she was standing taut. Then his hands came over hers where they were gripping her skirt and petticoat and he loosened them from the cloth, and when her clothes fell down again he knelt looking up at her. And then with a swift movement he laid his face against her stomach and, his arms about her like steel bars, he pressed his face into her while she held his head. But it was over in a minute.
When he got to his feet he almost overbalanced her, and he did not put his hand out to save her but went to the table and poured out the tea.
Half an hour later they were on the road again.
When the first streaks of dawn appeared Manuel was sitting on the box, the reins in his hand, and Annabella, fighting off sleep, was supporting herself between him and the ornamental fretwork that was part of the wooden hood. Although they had frequently got down when on a hill to lighten the horse’s burden, its steps were dragging now, and when Manuel espied a copse bordering a field, he said, ‘This is as far as we can go for the present. Anyway, it would be wiser to keep going at night and rest up during the day.’
She said nothing, but when they had halted the caravan and Manuel unharnessed the horse he said to her, ‘You lie down while I get us something to eat,’ and she answered, ‘I couldn’t eat, Manuel; I just want to sleep.’
‘Well, do that.’ His voice was tender, his gaze was tender, and he handed her up the steps, but did not follow her . . .
How long she had slept she didn’t know, but it must have been a while because when she opened her eyes the sun was well up. But something had awakened her, not just the light. Then of a sudden she knew what it was and she sprang up from the bed and bent down to the window, and she saw the ugly looking coach on the road and the three men standing before it. And some distance away Manuel was standing and the men were talking to him over the distance.
When she left the caravan she discarded the steps and leapt down them as he would have done, and then she was flying towards him. Gripping his arm and speaking under her breath, she said, ‘What is it? What do they want? Oh, Manuel!’ yet all the while knowing what they wanted. Their uniforms told her what they wanted.
He did not look at her but kept his eyes fixed on the men as he said to her, ‘Listen to me. Now listen to me. We’re not far from Durham. You know the way from there. Make for Amy’s. Don’t stop for anything or anyone, make for Amy’s.’
‘Manuel!’
‘Do as I tell you.’ He put his hand out and gripped hers that was holding his arm.
One of the men shouted, ‘Now we want no trouble with you,’ but he did not come forward; it was as if he was expecting trouble, was prepared for it.
Manuel said, ‘What do you want with me?’
‘You know well enough what we want with you, assault and battery of one Captain Weir on the premises of Carpenter’s Glass Works. Now are you comin’ quietly or do you want us to come and get you?’
‘Where do you intend to take me?’
‘That’s our business.’
‘If you want me peaceably where do you intend to take me?’
The man paused a moment, then said, ‘Durham, we’re from there, we were put on to you.’
There came into Manuel’s mind the sound of the galloping horse during the night. Mrs Weir hadn’t lost much time, damn her, blast her. And him. Oh aye, blast him to hell’s flames. He looked down now at Annabella and said, ‘Listen.’ He had to grip both her forearms to stop her shivering. ‘Do you hear? Listen to me. Do as I say, make your way straight for Amy’s; you’ll be all right there.’
‘Oh, Manuel, Manuel, they can’t, they can’t.’
‘Be quiet, they can, they are.’ He now pulled her into his arms and held her for a moment; then putting his mouth to hers he kissed her once, before pushing her away and walking towards the men.
As he approached them they spread out, but when he made no fighting move they closed in about him and, opening the back door of the van, they pushed him forward and two of the men followed while the third closed the doors after them. Then he mounted the box and the black ugly van drove away, leaving her standing on the verge of the road looking after it.
‘Oh, Manuel, Manuel. Oh, Manuel, Manuel.’ That was all her brain was capable of saying at the moment. ‘Oh, Manuel, Manuel.’
It was a full ten minutes before she moved from the road back to the caravan and then, dropping on to the bottom step, she sat staring before her. The horse was grazing peacefully, the sun was shining, on the distant hill there were moving dots that spoke of young lambs; a lark shot from the grass near by her and soared straight up into the heavens, its throat bursting with notes. Oh, Manuel, Manuel. What would they do to him in that place? The house of correction was a grim building; she had seen it only once. Her mama had said it was where they housed bad men. Bad men? Manuel wasn’t bad, Manuel was good. To the very, very heart of him he was good. What he had done he had done to protect her. But would they take that into consideration when he came before a judge? Her head came up and her shoulders went slowly back. If he came before the judge and there was no-one to speak for him he’d be treated as a criminal. Her body straightened further now. What she must do was to get help, someone to speak for him. She had money. She put her hand on her waist. Twenty-seven sovereigns Manuel had said. But what was twenty-seven sovereigns to legal people? To people on the road, as they had been, it was a fortune, but to people from her old life it was pin money, not even that. She must think, she must think. She’d do as he said and go to Amy’s. But no, that was too near the House. She couldn’t bear to be so near the House again. But where would she go? What would she do?
She stood up now and looked about her quickly as if on the point of a run. She knew what she would do, she knew
where she’d get help, legal help. She would go to Wearbank, she would see Stephen. Stephen was in law, he’d know what to do, he would help her.
But could she face Stephen? Of course, she could face Stephen. Why not? She had no pride left in her. If the journey on the road hadn’t taken it out of her, Manuel’s plight had vanquished it. He was all that mattered; getting him free was all that mattered. She would go to Wearbank; she would go this minute to Wearbank.
She ran and got the horse and harnessed him and put him between the shafts, and as she climbed up into the high driving seat and took up the reins she did not immediately say, ‘Gee-up there!’ for her hands were stayed by the thought, How will they receive me? And then she was flapping the reins vigorously, crying, ‘Gee-up! Gee-up, Dobbie!’ What did it matter how they received her? She knew that her mind had stopped short of saying, How would they receive Mrs Manuel Mendoza? How would they take the fact that their dear Annabella was now the wife of the groom? Again wagging the reins vigorously, her mind told her she didn’t care how they took it because it was a fact that it was something that couldn’t be undone. She was the wife of Manuel. For good and all, she was the wife of Manuel; in prison or free, she was the wife of Manuel Mendoza.
Three
Half an hour ago she had left the caravan on the road outside the gates of the short drive that led to Wearbank House and when she had rung the bell and the door opened, Frances, the old maid, had screamed at the sight of her, and Bella, the second housemaid, had put her apron over her head and moaned. But their reaction was nothing to when her Great-Aunt Emma had seen her, for she had swooned right away. It was only Uncle James who seemed to keep his head. And now she was sitting on a couch holding Great-Aunt Emma’s hand within hers, and the old lady kept staring at her, then shaking her head as if she still couldn’t believe that she wasn’t looking at a ghost, the poorly clad, sad-faced, changed ghost of the beautiful young girl she had known as Annabella Lagrange. And that was another thing she couldn’t take in. This was no longer a young girl, this person sitting by her side was a woman and she talked like a woman. She remembered that Annabella had been given to high laughter and slight frivolity, but the face before her looked as if it had never known laughter or frivolity of any kind; and this astounding tale she was telling was unbelievable, quite unbelievable, and highly unacceptable. The child had been taken advantage of, that was quite plain.
The Glass Virgin Page 37
