Kitty Little

by Freda Lightfoot

  ‘Not forgetting me bad grammar,’ she’d obstinately yelled back at him, receiving another leathering for her cheek.

  Later, as she tenderly bathed her raw skin, Charlotte had noted with a mixture of relief and fear, that he’d been clever enough not to break it, which meant that if he could get away with it once, he could do so again. Nevertheless the bruising took weeks to heal, serving as a spur to greater obedience, and causing her to work all the harder at being the wife Magnus demanded.

  In this way, the peculiar nature of their relationship continued to flourish. He as the master and she the slave. Charlotte learned to simper and smile and play her charms to his will. And whenever Magnus judged that his wife had not quite put her heart into a prescribed task, thereby failing to procure whatever prize he’d set his heart on, he would smile, almost with pleasure. ‘Now what would you consider to be a suitable chastisement?’

  Charlotte would shake her head in mute distress, for some of these punishments proved to be alarmingly imaginative.

  He might lock her in a spider-infested closet for hours till she was ready to agree to anything just to be released from the crawling darkness, or twist her arm until she wanted to scream from the pain but dare not because he would beat her all the harder if the servants heard anything untoward. He might slap her till her head spun, pinch her till she was covered in purple bruises, or place tiny fierce bites all over her naked body. On one occasion he even made her crawl upon her knees, licking up crumbs from around his feet, begging his mercy for some supposed indiscretion, before he kicked her senseless as if she were a dog.

  So now when he asked her to perform an intimate act with a man of his choosing, Charlotte was only too aware of the futility of argument. She had learned long since that it was far easier, and infinitely less painful to take the easy option of obedience. For the moment.

  Until her plans for escape were all carefully in place.

  Besides, she consoled herself, young Tommy Bickerstaff possessed a lean fit body hardened by long hours spent in the saddle. It could be worse. He might have chosen fat old Hugo Johnson to test her charms instead.

  Turning from the window, she bestowed upon Magnus what passed for a smile, before quietly withdrawing from his presence to return to her ardent lover and carry out her husband’s wishes to the letter, as a good wife should.

  The stallion was delivered the very next day, tied up with a scarlet bow and a note saying that although it was merely a loan and the horse couldn’t be offered as a gift, she was welcome to ride him whenever she so wished.

  ‘That’ll do for a first effort. You clearly pleased our young lord,’ Magnus informed her with some degree of satisfaction. ‘Though an outright gift would’ve been better. You must try harder next time.’

  ‘For Goodness’ sake, who’d be daft enough to give away a prime stallion for one good...’

  ‘Don’t say another word. A lady never refers to the subject directly.’

  Charlotte never did get to ride the animal, much to her relief, since horses were far outside her breadth of knowledge, but Magnus made ample use of the time the stallion was in their possession, even to the extent of bribing the groom who brought him each day.

  After this success, Magnus carefully considered every male of his acquaintance, weighing up the size of their wealth and possessions and what they might possibly be prepared to part with, in return for a little dalliance with his enchanting wife.

  His behaviour only deepened her loathing to a dangerous level, yet there seemed to be nothing she could do about it. She had no money and no home besides this one, and Charlotte certainly had no intention of returning to the “gutter”, as he so charmingly termed it.

  So the “game” went on, exactly as Magnus wished it to and Charlotte very nearly lost heart, unable to find the solution she sought; forced to obediently comply with his every whim. One day though, she knew her time would come. In the meantime she made a private vow that although she would play the whore, if that was what he wished, she’d never permit Magnus to hit her again

  Magnus Gilpin chose to repeat his bullying when he was seated astride Rude Awakening, cantering through the woods with Charlotte beside him on her more docile mare.

  It was one of those magical mornings when an early sun promised to quickly disperse skeins of mist that still clung to the hill tops, and for a moment the sheer glory of it, and the excitement of the ride, filled her with a rare happiness.

  But despite her best efforts Charlotte was a poor rider, only struggling to learn in order to pacify him. As they broke out of the woods and set the horses to a quiet amble along a track which threaded its way through dew-spangled meadows, her cheeks glowed from the exercise, highlighting her loveliness to a breathtaking beauty.

  They began to squabble over which dress she should wear at the dinner party that evening. Charlotte, as ever, favouring bright colours while Magnus preferred a more tasteful shade. Then they disagreed on who was should sit where. Charlotte suggested Julian Webster be seated next to her while Magnus reiterated that it be James Wisheart, a new neighbour who’d taken possession of the land adjoining their own.

  ‘I wish you to be nice to him Lottie,’ he instructed, his voice jerking slightly with the rhythm of the stallion’s easy movement. ‘It could prove highly beneficial to secure the friendship of such a wealthy man.’

  ‘To hell with that. I’m done playing the whore for you.’ It was then that she told him she was pregnant. The words flew from her mouth without thought or planning. Instead of expressing pleasure and pride in the fact she was to produce an heir to his fortune, Magnus roared, ‘whose bastard is it?’

  Charlotte met his furious gaze with a fine temper of her own. ‘If it’s impossible to tell, then you’ve only yourself to blame.’ Drumming her heels into the mare’s flanks, she urged it to spurt forward into a canter.

  ‘Whore!’ he shouted after her, his voice catching on the wind. ‘I timed your performances so as to avoid any such confusion. If you’ve fallen, it must be because you’ve taken a lover on your own account.’

  His arrogant assurance that he could control even the natural order of her own body, of life itself, suddenly seemed highly amusing and she threw back her head and laughed; hysterical, reckless laughter which in turn excited the horse to increase its pace still further. She could hear the thundering hooves of Rude Awakening rapidly overtaking her. ‘P’raps the poor little blighter’s a bleedin’ lord. That’d be summat, eh?’ she yelled back at him.

  ‘You damned slut! You’ll get rid of it. D’you hear? I’ll not have another man’s by-blow. I’ll decide when I’m ready for you to breed.’

  Tears streamed down her cheeks though whether caused by the misery or her situation, the reckless ride or her own mad laughter, she couldn’t have rightly said. ‘What d’you reckon I am? One of your brood mares?’

  His instant response was to lash out with his riding crop, almost as a reflex action. The whip caught her full across her back and Charlotte jerked violently with the sting of it, ever sensitive on that part of her body which had already suffered ill treatment at his hand. He was screaming at her, demented with rage, lifting his arm to strike her again. Perhaps because she was such a poor rider, unsure of her seat, or because the horses, spooked by his violent outburst had shifted their pace from a steady canter to a madcap gallop but instead of taking the punishment, as expected, Charlotte reached out with one gloved hand and, more by good luck than management, grasped the thong of the whip. Whatever the reason and, terrified of falling beneath the hooves of Rude Awakening, she held on, heaved on it as hard as she could without even considering the consequences.

  Or so she afterwards claimed.

  The action caught him off guard and, unable to hold his balance at the speed he was then moving, lurched sideways in his seat. Ahead of them reared a fence and beyond that a ditch. Rude Awakening, feeling the loss of control, missed its footing and panicked. Snorting and pawing with fright it braked hard and
shied. Magnus was tossed like a cork right over the fence.

  Charlotte too fell to the ground, still shaking with hysteria, at least until the pains started and knifed her in two. Even so, one glance at the crumpled body of her husband told her that losing this child was the least of her worries.

  The room stank of stale sweat, camphorated oil, and other less edifying scents. Charlotte gazed bleakly upon the still form of the man lying in the bed and knew a loathing that increased with each passing day. There were no “games” now, no card parties, no dinner parties nor any hope of dalliance let alone dances with handsome young captains in sweet-scented conservatories. Now there was only the stench of sickness and raw hatred.

  She’d lost the baby, had been told there may be no further pregnancies because of complications. Sitting by his bed, Charlotte knew there was little danger of such a thing happening in any case. She shed no tears for her husband, nor felt any sense of guilt. Why should she? It’d been he who had instigated the accident, by his own hand, with a reckless violence from which she’d a right to defend herself. Being paralysed hadn’t altered his nature one scrap. He was still a brute. Always had been, always would be.

  Only when he slept did she find any peace, for the house was still ruled by his iron will. He would belittle her with cruel words, order his affairs in a loud, demanding voice; still play the bully. He blamed her entirely for the state he was in. Only the two of them were aware of her part in the “accident” and he held this knowledge over her like a threat, using it to make her toe the line. So long as she did exactly as he ordered, no one else would learn the truth. Otherwise, as he constantly warned her, she could be charged with attempted murder. Crazy as this seemed, in a way it must be true, for Charlotte had desperately wanted him to die that day and Magnus knew it.

  Her face twisted with hatred at his power over her, even now when that strong handsome body had been broken. She turned away and without a backward glance at the prone figure in the high brass bed, strode from the room. Out on the landing Charlotte stood for a moment with her back to the bedroom door, breathing hard until the hammering of her heart, which a visit to the sick room so often brought on, gradually subsided and she had herself under control again.

  She heard the housekeeper’s step upon the stairs, bringing his supper no doubt. Charlotte straightened her slumped body and managed a smile. ‘Good evening Mrs Pursey.’

  ‘Madam.’ The woman scanned the slender robed figure with the kind of insolent glance which plainly stated what she thought of this common upstart who had married her master and was no better than she should be. Holding the loaded tray high, Magnus’s appetite having increased rather than abated as a result of his handicap, she waited to be allowed entry into the sick room. Charlotte didn’t move an inch.

  ‘He’s asleep. I doubt it would be wise to wake him. You know how he hates to be disturbed.’

  She was always the one to suffer the full force of his anger. Charlotte understood, since only in sleep was he free from the knowledge of what he had lost: a cleverly garnered business and fortune that was now gradually crumbling away. Yet she dreaded his temper. Even his friends were drifting from him, for none knew how to deal with his increasing irascibility.

  And there was also the most painful loss of all - his manhood.

  ‘He likes his tea prompt at six,’ Mrs Pursey stoutly informed her.

  Charlotte met the housekeeper’s icy glare and considered holding it till she’d forced her to back down, but where was the use in aggravating the woman? For all there was no love lost between them, she needed Mrs Pursey. Without her, she would be even more of a prisoner of Magnus’s whims and demands. Shrugging her shoulders, Charlotte stepped aside. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I was forgetting.’

  Far from releasing her from his tyranny the accident had made her an even greater prisoner of it. Instead of being married to a successful businessman with rising status and fortune, she was now tied to a cripple.

  Entering her own bedroom, Charlotte locked the door carefully behind her and gazed about her with the desperation of a mouse caught in a trap.

  Chapter Six

  Trains were shunting and puffing by in every direction, whistles blowing, steam belching, people jostling and rushing to find a seat while Kitty stood bewildered on the platform, frozen with indecision. Finally gathering her courage, she stepped onto the train. It was here, hunched in a corner of a carriage, that Archie found her. She was astonished, filled with a rush of gratitude as he flung his bag on to the overhead rack and dropped into the seat beside her, breathing heavily.

  ‘How did you know where to find me?’

  It took several minutes before he could gather enough breath to speak, by which time the train was steaming steadily out of the station. ‘You told me yourself once, remember? That you’d take a train to Scotland and see where you ended up. This is the Glasgow special. Ergo, here you would be. In any case, I slipped your taxi driver a guinea and he supplied me with your destination while you were extricating yourself from Clara’s tantrum.’

  Kitty stared at him for a moment, then even as she began to laugh her eyes filled up with tears. He handed her a large check handkerchief.

  ‘No water works. This is what you wanted, isn’t it? An adventure.’ Archie had told Clara that he would find her and bring her back, but secretly he was delighted that Cussins had finally blotted his copybook.

  ‘I didn’t imagine it quite like this though. All that shouting and accusation, as if I were the guilty one.’ She shuddered. ‘Is it all calm now? Is Frank furious? Did Ma really collapse or was it all show?’ Kitty didn’t ask why her own mother had chosen to betray her in such a terrible fashion. Any discussion on that score would be far too painful. ‘And why are you here? I thought you hated scenes and didn’t have the energy for adventures.’

  ‘To answer your questions in order. Absolute pandemonium. Frank swears innocence and is threatening to follow you to the ends of the earth to bring you back, or else sue you for breach of something or other. Clara is blaming it all on the drink she’d consumed at the party, as well as indulging in hysteria, largely because the guests are fleeing from the house like rats leaving a sinking ship. And you’re right about my abhorrence of scenes though it all proved rather entertaining in a macabre sort of way. As for an “adventure”, well, here’s your chance Kitty-Cat. Couldn’t let you disappear over the blue horizon by yourself, now can I? Chocolate?’ And grinning, he offered her a Nestles bar.

  Faced with such stalwart friendship, Kitty found the rush of tears were now for quite a different reason and a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. ‘Thank you,’ was all she could manage as she took the proffered piece.

  They sat nibbling the chocolate as the train picked up speed till it seemed to thunder along, pounding in time to the questions in her head, questions she couldn’t answer. I’m running away! I’m running away! Where shall I go? Where shall I go?

  ‘Had you any particular spot in mind?’ Archie asked, as if he’d heard.

  Kitty gazed at the photographs lining the walls of the carriage, The Forth Bridge. Blackpool Tower. Margate Sands. There was a taste of ash and soot in her mouth, an aching pain in her chest and a great empty void in her head, as if thinking were something she didn’t dare risk, in case it resulted in other pictures, the kind she had no wish to see. ‘I don’t know. I thought I’d get off when I saw somewhere I fancied.’

  ‘Good idea.’

  ‘I’m not sure how much money I have with me.’ She was rather worried about money.

  Archie gave a little snort. ‘Don’t think about such boring practicalities now, old bean. Time for some shut-eye.'

  ‘It was the right thing to do, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  How could she have stayed after that fiasco? Her own mother betraying her, and after forcing her to agree to the marriage in the first place. Clara would have to deal with her own debts. She would make a new beginning, a new life for her
self. Who knew where they might end up? So long as Frank, or worse, her mother, didn’t come after her, she’d survive somehow.

  ‘I do know of a place we could go,’ Archie sleepily commented, stretching his long legs out and folding his arms, preparatory to a doze.

  Kitty looked at him with fresh hope. ‘Do you? Where?’

  ‘Quiet little spot in the Lake District. No one would dream of looking for you there, certainly not Frank Cussins.’

  But even before she could ask for more details, he’d resolutely closed his eyes and settled to sleep. Taking the hint, Kitty tucked her cardigan beneath her cheek and, for once, did exactly as she’d been instructed without a word of argument.

  The journey was long and hot and tiring. Kitty felt close to exhaustion as they alighted at the small station of Oxenholme, where they caught a connection to Windermere. There they found overnight accommodation in a small terraced house. The rooms were cramped, with only one shared bathroom for the five guest bedrooms and no sign of hot water from the rickety cistern, its major appeal being that it was close to the station.

  ‘At least it doesn’t smell of kippers,’ Archie whispered as they were shown to their separate rooms. ‘And you know where I am should you need a shoulder to cry on, old thing. Just tap on my door.’

  Kitty felt grateful for his thoughtfulness. Since they didn’t want to encourage any awkward questions they pretended to be brother and sister, Archie and Kitty Emerson. It seemed sensible in the circumstances, though it was a decision she came to regret.

  An appetising supper of mutton stew followed, and a welcome cup of tea if not the hoped for excellent night’s sleep. The night seemed filled with strange noises: footsteps on the stairs, bumps and knocks, gurgles in the pipes, much opening and closing of many unknown doors. Finally she heard Mrs Stokes, their landlady, call to the cat and draw the bolts. Even as silence settled Kitty tossed and turned in the strange bed, one moment hot, the next cold, her over-tired body becoming tangled in the coarse sheets while her mind replayed recent events with a painful clarity.