by Tania Crosse
He hesitated, and his hand closed over one of hers. ‘I know I can’t measure up to Mr O’Mahoney. I’m just a dull little shopkeeper. But I do love you, and I can offer you a home and respectability for the child. I don’t expect you to love me in return. And it would be a marriage on paper only, if you understand my meaning,’ he added, blushing slightly. ‘But it would make me a very happy man just to have you under my roof and to be able to protect you.’
He stopped, clearly flushed with excitement and a touch of embarrassment, and Tresca fixed her stare on him, totally astonished. Good God, he really did mean it. She pursed her lips, feeling her world turn upside down. As if she didn’t have enough to cope with just now, she had this . . . this lunatic to deal with.
‘And what does your mother have to say about the idea?’ she asked, trying to keep the scorn from her voice. ‘As I remember, she seemed to consider Connor and me the dregs of the earth.’
‘She doesn’t know,’ he answered, and Tresca thought she detected a flash of triumph in his words, as if he relished the thought of defying his mother for once. ‘And she wouldn’t until after the wedding. We could be married by special licence, so there’d be no reading of banns for her to hear.’
‘And you’d expect her to welcome me into her family, her home, with an illegitimate child on the way?’
Morgan’s mouth screwed awkwardly. ‘No. But it wouldn’t be illegitimate after we were married, would it? And you’re so strong, Tresca. At least, you were before all this happened. You’d stand up to her, I’m sure you would. And . . . and I’d be there, too. And once she realized she had no choice but to accept it, I’m certain that she would. But think about it. And if you decide not to accept my offer, well, I’ll always be here for you. For there’ll never be anyone else for me.’
And before Tresca had a chance to reply, he dashed out of the shop.
‘Vera! Oh, thank God you’re in!’
Tresca burst into Vera’s room in an evident flurry of agitation. Vera glanced across at her, rejoicing that the old, spirited Tresca, buried for so long beneath her grief, seemed to have surfaced again. But what had happened to spur her into life again?
‘Whatever’s the matter?’ Vera cried.
‘I really don’t know where to begin,’ Tresca answered. ‘Jane guessed about the baby the other night. But Mr Preedy overheard, and he said if I didn’t leave, he would. Jane was so kind. She said she wanted me to stay on with her, and that she’d soon find another lodger. But, let’s face it, she won’t, will she? And certainly not such a reliable one. And it really wouldn’t be fair on her, so I’ve been looking for somewhere else to live. But I can’t find anywhere and there’s only a few days before Mr Preedy will leave if I don’t go first. And then, this morning, something quite extraordinary happened.’
‘Extraordinary?’ Vera frowned. It must indeed have been something extraordinary to have brought Tresca back to the ebullient, self-willed person she had always been before the tragic events that had decimated her life.
‘Morgan Trembath’s asked me to marry him.’
‘What?’
‘Yes. He knows about the baby, and he wants to help.’
‘B–but marry him? And what about his harridan of a mother?’
‘Oh, she knows nort about his crazy idea. But, Vera . . .’ Tresca hesitated, her eyes deepening to an intense mahogany. ‘At first I thought he must be deranged. But now I’ve had time to think about it, is it really such a crazy idea? Morgan’s always been kind, and he’s promised there’ll be nort physical to the marriage. It’d solve a lot of problems for me—’
‘And bring you a whole lot more. And his mother—’
‘I’m sure I can cope with her. And it would give Connor’s child a home. A good home. And a name. And surely I must put the child first? My own feelings mustn’t come into it.’
Vera’s mouth turned to a thin, questioning line. ‘And what are your feelings?’
Tresca bit her lip. ‘I . . . I do like Morgan,’ she faltered. ‘And . . . I could marry him. For the sake of the child. I must give him or her the best chance in life, don’t you see? And . . . because I don’t know what else to do. Only . . .’ She paused, and her throat closed up with the tearing agony that raked it. ‘What if Connor comes back?’
All was quiet. Just the hissing of the coal in the grate. The heavy tick-tock of Vera’s old clock on the mantelpiece. Then Vera took her friend’s hands, watching the tears that ambled down her cheeks.
‘Do you really think he will? It’s been two months. If . . . if he was still alive, he’d have sent a letter or something by now. And someone would have seen him. It’s been in all the papers. Posters far and wide. And he wouldn’t abandon you, we know that. Even if he’d had second thoughts about marriage, he would have done something to provide for you and the child. No. Much as it grieves me to have to say it, I . . . I think we must accept that Connor is . . . is no longer with us.’
Tresca had gradually bowed her head, but now she looked up again, her eyes swimming with anguish. ‘Yes, I know,’ she groaned, as a tidal wave of confusion rushed through her again. ‘But . . . what if . . . ?’
She stared at Vera, her face alive and intense with pain.
Slowly and deliberately Vera shook her head. And Tresca’s heart buckled.
Twenty-Four
‘Morgan, what are you doing back here?’
Charity Trembath’s eyes hardened to steel as she stepped into the hall and spied her son with the young girl by his side. ‘And what do you think you’re doing bringing that ragamuffin into our house? Isn’t she the urchin who had the gall to try and sell a used lamp back to us? And she was the strumpet consorting with that rough Irish navvy before he disappeared. Personally I don’t know what all the fuss was about. The sooner all those ruffians leave Tavistock, the easier we’ll all sleep in our beds. Now what is that hussy doing in my hall?’
Tresca froze to a pillar of ice. She had expected a hostile reception and had been scraping up her courage to face her mother-in-law of half an hour. But to hear her darling Connor spoken of in such derogatory terms was like running full pelt into a brick wall. The last few weeks had been bad enough, agonizing over Morgan’s proposal, tossing and turning all night, weeping or dry with bitterness, a vision of Bella lying in a pool of blood ever in her mind – and the determination that she wouldn’t end up the same way, no matter what. Finally she had taken herself up on to the moor to what had been one of her and Connor’s favourite spots. And there she had said her farewell to Connor, and her heart had split in two.
She had begged Mr Preedy to give her a little more time, promising she would be leaving soon, but please would he not let on to Mrs Ellacott since she predicted that the kindly woman would be deeply upset. The sight of the dairymaid’s misery had moved even the implacable Mr Preedy and he had grudgingly agreed. And so this morning, she had dressed in her best attire and packed her few possessions.
Jane knew at once that something was amiss. And when Tresca told her briefly what was to happen within the hour, she was appalled. Tresca couldn’t possibly marry Morgan Trembath! He was a kind, gentle but spineless sort, totally under his mother’s thumb. Tresca had a perfectly good home here with her, a home that would be loving and stable for the child. But when Jane had seen that Tresca’s mind was made up, she had shut up shop, donned her hat and coat, and hurried down to the empty church with Tresca. Vera was to be one of the witnesses, and with a watery smile, Jane acted as the other so that Morgan wasn’t obliged to engage a stranger off the street in exchange for a few shillings.
For a second or two as she had knelt by the altar, Tresca had felt Emmanuel’s shadow brush against her shoulder. That be right, my princess. Fight fer yersel’, like you always ’as. But now, standing before Charity Trembath, she felt herself wither. Had she made the most terrible mistake? No. She must hurl her misgivings aside and stand up to this woman who seemed to delight in belittling her hard-working, submissive son. Tresca took
a deep breath, dragging the determination from the depths of her broken soul.
To her amazement, before she could open her mouth, she heard Morgan’s shaky voice beside her. ‘Mother, I would thank you not to talk about my wife in such a manner.’
Charity’s jaw fell open in disbelief. A second later, she snapped it shut so violently that her teeth gave an audible crack and her face turned puce. Tresca wondered – with curious detachment – if the woman might be about to suffer an apoplectic fit.
‘Your what?’ she gurgled at the back of her throat.
‘You heard, Mother,’ Morgan replied quietly, his lips thin and white.
‘Oh, no, you don’t! You can’t marry her! I won’t allow a son of mine—’
‘Too late, I’m afraid. Tresca and I have just come from the church. Look.’
He took Tresca’s left hand, where the plain gold band glinted on her third finger, and held it towards his mother. Tresca detected a flash of pride in the look he shot at her, but Mrs Trembath recoiled as if she had been forced to witness something vile and heinous.
‘No!’ she shrieked. ‘You’ll have to unmarry her, then, won’t you! Have it annulled! I won’t have her in my house. I—’
Tresca saw Morgan swallow hard. ‘May I remind you, Mother, that this is my house, not yours. The lease is in my name. And although you like to oversee certain aspects of the shop, I’m the one who works there all the time and makes the money to pay the rent on both the shop and this house.’
Charity’s lip curled, but then she gave a dramatic gasp and put her hand up to her brow as if she were about to faint. ‘If only your dear father could hear you talk to me like that, he’d turn in his grave,’ she moaned.
‘On the contrary, in his will he very sensibly put everything in my name, as you well know. So I advise you to climb down off your high horse and accept Tresca as your daughter-in-law.’
Charity Trembath glared at her son, her lips knotted venomously. Morgan himself was still holding Tresca’s hand. She could feel him trembling, and realized it was probably the first time for years he had defied his mother. The first time ever, perhaps, and she appreciated what it had taken for him to do so.
‘Never!’ the shrew hissed back. ‘I won’t have her bringing her wayward habits into my house.’
‘Well.’ Morgan nearly choked on his own words. ‘You can move out if you wish. I’ll grant you a modest allowance. Or you can live over the shop if you prefer.’
‘How dare you treat me like this! I will not be driven from my own home by that . . . that . . .’
‘In that case, I suggest you start by putting a civil tongue in your head. Now, Tresca, let me help you out of your coat and then I’ll show you round the house.’
Tresca silently obeyed, slipping out of her coat but without taking her eyes from the bitter woman who stood, hands on her hips and her mouth in a livid sneer. Tresca understood what a courageous stand Morgan had made and felt she should say something to support him.
‘I won’t be any trouble, Mrs Trembath, really I won’t,’ she assured her in as polite a tone as she could muster. ‘And I won’t interfere in the house in any way. I’m sure you run it admirably.’
Charity snorted, and then she screamed hysterically as her eyes fell on Tresca’s stomach, which had expanded rapidly in the past few weeks since Morgan’s proposal.
‘Oh my God, she’s pregnant! Oh, Morgan, how could you, you little fool? You’ve let the slut ensnare you. B–but wait a minute. She must be, what, five months gone? She was seeing that Irish blackguard back then, wasn’t she? So . . . the child’s not even yours. Oh, you damnable little whore!’
Her fingernails, extended like claws, shot towards Tresca’s face, but Morgan grasped his mother’s arm before she reached her target.
‘Stop this at once! I happen to have loved Tresca from a distance for a long time, and I’m more than happy to help her now that she’s, well, in trouble.’
‘And I’m sure she’s more than happy to accept! Well, I’m going up to my room to lie down. Just see what you’ve done to me, you ungrateful boy, and as for you—’
Tresca shut her eyes as the gobbet of spittle landed on her face. Perhaps she deserved it. She felt Charity push past her to reach the stairs, and Morgan went to follow her, but Tresca stilled his arm.
‘No. Let her go,’ she sighed. ‘Give her time to get over it.’
Neither of them heard the words Charity mumbled under her breath. ‘There’s more than one way to skin a cat, you little minx.’ Instead, Morgan met the resigned look in Tresca’s eyes and she watched him drag his hand over his nose and mouth as he let out a trembling breath.
‘I’m so very sorry,’ he murmured. ‘I didn’t think she’d take it quite so badly.’
‘We knew it weren’t going to be easy. And I’m the one who should be apologizing. For what it’s worth, thank you for standing up for me.’
‘And for myself. Perhaps it’s something I should have done a long time ago.’
He gave a wry smile, and Tresca noticed, not for the first time, that Morgan was quite handsome when his habitually sombre face moved into a smile. She put up a hand to cup his cheek and he turned his head to kiss her palm. But inside her head she heard a quiet voice. Aw, princess, what’ve you done?
Dinner was eaten in leaden silence. Tresca knew that Charity was studying her through eyes narrowed with hatred, waiting, she felt sure, for her to make a mistake with her table manners. Tresca thanked God that she had always observed her betters, and Mrs Tremaine in particular had always been one to observe such niceties, even in her farmhouse kitchen.
The housekeeper, Mrs Lancaster, ladled soup into Tresca’s bowl with what Tresca considered the shadow of a smirk on her face. She was right. In cahoots with her mistress, Mrs Lancaster had set out Tresca’s cutlery in the wrong order so that Charity could deride her over the dinner table. But when Tresca found that the positions of her soup and dessert spoons had been swapped, she silently replaced them correctly and then began to spoon the soup away from her within the bowl in the perfect way. She looked up briefly, and her eyes locked with those of her new mother-in-law. Tresca had guessed her game. The thwarted woman clearly knew it and was seething.
Morgan waited until the main course had been served before he attempted to break the stony atmosphere. ‘Well, Mother, as it seems we are to be a family, perhaps you would at least show Tresca a little respect. If only for the fact that she has only recently lost her father, in addition to everything else that has befallen her.’
Charity crossed her knife and fork over her plate of food with deliberate precision and straightened her already rigid back. ‘And am I supposed to feel sorry for her?’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Mother, where’s your Christian compassion?’
‘The fellow died in the workhouse. Lazy and penniless in an institution that we hard-working people pay for.’
Tresca had been biting her tongue from the moment she had entered the house. Charity had taken every opportunity to criticize her, from her bundle of humble clothes to the way her springing curls refused to stay in place. She had taken it all on the chin for Morgan’s sake, but now his mother’s words made Tresca realize that in the short time she had been in the house, the witch must have sent someone, probably Mrs Lancaster, to find out what she could about Emmanuel so that she could torment her with it. It was simply too much.
‘My father were in the workhouse because he were dying,’ Tresca rounded on her mother-in-law. ‘He had cancer and were too sick to do a full day’s work. Anyone could find themselves in the same situation. Even you.’
She saw Charity’s head jerk back slightly on her neck, but the spiteful woman retorted almost at once, ‘I don’t think so. Your father was an itinerant farm labourer, as I understand. Turned navvy when he couldn’t get any other work.’
She nodded gloatingly as she picked up her cutlery once again. But Tresca could hardly contain the angry resentment that was boiling up in
side her. ‘I see you like to eat,’ she somehow managed to comment in a steady voice.
To her satisfaction, Charity looked confused. ‘Pardon?’
‘You like to eat,’ Tresca repeated. ‘Meat, vegetables, bread, milk and cream. Without farmers toiling in the fields in all weathers, you wouldn’t have food on your plate. Men who know their crops, refine their breeds of animals, see them safely through lambing or calving. It’s all skilled work. Skills I doubt very much that you have. And do you know how to make the butter you put on your bread, or the cheese you eat? No, I thought not,’ she concluded, seeing the horrified bafflement on Charity’s face.
Beside her, Morgan warned out of the side of his mouth, ‘I think that’s enough. You don’t want to rile her too much.’
‘No, Morgan, she has to realize that I’m just as good a person as she is. And so were my father.’
‘Huh! You can’t even speak properly. “He were, I were”,’ Charity mimicked.
‘And how much difference does that really make? And if it really bothers you that much, I shall make a conscious effort to correct myself. I cannot say fairer than that. Now, I understand that this has all been a shock for you, but I promise you I will prove myself as good a daughter-in-law as you could wish for.’
‘We shall see,’ Charity scoffed, and forked a roast potato into her mouth.
The rest of the meal was eaten without another word being spoken. Afterwards, Tresca made an excuse to go upstairs since she felt if she spent another minute in Charity’s company, she may well punch her on the nose. But just as she reached the bottom step, Charity flew out of the dining room after her.
‘You may think you’ve won that round,’ she spat, ‘but there’ll be plenty more that I shall win. One day I’ll see you out of this house for good and Morgan will find a decent wife for himself. And while you are here, I promise I’ll make your life absolute hell.’
