by Janet Woods
‘The bog will be turned into a lake, which, in turn, will drain into the stream.’ His hand hovered over the plan and he stabbed a finger at it from time to time as he explained, ‘There will be a bridge there. At this side of it, a weir with a sluice gate, because the lake might need draining from time to time. Some of the existing trees will be retained for protection against the wind, and to provide shelter for the birds. Here, where the barn is, an artificial hill will support a pavilion, and an avenue of elms planted. The project will be called Maryse’s garden.’
‘Why would you want to call it after me?’
‘You know why. The lake we’ll call Gwin Dwr.’
She gave a sudden gasp, biting her bottom lip as she was reminded of the cruel assault she’d been subjected to – of the consequence, the secret child she’d given birth to in Wales. She had never spoken of it to him, but she did now.
‘So, you believe the presence of the lake will wash away my shame, as it was purported to do in the cave of the wine water in Wales?’
The Gwin Dwr had been real, a cave where Welsh virgins had supposedly been thrown after being violated by the English soldiers. Legend said that only the pure of mind could safely bathe there, and if the souls of the virgins found them wanting, they would drown. If they survived their sins were washed away. Maryse had bathed in the waters, emerging alive and imagining she was cleansed. But she was older now, and Marcus knew she’d believed because she’d wanted to at the time. Her words confirmed it.
‘Do you really believe that happened, Marcus?’ His hand slid over hers. ‘Maryse, you have done nothing to shame yourself.’
Her eyes came up to his again. ‘You must be blind if you truly think such a thing.’
‘I know it must be true, for the virgins of the cave of the Gwin Dwr found you without sin and cast you from their midst. Like them, I believe you were sinned against. Can you not forget the past and admit you love me just a little?’
Unexpectedly, she said, ‘I do love you, more than you’ll ever know. You are noble and kind, and you deserve someone much better.’
A description far from the truth. Maryse had seen only what he’d wanted to show her, for she was too fragile to learn of the darkness in him. ‘There is nobody better for me. Wed me, Maryse. No one else will cherish you as much, or love you so well.’
He held his breath as she evaded his eyes, her expression telling him she was considering the idea. Finally, she looked again at him, the grey of her eyes shining with unshed tears and uncertain in their resolve. ‘If you can love me without censure, the least I can do is have faith in you. But I’m scared, Marcus, for I don’t know if I can bring myself to be a proper wife to you.’
With his heart soaring, for he was confident he could overcome the damage which had been done to her, he said, ‘It would be my pleasure to instruct you in the gentle ways of loving, for I would want some children from the marriage. You know I’d never deliberately hurt you.’
She sucked in a sob of a breath, then nodded. ‘I know. So yes, I will become your wife.’
Marcus felt like a young lad with his first love as he took her trembling hand in his. He vowed he’d never allow anyone to hurt this girl again. He’d kill them first! ‘When shall it be?’
She gave a faint smile at his eagerness, rewarding him with an answer that took his breath away. ‘Before Christmas, with no fuss and with only my immediate family present.’
At the end of the following month the pair were wed in the Cheverton church.
It was a cold, grey day, with the smell of rain in the air as the Matheson family set out. The fields were a dark crumble of ploughed earth and mud, the hedges a twist and gnarl of grey sticks, browning leaves and orange berries.
Inhaling the damp, mossy smell of early winter, of leaves crushed underfoot, and experiencing the chill as the wind breathed into the warm space between her collar and bonnet, Siana smiled. The weather invoked memories of her childhood, reminding her how lucky she was to have enough to eat and a sturdy roof over her head.
Smoke drifted from the chimneys of the cottages in the new village Marcus had built. Already the neat, bright thatch was beginning to weather, eventually to meld with the landscape. It provided a warm home for wintering mice. Here and there, on the solid cob walls around windows and porches, ivy or climbing roses were beginning to take hold, gardens were green with rows of winter vegetables. Chicken, geese and hogs sent out a cacophony of sound, familiar to those who lived there.
Apart from themselves, only Josh and his friend, the misshapen and mute Sam Saynuthin, would witness the vows. Marcus had paid for a barrel of ale to be tapped at the local inn for the estate workers to celebrate.
Maryse would become mistress of Cheverton Estate, as Siana had been in her brief first marriage. She would be able to support her husband in ways Siana still found difficult. Maryse could socialize with ease, arrange dinner parties, and knew the order of preference without having to consult with another. Her manners were innate. She would not be made the recipient of condescension, however well meant it was.
But Siana was ever aware of and, grateful for the love and support offered to her by Francis. If she lost that she would find the strength to go on for the sake of the children, but she knew the essence of something inside her would shrivel up and die.
She and Francis had been wed in this very church by the same man. When she slid her hand into her his, he turned towards her and smiled, remembering the vows they had exchanged together, perhaps, as she was.
Maryse, elegantly gowned in blue silk, wore the shawl Marcus had bought her for warmth. The pearls at her throat had once belonged to her mother. She was calm, speaking her vows in a clear voice.
Afterwards, when they exchanged hugs, Siana became aware of the tension her stepdaughter was trying to hide. She guessed the reason behind it. ‘Be happy, my dearest Maryse. If ever you need me, you know where you can find me.’
There were tears in Maryse’s eyes as she whispered, ‘Thank you for being so good to me always.’
Beyond Maryse, something shifted in a shadows, causing Siana to experience a moment of such dread that she nearly cried out with the shock of it. Feeling faint she clutched at her husband for support. Not noticing anything amiss, Francis said quietly to her as he handed his family into the carriage, ‘I already miss her.’
‘Maryse will not be living far away, Papa,’ Daisy reminded him. ‘She said she’ll invite us all to tea when she’s settled in properly. I can remember living at Cheverton Manor. There were ghosts in the attic. Do you think they’re still there?’
Goldie’s blue eyes widened in remembrance and she shifted closer to Siana. ‘They used to rattle the door trying to get out. I saw one standing by the window in the attic once. She was wearing a green gown.’
Siana laughed, but uneasily. ‘That was a portrait of a woman who used to live there.’
‘What happened to her?’
‘She became very sad because her daughter died. She went to heaven to be with her.’
Siana wasn’t about to tell them that the woman in the portrait had been deranged and had been kept a prisoner at the manor for many years, that her own fey sense had been heightened there and the presence of the woman had seemed to haunt her – especially when she’d been with child. She shivered, wondering if the portrait had been disposed of.
Her sister snuggled up against her side. ‘I’m glad you didn’t go to heaven when Ashley died.’
A sudden stab of anguish ripped through Siana as Daisy reminded her of her precious son, her little squire, who’d been so handsome and robust. His life had been withdrawn from his body after a prolonged period of suffering, despite the fight she’d put up. She tried to stifle a tiny, involuntary sob as the blood drained from her face. Francis took her hand and held it, offering the only comfort he could.
She drew on his love and the depth of strength she knew she had inside her. ‘I was lucky. I still had you and Goldie to love. And now we have Su
sannah and Bryn too.’ Though Susannah would soon be claimed by her mother, and Goldie was going for a prolonged visit to her brother in London in the spring.
Maryse found it hard to adjust to marriage. Her wedding night had proved to her that her fears were correct. Marcus had been wonderfully gentle with her but, although she tried to relax and respond to his advances, at the last moment she became so rigid with fright she’d had to grit her teeth to stop herself from screaming. Afterwards, she felt dirtied and sick at heart.
‘My love,’ he’d said, making a valiant effort to hide his disappointment, ‘we will grow used to each other in time.’
Because she loved Marcus and wanted to please him, Maryse put up with his attentions. Although she grew used to it she knew she’d never find pleasure in the marital act. Sometimes, she was physically sick afterwards. Eventually, Marcus must have realized it, for he began to make fewer demands on her and the disgusting act became less prolonged.
He spent a night away from her just before Christmas, returning slightly pensive. ‘I had someone to see in Cornwall,’ was all he would say, and would be drawn no more on it.
Had Maryse known that her husband had killed two men on her behalf, she would have been horrified.
Christmas came and went, celebrated in pleasant company at her father’s house. It snowed heavily that year, making the journey to Kylchester Hall impossible. Spring swiftly followed, new plants pushed through the earth to embrace the sky.
‘The daffodils are out,’ Marcus said to her one day and led her to the window. Blazoned across the lawn in bobbing gold flowers were the words, ‘I love you, Maryse.’ She broke down, sobbing her heart out in his arms.
Maryse’s courses ceased. She knew what it meant and was beset by melancholy. She hid it under a mantle of calm, because everyone else was delighted. The only pleasure for her was that Marcus ceased to press his attentions on her.
Her baby was due to be born in August. Pale and listless from constant sickness, she sat by the window to while away the days by working at her embroidery or stitching a garment for Marcus’s child – for she couldn’t think of the expected infant as hers – and watching the new garden taking shape.
‘It’s beginning to look pretty,’ Maryse murmured to herself, seeing the lake fill with water as the stream was diverted. Soon, it became hard to remember at all the spot where she’d been assaulted, for it had disappeared under the water. ‘The lake we’ll call Gwin Dwr,’ Marcus had said.
He’d been humouring her. This lake could never be the legendary Gwin Dwr. But she was grateful the scene of the crime was no longer there to mock her.
Dear Marcus. He was so patient with her, even knowing she couldn’t love him as well as she wished.
By June, her garden was completed. Water lilies began to spread across the surface of the lake and reeds and irises thickened into clumps along the banks. Two ducks and a drake moved in. On the other side and up the hill a sweet little pavilion had been erected.
Her heart suddenly lightened. Marcus had worked so hard and she had been so ungrateful. She went down to join him. He smiled as he straightened up to lean on his hoe, his face smeared with perspiration and dirt.
‘What are you planting?’
‘A bed of roses for you. Next year we should have a good display. Come next month there will be baby ducks on the pond, for I’ve found a nest hidden amongst the reeds.’ His eyes went proudly to her bulging stomach. ‘It will be a good harvest all round, this year.’
‘Will you take me across the bridge to the pavilion? I want to see it.’
‘You’re feeling better, aren’t you?’
‘A little. I didn’t feel so ill today.’
‘Good, I’ve been worried about you.’ He offered her his arm and led her down to the bridge. ‘The mud is beginning to settle on the bottom of the lake now. See how pretty it is with the water tumbling over the weir. It was well worth doing.’
The hill to the pavilion was steep for someone in her advanced condition, and she was gasping for breath when she reached the top. Inside, were two chairs and a small table. The door opened outwards to give a view over the lake and the avenue of elm saplings. Maryse sank gratefully into one of the chairs, panting slightly. The climb had been taxing.
‘Sit and rest for a while, my love. I’ll go and fetch some lemonade so you can refresh yourself. Now you’re here, I’ve got a surprise for you.’ He strode off down the hill again, crackling with energy. She could see part of the house past the trees, the weathered Portland stone softened by rambling ivy. Marcus stopped for a moment to speak to a servant, who went scurrying off into the house. Then he disappeared into the stables.
It was pleasant to sit in the open air with the birds singing all around her. Presently, Maryse grew drowsy. Inside her, she felt the movement of her infant, a sly push against her ribs. She wished she could love it, for her disinterest seemed unnatural to her. But this was something Marcus had wanted, not her. She hoped it was a boy so he would have his heir.
Something wet pushed against her hand. Startled, she opened her eyes. A little white dog was gazing up at her, its tail wagging. It had a black spot on its back. Her mouth dried and her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth. It looked like her sister’s dog, Spot, lost all those years ago when he’d been a pup.
Then a man suddenly came into view and called the dog to heel. Whipping his cap from his head, he mumbled, ‘Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am. ‘Tis a long time since I’ve been in these parts and the Cheverton barn used to be here.’
Heart pounding with the horror she felt, she gazed at him, managing to choke out, ‘The barn has been moved to beyond the trees.’
‘Thank you kindly, ma’am.’ He moved off, the dog at his heel.
Weakness flooded through her. Thank God he hadn’t recognized her! She felt safer when she saw Marcus striding up the slope. He carried a box with a cloth over the top. Bringing up the rear was one of the footmen with a tray of refreshments, and he was trying to keep up without spilling anything. A grin on his face, Marcus placed the box on the ground in front of her. ‘For you, my love.’
Scrabbling sounds came from the box. ‘What is it?’
At his urging she pulled the cloth from the top. It was a pair of peacocks. The male of the pair gave a harsh squawk which echoed over the grounds and, after taking stock of his surroundings, he sprang from the box and urged his drab mate to do the same. Spreading his tail feathers and regaining his dignity, he ushered her towards the lake.
‘They’re beautiful.’ She fought to control her quivering voice. ‘They’ll have to be taken to the barn each night, otherwise the foxes will kill them.’ Still trembling, her glance went to the man and his dog, nearly out of sight now.
Marcus relieved the servant of the tray, placing it on the table before dismissing him. Almost casually, he asked her. ‘Who was the man you were talking to?’
‘Someone looking for the barn.’
‘Ah yes, Phineas Grundy is hiring itinerants this week. Did the man bother you?’
‘Why do you ask?’
He seated himself opposite her, his eyes as sharp as those of a hawk. ‘Because I saw your reaction when he approached. He’s left you pale and trembling, my love.’ He sighed and stared at her hands, which were busy shredding her handkerchief. She dropped it to the floor.
‘Do I have to ask him why he left you looking so terrified?’
‘No!’ she almost shouted, then she began to cry.
He drew her into his arms. ‘Was he one of them?’
‘No. But he was one of the men with them. That dog belonged to my sister. It was just a pup, but he took it with him when he left, even though the others told him to kill it.’
His face darkened. ‘The man knew what was about to happen and made no attempt to put a stop to it?’
‘I don’t think he recognized me. What if he remembers . . . what if the others come?’ She gazed up at him, her face haunted by misery and fear.
Tw
o of them will never come, Marcus thought. No wonder Maryse tried to isolate herself all these years by secluding herself in her room. He couldn’t bear it that she felt so vulnerable. As his heart burnt for her, his eyes and heart hardened. How on earth would she have managed without Siana’s strength to draw on? ‘I’ll deal with the problem.’
‘How?’
She didn’t need to know how. ‘Trust me to do what’s best for you, Maryse.’ He poured her a lemonade. ‘Drink this, my love. Let’s get some colour back into your cheeks before we go back to the house. As soon as you’re settled in bed I’ll be going out for a short time.’
‘You didn’t say you had a meeting.’
Marcus avoided her eyes, for he’d resorted to taking his ease now and again with a widow woman in Dorchester, and felt guilty about it.
‘This is just a quick visit to see Reverend White. I’ll be back in time to kiss you goodnight.’
The night was misty as Patrick Pethan settled himself into one of the cottages in the old Cheverton village. He’d been issued with a blanket, candles and rations, the cost of which would be deducted from his wages.
Patrick had hardly recognized Cheverton. He’d decided to come here after parting with his former companions in London. The pair had become increasingly violent over the previous four years. They’d drunk heavily and the rooms they’d rented together, within spitting distance of Covent Garden, attracted the most dubious of characters. The activity they’d boasted about had sickened Patrick.
After committing several robberies with Henry Ruddle, Silas had got the wind up and had signed on as crew on a merchant ship. A week later, Henry had killed a young girl in a drunken rage, and had thrown her body into the gutter.
‘She was a slut,’ Henry had told him when Patrick had protested. ‘Nobody will miss her. If you don’t like it, you and the bloody dog can piss off.’
It had been Patrick who’d reported the murder to the constables, receiving a reward in the process. Henry had been transported for life, but his former companions had threatened Patrick and he’d been forced to leave London in a hurry.
