by Dilly Court
Bella longed to draw the curtains, shutting out the dismal scene, but that would plunge the room into almost complete darkness. She would have to wait until Mrs Quelch, the cook-general, came to light the paraffin lamps.
Perching on the window seat for a moment, Bella tried to work out how long she had been at Mableton Manor. It must be two or, maybe, three months since that fateful night when Desmond had accused her of having an affair with Rackham. She was certain that Iris was partly to blame, but it must have been Rackham who had sewn the seeds of doubt in Desmond’s jealous mind. He had been hell-bent on engineering her downfall from the start and he had used Iris as a pawn in his foul game.
Bella shuddered, remembering Desmond’s uncontrolled fury that had been both terrible and terrifying. He had ranted and raged at her, calling her all the filthy names that he could think of, until she had collapsed on the floor of her bedroom with her hands over her ears. Then he had beaten her, viciously and unmercifully until she had lost consciousness. Next morning, when Bella had summoned up the strength to ring for Maria, it was Iris who came to her room. Even now, she could remember the vicious look, and cruel words, that Iris had used to tear her character to shreds. Bella had tried to defend herself, but it had been like dealing with a mad woman. She shuddered at the memory.
‘Pack your bags,’ Iris had said finally, with a triumphant curl of her thin lips. ‘My father has seen sense at last and he’s packing you off to our country estate in the wilds of Essex. I hope you rot there, you cunning bitch.’
With that, Iris had swept from the room, locking the door behind her. Bella remembered struggling with the laces on her corsets and the pain of her bruised ribs. She could almost laugh at it now; how foolish she had been to worry about dressing herself nicely when her whole world was about to be torn apart. After what had seemed like an hour, the door had opened and Jane had sidled in, carrying a breakfast tray. She had kept her gaze firmly fixed on the floor, answering Bella’s demands to have Maria sent to her by shaking her head and running from the room.
Bella had thrown the plate of toast at the door, watching a dribble of butter run down the cream paintwork with childish satisfaction. She remembered picking up the coffeepot, tempted to toss it as well, but she had been thirsty and she had drunk two cupfuls before she began to feel drowsy and light-headed. The next thing she knew, she was slumped against the leather squabs of the carriage, her head was aching and her mouth dry. She had realised, as the fog in her brain cleared, that Desmond must have drugged the coffee. She had tried to make the coachman stop but he had kept the horses going at a spanking pace. The landscape outside the carriage windows had been unfamiliar. The awful truth had slowly come upon her that Desmond was sending her away, without Maria and, to her horror, without Leonie.
Bella choked back a sob, thinking about Leonie, her baby, her beautiful child. At three years old she was too young to understand what was going on around her. All she would know was that Mama had gone away. Mama had left her. Bella braced her shoulders and wiped her eyes on her sleeve. She must not give way to morbid thoughts. At least Maria was with Leonie; surely Desmond would not have been so cruel as to put someone else in charge of the nursery? She shivered and began pacing the floor again. Desmond, when angered, was capable of anything.
Without much hope of it being answered, she tugged at the bell pull. Quelch and his wife, the only living-in servants, were a surly, ignorant pair, who had obviously been instructed to treat their mistress more like a prisoner than the respected wife of their employer.
Taking a turn around the room, Bella stared with distaste at her surroundings. How she hated this awful house, this oubliette to which Desmond had condemned her without trial and without pity. Built in the seventeenth century, it might have been beautiful then but now it was a neglected old hag. The ill-fitting windows let in the damp salt air and, when the wind was in a certain direction, the chimneys smoked dismally. There was no gas and no electricity. The musty smell of damp rot permeated Bella’s clothes and every morning her shoes bloomed with grey mould. In her mind, the whole house reeked of neglect and despair, mirroring her own depression.
She must do something; inactivity was killing her. Making up her mind, Bella went to the desk beneath the sombre oil painting of one of Desmond’s ancestors, and sat down. Taking a sheet of headed paper, she dipped a pen in the inkwell, and sat chewing the tip. How would she begin it this time? She racked her brains, trying to think of yet another beginning to a letter to Desmond, begging him to let her come home. Not that he would reply; he had not replied to any of the letters, sometimes two or three a week, that she had sent. Heaving a sigh, she felt as though she was beginning to lose her mind, stuck here in the country with no one but the morose caretakers for company. There were a couple of women who came in daily from the village to do the cleaning, but they were simple souls with little conversation. In fact, they must have been instructed to avoid her, since they scuttled off whenever she approached them.
Bella was still trying to think of something that would move Desmond to end her enforced exile, when the door opened and Mrs Quelch ambled in carrying a tray of food.
‘It’s a long walk from the kitchen and my bunions are playing up in this cold weather,’ Mrs Quelch grumbled, slamming the tray down on the table by the fire. ‘Better eat up quick, before it gets cold.’
‘Please light the lamps before you go, Mrs Quelch,’ Bella said, rising to her feet. ‘And the log basket is nearly empty.’
Ignoring Mrs Quelch’s mumbling retort, Bella went to the table and sat down, willing herself to lift the cover on the dish, but at the same time, dreading what she would find. She was starving, but Mrs Quelch was not an inspired cook. The mutton stew that was served almost daily might have been almost palatable when hot, but when cold, congealing with globules of grey fat floating on the surface, it was barely fit to feed to a dog. Bella had lost so much weight that her dresses were all too big for her and she had no need for corsets to nip in her waist.
Shuffling her feet, Mrs Quelch lit the lamps and left the room, still grumbling beneath her breath. Lifting the cover on the dish, Bella replaced it quickly. Perhaps Desmond intended to starve her to death in this dreadful place. She broke the hunk of bread into small pieces and crammed them into her mouth, washing them down with a glass of water. She was still hungry but nauseated at the thought of eating yet another of Mrs Quelch’s vile meals. She shivered, hugging her shawl closer around her shoulders. How long would Desmond keep up this dreadful punishment? Being a virtual prisoner in this miserable place was bad enough, but being separated from Leonie was unbearable. If only she could get word to Edward, Bella was certain that he would not stand for her being treated in this cruel way.
Plans for escaping and getting back to London had been formulating in her mind for weeks, and then discarded because of their impracticality. Mableton Manor was too isolated for Bella to make a getaway on foot. The narrow country lanes networked alongside the salt marshes, and to take a wrong turn would be a fatal mistake. The only horse in the stables was an ageing carthorse that Quelch harnessed to the dog cart for his monthly trip to Maldon which, as far as Bella could gather, was seven or eight miles away. If she had calculated correctly, tomorrow would be the day that he set off to do whatever business he had in the town.
The log basket was empty and the fire was burning away to white ash. Quelch had not yet brought in the firewood and Bella was about to tug at the bell pull when, without knocking, he came shambling into the room carrying a wicker basket full of green, moss-covered logs. He tossed a couple on the fire and they hissed and steamed, spitting out sparks and belching smoke.
‘Quelch,’ Bella said, adopting a firm manner, despite the fact that she was inwardly quaking, ‘I will be accompanying you when you go into Maldon tomorrow.’
Quelch tipped the rest of the logs into the basket and turned his head to stare at her, his weathered face an expressionless map of lines and furrows. ‘Not possible.�
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Bella took a deep breath and summoned up all her acting skill. ‘Of course it’s possible. You will do as I bid or I will tell my husband.’
‘The master gave orders that you weren’t to go nowhere,’ Quelch said, scowling. ‘I take orders from Sir Desmond.’
‘And in his absence you take orders from your mistress. Have the dog cart at the front door at eight o’clock sharp unless, of course, you want me to report your behaviour to my husband.’
Having left London at the end of the summer, with no time to pack more than a few necessities, Bella had no winter clothes to combat the bitter wind that blew across the saltings straight from the Urals. It was snowing quite heavily by the time they reached the outskirts of the town. She was so cold that she had lost all feeling in her extremities and, although Mrs Quelch had been prevailed upon to find an old umbrella, Bella’s thin jacket was wet through and her skirts were crusted with snow, clinging damply around her legs, as she climbed down from the cart outside the Blue Boar Inn.
Quelch handed the reins to an ostler. ‘I’ll be out directly,’ he said, jerking his head to Bella to follow him.
Unable to feel her feet, Bella hobbled into the warm interior of the inn. She hesitated in the doorway as the smell of hot coffee, mingled with delicious aromas from the kitchen, assailed her nostrils. Faint with cold and hunger, she swayed dizzily.
‘Are you all right, Ma’am?’
With difficulty, Bella focused her eyes on the landlord’s anxious face. ‘If I may sit down for a while …’
‘The lady will wait here in your parlour,’ Quelch said, drawing the landlord aside.
Bella could not hear what was said, but the landlord nodded and Quelch strode outside into the stable yard without so much as a glance in her direction.
‘You look perished, Ma’am,’ the landlord said, opening the door to a small parlour just off the main bar room. ‘There’s a fire in here and I’ll send the girl in with some coffee.’
As the door closed on him, Bella realised that she was just as much a prisoner now as she had been in Mableton Manor. What Quelch had told the innkeeper she could only imagine, but at this moment she felt so weak from lack of food, and chilled to the bone, that she doubted if she could walk as far as the stable yard. She took off her wet jacket and went to sit by the fire, spreading out her skirts and watching the steam rise from them. A few minutes later a maid bustled in carrying a tray with a pot of coffee and a plate of freshly baked scones, oozing with melted butter. She set it down on a small table by Bella’s chair, smiled, curtsied and left the room without saying a word.
Cramming the crumbly scones into her mouth Bella closed her eyes, savouring each delicious mouthful. Washed down with hot, sweet coffee, the food began to have its effect and she started to feel better almost immediately. Having finished everything on the tray, and licked the butter off the plate into the bargain, Bella got to her feet and went to the door. Opening it a little, she peered up and down in the narrow corridor that separated the parlour from the bar room. A chambermaid scuttled past her carrying a sweeping brush and a dustpan and two men sat by the fire in the bar, chatting and drinking ale.
‘Can I help you, Ma’am?’
Bella jumped and spun round to see the landlord standing at her elbow. ‘No, I mean yes. I have business in the town. Did my man tell you what time he would be back?’
‘He was concerned that you should stay here in the dry, Ma’am. It’s not fit for man nor beast out there and we’ll have more snow by nightfall. Best wait in the parlour.’
His bulk blocked the passageway and Bella had no alternative but to retreat to the parlour. She was not dressed for walking, nor had she any money to hire a horse or pay for a carriage to take her to the nearest station. In her desperation she had planned to try to exchange her gold earrings, the only item of jewellery that she had been able to bring from Dover Street, for a train ticket to London. If all else failed, then perhaps, when the inn filled with travellers and tradesmen, she could find someone who would post the letters to Desmond and also to Edward that she had finished writing before she retired to bed the previous evening.
Running to the window, Bella peered out into the swirling snow, drumming her fingers on the windowsill and then, unable to sit still, she got up and went to stand by the fire. The ticking of the timepiece on the mantelshelf seemed to grow louder as she stared at the ivory clock face, watching the hands move almost imperceptibly, and wondering how long it would be before Quelch returned from his errands.
Unable to settle, Bella hurried to the window every time she heard footsteps or horses’ hooves on the cobbled yard, peering through the frosted panes in the hope of seeing a likely traveller. An hour went by and then two, as she paced the floor, making fresh plans and discarding them almost immediately as being unworkable.
She had just sunk down on the chair by the fire when she heard the unmistakable sound of a motor car pulling up in the stable yard. Leaping to her feet, she ran to the window. The snow had all but obliterated the view and she could only make out dim shapes. She hurried to the door and opened it just wide enough to peep into the passage. The arrival of a traveller in a horseless carriage must be something of an event, Bella thought, as the innkeeper rushed past her, followed by chattering chambermaids and the potman. Her stomach knotted with nervous tension. Her knuckles whitened as she gripped the door handle so tightly that her nails dug into the flesh of her palm. This could be her one chance to escape; it didn’t matter where the traveller was going, or who it was; she had to get away before Quelch returned. As she stepped into the passage, Bella heard the landlord barking orders at his staff and she pressed herself against the wall as they scurried past her. She could hear the innkeeper’s voice speaking in unctuous tones to the new arrival.
‘Come this way, Sir. There’s a fire in my best private parlour and I can offer you excellent accommodation and good, wholesome food.’
The reply was lost in the general hubbub. Bella edged along the narrow passageway, intent on discovering the identity of the traveller.
‘But surely, Sir,’ the landlord said, ‘a glass of hot punch would keep out the cold. And perhaps the young woman would appreciate some coffee.’
‘Thank you, no. What I need urgently is the direction to Mableton Manor.’
The familiar voice made Bella start forward, pushing past the potman. ‘Rackham!’
Surprise, relief and a flicker of a smile crossed Rackham’s taut features in quick succession only to fade into a bland, shuttered expression as Bella flew at him.
‘You utter wretch, Giles. I might have known you were at the back of all this.’
Rackham caught her by the wrists. ‘My dear Bella, what a pleasant surprise.’
‘You are unspeakable,’ Bella cried, struggling. ‘Let me go.’
The landlord gave a polite cough. ‘If you’ll excuse me, Sir …’
‘Sisterly love!’ Rackham said, grinning. ‘It’s the very devil.’
‘Ah, yes, precisely so, Sir. Maybe you would prefer the privacy of my best parlour.’
‘I’m sure I would,’ Rackham said agreeably. ‘Come, my dear, we have so much to talk about.’
The maidservant set the tray down on the table, bobbed a curtsey and scuttled out of the parlour.
‘You bastard!’ Bella cried, wrenching her hands free from Rackham’s iron grip. ‘If you’ve come to gloat over my situation, then get it over and done with.’
Rackham shrugged off his greatcoat, dropping it carelessly on the nearest chair. ‘Don’t be so melodramatic, Bella.’
Kitty, who up until this moment had kept silently in the background, sprang forward to lead Bella to the settle. ‘You don’t understand, my lady. Please sit down and let Mr Rackham explain.’
‘I’m sorry to see you in such company, Kitty,’ Bella said, glaring at Rackham, who was pouring coffee as though nothing untoward had happened. ‘I thought you were loyal to me. I thought we were friends.’
‘I am your friend, I am truly,’ Kitty cried, grasping Bella’s hands. ‘You don’t understand.’
‘I understand that you’ve been duped by a rogue and a liar who uses his charm to get his own way.’
Rackham sipped his coffee. ‘And I thought you might actually be pleased to see me, Bella, considering I came hotfoot to rescue you.’
‘You told Desmond about us. I’ll never forgive you, Giles. Never!’
‘No, I wouldn’t do that to you,’ Rackham said, his flippant smile fading. ‘As a matter of fact I haven’t been near Dover Street since I left the country for Paris over three months ago.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Iris was demanding an engagement ring and, quite simply, I thought it best to put some distance between her and myself, not to mention my creditors. When I returned to London I heard that you’d gone to the country for your health. I could only assume that, after the gallant son and heir decided he would rather face the Boers than stand by the woman he professed to love, you were rusticating to mend your poor broken heart.’
‘What do you mean, face the Boers? That war was over years ago.’
‘I forgot you’d been out of touch for so long. The war is very much on again and no doubt, as we speak, the valiant captain is being heroic in besieged Ladysmith or Mafeking.’
‘Don’t speak of him like that, Giles. Edward is a brave man and he loves me. He did the honourable thing.’
Rackham’s generous mouth set in a hard line and his eyes flashed. ‘Honourable? He made love to his father’s wife and then left you to take the consequences of his own weakness and cowardice.’
‘Mr Rackham.’ Kitty caught him by the sleeve. ‘Please don’t, Sir. Remember why we come.’
Bella leapt to her feet. ‘Why did you come then, if it wasn’t to gloat over my sad condition and to report back to Desmond?’
