‘John!… I’m up here… in the attic!’ Scarlet punched her small clenched fist at the window, but it was jammed tight. ‘Is the boy alright?… John!’ Her frantic words went unheeded, as John’s homely gaitered figure loaded up the last of the summer’s apple crop, before clambering onto the wagon and seating himself onto the forward bench where he took up the reins. The horse lowered his great head and began pulling away in response to the gentle slapping of the reins against his back. Soon, the wagon had crossed the river and was lost from Scarlet’s sight. She knew he would not be back for at least four hours, until early evening when he had sold most of her father’s fruit crop in nearby Minehead. Tomorrow at the Dunster market anything remaining would be sold, along with other produce from the smallholding. Scarlet felt guilty and saddened as, raking her eyes over the barn, she murmured, ‘I’m sorry, Silas… truly sorry.’ She slid down and settled into a corner, preparing herself for a long lonely vigil when the dark would eventually come and in the pitch black of the attic she would hear the night creatures scurrying about amongst the rafters and, just occasionally, brushing against her in their relentless foraging. Scarlet was not afraid of them, for she defended their right to be both inquisitive and resentful of the intruder who violated their undisputed territory. Yet, if the night creatures wished her gone, it was no more than Scarlet herself did. But, for now, Scarlet fidgeted on the hard unyielding boards as she endeavoured to make herself more comfortable. Several times she closed, then opened, her eyes. She thought about John on the road to Minehead; she smiled as she imagined him cheerfully whistling as he went on his way. She thought about her mammy deep in the heart of the house, going about her domestic tasks. She even envisaged her father, stripped to the waist and bent over the fierce heat of his forge, while some patient and magnificent shire horse waited for the blacksmith’s attention. All of these familiar things brought a measure of comfort to Scarlet, but none so much as when she allowed her thoughts to dwell on the boy called Silas, an unfortunate creature who had the irritating knack of bringing out the worst in her. Even at the very minute when Scarlet was thinking of him and regretting the pain she had caused him to suffer, and though the recollection of it flooded her young heart with compassion, Scarlet resented him, and, if he was standing before her now, she would probably strike him for his part in it! He was too foolish, too trusting and she despised him for his weaknesses. But then, she loved him also, and was suddenly overcome with remorse. His handsome face filled her mind, and the warmth it created in her spilled over to touch her heart.
Outside in the barn, the boy was also brooding on past events but, unlike Scarlet, his thoughts were dwelling on the haunting phenomenon which harked back to the time when he had first come to Greystone House, and in circumstances that, even now, he was uncertain of. But two things he did know, and they were, firstly, the depth of mutual loathing that existed between himself and Vincent Pengally, and the sure belief that that man alone knew the truth. The boy, Silas, fervently suspected that Vincent Pengally was his father, but his every instinct warned him never to betray that suspicion to anyone!
During these past days, when his discomfort had given way to intense pain and afterwards he had grown too numb to feel any sensation at all, Silas had been tormented by visions from his deepest infant memory. It was all a long time ago, and the memories had grown unclear with the passing of his earlier childhood. He vaguely recalled a woman, fiery and beautiful, whom he took to be his mother and who had been visited by Vincent Pengally on many occasions; the only one of which the boy could recall with any clarity was the last one. He remembered how the woman had grown still and quiet, and he himself had followed the tall dark figure that was Vincent Pengally, followed him to this house, to a cellar below, where he had seen and been part of such fearful things that haunted him still! Now the questions would not go away. Were these obscure memories real? Had those monstrous events in that darkened cellar really taken place? Silas was not yet a man and so these things were more awesome to his young impressionable mind. He dared not question too closely, for fear that he might expose a part of himself that was so obscene it must be forever hidden away. As it was, his sense of guilt and outrage forced him into a world of silence, a lonely painful world where only the creatures from the wild were made welcome. He had created a gentle, secret world where he could withdraw and remain sane. Only Scarlet threatened it. Only the lovely taunting Scarlet could throw it all into confusion and invade it in such a way that both excited and terrified him. He murmured her name now. ‘Scarlet… Scarlet,’ and the sound of his own voice startled him.
When, drawn by his soft calling, the huge grey gelding ambled across his stable towards the railings where he nuzzled his soft head into the boy’s neck, Silas was comforted. After a while, his exhaustion forced him to close his eyes and long for sleep. When sleep came, it carried him far beyond all earthly pain and anguish, refreshing his mind and easing his body, renewing his strength for whatever lay ahead.
‘Fetch her down!’ Vincent Pengally had the look of a man wearied by his daily labours, with the heat and ash from the forge still on him. With Silas to help him, he would get through his blacksmithing at a faster pace, when the forge would be shut down before the hour of seven. These past days had been hard without the boy’s help, but Vincent Pengally would not humble himself to admit it! He had strode into the kitchen on the stroke of nine, the exhaustion still etched into his grim face and his broad shoulders stooped as if beneath the weight of his work. He had washed, and afterwards eaten the meal of rabbit stew which his wife had put before him, and throughout it all he had not spoken one civil word to her. Now, though, he turned from the fire where he had been stretching his powerful frame and warming himself, and when he fixed his piercing grey eyes on Hannah’s quiet anxious face, there was the semblance of a smile in them. A smile, yet not a smile, for it seemed to increase her anxiety. ‘Did you hear what I said, woman?’ he demanded, the smile still soft on his face, ‘Scarlet… fetch her down. Now!’
Hannah made no move. ‘Do you mean it, Vincent?’ she asked gently, always unsure as to his mood; he could so easily change his mind, even before she had gone from the room.
He laughed, a low spiteful sound which caused her to cringe. ‘Don’t be so mistrusting, Hannah,’ he chided, maliciously, ‘I wouldn’t tell you to fetch her down if I didn’t mean it!’
She had to believe him as she hurried towards the door, the thought of Scarlet being let out of the attic lending wings to her feet. At the door, she turned. ‘And the boy?’ she ventured.
‘Don’t interfere in what doesn’t concern you.’ He watched her fiercely as she quickly nodded and scurried away.
On Hannah’s return, some long moments later, her husband was seated in the horsehair armchair beside the fire hearth. When his wife and daughter came into the room, he got to his feet, collected a bowl from the table and, returning to the cooking pot which was quietly simmering over the coals, he scooped out a ladleful of hot stew and spilled it into the bowl. This he placed on the edge of the table, before gesturing to Scarlet to take up the place he had earlier vacated. ‘Go on, girl!’ Hannah sensed Scarlet’s hesitation, as she pushed her forward, ‘Do as you’re told!’
Only when Scarlet was seated at the table and beginning to eat did Vincent Pengally return to his armchair. His wife sat opposite him and quietly took up her sewing, never once lifting her nervous blue eyes to gaze on either her husband or her daughter, yet concentrating on her work with such intensity that her knuckles were stiff as wood and drained white. The atmosphere was ominous, the silence broken only by the occasionally spluttering of the lamp which hung from the central ceiling beam, and the gentle scraping of metal against earthenware as Scarlet forced herself to swallow every mouthful of the piping-hot stew that had been put before her. Yet, although she was desperately famished and the juicy aroma from the thick rich broth assailed her nostrils and whetted her appetite, she was painfully aware that her father’s stony g
aze had rested on her downcast face throughout. There was a great need in her to glance up and meet his gaze with defiance, but she strongly resisted the temptation on account of her mother, who had pleaded with Scarlet to ‘learn your lesson, child… don’t dare put a foot wrong, and for God’s sake, don’t torment him with them black insolent eyes of yours!’ Scarlet promised her mother that she would heed her warning because, although she despised such weakness, she deeply loved that poor wretched woman who had suffered the dark unpredictable moods of Vincent Pengally for too many years.
Pushing the bowl away and straightening into the hard upright chair, Scarlet asked demurely, ‘May I please leave the table?’ Even now she did not lift her gaze, although she sensed that he was willing her to do so. A long poignant moment passed, while both mother and daughter anxiously waited for his answer. After a while he rose from the depth of his armchair and went on slow heavy steps to where Scarlet was seated. He looked first at the empty bowl, and then, bending his considerable frame towards her, he put his two large, coarse hands onto her small shoulders and, giving a low satisfied chuckle, he lowered his head to put his half-open mouth softly against her forehead, keeping it there until Scarlet wanted to scream out, his touch reviling her and sending ugly shivers to every corner of her being. At last he straightened up, saying in a warm, self-satisfied manner, ‘There’s no reason why you can’t leave the table, my dear. There’s no reason why you must ever be punished again either… unless of course you still refuse to learn your lesson.’ He caressed her face with the tips of his fingers, a note of anguish creeping into his voice as he murmured, ‘Oh, Scarlet… lovely girl. Don’t you realise that punishing you hurts me even more? I love you! Whatever I do is only for your own good. I’ve told you before, child… the boy, Silas, is a bad lot… he eats little innocent things like you! I’m only trying to protect you… you do understand that, don’t you?’ He waited, but when Scarlet made no response, he angrily flicked his fingers from her face, his roughened leathery skin having made an ugly imprint on the milk-whiteness of her delicately chiselled cheekbone. ‘Leave the table and get ready for your bed.’ Before storming from the room, he cast a cursory glance over his wife, who began quickly clearing away the dishes and instructing Scarlet to ‘Give me a hand to fetch the tin bath in from the scullery, child. Then you must get undressed for your wash.’ She nodded impatiently towards the big blackened kettle standing on the trivet in the hearth. ‘There’s plenty of hot water.’
In a surprisingly short time the table was cleared and the tin bath brought in, to be positioned on the rug, close enough to the fire for Scarlet to be pleasantly warm, but far enough away to prevent her from being scorched. Scarlet loved the feel of the warm soapy water running against her skin, and as her mother vigorously soaped and scrubbed her, the dirt, and the awful experience of being shut away in the attic seemed to fall away, leaving her deliriously clean and refreshed.
‘I hate him!’ The thought burst from her with venom.
‘No, no child… you must never think that; you must never say that!’ Hannah was horrified; supposing he should overhear?
‘I do hate him! And I don’t care if he hears me say it, either. He’s wicked and spiteful. You didn’t see what he did to Silas!’
‘And I don’t want to see. John Blackwood won’t let the lad come to any real harm, you know that, Scarlet. He’s been in and out of that barn ever since your father found you and that boy together.’ She shook the girl. ‘Whatever came over you, child? You know you’re to stay away from him… and yet you will persist in defying your father. It must stop! Because I fear that, if it doesn’t… then, one of these days, that wretched boy will come to real harm.’ She had said too much and now regretted it.
‘What do you mean, Mammy?’ Scarlet was fearful for Silas who, after all, was not really the guilty one. ‘Will he kill him?… Will he, Mammy?… Will he kill him?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ Hannah’s hands were trembling as she went on soaping the girl’s slim body. ‘Don’t you ever say such a thing again! D’you hear me, Scarlet?… you’re never to say such evil things again!’
‘Don’t! You’re hurting me!’ Scarlet winced, pulling away as the hitherto gentle soaping became a frenzied onslaught against her bare skin, and causing such pain that the tears sprang to her eyes.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, child… I didn’t realise.’ Hannah was mortified to see the abrasions rising beneath Scarlet’s tender skin. At once she pacified the girl and began whisking the soap into a lather in the palms of her hands. This she gently laid onto Scarlet, soothing the skin and regaining the girl’s confidence. ‘There… no harm done. It’s the soap, dear… see.’ She tilted the block of green soap to an angle as Scarlet’s dark eyes examined it. ‘It’s got such rough edges… I just forgot to be careful, that’s all.’ She gently stroked the girl’s long blue-black hair. ‘I really am sorry, Scarlet… are you alright?’
Scarlet nodded. She loathed it when her father touched her, but she normally liked her mother’s hands on her, because they could be so gentle. ‘Will he untie Silas soon, Mammy?’
‘Soon… yes, child, I’m sure of it.’ Hannah hoped so, because she never liked trouble, any kind of trouble. It played on her nerves so. ‘Stand out of the tub, child,’ she instructed Scarlet. ‘Let’s dry you off and get you to bed, before he finds his way back, in a temper about something or another!’ Hannah had long admitted it to herself. She was frightened of him, but apart from Scarlet and the Good Lord above, Vincent Pengally was all she had.
The ritual was always the same. Scarlet would stand perfectly still, often shivering while one by one she extended her limbs to be towelled dry. Finally, her hair was rubbed, strand by strand, through her mother’s strong capable hands, before it was painstakingly brushed to hang loose and damp down her back. Hannah often made the remark, ‘It’s growing too heavy, child… too long. I’ve a mind to take the shears to it.’ But she never did, because, being cursed with thin fine hair herself, the thick black and magnificent mane that was Scarlet’s inheritance from her father filled her with both envy and pride.
Scarlet would laugh at her mammy’s impatient remarks. ‘You always say that,’ she would point out with a smile, ‘but you won’t cut my hair.’ Then the smile would slip from her lovely face as she warned, ‘I won’t let you.’ At first, when her mammy threatened to ‘take the shears to it,’ Scarlet was horrified. But then she began to realise that her mammy could never bring herself to do such a vile thing. And it would be vile, to cut away those long beautiful locks which were praised and admired by all who looked on them. Without them, Scarlet would feel naked and ugly. She would never again want anyone to look on her.
Yet, at that very moment, someone’s hungry eyes were feasting on Scarlet’s young body, and believing it to be the most exquisite sight his senses had ever beheld. Vincent Pengally’s face was flushed with pleasure as he drew closer to the warped plank in the sturdy kitchen door which had created a small slit, through which he could enjoy the clear view beyond. He could see the huge oak dresser, bedecked with meat plates, and the big square table which had been his father’s before. There were two comfortable armchairs, and the dark engravings on the wall. And there were the two females! His wife was engaged in gathering up the towels and other oddments, before hurrying them away, at the same time reminding Scarlet, ‘Get into your nightshift, girl! Your father’s only next door in the parlour… he snoozes very lightly, and if he were to come back and find you still not abed… well! It won’t do his temper any good, I know that much!’ She made herself breathless from rushing around and there was a real look of fear in her face, that gave the silent watcher a rush of satisfaction. Then, she was gone, and only the girl remained.
On long slim legs that moved seemingly without effort, Scarlet went nearer to the fireplace. Here, she stretched her arms high into the air and gave a low pleasant sigh. She liked the feel of the warm fire’s glow on her naked skin. Now, she ran her two hands through
her hair, lifting and fanning it around her pretty shoulders, until it lay like a flowing black mantle, reaching down her back and over her smooth buttocks, and following the young vigorous curves of her body, as water in a brook might wash over the gently undulating stones embedded there.
Now, when Scarlet swung round from the fire, Vincent Pengally’s excited heart turned. He gasped aloud, quickly retreating a small distance when Scarlet startled and brought her dark gaze to rest on the very door behind which he was hiding. For a long moment they were both very still, the one softly listening within, yet uncertain as to whether she had imagined that low quick hiss, which might have been the evening breeze forcing its way through the aged walls. And the one also watching without, waiting with baited breath until it was safe. He saw how Scarlet was satisfied that it must have been her imagination, and his delight in her was all the richer because, in her innocence, she had afforded him a while longer in which to enjoy her. His lascivious eyes raked her small virgin form. He coveted its shapely thighs and gently rising nipples that pushed hard and thrusting against the small mounds that would all too soon be the firm young breasts of a woman. He let himself covet it all a while longer, until the fever within him raged to such a pitch that he must either tear down the door that separated him from her, or take himself down to the river and offer his vile body to its murky depths.
He chose to do neither. He felt the desire ebb from him and all that was left was the fervent resolve to save Scarlet from her own bewitching beauty. As he went from there on quick silent footsteps, Vincent Pengally vividly recalled in every detail what he had been privileged to see. He was never more convinced that he must remain ever vigilant because, like summer fruit, the girl was beginning to ripen, and there would be those who were eager to taste of it. The thought was so repulsive to him that he was driven to seek solace outside, in the dark night, until the fury within him subsided.
Scarlet Page 5
