Scarlet had heeded Shelagh’s considered warning, and it only echoed what she herself was convinced of. Yet she still needed him. Especially now. Overriding her need though, was an instinctive abhorrence of him. He was strange, just as her father, and now Shelagh, had pointed out. But that very fact still drew her to him. He was proud and beautiful, passionate and magnificent. She recalled the night when they had made such glorious love that even in a lifetime she would not forget. The memory stayed precious in her heart, as did her everlasting love for him. Her fear of him could not penetrate that love, but now she was glad he was gone from Greystone House, and she prayed he would never return. He had gone, but she had been left something precious. Something Silas must never be allowed to take from her. Something she need never be afraid of in the way she had grown afraid of others. A warm feeling spread through her. The deeper consequences of her night of love with Silas were yet to come, she knew that; she also knew that when he was made aware of the facts, her father would bring the wrath of Hell down on her. But this time she would stand up to him. This time she would not be fighting just for herself. She was afraid, there was no denying it: afraid and unsure of what the future held in store. But she was made even more desperate by the nagging fear that, on a day in the future, Silas might well return to claim what was his. She was reminded of his strange and unpredictable ways and the sadistic manner in which he had taken her to him, and then so callously walked away. Was it so surprising that she had deliberately hardened her heart towards him? She recalled the words her father had drummed into her over and over, until she knew they must be true. ‘He’s evil… he eats little innocents like you!’ How then could she let him destroy that wonderful new creation that even now was growing inside her. A sensation of revulsion rippled through her: supposing the child was not fathered by Silas, but… NO! Scarlet put up her two hands and pressed them hard against her temples. The thought was so horrific she wanted to tear it out and shred it to pieces! It wasn’t true, it couldn’t possibly be. Her prayers had been answered even before that night with Silas. All that was over when her mammy had fallen ill. The baby was hers! It belonged to no one else. Earth would have to shift in its heaven before she would let any man take it from her!
Plunging the white-hot iron into the cooling waters of the trough, Vincent Pengally glanced to where John and Scarlet appeared to be deep in conversation. At once incensed by the fact that they could find time to stand about, while he on the other hand was obliged to work harder than the horses he shod, it was his intention to confront them; in particular John Blackwood, who was paid for his labours in money earned by a blacksmith’s sweat! It never occurred to him that adverse seasons and unyielding land could also demand a man’s back to be broken.
‘Good-day, Mr Pengally.’ The sound of approaching hooves had caused the blacksmith to look up. His mood was not made more pleasant by the appearance of Garrett Summers, a man who, in Vincent Pengally’s ill-considered opinion, had no real experience of hard work. He acknowledged the polite and amiable greeting with a grudging nod. He had little time for such useless gentry. Many of his own ancestors were afflicted with the same malingering disease. There was an envy in him, a bitterness, and an awareness that he was no longer a young virile man. The years had crept up on him. Time was seeking revenge, and it was a souring experience.
‘She’s thrown a shoe… must have happened when we jumped the ditch; I walked her here. She’s a good mare… won’t give you any trouble.’ He coaxed the big bay mare into the smithy.
‘Bloody right she won’t,’ snapped the blacksmith, bending to run his fingers along her fetlock. Raising her hoof, he took one glance. ‘Hold her head,’ he instructed. After that he did not speak another word, but proceeded to attend to the mare’s hoof with the speed and skill that had earned him his enviable reputation as the finest blacksmith for many miles.
Watching him work, Garrett Summers was greatly impressed by the dexterity and single-mindedness of this middle-aged man, whose broad shoulders were beginning to stoop permanently after years of back-bending. He had no liking for Scarlet’s ill-mannered father, but he admired the man’s devotion to the crippling labours demanded of him. ‘Where’s Silas?’ he asked now, looking about, and hoping he might also catch a glimpse of the lovely Scarlet. Neither the blacksmith’s daughter nor his apprentice were anywhere to be seen. Embarrassed by the blacksmith’s silence, Garrett attempted to draw him into a conversation regarding current events. ‘I’m relieved to be back from business college,’ he ventured, somewhat nervously. ‘I would have learned more at my father’s side.’ His voice betrayed a degree of bitterness. ‘In my opinion, it’s experience that counts… I did argue that very point with my father, but he would insist on my going away.’ He looked down to where the blacksmith was filing the horny hoof. When he saw that his words had fallen on deaf ears, he stretched his neck again to search out any sign of Scarlet. God, he had missed her, and what trouble he had gone to, so that he might bring about a meeting between them; it was a tricky business prising off the mare’s shoe in such a way that it seemed to have been accidentally thrown. The silence was unbearable, broken only by the harsh rasping of the file. ‘I have it in mind to pay a visit to London again, in the next few days. King George V is opening the Imperial War Museum at Crystal Palace today.’ Anything to do with war fascinated him; he had bitterly regretted that his wound had prevented him from taking a full part in the recent world war. Still, the wound was fully healed now, and the limp only slight, though he was warned that it would always be with him. He grew irritated. Where was Scarlet?
‘You look lovely child.’ Hannah cast her pale blue eyes over Scarlet’s trim and shapely figure. ‘It’s a pretty dress; Shelagh’s very clever.’ The smile faded from her frail features as she began impatiently flicking her hand towards the door. ‘Now go away, the both of you. Leave me along.’ She scowled, deliberately turning her head in the direction of the window and pretending to be drawn by something interesting there.
‘Alright, Mammy,’ Scarlet despaired of her mammy ever fully recovering. ‘I’m sorry if we’ve tired you out.’ She was both saddened and rankled by the little woman’s seeming inability to resume her proper place in this house. Together she and the equally disappointed Shelagh made their way downstairs.
In the kitchen Scarlet made a pot of tea and Shelagh cut two small portions from the fruit cake which she had earlier retrieved from the oven range. ‘Don’t be upset,’ she told Scarlet as the two of them sat down at the big old table. ‘I think we’ll just have to settle for the fact that Hannah has a long way to go before she’s well again.’ She smiled at Scarlet with quiet brown eyes. ‘Stand up… let me have another look at you in your new dress.’
Scarlet felt very special in the dress that Shelagh had made for her. It was calf-length and in a drop-waisted style that, according to Shelagh, was ‘all the rage’. Its colour was the most flattering shade of lemon, with strips of black figured into the scalloped neck and hem. Shelagh had even persuaded Vincent Pengally that his daughter needed new footwear. The shoes were black patent leather, with little heels and dainty straps that fastened with round glass buttons, and now, as Scarlet twirled in front of Shelagh, she was more grateful than ever for the young woman’s friendship. ‘It is a lovely dress, Shelagh,’ she laughed breathlessly. ‘Thank you.’
As always, Shelagh was greatly moved by Scarlet’s exquisite loveliness, that fine shapely figure, that seemed even more attractive of late; those dark hypnotic eyes and long rich hair that shone blue like a raven’s wing. The dress doesn’t do you justice,’ she said, afterwards seeming strangely quietened by Scarlet’s beauty.
‘It’s the prettiest dress I’ve ever had!’ Returning to the table, Scarlet leaned towards Shelagh’s brown head and kissed it tenderly. ‘Mammy’s right. You are clever,’ she laughed, ‘and you bake the best fruit cake in Dunster!’
‘Go on with you. You’re not such a bad cook yourself, Scarlet Pengally! And I dare sa
y you could sew up a better dress than that one… if you put your mind to it.’
Scarlet loved the gentle rivalry that had developed between her and Shelagh. Suddenly she had the strongest urge to confide in her, to tell the secret that kept her awake at nights. She even began, ‘Shelagh.’
‘Yes?’
‘Nothing… it’s alright.’ Scarlet was shocked at how close she had come to revealing what she had deliberately kept to herself these past weeks. Now some deeper instinct warned her to keep the secret for as long as possible. In that moment she felt so alone: afraid of the day when her father would discover that she was with child; and saddened because she was unable to seek solace from her mammy. Scarlet suspected that when the time came for the truth of her predicament to out, Shelagh would be the first to know. Even that thought gave her small comfort. ‘I’d better go and change.’ She left the food untouched. ‘John will wonder what’s taking so long, and there’s still a great deal of work to be done before we can call it a day.’ Suddenly, her small bubble of happiness had cruelly burst. She felt dejected.
Some short time later, Scarlet emerged from the house, her attractive figure once more clothed in the brown unseemly smock and on her dainty feet the familiar sturdy high-laced boots. Her long black hair was tied into the nape of her neck and her dark eyes had lost their sparkle. Seeing her approach, John appeared relieved, beckoning her on and chiding her with a stern look. Scarlet quickened her steps, unaware that Shelagh watched her from the window, and completely oblivious to the fact that Garrett’s yearning eyes followed her every step.
But, if Scarlet was unaware of Garrett Summer’s attention, Shelagh was not. She saw how he followed Scarlet with adoring eyes, and a plan stirred within her.
‘Stop that nonsense!’ Pengally banged his fist on the table and fixed Shelagh with hard grey eyes. ‘I don’t hold with no chanting in this house!’ He had the look of a man demented.
‘I was thanking the Good Lord for what we have on the table,’ Shelagh told him, her gaze unfaltering.
‘Thank me, then!… because whatever’s on the table in this house was put there by me!’
Scarlet deliberately defused the situation by taking up her plate and scooping onto it a small helping of the crispy roast potatoes. When, in surly manner, her father instructed her, ‘Kindly wait until my plate is filled,’ she breathed a sigh of relief. Not for the first time she wondered why it was that Shelagh constantly flouted her father’s rigid rules and purposely set out to antagonise him. The evening meal continued in an awkward silence.
When there came a loud insistent knocking on the back door, Scarlet hurriedly excused herself from the table, grateful for an opportunity to escape. Sitting down to a meal with her father was never a pleasant affair, and this evening it was especially uncomfortable. Scarlet wondered whether it was because of the secret she kept, a sordid and mortifying secret, the consequences of which she dared not dwell on for too long.
‘Evening, Miss Pengally.’ It was the village butcher, a tall slim fellow with a long angular face and earth-coloured eyes which, Scarlet thought, possessed the unnerving ability to see right through her. She inwardly squirmed beneath his slow attractive smile as he stretched out to hand her the tiny bundle. ‘You’ll find it all there, just as Miss Williams ordered it… neck-end, pigs’ liver and two plump hearts. All fresh killed.’ He drew another smaller bundle from the wicker-basket on his bicycle. ‘Miss Williams especially asked for this to be kept separate.’
‘What is it?’ The bundle felt warm and pliable in her hand.
‘Mr Pengally’s favourite. Veal. I understand neither you nor Miss Williams have a liking for it?’ He smiled handsomely. ‘It makes cooking the very devil, when one person has a fancy for a particular thing.’
Not caring for his manner, Scarlet retreated. ‘Thank you,’ she said politely, quickly closing the door before he might continue the conversation. She did not like that man! According to John, the butcher was a relative stranger to Dunster, having bought up the butcher shop and adjoining slaughterhouse some eighteen months ago. Apparently he was well liked in the village but, for some inexplicable reason, he made Scarlet cringe. Since Hannah’s illness he had kindly offered to deliver the meat order to Greystone House and Shelagh had not seen fit to alter the arrangement, which had proved to be most satisfactory. Scarlet had been inside his shop on only one occasion. It had been on a market-day, when John sent her for some of the herb sausages that his Ada was so fond of, and which the new butcher made to perfection. It had been a dreadful experience for Scarlet, and one she was not likely to forget in a hurry. On entering the shop, she had found it empty, so she called out. The butcher appeared from a side room, carelessly leaving the door open while he attended to Scarlet. She was able to see right into the slaughterhouse, where hung many bloody carcasses in various stages of mutilation. The sight of that, coupled with his obvious delight in severing the meat apart at his counter, had sickened Scarlet to such an extent that she could never go inside that shop again. Nor could she look at the butcher, without seeing the awful devastation caused by him. Later she had related all of this to John, who had laughed heartily at ‘such girlish nonsense’, telling her that butchery was no different to what they did to the cabbages they tore from the ground. ‘It’s all to the same ends, my girl!’ he’d chided, ‘and don’t you forget that.’
At the end of the meal, Scarlet was glad when her father retired to the parlour. As usual, he had picked his plate clean. Her own meal was virtually untouched.
‘What’s the use of my preparing a good wholesome meal, if you’re not going to eat it?’ Shelagh wanted to know. ‘You’ve hardly touched it.’
‘I know, and I’m sorry.’ Scarlet’s insides hadn’t stopped churning throughout the meal, and she had feared that at any minute she might have to make a hurried exit. She might have blamed the butcher, but she couldn’t blame him for yesterday, and twice last week, when she was plagued by the same awful sensation of nausea. She could feel Shelagh curiously observing her, and at once she was on her guard. ‘I’ll start washing up,’ she offered, beginning to gather the dishes in a pile. She dared not look at Shelagh, for fear her secret would betray itself.
‘Come and sit here, Scarlet.’ Shelagh sat upright in her chair and patted the table-top. ‘While your father’s quietly engaged in the parlour, I’d like to talk to you.’ There was a concerned look in her small brown eyes.
‘Talk about what?’ Scarlet wanted to know as she put away the dishcloth and came to sit opposite Shelagh. Strangely enough, Scarlet had seen Shelagh regarding her in a curious manner once or twice these past weeks, causing her to wonder whether her condition had at last begun to show itself. She hoped not. ‘Is it trouble with Mammy?’ she asked, eager to divert attention from herself.
‘No… no trouble with Hannah,’ Shelagh smiled, ‘unless it’s that, at times, she can be more of a handful than I ever imagined.’ Her expression quickly changed to one of intimacy. ‘It’s you, Scarlet. I’m concerned about you. Oh, look… I know I’m not too many years older than you, but I care for you, you know that. I’ve come to look on you more as a sister than the daughter of my employer.’
‘I know that, Shelagh, and you’re a good friend.’ Scarlet had grown increasingly apprehensive on hearing Shelagh’s words. ‘But, why would you be concerned about me?’ She waited for the answer, knowing what it would be.
‘I’m not prying, Scarlet, believe me. It’s just that… I’ve heard you being ill in the mornings, when your father’s gone to the smithy. Some days you can hardly bear to look at a plate of food, and you look so tired and thin of late.’ She reached out to touch Scarlet’s hand. ‘Circumstances thrust me out into the wide world when I was only fourteen.’ Her eyes became quiet, and painfully sad. ‘I’ve seen so much, Scarlet… too much, and I’ve learned how to tell the signs.’ She waited until Scarlet’s dark eyes were looking into her own, before going on in a gentler tone. ‘Are you expecting a child?’
Scarlet had anticipated the question, yet when it came it was with a cruel bluntness that shocked her. Her first reaction was one of indignation. How dare Shelagh ask her such a thing? What right had she to pry, and yes… she was prying! For a moment she gave no answer. Instead, she lowered her troubled gaze, all manner of things agitating in her mind. She supposed Shelagh was speaking out of concern for her, and she knew that she ought to be grateful, yet she was angry. Foolishly, she had hoped to conceal the truth for many weeks yet because, once it became known, the consequences would be unavoidable. Certainly her father must not know; not until it was inevitable, and for some inexplicable reason Scarlet’s instincts told her that her mother must never know; at least, not until she was fully in her right mind. A great loneliness settled on Scarlet, as she thought on the secret which had plagued her even more of late. It was true that she craved someone to talk to, someone who might share her anxiety and lessen the burden; it was also true that Shelagh had a certain understanding in her character, that tempted Scarlet to confide in her. Besides, she reminded herself, Shelagh was waiting; she could sense those determined brown eyes on her. Now she looked up to study those same inquisitive eyes, before she spoke. ‘My parents must not know… not until they have to.’ It was said, and Scarlet was surprised to feel as though a great weight had slipped from her shoulders.
Scarlet Page 17
