Scarlet

by Brindle, J. T.

  ‘Can you help me, Miss Williams? I’m told you’re very close to Scarlet.’ In his eagerness he was bold enough to place a hand on Shelagh’s arm. She was not surprised to feel it trembling.

  ‘I’ll do what I can… I promise.’

  ‘Then I must be patient.’ He thanked her profusely and proceeded towards Castle Hill, where he had a matter of his father’s business to conclude.

  Shelagh stood a moment longer, watching him go and thinking that that amiable young man might yet be the solution to Scarlet’s dilemma. And consequently, to her own, for she had secretly set her sights on Greystone House. And Vincent Pengally with it!

  ‘I’ve told you before!’ Vincent Pengally flung down his knife and fork, a look of thunder darkening his face as he glared at Scarlet across the table. ‘I don’t like my veal done to a crisp. It sticks in my craw… turns my stomach. Have we money to waste by ruining good food?’

  Scarlet gave no answer. These days she had more important things on her mind than the manner in which her father’s food was cooked. She calmly returned his stony glare, although, as always, the viciousness of his attack had set her trembling. With as much dignity as she could muster, Scarlet replaced her own knife and fork. Her small appetite had gone.

  ‘It wasn’t Scarlet’s fault,’ Shelagh quietly intervened, ‘it was mine. I was the one who cooked your supper.’ She rose from her seat and calmly collected his plate. ‘I’ll bring you some of the steak pie that we’re having.’ Her smile was coaxing and strangely unsettling to him.

  ‘My appetite’s ruined,’ he snapped ungratefully, getting to his feet and thrusting back the chair. He returned his accusing grey eyes to Scarlet, instructing her sourly, ‘Bring me a pot of tea. I’ll be in the parlour.’ He was quickly gone from the kitchen, and the stamp of his feet along the corridor seemed to shake the whole house.

  ‘You know… he’s right about that veal,’ Shelagh told Scarlet, ‘it isn’t so much the cooking as the texture of it. I’ll have to speak to that odious butcher. He gives me the shivers as well! If only your father wouldn’t insist on his ration, I’d stop ordering the wretched stuff.’ She shivered and made an unpleasant face. ‘I’m like you, Scarlet… I never could abide veal, it has a peculiar taste.’

  Scarlet would not be drawn. How could she, when her own problems seemed mountainous compared to such unimportant issues? These past few weeks, in fact ever since John had found… no!… she could not bring herself to think on it. Yet, since then, there had crept into her mind an idea of running away. But where could she go in her condition? What would she do for money and how would she live? Of course, she could always search for Silas; after all, it was his child she carried. Search for Silas! Hour after hour she had churned it over in her mind. And each time when she found herself weakening, that same well of horror would open up to engulf her. Now she was certain of only one thing. She must never go to Silas. She had no way of knowing what kind of monster he might be.

  Carrying the tray along the lamplit corridor towards the parlour, Scarlet hoped her father would be asleep. Lately she had felt his probing eyes on her, and she had lived in terror of him seeing what she had tried so hard to conceal. She was grateful that the bulge beneath her loose-fitting dress was not too prominent, thanks to her diminished appetite and the practised habit of binding herself with a broad cotton band each morning. The discomfort was a small price to pay for the extra time it would allow her before she must inevitably speak out. For a long time, her natural rebellious spirit had been smothered by the loss of the two people she had greatly loved, and always there was her father’s overwhelming presence seeming to beat her down and push her deeper into the blackness. Now, as the child grew inside her, becoming stronger and its little soul permeating every corner of her being, she also was growing stronger again. That wild wilful spirit was returning. It would help her to survive.

  Balancing the tea tray on one arm, Scarlet pushed open the parlour door. One swift glance towards the black high-backed chair told her that her father was quietly dozing. She inwardly sighed with relief. A sense of urgency took hold of her. She had to be in and out of this room as fast as was humanly possible. She hated the atmosphere that his presence created, and she bitterly resented the crippling fear which he set loose in her.

  Going to the small circular table which stood beside the chair, Scarlet put down the tray, careful not to rattle the cup against the teapot, or to betray her presence there. Softly! And he was not disturbed! Suddenly the candle which was situated on the mantelpiece began to cough and splutter, its dying light casting erratic shadows on every surface. As there was already a lamp burning on the lace-covered table, Scarlet thought it best to snuff out the candle’s remains quickly, before it should irritate her father and restore his venomous mood.

  With bated breath, Scarlet went on tiptoe to the fireplace. There she reached up high to pinch the fluttering flame with her finger and thumb. In that instant, before she could extinguish the flame, the atmosphere in the room was suddenly charged. A creeping sensation quivered down her spine and, for a moment, she was afraid to look round. Her every nerve was on edge and her instincts warned her that those penetrating grey eyes were feasting on her, like they had done so often before. She inwardly shivered, forcing herself to turn her head and look. The grey eyes were dangerously intent on her!

  The swish of Scarlet’s skirt as she moved towards the fireplace had alerted Vincent Pengally to her presence. Cunningly, he had made no outward sign that would betray the fact that he was wide awake, other than to open his eyes and covet Scarlet’s every move. He had seen her reach up towards the candleflame, and he was excited by her wild, dark beauty. His rapacious gaze travelled her entire body, from the rich abundant hair that cascaded so wantonly over her shoulders, to the curve of her hips and the long slim legs with their exquisitely rounded calves and perfect, dainty ankles. It had not missed his attention that, lately, Scarlet’s delightfully girlish figure had begun to mature, to become even more beautiful. He languished deeper in the chair, only his eyes alive as they greedily roved her body. He wanted her more than ever, and though the shame of it caused his face to burn, the need in him burned more fiercely. His imagination unclothed her, saw her as he had seen her countless times before. He could feel the warmth of her nakedness against his, and feel the strands of her vivacious hair between his fingers. His mouth watered at the thought of her warm moist lips mingling with his. Longingly, he continued to ogle, to imagine, to see the round smooth nakedness that he could take to himself whenever the need grew too powerful for him to deny it. Yet, even as he gazed on her, something was disturbing him, he did not know what. Something about Scarlet was disturbing him. Something new and repulsive. His gaze stiffened and he became agitated. She had sensed him looking at her, and now she had turned. There was fear in her spacious dark eyes. Realisation dawned. In an instant he was on her, and she was screaming, beating him back.

  ‘Whose is it, you little whore?’ He was like a crazed thing as he crushed her small shoulders in his fists, shaking her until she was a rag doll in his grip. ‘Whose is it? You tell me… or I’ll flay you to within an inch of your life!’

  Suddenly, the door burst open. It was Shelagh. ‘Let go of her!’ she yelled, grabbing him by the arm, making every effort to pull him away. When the blow came she was not expecting it. The clenched fist caught her on the temple, sending her reeling back into the wall where she fell. Too dazed to get to her feet, she did not see how Vincent Pengally roughly propelled Scarlet up towards the attic. ‘I’ll ask you again. Tell me his name!’ He was not shouting as before, but his voice fiercely trembled.

  Scarlet looked away. His eyes were almost black and his pent-up fury was terrifying to her. She felt his fingers digging into her flesh, and she was mortally afraid. Yet she would not give him the name of the one who had fathered her child. Instead she remembered how it had always been and she fought him with all the strength left in her. ‘It wasn’t you!’ she taunted. ‘T
hat’s all you need to know!’

  ‘You slut… dirty slut!’ He flung open the attic door and thrust her inside. ‘You’ll tell me who the bastard is… or stay here and rot!’ Her bold black eyes defied him, infuriated him beyond all reason. The door was slammed; she heard the lock spring. And she was along.

  Scarlet woke with a muffled gasp. Someone was trying the attic door! She trembled in the sticky clinging heat, hugging herself and waiting for the inevitable. He had returned. She waited for his eerie voice. ‘His name,’ it would ask, ‘tell me his name.’ And, as before, she would remain silent, praying that he would go away.

  Scarlet had no idea how long she had been in the attic. She only knew that her throat was raw and parched as the dry earth, and her bones were stiff with cramp. The heat was stifling. Scarlet wondered whether she might die, here in this attic that she knew so well. Here, where the tiny window, which had once given her light, was now boarded over. As a child she had often imagined that one day these four walls would make her a splendid coffin. Now he was here to finish it. She waited. What was he up to? Why was he at the door, if not to demand that she must give up the name or starve to death?

  ‘Scarlet!’ The urgent whisper was a shock. Slowly, agonisingly slowly, Scarlet inched her aching body along the floorboards. At long last her energy was spent. In the pitch blackness she was directed by her instincts, and by the long, ingrained memories which had mapped out every inch of her prison. It surprised her to find that time never dimmed the painful engravings in her mind. The attic was a part of her. It must stay with her for ever, draining her life until it possessed her completely. One day, if not now, there would be death in this attic. She felt that it was destined to be. And she was not afraid.

  ‘Scarlet!’ The whisper was distorted, urgent and shaped by fear. ‘Are you alright?… answer me.’

  Scarlet recognised the voice. It was Shelagh! She put her hand flat against the door. ‘Oh, Shelagh.’ Tears of relief trickled down her face. ‘I’m afraid for my baby,’ she said, the words issuing painfully between cracked and swollen lips, ‘my baby… please.’

  ‘You’ve been locked up for three days! Tell him what he wants to know… you must tell him!’

  ‘I’ll never tell him. Never!’ Scarlet had not expected Shelagh to understand the unique and destructive relationship that had evolved between her and her father, a terrible and inescapable bond that was corrupt and evil beyond imagination. The issue was not about her telling him a name, but of her refusing to submit. She would not gratify him, never again, in any way!

  ‘You must tell him, Scarlet, you must!’ Shelagh still insisted, and Scarlet forgave her because she was a stranger to Greystone House. She could not know.

  ‘Very well. I have a plan… trust me.’ There was a pause, then, ‘Put your hand to the bottom of the door. Quickly… he’s climbing the stairs!’ Scarlet did as she was told. Her fingers touched something cold. ‘It’s the best I can do… he watches me constantly. He’s even closed the smithy so as not to be drawn from the house. You’ll be alright, I promise. I have a plan to get you out.’ Suddenly Scarlet also could hear her father approaching, nearer and nearer, climbing the steps in that heavy methodical manner that could strike fear into her deepest heart. ‘Quickly, Scarlet!’ The voice was frantic. ‘Drink… and push the saucer back under to me. Hurry… hurry!’

  With painstaking slowness, and being loathe to spill a single drop of the precious liquid, Scarlet lapped the water from the saucer, its coolness slicing into her cracked lips like a knife, but soothing the dry fire in her throat. ‘Hurry, Scarlet… return the saucer, or he’ll know. He will know!’ When at last the saucer was returned, Shelagh whispered, ‘Trust me,’ then she was gone.

  The footsteps trod along the floor, coming ever nearer. Scarlet prayed they would not stop, but her prayers went unheard. The footsteps came to rest immediately outside the door. Then silence! The soft lamplight filtered in through the narrow gap beneath the door, there was a shadow, a movement. Scarlet waited. Soon he would quietly unlock the door and push it open. His formidable presence would fill the attic and he would interrogate her once more. But Scarlet was ready to defy him again and again. He would not wear her down. A hand scraped the door, and in the desperate silence Scarlet could hear his heavy rhythmic breathing. Now! Now, he would begin, ‘Tell me his name.’ She waited, preparing herself. The prolonged silence was agony. Scarlet held her breath, wondering whether tonight he might end it all and take her life, or she would take his. Suddenly the shadow moved again. The footsteps echoed away and all was darkness again.

  Scarlet breathed a sigh of relief and settled uncomfortably against a wall. She would sleep, and wake, erratically. With the window boarded up, there was no way of telling whether it was day or night. But thank God for Shelagh, she thought, thank God for a close ally.

  ‘You’re a liar! A bastard little liar!’ Vincent Pengally was like a crazed man. With one vicious swipe of his arm he sent everything flying from the table. He crossed the room to where Shelagh stood, her back against the dresser and her round brown eyes betraying something of the fear he had created in her. Yet there were other emotions there, not least the grim determination to see Scarlet released from the attic.

  ‘I’m no liar,’ she said. ‘What I’ve told you is the truth. Garrett Summers is the father. They love each other… let Scarlet go to him.’

  ‘Get out!’ He grasped the dresser edge with both hands, trembling uncontrollably and his violent grey eyes boring into hers. ‘GET OUT!’ His voice was like thunder. Quickly she went from the room, as he began destroying everything around him. His cries were madness, and the whole house seemed to quiver as he vented his rage on everything in sight.

  Upstairs, Scarlet was horrified by the fearsome uproar that emanated from below. Imprisoned in that dark echoing attic, she was made to imagine all manner of terrible things. She knew instinctively that it was her father, and now, after what seemed a lifetime, when she heard his footsteps stamping up the stairs, those same instincts urged her to go to the furthest corner away from the door. She could hear Shelagh pleading with him, and his booming voice warning her, ‘Stay out of it! I want to hear it from Scarlet’s own mouth… the truth. Or the devil take her eyes!’

  There was a movement of frantic activity at the door, then suddenly he burst into the room, pausing briefly to seek Scarlet out in the gloom, his face a terrible sight to behold and made phantom-like by the eerie glow of watery daylight that silhouetted him and made her eyes play tricks. When his manic glare alighted on her, Scarlet was stricken with fear, but she disguised it well when he came to stand over her, his glittering grey eyes boring into her face as she struggled to her feet. ‘Whore!’ He spat the words out, at the same time viciously grasping a hank of her unkempt hair and raising her up towards him. When she winced at the pain he caused her, he laughed, a low sinister sound that warned Scarlet not to satisfy his sadistic nature.

  ‘Leave her alone… she’s no more than a child!’ Shelagh had rushed into the attic behind him and was attempting to come between him and Scarlet, who was emaciated and weakened by her prolonged captivity.

  Shelagh’s words went unheeded as Scarlet was immediately subjected to a barrage of questions. ‘Who was it? I want the truth… was it Garrett Summers who violated you? Was it?’ With every question he spitefully twisted the hank of her hair, until it was tight against her skull and close to being uprooted.

  ‘Let her go,’ Shelagh tried in vain to release Scarlet’s hair from his iron grip. ‘I’ve already told you it was Garrett Summers.’ She pleaded now with Scarlet. ‘Tell him,’ she urged, ‘tell him that it was Garrett, and you’ll come to no harm I’m sure.’

  In her pitiful condition and with her consciousness fast slipping away, Scarlet was astonished that Shelagh had pointed the finger at Garrett. Her first instinct was to vehemently deny it, but she recalled Shelagh’s words. ‘I have a plan,’ she had promised. ‘Trust me.’ In that moment, Scarlet came to
realise that only Shelagh stood between her and this monster. She would trust her. She could do no other. ‘Yes!’ she called out, ‘Garrett Summers was my lover… I’m carrying his child.’ There was a loud gasp as he loosened his grip on her, then the ensuing silence became unbearable. Presently he cried out and thrust her from him. The look he gave Scarlet was both scathing and malevolent. ‘I loved you,’ he told her in a shocked voice, ‘no man ever idolised a woman in such a way.’

  To Scarlet, his confession was the worst kind of blasphemy. The dark disturbing images of his ‘love’ seared through her mind and turned her loathing inwards. He had wantonly scarred her innocence, using her as a woman, when she was but a child. And now, even now, his vision of her was just as warped as it had always been, and he saw nothing sinful in his own words: ‘no man ever idolised a woman in such a way.’ His vile atrocities had shaped her life, moulded and debased it; now she felt his loathing of her as he stormed from the attic, and she was overwhelmed by the crippling confusion he always wrought in her. The tears ran down her face and the name on her lips was whispered like a prayer, ‘Silas… oh, Silas.’ Deeply disturbed, she swiftly banished all thought of both Silas and her father. In her deepest horror, those two were always side by side.

  ‘Hold on to me.’ Shelagh slid her arms around Scarlet’s middle, supporting her as the two of them went gently down the stairs. ‘I’m taking you out of this house,’ she told Scarlet, ‘to a place where you’ll be safe from him… you and the child… a place where you can get your strength back.’

  By the time they reached the kitchen, Vincent Pengally had already gone from the house. As he rode furiously out of Dunster and over the moors towards Selworthy some short distance away, he cunningly ruminated on a particular score he had to settle: a score that would not wait. His thirst for vengeance, however, must wait, if it was to be properly quenched; and in such a way that would not lay the blame at his door!