Forgotten Destiny

by Forgotten Destiny (retail) (epub)

  Without a second’s thought I thrust aside the covers and swung my feet to the floor, reaching for my wrapper, which lay across the back of the chair beside my bed. Then I grabbed up the candle and went out on to the landing.

  I half thought I would meet Mr Paterson emerging from his room next door to mine, yet at the same time I felt that not much time had elapsed since he had left me, saying he was going downstairs for a glass of brandy. I made my way to the head of the stairs and down to the little landing where the stairs crooked at right angles to lead down to the entrance hall.

  A small sliver of light lay across the tiled floor, indicating that the drawing-room door was ajar, and Mr Paterson indeed still up and about. I could not understand why he had not come to investigate. The screams had quietened now to a low anguished wail and they seemed to be coming from the parlour on the opposite side of the hall.

  I hesitated for a moment, disorientated by sleep, and frightened. As I did so the parlour door burst open and Dorcas came running out. By the light of the candle I could see that the too-large dress, which I had not yet managed to have replaced, was hanging loose from one thin ebony shoulder, and she was struggling to hold it around her. She glanced up at me, huge dark eyes wide and terrified in her small face, then ran in the direction of the rear of the house, her bare feet making no sound on the tiled floor.

  ‘Dorcas?’ I called in bewilderment. Yet I think, even then, I knew the awful truth. She ignored me and was gone, the door that led to the servants’ quarters slamming after her.

  I stood as if turned to stone, one hand resting on the bannister, the other holding the candle aloft. And then Mr Paterson was silhouetted in the parlour doorway. He had put on his clothes since leaving me – I suppose he did not think it right to wander about the house in his nightshirt – but his shirt was unbuttoned at the neck and he was straightening his breeches.

  I knew then that I had been right about the reason for Dorcas’s distress.

  I knew it without doubt, though I could scarcely believe it.

  ‘What in heaven’s name is going on here?’ I demanded.

  Mr Paterson looked up and saw me. I suppose I must have looked a little like an avenging angel, standing there on the landing above his head with my candle held high, because for a moment he looked like nothing so much as a guilty schoolboy.

  ‘Davina…’ Then he recovered himself and began to bluster. ‘Why are you down here? I thought you were in bed and asleep!’

  ‘I’m sure you did!’ I flared. ‘What have you done to that poor child, John?’

  ‘Oh, she’s all right,’ he said impatiently.

  ‘She is not all right!’ I cried. ‘She is not all right at all! I could hear her screaming at the top of the house.’

  ‘Africans weep and wail at the least thing,’ he blustered. ‘She is all right, I tell you. I didn’t hurt her.’

  ‘You raped her!’ I cried. I was so shocked and angry I had thrown all caution to the winds. ‘You raped her, did you not? You might as well admit it, for I know that it is so!’

  ‘And what if I did?’ Suddenly Mr Paterson was angry too, because he was ashamed of himself, I should like to think. ‘What is a man supposed to do when his wife refuses to have him in her bed for months on end?’

  ‘Don’t seek to blame me for your disgraceful behaviour!’ I flared. ‘What did you do before you married me, in the years following your first wife’s death? How many young girls did you rape then? How could you, John? How could you do such a terrible thing? Why, she’s little more than a child!’

  ‘She’s a slave!’ he shot back. ‘Only a slave!’ The callousness of those words almost took my breath away.

  ‘She is a human being!’ I cried. ‘And we are responsible for her! I am shocked, truly shocked!’

  ‘You are hysterical, Davina,’ he said coldly. ‘Every girl has to lose her virginity at some time and at least she is well cared for here – you see to that. She has food on her plate, a warm bed and a roof over her head. She is one of the lucky ones. Far worse befalls most slaves. Many die on the voyage and are thrown over the side to be food for the fishes. And many are sold to the sugar plantations, where they work until they drop, and then are beaten until they get up again. Their lives are nothing short of hell – and short lives they are too!’

  ‘That’s no excuse!’ I stormed. ‘None at all! To take a young girl like that… oh, I’ll never forgive you for this – never! That such a thing should happen in my house…’

  ‘You would do well to look to the deeds of your own family before you begin castigating me, Davina,’ Mr Paterson said coldly. ‘As I say, there are many worse fates than Dorcas’s – and your own flesh and blood play their part. If you wish to begin preaching and moralizing, I suggest you begin with them, and short shrift you’ll get from them, too.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I demanded.

  ‘Oh – go to bed, Davina. It’s too late to stand around chewing the fat,’ Mr Paterson said impatiently.

  ‘Whatever my family may be guilty of, I trust and pray it is not defiling innocent children!’ I snapped. ‘As for going to bed – I could not sleep a wink if I had not first tried to comfort poor little Dorcas. And I doubt if I will even then!’ I turned away furiously, but Mr Paterson’s voice stopped me in my tracks.

  ‘Leave her be!’ he ordered. ‘Don’t dare to interfere, Davina!’

  I turned back, my chin high, the angry colour hot in my cheeks.

  ‘I shall do as I think fit.’

  ‘You are my wife, Davina. You will do as I say. And I say leave the girl alone and go to your bed!’

  ‘Make me!’ I flashed. ‘Perhaps you’d like to rape me too whilst you are about it! Though I can’t imagine you would be capable twice in one night.’

  Again I turned away and this time he did not try to stop me. As I strode along the passageway to the back of the house I heard him go into the drawing room, heard the chink of crystal on crystal. So – he was turning to the bottle! How very typical! Well, with all my heart I hoped he would take enough to give him a raging headache in the morning!

  I found Dorcas in the servants’ quarters, and, to my surprise, Thomas was there too, and offering her comfort. He was holding her tenderly and stroking her hair, and over her head his jet-black eyes met mine; they were cold and full of accusation.

  I stopped, uncertain suddenly in the face of his unconcealed hostility, and I knew any comfort I could offer would be less well received by Dorcas than the comfort she could receive from her own kind. But there was something I had to do.

  ‘Set the copper to boil, Thomas,’ I instructed. ‘She needs to bathe.’

  He did as I bid, while Dorcas huddled in the corner, arms wrapped around her thin body, head bent in shame. She no longer wept, but her face was anguished and she shook from time to time as if with a fever.

  When the water was hot, we bathed her and Thomas left us alone while I douched her, for I wanted to do all I could to ensure Mr Paterson’s seed did not take root in her and grow. And all the while she said not a word. She was, I think, in deep shock.

  I found her one of my own clean nightgowns, which hung on her even more than the dress she usually wore, and Thomas took her off to her bed, his arm protective around her thin shoulders.

  I went back to my own part of the house. A light still showed in the drawing room and I could hear the sound of snoring. Mr Paterson must have fallen asleep over his brandy, I supposed. Well, let him stay there in the chair or on the chaise or wherever he had dozed off. He would be cold and stiff when he woke, and I was glad of it.

  I think in that moment I knew that my terrible decision had been made for me. I no longer felt an iota of loyalty to Mr Paterson, and I did not want to stay with him for another night, let alone the rest of my life. The thought of him sharing my bed again was totally repulsive to me, and he had forfeited my affection and my trust.

  I was still unsure of the wisdom of going to Richard Wells. For all I knew, he, too,
could be a monster. Theo claimed he was, and everything Richard had told me might be a wicked deceit. But at that moment I wanted him more than ever. I would send word to him tomorrow. If he would still have me, I would take my chance.

  For what now did I have to lose?

  * * *

  I remained in my room next morning until I was sure Mr Paterson had left for the coffee house. I did not want to see him, did not want to hear whatever explanation or apology he might see fit to offer. I did not want to set eyes on him ever again if I could help it, though I knew that was simply wishful thinking.

  When I finally ventured downstairs everything was just as it always was – steaming salvers in the breakfast room, the smell of freshly brewed coffee mingling with the pungent aroma of the braised kidneys. A fire was burning in the grate but it did not warm me; I did not think I would ever be warm again, and my stomach revolted at the thought of food.

  ‘You are a little pale this morning, madam,’ Perrett ventured.

  I replied: ‘I did not sleep well,’ and wondered if she knew what had occurred here last night.

  Thomas came in to serve me; his eyes were dark and reproachful. Of little Dorcas there was no sign.

  ‘Thomas,’ I said when I was sure we were alone. ‘Could you take another message for me to Mr Wells, do you think?’

  ‘I am not sure,’ Thomas said, cold but impeccably polite, ‘whether that will be possible.’

  My heart sank. He was holding me responsible for Mr Paterson’s wicked behaviour, even though I had done everything I could for Dorcas after the event.

  ‘Thomas,’ I said desperately. ‘I am as upset as you are by what happened. I had no idea Mr Paterson was capable of such an outrage. Please – you must believe me. I need your help.’

  ‘As I said, ma’am, I am not sure it is possible.’

  ‘Why not?’ I demanded. ‘You know where to find Mr Wells, don’t you?’

  ‘Sometimes,’ Thomas replied evasively. ‘Sometimes not.’

  ‘Very well then,’ I said, making up my mind. ‘Would you please have the carriage made ready and take me to Lady Avonbridge’s house. I shall call on her this morning.’

  ‘At what time, ma’am?’

  ‘As soon as possible,’ I said impatiently. His lack of cooperation coupled with this excessive politeness was making my already taut nerves jangle.

  I managed to force down a little breakfast and some coffee, then asked Perrett to help me change into my redingote. The carriage was waiting outside the door – at least Thomas was still following my instructions to the letter.

  On the drive to the Clifton woods, I sat nervous and silent. Calling unannounced on someone of Lady Avonbridge’s standing was not at all the done thing, but desperate situations call for desperate measures and I felt sure Lady Avonbridge must know where I could find Richard Wells, or at least get a message to him. But when I rang the bell, the butler who answered informed me that Lady Avonbridge was not at home.

  My heart sank. This was an eventuality which had not occurred to me.

  ‘When are you expecting her back?’ I asked in desperation, and the butler, an elderly man whom I imagined had been in the service of the family all of his life, replied that Lady Avonbridge was in Sussex visiting her sister, and would be away for at least two more weeks.

  Two weeks! It seemed to me like a lifetime.

  There was nothing for it; I had to return home frustrated and with wretchedness weighing heavily upon me. Never in my life had I felt quite so trapped. But what could I do? Unless Thomas had a change of heart and carried my message for me, I would somehow have to endure my life with Mr Paterson until Lady Avonbridge’s return.

  * * *

  Great-Uncle Charles’ funeral was to be held two days later, not in the cathedral, but in the Church of St Mary Redclift, just across the river from his home in Queen’s Square, and my grandparents were travelling down from Gloucestershire to attend. Grandfather was to assist with the ceremony, Theo told me, and they would be staying on overnight.

  At once it occurred to me that this would be an opportunity for me to talk to them about the accusations Richard Wells had made. I trembled inwardly at the prospect, but I knew it must be done. Somehow I had to ascertain where the truth lay.

  I thought I might invite them to dine at my home, but relations between me and Mr Paterson were still very strained. Theo said he believed Grandfather would prefer to be in the familiar surroundings of his brother’s house. He was, Theo said, very upset by Great-Uncle Charles’ unexpected demise.

  This made me feel guilty, for I knew that what I planned to say to him and Grandmama would upset him still more. But I refused to be swayed by this. The truth about my forgotten past was too momentously important to me. If they had been honest with me, then they had nothing to fear. If not – well, then, they had to take the consequences of their actions. They must have known, surely, that they could not keep it a secret for ever?

  But I was unsure what chance I would have to talk to them alone, with all the comings and goings. Why, Aunt Linnie might even accompany them to Bristol, and I could well imagine her constantly at Grandmama’s side, twittering and fussing. Then Theo informed me that only the menfolk were to attend the service and burial, and asked if I would keep Grandmama company for the duration, and I realized that fate had at last dealt the cards in my favour.

  Thomas drove me down to Queen’s Square on the morning of the funeral. I was shocked by Grandfather’s appearance – overnight, it seemed, he had become an old man.

  ‘He has been upset very badly by Charles’ death,’ Grandmama said to me as the cortège left, the hooves of the black-plumed horses echoing on the cobbles in a slow tattoo, the carriage bearing the coffin clattering behind them. ‘Charles was his only brother, and to lose him so unexpectedly… well, it reminds one of one’s own mortality.’

  Her thin, worn face was anxious; she was worrying, no doubt, that grief would bring Grandfather low too, and once again I felt a stab of guilt. But I put it aside determinedly.

  ‘Grandmama – I must talk to you,’ I said. ‘Something is worrying me a great deal and you are the only person who can clarify things for me.’

  She looked at me sharply. ‘Is there something amiss in your marriage? Are you not happy with Mr Paterson?’

  Had she noticed the coolness between us? I wondered. I did not want to discuss Mr Paterson with her, and she would know soon enough that things were certainly amiss, but neither did I want to lie. I avoided the question entirely.

  ‘It has nothing to do with Mr Paterson.’

  ‘What then? Your pregnancy? You are worried about giving birth?’

  ‘Not exactly.’ I took a deep breath. ‘Is this my first time, Grandmama? Have I borne a child before?’

  If I had struck her she could not have looked more startled, nor more afraid. What little colour was in her face left it in a rush; I thought for a moment she was about to swoon. Her bloodless lips worked, but no sound came. I hardened my heart.

  ‘Grandmama?’ I pressed her.

  Her breath came out on a little gasp. ‘Whatever makes you say such a thing? Is your memory returning?’

  If ever I had looked for an answer, that was it. No outright denial, just that simple question: Is your memory returning? And the fear and guilt written in her white face.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Not yet. Not in any coherent way. But…’

  ‘What then?’ She looked momentarily relieved. ‘I don’t understand where you should have got such an idea!’

  ‘I have been told things,’ I said.

  ‘By whom? By Theo?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Not Theo. Richard Wells.’

  For a moment she stared at me blankly, as if the name meant nothing at all to her.

  ‘Richard Wells,’ I repeated. ‘The man who claims I am the mother of his child.’

  ‘Him!’ She spat the word. ‘Oh dear sweet heaven, Davina, this is beyond belief! Do not tell me that man is still pursuin
g you! You must not have anything to do with him. He’s a terrible man – terrible! Why, Theo says—’

  ‘And yet,’ I said, calm and cool-sounding, though a white hot anger was consuming me, ‘you handed my innocent baby over to this terrible man! And kept it all from me. I did not know whether to believe it, Grandmama. I found it impossible. How could you do such a thing?’

  Her mouth worked. ‘It was for the best!’ she cried. ‘You were so ill, Davina, we thought you would not recover! How could you care for a baby? How could we? And he had ruined you, that dreadful man! The least we could do was to give you a fresh start, should you ever be fit enough. And you have it! A good marriage, another baby on the way – you must put this out of your mind. It’s over!’

  ‘It is not over!’ I stormed. ‘Did you not think that I had a right to know, at least? And my child – what of her need for me?’

  ‘I’ve already told you, Davina, you were at death’s door. Though we prayed for your recovery, there was no guarantee of it – God does not always see fit to answer prayers, however fervently they are offered. And even given that you did recover, what could you give a child? You came to us with nothing. Nothing! And the shame of it!’ She wrung her hands. ‘The shame, Davina! We couldn’t go through all that again! It was for the best, I tell you. For the best!’

  ‘You told him I was dead,’ I said. Even now, with the confirmation coming from her own lips, I could scarcely believe my grandmother could have done such a thing. ‘You told him I had died in childbirth. That was the most terrible thing of all.’

  ‘To save you from him!’ she cried. ‘He is evil! Oh, Davina, I can’t talk about this any more. I feel ill – very ill.’ She swayed. ‘You’ll kill me, and your grandfather, too, if you go on this way! Is that what you want – to have two more funerals? Oh, please, please say no more about this!’