Heritage of Shame

by Meg Hutchinson

  ‘In a little while, Anne,’ Viola Corby faltered, guessing at the fear in her daughter’s eyes. ‘Unfortunately Mr Roskoyev has not the time at the moment to harness the horse.’

  What was it the odious creature hoped for this time? All of Anne’s loathing was in the look she threw at the tavern owner. Was it more money or was there some more devious idea behind the delay?

  ‘Of course, Mr Roskoyev must be very busy.’ Trying to keep the distaste from her voice Anne deposited the valise at her mother’s feet. ‘But I can harness the horse perfectly well myself, I’ve done it often enough in the past. You wait here, I’ll pick you up at the door in a few minutes’

  Outside she lifted her skirts free of the frozen mud and made her way to the rear of the wooden buildings which seemed to huddle together against the cold. The stable proved no difficulty in finding, the stench of uncleaned stalls reached out, drawing her towards it. Lifting her skirts higher against the filth on the floor she crossed to the one stall housing a horse.

  ‘You are to pull a loaded troika?’ she murmured, stroking the thin animal. ‘You don’t look strong enough but I must take you, my mother could never make the walk into Plivna.’

  Clenching her teeth against the strong odour she clucked softly, calming the nervous animal backing against the side of its stall. Still murmuring she reached for the padded collar, lifting it to the animal’s neck.

  ‘I could do that for you, Ninotchka.’

  The voice whispered through the half light and Anne swallowed her scream. Even in the gloom of the stable she recognised the glitter of those strangely mottled little eyes and the huge frame filling the opening to the stall.

  ‘I can manage, thank you.’ Her reply was strained and her hand trembled where it rested on the rusty tackle.

  ‘But why should you when I can do it for you?’ A leer spread across the unwashed face as he moved towards her. ‘Payment will be pleasant for both of us, I promise you.’

  All the fear of the night before rose sickeningly as Anne realised she was trapped, the bulk of him blocked the doorway to the stall and there was no other way out. ‘I – I don’t need any help.’ She settled the collar more firmly across the animal’s neck, hating the way her voice trembled. The last thing she wanted was for this man to know how much she feared him.

  ‘Come, little English girl.’ He was behind her, his hands on her waist.

  As she watched the drama unfold behind her closed eyes the fear that had risen in her then seemed to clutch at her now, holding the breath prisoner in her throat.

  ‘Boris knows how to take care of you, Boris knows how to bring you much pleasure.’

  Breath escaping with the same rush as it had in that stable, Anne saw herself kick backwards but he was already twisting her around, one arm circling her hard and preventing any move. The rancid smell of him filled her nostrils and she felt she would suffocate as she tried not to breathe the stale air gushing from his open mouth.

  ‘There is your mother’s fire still to pay for… and now is the time!’ His mouth was pressed to her neck, a thick fingered hand clutching at her breast and all the time his hated voice, thick with the intent of his body, muttered in her ears.

  ‘Such little breasts… Boris likes little breasts and he will like what you have between your legs… yes, little English girl, you will give Boris what he likes.’

  His mouth pressed hard on hers. Fighting him would be useless. This man was not above beating her to get what he wanted, and injured she could not take care of her mother. Yet she could not let this man abuse her. There might be one way… one way to escape. Forcing herself to relax against the foul smelling body she moaned softly… if he thought she were ill…!

  But he did not think her ill. He took her soft cry as one of pleasure. Releasing her, he dropped both hands to the broad leather belt about his waist, swift expert movements undoing the huge metal buckle, leaving it to fall about his feet. Gripping the waistband of his trousers he snatched them open, revealing a column of flesh sprouting from a bush of dark hair.

  ‘Now, Ninotchka,’ he breathed. ‘Now you and Boris will pleasure each other, eh?’

  If she were to do anything at all it had to be now! Anne felt the breath catch in her throat. It had to be now while she was free of the grip of those arms. Lifting both hands she clawed at the lust lit face, dragging her fingernails savagely down each cheek and leaving scarlet trails among the grease matted beard. Feeling him draw back, his gasp of pain filling her nostrils with the stench of his hot breath, she placed both hands flat against the barrel of his chest and pushed with all the strength left in her.

  The unexpectedness of what she did catching him unawares, Boris Roskoyev reeled backwards, his feet scrabbling for a hold on the muck strewn floor, but his heel landed in a pat of manure and he slid further out of the stall, his back coming up heavily against a thick wooden roof support.

  Trembling, her own lungs squeezed dry of air, Anne watched the man sprawled at her feet. He was winded but not unconscious and his eyes had never left hers. A leer twisting what she could see of his mouth above the great bush of his beard, he began to scramble to his feet. Afraid to pass him in case he caught at her and dragged her to the floor beside him, Anne waited for the onslaught she knew would come, knowing also with terrifying certainty that it would not end short of rape.

  Seconds followed on seconds. Behind her the stamp of the startled horse disturbed an eerie silence. Gaining his feet he stared at her but did not move.

  How long? Her blood surging with fear Anne watched the man intent on raping her. How long would he wait before striking? Would there be time? She glanced at the door of the stall. Perhaps she had winded him enough to slip past him.

  Gingerly she stepped forward then stopped as he too moved, completely blocking her way.

  Her mouth opening in a scream she could not produce Anne shrank against the partitioning wall of the stall.

  Just feet away from her the bear of a man grinned again. ‘See, my little foreigner, was Boris not right? Now you would shout your delight at what he brings you?’

  His small ferret eyes gleaming, his hands freeing flesh enveloped in matted dark hair, he came towards her. Frozen with fear Anne watched him.

  ‘Come, little one, come let Boris give you pleasure.’

  Again he was so close her throat filled with the stink of him and her blood curdled as he reached for her.

  A silent scream filling her head, Anne gripped the bridle she had not even realised she had taken from a peg inside the stall and lashed it towards that leering face, bringing the metal bit hard across the side of his head.

  Twice in rapid succession the metal found its mark, the third time slicing empty air as he staggered backwards, into the post he had sprawled in front of moments before.

  It was the dark stain that released Anne’s brain from its prison of fear. Darker than the grease that already stained his clothing it spread like a shadowed pool just below his throat, bathing the collar of his woollen jacket, seeping downwards across his chest.

  Eyes still glittering, mouth stretched in the same leer, he stood unmoving… watching but unmoving.

  Now, Anne told herself; she must try to get past him now or be released only when he had used her to satisfy himself. Her eyes holding to his face she stepped forward then stifled a scream as she saw, at the centre of the spreading stain, where the lump of his throat showed below the bush of his beard, a small black hole. Its edges perfectly neat as if carefully cut with scissors, the flesh folded back on itself, folded away from the thick metal spike that protruded several inches from his neck, a spike that had taken his throat with it.

  He was dead! She had killed him!

  Anne’s hand rose in the candlelight, pressing against her mouth as it had pressed then, holding back the nervous vomit that spewed against her lips, but still her inner eyes remained glued to the horror.

  She had killed him!

  ‘I didn’t mean… I didn’t want…
’ Spoken aloud the words hung on the stillness of the small bedroom. Every nerve trembling, as in that stable, she stared at the shadow made picture, stared at the man who it seemed at any moment would reach for her. She had not meant to harm him, she wanted only that he leave her alone. Then, the clarity of it almost blinding, came the thought: who in Radiyeska would believe her? Who would believe a foreigner? And what of her mother? She, Anne, would be made to pay but what might these people do to her mother?

  Her mind hardly registering the movement of her hands she lifted the bridle she still held, passing it over the horse’s head. Trying to keep her glance from straying to the man suspended from the spike that had penetrated the base of his skull to emerge from his throat, Anne finished the task of harnessing the animal; now it remained to lead it out of the stall and couple it to the troika. She must do it, she had to if she were to get her mother away from this place.

  Her brain still numb with fear she moved forward then hesitated, her stomach knotting at the soft swish of sound from the wooden pillar. Forcing herself to look at the man still standing there, Anne’s fingers gripped hard on the bridle.

  He was moving! A whispered sob echoed like thunder in her ears. Oh God, he was moving!

  Her grip on the bridle dragging at the horse’s mouth caused it to pull away, the jerk of its head snatching Anne from the brink of unconsciousness, forcing her to watch the trousers slide down the thick legs.

  5

  Dishes rattling as they were placed on the table registered Unity’s anger and disbelief. ‘That woman had the cheek to come herself to your workshop? Huh! I hope you set her on her way summat sharp!’

  ‘I offered her a chair.’ Laban Hurley hid his smile. Unity was not particularly good at hiding displeasure and though he knew it was unfair on his part to provoke her he could not resist.

  ‘You offered her a chair! You surprise me, Laban Hurley, you really does. It ain’t no chair I’ll be offering that one should she bring her sharp nose to poke along of my house, it will be more like a broom laid to her backside! If ever a woman were tainted with the devil’s touch it be Clara Mather! So what was she wanting? Weren’t no leather purse I’ll be bound.’

  ‘No, it was no purse.’ Taking the unlit pipe from his mouth Laban laid it on the mantel then seated himself at the table, waiting for the mild explosion he knew would come.

  ‘Then if it were no purse what were it?’

  Unity’s tone said more than her words. Patience had been strained to its limit. Wanting to smile, Laban thought better of it; Unity would stand so much teasing and no more.

  ‘Said she had come to discuss the making of a saddle… a present for her son’s birthday.’

  ‘Sounds like you had no belief in that.’

  ‘No more than you yourself would have.’ Laban watched the delicious smelling mutton broth being ladled into his bowl. He was hungry as a hunter.

  ‘That’s true enough.’ Unity sliced fresh baked bread into thick chunks, setting a plate of them nearer to her husband. ‘I don’t judge a bull terrier by its collar and I don’t judge a woman by the cut of her clothes. Clara Mather be sly and won’t never be no other. Son’s birthday! I wonder how long it took her to think that one up.’

  Dipping a chunk of bread into his broth, Laban chewed before answering. ‘We did discuss a saddle.’

  Her own spoon halfway to her mouth. Unity paused then set it back into her bowl. ‘Discussed,’ she said irately. ‘Oh yes, Clara Mather would discuss all right, but tell me she placed a definite order, tell me discussion went so far as that!’

  His head shaking briefly Laban soaked another chunk of bread. ‘Clara placed no order, but then I had no expectation her would. It were no saddle she come to find out about, it were the wench lying up in that bedroom.’

  Taking a square of bread Unity broke it into smaller pieces, dropping each to float like minuscule white islands in her broth before submerging them with the back of her spoon, triumph in every move.

  ‘I guessed as much.’ She pressed harder. ‘Same as I guessed she would soon make a move to find out for sure it be Jacob Corby’s girl been delivered of a child, but to go speaking to a man, well that I never did expect; but then a woman afeared as Clara Mather don’t pay no mind to niceties.’

  ‘Afeared.’ Laban glanced at his wife. ‘Would the woman be feared for the girl and the child? If so, why turn her away from Butcroft House?’

  ‘Laban Hurley, sometimes I think there be naught in your head save leather!’ Unity sighed, exasperated. ‘It’s Butcroft House Clara Mather fears for, that and the lorinery business she has had the running of all these years. She knows Jacob’s wench can claim what belongs to her by right of birth and after her then any child born to her; when that happens Clara and that lad of her’n will have nothing more than Anne Corby has a mind to give them. And if the wench has any sense at all the only thing she will give that aunt of hers will be the time of day!’

  The same thinking had occurred to him but Laban had needed to hear it said. Always a man to give another the benefit of doubt he had tried to apply the same to Clara Mather but it hadn’t worked out very well. The woman had attempted to mask the real purpose of her coming to his workshop, taking the longest route to say anything, not once being direct. That method never did sit well with him.

  His meal done, Laban expressed his enjoyment of it as he always did. Unity worked hard, doing all the chores required of running a home as well as helping with the stitching of bridles and saddles, a job she did better than any man, and a word of appreciation went a long way.

  ‘Did Clara ask was the girl with us?’ Unity watched him settle to his pipe.

  ‘Not as such.’ He tapped the spill against a fireplace brilliant from the black leading Unity gave it every week. ‘Said as Jacob’s daughter had appeared one day out of the blue then left again as quick; that Quenton and herself were worried as to where the girl could be.’

  ‘Worried, yes, but for themselves. That lad be no better than his mother. He’d be only too pleased to hear that Anne Corby and her babby be gone from the world!’ Unity banged the used dishes onto the tray, the sounds of her washing them coming clearly to where Laban sat.

  Quenton Mather had learned as he had been taught. Having reached an age where other lads were apprenticed to the lorinery, learning the trade of metal working, the fashioning of horse brasses, the making of steel accoutrements necessary for bridles, harness, stirrups and many other pieces for coach and carriage, he had not been placed at the foot of the ladder. The nephew had acted as master, except the true master of the Glebe Works had never behaved that way. Jacob Corby might not have held a deep interest in the business his father had bequeathed him but neither had he sacked men with families to support then loaded their work on top of that the few kept on were already hard put to finish in a week. That had been Quenton Mather as a lad, and as a man he was no different. Laban tapped tobacco from the pipe. Taking the Glebe Works from the control of him and his mother would prove a difficult task… difficult and dangerous.

  *

  Keep it, she had told her aunt. Keep all that was once your brother’s. She had meant it. Her father had given her nothing whilst he lived and she wanted nothing from him now he was dead. But that was not wholly true. Anne felt a twinge of guilt. During those early years of her childhood, the few years before the bug of evangelism had bitten so deeply that he was lost to its virus, he had provided the comfort of a good home; yes, she and her mother had had that, but where had been the love?

  Across the room a soft whimper sounded from the makeshift cot.

  Where had been the love?

  Like an accusation the words hurled back at her. Guilt which had been a twinge a moment before seemed suddenly to lie like a great weight on her shoulders. The whimper came again and, without knowing, Anne had moved to stand beside the drawer. Her father had denied his child the greatest of gifts… love; she was doing the same.

  ‘But I dare not,’ she whisper
ed as the whimper became a cry. ‘I dare not love you, that would mean a life of misery for you, always going from place to place knowing no real home. I can’t do that to you, it wouldn’t be fair…’

  She had heard the baby cry before. Stood where she could see the tiny face, the miniature hands so perfectly formed, she felt the same sweep of emotion which seemed to shake her whenever she watched Unity feed him, an emotion so strong it had her heart racing and tears flowing as she murmured on.

  ‘That is why I have to leave you, why I dare not let myself love you.’

  As if in answer the child’s eyes opened, seeming to say what the tiny tongue could not. Her heart exploding with its own reply she caught the warm bundle in her arms, her lips against the tiny questing mouth. Holding him, the warm softness of him resting on her breast, she felt her soul sing. He had not been born of love, he could know no father. Life would be hard… but it would be harder without love. Holding him for the first time, the tiny, dark fuzzed head nuzzling her face, a great swelling surge rose from the deepest parts of her, carrying her on a huge invisible tide. She had tried so hard not to love him, to cut him from her; but the child in her arms was more than just the product of her body, more than her heart, he was her soul… he was her son.

  ‘I can’t give you riches.’ She smiled through her tears. ‘You will never know the comfort of a fine house, you will have only what I had, a mother’s love. But it is yours wholeheartedly. I will never let you go… never leave you.’

  Standing unheard in the doorway of the bedroom Unity Hurley felt the stab of old anguish. She had once whispered those very same words.

  *

  There had been no joy from Laban Hurley. Clara Mather slammed the pen she had been holding hard down on the desk. He had not owned to Jacob’s daughter being in his house, not owned to a child having been born there, but why else would that wife of his be buying feeding bottle and teats, and for whose child if not that of Anne Corby?