Читать книгу Torn - Karen Turner - Страница 10

Simon and I, followed by Jemima, clattered down the stairs and arrived, breathless and expectant, on the porch. Lord Thorncliffe was there, eager and ruddy-faced at the foot of the steps, Mother beside him and Anne beside her.

The crested, wine-coloured coach had already rolled to a stop and Lord Thorncliffe’s children were stepping down as I grasped a handful of my skirt and stood between Simon and Anne.

The two blond siblings, dressed in expensive travelling costumes and bearing the weariness of travel on their faces, turned to their father. Lord Thorncliffe embraced them fervently, his great bear-like arms pulling them both to his chest. I watched sullenly as he proudly introduced his son, Patrick, and daughter, Maeve. “Their mother, my late wife, was Irish,” he stated, unnecessarily.

Patrick was, as my mother had said, Simon’s age. Though not as tall, his physique evidenced a more active lifestyle than my brother’s and the remnants of a summer tan spoke of long outdoor hours. Unsmiling, he pushed shaggy honey-blond hair from his eyes and appraised each of us in turn.

He looked fatigued and his expression was distant, yet the structure of his face was such that I thought, if only he smiled he could be attractive – not like Simon, no-one could be attractive like Simon – but Patrick had a well-proportioned face, a straight nose and full lips and, while his thoughts were unreadable, his eyes were the most startling green, glittering with intellect and a touch of irony.

Maeve was short, about Anne’s height, though slimmer than my sister. In contrast with her brother, her quick gaze darted excitedly to each of us with hopeful friendliness. Maeve was a very pretty girl, and her bottle-green-velvet travelling gown and matching hat, tied with gold-velvet ribbons, suited her fair colour. She had the bearing of an elegant lady coupled with the flighty little gestures of a sparrow. She studied each of us with an impish smile twitching her lips and I reluctantly conceded that I could come to like her.

With no regard for decorum, she ran to Mother and hugged her enthusiastically. Unaware of that lady’s surprised expression and heedless of the lack of response, she threw herself in turn at Anne, me and finally Simon. She caught us up in a whirlwind of energy, leaving us quite taken aback.

Completely oblivious to her impact, Maeve clapped her hands and executed a series of little jumps. “Oh, it is so perfectly marvy to have a new family,” she gushed. “Two sisters and a – oh, goodness! Missy!” In a flurry, she turned back to the coach and indecorously showed us the creased seat of her gown while she dragged out a wooden crate from which emitted faint mewing sounds.

It was all too much for Jemima. The dog reacted before I could and bounded forward, leaping at the crate in Maeve’s arms.

“Jemima! No!” I cried, but too late as my dog threw the slight girl off balance. Even as I lunged in a vain attempt to grab Jemima’s collar, Maeve stumbled and dropped the crate.

“Missy!”

We watched in horror as the wooden box splintered open and a thoroughly-affronted white cat launched a spitting, clawing attack on the dog.

Chaos erupted. Simon grasped Jemima’s collar and hauled her away but the cat attacked again. The dog squirmed in a panicked frenzy and a bright bead of blood appeared on her snout.

“Jemima!” I shouted again.

“Someone hold the cat!” cried Anne.

“Steady lads, whoa …” the coach driver attempted futilely to calm the horses. He leaned back in his seat, pulling the reins taut but the coach rocked back and forth as the horses danced in fright and Jemima barked furiously.

A stable boy attempted to grasp the horses’ halters but ducked immediately to the side, narrowly avoiding the startled, sidestepping animals.

Simon continued to hold Jemima, and Maeve was clutching the squirming cat to her chest, but the infuriated feline lashed out to rake her face. Maeve’s cry of pain changed to one of alarm as, in a tumble of white fluff, the animal leapt free, streaked across the lawn and disappeared among the trees in the park.

Jemima squirmed frantically, desperate to give chase. Had I been holding her rather than Simon she’d have surely broken free; as it was, she began a high-pitched yelping.

“Boy,” Gerrard addressed the stable lad, “go fetch some help – find that cat.”

The lad nodded and dashed away.

Maeve began to cry and her father folded her against his broad chest.

Suddenly Mother was at my shoulder. “Alexandra, I have warned you about that dog in the past. Bring the stableman now. I shall see he knocks it on the head. It is more trouble than it is worth.”

“But Mother,” I pleaded. “She’s only being a dog. Please, I’ll keep her tied up, I –”

Mother held up her hand. “We’ve had this discussion before Alexandra, and I’m in no mood to continue it now. Anne, run along, fetch the stableman.”

Anne stood rooted to the spot, her eyes wide with dread, “Mother …” she began softly.

“Go Anne, I’ve had well enough – go now.”

Still Anne hesitated. “Mother, please don’t ask this of me …” she said, her lisp more pronounced than normal.

Maeve stood in the circle of her father’s arms. She glanced at me apologetically, then turned to Mother, “My lady … please …”

Mother ignored her. “Now!” She demanded, in a voice that made the horses toss their heads in fright again. “That dog has to go, Alexandra, you’ve been warned time and again … useless cur … get rid of it,” she turned to Anne. “Go! I’ll not repeat myself again.”

“Mother, no!” I wailed, while Anne continued to stare at Mother. This could not be happening. My eyes darted frantically from face to face, and came to rest on Simon. He’d been looking at Patrick and now he turned to me.

“Simon … please …” I begged and tears ran unchecked down my cheeks.

He shook his head. “Zan –”

“Please …” I cried again.

At that moment, Patrick spoke up – his first words since arriving.

“Give me the dog. I’ll take it to the stableman.” Mother eyed him curiously for a moment before nodding curtly and pointing to the side of the house towards the stables.

“No!” I screamed and lunged towards Jemima but Simon was already dragging her in Patrick’s direction.

“Mother no … please … please!” I was screaming now and Jemima, confused and suddenly aware that she was in great trouble, cowered on the ground. Leaning over, Patrick easily scooped the frozen dog into his arms and walked away.

“No …!”

Simon tried to pull me into his arms but I fought him.

“Alexandra! Go into the house!” Mother commanded but I paid no heed. “Alexandra!”

I stopped and turned to her. “Why are you doing this? Why would you kill my dog?”

“I said, go into the house now, and I’ll not say it again.”

“Do as she says,” Simon said firmly.

“How can you do this? You of all people … Simon?”

“Oh for goodness sake, Alexandra, do as instructed for once in your life.” Mother looked weary, but she was not going to back down. I looked at Anne’s stricken face, at Gerrard wiping Maeve’s tears with his handkerchief, and knew nobody would take my part.

I let myself go limp in Simon’s arms, long enough for him to relax his hold – this was my cue. With an explosive burst, I broke into a run but, hampered by my skirt, I’d only gone a few yards when a strong hand grasped my arm, all but jerking me off my feet.

“Simon! Let go …!” I struggled desperately, screaming and slapping at him. “What’s wrong with you …?” I sobbed, “Let go … let … me … go!”

“Alex, stop it!” he shouted into my face, “It’s too late …”

I beat at his chest with my free hand but he gripped my chin, forcing the direction of my head. That’s when I heard the crunch of gravel and saw Patrick’s return, his face set like stone.

“See?” Simon said, gently. “It’s over.”

I cried until my head ached and my eyes were so swollen I could barely open them. I held the pillow to my face and screamed until my throat hurt, but still the pain throbbed and constricted my chest. How could this have happened? How could Mother have ordered such a monstrous thing? I thought my heart would break apart from grief and anger.

And Patrick! How dared he? He no sooner arrived and … I could not even shape the words in my mind.

“Oh Jemima …” I cried and turned to my pillow again.

Was it quick? Oh God! Please let it have been quickly done. How I hated Patrick. I’d known him less than ten minutes and I hated him with every drop of blood, every bone in my body. Was he trying to win favours with my mother? Surely if he’d not interfered I could have reasoned with her. And as for Simon … We’d always defended one another, but when I’d needed his support … nothing! The sooner the two went to university the better. And as for the others … they could all go to the moon in a basket!

Some time later there was a tentative knock at my door. “Miss Alex, I’ve brought your supper.” It was Janet. I didn’t answer. “Miss Alex?” The door opened slightly, there was a pause, then it closed quietly and I was alone again – with Jemima’s cold, empty basket beside my bed.

Appropriately, it rained that night. I remained in my room, having no desire to see or speak to anyone. By morning, my head was pounding mercilessly, and when Janet brought a breakfast tray, I turned away.

“Cook made it especially,” she said, smiling cautiously. “Fruit-bread, still hot from the oven. Oh Miss Alex … I’m so sorry.”

I stared vacantly at the drapery around my bed and, though the bread smelled good, I could not stomach it. Janet rinsed a cloth in cool water and bathed my face. I didn’t speak; I had no words. I hated everyone. I particularly hated Patrick.

Finally, to my relief, Janet left me in peace and I continued to stare at my wall – I may even have slept, for I started slightly at another knock at my door.

“May I come in? It’s Pat.” His voice was soft and hesitant but instantly my blood began to boil and hot tears of rage welled in my eyes.

“You get the hell away from me!” I swore at the door.

Defiantly, it opened and his tousled blond head appeared. “Get out!” I screamed, but he slipped inside: infuriatingly, in the face of my anger, he was calm. I took up a glass from my side table and hurled it with everything I had. Sadly, it missed its target and smashed against the door.

“Whew,” he whistled, running a hand through his hair and staring at the wreckage. Then, as though nothing untoward had happened, he approached my bed. “I need to tell you something.” The soft timbre of his voice did nothing to dispel my anger.

“I’ve no desire to hear it.” To my intense shame, I began to cry again and clutched the pillow to my face.

“I rather fancy you do, Alex, for your dog did not die. She’s alive and well, and has just eaten her fill of roasted pheasant – pilfered from the kitchen.”

I stopped breathing, my body trembling fitfully. “Liar! You are … the most … hateful … creature,” I sobbed. “Are you … proud of yourself? I raised … Jemima from a … newborn pup … kept her alive when she would have died … and … now you come here …” I couldn’t continue.

He watched me for some seconds until I began to grow calmer. “Will you listen?” I didn’t respond and he went on, “I took the dog to the stables because I could see no other way – your sister is too young and would only have repeated your mother’s orders to the stableman. I merely asked the fellow to take care of the dog until your mother finds herself more … amenable.”

His extraordinary, green gaze studied my face.

I took a deep breath and dared phrase the question. “Jemima is alive?”

He nodded, “Want to see for yourself?”

“She’s alive?”

“Yes.”

“You made me think all this time … that she was … I broke my heart last night.”

“I apologise for that but I feared you’d brain me with something heavy had I visited earlier.”

The hope that sprang within me was such that I overlooked his poor excuse. “Come, let’s see your mutt.” He offered his hand but I ignored it.

“How are we to hide this from my mother?” I asked suddenly. “She will find out eventually, and will probably throttle Jemima with her own bare hands … and the two of us for good measure. Oh! She’s going to hate you,” I added, for the first time allowing my heart to lighten.

He looked at me for a long moment, before saying quite soberly, “She already hates me. Well, your flea-bitten beastie awaits.”

Jemima was indeed alive and exceedingly pleased to see me. I hugged her and she squirmed, yelping joyously and licking my face. Patrick leaned impassively against the wall of the straw-filled stall and I glared at him periodically to make certain he knew I was still angry for having caused me to endure an entire night of wretchedness.

“If you’re interested,” he said in a quiet drawl, “Maeve’s feisty feline was located behind a fallen tree in the park.”

I fondled Jemima’s floppy ear. “I’m glad,” I said with sincerity, adding grudgingly, “I suppose I should thank you.”

He shrugged and executed a somewhat mocking bow before taking his leave.

I made an appearance at supper that evening and Maeve, with an angry-looking scratch on her cheek, smiled shyly when I took my place beside her. “I am so sorry, Alexandra … your poor dog. Had I known, I’d never have collected Missy at that moment.”

“It’s alright, Maeve – really,” I said truthfully, and patted her hand for emphasis.

“Then we may be friends as well as sisters?”

I faltered, surprised, for in the hubbub of their arrival, I’d forgotten that Maeve and Patrick would become our stepsister and stepbrother. Until now it hadn’t been real, but I took a deep breath and responded evenly. “Yes, Maeve.”

“Marvy!” Her silver-blond curls bobbed happily.

Glancing in Patrick’s direction, I noted a vague smile on his face. He furtively tapped a sly finger against his nose, then applied himself to his meal, while Simon raised a single eyebrow at me – a trick he usually employed to make the village girls blush – and I realised then that he too, had been party to the ruse. He must have fathomed immediately what Pat was doing when Jemima was taken to the stables, which is why he’d insisted, trust me.

And then, the greatest surprise of all; Lord Thorncliffe caught my eye with his wide grin. They were all in on it – oh, to have a devious male mind!

Now watching this man who was set to become my stepfather, I felt the first stirring of solidarity with him – something that I’d never felt with either of my parents. A slow smile, despite my best efforts, crept across my face and I quickly stuffed a chunk of bread into my mouth to hide it.