Читать книгу The Girl in the Picture - Kerry Barrett - Страница 13

Chapter 6

1855

Frances

Frances was climbing the stairs when she saw him out of the staircase window. He was sitting on a rock with a girl, who couldn’t be more than twenty, and who was gazing at him with adoring eyes.

She sighed. They’d only lived here a few weeks. Was it really starting again so soon?

Slowly, she carried on up the stairs into her dressing room. She couldn’t see the beach from this window so she couldn’t torment herself by watching him. Instead she sat down at her dressing table and examined herself in the mirror. Tilting her head, she looked at the bruising on her neck. It was definitely fading, finally. She pulled her dress down and leaned closer to the mirror. The marks on her collarbone and chest were fading too. She felt a wave of relief that she’d got away with it again.

She let her hand drift down on to her stomach, still flat, and thought of the tiny life flickering inside her. This time would be different. This time she would be careful. She shuddered as she remembered Edwin’s face when she told him she was pregnant last time. He’d said nothing then, simply stared at her with no expression in his cold, blue eyes. But later, when he came home from his club, brandy on his breath and fire in his belly, she knew she’d made a mistake.

The first punch – to the back of her head as she went to leave the room – sent her sprawling across the couch. And when she begged, ‘Please, Edwin, the baby …’ rage flared in his eyes. He hit her again and as she fell on the floor, he kicked her hard in the stomach. Sobbing, she crawled into the corner of the room and curled into a ball, while Edwin read the paper by the fire and ignored her quiet whimpers.

But when she felt a gush of blood between her legs and, despite her efforts, cried out, he was contrite. Back to his charming self, he carried her upstairs and tucked her into bed, smoothing her forehead and covering her with kisses.

‘I’m sorry, my darling,’ he whispered. ‘We’ll try again. I’m sorry, my darling.’

When the doctor came, Edwin was every inch the caring husband. But the doctor wasn’t fooled. Edwin left the room, and the doctor looked grim-faced. He lifted her nightgown to feel her tender stomach and saw the livid bruise to her side.

‘Does he have a temper, your husband?’ he asked, pushing gently on her lower belly. Frances winced but said nothing. Shame flooded her.

‘You must be more careful,’ the doctor said. ‘He’s a busy man. An important man. Don’t anger him.’

And with that, Frances knew she was alone. Which was why she’d come up with her plan. As soon as she’d realized she was expecting again she knew she had to get away. Edwin had gone from regarding her with a kind of benign disinterest when they were first married to vicious contempt and she knew if he realized she was pregnant – and desperate to be a mother – he’d punish her. As far as she knew he had no strong feelings either way about becoming a father but if he realized motherhood would make Frances happy, he’d take it away from her. Just to be cruel.

She was keeping money aside, squirrelling it away from the housekeeping and hiding it under a loose floorboard she’d found in her dressing room when they moved in. She’d been saving for years, if truth be told. She’d started putting some coins away almost as soon as she and Edwin had married. She knew from the start what sort of man he was, but her father was determined to see them wed and Frances couldn’t disagree.

Since her father’s death, and since Edwin took over the family law firm started by Frances’s grandfather – the one he’d always had his eye on and the one, Frances thought, that had sealed her fate as his bride before he’d even met her – he’d felt no need to keep his true nature hidden any longer.

When they’d moved and she realized her nausea each morning was because she was pregnant again, she’d started working out a proper plan. As much as she wanted this baby fiercely, she felt the same passionate determination that Edwin would never know his son or daughter. She needed to get away – and that was what was driving her now. She thought she’d stay as long as she could, loosening her corset as much as she was able before her condition was obvious, and then she’d act. It was good to have everything in place before she went, because she couldn’t afford for anything to go wrong.

After talking to some of the people in the village, she’d decided what to do; though it seemed drastic she wanted to be sure Edwin couldn’t – or wouldn’t – try to find her. So, she planned to take some clothes to the beach and leave them by the rocks. Maybe throw a hat into the waves and hope it washed up in the right place, or snag a piece of a gown onto a sharp stone. There was a nasty current in the sea, which had claimed the lives of many people over the years – she could easily be washed into the water as others had before. If she were lucky, she’d just become one more sad story of an unfortunate walker.

She planned to hide her suitcase behind the rocks in advance, and after setting the scene carefully, she’d change into simple clothes, the clothes of a maid or a governess, tuck her hair into a hat, and walk to the station. She was unremarkable in looks; she knew that. Plain, her grandmother had always said. Years ago, that made her think she was worthless, but now she thought the fact that no one glanced at her twice could save her life.

Once she was on the train, she’d change again, in case anyone remembered her cloak or hat, simple as they were. And she’d travel as far as she could afford. North, of course – you couldn’t go south from Sussex and stay in England, and she couldn’t speak French. She hadn’t thought much further than that yet. All she cared about was getting away from here.

She went out on to the landing and looked down at the beach once more. Edwin was sitting closer to the girl now, and as she watched, he put his hand over hers. Frances allowed herself a brief fantasy where Edwin ran away with this girl and let her, Frances, be. But she knew that would never happen.

A shaft of sunlight lit up the girl’s face and Frances realized she was even younger than she’d thought. Eighteen perhaps. No older. The same age Frances had been when Edwin had pursued her. Perhaps it was the baby in her belly making her feel this way, but she suddenly felt a wave of fierce maternal protectiveness towards this girl with her loose skirts and messy red hair. She couldn’t – wouldn’t – let Edwin hurt her as well.