The Gentle Wind's Caress (2 page)

Matron went white around the lips. ‘That is a lie. My son wouldn’t sully his hands with you. I would never allow it.’

Isabelle grunted. ‘Yes, I suppose you speak the truth there. You didn’t want him touching me. You wanted him to him beget a child on Sally. Isn’t that right!’

‘How dare you.’

‘Sally had the qualities of my mother. She was refined, delicate and pure.’ Her lips curled in disgust. ‘Something the Peacocks and this establishment do not have.’

Matron thumped the table. ‘Get out!’

Isabelle closed her eyes.
I’ve done it again
. Every time she was in front of the matron they ended up in conflict. It had been the one thing she and Sally fought about; her lack of patience and quick temper.

She opened her eyes and let out a long breath. ‘I did not come here to argue, Mrs Peacock. I did wish to discuss with you my future plans.’

‘You have no future,’ Matron seethed between clenched teeth.

‘I believe differently.’

‘Believe what you like, Gibson, but I know the truth of it.’ Mrs Peacock walked to the window that overlooked the grass area at the front of the workhouse before the high stonewall blocked the rest of the view. ‘You are not your sister. You do not have her qualities. Do you think you can compare with her or take her place in my affections?’

‘No-’

‘No, you cannot.’ She glanced over her shoulder at Isabelle. ‘You are past eighteen years of age. It is high time you left here and began working. Most girls your age have been working for many years. Your mother spoilt you all, believing you were to be better than you are. She, like you, had ideas above her station.’

Isabelle clenched her fist in her skirts. ‘My mother was a vicar’s daughter, educated and trained as a lady’s companion.’

Matron dismissed her words with a wave. ‘I gave it some thought as Sally lay dying and I found a position for you as a scullery maid in Lodge House on the outskirts of Halifax.

‘I will not go into service.’

Mrs Peacock’s mouth thinned to a mere slit in her face. ‘For too long you have benefited from my benevolence towards your sister, who put her talents to good use and helped Mr Beale with the account books. However, all that has changed now.’

‘I won’t be a scullery maid and you have no say in what I do.’

Matron took three large strides and stood just inches from her. She reeked of onion. ‘I can put you out on the street, my girl, you and your brother, so think on that!’

‘I will not be a servant, spending my days on my knees scrubbing floors.’

A stinging slap on the face stunned Isabelle. Pain bit deep. Matron’s thin lips drew back in a snarl. ‘That is all you are good for!’

Isabelle refused to cradle her flame-hot cheek in front of them. She raised her chin. ‘I am a vicar’s granddaughter. I can read and write. I want to be married and be respectable.’

‘Married?’ Mrs Peacock laughed loudly. ‘You’d be lucky to wed a hermit.’

Anger raced along Isabelle’s veins like fire through dry grass. She ached to tell the old dragon exactly what she thought of her but she knew it would not help her and Hughie. Taking a deep breath, she arranged her expression to be docile and tried to act as her mother would. ‘Mrs Peacock, I am thankful for your offer, but I consider being married as the best alternative for both me and Hughie.’

Mr Beale stepped forward and the Matron scowled at him. ‘Excuse me, Matron, but I do think I have an answer to your problem.’ He turned to Isabelle. ‘Could you please wait outside while I talk with Matron?’

Isabelle left the room and paced the corridor. She buried her anger and took a deep breath. There was no point in losing her temper, it never got her anywhere except in more trouble. Marriage was all she hoped for and she mustn’t lose sight of her dreams. If she became a servant living in a big house she would lose Hughie. Servitude wouldn’t give her the freedom or the respectability of a married woman.

She stamped her foot in frustration. ‘Why wasn’t I born pretty like Sally and mother?’ Her mutterings sounded loud in the empty corridor. She went to a small window overlooking the lawns. She peered at her reflection. Boring, curly brown hair and boring light blue eyes. She was too tall for a girl and her boyish figure irritated her. Why couldn’t she have soft round curves and golden hair? Then men would be falling over themselves to offer proposals.

The door opened behind her and she faced Matron and Mr Beale.

A glint of something she couldn’t name shone in Matron’s small beady eyes. ‘Mr Beale knows of a bachelor, a second cousin of his, who tenants a farm near Heptonstall.’

Isabelle frowned. ‘Heptonstall?’

‘West of here-’

‘Yes, I’ve heard of it.’

‘So you should have. Sally told me your family are distant relations of the Gibson’s of Greenwood Lee.’

‘My father’s people claim some connection, I believe.’ She dismissed all thought of her father instantly. A knack she learnt soon after he left.

‘To be a farmer’s wife is nothing to scorn, you know.’

Isabelle swallowed. ‘But, I was thinking more of a man with a small business. I could help in his shop maybe. Surely there must be someone who needs a wife and lives here in Halifax? I’ve never lived anywhere else.’

Matron’s eyes narrowed. ‘Do you want to be married or not?’

Isabelle nodded. ‘Of course, but a farmer? I know nothing of farming.’

‘Work is work. You’ll soon learn.’

‘Very well, I shall write to him. Or maybe visit?’

Mr Beale stepped forward. ‘Er, no, that’s not necessary. I will write to him and have him come to Halifax.’

‘He is a good man? And he will take on Hughie too?’

Matron looked at Mr Beale and at his nod, smiled. ‘Yes, Hughie shouldn’t be a problem. He can work on the farm too.’

‘A farm.’ Isabelle mulled the words around in her mind. Gradually her imagination came alive and sparked her interest. A farm with fields of baby animals, wild flowers… Living in the country away from the fumes of the city, away from the traffic and noise.

‘He is a moorland farmer.’

Her mind whirled. To move away or to stay in town? To marry a farmer or a man with a business? She had seen wife advertisements in the paper, especially if the man was venturing to a new country. Maybe she could take an enormous gamble and marry someone emigrating to Canada, America or Australia? But would they take the expense of Hughie? She put her hand to her head, her thoughts whirling around. Here she was contemplating the other side of the world when she couldn’t even comprehend living just miles away further up the valley!

Matron tapped her foot. ‘Well?’

Isabelle bit her bottom lip. ‘Is there any other person you know who might want a wife? Maybe I should place an advertisement in the newspaper?’

Matron held up her hand. ‘Let us speak with Mr Beale’s cousin and see what we make of that first, yes? A farmer’s wife is a desirable position.’

Isabelle remembered Sally’s words.
Take little steps, Belle, little steps.
Suddenly, she nodded. ‘Thank you, Mrs Peacock and you, Mr Beale.’

She left them and walked back along the corridor deep in thought. A farm. The air would be fresh and clean not full of smoke like Halifax. It might be just what they needed. Hughie was good with plants; he often worked in the workhouse gardens. He would grow into a fine man living in the clean air and eating fresh food.

Reaching the hallway leading to the kitchens, Isabelle paused and nibbled her fingertips. Her thoughts ran wild, warming to the idea. She
could
be a farmer’s wife, she was certain of that. She could keep chickens and bake bread like her grandfather’s old cook taught her. She straightened her shoulders at the thought. Yes, that would do nicely.

Abruptly, a hand clamped over her mouth. Isabelle jerked in terror. Grabbed around the waist, she was wrenched off her feet and carried into the nearest room – the linen room. She fought against the restraint, kicking widely, but her skirts muted any impact she made.

In a swift movement, her attacker banged up against the wall of shelves holding sheets, towels and pillowcases. Faded light filtered in through a high dirty window and it was enough for her to see the excited eyes of Neville Peacock. She thrashed her head but his grip over her mouth pushed her head back hard against the wooden shelf.

‘Keep still, my lass.’

His hold made it impossible to talk and she dragged in shallow quick breaths through her nose.

‘You’ll like it, I promise.’ His knee edged her legs apart, but he soon realised that to lift her skirts he would have to free one hand. He took his hand away from her mouth and next his tongue bombarded her lips, edging its way past her teeth.

Bile rose in her throat. She wrenched her face away, but his lips followed, leaving wet kisses across her cheek. She gagged. Cold air touched her thighs as he raised her skirts high over her stockings. Furious at the invasion, she growled and bit his tongue so hard blood spurted into her mouth.

He howled in pain and backhanded her in the face. ‘You bitch!’

Stars burst before her eyes like fireworks on Guy Fawke’s night. The confined room spun around her. Dazed, she gripped a shelf to steady herself. Tears blurred her vision as she spat and coughed.

Neville leant against the opposite wall, one hand over his mouth, his eyes closed. Blood trickled between his fingers and ran down his chin to drip on his white shirt.

Isabelle heaved and dashed for the door. Whipping it open, she glanced back at him before hurrying out.

Matron stopped mid-stride, startled by her flight. Her gaze narrowed as she swept it from Isabelle to the linen room door.

Wordlessly, Isabelle shook her head and darted away. Her heart pounded, threatening to explode in her chest. The echoes of her running footsteps bouncing off the walls sounded loud in her ears. She had to leave this place!

Chapter Two

The cold wind outside tried to wheedle its way into the corridors of the workhouse as Isabelle rushed to the matron’s office to meet with her intended husband. For a split second she baulked at the prospect, but knowing her desire to leave here rested on this meeting, she quelled her nerves and hurried on.

The draughts whistled around her ankles and a quick glance out the small windows she passed showed another grey gloomy day heralding winter. Summer had only just finished yet she missed it all ready. The thought of spending another winter inside these frigid walls spiralled her into a mood of gloom.

She should be thankful she lived in a private workhouse and not a parish one, but still the conditions were primitive, the future bleak unless she took some chances. Living this way had taken her mother and sister. Their gentleness left them unable to cope once outside the safety of the vicarage. Still, her mother always said she, Isabelle, was the strongest in the family. The idealist. The one to weather the harsh demands of a world devoid of compassion. She would show them all that her mother was right. Her family might have fallen lower than the low but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t do all in her power to claw them back to their rightful place.

Within a week of speaking of her desire to be married, to have a home of her own, Mr Beale had arranged it for his cousin to visit. It had been a week of hiding from Neville.

After the incident in the linen room, he had given her a few days reprieve before hounding her unmercifully. He hid in corners and loomed out of shadows. He watched from windows and sent her peculiar notes. She became distressed when he struck up an interest in Hughie, which included giving him little presents.

Two nights ago, she had gone to bed and found a dead kitten under the blankets. Frightened and not sure what to do, she had stayed up all night with only her umbrella as protection. From then on, Isabelle lived in fear of Neville. She caught scraps of sleep during the day when she could, knowing that each night would see her maintain her vigil watching her bedroom door and window.

And this morning, a note was pushed under the door. Neville had written exactly what he was going to do with her when he caught her and that she would never marry anyone but him.

Thankfully, after breakfast, Matron had sent him off to visit family in Leeds and for this Isabelle had sent a prayer of thanks heavenward.

The office door opened before she could lift her hand to knock and Mr Beale ushered her in. ‘You’re late.’

‘I’m sorry.’ She puffed. ‘I was helping in the kitchens.’

Matron, all congeniality, beckoned with a tight smile. ‘Come in girl and present yourself to Mr Farrell.’

Isabelle stepped further into the room and looked at the man who might be her husband shortly.

Her heart hammered against her ribs as she took in his ruddy complexion, sharp blue eyes and black hair. She knew him to be thirty-eight, but he looked ten years older. Once, he would have been a good-looking man, powerfully built. Only now, his muscle had run to heaviness. She felt he would still be strong as the width of his arms strained his coat sleeves and she knew her hands couldn’t span his thick bull neck.