The Gentle Wind's Caress (20 page)

From out of the crowd, a lanky man pushed his way clear. Neville Peacock. He grinned like the devil and slowly approached her stall.

Isabelle’s eyes widened in apprehension. Cold sweat trickled down her back. Her mouth went dry as he leisurely picked up one of her lemon curd tarts and casually dropped it on the ground at his feet. His eyes never left hers.

Neville turned to the gathering. ‘We must not sully ourselves by sampling the food this harlot sells. She is not fit to be among decent people. She brings shame to the respectable women of this town by flaunting herself before you. Brazen!’

She croaked a strangled cry as his hand reached for a pie and within seconds it joined the tart on dirty cobbles.

Marge Wilmot’s laugh rang out clear and loud over the stunned stillness.

Murmurs grew again, but Isabelle was trapped in a world of silent agony. She couldn’t drag her gaze from Neville’s as with a small shrug he swept his arm wide across the table and sent the entire stock to the ground.

A rock was thrown from the crowd at either Neville or her, she didn’t know, but it hit her on the cheek and she stumbled back, reeling in pain.

‘Here now, that’s enough!’ The old man in the stall next to her threw his arms up to shoo them off. ‘Lass, for yer own sake, get down!’

Hardly able to think for herself, Isabelle crouched low, using the table as a barrier. As if from a distance, she heard the old man yell and Marge’s insults now included him for spoiling her fun.

A final over-ripe fruit splattered at her feet and at last the hubbub quietened. The pungent smell of decaying fruit made her gag.

‘It’s safe now, lass. They’re gone.’ The old man peered over the table. ‘Are yer hurt?’

She shook her head. She felt nothing. Somewhere in the far recess of her mind, a throbbing ache assaulted her, but she ignored it. Nothing had the power to hurt her like the pulsating hatred she had just faced.

He came around behind the stall and gently helped her up. ‘Yer’d best be getting home, lass. There’s nowt yer can do here now.’

Nodding, she glanced at the dwindling crowd. Some looked on with pity, others with scorn and a few grinned, having enjoyed the show. Humiliation finally clawed its way through her shock. Smothering a whimper, she jerked into motion. After ripping the sheet from the trestle, she stuffed it and the smaller baskets into her largest basket. Her arms full, she turned to escape and then saw the sympathy in the old man’s watery eyes. She swallowed, not wanting to appear ungrateful for his help but desperate to flee this scene of her shame. She inclined her head. ‘Thank you.’

‘Aye, lass.’ He gave her a half smile and she brushed past him and away to the stables. This morning she had refused Hughie and her father’s offer to accompany her to the market, wanting to be alone with her thoughts. How foolish had she been, to forget the old hag who took pleasure in tormenting her at every turn, and to forget Neville.

At the stables she stumbled to the cart and dumped the baskets in the back. Not giving the stable lad a chance to help her, she unhooked the feedbag from the horse, led it out into the lane and climbed up onto the seat.

Each passer-by that glanced her way suddenly drew her focus. Eyes stared, mouths laughed, fingers pointed, babies cried. Whispers grew into shouts. She slapped the reins onto the horse’s rump, urging it to go faster, despite the impeding traffic. Her skin tingled, aware she was being talked about, discussed.

She sagged with relief as they climbed up Heptonstall road away from the hub of Hebden Bridge, away from the market, away from Marge Wilmot’s leering crudeness and away from Neville Peacock. But then, she would never be free from him. He made it his business to stalk her like men stalked game. He hunted her as though she was a deer and he needed meat for his table.

At the top of the hill, a stiff, cold wind slapped her face. The threatening rain, which had held off until now, fell. It was too much. One too many burdens she had to bear. Tears ran hot down her chilled cheeks. She tugged her coat closer and her hand smeared the mess on her skirts. The sickening stench of old fruit filled her nose. She gagged.

Abruptly, she slammed her foot on the brake and jerked on the reins, halting the horse. Without thought, she scrambled off the seat and into the ditch by the roadside. She fell to her knees, heaving and sobbing at the same time. Rain lashed, stinging her face, trampling on her dignity.

‘Belle!’

In her misery she looked up, not caring if the devil himself stood by her side. In fact it was. Neville Peacock.

‘Belle, are you hurt?’

She stared at him and had the insane urge to laugh. His expression was one of caring, his hands reached out in helpless offer.

‘Here, let me help you.’ He stepped closer and placed his hand at her elbow.

That she let him touch her, help her, came as no surprise. After today, nothing could harm her. She was dead to all feeling and worth. Her filthy wet skirts hindered her walk, but her fingers were too cold to hitch them up. Beyond the cart, his horse stood, its head hung low in misery at being out in this awful weather.

‘I’ll tie my horse to the cart and drive you home.’

She paused and stared at him. ‘Have you lost all reason? Do you honestly think I can abide you near me?’

He stepped back, but a flush crept up his pasty face. ‘I didn’t mean to do any of it. I don’t know what came over me. I didn’t start the fruit throwing. Please believe me.’

She didn’t care whether he spoke the truth or not. ‘You didn’t throw the fruit, but you planted the seed, yes? And then you destroyed my stock, added to my humiliation, killed any respect I held.’

His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. ‘I got carried away. Marge and I were drinking, she made-’

‘Don’t, Neville! Don’t make all this out to be her fault. You enjoyed every moment of it. Well, let there be an end to it, yes? No more following me, harassing me. It’s over.’

He wiped away the rain running down his face. Anger blazed in his eyes and he grabbed her shoulders, squeezing them like a vice. ‘It will never be over. Not until you are mine!’

Isabelle sighed, tired and dispirited and not at all frightened. ‘I’ll never be yours Neville. Even if you threw me down in the mud right here and now and had me, it still wouldn’t make me yours.’

Astonished, his grip slackened and she hoisted herself up onto the cart’s seat.

Neville grabbed her trailing skirts. ‘You will be mine, Isabelle Gibson! I’ll not let Farrell or Harrington stand in my way! Do you hear?’

Without looking at him, she slapped the reins and trundled away as the rain pounded her and his threats grew wilder and more unimaginable.

***

Whispers and mutterings dragged at her senses. Try as she might she couldn’t open her eyes, but then, she didn’t really want to. She was so warm, so tired…

A loud bang jerked her into awareness.

‘Bertie, you little oaf!’ Hughie’s outraged whisper boomed in her head like a drum.

‘I didn’t mean to.’ Bertie’s unhappy mumble forced her to open her eyes.

‘Belle?’ Hughie’s anxious face hovered over hers. A lock of his hair fell over his forehead.
He needs a haircut.
‘Can you hear me? Are you better?’

Isabelle frowned. Better? What had happened? What were they doing beside her bed? She went to speak but her mouth was dry, her throat parched. She mumbled something unintelligible.

‘Bertie, get Belle some water, quickly now.’ Hughie sat on the edge of the bed and placed his arm under her shoulders. ‘Here, sis, drink some water.’

She sipped and allowed the cool water to slide down her throat. Whereas before she felt warm now shivers of cold shook her. Hughie’s touch chilled her. Her head seemed too heavy for her neck to support and every part of her body ached.

‘There now, you rest.’ Hughie stood and tucked the blankets around securely. He added another pillow for her head and the coldness of it made her shake anew. He smiled. ‘Want to sleep some more?’

Too exhausted to agree or deny, she closed her eyes and gave in to the welcoming blackness.

***

She opened her eyes to see the sun stream into the bedroom.
Morning.
This room only got the morning sun. Lying still, she watched the dust motes floating in the rays. The walls were so bare, so drab in colour. Mould in one corner looked like fine lace. Yellow. That would brighten the room. She could paint the walls yellow and give the ceiling a fresh coat of whitewash. Ethan once told her- Ethan! She jerked upright only to jump when her father leaned over and pushed her back down.

‘There’s nothing to worry about, Belle. Rest easy.’

She turned to look at him. He appeared as ill as she felt. Eyes sunken, skin grey, hair even greyer.

He shifted under her unblinking stare. ‘You have some colour back in your cheeks, lass. We were worried about you.’ He reached over and poured water from an earthenware jug into a glass. ‘The boys have been working their fingers to the bone.’ He brought the glass to her lips and she sipped it. ‘They’ve done all the jobs around the farm. Kept the house clean.’

‘How long have I been sick? I don’t remember…’

‘You’ve been abed for two days-’

‘Two days?’ She scowled. The incident at the market flashed before her eyes and a wash of mortification flowed over her again. She could never show her face there again… ‘I…I’ll be back on my feet today.’

‘You gave us such a fright, arriving slumped on the seat in the pouring rain with blood trickling down your face. I don’t know how you made it home, but then you always were a brave one.’ He leant back in the chair. ‘The ground near shook with thunder and lightening. The storm didn’t abate until near midnight.’

‘I don’t remember a storm, only rain.’

‘Well, no. You were numb with cold and wet through. Hughie and I carried you in and put you to bed.’

She glanced at her nightgown and blushed.

He raised his eyebrows at her. ‘I couldn’t leave you in your wet clothes now could I?’

‘I guess not.’

‘Still, you’re on the road to recovery now, aren’t you?’ Not waiting for an answer, he slapped his thigh and then stood. ‘I’ll have Hughie bring you up a cup of tea. The boys will be glad to have you awake.’

Isabelle nodded. ‘Thank you.’ She turned her face away. Through the window, the pale blue sky showed promise of a fine day.

By the door, Aaron hesitated. ‘He came on Sunday afternoon.’

Her heart started up a rapid tattoo against her chest. Ethan. She’d missed their meeting in the wood on Sunday. Oh, how she ached for him. Longed for him to hold her and tell her everything would be all right.

Aaron cleared his throat. ‘No doubt he wondered where you’d got to. I told him you were ill. He wanted to come up and see you, but I suggested that wouldn’t be wise. Hughie would think it odd that our landlord visited your bedroom.’

She closed her eyes, trying desperately to block out her father’s disapproving voice. He had no right to judge her like the people in the market, had no right to make her feel guilty. Yet, she cringed inside knowing that once, long ago, she had sought his good opinion, had been his favourite child…

Chapter Twelve

Ethan checked Copper’s girth strap. It was a ritual he performed every time before he mounted. His mind wasn’t focused on the strap, but rather limited to worrying over Isabelle. He would see her today, no matter what her blasted father said. He’d not be put off a further time. Every day for a week he had called, only to be told each time she was still abed and mostly sleeping. What’s more, Isabelle’s brothers happened to be hovering near the house on each of his calls and so he’d behaved as was expected, when he wanted nothing more to push the older man aside and storm upstairs to see her for himself. What did propriety matter to him when his beautiful girl lay ill?

In anxious frustration, he mounted and turned to the groom loading the last basket onto the cart. ‘Is every thing ready to go, Dyers?’

Dyers gave one last look at the cart. ‘All set, sir.’

At that moment, the butler opened the front doors and his mother walked out onto the top step. ‘Ethan?’

He swore softly under his breath. ‘Yes, Mama?’

‘What is all this?’ Her hand wavered towards the full cart.

‘Gifts for a sick tenant. Now, if you’ll excuse me I must be on my way.’

Her eyes narrowed, but then she lifted her head to peer down the drive. ‘Someone comes.’

Ethan swore again, louder, on hearing the crunching sound of carriage wheels on the drive.
Please be a friend of mother’s!

The carriage slowed and Dyers hurried to open the door. Hamish MacGregor descended the step and grinned. ‘Good day!’

‘Hamish!’ Elizabeth came swiftly down the last two steps and hugged him as though she hadn’t seen him for years instead of only a few months. ‘This is a lovely surprise.’

Ethan sagged in the saddle, knowing his visit to Isabelle would have to wait a few more minutes. He forced a smile as Hamish and his mother drew closer. ‘Good to see you, my friend.’