The Fleethaven Trilogy (14 page)

His lips were searching for her mouth, his fingers reaching for the fastenings of her blouse.

‘No, Matthew, no!’

‘I want you, Esther, I’m goin’ crazy for you. Let me love you, Esther, please – please . . .’

‘I’ve told you before, Matthew Hilton, no man’s goin’ to touch me till I’m married!’

He looked deep into her eyes, his own burning with undenied passion for her. ‘Then marry me, Esther, marry me?’

For a long moment they gazed into each other’s eyes; his fervent, blazing with a frustrated passion that threatened to spill over and engulf them both. But Esther’s eyes were troubled. She liked Matthew – she liked him a lot. And he worked hard. Without his help she could never have coped over the last few months. But was it really enough for marriage? Could she really spend the rest of her life with him, working side by side on the farm? The farm! She felt a shudder run through her. How could she bear to leave Brumbys’ Farm now, the only real home she had ever known?

Mistaking her involuntary shiver for excitement, Matthew murmured in her ear, ‘Oh, Esther, you’re lovely. I want you so. Please say yes!’

‘All right then,’ she said at last, ‘if you’re sure . . .’

‘Do you mean it?’ His eagerness was almost pathetic.

‘Yes, course I mean it. I’ll marry you, Matthew.’

His eyes were afire, and his arms were about her again, hugging her, longing to love her. ‘When?’

She smiled up at him. ‘As soon as you like,’ she whispered huskily, clamping down hard on any feelings of guilt. It wasn’t just to get the tenancy of the farm, she persuaded herself, she really did like him.

She put her arms about him in genuine gratitude and kissed him.

He groaned as he returned her kiss ardently. ‘Esther, oh, Esther!’

It wasn’t until a lot later that Esther remembered with a little stab of shame that neither of them had spared a thought for Beth.

*

Mid-morning about three weeks later found Esther dressed in her blue cotton dress and Mathew, stiff and awkward in his Sunday best suit, walking down the lane towards the Grange. They walked side by side in silence, companionable yet not touching.

The grim-faced butler opened the door once more and ushered them reluctantly into his master’s study.

‘Well, well, Miss Everatt, and to what do I owe this pleasure, my dear?’ the squire greeted them.

They stood before him.

‘’Tain’t Miss Everatt now, Mr Marshall, ’tis Mrs Hilton. We were married by special licence at half past eight this morning at the church.’ Esther’s look challenged the squire boldly. ‘Mr Marshall, this is my husband.’

T
HERE
was silence in the squires study, broken only by the steady ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner.

Mr Marshall recovered his senses, stood up and came around the desk holding out his hand to Matthew. ‘Well, well, my boy. Congratulations indeed!’

He turned to Esther and held out both hands to her. ‘My best wishes for your happiness, my dear. I’m not a man to go back on his promise, dear me no.’ He beamed at them both. ‘You’ve got yourself a farm.’

Esther glanced at Matthew but he was staring at the squire, his mouth slightly open.

‘This calls for a celebration.’ Mr Marshall went to the side of the fireplace and pulled a red silk cord. When the door opened and the butler glided into the room, he ordered a bottle of Madeira and three glasses. ‘My wife would join us, I’m sure, but I believe she has taken the carriage into the town.’ He smiled again at them both, his glance flitting from one to the other.

‘Well, well,’ the squire rubbed his hands together. ‘This has all worked out very nicely. I had no idea you two were intending to be married. This is splendid, really splendid news.’ He looked towards Matthew and added, ‘I’ll have the tenancy agreement drawn up by my lawyer and let you know when to come and sign it . . .’

Matthew stared dumbly at the squire, who cleared his throat and turned to Esther for reassurance. ‘You must come too, seeing as how really it was you . . .’ He coughed in embarrassment and stopped, glancing again at Matthew. The door opened and the butler carried in a tray of glasses and the wine. With obvious relief the squire turned to pour out the wine himself, dismissing the manservant, and handing the glasses to Esther and Matthew. Mr Marshall raised his glass, ‘Here’s to a long life of happiness and success in your new venture.’

Esther felt that one of them should speak, say something, and since Matthew seemed to have lost his wits, she said, ‘Thank you, Mester Marshall. We’ll do our best to run the farm right, won’t we, Matthew?’

Matthew took a gulp of the wine, spluttered slightly and nodded. He opened his mouth to speak but a fit of coughing overcame him as the wine caught the back of his throat.

Not until they were half-way down the lane leading back to Brumbys’ Farm did Matthew speak. They had come out of the big house and walked side by side down the drive and out of the gate. Without even looking at him Esther could feel the rigid anger of Matthew’s body as he took huge, furious strides, so that she had to take a little running step every so often to keep pace with him.

Well away from the Grange under a clump of trees that overhung the lane, he stopped and turned to face her, gripping her upper arms with his strong hands so that his fingers dug into her flesh. ‘What’s going on, Esther?’

‘We – the squire’s giving us the tenancy of the farm, Sam’s farm.’

‘Oh? And when was all this worked out, eh?’

I – I asked him after Sam died, after his funeral. You know I did.’

There was a pause and then his blue eyes narrowed. But what did he mean when he said he wasn’t a man to go back on his promise? What promise?’

Esther hesitated.

Matthew shook her. ‘What did he promise you?’

The words came out in a rush. ‘He promised me the tenancy of the farm if I was married.’

It seemed he stared at her a long time, just stared and stared not releasing his hurtful grip, not speaking, just holding her gaze with his own hard, wrathful eyes. His breathing became deeper.

You mean – you married me – just to get the bloody farm?’

Her chin came defiantly higher and she returned his gaze brazenly. ‘So? What if I did? If we dun’t take the farm on, what’s going to happen to us, eh?’

‘You – you – scheming
whore
!’ He was beside himself with rage, and could think of no worse insult to fling at Esther who had always held off his amorous advances with such puritanical, virginal fervour. He pushed her so violently from him that she lost her balance and fell on to the grass verge at the side of the lane. He seemed taller in his fury as he stood over her. As she lay on the grass, she felt completely at the mercy of his menacing power. ‘You used me,’ he spat at her. ‘You knew I was crazy to have you, and you used that to get me to marry ya, just to get the farm.’

‘Matthew – you dun’t understand, t’aint like that . . .’ She scrambled to her feet to face him, but he made no attempt to touch her now.

‘Ain’t it?’ He seemed calmer for the moment, yet his composure was perhaps even more frightening than his white hot anger. ‘You think I’m stupid, dun’t you, Esther, some stupid farm
boy
. . .’ He emphasized the derisory name she had first used upon him, as if the implied insult still offended him. ‘I ’eard you at the funeral, soon as he’d read the will leaving you everythin’ – everythin’ in that house – an’ still you was after more. “What about the farm? Can I stay on the farm?” you said.’ He raised his voice in high-pitched mimicry of a woman’s tones, mocking and insulting her now. ‘An’ you chased out after the squire as he was leaving to ask him the same thing. Oh, by heck, but you’re grasping, Esther Everatt.’

In his anger he had forgotten that only a few hours previously she had changed her name to his.

Now Esther’s temper was rising to match his own, sweeping away any vestige of fear. ‘What about you, then?’ she demanded, determined that he should accept his part. ‘Why did
you
marry
me
? You asked me, remember?’

‘You know why. I wanted you that bad, I’d have agreed to anything . . .’

She stepped nearer to him, her green eyes sparking with fire, her lips parted. Huskily, she said, ‘An’ dun’t you still want me, Matthew? I ain’t one to break my promises either. I’ll be a good wife to you, Matthew Hilton. You’ll not have cause to complain.’

He shook his head wonderingly. ‘What is it about you, Esther? God, I hate you for what you’ve done this day, yet I can’t stop mesen wanting . . .’ His lips were on hers, crushing, bruising, revengeful, but Esther did not flinch or try to pull away as he half-carried, half-dragged her beneath the trees. He put his hands into the bodice of her dress and ripped the thin material the full length from neck to hem. He took her for the first time, there on the roadside, in a mixture of passion and rage, the culmination of months of pent-up frustration and longing. Esther lay submissively beneath him with her eyes closed, the only sound she uttered being a gasp as he thrust deep within her and she felt a searing pain shoot through her groin. The damp ground was cold to her naked back and small stones bit into her skin. In a final humiliation, as the breeze rippled through the undergrowth, she felt the sting of a nettle on her cheek.

Esther did not see Matthew the rest of that day. Her wedding day, she thought, and here she was milking the cows, feeding the pigs and churning the butter like any other day of the week. Thoughtfully, she rubbed her cheek. It had not been the way she had imagined becoming a wife, the way she had pictured giving herself to her husband and certainly not the way she had wanted it to be.

By nightfall, Matthew had still not returned to the farm. A little after ten o’clock, when Esther was about to give up waiting for him and take her candle up the stairs, she heard his footsteps in the yard. He stopped outside the back door and it seemed a long time before he opened it and stepped inside.

She was sitting near the table mending her stocking by the light from the oil lamp. She looked up as he appeared in the kitchen doorway. They stared at each other. Then Matthew shifted his gaze and moved, a little unsteadily, towards Sam’s Windsor chair at the side of the range. For a moment he stood looking at it and then, as if making up his mind, he turned around and sat down in it. Slowly he turned his head and looked towards Esther.

‘Well, are we having any supper, then?’

Esther laid aside her mending and moved to and fro between the pantry and the kitchen laying out bread and cheese and mashing a pot of tea. She glanced across at Matthew but he made no move to come to the table, so with a small smile of amusement – for it was obviously Matthew’s way of assuming his role as master of the house – she cut him a slice of bread and a lump of cheese, poured a cup of tea and took it to him.

He took the plate and the cup and saucer from her and, placing the tea on the hearth, bit into the cheese.

‘Suppose I’d better make a start on the ploughing at Top End tomorrow.’ He paused, his gaze on the dying embers of the fire. ‘That all right with you?’

Taking her cue from him, Esther said, ‘Yes, fine. We’d do well to make the best of the mild autumn weather. Can ya borrow the horses?’

Matthew nodded. ‘I saw Tom in the Seagull tonight. He’ll bring ’em over in the morning.’

There was silence between them again, whilst Matthew ate and Esther merely nibbled at a piece of bread. She was wondering what was going to happen when they went upstairs. She realized that she should have made preparations for their wedding night, for their first night together in the home that was now rightfully and legally theirs.

She cleared her throat nervously. ‘Er – I’II go up. You’ll see to things down here, then, will ya?’

Matthew did not look round, but merely grunted.

Upstairs, Esther stood in the room where Matthew had slept on a makeshift bed on the floor. Then she moved into the small narrow room leading off it where she had been sleeping in the single bed. She undressed quickly and then, hearing Matthew’s footsteps on the stairs, she scuttled on bare feet back into his room and lay down beneath the rough blankets on the straw-filled sacks on the floor.

As he reached the top of the stairs, she heard him open the door into Sam’s room, pause and then close it again.

She was holding her breath as he stepped into the room where she lay. He came and stood over her, the candle in his right hand as he looked down at her. For a long moment, in the eerie shadows cast by the flickering light, they stared at each other. Then he blew out the candle. She heard the rattle as he set it down. In one swift movement the blankets were pulled from her and she felt his weight come down on top of her.

The daily demands of the farm forced them to settle quickly into a routine. The following morning Matthew fetched his belongings from the cottage that had been his home at the Point, and Esther scrubbed and cleaned the bedroom that had been Sam’s. Now it was Matthew’s Sunday best suit that stood on the hanger in the corner, Matthew’s boots set ready beneath. There was fresh linen on the bed and on cold winter nights there would be a fire in the grate.

But Esther did not try to remove every trace of the old man to whom she owed so much. She put Sam’s family pictures on the mantelpiece and that night, as they undressed for bed, Matthew padded across the floor to look at the faded photographs.

‘By heck,’ he exclaimed. ‘Is that his pa? He’s the spitting image of him!’

‘I never dare ask him – but I ’spect so. It’s not Sam. I reckon that one’s Sam as a younger man.’

Esther pointed to the other photograph in a silver frame. Matthew looked closely at it. ‘Not a bad looking fellow, was he?’ Then he pointed at the pretty young girl with a cloud of curls. ‘Who’s this?’

‘I reckon that’s Katharine Brumby, Sam’s sister. There’s an entry about her birth in the old Bible in the front parlour – and did you notice at the funeral where Sam was buried?’

‘No, can’t say I took any notice. I dun’t like funerals. I wanted to get out o’ there as quick as possible.’