The Earl's Captive

Chapter Four

Chapter FourHer mother lay as still as a corpse on the floor, yet Lucy made no move towards her. With her father charging towards her, she didn't dare and she dodged round the back of a damask-covered armchair for protection.

Martin took two more furious strides towards her then stopped, and Lucy felt as if her heart had stopped, too. How she hated and feared him! Suddenly, she was a child again, screaming at him not to hurt her mother. Then she was a young girl being slapped across the face for some minor misdemeanour such as not having bid him a polite enough 'good morning'.

Now, she was almost as tall as he was and her will was equally as strong, even if her muscles were not. In many disagreements in the past she had given way, but not this time. It meant far too much to her.

“Well, madam,” hissed her father, with heavy sarcasm, “so we have a new head of the household, have we? One who thinks she can set rules for herself and all the other silly little bints in Christendom!”

Lucy noticed his fists spasmodically clenching and unclenching and steeled herself to expect the blow. Across the room, Helen was still kneeling and chafing her mother's temples, and against the tapestry-covered door, a silent observer, John Masters, was nonchalantly leaning, a smug leer plastered on his plump wet lips.

“So Miss High-and-Mighty thinks a vicar isn't good enough for her, is that it? She thinks to stamp her pretty foot and defy her father, who's only a stupid, tyrannical old man? 'Marry an ostler or a highwayman' indeed!”

Lucy's hand flew to her mouth. So he had overheard her incautious words. There was no escaping a punishment now. Her eyes flicked desperately round the room, to the door, the windows … Her long, full-skirted dress made it impossible to move fast enough to escape. Either he, or her brother-in-law, would stretch out a foot and trip her, or catch a handful of her dress and tear the delicate fabric. All she wanted to do was ascertain that her mother would recover and then fly out of the room, out of the house, to heaven-knows-where.

Across the room, Ann Swift made a low moaning noise and began to stir.

“Thanks be to God!” called Helen, tears streaming down her rouged and powdered face. “She's alive!”

Lucy unfroze and started to move towards her mother, but had scarcely taken two steps when her father grabbed her by the wrist and, with an adroit movement, thrust her face down across the arm of the armchair she been standing behind.

“Get off me!” Fury seethed in Lucy's brain. To be beaten by one's father in private was one thing, but here, front of her sister and her odious brother-in-law … Her father had his hand on her left shoulder and was forcing her painfully down. With a cat-like twist, she jerked her and sank her sharp teeth into his arm.

“Ouch!” Her father's cry of pain nearly deafened her as his mouth was so close to her ear.

The pressure on her shoulder was suddenly gone but as she made to spring to her feet, she heard a hated voice drawl laconically, “Whip the bitch.”

“John!” replied Helen sharply. “This is none of your business. You keep out of this.”

“Hold your tongue, wife, or you'll be getting a beating too. A good flogging never hurt a mare – aye, Martin?”

Lucy caught her breath in a sharp gasp as she saw the object that John was holding out to his father-in-law – a small riding switch with a thong made out of tough hide, knotted at the end. Before she could cry out in protest, her father stuck out his leg and upended her across it. In spite of her vigorous kicking, she felt her petticoats and skirt being hauled up.

How could he? Lucy had never felt so horrified and shamed in her life. The leather thong sang through the air three times, causing her to shudder in pain. The embroidery on the screen in front of the fireplace, of which she had an upside-down view, began to blur as tears misted her eyes. She hated her father. She would never forgive him for this.

She heard her mother's weak voice pleading, “That's enough, Martin.”

Her mother's intervention stayed his hand. The whipping suddenly ceased and Lucy stood up shakily, smoothing her skirts and pushing back her tangled hair.

“If you'd have been a boy, I wouldn't have stopped at three strokes. You deserved a dozen at least for that show of defiance. Now, I hope we'll have a bit more obedience from you, my girl.”

He paused to consult the French clock on the mantel-shelf. “I am expecting a visit from Reverend Pritt in just over an hour's time. He has already made it known to me that he is coming to ask for your hand in marriage. His own dear wife died many years ago, before he came to this parish, and he is a very lonely man who dearly wants children, which his first wife could not provide for him.

“Go and clean your face, girl. Helen can help you do your hair. I don't want the Reverend to think you are a s**t with those unruly locks of yours. Put your best dress on, the blue one that makes you look like a girl rather than a stable-lad, and come downstairs when I call you. You are to behave to the vicar like a well-brought-up young lady. None of those bold stares, my lass, and no answering back. Just reply politely to any questions he may ask you – and of course you are to accept him. There is no question about that. Understood?”

“Yes, Father,” whispered Lucy, frightened of the sarcasm that might creep into her voice if she spoke any louder. She bowed her head and inclined her knee, then stood up and took stock of the rest of her family: of her mother, crouched on the settle in the window, face in hands, weeping silently; of her sister, pausing in the act of comforting Ann to give her sister a look which said, 'I had to go through it and now it's your turn'.

To her surprise, her brother-in-law was nowhere to be seen. She reflected that he had probably gone to check up on the twins who were, no doubt, being plied with buns in the kitchen by Binns and Cook. With the exception of her ill-used mother, Lucy despised the lot of them. Giving them a contemptuous glance, she swept out of the room.

Once in the safety of her bedchamber, she paused. She had less than an hour in which to devise a plan. Maybe she could think up some way of putting Nathaniel Pritt off her, by saying or doing something so subtle that he, but not her father, would detect it. Maybe she could say something about religion which would show him that she was not in accordance with his own strong-held beliefs. He would not want to take for a wife a woman who was not totally committed to his own beliefs.

Yes, that was it! If she could let slip some pagan idea, or some comment that had more in common with the Church of Rome than England, maybe he would see at once that she was not the stuff vicar's wives are made of.

There was a knock at the door, and Lucy started guiltily, as if the visitor, whoever it was, had been able to read her thoughts and was coming to assure her that there was no escaping her fate. But it was only Binns with a basin of warm water, which she placed on the marble dresser. Lucy gave her a grateful smile and dismissed her.

Alone again, she sank down onto the gold-embroidered coverlet of her bed and instantly stood up as the pain in her buttocks was so bad. On the other side of the room, next to the cupboard where she kept her clothes, was a long mirror in which she could see her image reflected from head to toe. She had grumbled when it was installed, insisting that she didn't mind what she looked like. However, her mother had prophesied that, as she got older, she would mind, and so the thing stood there, in its heavy gold-leafed oak frame. Lucy stepped before it and examined her reflection. She saw a tall girl, whose naturally pink and white complexion had no need of rouge, with loose chestnut curls tumbling down to her breasts, wearing a rumpled dress of cream satin and ruffles which she'd always hated because it was feminine in such a silly way.

If I were a witch, she thought venomously, I would take some witches' wax and, under a waning moon, I'd make a figurine of John Masters and stab it with a hatpin there (she imagined the pleasure of spearing him through the groin) and there (now his heart was pierced by a silver barb).

Suddenly, Lucy started. Surely her imagination wasn't that strong? For a moment, she thought she'd glimpsed the face of John Masters in the mirror. Dropping her skirts, she whirled round – and did indeed find herself face to face with her loathsome brother-in-law.

“A pretty sight,” he purred, his double chin sinking into his cream-coloured waistcoat. “But a few additions from myself would make it even prettier.”

“Get out of my room!” yelled Lucy, furious that her most intimate, private moment had been invaded. She advanced on the interloper, not quite sure what to do, but determined to wreak some damage on him. Like a tigress unsheathing her claws, her fingernails lashed towards his eyes. His arms went up and caught her hands and squeezed them until she squealed. “Let me go, you're hurting!”

“All in good time, little sister.”

“If I scream loud enough, Father, Mother, someone will hear,” she warned him, and inhaled to fill her lungs for the effort.

“But you won't, will you, Lucy?” he informed her, his small eyes in their puffy surrounds of fat boring into hers.

Lucy stared at him in surprise. She had long thought her brother-in-law to be cunning, but she had no idea what devious scheme he was working on now.

“You can yell all you like, my dear, but I doubt if you'll be heard. Your mother and sister are at the other end of the house, supervising refreshment for your … suitor.” He hissed the word with obvious enjoyment, reminding Lucy uncomfortably that time was running out for her.

“The children have been put to rest in the conservatory,” he continued, “and as for your father, he's in the cellar tasting the wine to help him decide which to offer the dear Reverend. So you see, my sweet, we are all alone. I sympathize with you, my dear. Reverend Pritt is an old toad, about as lusty as one of the tombs in his graveyard. It would not be right for your pretty body to go to him without a full-blooded man having enjoyed it first.”

“Let go of me!” Lucy demanded.

Pretending to swoon, she sagged limply onto the counterpane and then brought her knee up in one swift movement, but unfortunately missed the vital spot.

“You little b***h!” He gave her wrists a painful twist. “Give in gracefully, my girl, or I'll tell your father I saw you bare-arsed in the hayloft with one of the stable-lads.”

“But I didn't… I've never …” Lucy began.

“Who d'you think he'll believe?” Masters cut in. “You, who he knows to be a cheeky, devious little hussy, or me, his well-intentioned, honorable son-in-law? Do you really think your life would be worth living then? Don't you think he'd treble his attempts to get you married off before your reputation was in question, or your waist started to swell?”

He transferred his grasp on her wrists to one hand and used the other to grope for her breasts. Lucy twisted to left and right, trying to deflect his podgy fingers.

“Be sensible, Lucy, there's a good girl.”

Sensible? She would rather render him insensible!

“You're in a tight spot and maybe I'm the only one who can help you. Give yourself to me and I'll put in a good word with your father, try to convince him Pritt isn't the fellow for you, and that maybe I can find someone more suitable amongst my wealthy friends. I think the mention of money might make him see reason. And I know a lot of young studs who'd be a good match for a lusty young wench like you.”

As he groped at the skirt of her dress, there was a knock on the door and Binns's flat country tones could be heard saying, “Your father wants to know if you're ready, miss. The Reverend is expected in fifteen minutes.”

“Damn!” cursed Masters, swinging himself off the bed. “I never realized the old bastard would be here quite so soon. How long do you think he will stay? One hour? Two?”

“I don't know,” Lucy said. Right then, a couple of hours spent in the Reverend's company felt like sweet relief compared to whatever Masters might have in store for her.

“Well, I'll stay the evening and come to your room later. Remember what I said, sister dear. I'll put in a word for you if …”

Lucy nodded. Bending towards her, he pressed his lips on hers and Lucy shuddered in revulsion as it felt like kissing a slimy, dripping fish. Then he was out of her room with a wink and a leer, leaving her to collect her scattered wits.

Where was Helen, who was supposed to be helping her with her hair? Where, indeed, was Binns, who should have been dancing attendance on her, lacing her into her dress, proffering advice about this necklace or that, rather than just calling to her through the door? Lucy had never felt so alone, so abandoned, so confused.

Feeling dazed, she got up, reached in the cupboard for her blue dress and began, mechanically, to unfasten the cream one she was wearing. Then, struck by a sudden thought, she fastened it again and stepped quickly over to the window.

Outside, dusk was falling and low-flying swallows were dipping over the meadow at the back of the house. She had climbed out of the window before, but never in a dress as full as the one she was wearing. Still, she had no time to change.

Glancing up the hill, her eyes found, and rested on, the clump of sombre pine trees that surrounded the rambling old vicarage. It could have been her imagination, but she thought she spied a moving speck descending the hill path – Nathaniel Pritt on his trusty Welsh cob. There was no time to lose.

Pulling up her skirts and knotting them at the side, she unfastened the casement and swung her body out onto the ledge. She clung to the window sill as her feet found the familiar fork in the ivy. Then she was down it, on the tree branch, feeling her dress snagging on a hundred sharp twigs. She dropped lightly to the ground and glanced nervously all round her. She could hear distant voices from the parlour and the sound of her father shouting, but here, at the far corner of the house, all was quiet.

It grew darker still as she crept towards the high meadow, fervently wishing that she were dressed in dark clothing instead of the all-too-conspicuous cream dress. Reaching the fence, she lifted a halter off the gatepost and gave a low call to the bay stallion who was silently cropping the turf.

“Here, Emperor. Here, boy.”

The horse pricked his ears in interest. Martin Swift's prize stallion was always willing to lower his noble pride and answer the call of a human if there was any hope of an apple or a handful of sugar. Obediently, he trotted towards Lucy, a tall shadow in the gathering darkness. Meanwhile, Lucy climbed onto the gate. As soon as the horse was close enough, she held out her hand and, while he was inspecting it for the hoped-for sugar, she slipped the halter over his ears and was on his back before the surprised animal could sense her intentions.

Emperor set off at an indignant gallop across the field and Lucy clung grimly onto his back, thanking God that she'd had the nerve to take moonlit, bareback rides in the past and accustom herself to doing without a saddle. It always felt strange to be riding astride a horse like a man, especially when wearing skirts of slippery silk, but she jammed her thighs and knees against the horse's polished hide and willed him not to stumble.

The far fence was looming up. Emperor made as if to swerve, but Lucy, by holding him in check with reins and calves, forced him to square up to it, then, giving him his head, she jabbed his flanks with her heels. He took off like an eagle and soared over, landing in the lane that led upwards, away from the town, towards the moors.

Lucy gave an anxious glance over her shoulder. The Reverend Pritt should be nearing the farm by now. Surely he would hear Emperor's hoofbeats and raise the alarm? Or maybe her disappearance from her room had already been noted.

“Come on, Emperor boy,” she murmured encouragingly, giving his hard, muscular neck a pat. She had no regrets about stealing her father's prize beast. Not after all he'd done to her. She planned to get a safe distance from Prebbledale and then set him free, knowing he could find his own way home by equine instinct. Gripping tightly with her knees and crouching low over his neck, she dug him again with her heels. He obligingly set off at a fast canter, tackling the steep hill as if it were nothing but a gentle slope.

As they crested the summit, Lucy slowed her mount and looked round. The moon was out now, silvering the trees and fields and revealing the houses and outbuildings of the village in eerie silhouette. Her eyes picked out her own house and she noticed, to her alarm, several dark figures darting around: her family, looking for her. Soon, they would discover the theft of Emperor, and then horses would be saddled and searchers sent out with lanterns to look for her and bring her back.

Ahead stretched the moors, wild, rocky, deserted except for the occasional band of gypsies or robbers. She would take her chances with them, she decided. By tomorrow, she'd be far away. She'd disguise herself and maybe find employment in an inn, or perhaps some kind family would take her in and give her work as a housemaid.

She stirred the spirited horse into a gallop and felt the wind singing through her hair as Emperor's hooves struck sparks from the stony ground. The physical exertion of riding stripped the tension from her and she laughed out loud, the wind whipping the sound from her mouth before it could echo among the rocks. They would never find her. On she galloped, into the welcoming darkness.