The Branded Man Read online

  ‘Oh, my dear one. My dear one.’

  Even before his hands touched her shoulders she was lying against him, and when his lips touched her neck, just above the top of her dress, she shivered from head to foot; but when they reached her mouth, she let herself fall into his arms. And now they were lying side by side on the floor and his hands were moving over her. She found herself being lulled into an ecstatic state by his voice, speaking in Spanish now but murmuring words of love, she knew.

  Then, when his weight came onto her, she experienced something that brought her eyes wide, for she was seeing a picture, and it was of her sister’s bare thighs, and at this a wave of fear and sanity swept through her, and when she cried out, ‘No! No! Please, no!’ His voice came at her thick, almost fuddled.

  ‘It’s all right, my darling. It’s all right, my Infanta. I would never hurt you, never, never, never. It’s all right, my love.’

  His mouth was on hers again. Even so, she tried to rise. She recalled pressing her hands against his chest and her body heaving to rise. Then in the next moment she was appalled to realise that he was almost fighting with her; and there came a time when she could struggle no more, and it was done.

  ‘What is it, me dear? You’ve been crying?’

  Marie Anne made no reply but kept walking on until she was pulled roughly to a halt, and there was Sarah Foggerty staring into her face and saying, ‘What’s he done? Has he been at you? Now tell me!’ It was a demand.

  ‘No, no.’ Her words came rushing out now. ‘It was…it was just that I was feeling sad about…well, about Pat and…and him not being able to come. And I was looking…well, I was looking forward to it, as you know and I told—’ She hung her head, and Sarah, her voice now full of understanding, said, ‘And he sympathised with you and that made you bubble.’

  Marie Anne’s head was still bowed as she nodded.

  ‘Ah well; he’s a nice man, thoughtful, and he would feel sorry for you. In fact, anybody would feel sorry for you after meeting your aunt. Come on. Come on. Cook’s made a cake for your birthday tomorrow. It’s a surprise and I shouldn’t be telling you, but it’s lovely. She’s pinched and scraped and spent quite a few of her own coppers on it, so I know you’ll show your appreciation.’

  ‘Oh yes; yes.’ Marie Anne’s head was bobbing as they walked on. Yes, she would show her appreciation. And he was a nice man, understanding…except…except for…That part had been terrible…awful, at least for a while. And oh dear me, she wished she was back in her bedroom and had a dish of cold water to wash her body. That was what had happened to Evelyn that night. That was what had made her run, and had resulted in her now being here in London under the guardianship of that awful woman, only…only to do the same thing that she had been so shocked by. But she had tried. Oh yes, she had tried to stop him. And afterwards he had been so contrite and worried because she couldn’t stop crying. She didn’t know if she’d be able to face him tomorrow. Yet she must. Did she still like him? That question she couldn’t answer…not yet; no, she couldn’t. She’d have to get washed; then later tonight, when in bed and she could think, perhaps the answer would come …

  The answer did come when she was in bed: it said, yes she still liked him, but she didn’t know if she still loved him as she had done last night when she had thought about him. One thing was certain: he must never do that to her again. Never. But she didn’t blame him entirely: she knew that she had leaned against him; she admitted to herself that she had wanted him to hold her close, even wanted to feel his kisses, but not that. NO! No, not really, because she hadn’t thought that far. If Evelyn had come into her mind earlier it might have reminded her.

  She knew now that if she had to leave at the end of the year to go to a proper academy, then the parting wouldn’t be so hard. She also knew in this dark moment that she should never have slapped Evelyn’s face, nor said she was dirty and filthy, for what had happened to Evelyn had happened to her today. Part of it had been beautiful, but another part had been ugly.

  ‘What is wrong with you, girl? You are not practising like you used to, and when you do practise you only play music that murders the keys. Bang! bang! bang! bang!’

  ‘I’ve told you, Aunt; I have a cold.’

  ‘That’s weeks ago you had a cold, girl. You’ve spent a day in bed twice since then. One doesn’t go to bed with a cold.’

  ‘Well, if it isn’t a cold, Aunt, it’s something that is making me feel unwell.’

  ‘Don’t use that tone to me, girl. I’ve told you before. And let me tell you, the way you’re playing now doesn’t show any advancement. That man is getting his money easy. Does he oversee your practice at all?’

  ‘Yes, he oversees my practice, Aunt. Every minute of the time I am there I am playing the piano. Non-stop, non-stop.’

  Martha Culmill stared at the girl who, during the past months, under her very eyes had seemed to put on years. Listening to her, she couldn’t imagine she was but a girl of sixteen and one who, until she had come into this house, had spent her life in the country, in the backwoods, you could say, running wild. Now she spoke and acted like any city woman. Yes, like a young woman, not a girl. Was Foggerty to blame? No, no. She must remember that this girl had been impertinent since the first day she came; it was in her nature. If she didn’t know her own half-sister well she could have imagined she might have slipped up here, because this girl had an odd look about her. Beautiful, some people would call her, but to her and to anyone taking her features apart they were odd.

  As Marie Anne turned towards the door she called to her, ‘Go downstairs and tell Emery I need more coal for the fire; and if Foggerty hasn’t yet returned from her leave, and I don’t suppose she has, you will bring my dinner tray up.’

  No please, or, will you kindly? Marie Anne turned from the door and looked towards the bed. Well, she shouldn’t expect that, because she herself was never courteous to the woman.

  However, before going downstairs she went into her own room and did a strange thing. After closing the door she stood with her brow pressed tight against the panel, her arms spread wide, and from the depths of her she cried, Dear God! What am I going to do? It was nine weeks now. When she missed her first period she had thought nothing of it, but when the second passed too and she began to be sick and Sarah had found her in the slush room, as the closet was called, vomiting into the pan, she had stood well back from her and with her face held tightly between her hands until her mouth was out of shape, she had muttered, ‘God almighty! No, girl!’ Then she had grabbed up the flannel that lay near a bowl of water, wetted it, and while wiping Marie Anne’s face, she had continued to say, ‘No, no, girl, not you!’ Then she had pulled the lid of the lavatory seat down, thrust her on to it, and demanded, ‘How long?’

  When she had stared back at Sarah and shaken her head, Sarah had taken her by the shoulders and shaken her, and she had stammered, ‘N-n-nine weeks…over.’

  Sarah Foggerty had again stood apart from her, as if she were tracing back the time, and had suddenly cried, ‘That hot day, the day you came out with your eyes all red; you had been crying. That was it, wasn’t it?’

  She had hung her head and thought, Yes; yes, that was it. The beautiful and the ugly experience. That was it.

  Later, when she went into the kitchen she knew that Sarah had already broken the news, for they looked at her in utter amazement. They couldn’t believe it; no, not of her: she was so young in her ways, so gullible. Well, it always happened to the gullible ones; that’s what Clara said, and went on to quote her mother: ‘If you don’t wear bloomers, more than wind gets up your skirt.’

  It raised no laugh on this occasion. This was a terrible business, and it had only just begun.

  When the professor’s wife entered the waiting room, Sarah Foggerty said, ‘Miss Lawson is in bed; she’s not well: she won’t be in this week. But I want a word with the professor about that. I’ve also come to settle the monthly bill, and I want a receipt. Will you take it?’


  ‘Yes. I’ll leave the receipt on the table here. You can pick it up as you leave. That door there,’ the woman pointed.

  Sarah tapped on the door, then unceremoniously entered the room to confront a very surprised man.

  For a moment or so they stared at each other; then she said, ‘You’ll be wonderin’ why I’m here and not your pupil.’

  ‘Yes; perhaps I am.’

  ‘Well, you won’t see her this week; she’s in bed.’

  ‘Oh. Oh, I’m sorry. Is she ill?’

  ‘Yes, you could say that. Yes, she is ill. But she’ll be worse before she’s better.’

  It appeared as if he didn’t quite understand her; then he said, ‘She hasn’t been herself this last week or so; she has looked rather pale.’

  As her doubled fist caught him none too gently on the shoulder, he sprang back from her and she cried at him, ‘Pale! Pale! Of course she’s pale. You saw to it, didn’t you?’

  ‘What is wrong with you, woman?’

  ‘It’s not what is wrong with me, sir, it’s what’s wrong with you and her. You’ve given her a baby, and now you stand there and say she looked pale!’

  His mouth fell slowly into a gape and he questioned, ‘Baby?’

  ‘Yes, a baby…a baby, a child.’

  ‘No! Oh, no! I never imagined …’

  ‘Well, what did you expect when you had your way with her, and her just a bit of a girl? You’re a married man.’

  Again he was shaking his head. Then he put his hand out towards a chair and was about to sit down when, addressing her again, he said, ‘Please. Please be seated.’

  ‘I don’t want to be seated. I’m going to ask you what you’re going to do about it.’

  ‘Please! I beg you, allow me to sit. Please take a chair and listen.’

  She sat on the piano stool and, glaring at him, she said, ‘She trusted you. She thought a lot about you, and of your tin-pot, so-called music school. As far as I can guess, she’s the oldest one you teach, the rest are but youngsters. Well, I say to you again, what are you going to do about her?’

  He was sitting now with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. It was an abject pose; but suddenly he straightened up and growled at her, ‘What can I do for her?’ He flung one arm wide as if taking in, not only the school, but his life, and added, ‘I what you call exist, and that is all at this time. But I will tell you this. I love that girl. Age does not measure out the love one can give.’

  ‘Love! Huh! See what your love has brought her to.’

  Pityingly now, he said, ‘What am I to do? What’s she going to do?’

  ‘You’ve done enough; you can do no more. And she won’t be back here again; I also know she certainly won’t be going back home to her mother, because she won’t have her. That’s one thing I know. But her grandfather and brother will do something about it, so I think you should be prepared for a visit from them.’

  She watched him draw in a deep breath and straighten his shoulders as if he were already facing an attack. Then half apologetically, she said, ‘Well, they’ll want to get to the bottom of it.’

  ‘When are you going to tell her aunt?’

  ‘For me, I would say it’s best to let her find out for herself, and that won’t be long now.’

  She watched him screw up his eyes, in fact, his whole face, as if in an effort to be rid of the picture she presented to him.

  As she rose to her feet she surprised herself by saying, ‘You mightn’t believe it, but at this minute I feel sorry for you. I didn’t when I first came in, mind.’ To this he made no reply, he just shook his head as if in bewilderment.

  Nor did he speak as he opened the door for her, although his head jerked at the sight of the woman hurrying away down the passage.

  In the street, she stood for a moment breathing deeply, before saying to herself, Now to Annie’s to see what further pickle she and her tribe are in.

  Five

  For the next fortnight or so Marie Anne and Sarah left the house as if they were going for the daily music lesson; but each time they would double down the lane and through the back door. For a time they would remain in the kitchen, until the requisite time for Sarah’s return brought her to the front door again. Sometimes Marie Anne would lie on Cook’s bed in her cubbyhole of a room, and that kind woman would make her tea and provide her with a slice of bread and butter or a bun, or whatever was going, for Marie Anne was finding that she was very hungry these days.

  It was fortunate for them all that Martha Culmill kept to her bedroom in the winter, but how long things would have continued in this way is only to be guessed at, because as yet Marie Anne was able to wear a slack pinafore dress with no waistline. However, on this particular day they had a visitor. Little Clara Emery opened the front door to her, and when the woman said, ‘I want to see your missis,’ Clara, putting on what she assumed was a dignified front, said, ‘May I have your name, ma’am?’

  ‘Yes, miss; you may have my name. It’s Liza Alvarez, and I don’t intend to stand out here in the cold and wait to be announced.’

  A voice from along the corridor called, ‘What is it, Clara? Who is it?’

  When Sarah Foggerty came to the door and recognised the visitor, her mind immediately said, Oh my God! This is the showdown. But she kept her voice steady as she said, ‘You wanted to see someone?’

  ‘You know damn fine well I want to see someone, and that someone is this aunt of hers, the little bitch!’

  ‘Don’t you dare use that tone here, madam…missis.’

  ‘I am neither madam nor missis and I will use what tone I like; and you get to your mistress and tell her I want to speak to her, and speak I will, or here I stay banging on your front door for all to hear.’

  Sarah Foggerty pushed the open-mouthed Clara aside, and with a motion of her hand, she let the woman into the hall. Then in a voice as stiff as her expression she commanded the woman, ‘Sit there! And I will inform Miss Culmill that you wish to see her. And it will all depend upon whether she wants to see you. Understand?’

  She did not wait to hear the woman’s reply but hurried up the stairs.

  Before opening the bedroom door, she stood for a moment with her hand to her brow, asking herself what might be the best way to go about this; and the answer came: there was no best way. She just had to stand by and let events take their course.

  She thrust open the door and in a tone that caused Miss Culmill to widen her eyes, she said, ‘There’s a woman downstairs wants to speak to you, and speak to you she will, because she’s got some bad news to impart. D’you want to see her?’

  ‘A woman wants to see me? What woman?’

  ‘The music teacher’s wife, if she is his wife, which now I’m havin’ me doubts about.’

  ‘What are you talking about, Foggerty? Why would she want to see me?’

  ‘She has news for you, miss.’

  Martha Culmill’s eyes narrowed as she looked at her handmaiden; then quite suddenly she said, ‘Show the woman up. And when she arrives you will stay here in this room. Whatever she says I shall want a witness.’

  ‘Oh, you’ll have a witness without me being here, miss, but nevertheless I’ll stay.’

  After the door had closed on Sarah, Martha Culmill stared at it in bewilderment. What was this now? What had that girl been up to that the music teacher’s wife should want to speak to her?

  After being ushered into the room the woman stood staring at the occupant of the bed. Then her glance swept the comfortably furnished room before the invalid almost barked at her, ‘May I ask, madam, what you want?’

  ‘You may well ask, and I’m going to tell you. That niece of yours has ruined my life. Everything was going smoothly; then she had to come and set her cap for him, the blazing little hussy. But I wouldn’t have minded that; I was used to lasses and women falling for him. But this one, she’s driven him away; he’s gone.’

  ‘Gone, the professor? Please explain yourself. What has his de
parture to do with my niece?’

  The woman turned now and looked at Sarah Foggerty; she looked straight into her face as if asking her if this woman on the bed was dim or just purposely blind. Then she actually startled Sarah by demanding, ‘You haven’t told her then?’

  ‘Told me what?’

  Martha Culmill was sitting bolt upright in bed now. ‘Make yourself plain, woman, and at once.’

  ‘All right, madam; I’ll put it into plain words for you. He’s skedaddled, and back to Spain, I bet, because he’s put your niece in the family way and was likely scared of what would happen to him.’

  The woman and Sarah watched Martha Culmill slowly lower herself back into her pillows. Then her mouth opened wide as if she were gasping for air and one hand clutched her throat as if she were about to choke. And at this, Sarah Foggerty sprang to the dressing table, grabbed a bottle and returned to the bedside to wave the contents under her mistress’ nose and she muttered, ‘That was nearly a real one, not a make-believe to keep me waiting on her.’ She now pulled on the bell rope to the side of the bed and in answer Clara came hurrying into the room. ‘Stay with her for a minute, Clara,’ Sarah said. ‘If she looks like going off again, waft that once or twice under her nose.’ Then turning to the woman, she said, ‘I think you’ve had your say, haven’t you? So come on, out of it!’

  Without a word the woman followed Sarah onto the landing and down into the hall; but when Sarah went to open the door, she said, ‘Hold your hand a minute. D’you think I could sit down? I could do with some smelling salts meself; I feel all come over. This has been a shock to me too.’

  She had sat down on the hall chair and she was breathing heavily as she looked up at Sarah and said, ‘I wouldn’t have cared a damn if he hadn’t gone off. I was fond of him.’