Page 57 of The Affairs of Ashmore Castle (Ashmore Castle #2)

She saw him with sudden appalling clarity, as someone quite separate from her.

A man not old, but certainly not young. His hair was mostly grey.

Where the whiskers were beginning to come through from the morning’s shave, they glittered silvery.

She saw the little broken veins in his cheeks.

She saw the wisp of hair growing out of his nose.

She saw the tired pouchiness under his eyes, and the slack flesh under his jaw.

And she saw for the first time what a terrible thing it was to be married to a man she didn’t love, had never loved.

His stubby hands, with the large veins on the backs, were the only hands that would ever caress her.

His lips, compressed in anger now, the only ones that would ever kiss her.

By law and custom she belonged to him, wholly and for ever, and she had no idea what he was thinking or what he wanted.

His authority over her was absolute. He could lock her up in an attic if he wanted.

Those thick hands could curl into fists and hit her if he wanted.

She didn’t think he would ever hit her, but for an instant she shivered, imagining it.

How much it would hurt! He was a stranger who owned her.

She was the trembling puppy at the feet of a man with a stick, who held the rope that was tied round her neck.

‘Joseph,’ she said, quietly, pleadingly. He turned his face away for a moment, rubbing at his eyes. ‘Joseph, please.’

‘Haven’t I been good to you?’ he said, still turned away. ‘Have I ever denied you anything? This house – you wanted to live here. Jewels. Bathrooms. Anything you’ve asked for.’

‘I know,’ she said.

Now he looked at her, searchingly, and under his scrutiny, she blushed.

He thought of her, dancing and laughing with the young men at the ball.

She would never laugh and dance with him like that.

Deep down, and wordlessly, he knew it was not just the astride-riding that had let loose this rush of anger.

It was the knowledge that comes at last to every old man who marries a young girl – that she does not love him.

And for him, in particular, it was a bitter thing to know: that any one of those young blades at the ball could have served her better than he could, because of his damnable problem – his ‘stage fright’!

His mind touched it and winced away, as from a sore tooth.

He loved her so much – but he could not bear to be ridiculous.

She might break his heart – he had half expected when he married her that she would – but, damn it, she must not laugh at him !

The blood rushed to his head, and he stepped across the room and seized her by the arms. Before she could protest, he crushed his lips down onto hers.

Her flesh was warm under his hands. She was wearing only a chemise, and her body was soft and flexible under it.

By God, he wanted her! And by God, he would have her!

She was his wife! And if she wanted to behave like a trollop, riding about the countryside with her legs apart, by God he would take her like a trollop!

His hands were strong, the fabric was flimsy: he tore the clothes from her, and the feeling and the sound aroused him even more.

He pushed her backwards onto the bed and went down on top of her.

He fumbled briefly with his own buttons, but nothing now could break his mood.

He freed himself, and without a thought he was in her, inside her, and doing what he had always longed to do, and never could.

She did not resist. She lay submissive under him, and only at the end gave a little cry, like a whimper, and put her arms round him.

Afterwards he lay still for a long time, and as the heat receded from his brain, he thought of what he had done, and the triumph turned to shame. Under him, she gave a little sigh. In her ear, he whispered, ‘Did I hurt you?’

She shook her head, then said, ‘Can’t breathe.’

He took some of his weight onto his elbow, and dared to look down at her, stroked the hair from her face. Her expression was unreadable. He wanted to apologise, but had just enough wit to know that it would be fatal – to him, if not to her.

‘Nina,’ he said instead. ‘Nina. I love you.’

After a long moment, she said, ‘I know.’ She closed her eyes.

There was a drop of moisture in her eye-socket.

He wiped it gently away with the side of his thumb, not knowing if it was a tear, or sweat.

He eased himself away, got up, turned his back, adjusted his dress, tried to think of something to say and failed, and went away to his own bedroom.

Left alone, Nina lay a long time without thinking.

It was all too perplexing, too inexplicable, too .

. . she hardly knew what. It might hurt too much to think about.

Eventually, when words did come into her head, they were, ‘So that’s it.

That’s the thing husbands and wives do.’ She could feel it was different.

She had a used feeling where she’d never had a feeling of any sort before.

And there was a stickiness. And a new smell.

A brief echo of her aunt’s lesson before marriage came up, and she shied away from it.

And Giles’s face came up too, briefly, and she shied away from that.

She didn’t want to think that it would have been different if he did it. She didn’t want to be that person.

There was a soft thump as Trump jumped up on the bed, and she felt his hard warm body nudging itself under her hand. She let him crawl into the circle of her arm and, holding him, fell asleep.

Cowling was up very early in the morning and, unable to face seeing her, he went straight out to the factory, not even taking breakfast, leaving only a message with Mrs Deering that he would be there all day.

He was horrified at what he had done (yet in some deep place pleased and satisfied at his mastery).

It was practically a rape (yet she was his wife and had a duty to submit to him).

He longed to be reconciled to her, to cover her with kisses and bring her gifts (but she should learn who was master in the house and in the marriage bed).

Hopelessly at odds with himself, he walked the short distance to the factory through a sweet, misty morning, the trees beginning to gleam with gold amid the green, and the first fallen leaves like gold coins under his feet.

A ghostly stem of cow-parsley poking up in the verge was draped in a spider-web that was hung with silver dew drops, reflecting the sun as it eased through the lifting mist. Sparrows erupted, bickering, from a hedge.

Somewhere unseen a cow bellowed. His natural optimism began to reassert itself.

She was so lovely, so warm and soft and fragrant, and the sensation of possessing her body had been almost too wonderful to endure.

If only – if only it was the end of his problem, the beginning of a new way between them, if only he could do it again!

The thought came to him, like the sun breaking through, that she might at this very moment be pregnant.

He might have given her a child. He longed for a child.

He had done a bad thing, but perhaps good could come of it.

He was reminded, foolishly, of the Lyle’s Golden Syrup tin with its strange illustration of the dead lion and the bees.

‘Out of the strong comes forth sweetness’.

He had shown his strength to her – wouldn’t it be wonderful if from that came forth the sweetness of a child?

Nina woke when Tina came in to attend to her fire, but she turned over, so the maid left her be, only letting Trump out, reckoning that a late night after much dancing should mean a lie-in.

She did wonder about the master being in the bedroom.

Even she, until recently nothing more than a housemaid, knew that gentlemen did not usually hang around in the room while their wives were undressed.

The doors and walls in Wriothesby House were thick, and she hadn’t lurked nearby to hear whether it was quarrelling or canoodling that was on Master’s mind, but either way, Madam probably needed to sleep a bit longer.

Left alone, Nina wanted to retreat back into oblivion, but sleep abandoned her, and she was thrust into full wakefulness, with the memory of that awful row, and the subsequent action.

Misery overcame her. She needed so desperately to talk to someone, to help her sort out in her mind what it all meant, but who was there?

He had told her to stay away from Bobby, and even she knew that to rush straight to her would be provocative.

And there was no one else. She felt lonely, miserable, guilty, self-righteous and small.

And she didn’t want to face him, imagining sternness and hurt.

The news that he had gone out early and would be out all day was a relief, and at the same time hurtful. He hadn’t wanted to see her. But it left her free for the day, and she knew then where she had to go. When you’re unhappy, you go home, because that’s where they always let you in.

She collected her dog, walked to the station, and went to London.

Aunt Schofield took one look at Nina’s face, and mentally cancelled the luncheon she had been going to.

The fire was still alight in the morning-room.

She summoned Minny to make it up and gave Haydock a specific instruction about refreshments.

Nina had the look of one who had not breakfasted, and it was an intractable misery that could not be lightened by a stack of hot buttered toast.