Hope - Lesley Pearse [163]
Anne felt sick then. She sank back on her pillows, stunned at Albert’s capacity for evil. Rufus had told her the man used to hit both Hope and Nell, he said he made their lives a misery. In fact, Anne could remember that Nell often winced with pain, passing it off as a fall on the drive or some such thing. The brute had clearly been terrorizing them both for a very long time, but she’d been too wrapped up in herself to notice.
Maybe Hope did leave as instructed to keep Nell safe, but some how Anne knew she also went to prevent her and Rufus from being shamed too. Hope was only fifteen then, and she’d seen something not even a grown woman could deal with, banished from her home, family and livelihood and told never to return.
Did Albert beat her before she left? Did she have any money? Where would she go?
William stayed in her bed that night, holding her tightly and telling her that he still loved her, even if he wasn’t worthy of love in return. Anne was grateful for the comfort of his arms, but the images of her daughter cast out, terrified and with no one to turn to, prevented her from sleeping. She understood then why Nell had gone mad with grief.
Chapter Seventeen
1854
A sudden hissing from the fire made Lady Harvey jump involuntarily.
‘The coal’s wet,’ William explained, breaking the silence they’d been locked in for some little while. ‘I daresay Albert pissed on it again.’
Anne heard the bleakness in her husband’s voice and when she turned to look at him she saw his eyes were glistening with tears.
‘What are we going to do?’ she asked fearfully. ‘He’ll only get worse, won’t he?’
They were in William’s study. They no longer used the drawing room in winter because it was too costly to heat. The study was also the only room at Briargate which didn’t yet show signs of the neglect so apparent elsewhere. But then the sheer masculinity of the book-lined walls and the leather armchairs suggested the room was designed to look ageless and worn.
Outside it was a raw, grey February afternoon, a keen wind bending the bare branches of the trees along the drive. The light was fading fast, but Anne was reluctant to move away from the fire to light the oil lamp, for her joints were stiff with rheumatism.
The dim light concealed the ravages time and trouble had brought to the once handsome couple. Anne’s hair was thin and white now, her face lined and her body thicker. At forty-eight she perhaps still looked younger than many women of a similar age in the village, but this was more to do with a retained elegance in her dress and posture rather than glowing health or nature’s kindness.
William was less lined than his wife, despite being three years older, but he was portly and balding. The years of heavy drinking had given his face a bloated look and there was an elderly stiffness in his movements.
Yet aside from the ever-present irritation of Albert’s presence at Briargate, they had found new happiness following their revelations a year earlier. William said he’d become too old and disillusioned for desire; Anne was content with his friendship and company. In fact they could count the last year as being the time they’d been closest since they were newly-weds.
They often discussed how they should have dismissed Albert years ago. But setting aside their separate reasons for avoiding confrontation with him, they had also been concerned about the grounds of Briargate. Whatever else Albert was, no one could deny that he was an astounding gardener. He had the energy of three other men, he took a pride in his work, and he would be impossible to replace.
Briargate might be crumbling on the inside, but while the grounds remained immaculate and beautiful, they could convince themselves and others that everything was fine. Not that anyone much came to Briargate any longer. The Warrens from Wick Farm occasionally visited for tea in the garden in summer, likewise the Metcalfes from Bath, but there hadn’t been a dinner party here