Woman Who Gave Birth to Rabbits - Donoghue [11]
"Not I," she said austerely.
He slammed his hand on the mattress. "What in hell d'ye mean, not I?"
"I was not party to the plan."
"Weren't you desperate to get your claws into me the minute I rode up to the door? Isn't every spinster hungry for a Husband?"
She narrowed her eyes to slits. "I'd have to be a deal hungrier before I'd take you. If you think," she spat, "that I'd give a farthing for a pox-ridden Englishman—"
He blinked at her. "What? It's not—"
"It's syphilis you've got," she told him flatly. "If Knox told you not to worry, he was lying. In the end, it'll rot your balls, and then your brain."
He wanted to throw up again, but he was empty.
"Maybe your brain's rotted already. You still don't understand, do you?" She spoke with a cold impatience. "The only reason I took part in that charade of a ceremony was because my uncle told me this was me last chance, and if I refused, I'd never sleep another night under his roof."
The captain took a moment to absorb this. "You could have said no, even so," he raged at her. "Surely you could always find work—spinning, even—"
"Tuppence." Her arms were folded. "Tuppence a day, that's what a woman makes by spinning. So don't tell me what I should or shouldn't have done, Captain."
He stared at his bride for some time. Finally he spoke in a hoarse whisper. "What have we done?"
One of her faint eyebrows lifted. "Nothing much," she said.
"I absolve you of blame," he told her. "I admit you're as much your uncle's victim as I am."
Her eyes were cool.
"If I've, if it turns out that I've infected you, I beg your pardon," he said, knowing he sounded like a boy. Then a dreadful thought occurred to him. "And if there should be other consequences—a child—I'll make provision—"
For a moment her face relaxed, and sweetened, and she laughed.
The young captain blinked at her.
"There'll be no consequences," she told him. "Nothing happened, if that's what's woriying you. I sat here all night and listened to your snoring. We've never so much as shaken hands."
He should have felt relieved. He got off the bed. As he was pulling on his regimentals, he wondered why a weight still hung on him. "I'll go, then."
She nodded, indifferent.
"I expect to be posted back home shortly."
She nodded again.
"I'll never speak of this to anyone," he said, tugging on his boots. "And 111 make this bargain with you"—turning to her—"if you agree never to claim me as your husband—never kick up any fuss, or come to England—"
"What would take me to England?"
"Well, if you promise not to, I'll send you an allowance every year. Not much, now," he added nervously, "but perhaps enough to give you a little independence."
Miss Knox considered the matter, her eyes lidded. "I'll be a sort of widow," she said at last.
"That's right. Only, if you should ever wish to remarry—"
"I won't." Her face was as set as a statue's.
He didn't understand this woman, but on an impulse he held out his hand. "Until we meet again?"
"I think we never will." His hand was starting to tremble by the time she shook it.
Downstairs, the servants claimed that Mr. Knox was out attending to a dying man in Killala, and wouldn't be home all day. This time the young captain knew he was being lied to; he thought he would always recognise the sound of it from now on. He got on his horse and set off back to Ballina. His head pounded like a drum in battle. He looked over his shoulder once, at the window of the room where he had spent the night, but there was no face at the glass.
Note
"Acts of Union" is based on an anecdote about two unnamed people—a niece of an Ardnaree apothecary called Mr. Knox and a visiting stranger—in Elizabeth Ham, by Herself, 1783–1820 (written in the 1840s, published 1945). Elizabeth Ham, an English writer, was living in Ardnaree around 1810 when