A Baron in Her Bed (34 page)

‘I will not go into service.’

Mrs Peacock’s mouth thinned to a mere slit in her face. ‘For too long you have benefited from my benevolence towards your sister, who put her talents to good use and helped Mr Beale with the account books. However, all that has changed now.’

‘I won’t be a scullery maid and you have no say in what I do.’

Matron took three large strides and stood just inches from her. She reeked of onion. ‘I can put you out on the street, my girl, you and your brother, so think on that!’

‘I will not be a servant, spending my days on my knees scrubbing floors.’

A stinging slap on the face stunned Isabelle. Pain bit deep. Matron’s thin lips drew back in a snarl. ‘That is all you are good for!’

Isabelle refused to cradle her flame-hot cheek in front of them. She raised her chin. ‘I am a vicar’s granddaughter. I can read and write. I want to be married and be respectable.’

‘Married?’ Mrs Peacock laughed loudly. ‘You’d be lucky to wed a hermit.’

Anger raced along Isabelle’s veins like fire through dry grass. She ached to tell the old dragon exactly what she thought of her but she knew it would not help her and Hughie. Taking a deep breath, she arranged her expression to be docile and tried to act as her mother would. ‘Mrs Peacock, I am thankful for your offer, but I consider being married as the best alternative for both me and Hughie.’

Mr Beale stepped forward and the Matron scowled at him. ‘Excuse me, Matron, but I do think I have an answer to your problem.’ He turned to Isabelle. ‘Could you please wait outside while I talk with Matron?’

Isabelle left the room and paced the corridor. She buried her anger and took a deep breath. There was no point in losing her temper, it never got her anywhere except in more trouble. Marriage was all she hoped for and she mustn’t lose sight of her dreams. If she became a servant living in a big house she would lose Hughie. Servitude wouldn’t give her the freedom or the respectability of a married woman.

She stamped her foot in frustration. ‘Why wasn’t I born pretty like Sally and mother?’ Her mutterings sounded loud in the empty corridor. She went to a small window overlooking the lawns. She peered at her reflection. Boring, curly brown hair and boring light blue eyes. She was too tall for a girl and her boyish figure irritated her. Why couldn’t she have soft round curves and golden hair? Then men would be falling over themselves to offer proposals.

The door opened behind her and she faced Matron and Mr Beale.

A glint of something she couldn’t name shone in Matron’s small beady eyes. ‘Mr Beale knows of a bachelor, a second cousin of his, who tenants a farm near Heptonstall.’

Isabelle frowned. ‘Heptonstall?’

‘West of here-’

‘Yes, I’ve heard of it.’

‘So you should have. Sally told me your family are distant relations of the Gibson’s of Greenwood Lee.’

‘My father’s people claim some connection, I believe.’ She dismissed all thought of her father instantly. A knack she learnt soon after he left.

‘To be a farmer’s wife is nothing to scorn, you know.’

Isabelle swallowed. ‘But, I was thinking more of a man with a small business. I could help in his shop maybe. Surely there must be someone who needs a wife and lives here in Halifax? I’ve never lived anywhere else.’

Matron’s eyes narrowed. ‘Do you want to be married or not?’

Isabelle nodded. ‘Of course, but a farmer? I know nothing of farming.’

‘Work is work. You’ll soon learn.’

‘Very well, I shall write to him. Or maybe visit?’

Mr Beale stepped forward. ‘Er, no, that’s not necessary. I will write to him and have him come to Halifax.’

‘He is a good man? And he will take on Hughie too?’

Matron looked at Mr Beale and at his nod, smiled. ‘Yes, Hughie shouldn’t be a problem. He can work on the farm too.’

‘A farm.’ Isabelle mulled the words around in her mind. Gradually her imagination came alive and sparked her interest. A farm with fields of baby animals, wild flowers… Living in the country away from the fumes of the city, away from the traffic and noise.

‘He is a moorland farmer.’

Her mind whirled. To move away or to stay in town? To marry a farmer or a man with a business? She had seen wife advertisements in the paper, especially if the man was venturing to a new country. Maybe she could take an enormous gamble and marry someone emigrating to Canada, America or Australia? But would they take the expense of Hughie? She put her hand to her head, her thoughts whirling around. Here she was contemplating the other side of the world when she couldn’t even comprehend living just miles away further up the valley!

Matron tapped her foot. ‘Well?’

Isabelle bit her bottom lip. ‘Is there any other person you know who might want a wife? Maybe I should place an advertisement in the newspaper?’

Matron held up her hand. ‘Let us speak with Mr Beale’s cousin and see what we make of that first, yes? A farmer’s wife is a desirable position.’

Isabelle remembered Sally’s words.
Take little steps, Belle, little steps.
Suddenly, she nodded. ‘Thank you, Mrs Peacock and you, Mr Beale.’

She left them and walked back along the corridor deep in thought. A farm. The air would be fresh and clean not full of smoke like Halifax. It might be just what they needed. Hughie was good with plants; he often worked in the workhouse gardens. He would grow into a fine man living in the clean air and eating fresh food.

Reaching the hallway leading to the kitchens, Isabelle paused and nibbled her fingertips. Her thoughts ran wild, warming to the idea. She
could
be a farmer’s wife, she was certain of that. She could keep chickens and bake bread like her grandfather’s old cook taught her. She straightened her shoulders at the thought. Yes, that would do nicely.

Abruptly, a hand clamped over her mouth. Isabelle jerked in terror. Grabbed around the waist, she was wrenched off her feet and carried into the nearest room – the linen room. She fought against the restraint, kicking widely, but her skirts muted any impact she made.

In a swift movement, her attacker banged up against the wall of shelves holding sheets, towels and pillowcases. Faded light filtered in through a high dirty window and it was enough for her to see the excited eyes of Neville Peacock. She thrashed her head but his grip over her mouth pushed her head back hard against the wooden shelf.

‘Keep still, my lass.’

His hold made it impossible to talk and she dragged in shallow quick breaths through her nose.

‘You’ll like it, I promise.’ His knee edged her legs apart, but he soon realised that to lift her skirts he would have to free one hand. He took his hand away from her mouth and next his tongue bombarded her lips, edging its way past her teeth.

Bile rose in her throat. She wrenched her face away, but his lips followed, leaving wet kisses across her cheek. She gagged. Cold air touched her thighs as he raised her skirts high over her stockings. Furious at the invasion, she growled and bit his tongue so hard blood spurted into her mouth.

He howled in pain and backhanded her in the face. ‘You bitch!’

Stars burst before her eyes like fireworks on Guy Fawke’s night. The confined room spun around her. Dazed, she gripped a shelf to steady herself. Tears blurred her vision as she spat and coughed.

Neville leant against the opposite wall, one hand over his mouth, his eyes closed. Blood trickled between his fingers and ran down his chin to drip on his white shirt.

Isabelle heaved and dashed for the door. Whipping it open, she glanced back at him before hurrying out.

Matron stopped mid-stride, startled by her flight. Her gaze narrowed as she swept it from Isabelle to the linen room door.

Wordlessly, Isabelle shook her head and darted away. Her heart pounded, threatening to explode in her chest. The echoes of her running footsteps bouncing off the walls sounded loud in her ears. She had to leave this place!