Disgrace (11 page)

“My mother.” I am surprised how emotionless my voice sounds. She only died recently, but still I feel nothing but bitterness and bile for that woman. My only living relative, the one person who was supposed to love me and protect me, but instead, she gift wrapped me and gave me to a monster. I hate them both. Richard’s abuse was mostly physical, but the mental abuse I lay firmly at my mother’s feet. The guilt, the shame, the hypocrisy and hell I lived, every day was her poisoned gift to me, her only child.

“My mother pimped me out to the son of the wealthiest family in the village. Insisted I date him, ignored the bruises and cuts even when I told her exactly who had done them. When I dared to break up with him because I wouldn’t let him fuck me, she locked me naked in the coal shed for a week with no food, my penance for sinning. I wasn’t allowed to
say
the word fuck, there was no way she wouldn’t kill me if I actually
did
fuck. She made me beg him to take me back, promise him anything. To
her
anything meant my heart and hand or some misplaced romantic notion. But to
him
it meant I was going to become his personal fuck toy.”

“Why didn’t you leave?” Jason’s words startled me. I had started to drift to a much darker place. His rough, sexy timbre grounded me back to now.

“I was sixteen, Jason. I had no other family, and because my mother was so strict, I had no friends, either. I didn’t have a mobile phone until I left home at eighteen. We had a television, but only for the news, and I had to use the computer at school for any homework. I was
very
sheltered,” I pause, “but not at all protected.” He hums in understanding. Solutions always seem so simple from a distance. “I left the first chance I got but it was too late, the damage was done.”

Sam aged sixteen

I pull my bedcovers over my head shutting out the first light peeking through the gaps in the curtains. I don’t have to fake illness to try and avoid the day. I feel like shit. My stomach is in knots and I am consumed with an overwhelming sense of dread. I hate that she made me call him. I hate that she made me beg him to take me back when I finally had the strength to break it off. I knew what he wanted. I knew what he was going to take regardless, and I knew she’d kill me if I let him. Either way I was fucked.

I don’t remember her being this twisted, this deranged when I was little, but as soon as I started to grow into a woman, I was apparently destined for hell. I wasn’t allowed friends let alone boyfriends. She would walk me to school and pick me up. I did my chores and homework, and as slight as she was, she was quick with a belt and fierce, with a volatile temper. It didn’t take me long to step into line and accept this was my life.

That all changed when I was fifteen and the Brookes-Hamilton family moved into the Loughborough Estate. Their land stretched the length of the small county and surrounded the village where I lived.

I was waiting for my mother after school, like I always did, when he walked over to me. He stood so close and bold as anything, he stroked my face. He twirled a long strand of my hair around his finger before tucking it behind my ear. My mouth must have fallen open because he chuckled and I quickly snapped it shut. I remember the heat in my face and the strange feeling in my tummy. He was handsome, taller than me with white blonde hair and piercing blue eyes. He had a light tan and smooth skin. I wasn’t sure how old he was, and even though he wasn’t in school, he was still school age, maybe a few years older than me.

I felt excited at the time to receive his undivided attention. I thought I was mostly invisible to everyone, but he’d noticed me. I shrank back from his touch though, when I saw my mother approach.

I shouldn’t have worried about her wrath; she knew exactly who he was, and in turn, he charmed her with his perfect enunciation and immaculate manners.

It wasn’t the prospect of his family’s money that flashed in her eyes. We weren’t rich, but we were doing okay, and we had my inheritance. No, money wasn’t her obsession. She was driven by a misplaced sense of injustice that she was born into the wrong class of people. She was corrupted with her need to be better than anyone else. Evil intent lit her dull grey eyes with the understanding that before her in the form of Richard was her golden opportunity.

For the first few months it was like living in a Jane Austin novel. I was chaperoned on my dates with Richard, and she dangled my inheritance before him like an archaic dowry. He was the perfect gentleman, and any reservations my mother had about his intentions evaporated when, one afternoon, he declared he would make me his wife as soon as I turned eighteen. She couldn’t have been happier, and I felt like I had died before my life had even begun. I liked him. At the time, he was sweet and kind, a little obnoxious at times, but I didn’t love him. I hadn’t lived any part of my life as my own, how could I possibly just become someone’s wife? I didn’t know who I was or what I wanted. How could I know if he would make
me
happy? How could I know if I could make
him
happy? It was a joke, a horrible, twisted joke. But once he made this announcement, I no longer required the chaperone, and I was no longer safe.

My mother strides into my room and briskly pulls the curtains wide. I pinch my eyes shut. Even with my head under the covers, the glare from the sun is too much.

“Why aren’t you up?” she snaps and starts to pull at my blankets. “He’ll be here in no time at all. You have to look your best.” She has this sing-song voice when she’s happy that is just on the nausea-inducing side of being too sweet. It makes my stomach roll and my toes curl. I don’t want to look my best. I don’t want to see him again, but as with so many things, I don’t get what I want. I pull myself up and scowl at her back as she picks her way through my limited wardrobe. I am probably the only girl in school that loves her uniform because it’s the most fashionable thing I get to wear.

“He doesn’t just want to hold my hand, Mum. What am I supposed to do?” My voice is soft but I hope she can hear the desperation I feel because it fell on deaf ears the last time I tried to reason with her. She spins round and launches herself across the room, slapping me hard across my cheek. Raising her hand to strike again, I know better than to try and protect myself. I just close my eyes and take another hit. She grabs my hair and yanks me from the bed. I crumple to the floor and my scalp screams as she tears the loose hairs on the edge of her grip. I cry out and try to stand to stop the pull.

“You listen to me, Grace Cartwright. I did not raise you to be a whore. No man will ever want a whore as their wife, and make no mistake, you
will
be his wife.” She releases her grip and I slump to the floor rubbing my tender scalp. Her eyes are wild, her nostrils flare, and for a moment, she looks more demon than human. She certainly doesn’t look like a mother. “You will not ruin this chance we have to become the family we always should have been.” She straightens her shoulders and lifts her chin high, looking down her haughty nose at me. I want to scream, ‘I’d rather be an honest whore than a pretentious snob’, but I bite my tongue because she honestly scares the life out of me. The last time I answered back, I starved and nearly froze to death.

“What if he doesn’t really want to marry me, Mother?” I plead, my cheeks still blazing. She waves her hand dismissively.

“Don’t be ridiculous. He knows about the necklace.” She shakes her head at my silly suggestion. Christ that fucking necklace! More like a millstone. My grandfather bequeathed it to me, some family heirloom that is supposed to be oh so valuable but it just makes me feel so utterly worthless. Like no one could possibly want me for
me.
I am not enough, I will have to buy my way into someone’s heart. A position reinforced on an almost daily basis by my mother. “Richard will marry you, I made sure to show him…he understands.” She snickers and taps her nose like it’s a sweet little secret. I hate her so much. I don’t care whether his proposal was genuine. He told my mother a formal announcement would be made on my eighteenth birthday. But that is three years away, and I know with absolute certainty that there is no way he would be happy just holding my hand for that length of time.

“He’s strong, Mother.” I swallow the lump in my throat. At this moment, I fear her temper more than I fear him and the scowl that distorts her face makes me recoil further back against my bed. She steps up to me and pinches my chin between her bony fingers; her nails are like blades against my skin. The pressure increases with each hate-filled word she utters.

“You listen to me, Grace. God may have given you the body to sin, but it is on your head if you chose that
short
path. I will not tolerate it. You will be no one’s whore, Grace. I’ll see you in a coffin before I let that happen. Do I make myself clear?” Her calm tone is as eerie as it is cold. I can feel the trickle of blood down my chin where her fingernails finally broke the skin. I nod silently and feel her hand relax. “Now, let’s get you ready!” She claps her hands together. The blood on her fingers also drips down my face onto my nightdress. Her brow furrows with darkness and a challenge that I am not equipped to accept. I won’t defy her. She terrifies me. She may be deranged but that doesn’t make her any less capable of carrying out her threat. I flash a quick and insincere smile, silently praying that my crushed spirit, which she would interpret as insolence, is hidden beneath my cheery exterior.

“What shall I wear?” Every muscle in my body works to make my voice sound bright and excited when all I want to do is cry.

“Do you always have to dress like Mary Fucking Poppins?” Richard sneers and pulls the top buttons of my blouse loose. He pulls his car out of our drive and revs the engine loud and unnecessarily. I close the buttons back up to my breasts as he managed to undo them to my waist.

“It’s not my fault, Richard. You know my mother.” I let out a resigned sigh when he sniffs with derision.

“Ah, yes, your mother. I guess I have
her
to thank for our little reunion. I should perhaps send some flowers. Nothing says ‘thank you for pussy’ quite like flowers.” He grunts out a sleazy laugh. His hand drifts to my knees and he pushes his fingers roughly between my legs. I clamp them tight. “Come now, sweetheart, you know I’m gonna make you happy.” Sickness crawls in my stomach, and I shudder. He laughs loudly but returns his hand to the steering wheel.

The private drive to Richard’s house is about a mile and winds through dense woodland, and this time of year, the ground is covered with a thick blanket of bluebells. Shards of sunlight filter through the heavy spring canopy, dropping spotlights of sunshine on the beautiful flowers. It’s magical. I can’t hide my smile at the view, but it freezes on my face when I look at Richard regarding me with no warmth in his eyes. His car churns the gravel driveway as he speeds past the front of the house and fails to slow down. He continues down an unmade part of the drive that is more overgrown. I rub my arms at the sudden chill I feel, despite now being out of the shade of the woods and in the open, heading toward the lake.