Authors: Freda Lightfoot
Heavy footsteps sounded on the narrow stairs. Men coming to carry her precious mother away. With no money for a funeral, Florrie would be put in a pauper’s grave and Mercy felt her own small body
begin to shake at the dreaded prospect.
‘Na then, don’t tek on, lass. Bear up, as yer ma would wish,’ old Jessie soothed.
But Mercy shook not with grief, of which she’d barely begun to comprehend, being still in shock, but with the degradation and humiliation of it all. She was outraged that her lovely, young, caring mother could be bundled up in a sheet and carried away like a roll of bad cloth to be dumped in some dark, musty hole in the ground; that her last resting place would be unmarked and uncared for. As if reading these thoughts, old Jessie clucked softly, patting and stroking the young girl, offering what comfort she could where none was available.
The men had no difficulty in lifting the woman, light as a child. They carried out the task with sombre respect, but it was all too much for Mercy. She could barely take in what was happening; unable to comprehend how it was that her quiet, orderly, albeit simple life could suddenly be turned upside down. How one day her mother had been happy and laughing and filled with her characteristic energy to work hard in order to get her daughter out of this place, and then within a few short months, be dead and buried.
All that stuff she’d told her at the end about who Mercy’s real father was. Not some common sailor after all, but a man of consequence, a man of class and position. And this gentleman, so-called, had cruelly deserted Florrie and her child. Having set her up in some pretty little cottage in town, no doubt only to assuage his guilt, he’d soon grown bored and abandoned her to cope alone
as best she might. Probably found himself some other pretty maid who’d caught his eye, and forgot all about poor Florrie. A sad but familiar tale which made Mercy burn with shame and embarrassment on her mother’s behalf. Within months, Josiah Angel had forgotten his lover sufficiently to stop sending her money, or even paying the rent on their one-time love nest. Was it any wonder her mother had ended up living a life of penury, hard graft and near starvation?
Even then she couldn’t escape him entirely, but was compelled to pay the man an inflated rent for the privilege of living in this rat-ridden hole.
Now her poor mother was dead, and her daughter left to fend for herself.
Mercy was filled with a bitter resentment. Not for one moment did she imagine Josiah Angel treating his own precious family with such callous disregard. No doubt his three daughters were coddled, spoilt young misses possessing all they could ever desire. Mercy hated each and every one of them with a venom that burnt to her very soul.
The sound of the strap singing through the air was the last thing she remembered, that and the hot searing pain before darkness enfolded her. How long she lay unconscious Livia had no way of knowing, but it couldn’t have been more than a second or two as she became aware of her father’s craggy face leering over her, the rancid smell of his cigar-tainted breath suffocating her, and his icy fingers pinching the soft flesh of her cheeks. He hated it when his victims were not sufficiently alert to savour his torture.
‘I’ll teach you who is master here if it’s the last thing I do.’
Josiah Angel grabbed his eldest daughter by the wrists and began to drag her across the floor. Livia let out a scream, knowing what awaited her, but even as the sound echoed around the dusty emptiness of this claustrophobic little room, she knew no one would come to her aid. Certainly not her mother, who had taken to her bed more than ten years ago as the only means available to evade a
brutal husband, and quietly gone into a terminal decline, making as little fuss by her departure in death as she had done in life. The servants knew better than to interfere in family business, as well as which parts of the house were barred to them. This tower room, or torture chamber, as Livia and her sisters caustically referred to it, was the place they feared the most.
The House of Angels was what the locals called this fine Victorian mansion situated on Brigsteer Road, high above Kendal. With its crenulated towers, gothic arches and tall slender windows beneath frowning eaves it resembled a fortress more than a home.
But only the Angel sisters who lived within its dark walls knew that it was ruled by a devil.
Josiah Angel was a great bull of a man, his face as hard and unforgiving as the crags that formed the landscape of his birth, high cheekbones protruding sharply beneath folds of skin grown slack with age. His temper was as dark and brooding as the thick cloud that blanketed the tops of the distant mountains that dominated the skyline in this part of Westmorland. But then he was a man who demanded attention as did Great Gable or Scafell. He might attempt to soften his appearance with the silk cravats and silver cufflinks of the country gent going about his business, but beneath the fine worsted cloth of his expensively tailored suit lurked a heart as cold and rancid as the bogs beneath the lush green grass of the lower fells.
His three daughters had long since learnt to listen for the heavy tread of his highly polished boots so they could
better judge his mood. The louder the creak on each stair, the more vile his temper. The sound of his menacing approach would allow them a few precious moments to take evasive action: to slip quickly down the servants’ stair and run helter-skelter to hide among the exotic leafy plants in the conservatory, or climb the hill to Serpentine Woods above the house, their hearts racing with giddy excitement at their daring escape.
He had never been the kind of father any daughter would run to for a hug and a kiss, but rather one to be avoided. A man without pity; a tyrant and a bully who would have his way at any cost simply to prove that he possessed the power to do so.
A stray shaft of spring sunshine from the long window that reached almost from floor to ceiling cast its dusty rays into the furthest corner of the room, where Livia’s two sisters huddled together, powerless to help her. Alike they may be in many ways, certainly with regard to their angelic fair hair and soft grey eyes, yet they were so very different in temperament. Romantic, spoilt Ella, so
self-absorbed
, so sure of her pale elegant beauty that she’d steadfastly believed herself to be immune to their father’s torment. Now her childlike grey-green eyes were rounded in disbelief beneath fine winged brows, revealing shocked outrage at finding herself in this predicament.
Practical, uncomplaining Maggie, the youngest of the three, was begging their father to desist his torment; her sweet, heart-shaped face turned pleadingly up to his, soft grey eyes pooled with tears. Not that he would pay heed to either of their pleas. Witnesses to his cleverly devised
punishment were an essential feature of their father’s reign of terror, all part of his evil plan.
Josiah Angel maintained control over his three daughters by the cleverest, vilest form of cruelty. Too often he’d experienced their stubbornness over the years and had come to see that to bring one to heel, he must hurt one of the others. The trick never failed. On this occasion it was Livia who was being made to suffer for Ella’s obduracy. And, since the strap had failed to bring about the desired surrender, his second choice of punishment was the iron cage, small enough to accommodate one person and of sufficient height to keep his eldest daughter’s long legs from touching the floor.
But Livia had no intention of making it easy for him. She drummed her heels on the unyielding floorboards, wriggled and fought in a futile effort to free herself. Sadly, her strength was puny against her father’s iron grip. He held her by her long golden tresses, which she took such care to brush one hundred times every night, wrapping them tightly around his great fist. She could feel clumps of hair tearing from her scalp, splinters from the rough boards digging into her bare feet as she attempted to hinder his progress in any way available to her. In spite of her pain, Livia managed to raise her head sufficiently to look up, and wished at once that she hadn’t.
It was Ella who let out a half-strangled gasp, and Maggie who found the courage to defy him. ‘Not the cage! Please, Father, not the cage. Have pity.’
Ella began to weep and Maggie’s pleading went unacknowledged as Josiah tied Livia’s thin white wrists
to the leather strap that hung from the central hook. He half smiled, revealing the handsome good looks he’d once enjoyed before ill temper, age, and overindulgence had taken their toll. ‘
Only a bird in a gilded cage
,’ he disdainfully trilled in his hoarse, grating voice as he closed the door of the cage and turned the great key in the lock, leaving his daughter hanging an inch from the floor.
Livia’s blue eyes welled up with tears as she courageously kept her gaze fixed on Ella, teeth gritted against the pain, arms stretched to breaking point as she gasped out her plea. ‘I’m all right, Ella.
Please
don’t give in. You…really…
mustn’t
!’ She saw how Maggie drew her sister close, which caused Livia to strive all the harder to hold on to her own courage. ‘Don’t let her, Maggie. Don’t let her agree!’
Livia could say no more, needing the last of her strength to deal with the agony.
Ella was watching her sister’s torment with growing despair, desperately striving to still her own trembling, knowing it would serve only to anger her father further. There seemed to be no escape for her now, let alone for poor Livia. No more secret meetings with Danny Gilpin in the shadow of the castle ruins, no more lovers’ trysts, heartfelt promises or sweet, stolen kisses. She was to be sold to the highest bidder, auctioned off like a heifer at Kendal Auction Mart to a cold-hearted farmer in need of a wife.
Pretty, scatter-brained Ella, at just turned twenty, had endured her own beating with remarkable fortitude, but quailed at witnessing the more brutal torture inflicted
upon her beloved and brave sister. And she knew that if Livia, with her fierce rebellious nature, refused to concede defeat to their father’s tyranny, he would turn next on the softer Maggie, whose weak chest and nervous manner made her an easy victim.
She could not let this go on. She had to say something, anything. She had to save Livia, as well as herself.
Brushing aside Maggie’s restraining hands, Ella took a tentative step forward and faced her father with reckless defiance. ‘I would marry this man, this Amos Todd, but I doubt he would have me since I’m carrying Danny Gilpin’s child.’
Maggie pressed her hand to her mouth, stifling a cry of dismay, while Livia groaned, knowing all was lost. But Ella stood resolute, her chin held obstinately high even as her eyes brimmed with tears, her beauty and distress surely sufficient to melt even the coldest heart. Unfortunately, not Josiah’s.
Josiah drew a walnut from his pocket and cracked it in his palm while he considered his daughter in all seriousness. ‘Don’t lie to me, Eleanor. I’ve always been able to tell when you were lying. But just in case it’s true, we’d best look sharp, hadn’t we? If we marry you off quick, Amos will never know. At least, not till it’s too late.’ Tossing aside the shells, he turned on his heel and strode from the room, taking the key to Livia’s prison with him.
Josiah did not trouble to lock the door of the attic, knowing Maggie and Ella would not stir from their sister’s
side while she hung like a joint of meat from a butcher’s hook. As ever, they would cling together, stubbornly united against him. Until he finally broke them, that is. Which he fully intended to do.
They accused him of being harsh but in Josiah’s eyes he’d been far too indulgent. It was long past time all three of his daughters were wed. Most women of
twenty-two
, as Lavinia now was, were married, yet she’d refused every suitor he’d found for her, resisted every attempt to do her duty. Now he’d turned to the next in line, deciding to deal with Ella first, and come to Livia next. Maggie, he would keep at home a while longer. He had other uses for his youngest daughter, and was in less of a hurry to dispose of her services.
Josiah proceeded at a leisurely pace to his study, showing no sign of haste as he dealt with several pressing matters of business, determined to allow his rebellious daughters ample time to fully appreciate Livia’s distress. He wanted them to share her agony and reflect upon the consequences of their disobedience.
He certainly had no intention of being sidetracked by Ella’s hysterical nonsense. A barefaced lie if ever he heard one. But just in case the tale was true, he’d make sure the nuptials took place promptly, before Amos Todd could get wind of it.
As ever, there was a great deal of business in need of his attention. In addition to the family department store, Josiah owned property around the town and was involved in a number of lucrative deals and land speculation. Kendal was expanding rapidly and he intended to share in
its success. Then there was the town council, of which he was a member, with every hope of being elected as mayor in the next year or two. Later he might consider applying to become a Member of Parliament. And why not? In fact, he had his fingers in several interesting pies that would increase his wealth and standing in the community, so his patience with foolish, recalcitrant daughters was thin. Why did they persist in their obstinacy? Why were they not obedient and biddable, as girls were meant to be?
He’d been deeply displeased and disappointed when Roberta had failed to give him sons as a wife’s duty demanded, but where was the use in even having daughters if they couldn’t be married off to good purpose?
Josiah Angel was a self-made man who’d begun his working life apprenticed to a draper. It had soon become apparent to the young Josiah that other men did not appreciate the fact that although his employer’s daughter might be plain, her father was a man of means in poor health, clearly not long for this world. Josiah had made it his business to court and win the girl. In a very short space of time he’d married her and inherited the family’s draper’s shop, which he then set about successfully developing into a fine department store, using his
father-in
-law’s substantial savings, plus a few judicious loans over the years. But then Josiah was never afraid to take a gamble when there was a possible profit in sight.
Admittedly his fortune had suffered something of a beating in recent months, due to one or two ill-advised property speculations, and other, possibly unwise, commitments. But that would all be put right soon, if
he had any say in the matter. His latest project was the acquisition of a plot of land along Sedbergh Road. He intended to make a tidy sum by building several fine villas for the aspiring middle classes: the merchants and thrusting young managers of the district, assuming he could lay his hands on the necessary funds.
All it would cost him was his daughter’s hand in marriage. A small price to pay.
The project, once completed, promised to make good his losses with a sizeable profit on top, thus ensuring a substantial increase in his fortune. He could see no reason for the plan to fail, so long as he could bring Ella to heel. Which he fully intended to do. But then Josiah generally found a way to curb the excesses of female histrionics and stubbornness which seemed perpetually to blight his life.
On his return to the attic, he took with him a towel, tightly knotted and wringing wet with ice cold water.
As he entered, Ella was on her feet in an instant. ‘
No!
’ she screamed. ‘Don’t hurt her any more. It’s not true.
I lied!
I
lied
! Dadda! I’ll do it! I will, I will. It was all lies about me being with child. Let Livia go and I’ll marry this farmer, I
swear
!’
Maggie sobbed while Livia cried out in dismayed protest. Josiah offered what might pass for a smile, twisting his mouth into a grimace. Nothing about his face was symmetrical, neither side quite matching the other. Even his nose was slightly crooked and off-centre. The eyes were a dark, chilling charcoal, hooded beneath
heavy lids, one tilted slightly upwards while the other dragged down at one corner. His mouth, more often than not, was clenched in a firm tight line, the chin jutting strong and square, evidence of Josiah Angel’s iron resolve to bend the world to his will.
‘I am mightily relieved to hear it, and thankful you’ve come to your senses at last, Ella. You could have saved your dear sister a great deal of suffering if you hadn’t proved so stubborn. Clearly you are in dire need of a husband to control this wilfulness you’ve displayed of late, this emotional instability. A man of maturity and sobriety will steady you. Amos Todd, I believe, is perfectly suited to the task.’
Ella stared at her father, mute, drained of any further protest.