River of Destiny (17 page)

‘Oh, Susan.’

‘He came in last night, Molly, and he reeked of her. She had been all over him.’ The tears were streaming down her face again. ‘With her silks and her satins and her perfumes.’

‘Did she admit it?’

‘No, of course she didn’t. She said she wouldn’t let a common farrier touch her.’

‘Oh, Susan,’ Molly repeated.

‘What you said, about her maybe being pregnant. Was that true?’

Molly shook her head. ‘I don’t know. I reckon she would be more careful if she was.’

‘Unless it’s not the squire’s and she wants to lose it.’

Molly looked shocked.

‘How did you know I’d been talking to Lady Emily?’ Susan said at last. She rubbed her face miserably.

‘Half the house were listening. Mrs Field and Beaton, and William, who’s been acting as Mr Henry’s valet.’

‘Will he tell Mr Henry?’

Molly considered for a moment. ‘I don’t think so. But you never can tell, can you? Oh, Susan. What possessed you?’

‘He’s my husband, Molly.’

‘But he’d never –’ There was a long silence.

Susan turned away and stared across the fields. ‘He’d never what? Kiss her? Betray me? Fall in love with her?’

‘He’d never do that, Sue. He might kiss; he might do more if she asked him.’ Molly looked distraught, but she ploughed on. ‘But fall in love? No. He adores you.’

Susan was still standing with her back to her sister. ‘He went out last night, after I accused him, and he didn’t come back. John the cowman said Dan didn’t feed the mare last night, nor this morning. He had to do it himself.’

‘He’ll come back, Sue. You know he will.’

Susan shook her head. ‘I’ve chased him away. I was a shrew.’

‘With reason.’ Molly went over and put her arm round Susan’s shoulders. ‘It’ll be all right, my love, I promise. Look how proud he is about the baby.’

Both women turned as below them on the driveway a smart gig trotted past. Just for a second Susan caught sight of the woman at the reins. It was Lady Emily and once again she was alone without a footman or a groom.

The room was dark and filled with the sound of the storm. Lord Egbert lay propped up on his pillows staring intently at the flickering light of the torch in its bracket in the corner. His wife had come in and she had sat with him for a while, holding his hand. Her fingers were warm and soft and soothing. Then she had asked again if he would like to see Father Wulfric and he had shaken his head and summoned the strength to roar at her to go. His eyes were not so dim that he did not see her tears. He ignored them. Now was not the time for sentiment. Now he was preparing to meet his gods. The pattern of his life was run and the Wyrd sisters were waiting for his spirit. The old one from the forest had been two nights before under cover of darkness to make rune magic to guard the walls of the room and bless the exits with sacred herbs. All was ready save one thing. The sword.

The wind blew suddenly harder, whistling in the cracks in the walls and lifting the hangings on their black forged hooks. He shivered. He was cold all the time now, in spite of the great roaring fire with its glittering sparks and the warm furs on his bed. The spirits were coming closer. He could sense them.

Zoë was sitting at the kitchen table, an untouched glass of wine before her as Ken walked in at last.

‘There was dirt in the diesel so I had to change the fuel filter and bleed the injector lines,’ he said, walking over to the sink and reaching for the Swarfega. She could smell the oil on him – and sweat. ‘She’s going as smoothly as a baby’s pram now.’

She frowned, wondering idly why he should use such a strange simile.

‘Do you want to go for a spin in the morning to try her? No sails.’ It had finally dawned on him that sailing in the river made her nervous.

‘Does it never occur to you, Ken, to ask me where I’ve been and what I’ve been doing?’ She didn’t even bother to look at him.

He went on washing his hands, meticulously massaging the oily soapy mess up and down each finger. ‘So, where have you been?’ he asked after a minute.

‘I had a job interview in Ipswich this afternoon.’

His hands were motionless for a moment under the running water. ‘And?’

‘And they said no.’

‘That’s a shame.’ He reached for a tea towel.

‘Can you please not use those, Ken!’ she snapped. ‘They are meant for dishes.’

‘Sorry.’ He looked round for a hand towel, couldn’t see one, stood still, defeated for a moment, and then shook the water all over the floor. ‘You didn’t tell me you had an interview. So of course we couldn’t have gone sailing.’ He hesitated. ‘You will get something,’ he said after a minute. ‘No hurry. It’s not as though we need the money.’

‘No, we don’t need the money,’ she said with exaggerated patience, ignoring the spatter of water drops on the floor tiles. ‘But I need the job. I am going insane in this house with nothing to do.’

There was a long awkward silence.

‘You need a hobby, love. I told you –’ he said at last.

‘I don’t want a hobby! I loved my job! I was good at it. They wanted me to stay. I wanted to stay!’ It was a cry of real anguish.

He looked away uncomfortably and turned towards the door. ‘You never said,’ he said helplessly. ‘But there is still loads to do in the house. Decorating it and buying furniture. You said you would enjoy that,’ he added over his shoulder. Then he shook his head. ‘Sorry,’ he repeated. He disappeared, leaving her helpless with fury. He would go into his office now, and he would work probably into the early hours. If she took him something – coffee, a sandwich – he would grunt his thanks, barely noticing, his eyes riveted to the screens in front of him, and she would retreat to the huge living room to sit in front of the TV or read or listen to music or wait, her eyes on the shadows between the beams, for the noises to begin.

Ken walked thoughtfully through to his office and sat down in front of his desk. There were times when Zoë was a complete mystery to him. He had given her everything she could possibly want: a glorious house, beautiful countryside, a yacht, for goodness’ sake, but she still wasn’t happy. He sighed. Perhaps he could help her to find a job if she was so bored. He stood up and went over to the window, staring past his reflection out into the darkness. If he confronted the facts he was probably a bit bored himself. He missed certain aspects of their previous life more than he had expected.

Part of the reason he had decided that a move out of London was expedient was his relationship with Anya Craig-Watkins. What had started as an amusing dalliance, the latest of quite a few, if he were honest, which Zoë, thank God, had never discovered, had threatened to become too intense. Anya had started asking when he planned to get a divorce and talking about moving in together; when instinctively he backed away he had the feeling she was going to turn nasty. Which, all said and done, surprised him. He usually judged his women better than that. He enjoyed the game, the hunt, the hide and seek, the cheating on the husband and the risk always there that Zoë might find out. But it was just that, a game. In his own way he loved Zoë. She was part of his life, and his life-style. He was not about to let Anya ruin the life plan he had so painstakingly put in place.

It was only when she heard the tap of the hammer from the forge that Susan realised Dan had come back. She stood at the door of the cottage and watched the smoke rising from the chimney. There were no horses in the yard. He must be making something for the estate. There was always a pile of things needing to be done. Gate hinges, pump handles, tools, nails, ploughshares. There were two tubs of old rivets standing by the door. The kids picked them out of the soil up Sutton way. The rivets came from the planking of old ships buried beneath the earth, the old men of the village said, which seemed more than a bit odd to her, but Dan bought them for pennies. Melted down they made good horseshoes. For a long time she stood without moving, listening to his hammer, then at last she reached for her shawl and made her way across to the doorway and looked in. He was standing with his back to her, hammer in hand, a piece of metal on the anvil. She couldn’t see what it was. Ben was at the bellows by the fire. The forge was very hot. She waited a few moments, then as Dan paused and adjusted the position of the piece of iron she called his name. He started hammering again without looking up. ‘Dan?’ she repeated, louder.

He threw down the hammer and turned to face her. His face was drawn and there were streaks from the charcoal across his forehead. He was wearing his shoeing apron over his trousers and his shirtsleeves were rolled up to the elbow. He said nothing, staring at her.

‘I’m sorry, Dan,’ she said.

‘So am I.’

‘I know you wouldn’t –’ She groped for a word and gave up looking for it. ‘We must hold together, Dan.’ She could feel the tears welling up in her eyes and she sniffed, angry with herself. ‘Whatever happens, we must hold together,’ she repeated. Biting her lip she turned away and retraced her steps towards the cottage. She didn’t turn back to see his face but seconds later she heard the sound of the hammer again.

Later she took him down some lunch. Bread and cheese and a pasty wrapped in a fresh cloth, and a jug of her special cider. The forge was empty. She put it down on the work table and left it for him.

Hesitating as she crossed the yard, she turned and walked towards the big old barn. The great doors hung open and there was no sign of any of the farm workers. John the cowman was probably out in the fields with the milkmaids; George, the head horseman, and Robert and Jem were working with the horses down at the far end of the estate, clearing a fallen oak which had come down across the fence and smashed a water trough. There would be plenty of logs there to bring in; they would be occupied for several days more, she reckoned. She walked into the huge dark space and looked round, smelling the warm stacked hay, the sacks of flour, back from the mill, one of the wagons and a tumbril pulled over into a corner. Up in the high rafters an owl peered down at her from the shadows and from the far side of the threshing floor she heard the gentle whicker of a horse. She made her way over to the stall where Bella stood patiently, favouring her foreleg, her warm brown eyes curious to see who had walked into the barn. ‘How are you, my lovely?’ Susan stroked her neck. ‘Haven’t you eaten, then?’ There was still chaff in her manger. ‘You poor creature. Dan reckons she did this to you on purpose. How could she, the witch!’

She cupped her hand round the velvet nose and petted the horse for several minutes, then slowly she turned away and walked back to the house. She should be in the dairy. She didn’t know what to do. Had Lady Emily spoken to Mr Turtill, the farm manager? Had she meant it when she threatened Susan with dismissal? Dan had said nothing. Did he know of her impetuous visit to the Hall and what had happened there? If he didn’t he must be the only person on the farm not to. With a sigh she reached for her clean apron, tied it round her ever-expanding middle and turned towards the dairy. Betsy would be in there already, cursing her for being late. Betsy would know what had happened and if anyone had spoken to Fred Turtill. Betsy always knew everything that went on round the farm, just as Molly knew what happened up at the Hall.