Page 98 of Soul

Furious, he swung at her without thinking. His fist caught the edge of her cheek with a sickening thud. Lavinia fell to the ground and cowered there, her hands over her head. The Colonel steadied himself against the wall, then, gathering his strength, pulled her up and wrenched her towards the door.

‘Do so, my dear, and I shall take the child and see you in the workhouse within the year.’

He pushed her out into the corridor, surprising both Mrs Beetle and Mr Poole who were bent over at the keyhole. The servants stepped aside as the Colonel, still clutching Lavinia by the shoulder, propelled her towards the stairs.

‘Now, out of my sight!’ He returned to his room and slammed the door.

Lavinia, stumbling from her husband’s final push, tottered for a second. Then, with a heavy thump, she fell down the first flight of stairs, her skirts flying as she bounced across the wooden steps to land heavily against the banister.

She lay there like a tossed rag doll, her neck crunched against the wall. Then, as consciousness returned to her limbs, a dull throbbing started above her temples and beat its way down to her left shoulder. She opened her eyes, her cheek already a puckered mauve swelling, blood from her nose streaming onto the patterned carpet. Transfixed, the servants watched from above. Upon seeing that she could move unassisted, they slunk away to their tasks.

Slowly, Lavinia picked herself up, feeling for broken bones. Holding a handful of her skirt up to her bleeding nose, she hobbled down to the ground floor. Through her undamaged eye she saw the housemaids pause in horror, then turn away, embarrassed.

Limping, Lavinia arrived at the door of the kitchen, where the cook, busy preparing a goose, paused with a handful of stuffing in one hand. Her mouth dropped open in shock.

‘Oh, you poor young thing!’ She rushed to press a napkin to Lavinia’s face. ‘Should I call for a doctor?’ she whispered, feeling the violent trembling of the young wife’s body in her arms.

‘That will not be necessary.’ Mrs Beetle, lips pursued in disapproval, stood at the door. ‘Madam can attend to herself, Mrs Jobling. Now, if you could continue with the preparations for this evening’s supper.’

Shoulders rigid with anger, the cook pressed the napkin into Lavinia’s hand then returned to the bench. Lavinia swung around to face the housekeeper.

‘Where is Daisy, my maid?’

‘It is her evening off.’

‘You are a callous woman, Mrs Beetle.’

Affronted, the housekeeper straightened her shoulders, a parody of outraged authority.

‘I shall wait upon the master’s instructions and his instructions only. Until then, Mrs Huntington, I believe you will be able to attend to yourself.’

Outside, the autumnal air cooled Lavinia’s swelling cheek. Aloysius was standing with his back to her, brushing down one of the horses. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows and his arms were muscled and thickly veined, the limbs of a working man. The horse’s black coat glistened and it stood patiently, eyes half-shut in bliss, until it sensed t

he Irishwoman’s presence. Its nostrils flaring as it smelled her blood and fear, it whinnied, tossing its head. Aloysius turned.

‘Bejesus, I’ll kill him.’

It was only then, as her composure fragmented, that Lavinia broke into sobbing.

He sat her down atop a rickety wooden stool and sponged the blood away from her eye as gently as he could, but the cut was deep and he feared her nose was broken. A pool of pinkish stained water lay in the enamel bowl perched on a bag of oats.

‘You must leave him,’ he said.

‘And go where? My father will not have me, I have already written…’

Her high lace collar was sprayed with blood, and some of her hair had been pulled away from her scalp.

‘I have no inheritance of my own,’ she went on. ‘Besides, my father could not suffer the disgrace. There is one place I could go, but it would be little better than the workhouse.’

The smell of hay seeped up through the floorboards and light filtered in from the attic window, which Aloysius had propped open with a piece of wood. There were four iron beds in the room, lined up in military fashion. A handmade rack along one wall held the coachmen’s riding coats. Nearby, a small poppet made from rags peeped out from under a horsehair blanket; it belonged to the youngest stable boy who was only nine.

‘If he were not a gentleman and my employer, I would kill him, God help my sinful thoughts.’

He stood before her, the desire to stroke her hair, to pull her towards him and protect her, paralysing him. He did not trust himself even to take the stained cloth from her hands.

She held it out to him, and as he reached for it their hands touched. The wanting shot through both of them, the knowing of it bolting their bodies to the floor. Lavinia caressed his thumb, his forefinger, his index finger—the wonder of his rough and callused skin catching in her throat.

They stood like that for a good while, framed by the barn window, all the lovemaking that was possible contained in just the touch of their fingers, tip to tip.

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