By the time Richard returned the abbey bells had rung eleven and the streets outside were quiet; Rachel’s anger was cold and hard, unlike anything she had felt before, and underneath it was a bud of fear that threatened to bloom – the fear that wherever her treasure had gone, it might not be retrievable. It made her incautious; she didn’t notice that Richard was frowning even as he came into the room, face flushed, skin clammy in spite of the cold outside. She didn’t notice that his shirt had been pulled loose from his belt, that his knuckles were grazed and crimson. She rose to her feet and met him with a tumble of tight words.
‘Where is it? My trinket box?’
‘Your what?’ said Richard, but the guilty cast his frown took told her the truth.
‘It was my mother’s. If you’ve sold it you must get it back.’
‘Leave me be, can’t you? I have had a trying time of it this evening.’
‘I daresay you have. It must be a trying business, staying out so late all the time, and drinking so much. Where is it? You had no right to-’
‘I had no right? You are my wife, Rachel. Or had you forgotten? Everything you once owned belongs to me.’
‘That box was precious to me! It was my mother’s before it was mine! You knew how much it meant to me.’
‘It was just a thing, Rachel! An object that served little purpose in itself, but which has paid a number of bills.’
‘Your bills, not mine! Your debts from the gaming tables, I don’t doubt.’
‘Mind your tongue, Rachel. I won’t be wedded to a shrew, and I won’t be spoken to like that in my own house. Or out of it. Not by you, or anyone.’ Richard’s face darkened still. A vein ran up the middle of his forehead, cast into relief by the lamplight; it spoke of something building up inside.
‘What did you do with what was inside?’ Rachel was shaking with fury; her mouth was dry.
‘There was nothing inside – naught but a scrap of paper, and those earrings, which fetched a little extra.’
‘A little extra? They were worth a great deal, you stupid man! And the lock of hair? Please tell me you kept that. Please.’
Rachel shut her eyes to await his answer – she couldn’t bear to see it writ large across his face. So she didn’t see his fist before it hit her, slamming into her mouth and jaw. She sat down abruptly, put her hands to her face in shock. There was a moment of ringing numbness and then pain bloomed through her head, squeezing like a giant fist until she thought it might crack the bone. There was blood on her fingers when she brought them away, blood in her teeth and on her tongue; a metal taste of iron and salt.
She looked up at the sound of footsteps. Richard loomed over her. She thought he would put out his hand to help her up, but he did not.
‘Never speak to me that way,’ he said, in a voice she barely recognised. He was shaking now – a tremor of barely held violence. His fingers twitched, and Rachel waited for a second blow. It did not come. Richard turned away from her, fetched a handkerchief from the drawer and tossed it at her. The blood from her lip left scarlet kisses on the linen. She had never felt more alone.
Unsteadily, Rachel got to her feet.
‘If you insult me again, I will…’ Richard trailed off, glancing at her, and she saw his tension begin to ebb away, and shame come to fill its shoes.
‘You’ll what?’ she said. Beat me harder, like you beat Starling? A wave of misery crashed over her, because she realised she wasn’t surprised that it had come to this, nor so soon. She was not surprised that Richard had hit her. And he will hit me again, that is a certainty. She felt utterly defeated.
‘You are my wife. You must show me the proper respect, Rachel! It’s not my wish that things be this way between us.’
‘Respect cannot be beaten into a person.’
‘I disagree, and I pray you do not make me prove it,’ he said coldly. Rachel shivered, a sudden clench of fear twisting her inside.
‘There was a lock of hair in the box. Pinned to the lining. A lock of my mother’s hair, and the last piece of my family in my possession. Is it gone then, with the rest?’
‘I saw nothing inside but the earrings.’ At this, Rachel did begin to cry. The tears were hot and blinding. ‘Such keepsakes are worthless, in truth,’ Richard said gruffly.
‘It was not worthless to me!’
‘If you were a better wife, a warmer one, and more loving, I would not be gone as much. If you had widened our circle, as you were supposed to, I would not need to pay as much for my entertainment. Instead the only friends you make are madmen, or existing acquaintances of mine who can afford but a single bottle of sherry come Christmas!’
‘So this is my fault? My fault you are dissolute and drunk, and fritter away your money at the tables?’
‘Yes!’ Richard’s sudden bellow was shocking. Rachel felt a dribble of blood ooze onto her chin. ‘Come now and make amends. Come and be my wife.’ He held out his hand to her, turning to the bed.
I will die before I let him take me tonight. Rachel stepped towards him, closer to the light. She left the blood on her chin, and let her mouth open to show her bloodied teeth. She could feel her bottom lip swelling, the cut stinging like a burn. She stared at him, steady and cold as the grave, and did not take his hand. After a moment, Richard dropped his hand and turned away, as if he couldn’t stand the sight of her.
Alice would never have left me to Lord Faukes. But of course, Alice hadn’t known what that man was like – her ostensibly kindly benefactor. He will have things his own way. Starling wondered, as she rose from her cold and sleepless bed the next morning, if Bridget had known when she gave Alice that warning just how right she was; how vile and corrupt a man Lord Faukes had been, whom Alice treated like a grandfather, and kissed and embraced whenever he came to call. Aged twelve, Starling had come to think of him as like a fruit gone bad, still keeping a glossy thick rind to give the appearance of wholesomeness, when inside the flesh was a rotten pulp, riddled with worms, eaten away by decay. The thought of it made vomit burn in the back of her throat. Never was a man less deserving of Alice’s kisses. And Rachel Weekes asks me what did I mean by it. She hears things all too clearly. Starling remembered all the times Bridget had bade her keep out of Lord Faukes’s way, all the times she’d sent her hurrying from the room on some errand when the old man had tried to talk to her, or take her hand, or give her some titbit. She remembered the way Bridget had hovered and stared when Alice embraced the old man; poised, watching, fighting the urge to pull Alice away. She knew. But if she thinks Alice was Lord Faukes’s child, what danger could she have imagined her to be in from him? Starling decided not to think about it; not to think about Lord Faukes. She even shut her eyes to banish the images, but her memories spun on nonetheless. She stumbled on the stairs; grabbed at the wall for support.
Nine days after Alice had last been seen, Lord Faukes came to the house in Bathampton and Starling found out just how completely her world had ended. The atmosphere inside the house was unbearable, like a breath held so long that it threatened to burst. Bridget was silent and as grim as the grave; already in mourning, already shut off from the world – from Starling, who was still waiting in mounting terror and confusion for Alice to walk back through the door. For she had to, surely; she had to. When they heard the sound of a horse approaching, both knew it would be news. Starling ran into the yard, so overwrought with relief she thought she might scream. She thought it was Alice returned, and when she saw that it was Lord Faukes she thought he must have brought word of her; news of when she would be coming back. Bridget stayed seated at the kitchen table, only lifting up her face to show the new, deep lines criss-crossing her skin, as though grief was a whip that lashed at her.