Page 113 of The Summer Country

“Would you like to stay the night at Peverills?” Jenny frowned at Charles over Mary Anne’s shoulder. He wasn’t meant to know of the fights between Mary Anne and Robert; she had told him in confidence. Charles checked himself, adding quickly, “Robert’s not pleasant when he’s in a temper. I’d hate to see you suffer for my thoughtlessness.”

“He’ll be less pleasant if I’m seen to be spending the night here. Unless you mean to keep Mrs. Boland as chaperone? No. I’m not afraid of Robert.” Mary Anne’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve a strong lock on my door.”

But Robert was already there when they got back, sitting on the chair beside Mary Anne’s bed, a half-empty decanter beside him.

“If it isn’t my beloved wife,” he said, lifting the decanter.

“Mistress.” Jenny tugged on her dress. “Come away.”

“What in the devil were you thinking?” demanded Mary Anne, advancing into the room, ignoring Jenny’s entreaties. “Insulting Mrs. Boland! In front of the Pooles! Do you want to be shunned by every sugar trader from Bridgetown to Bristol?”

“You want to talk to me about being shunned?”

In a sudden, violent movement, Robert lurched to his feet, flinging the glass decanter so that it exploded against the wall behind Mary Anne’s head. Crimson trails of claret trickled down the pale-papered wall like blood. Jenny put her hand to her arm and realized she was bleeding, a shallow, stinging cut where a shard had grazed her.

Robert advanced on Mary Anne, glass crunching beneath his boots. “Talk to me about a wife who locks her door.”

A sharp wail rose from the next room, Neddy roused from sleep, angry and frightened.

“Shut that brat up,” said Robert. As Jenny paused, caught between her mistress’s need and the baby, he shouted, “Go, damn you! Who’s master here?”

Mary Anne nodded to her, and Jenny ran to Neddy, whose wails had doubled in volume as he discovered that he was wet as well as awake, and it was dark and people were shouting, and no one was picking him up even though he was calling and calling.

As Jenny hastily jiggled him, she heard behind her, through the open door, “Is he mine, Mary Anne? Or is he my brother’s? Have you been sneaking off to Peverills behind my back?”

“Oh Lord,” snapped Mary Anne. “Not that again. If you had any brains that weren’t in your cock, you’d know better.”

“You want me to show you my cock?”

There was the sound of a chair overturning, cloth ripping, grappling, muffled cries.

“—my wife,” Robert grunted, and then grunted in pain rather than pleasure as Mary Anne landed a knee between his legs. Jenny could hear him scrabbling, cursing, crying out as he landed in some broken glass, and then Mary Anne’s cry of distress as he grabbed her, forcing her back against the wall. “—show you—”

Jenny clutched Neddy, trying to decide what to do. To come to her mistress’s aid would be an offense punishable by death.

She could hear a thump as her master pushed her mistress back against the wall. Mary Anne didn’t cry or cry out; Jenny heard her sobbing pant, her master’s noises of satisfaction, and then a loud and horrible cracking noise, followed by something heavy tumbling to the ground.

There was silence.

Neddy let out an exploratory series of grunts and grumbles. Jenny clutched him to her chest and hurried into the bedroom.

Mary Anne was holding her mahogany writing box in both hands, lifted above her head. Her hair was down around her back, half in her pins, half out. There was a bruise on one cheek, another on her collarbone where her dress had been torn away. One cameo earing still dangled from her ear; the other had fallen on the carpet, lying next to a limp male hand.

Robert lay sprawled on the floor, his pantaloons undone, his shirt billowing around him, his blue eyes as glossy and still as the glass of the decanter. Blood seeped beneath his head, unfurling like crimson cloth.

“He’s dead.” Jenny pressed Neddy’s head close to her chest, ignoring his mumfle of protest. “He’s dead.”

Slowly, Mary Anne lowered her arms, setting the writing box down carefully in its spot on her escritoire.

“Get Dr. MacAndrews,” she said. “My husband’s had an accident. Did you hear me? He’s had an accident.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

Bridgetown, Barbados

May 1854

“Forgive our disarray. My wife and daughters have left for the country and I am to join them in a matter of hours.”