Read Online Obsession by Katherine Sutcliffe - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Katherine Sutcliffe
Ads: Link
nice talk with Paul this mornin’.”
My face froze and my cheeks flushed with discomposure. “Christ.”
“Right spirited conversation,” a diminutive woman with gray-streaked brown hair and dark, twinkling eyes declared, then giggled. “I vow they was givin’ each other a right go over. Back and forth and back and forth—”
“And she ain’t ’bout to have any of it,” a younger woman said. They all broke out in a pleasant tittering, making me wonder if they were all as tiched as Maria.
I looked from face to face—ruddy-cheeked, with sparkling eyes despite the hardship of their lives. Their expressions appeared…discomfitingly knowing, as if they could easily read my thoughts, and pitied me for them. I suddenly felt as if I were the only lunatic among them.
“She ate a right goodly amount of porridge,” Bertha informed me. “Pleasant as a babe, she were, though I got the impression it were more to please ’er brother than to pacify ’er own hunger. They was quite close, I take it.”
I nodded, my attention focused on Maria’s face. In that moment, her lunacy seemed little more than a trick of my imagination. She looked as sane as the women around her.
Yet as I moved closer, she appeared to draw away, her features to dull, the light in her eyes to diminish, until her mien became numb once again, blank and immovable, as if the sun had suddenly been absorbed by storm clouds, leaving the world—her world—gray as fog.
Bertha leaned forward and placed her hand on my shoulder. Her eyes looked deeply into mine.
“ ’Tis a woman’s touch she needs now. Give ’er time, luv. She’ll cum round when she’s good’n ready.”
As I stood, my frustration mounting, Bertha stood with me, caught my arm with a surprising fierceness, and pulled me aside. A sternness drew her face into hard planes and deep creases.
“Mind yer temper, sir,” she declared. “I can see yer a man of little patience and even less understandin’ of a woman’s sensibilities.”
She lowered her voice. “I know where she’s been, sir. Aye. ’Tis there on the inside of her arm, the asylum’s mark. They brand ’em like sheep, they do, in case they escape. Now, I ain’t gonna ask ya right off wot she were there for, but I got me own ideas. I ain’t fallen off a turnip wagon on me head lately.
“The two of ya…ya ain’t hoosband and wife, I sense that much—aye. She’s runnin’ from sumaught, and I ain’t decided yet if it’s from you or sumaught else. And I got me own ideas of why she’s gone palsied of the mind. I’ve been that close to the edge meself more than I care to remember. Leave ’er t’me, sir. For a while.”
“If anyone can bring ’er round, me own Bertha can,” came her husband’s voice, and I turned to find him smiling fondly into his wife’s eyes. His night’s labor showed in weary creases in his face; his big hands were scratched and scabbed by new blood.
He thrust a frothing pint into my hands. “The name is Thomas, by the way. Thomas Whitefield. Now cum ’long and I’ll interduce ya to the lads. They’ll be eager to make yer acquaintance.”
I SAT AMONG THE TWO DOZEN MINERS, DRINKING ale, my attention drifting between their boisterous conversation and Maria, who continued to sit with her beautiful face tipped up toward the sky, her expression one of sublimity. I hardly noticed when the talk and laughter fell to a heavy hush.
A frail woman draped in a shawl moved through the streaks of morning light to join them. One by one, the men all stood. The women’s smiles became grim, their gazes watchful and worried.
Once, she had clearly been a comely lass, with thick dark hair that had become faded by years and stress, as had her green eyes. She carried a paper fisted in her hand. She focused on Thomas, who stepped forward to meet her.
“Is it Richard, Lou?” he asked, as she stopped and raised her chin, her bottom lip quivering.
“If yer askin’ if me husband is dead yet,
My face froze and my cheeks flushed with discomposure. “Christ.”
“Right spirited conversation,” a diminutive woman with gray-streaked brown hair and dark, twinkling eyes declared, then giggled. “I vow they was givin’ each other a right go over. Back and forth and back and forth—”
“And she ain’t ’bout to have any of it,” a younger woman said. They all broke out in a pleasant tittering, making me wonder if they were all as tiched as Maria.
I looked from face to face—ruddy-cheeked, with sparkling eyes despite the hardship of their lives. Their expressions appeared…discomfitingly knowing, as if they could easily read my thoughts, and pitied me for them. I suddenly felt as if I were the only lunatic among them.
“She ate a right goodly amount of porridge,” Bertha informed me. “Pleasant as a babe, she were, though I got the impression it were more to please ’er brother than to pacify ’er own hunger. They was quite close, I take it.”
I nodded, my attention focused on Maria’s face. In that moment, her lunacy seemed little more than a trick of my imagination. She looked as sane as the women around her.
Yet as I moved closer, she appeared to draw away, her features to dull, the light in her eyes to diminish, until her mien became numb once again, blank and immovable, as if the sun had suddenly been absorbed by storm clouds, leaving the world—her world—gray as fog.
Bertha leaned forward and placed her hand on my shoulder. Her eyes looked deeply into mine.
“ ’Tis a woman’s touch she needs now. Give ’er time, luv. She’ll cum round when she’s good’n ready.”
As I stood, my frustration mounting, Bertha stood with me, caught my arm with a surprising fierceness, and pulled me aside. A sternness drew her face into hard planes and deep creases.
“Mind yer temper, sir,” she declared. “I can see yer a man of little patience and even less understandin’ of a woman’s sensibilities.”
She lowered her voice. “I know where she’s been, sir. Aye. ’Tis there on the inside of her arm, the asylum’s mark. They brand ’em like sheep, they do, in case they escape. Now, I ain’t gonna ask ya right off wot she were there for, but I got me own ideas. I ain’t fallen off a turnip wagon on me head lately.
“The two of ya…ya ain’t hoosband and wife, I sense that much—aye. She’s runnin’ from sumaught, and I ain’t decided yet if it’s from you or sumaught else. And I got me own ideas of why she’s gone palsied of the mind. I’ve been that close to the edge meself more than I care to remember. Leave ’er t’me, sir. For a while.”
“If anyone can bring ’er round, me own Bertha can,” came her husband’s voice, and I turned to find him smiling fondly into his wife’s eyes. His night’s labor showed in weary creases in his face; his big hands were scratched and scabbed by new blood.
He thrust a frothing pint into my hands. “The name is Thomas, by the way. Thomas Whitefield. Now cum ’long and I’ll interduce ya to the lads. They’ll be eager to make yer acquaintance.”
I SAT AMONG THE TWO DOZEN MINERS, DRINKING ale, my attention drifting between their boisterous conversation and Maria, who continued to sit with her beautiful face tipped up toward the sky, her expression one of sublimity. I hardly noticed when the talk and laughter fell to a heavy hush.
A frail woman draped in a shawl moved through the streaks of morning light to join them. One by one, the men all stood. The women’s smiles became grim, their gazes watchful and worried.
Once, she had clearly been a comely lass, with thick dark hair that had become faded by years and stress, as had her green eyes. She carried a paper fisted in her hand. She focused on Thomas, who stepped forward to meet her.
“Is it Richard, Lou?” he asked, as she stopped and raised her chin, her bottom lip quivering.
“If yer askin’ if me husband is dead yet,
Similar Books
