Read Online Scarlet Widow by Graham Masterton - Free Book Online
Authors: Graham Masterton
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thin, and the Reverend Bute had a fish bone in his soup which almost choked him.’
Elizabeth said nothing, but banged down her iron pot.
‘Goodnight, cousin Sarah,’ said Beatrice. ‘And thank you.’
Cousin Sarah gave her a thin, self-satisfied smile, as if Beatrice had complimented her for her saintliness, and then left them to finish clearing up. It was past nine o’clock now and Beatrice was feeling deeply weary. Three days of being jostled in a coach, jammed in with five other people, had made her ache all over, especially her back.
‘You go on oop now, Burt-triss,’ said Agnes, as Beatrice started to dry the soup tureen. ‘Me and Elizabeth can finish the rest. Look at you, girl, you’re worn ragged.’
Agnes gave her a lighted candle and Beatrice tiredly climbed the stairs to her bedroom. She paused on the first landing and listened. From Roderick’s room came harsh, irregular snoring, but on the other side she heard cousin Sarah’s voice, speaking very low and very fast, as if she were giving instructions to somebody in a hurry.
Beatrice tiptoed over to cousin Sarah’s door and leaned close to it in an effort to make out what she was saying. All she heard, though, was, ‘... name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, amen .’ This was followed by the creaking sound of cousin Sarah climbing into bed.
Beatrice went up to her own room. When she opened the door she found that it was so cold in there that she could see her breath, and so dark outside that she could see her reflection in the blackness of the window, a pale ghost staring in at her. She didn’t undress before she got into bed, although she pulled off her mob cap and unbuckled her shoes and loosened the strings of her corset. She buried herself in the patchwork quilt and lay there, huddled up, shivering, too cold even to cry. The flannelette sheets were rough and damp, as if they hadn’t been dried properly after washing.
For a while she could still hear clattering echoes from the kitchen downstairs, but after twenty minutes or so the house became silent and she fell asleep.
*
She dreamed that she was back in the corner of the chaise as it jolted and bumped its way towards Banbury. She was almost overwhelmed by the huge hooped gown of the woman sitting next to her, and the bony knees of the man sitting opposite kept jabbing into hers. Outside, the landscape was beginning to grow dark and a few large flakes of snow were tumbling down. In the distance she could see leafless elm trees, with inky crows perched in them.
The woman turned to her and it was Molly, from The Fortune of War. She winked at Beatrice and said, ‘You’ve fallen off the roof, my darling. Fallen off the roof.’
The next moment there was a juddering crash and her bedroom was suddenly filled with light and dancing shadows. She twisted around in her quilt and sat up in bed, her heart beating hard. For a few seconds, she couldn’t work out if she was still dreaming or if this was real.
Standing in her bedroom doorway, holding a long candle in his hand, was a wild-looking man, completely naked. His hair was as bouffant and grey as a dandelion-clock, and his eyes were glittering and deep-set under his forehead. He was bony and emaciated, except for his stomach, which was so swollen that his navel protruded. He was leaning forward and grasping his erect penis tightly, as if he were afraid that if he let go of it he would lose his balance and fall over.
‘Well! Well! The Lord and all of his seraphic host be praised!’ he exclaimed, his eyebrows rising and falling suggestively with every word. ‘My dearest Sarah told me that we would be having a young girl for a house-guest! But she didn’t tell me how comely you would be!’
He took one staggering step towards her, and then another.
‘Throw back your coverlet, my dear, and let a frozen fellow feel the warmth of your bed and your body!’
Beatrice shrank away from him, pulling her quilt up to her
Elizabeth said nothing, but banged down her iron pot.
‘Goodnight, cousin Sarah,’ said Beatrice. ‘And thank you.’
Cousin Sarah gave her a thin, self-satisfied smile, as if Beatrice had complimented her for her saintliness, and then left them to finish clearing up. It was past nine o’clock now and Beatrice was feeling deeply weary. Three days of being jostled in a coach, jammed in with five other people, had made her ache all over, especially her back.
‘You go on oop now, Burt-triss,’ said Agnes, as Beatrice started to dry the soup tureen. ‘Me and Elizabeth can finish the rest. Look at you, girl, you’re worn ragged.’
Agnes gave her a lighted candle and Beatrice tiredly climbed the stairs to her bedroom. She paused on the first landing and listened. From Roderick’s room came harsh, irregular snoring, but on the other side she heard cousin Sarah’s voice, speaking very low and very fast, as if she were giving instructions to somebody in a hurry.
Beatrice tiptoed over to cousin Sarah’s door and leaned close to it in an effort to make out what she was saying. All she heard, though, was, ‘... name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, amen .’ This was followed by the creaking sound of cousin Sarah climbing into bed.
Beatrice went up to her own room. When she opened the door she found that it was so cold in there that she could see her breath, and so dark outside that she could see her reflection in the blackness of the window, a pale ghost staring in at her. She didn’t undress before she got into bed, although she pulled off her mob cap and unbuckled her shoes and loosened the strings of her corset. She buried herself in the patchwork quilt and lay there, huddled up, shivering, too cold even to cry. The flannelette sheets were rough and damp, as if they hadn’t been dried properly after washing.
For a while she could still hear clattering echoes from the kitchen downstairs, but after twenty minutes or so the house became silent and she fell asleep.
*
She dreamed that she was back in the corner of the chaise as it jolted and bumped its way towards Banbury. She was almost overwhelmed by the huge hooped gown of the woman sitting next to her, and the bony knees of the man sitting opposite kept jabbing into hers. Outside, the landscape was beginning to grow dark and a few large flakes of snow were tumbling down. In the distance she could see leafless elm trees, with inky crows perched in them.
The woman turned to her and it was Molly, from The Fortune of War. She winked at Beatrice and said, ‘You’ve fallen off the roof, my darling. Fallen off the roof.’
The next moment there was a juddering crash and her bedroom was suddenly filled with light and dancing shadows. She twisted around in her quilt and sat up in bed, her heart beating hard. For a few seconds, she couldn’t work out if she was still dreaming or if this was real.
Standing in her bedroom doorway, holding a long candle in his hand, was a wild-looking man, completely naked. His hair was as bouffant and grey as a dandelion-clock, and his eyes were glittering and deep-set under his forehead. He was bony and emaciated, except for his stomach, which was so swollen that his navel protruded. He was leaning forward and grasping his erect penis tightly, as if he were afraid that if he let go of it he would lose his balance and fall over.
‘Well! Well! The Lord and all of his seraphic host be praised!’ he exclaimed, his eyebrows rising and falling suggestively with every word. ‘My dearest Sarah told me that we would be having a young girl for a house-guest! But she didn’t tell me how comely you would be!’
He took one staggering step towards her, and then another.
‘Throw back your coverlet, my dear, and let a frozen fellow feel the warmth of your bed and your body!’
Beatrice shrank away from him, pulling her quilt up to her
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