The Chilbury Ladies' Choir(87)

She lay still, and I wondered if she was well enough for this conversation. Her dazed eyes locked into mine, glassed over with thought or confusion or delirium. I couldn’t make out what she was thinking.

“I despised you at first for telling Henry, do you know that?” she said in a croaky voice. “But I came round to thinking it wasn’t so very bad. I know you didn’t intend it that way. In any case, now we know that Henry’s a vile person, a cruel, unkind man, despite how handsome he looks on the outside. You deserve better, Kitty.”

I didn’t say anything. I was just looking at her. Her face was emaciated. Her hair clung to her head and clumped around her shoulders. Even though someone had sprayed some lavender water around, it didn’t cover the smell of something bad, blood maybe. The bed was moist with tears and sweat. I had never seen her like this.

I began to cry.

The door opened, and Mrs. Tilling hurried in. “You need to get out, Kitty. Your father’s home, and he knows you’re here. He saw you walking up the drive as he pulled in.” She picked up my arm and yanked me up. “Go, leave now. He’s threatening to thrash you.”

She pushed me out of the room, and I ran as quietly as I could for the back stairs. My heart was pounding, and I was feeling incredibly flustered, all fingers and thumbs, as I went to grab the banister. As soon as I reached the bottom, I clung to the side to make sure the coast was clear. The most hazardous part of my journey lay before me—the dash across the back of the hall to the kitchen, passing the door to Daddy’s study.

I heard a movement in the study as the door stood ajar. I couldn’t see all the way into the room, but he was most definitely in there, looking through papers by the sound of the rustling. I decided that speed was of the essence, and counted silently one, two, three, and darted out across the bare marble floor. In my haste my foot slid off to the side, sending me crashing to the floor. I scrambled to get up and run forward but found myself barred by a violent and volatile man—my father.

At the sight of me, he lunged down, his maroon face in a crazed snarl. His hands grasped toward my throat as if to strangle me outright. I backed away terrified, scrambling to my feet.

“Ah, it’s the little traitor, is it?” he bellowed. “I want a word with you.” He grabbed me by the arm and hauled me into his study, where he dropped me on the floor in front of his desk. “I want to know precisely why you want to ruin our family’s name.” He strode around to the other side of the desk, picking up his horsewhip and coming back to where I was cowering, whooshing it rhythmically onto his boot, where it cracked with every step he took. Whoosh, crack. Whoosh, crack. Whoosh, crack.

“Please, no,” I muttered, terrified. Once Daddy had whipped a horse to near death—it had to be put down as a result—and frankly I didn’t reckon my chances. “Please, let me talk. Let me explain. Stop!”

But he had already started. In no particular place, and with no particular finesse, he lashed me as furiously as he could. I hunched forward so that my shoulders and back took the brunt, and I could feel the back of my dress being slashed and the sharp wince of pain when he broke through the fabric, then broke through the skin, the wet trickle of blood coursing down my back, mingling with the sweat and tears that I couldn’t hold back. I was sobbing, yelling, moaning, not knowing what to do. Every time I tried to rise, his foot would come out and boot me back down. I was completely at his mercy, and I tried to crawl toward his shoe and grip his ankle, pressing him to stop, but he shook me off, further enraged. “You worthless”—whip—“disloyal”—whip—“fickle”—whip—“miserable”—whip—“wretch.”

Then I heard another voice.

“Brigadier, what are you doing? Put that whip down at once.” At first I could hardly recognize who it was, so different was it from her usual soft enunciation. Today it rang out loud, strong, calm. A woman with power.

It was Mrs. Tilling. She was standing at the open door, her demeanor upright and poised, like a disgusted school headmistress stumbling on the pranks of a naughty boy.

“Get out, you nosy little woman,” he raged. “This has nothing to do with you.”

“I think it does,” she said crisply.

There was a pause. Daddy turned around, as did I, and saw Mrs. Tilling, the gentlest and meekest of women, carefully closing the door and taking an authoritative step forward.

“What are you talking about, woman?” Daddy bellowed, making a move toward her, the whip thwacking menacingly on his leg.

“Don’t mess with me, Brigadier,” she said sharply. “You wouldn’t want to make an enemy of someone who knows so much about you and your immoral little deal.” Her voice clipped sharply like an efficient sewing machine drilling up an old hem.

Daddy stopped in his tracks, fury over his scowling countenance.

Astonished does not convey how I felt. Never in all my life have I ever known Mrs. Tilling to stand up to anyone, let alone Daddy. Now, in my hour of need, she had found the strength—the oomph!—to walk in here and save my life. I wanted to run and throw myself into her arms with love and gratitude, and warn her that we should get ourselves out as quickly as we could!

“Don’t threaten me, Mrs. Tilling,” he spat. “You don’t know anything.” His eyes narrowed threateningly.