The Guardian of Secrets and Her Deathly Pact Page 7

  “Well, this calls for a drink,” Joseph said, rising to his feet. “That’s if there’s nothing else, Mr Ayres.”

  Simon looked at Celia and Marie and cleared his throat, making it clear that this was the part he had been dreading. “Yes, actually, Joseph, there is more, much more. Would you sit back down, please? I haven’t finished.”

  Joseph sat down again with the smile still planted on his face, hiding his impatience. “You see, Joseph,” Simon said, “there are some conditions attached to this request. It is a request. You do understand that?”

  Joseph lost his smile. “Not really,” he said.

  “Don’t worry. I will go through it slowly for you. The first condition is that should you divorce Celia, you will have no further claim on the farm and you will be asked to leave the estate immediately. In this case, Celia will become the trustee in your place. Also, you will not be allowed to sell the farm. It must be passed on to your firstborn when he or she reaches the age of eighteen, or once again, to your wife, should you meet a premature death, have no children, or divorce. All accounts must be monitored by my office, and your personal wealth must be independently managed by yourself and should not involve funds pertaining to Merrill Farm.”

  “What do you mean? What personal wealth are you talking about?” Joseph asked, Clearly becoming alarmed at all the legalities being thrown at him.

  “It’s very simple, Joseph. Should you require a loan from the bank or be in debt in any way, such loans or debts will not be taken against or incurred by the Merrill Farm estate.”

  Joseph slumped into the chair, and disbelief crossed his face. Simon Ayres poured himself a glass of water, demonstrating that there was more to come. Joseph stared stupidly around the table, first at Celia, who refused to look at him, and then at Marie.

  “What the hell does all this mean?” he demanded again. “What are you gibbering on about: my wealth independent from the farm, divorce, and children? Surely if the farm is mine, and you did say it was mine, then I should be able to do anything I bloody well want with it – run it as I see fit or even sell it if I want to. Not that I’d ever do that, mind you, but the farm is mine now, isn’t it, Mr Ayres?”

  “No, Joseph, it is not,” Simon said at length. “I don’t think you have understood the implications of the request set down in the will. You see, you will never own Merrill Farm. It was never the intention of the late Peter Merrill to leave it to you; you have merely been nominated as a trustee of his estate. The deeds will remain in trust until, as was stated, your first male child reaches eighteen years of age... if he has siblings he would be obliged under the terms of the will to provide for them, of course. If you divorce your wife, or you die, the deeds would then be passed to Celia. If you and Celia do not produce an heir, male or female, and if both of you pass away, the estate will be declared as, an open sale at auction and the proceeds will go to the local charities specified in this will and testament... Do you want me to go over it all again?”

  At first, Joseph could only shake his head, but as the ramifications became clearer, his anger grew. “The fucking double-crossing dirty bastard,” he mumbled beneath his breath.

  The room was filled with an uncomfortable silence. Celia and Marie kept their eyes averted, both of them staring at their hands, which lay on their laps in tight fists.

  “I’m sorry, Joseph?” Simon Ayres said as a question. “I didn’t quite catch that. Did you want to ask me something else?”

  “No, there’s nothing else I want to ask you. Everything is fine. It’s all very clear. Now, are we done?”

  “Yes, of course. I’m sorry. I know it’s been a long day, and I’m sure that you and Celia must want to be alone. But if I could detain you for a few minutes more …?”

  “What now? Are you going to tell me how to run the farm? How many cows I can buy and sell. Maybe you’re a bloody expert in farming as well as the law, eh?”

  Simon Ayres tried rather unsuccessfully to hide his disdain. “No, I’m not an expert in farming methods,” he said softly. “But as you so rightly said, I am when it comes to the law. You have some documents to sign before this becomes legally binding, and I must reiterate that you need to adhere to the stipulations. I have to ask you therefore to sign your acknowledgement and acceptance of the conditions set down in this document; otherwise, the trusteeship will be invalid. It’s just a formality, you understand.”

  Celia watched Joseph grab the pen from Simon Ayres. Joseph was clearly embarrassed by his outburst. His mask had been peeled off for just a moment, but in that moment, his true character had been revealed. He had lost control and was desperately trying to get it back. She wondered if the others had noticed? He had tricked her for months but she had been besotted by him. She had seen a man in love before they wed. He was either a great actor or love truly had been blind, in her case.

  As though reading Celia’s thoughts, Joseph began to gush after signing the first document. “I was very fond of Peter, you know. He was like a father to me. I just got a bit mixed up, that’s all. I’m upset like everyone else. Please forgive me, Mr Ayres,” he said whilst glancing slyly at Celia and Marie.

  Marie Osborne and Mr Ayres left shortly after a cold dinner of leftovers, promising to come back the following weekend. Celia served Joseph a glass of wine, but no words were spoken, no looks exchanged. Afterwards, Joseph went to the pub, just as he had every night since her father’s death, leaving Celia to wash the dishes and mull over the events of the day. She could still remember every detail and every word at the will reading and was, until now, visibly shaken at the outcome. So Joseph didn’t own the farm as he had boasted he would the night her father died, and he could never sell it; that was one blessing, she thought. But whether her husband owned the farm or not, the options her father had put in front of her were, to all intent and purposes, no options at all. Joseph would never divorce her, and she couldn’t divorce him without all sorts of legal problems arising. She doubted she’d ever have a child by him; she would kill herself rather than have him touch her again. She began to shudder, and her head thumped like a hammer at the very thought of it.

  She took a sip of water and admitted that the outcome of the will had not been beneficial to her situation at all, for she now had the added worry that Joseph might beat her with impunity. She had no Mrs Baxter anymore … and therefore no protection whatsoever. She covered her face with her hands and then led them to her aching skull. She had brought this on herself, but her path was clear and her determination was strong and solid. She would destroy Joseph, prove that he was the person responsible for ending her father’s life, and then she’d watch him hang. Nothing else mattered now.

  Joseph returned just as Celia was about to go to bed. As she turned her head at the sound of his footsteps, she waited for the verbal abuse that she had come to expect from him. Instead, he walked past her and mumbled her name.

  Celia followed him into the parlour: The small matter of Mrs Baxter’s dismissal had to be addressed. They faced each other at opposite ends of the table like two enemy commanders negotiating a truce. Celia took a deep breath and began.

  “Joseph …”

  “Celia, if you’re going to mention Mrs Baxter, don’t bother. She’s not coming back.”

  “But why not? I don’t understand. Why can’t she come back?”

  “Because we don’t need her, that’s why not. There’re only the two of us now, and I’m not going to treat you like a fucking princess the way your father did. You’ve been spoiled rotten, but there will be no more of that. You’re a farmer’s wife now, so it’s high time you learned how to be one.”

  “Joseph, please listen!”

  “No, I won’t listen. She’s not coming back, and that’s the end of it! The old cow gets on my nerves. She a bossy old bag, a gossip, and a bad influence on you. I don’t want you picking up her habits, and I don’t want her running round the village telling folk about what we do in the privacy of our own home. You’ll not ask me
again, right?”

  Celia nodded but said nothing.

  “Good, then that’s settled. You’ll do the cooking and cleaning yourself. You will wash my clothes and have the fire lit for me when I come home, and there will be no complaining about it, because I’m not going to work my arse off just so you can laze about all day. And another thing: there’s nothing I hate more than seeing your face when I’m eating my dinner so stay out of my way. Just give me my food and leave me in peace. Is that clear, or are you so thick that you want me to go over it all again?”

  Celia shook her head without making a sound, knowing that he wouldn’t notice even if she objected to his demands.

  Joseph continued. “I’ll be moving into your father’s rooms. I don’t fancy you, and I don’t want you lying next to me. I’ll find what I want elsewhere. I’ll also come and go as I please, so don’t ever ask me where I’ve been or where I’m going. And, Celia, apart from what I give you, you’ll not ask me about anything to do with money. I run this estate, remember, not you.”

  “Yes, Joseph.”

  “And forget about what happened between us the night your father died – I have. You pushed me too far; you know you did. You asked for it and you got it, so there’s no need to talk about it again. It’s over. You didn’t tell anyone, did you?”

  “No, Joseph.”

  “No, thought not. You’re stupid but not that stupid. At least you understand that as my wife, you do not under any circumstances talk to anyone about what happens in this house. What goes on here stays here. Our marriage is a private affair, nobody’s business but our own. You just remember those vows you took: love, honour, and obey, especially obey.”

  She nodded. Joseph took a slug of whisky straight from the bottle and banged it down on the table. “And don’t even think about leaving me, Celia, or asking for a divorce. I’ll never give you one. Till death us do part; remember that the next time you rile me.”

  Celia’s nails dug so deeply into the palm of her hands that she was sure they would bleed. He was walking all over her, trampling her into the ground. Her head spun with orders and threats, but with those thoughts came defiance and anger.

  “Joseph!” she blurted out just as he stood up. “Do you really hate me that much? Couldn’t you at least try to make our marriage work? Would you at least talk to me as though I’m a human being? I want nothing from you. I will ask for nothing except for a civil word every now and then, but I am not a dog. I am your wife so kindly treat me like one. You really hurt me, and I didn’t tell. I even forgave you. So could we not try? We should at least behave like a normal husband and wife; otherwise, people in the village will talk, and they’ll eventually conclude that you’re desperate to hide from them. If you hit me again, they’ll know it was you.”

  “It that a threat? That sounds like a threat to me, Celia … Is it?”

  “No, of course not. I just meant that I won’t be able to lie again to my aunt. She won’t believe me the next time – that’s all I’m saying. She’s clever, Joseph. I don’t even think she believes our story about my falling down the stairs.”

  Joseph digested the words, reluctant agreement spreading across his face.

  “Joseph, couldn’t you make an effort?” Celia tried again. “I have just lost my father, and my only crime is that I loved you and thought you loved me too. I promise not to annoy you anymore, about anything. I just want a peace between us.”

  She stopped talking. She was surprised that he’d allowed her to speak for so long. The thought struck her that maybe, just maybe, she’d reached some decent part of him. Maybe he had nothing to do with her father’s death, and maybe he was even a little sorry for the pain he’d caused her.

  “Here we go again with your poor little me, me, me act. Christ, do you ever think about anybody else’s feelings? No, you don’t. It’s always about me, me, me … I miss your father too, you know, and you seem to forget that he left the farm to me, not to you, so get this into your thick skull: the farm has nothing to do with you, nothing, so there’s no need for me to discuss anything with you. It’s mine unless we have a kid who’s eighteen, and that’s never going to happen, believe me. You were part of a deal I had with your father, that’s all. I never wanted you, and I never will. Now, for Christ’s sake, get lost and leave me alone!”

  Celia fled from the chair and raced upstairs to the haven of her bedroom, grateful that at least he didn’t want to share her bed anymore. The thought of having to live with him sickened her more than ever now, but she’d play his game. That’s what she’d do – play the game until she had the proof, and then she’d spit on him when he was led away to the gallows.

  Joseph poured himself another drink. He’d never been so humiliated in his entire life. Peter had double-crossed him, and he hadn’t even seen it coming. Over the last few days, his mind had been working overtime, and he’d planned his future as heir to the farm. Today’s announcement had changed everything, and all he could hope for now was a miserable life with the bitch upstairs and the thirty thousand pounds she’d get in two years’ time. Still, looking on the bright side, that lawyer Ayres need never know half of what went on at the farm. For starters, he didn’t know Joseph Dobbs or how he operated. He could hide money, sift it out of the profits, sell a couple of cows every now and again, and Ayres would never suspect a thing.

  He lit a cigarette and sat with his legs on the table, bottle of whisky in his hand, and thought again about Celia upstairs. Her inheritance would come through in two years. By that time, he’d have sucked the farm’s profits dry. He’d have more than enough money in his pockets to walk away without looking back and more than enough power to get into the biggest poker games in London. This situation was not forever. It was just a means to an end, and as long as Celia didn’t get in his way, he’d be lenient with her.

  Chapter 7

  Since the funeral, Celia’s life had become a monotonous routine of cat and mouse. Joseph had formed the habit of leaving the house before she opened her bedroom door in the morning, and he came home long after she’d gone to bed. She passed her days doing what any wife would do in a large house that required hours of attention every day. The wood for the stove had to be collected every morning for without it, she could neither cook nor keep warm. Joseph’s clothes, which were far from the normal farmer’s attire, constantly needed washing or mending. She got her housekeeping money on a Friday, and with it she supplied the household with groceries for the week. She went for long walks in the fields in the small amount of spare time afforded to her, and when Joseph had eaten his evening meal, she sought the sanctuary of her own bedroom.

  Friday was the best day of the week for Celia. It was the only day she was given permission to leave the farm to spend some time with Mrs Baxter. She was a great comfort to her. Joseph never knew that she went there, and he was never mentioned on her visits, but Celia suspected that Mrs Baxter had a good idea of what was going on up at the farm.

  She was lonely, so lonely she thought she’d die of it. Joseph had forbidden John Sweeny and Derek Pike to eat breakfast in the kitchen or to even go near the house, and she missed the friendly banter she’d grown up with. Her father had never stood on ceremony. He had never been a snob and had shared many breakfasts in the crowded kitchen with the farm labourers before leaving for the long days in the hop gardens.

  On a particularly cold morning, she looked out the kitchen window and up at the grey sky. It was threatening to snow again, she thought, pulling down the sleeves of her father’s long woollen jumper. She turned and put her hand to her head; it was cold and clammy. She stumbled towards a chair, seeing stars dance in front of her eyes. The room spun, and she fell to the floor and into darkness.

  When she opened her eyes, she laid her hands on her stomach and looked up at the kitchen ceiling. She touched her breasts. They were tender and swollen. She ran her hands across her tummy again and felt a nauseous wave rise to her throat. She stood on shaky legs, grabbed on to the kitchen sink,
and looked around the room. Everything was in full flow. The fire was lit; the stove alight, ready for pots to boil potatoes; clothes waiting to be ironed; and bread browning in the oven. She was unsure about what to do, as Joseph would probably be in for lunch. Her first thought was that she couldn’t leave.

  She sat at the table and calculated how much time it would take to get to the village, see Dr Sutton, and get back before Joseph appeared. He hadn’t been in for lunch for days; in fact, she’d only seen him two or three times all week. Maybe he wouldn’t come back today. She went to the window and saw the first flurry of snow. The snow wouldn’t deter her; she had to have her suspicions confirmed, had to know if it was possible that she’d become pregnant when she’d only ever been touched once. She looked once more at the blazing fire and decided. She’d douse it, halt the cooking, and go to Mrs Baxter. She had to know, and Mrs Baxter would know what to do and what to say.

  Mrs Baxter took a shocked Celia to Mary Shields’s tea room, where they ordered tea and fruitcake. Celia gulped down the tea but told Mrs Baxter that she couldn’t even think about eating. She was pregnant!

  Mrs Baxter studied Celia’s pale face lost in some distant place. “You must eat something, dear. You’re far too thin, and you’re eating for two now, remember,” she said.

  Celia smiled. “Yes, I know, but I still can’t believe it. Me, a mother!”

  “Celia, love, becoming a mother is the most natural thing in the world … You are happy about it, aren’t you?”

  Celia smiled again, but her mind was racing. She couldn’t really say that she was happy about it. A baby would complicate matters even further, especially a baby born out of hatred, not love. Joseph would be angry. He hated her, and he would hate the child she was carrying. Could she keep it a secret for a while longer? she wondered. Then she dismissed the idea. Could she have it at all, or should she get rid of it as though it never existed? Ashamed of those terrible thoughts, she said, “Yes, yes, of course I’m happy. It’s just that it’s all so unexpected.”