But to Mary Hutton, rounding the corner of the lane in the pony and trap with Patience sitting at her side, it confirmed every last fear she’d had about Jeremiah’s sister’s child. The trap reached the pair who were now standing some three feet apart in moments, and her face livid, Mary raised her ornamental whip with the intention of bringing it down on the golden-red head. It was only Patience, grabbing hold of her mother’s arm and refusing to let go, who deflected the blow.
‘You hussy.’ Mary didn’t shout, she didn’t have to. The words came like molten steel between her clenched teeth, and when David tried to explain she cut him short, saying, ‘Get into the house, both of you, now.’
David’s face was chalk-white as they followed the trap up the drive, his muttered, ‘I’m sorry, Sophy,’ shaky. ‘I’ll tell her it was me, don’t worry,’ he added, as they mounted the three steps leading to the open front door.
Sophy said nothing but she was trembling inside, not because she was afraid of her aunt, that time had gone, but to be faced with such hatred was unnerving. They’d heard Mary screaming Jeremiah’s name as they’d reached the house, and as they entered the hall her uncle came hurrying downstairs, his irritated, ‘What now?’ receiving no answer.
They followed Jeremiah into the drawing room. Mary was standing with her back to the roaring fire still dressed in the brocade and fur ensemble she wore when she went visiting, and Patience was sitting in a chair on the other side of the room, her face as white as theirs, mainly because her mother’s rage had brought back the horror of the time six years before. She had never been able to view her mother in the same light again after that, and although she still resented Sophy’s beauty at times – especially recently after Mr Travis had practically drooled over her – she’d always felt protective of her cousin.
It was to Patience Mary turned as she said, ‘Tell him. Tell your father what you have just seen.’
‘Mother—’
‘I said tell him.’
‘You tell me.’ Jeremiah could see Mary’s face was suffused with dark colour and that she was shaking with fury, and he had noticed the pony and trap was still standing on the drive when he had come downstairs. The horse should be in its stable.
‘I told you, didn’t I? I told you what would happen and I have been proved right. Not only does she want the elder brother but she has corrupted the younger, too. She’s vile, wicked, and I told you.’
Jeremiah glanced at Patience for an explanation, but it was David who stepped forward and faced his father. ‘Sophy and I went for a walk and – and I kissed her. It was my fault, she had nothing to do with it.’
‘Nothing to do with it? Oh, you foolish boy.’ Mary’s voice was rapier-thin. ‘She encouraged you, don’t you see? A girl like her knows a thousand tricks to lead a man on. It’s in her blood, she was born to it.’
‘That’s enough, Mary.’
Far from deflating her rage, her husband’s voice fanned it. Beside herself, Mary took a step forward, looking straight into Sophy’s stiff face, her own features contorted as though she was looking at something repulsive. ‘A whore born of a whore, that’s what’s been nourished in this house. That is what my children have been forced to consort with all their lives. Your mother was a scarlet woman, do you hear me? And she took her lovers by soliciting from the stage instead of the streets. She couldn’t even put a name to which one had sired you, there were so many.’
‘Mary.’
‘Don’t “Mary” me. You, you’d let your sons be defiled by her, wouldn’t you? Your own sons. That – that harlot.’
‘It’s not true.’ Sophy spoke for the first time, her voice strangely flat-sounding. ‘My mother was married to a French nobleman and he died.’
‘Your mother was an actress in the music halls in London, a hussy who flagrantly displayed herself to any man who could afford her,’ Mary said relentlessly. ‘She might have had the odd nobleman or two, but they paid like everyone else.’
The crack of her husband’s hand across her face sent Mary reeling backwards, and but for the ornamental fireguard she would have fallen into the fire. As it was she landed with her hands stretched either side of her and resting on the oak mantelpiece, her thin body stretched backwards.
For a moment everyone was rigidly still. Jeremiah fully expected Mary to retaliate by word and action but she simply looked at him, a look of such loathing and bitterness it was a wonder it didn’t burn him up where he stood. And then without a word she slowly straightened away from the mantelpiece and walked out of the room.
Jeremiah stood exactly where he was, his head thudding. He was not a violent man. He had never raised his hand to man, woman or child before this day. And now he had hit his wife, he had struck Mary. Dear God, what had possessed him? And why wasn’t he feeling remorse? He should, shouldn’t he? He was a man of the cloth.
‘Father?’
David’s face was white and shocked but Jeremiah’s glance passed over his son to the slim young girl standing silent and still. He had never felt so inadequate in his life. ‘Your mother wasn’t as bad as your aunt has painted,’ he said softly. ‘Come and sit down and let me explain. David, can you leave us. You, too, Patience.’