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.
“I’m not afraid of you, Brigadier.” Mrs. Tilling stood resolutely where she was, upright and composed, as if she had gained a new position of strength and righteousness. “I know enough to have a full investigation set into motion. If that’s what you want.” She said every word carefully. “All it takes is one small telephone call.”
“Give the game up, Mrs. Tilling,” Daddy ordered. “You don’t know what you’re playing with. How irresponsible it would be for you to mess around with this. Put our little community in jeopardy, crush us in this awful war.”
Daddy can be extremely frightening when he’s in this kind of temper, and I was worried for a moment that Mrs. Tilling would back down, ease herself out of the room, and the thrashing would be resumed without delay.
But she stood firm. I could even see a flicker of a smile on her lips, a small, quiet kind of smile, the type you might see at a chess tournament when someone knows they’ve won a long time before anyone else realizes.
“Don’t get all patronizing, Brigadier.” She took two steps toward him, so that she was only about a foot away. “I have nothing to fear from you.” She lightly swept a little dust from his shoulder. It was a damning gesture, dismissive. “Quite the contrary, I assure you.”