Widow in White

Chapter Four: Choice

The attic window looked out over the side of the house, so Laura could not see the carriage arrive or leave, but she heard it, and wondered who it was who called so late on a night when her father was not entertaining.

Curiously, futilely, she opened the window and peered out over the short drop of slate tiled roof. It was dark outside, but the moon had appeared through the thinning clouds and cast a faint, grim light over the garden below. There was not much of it: a bleak square of mud enclosed by a brick wall and black pines, and just beyond, the tip of the stable roof, damp and gleaming with rain. From around the corner of the house, the sounds of the carriage and horses faded slowly away.

Laura sighed and shut the window but the view within the narrow, whitewashed room was little better. The narrow wooden bed against the wall took up most of the space. Crammed between the bed and the wall were a rickety wash-stand, a small square table, and a chair. On the table lay the tray of her half-eaten supper, and on the wash stand a jug of water and an empty china bowl. Beneath her feet, a strip of oil-cloth made a slatternly attempt to cover the splintering floorboards in front of the door. But other than those scant articles, and Laura, the room was completely empty.

The boredom was the worst part of it. For six days now, she had had nothing to do but sit on the bed, or in the chair, or at the window. Meals were a luxury, not for the food, but for the diversion. Thrice a day, for a minute or more, she got to see the face of another living human being, to speak a word or two, and be spoken to.

And once a day, her father opened the door, sneered in, and asked her if she was ready to come out yet.

If he hadn't given her a choice, she would have bullied the stupid maid servants to let her escape and fled his house. But he had given her a choice: attend his dinners and have her freedom, or attend nothing and be locked in the attic. It was slighter punishment than she had expected, on seeing him the morning after she had slapped him and fled the house — but she understood why soon enough. It was no choice at all really, for there was no freedom in marriage, and marriage was what his dinners and balls and soirees would lead to. Her only true choice was of where she would like her imprisonment to be: a father's cold attic, or a husband's cold mercy.

She preferred the attic.

There was a heavy footstep in the hall outside and then the sound of the key in the lock, and the door opened. Laura turned her head dispassionately. The maid had come to collect the supper tray. In the doorway behind her stood Lord Brocket. Laura wondered why he had come; he had already visited her once today.

The maid ducked into the room and snatched up the tray, so hastily she almost spilled the wine.

"Careless!" Laura said chidingly. "Now don't take that away. I'm still going to drink it."

She slipped off the window sill and seized the carafe and wine glass. She was not normally overfond of drink, but she knew how her father hated a drunk woman. And besides, there was nothing else to do in here.

"Yes, my lady, sorry, my lady," the maid muttered, bowing her head. She backed out of the room, carrying the tray with the remains of a poussin, winter greens, bread, and baked chestnuts. They weren't starving her; she'd have a hard time finding a husband with hollow cheeks and bony shoulders. Laura met her father's eyes and poured herself a generous glass of wine.

"I'd wish you good evening but in truth I hope it's terrible," she said cheerfully.

"It was not superb," her father said drily. He remained in the doorway, planted squarely on his two feet. "How long will you persist in this stubbornness?"