Spellbound: The Awakening of Aislin Collins Page 8

  Zachariah and I walked towards the shops and he strutted like a rooster for all to see. I loathed the stares and whispers and looked down at the ground to fend off eye contact with others.

  “This is nice,” he said, as he caught our reflection in the apothecary shop’s window.

  I forced a smile but I did not reply. His arm felt scrawny and rather bony to the touch, even the wool of his coat was rough and uncomfortable to my skin.

  When we reached the shop, I picked out the thread that my mother had requested and went to pay for it, but Zachariah pushed my hand aside and reached into his own pocket.

  “I do the paying from now on,” he said in an authoritative voice—more so for the benefit of the merchant than for me. I was his property and he was determined that everybody knew it.

  “I will walk you home,” he said, as we left the shop.

  “No Zachariah. I have taken up too much of your time already. I will find my way home.”

  He looked down at me. I was almost a foot shorter than he was, and felt rather like a child.

  “No. There is talk of a strange beast wandering about and I have personally seen what this creature is capable of. I will make sure that you get home without coming to any harm.”

  I laughed a little, “Zachariah, it is me, Aislin. The girl you used to climb trees with and catch frogs with in the stream. You do not need to be so formal with me. I am quiet capable of fending for myself,” I said proudly.

  His expression softened and he seemed a bit embarrassed. “This is true. We have always been friends. Come, I will walk you home, but I will try to remember that you were always the one who caught all the snakes with your bare hands.”

  We walked in silence for a while and although I hoped the silence would sustain, it did not.

  “Aislin, why were you so difficult when you found out about my proposal?”

  I thought about what I would like to say—about how he was a sniveling little boy who depended upon his father for everything. How his father was a tyrannical bastard, and how I loathed his entire family with the exception of Abigail. I realized these comments would be contradictory to Greer’s request and I tried a different approach.

  “Your proposal came suddenly Zachariah. You never mentioned a desire to marry me before. Your father hit me in public and then, on the same day, you came into my home and told me that I am to be your wife. I do not know how other girls would react, but I was angry that…” I trailed off. I was going to tell him that I was angry because I was not in love with him and that I loved another.

  “What were you saying Aislin?”

  I realized I had to answer in a way that would not cause this boy to strike me. “I was angry that you did not ask me yourself,” I said quietly. The words made my skin crawl.

  Zachariah was quiet for a long while. He seemed lost in thought and I stared at the wooden gate that led to my home, wishing that I could just run to it and get away from him.

  “You think my father was harsh, but he was kind to you. He could have had you flogged for what you did and would have been right in doing so. But then again, we couldn’t have you with a scarred back for our wedding night,” he smiled sinisterly.

  I looked away from him and clenched my fingers tightly together, envisioning my fist reaching his jaw. I refused to reply to his comments and kept my gaze toward the ground.

  “Do you love me Aislin?” he asked confidently.

  My head snapped up at his question and I grimaced. I was shocked that he would ask for a declaration of love after telling me that I should have been whipped in public. I would not lie and I would not betray my love for Greer. I knew that this would eventually come up, but I had hoped that I would not have to face such an inquiry so soon.

  “I have known you since we were children. I guess you are like a brother to me,” I replied.

  He stiffened at my words but did not seem deterred. “My father says that love is important to women but is inconsequential to men. He says that you will learn to love me in time because that is the nature of women. As far as I am concerned, you are the only woman I desire and that is reason enough for me to make you my wife.”

  I quietly walked to the gate with my eyes cast downward, hoping to avoid his gaze. He leaned in close to kiss me but I turned my cheek to him. His kiss was wet and felt slimy on my skin.

  “We will do well together,” he said, as he swung the gate open and let me pass.

  I went inside, handed my mother her thread, and immediately went to my room to wash my face.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  November 14th 1734

  Abigail sat across from me, sipping her tea with her back to the grand entrance of their home. “I am glad that we are getting to spend time together,” she said.

  She and Zachariah came to my home unannounced in the early morning to escort me to High Tea at their house. I was adamantly against attending, but I found no good excuse to pardon myself from their request. I had my mother help me dress, and I went with them.

  “It is nice to be with you too, Abigail. I have missed you.”

  I enjoyed her company but felt rather out of place in the Marthaler home. Everything about the massive house was off-putting—from the uncomfortable chairs, to the dead silence that seemed to envelope the place.

  The room we were in was wide and long. It had a tall ceiling that made even the smallest of sounds bounce off the walls in an echo. As I accidently clicked the heels of my shoes together, I was reminded of how imposing the Marthaler home really was.

  Abigail gave me a scathing look, reminding me of my etiquette, and I shifted uncomfortably in the rigid, high backed chair—which, coupled with my stay, made for an unfathomably uncomfortable experience. I glanced around the sitting room as I tried to ignore the discomfort that I felt.

  The decorating style of Mrs. Marthaler did not make me feel in the least bit welcome. Portraits of Zachariah and Mathew were displayed on the stark white walls, and I watched as servants carefully dusted the frames. Expensive statues from Italy sat on display pillars, and crystal vases sat in places where, with one wrong turn, I could easily knock them over. I tried to make note of all the expensive possessions so that I would not accidently bring financial debt to my parents.

  I looked over Abigail’s shoulder and watched as more servants polished the banister of the grand staircase that led to the bedrooms. Behind me, large windows overlooked the backyard.

  A woman dressed in a crisp white uniform poured me some tea.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  The servant’s eyes grew wide and she quickly looked down.

  “You do not need to talk to them,” Abigail laughed at me, “Mother says you are too concerned with savages and slaves. Now that you will be marrying into our family, you must learn to behave like a proper lady,” she said in a haughty tone.

  Abigail did not mean to be rude. She was too enveloped in her mother and father’s ideals to see that she was becoming as arrogant and self centered as they were. I looked down into my teacup and swirled the tea around. My thoughts drifted to a few years earlier when Abigail was sweet and kind. She had a loving heart and was caring toward all others. Now she was tainted; transformed by her parent’s maleficent desires for power and fortune. I pitied her. Even more so, I missed the friend I once had.

  “What are you thinking about?” she asked.

  “About our youth and our time spent together. Do you remember playing in your backyard?”

  She laughed at the memory and smiled, “Aye. My favorite memories of our times together were when we would braid each other’s hair and dress in our mother’s clothes, pretending to be royalty.” She looked into the distance and sighed, “I do not have time for such childish things anymore. I have been working on my hope chest lately. Father has found a husband for me,” she said.

  I looked up from my cup. I had remembered my vision and hoped that I was incorrect. “Jack?” I asked.

  She shook her head stiffly in reply, �
��His name is Gillis Sutphin. He is a wealthy businessman from Virginia. He has a plantation just near Jamestown. That is all I know so far… but he is coming to meet me in a month’s time. We may be married before you and Zachariah are.”

  “What about Jack? I thought that you were smitten with him?”

  Abigail scoffed at my comment and waved her hand in the air to banish the thought. “Jack has nothing to offer me. He is just a boy.”

  “But I thought that you wanted to marry him and that his family’s status was enough for you?” I asked, hoping to remind her of her own thoughts and not those implanted by her parents.

  “Jack’s only potential is to become a print press like your father. I want to marry someone who can provide me with the means to which I am accustomed. Not fall into squalor…” She caught herself before she finished her sentence, but we both knew how it would have ended—“into squalor like your family.”

  “My family is well off Abigail. We just do not feel the need to show it like some families do,” I said through gritted teeth.

  Seeing my growing anger, Abigail excused herself. I sat quietly in their enormous sitting room, swirling my tea and wondering if I could read the leaves. Suddenly, I felt someone watching me and I looked up to see Mrs. Marthaler in the doorway.

  I stiffened at the sight of her and expected to be yelled at for doing something wrong when, to my surprise, she smiled at me. She then walked over and took Abigail’s seat, sitting directly across from me she waved for a servant to pour her a cup of tea. She held the saucer daintily in her hand as she turned her attention to me.

  “When I was promised to Abigail’s father I cried for a week straight,” she said. Her sandy blonde hair was pulled back in a tight bun, and when she spoke, her forehead pinched and wrinkled as though she was recalling a bad memory.

  I was surprised by her words and did not know what to say. “Why?” I asked.

  “I was very young. Much younger than you are now and he was brash and harsh handed. I wanted to marry a boy who lived down the road from me. We had grown up together, much like you and Zachariah had, and I loved him dearly. But, my father had given my dowry to another and the agreement was made. Now, almost twenty five years later, I sit looking at a girl who wears the same expression of fear and grief that I once carried.”

  “Zachariah told you of my behavior?” I asked.

  “No. Zachariah said nothing. But my husband has told me much of your belligerence toward him and your rejection of Zachariah.” She took a sharp breath and squinted at me, as though she was not sure how to word what she wanted to say, “It is not wise to test my husband’s boundaries. He is a man in a position of power and the laws the commoners live by do not necessarily apply to him,” she said quietly.

  My heart pounded at her words, “Is he going to kill me?” I whispered.

  “No, but he is not above beating you in public or scarring you for life. You have been acting very well for the past week and he has noticed it. Please Aislin, you must continue with your behavior. Do not let your temper or pride force his hand. He enjoys nothing more than breaking the spirit of those who dare to defy him.” She looked up quickly when Abigail walked back into the room and she placed her tea on the table for the servants to take away.

  “Aislin will stay for an early dinner with the family and then Zachariah is to take her home,” she said to Abigail in a cold voice.

  I knew then that my family was not the only one with secrets. Mrs. Marthaler was not harsh because she hated me. She was harsh because she hated her life.

  ********************

  We had adjourned to Abigail’s bedchamber for the remainder of the day. It was a large room, that faced the front of the house. It had a nice sized window that overlooked the front yard and seemingly endless forest that led back to town.

  I stared out the window longingly, as I sat on Abigail’s canopy bed. The room was as uncomfortable as the rest of the home, but this room in particular had a forced air about it. The bed was covered in pink silk, which hung from her canopy, and draped the sides. The bed’s curtains matched the window curtains, as did her bed sheets, and the upholstery on the chairs. Mrs. Marthaler had imported all of the furniture from Europe, because she said that ‘Nothing in the Colonies was good enough for Abigail.’

  Abigail spent the rest of the afternoon showing me the contents of her hope chest and explaining how she envisioned her married life would be, living as the mistress of a plantation. I listened for a good while but kept envisioning her as she was in my premonition—old, worn and covered in bruises.

  “What about love?” I finally interrupted.

  “Pardon?”

  My words confused her.

  “Do you not care about love? Will you be alright giving yourself over to a man you hardly know… do you not fear that he may be cruel or hard hearted toward you?”

  Abigail looked as though these thoughts had never crossed her mind. She trusted her father so much that she would have married the devil himself if her father thought it to be a good idea.

  “Why would he be cruel towards me? I will be a wonderful wife and I will give him no reason to discipline me,” she said in a matter of fact tone.

  “What if he does not find you pleasing? What if he only wants your dowry?” I prodded her, hoping to get her to understand that life was more complex than she cared to imagine.

  Her face grew red and her voice rose, “That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard. You are just jealous because my husband will be wealthier than Zachariah!”

  “I am not!” I yelled back, “I am worried about you. Can you not see that?” I pleaded.

  “Worry about someone else, I am fine, “she hissed.

  I reached out and grabbed her arm as I gave her one last try, “It is not the possessions you accumulate that make life worthwhile. It is the people you share your life with which make each day worth living. If you do not have love… you have nothing,” I warned.

  Abigail would hear no more. I had threatened to crush her dreams of wealth and happiness, and she would not listen to reason. She yanked her arm from me and turned her back.

  ********************

  We were called to dinner and the conversation ended, but she refused to acknowledge me. Now, my time at the Marthaler’s had become even more unbearable. I had no more allies to depend upon.

  When we walked into the dinning room Mr. Marthaler, Mathew and Zachariah all stood. The room was narrow and long, with an ornate crystal chandelier that hung over the center of the long, walnut dinning table. I was asked to sit between Zachariah and Abigail and if my placement between Zachariah and his hostile sister was not uncomfortable enough, as I looked up at the wall, I was greeted by a portrait of their parents. Both were dressed in the finest clothing available. While Mr. Marthaler’s expression was ridged, Mrs. Marthaler’s portrait had a simpering smile, an expression that I had never seen her use in real life. The portrait made me even more uncomfortable because their leering eyes seemed to be transfixed upon me.

  The table was bedecked with crystal, brass, and lace. Candelabras sat at either end of the table, and large sconces on the walls, all helped illuminate the room.

  Mr. Marthaler immediately said the dinner prayers, and kept our heads bowed for what seem like an eternity as he listed off their many blessings. I peeked over to the corner to see the servants giving each other looks, as they knew that all the Marthaler eyes were closed. I thought that this would probably be the prime time to murder the whole family, if someone wanted to. Then I realized that thinking such thoughts while surrounded by those in prayer was not the best of things to do, and I drifted off into private thoughts of Greer as the prayers continued for what seemed like ten minutes.

  During dinner, the women were expected to remain silent and listen to the conversation of the men. I thought it amusing that little Mathew’s comments about playing with beetles was considered more important to Mr. Marthaler than inquiring about the welfare of his
wife or daughter.

  Even though he was a horrible person, Abigail could not see it. She adored her father and wanted nothing more than to please him, no matter what the cost.

  As we ate, my unease grew. Zachariah used the tablecloth to hide his lecherous deeds as he placed his hand on my knee. I flinched at his touch, and in response, he kept trying to move his hand higher up my leg. I brushed his hand away numerous times, but he only thought it to be some sort of game and became more aggressive in his attempts.

  His father kept talking of the nightly hunts and the difficulties of tracking the mysterious animal. There were no paw prints, no broken twigs or branches. Even the Natives could not locate the beast. He droned on and on and finally Zachariah’s hand was moving farther up my thigh and all my efforts to press his hand away were useless. I found nothing else to do, so when tea was served I dumped my steaming cup directly on his arm.

  ********************

  My cloak was wrapped around me and I waited at the door while his mother gently helped Zachariah get his coat on without brushing the skin where the bandage laid over his blistered arm.

  He was charged with the duty of walking me home before the sun set for the evening.

  Mrs. Marthaler suggested that Zachariah take the carriage, so that we were both protected and the journey was swift, however her husband disagreed. He told Zachariah that he would not risk losing another horse to the prowling beast. He gave Zachariah one of his pistols and told him to be on guard. We were to walk.

  Mr. Marthaler shut the door behind us, and we began our journey. We had a long walk ahead of us before we would clear the looming forest’s presence, and I felt the pressure of awkward silence forcing me to say something.

  “Here,” said Zachariah, as he jutted out his uninjured arm for me to take.

  I begrudgingly obliged and we walked along in silence. I could hear a crow’s call from within the forest, and I paid strict attention.