“Yes, ma’am,” Alys muttered as she reached for the bucket and brush, hoping she wouldn’t encounter either Lord Lockwood or his wife.
Journal Entry
It is a Husband’s right and his Duty to guide and discipline his Wife. My Husband has yet to take a strap to me, though it’s clear I vex him. I would welcome physical punishment in lieu of the humiliation he subjected me to last night, all on account of a slovenly servant. Lord, forgive me for not respecting the spineless creature my Father chose for me.
A man of strong convictions and deep Faith would punish me every week before the Sabbath for my transgressions against him and the Word of our Blessed Lord, and I would relish his strong arm and clarity of Purpose, for I would be purified by his devotion to the salvation of my Soul.
Chapter 29
Nicole
I woke early, glad to shake off the strange dreams that had plagued me all night. I’d dreamed there was an outbreak of smallpox, but in my dream, the afflicted were the guests from the retreat. Yvonne in particular had been adversely affected and hid her face beneath a wide-brimmed hat, but the pustules were still clearly visible, angry red and oozing pus. I supposed my research and subsequent conversation with Yvonne were to blame, as well as the journal entry I had deciphered just before finally falling asleep.
I shook my head in disbelief. It had been common for men of centuries past to punish their wives, but what sort of woman would long for her husband to beat her? I pulled up the image of the page on my phone and stared at it, peering at the cramped lines. I was no expert on handwriting, but whoever had written this had to be rigid and controlled in the extreme. There was no shortage of space on the page, yet the writer’s hand was tight and spiky, the letters strangely upright.
Rereading the entry, I considered the words again. I could conceive of only two reasons a woman would write such a thing. The first was that she saw submitting to the punishment as a form of martyrdom, an act that would ingratiate her with God. The second was that she derived sexual pleasure from it. Given that the writer had alluded to being a Puritan in the earlier entries, I thought the first reason made more sense. The writer seemed to despise her husband and felt obvious guilt at having no respect for him as a God-fearing wife should. By taking her punishment, she would be making up for her transgression to both husband and deity.
Leaving the journal entries for later, I took a hot shower, dressed in jeans and a warm sweater, and presented myself downstairs, desperate for a cup of coffee. The morning room was bathed in sunlight, the wonderful aroma of freshly brewed coffee and toast making my mouth water. I had expected to find Anna, but it was Len who sat at the table, an empty plate before him. His expression was thoughtful as he nursed a cup of coffee, a faraway look in his eyes.
“Good morning,” I said.
“Hello. Sleep well?”
“Not really. Weird dreams,” I replied as I took a plate and helped myself to a fried egg, sausage, and mushrooms.
“Me too. Hardly slept,” Len said. “I’ll be off to the carriage house after breakfast. Much quieter there, and I have a lot to get through today.”
“I was hoping Kyle could spare me an hour today,” I said.
Len’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing. “Best give him some space today. Wife trouble,” he added confidentially.
“Oh.” I quickly set the plate on the table, having nearly dropped it. Kyle hadn’t mentioned he was married, but then, why would he? His private life was his own, and I had been the one to ask him for help, not the other way around.
I poured myself a mug of coffee, added some sugar and cream, and took a seat across from Len. “How’s your book going?”
“Very well,” Len said, clearly pleased to be asked. “Finished the first draft yesterday. I might be able to finish the whole thing by the time I leave here.”
“Really?” I asked, amazed that he could knock out a second draft in a few days.
Len smiled guiltily. “I have an excellent editor. She reworks the whole thing anyway, so no point wasting too much time on revisions. I’ll just incorporate her changes and add the finishing touches once she kicks the manuscript back to me.”
I nodded, unsure what to say. I’d never read anything of Len’s, but he didn’t strike me as someone who’d do diligent research and really pour his soul into the story. His attitude clearly said he couldn’t be arsed. He was what I considered a commercial writer, someone who penned a formulaic installment of a series once a year and reaped the financial rewards that inevitably rolled in. Perhaps I should do the same, I thought crossly as I sipped my coffee. I could certainly use the money and the stability such an arrangement would bring.
“Morning,” Lisa sang as she entered the room, a fresh pot of coffee in her hand.
“Morning,” Len and I said in unison.
“Top me up, love, will you,” Len said, holding out his cup. Lisa did, and he rose to his feet. “I’ll just take that with me. Have a pleasant day, ladies.”
“Lisa, would you know where the burial ground for the residents of Ashcombe is?” I asked.
Lisa looked taken aback. “Why do you ask?”
“I’m doing research on the history of the area and wanted to see where the villagers had been reburied.”
“It’s some
