His Brother's Wife Read online

  “I do.” She forced the words out, willing herself not to bolt out the door.

  “Is there a ring?”

  “Yes.” Grandpa gasped the word out.

  “Lay it on the bible for the blessing.”

  The old man’s hand trembled as he did what the preacher asked.

  The ring was blessed, a few words followed that Mattie was barely aware of then McIntyre slid the ring onto her finger.

  Another prayer was followed by the preacher saying. “I now pronounce you man and wife.”

  They signed the marriage register and the housekeeper disappeared. Mattie Jansen aged seventeen was now legally wed to Wilbur McIntyre aged twenty-eight.

  “Take good care of my girl won’t you?” There was a sudden gurgling sound followed almost immediately by the old man collapsing to the floor.

  Wilbur knelt down and checked for a pulse. “He’s dead.” A spasm of irritation crossed his face.

  “Our father who art in heaven…” The preacher’s words were drowned out by Mattie’s screams as she threw herself on the floor next to her grandfather.

  “No. No. Wake up.”

  “It’s no good,” the preacher said. “He’s dead.”

  Wilbur picked her up and carried her outside and dumped her in the buggy. “Get control of yourself. He was a sick old man. It was his time.” He marched back inside.

  Through tear filled eyes she watched McIntyre speaking with the preacher for a moment or two then passing over some money.

  Within a couple of seconds he was back. “Now, stop that blubbering.” He climbed up onto the buggy. “Or I’ll give you something to really cry for.”

  Three slaps of the reins on the horse’s backside and they were off. She sniffed back the tears. Her heart was broken, but she couldn’t wish grandpa back to suffer anymore.

  “What about grandpa’s funeral?”

  “I’ve paid the preacher and he’ll see the undertaker and arrange the burying.”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow morning.”

  “What time?”

  “That’s no concern of yours, wife. We won’t be going.”

  “But, Wilbur…”

  “I’m always called McIntyre, but you will address me as husband.”

  “All right, husband. I will be going.”

  “Don’t defy me. I won’t put up with it. You are now my wife. My property. To do with as I please.”

  “He’s my grandfather, I…”

  He dragged on the horse’s reins so suddenly the animal’s front hooves left the ground and he snorted in protest.

  “Let’s get a few things straight right from the beginning. Unless you want to feel my belt against your bare backside, you will do exactly as I say at all times. You will speak only when spoken to. You will perform your chores and your wifely duties without complaint. Do I make myself clear?”

  There was a hard edge to his voice, his cold eyes sent a shiver straight through her even though it was a hot summer day.

  From then on no words were spoken between them. McIntyre stared straight ahead, Mattie kept her eyes downcast. This would have to be the worst day in my whole life. Grandpa wouldn’t have handed me over to a man like this had he shown his true colors before.

  On and on they journeyed, passing the goldfields on one side, brooding forest on the other.

  The further away from civilization they got, the dryer the countryside became. The grass was yellow and brittle looking, white pebbles strewn along either side of the road, glistened in the sun.

  Finally, they turned onto a rutted track.

  “My place is three hours from Castlemaine with virtually nothing in between, so don’t even think about running away.”

  She ignored him.

  “Did you hear me, wife?”

  “Yes.”

  Chapter Five

  McIntyre’s cabin, she would never be able to think of it as home, stood in a clearing against a backdrop of brooding tree covered mountains. It was built from split logs left to weather by the elements.

  A porch ran across the front. There were two windows at the front, the dirty glass adding to the neglected air. The thick wooden door was held closed by a rusty iron bar with a large padlock dangling from it.

  McIntyre pulled up in the front yard. Mattie jumped down so she wouldn’t have to feel his hands on her body. He gave her a long, hard glare.

  “Go into the house and get the fire going. It’s nearly supper time.”

  He led the horse away and left her standing there. She stepped over to the porch and gingerly pushed the door open, entering what could be loosely described as a parlor.

  Everything was coated in a thick layer of dust. An old leather couch reposed against one wall. Two armchairs sat either side of a small spindle leg table.

  She had no luggage. The clothes on her back were virtually all she owned, except for a few items left at the tent. Her hair brush, which had belonged to her mother, she had shoved in her pocket.

  Grandpa said McIntyre would buy her new clothes, but she now doubted that he would.

  A hallway led off the parlor and her footsteps echoed on the wooden floor as she dubiously made her way to the back of the house. She passed two closed doors and surmised they would be bedrooms.

  The kitchen was long and narrow, running the full width of the house. Pots and pans hung from a rail above the large stone fireplace.

  There was a stove at least. The fire had burned right down, but there were a couple of coals still glowing. She blew gently on them until they flickered into life. Reaching into a wooden box on the hearth, she pulled out a few small pieces of bark and gently placed them over the coals, once more blowing gently until it burst into flames.

  It would be easier cooking on this than the open fire in front of their tent. Carefully she built the fire up and satisfied it would burn, closed the stove door.

  Before grandpa had caught gold fever they had lived in Castlemaine, and an elderly widowed neighbor had taught her how to cook.

  What did McIntyre eat? There were a couple of shelves built on either side of the fireplace containing several wooden canisters, neatly positioned from largest to smallest. Flour, salt and sugar in the large ones, tea, pepper, currants in the small ones.

  The back door was similar to the front. A path led to what she guessed was the privy and the clothesline. A chicken run, barn and outbuildings were a little further away.

  There was a well a few feet from the kitchen door. No attempt had been made to start a garden around the house. All there was were a couple of rosemary bushes languishing near the back step.

  Mattie was searching through a battered kitchen dresser when the door swung open and McIntyre strode in.

  “I was trying to work out what to have for supper,” she said.

  “I’ve got a root cellar, the trapdoor is under the mat,” he said. “Eggs and bacon will do for tonight, but I expect a proper cooked supper tomorrow. I kill my own meat and grow all the vegetables I need.”

  He dumped a bucket of milk on to the table. “You’ll make butter. There’s a small churn around somewhere. Save any lard for soap and candles, that will be another one of your chores. I won’t need to buy any now.”

  “How often do you go into town?”

  “Three times a year…”

  “But…

  “I don’t waste my time or money going into town buying stuff I don’t need. Now you’re here, a couple of times a year should be adequate.”

  “Grandpa said you would buy me new clothes.”

  “There’s no need, you aren’t going anywhere and I never have visitors.”

  “I’ve only got this one gown.”

  He gave her a hard, cold stare. “In the smaller bedroom there are some clothes that used to belong to Ma, you can have them.”

  She didn’t welcome the idea of wearing a dead woman’s clothing, but wasn’t prepared to argue about it, not until she saw what they were like.

  “I exp
ect supper at 6 o’clock when I’ve finished my farm chores. Bed at 7 o’clock, and you will do the same.”

  A floral apron hung on a hook behind the door. She slipped it on, rather than risk soiling her gown. It would be disrespectful to grandpa’s memory to go to his funeral in dirty clothes. And she would be attending, no matter what McIntyre said.

  Once he left for work at his mine, she would borrow one of several horses she had seen in a paddock. She would be back in plenty of time to get his supper, and he would never know she had defied him. Apparently, he did not eat a midday meal.

  As she fried the bacon, eggs and diced potatoes, the aroma made her mouth water. Any wonder, she hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

  They had their food at a scrubbed pine table in the kitchen. He ate quickly and noisily, obviously enjoying it as he reached for a second helping, but not a word of appreciation passed his lips. This is what marriage obviously meant to him. Someone to cook, clean and share his bed. Nothing more. Nothing less.

  Just thinking about tonight had her breaking out in a cold sweat. She had no idea what he would expect of her. What any husband expected from his wife for that matter.

  By the time supper was cleared away, dusk was closing in. She dithered in the kitchen trying to put off the inevitable.

  “Wife,” McIntyre called out from the front of the house. “Get into the bedroom at once, I’m waiting.”

  Slowly, as if her legs were shackled she followed the sound of his voice. A lantern flickered in the front bedroom. She hovered in the doorway. Her frightened gaze was drawn immediately to a double bed covered with a faded quilt.

  He was sitting up in bed, his chest bare and the quilt resting at his waist.

  “Well come on, I don’t like being kept waiting.”

  She trembled so badly her fingers fumbled with the buttons on her gown. With a curse, he leapt from the bed, and her frightened eyes saw him wearing long drawers. Something was poking out between his thighs, tenting the garment.

  In two strides he was beside her. “I’ll make allowances because this is your first night, wife, but after that you will always be ready and waiting for me.”

  He dragged the now unbuttoned gown over her shoulders and it shimmied to the floor. She stood trembling in a thin cotton shift. Impatiently, he pulled it over her head and flung it on the floor. Likewise, her drawers followed.

  She tried to hide her nakedness with her hands.

  “No.” He grabbed hold of her hands and held her at arm’s length. His cold gaze ranged over her. There was not one flicker of emotion on his face, no warmth or tenderness - nothing.

  “All right, I’ve seen enough, get into bed.”

  Her legs trembled but she dared not defy him. There was a manic expression in his cold blue eyes now. She climbed into the bed and lay there, stiff as a board, completely naked.

  “Open your legs,” he ordered as he hovered over her. The weight of his body pressed her into the mattress, the male thing pushed against her private parts. She balked, trying to twist away from him.

  Momentarily he reared back before thrusting deep inside her. She screamed in terror and pain. He was ripping her apart. After six hard thrusts, he gave a feral growl and a surge of liquid filled her woman’s orifice.

  Once this was done he rolled away, giving a low, cruel laugh. “In every sense of the word you are now my wife.”

  “You hurt me.”

  “Pain is normal when a woman is taken by a man for the first time, so stop sniveling. I only took what I was entitled to.”

  Mattie turned away, biting her lip so no noise would escape. What type of hell on earth had grandpa inadvertently sentenced her to?

  Within minutes McIntyre was snoring. Carefully Mattie inched her way out of bed. She had to wash away his violation. Was this how it was for all wives?

  Shuddering with distaste, she shuffled out of the room. Her insides felt as if they were red-raw. In the kitchen by the light thrown out from the glowing embers in the stove, she dampened a cloth and cleaned herself up. A gasp of shock escaped when the cloth came away stained with streaks of blood. Throwing the rag into the fire, she watched the hungry flames devour it. Swinging away, she slowly, reluctantly returned to the bedroom.

  She couldn’t sleep naked, it was indecent. Fumbling around in the dark she found her shift, slipped it over her head and tiptoed over to the bed and climbed in. McIntyre still snored. She kept as far away as possible from him, desperately praying that he wouldn’t wake up and demand more of her.

  Chapter Six

  At 5 o’clock the next morning, McIntyre nudged her awake. “Time to get up.”

  “It’s still dark,” she mumbled, hunching away from him.

  “I always start my day at 5 o’clock,” he said, climbing out of bed. “I have chores to do, and so do you. I expect breakfast at 6 o’clock.”

  The lamp flared, lighting up the bedroom but not chasing away the gloomy shadows. He pulled on his trousers and shirt.

  As soon as he left the room, Mattie dressed in what she had worn yesterday. After McIntyre left the house, she would check his mother’s clothes and hopefully find something suitable to wear. She didn’t want to get her gown dirty. At least not until after grandpa’s funeral.

  Out in the kitchen she opened the stove door and a couple of logs spluttered and spurted out sparks, so McIntyre had obviously stoked up the fire.

  She filled the kettle from a bucket of water she had brought in from the well yesterday evening. Bacon and eggs accompanied by pancakes were quick and easy.

  The kettle was boiling so she lifted it off the hob, bacon and eggs sizzled in the pan, and the pancake mixture was ready.

  McIntyre entered the kitchen, the sleeves of his blue shirt rolled up to his elbows. His arms were tanned and well-muscled. At a glance it was easy to see he was a strong, fit man in his prime. So much for hoping he might drop dead from heart failure.

  He didn’t speak as he sat at the kitchen table. She didn’t say a word as she ladled a large portion of bacon and eggs, and poured him out a mug of tea. He drank it black and unsweetened.

  “I’ve done the morning farm chores,” he said between mouthfuls of food. “I’m heading off to the mine. I will be there for six hours.”

  “What about your midday meal?” She placed a large pancake on his plate. Without a word of thanks, he buttered it, folded it in two and ate it.

  Black stubble covered his jaw and chin. She inwardly trembled. He was a fine looking man, but cold and emotionless. What basis was that for a marriage?

  The years stretching out ahead of her were bleak. If she gave him a child would that help? Or, would it be treated in the same remote, uncaring manner? A baby would give her something to focus on. A child’s love would be unconditional, all-encompassing, and would bring light into her dark, bleak life here.

  She had known love with grandpa and wanted to feel it again. McIntyre was unwilling or unable to give it. Even when he mentioned his mother, there had been no sadness or regret, just an empty nothingness.

  As she nibbled on a piece of pancake, his cold eyes bored into hers. “We don’t waste anything here. What you don’t eat for breakfast, you eat later. All scraps are saved for the pigs or chickens. There’s plenty of work here in the house to keep you occupied.”

  He stood, and strode off, snatching his hat off the hook on the back of the door.

  Once he left, Mattie ate another piece of pancake, and went over her plans to attend grandpa’s funeral. She would wait until he rode off to the mine then saddle one of the horses and without too much effort, would be back before he returned to do his evening chores.

  Within the hour she was ready to leave. The house had been tidied up and she discovered there was no spare saddle, but there was a bridle and bit. Riding bareback was not something she welcomed, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

  Her vow to attend grandpa’s funeral was sacrosanct, and what was a bit of discomfort compared to what he had done
for her over the years? His one mistake had been to persuade her to marry McIntyre, who must have presented himself as a man of integrity, hiding the cold cruelty behind a mask of friendliness and concern.

  It took nearly two hours for the bay mare to make it to the graveyard. She was an old horse and Mattie didn’t want to push her too hard.

  The preacher’s face expressed surprise on seeing her. “Ah, Mattie, you were able to make it after all.” He gave a slight smile and glanced around. “Your husband?”

  “Unfortunately, he couldn’t make it.”

  The funeral service commenced. Horace Jansen’s coffin was a plain pine box. The preacher said a few words before the coffin was lowered into the grave.

  “Oh Lord, we commend the mortal remains of Horace Jansen to the ground. Ashes to ashes and dust to dust.”

  She was crying so hard she couldn’t hear the rest of the internment words. The doctor, the only other mourner present, pressed a flower into her hand. “I am so sorry, my dear.”

  The doctor chatted to the undertaker and the preacher turned toward the church.

  “Reverend Johnson,” she called out and he swung around.

  She gnawed her lower lip. “I don’t want to be married to McIntyre. Is there some way I can get out of it?”

  “If the marriage hasn’t been consummated an annulment could be possible.”

  “It…it hasn’t been…”

  “I would need you to put this in writing, your husband also, then…”

  Mattie followed the preacher’s gaze and her heart nearly catapulted out of her chest. McIntyre strode toward them his features even grimmer than usual.

  “What are you doing here, wife. I said you were not to come.” He grabbed her by the arm.

  His anger was tangible, but he didn’t raise his voice. Fear trembled through her.

  “I don’t want to be married to you,” she shrilled.

  His nostrils flared. He almost flattened her with a ferocious look. “Too bad.”

  The preacher intervened. “If the marriage hasn’t been consummated…”

  “It has,” McIntyre growled.