His Brother's Wife Read online

  Angry red suffused the preacher’s pale face. “Mattie said it hadn’t.”

  “It has. Get the doctor to examine her if you don’t believe me.”

  Mattie rocked back on her heels.

  “He’ll be able to tell you that she has recently been de-flowered.”

  The preacher glared at Mattie. “You, you… How dare you lie to a man of God? This, this depraved creature needs to be severely punished.”

  “Don’t worry, Preacher, she will be. You have my word on it.”

  “Regular chastisement and a babe every year will tame the most recalcitrant of wives,” the preacher said, with a pious, holier-than-thou expression on his face.

  With a nod McIntyre stepped away, dragging Mattie along by the arm. He spoke not a word until they reached the buggy and he lifted her up.

  “You will never defy me again.” The mare she had ridden was already tethered to the back. He slapped the horse’s backside with the reins, three times in quick succession.

  They departed the graveyard at a fast trot, and Mattie glanced back at the fresh mound. Her hopes and dreams of happiness lay beneath the ground. Life without grandpa would have been bearable, had McIntyre been a kindly man.

  Three quick slaps of the reins again and the horse increased his pace

  “You dare to insinuate that I’m incapable of consummating our marriage?”

  They were bowling along, the buggy jolting and jarring her on the rutted road.

  “I didn’t mean I thought you were incapable. I just don’t want to be married to you.”

  The breath hissed from between his clenched teeth.

  “Or any man.”

  He went rigid, the hand on the rein balled into a fist. He slowed the horse down, then drove off the road and into a clump of trees. He pulled the buggy up and before she realized his intention he had her across his knees. He pushed up the skirt of her gown, then rolled down her drawers until they dangled around her knees. For a moment she felt the breeze on her bare buttocks, then the sting of a strap being vigorously applied to her backside. She cried out with pain and shock.

  “Shut up. Make another sound and I’ll double the amount of punishment your bum will receive from six to twelve.”

  The strap rose and fell and she clenched her teeth together willing herself to bear the chastisement in silence.

  “Please, husband, no more. I won’t defy you again.”

  “No, you won’t.” He administered another three slaps, pulled up her drawers, lowered her skirt and pulled her upright in the buggy.

  After driving the buggy back onto the road, he slapped the horse’s backside three times.

  No more words were spoken. McIntyre stared straight ahead. She clamped her lips together so no sound would escape when the buggy hit a rut or a stone, and intensified the burning pain in her backside. No man had ever raised his hand to her before. This was obviously a taste of things to come if she didn’t do her husband’s bidding.

  She had to bide her time, and when the opportunity presented itself, escape from his clutches, even if he had already got her with child.

  The sun was dipping on the horizon, an orange ball hovering near the distant mountain peaks, by the time they arrived at the farm.

  He stepped out of the buggy, and she gingerly climbed down.

  “I have chores to do then I’ll be in at six for supper. Don’t make me wait for my food, wife.”

  He left her standing near the porch. Hurrying to the kitchen, she slipped on the apron, and stoked the fire.

  What could she cook in less than an hour? She moved carefully so as not to hurt her sore bum. How could a man do this to his wife? What was so wrong about going to her grandfather’s funeral?

  She sniffed back tears. I have to get away before I am so downtrodden that I’ll be too scared to defy him.

  Down in the root cellar, she lifted the wooden lid on the blue-stone cold storage box and found a hunk of what looked like beef. Carrying it back to the kitchen, she cut off a large steak for him and a smaller one for herself, then returned the rest of the meat to the cooler box. Tomorrow she would make a stew with the rest of it.

  McIntyre sold meat to the miners, probably how he got to know grandpa. If only they hadn’t met, she wouldn’t be condemned to this purgatory.

  There were potatoes in a box in the bottom of the kitchen dresser, carrots and onions, all neatly labelled.

  It came to her suddenly, the numbers three and six dominated his thinking. Three slaps of the reins on the horse’s backside, six cuts of the strap plus another three, six thrusts of his male thing before he filled her with his juices. Supper at six every night, breakfast at six in the morning.

  She didn’t know the significance of this, but they were obviously important to him. It was becoming clear to her, that McIntyre was not normal.

  The steaks were sizzling in the pan ready to be served as were the mixed vegetables, when he stomped into the kitchen at 6 o’clock.

  For dessert she had grated an apple into a pancake mix and thrown in a handful of currents. Fortunately, thanks to the elderly widow in Castlemaine, she could cook. Her cooking skills were a bit rusty living in a tent on the goldfields and cooking over an open fire, but it soon came back to her. What would McIntyre have done if she couldn’t cook?

  Placing the larger steak on his plate she surrounded it with vegetables and handed it to him without a word. The temptation to slam the plate down in front of him had been overwhelming, but she had to be careful. Let him think she was now prepared to be the docile, dutiful wife while she waited for a chance to escape.

  She picked at her meal while he ate heartily.

  “No point starving yourself,” he said. “You’ll need all your strength to accomplish the work I have lined up for you. I will not tolerate idleness.”

  “What chores are you talking about? I’m already cooking and cleaning for you.”

  “My vegetable garden needs hoeing and weeding. I’ll need help slashing the hay. You can clear the stones around the back porch and plant a herb garden. I’ve got plenty that needs doing to keep you out of mischief.”

  “You want a slave, not a wife,” she blurted before she could stop herself.

  “No difference between the two. You will earn your keep.”

  She snatched up his empty plate and dumped the dish with the pancakes in the center of the table.

  After he finished eating, he stood up and stretched. “I’ll be back just before seven and I’ll expect the kitchen to be cleaned up and you in bed waiting for me.” He strode off.

  Luckily she had cleaned up as she went, so it didn’t take long to tidy the kitchen. Her backside still stung, and from what she could see of it by turning her head and craning her neck, it was red.

  Reluctantly, dragging one foot after the other, she made it into the bedroom and turned down the covers. What indignity would she be subjected to tonight?

  She stripped down to her shift, climbed into bed and lay on her back waiting for him with the sheet pulled up to her chin.

  Right on seven he entered the room, removed his shirt and trousers and wearing only his underwear, he unbuttoned three buttons and his hard male thing shot out, the tip already glistening with a droplet of moisture.

  He wrenched the sheet off her. “Pull your shift up and open your legs.”

  Like last night he moved between her thighs and drove into her. Still tender from her wedding night, she gritted her teeth so the sounds of her distress would not escape. On the sixth thrust, his juices filled her and he rolled away.

  He fell asleep almost instantly leaving her feeling used and degraded.

  Chapter Seven

  The next morning McIntyre nudged her awake. “Breakfast at six. Don’t keep me waiting.”

  Yesterday she had left a dish of water and a towel on the dressing table. She washed and dressed in her gown. She would definitely have to find something else to wear.

  Where were her boots? She searched everywhere in
the bedroom, even under the bed. No sign of them. Had McIntyre taken them to the kitchen?

  After making the bed she padded down the hallway in her bare feet. They weren’t in the kitchen. She started frying bacon and eggs. The kettle was boiling when he strode in.

  “What did you do with my boots?

  He raised his eyebrows otherwise his features were expressionless.

  “They’re safely locked away until I decide you can be trusted not to run-off.”

  “You…” she spluttered. “Took my boots?” Rage surged through her instantly followed by a chilling fear. McIntyre was definitely a madman.

  “How can I go outside to work?”

  “You’ll manage. You won’t need to leave the yard, and the pebbles have been mostly cleared away from there.”

  “I’m a prisoner?”

  His fork poised between his plate and his mouth. “You can leave anytime you like, but once you leave the front yard, I guarantee you won’t make it more than a hundred yards before your feet are cut to ribbons.”

  “You, you fiend. You’re mad.”

  “Am I?” He gave a low guttural chuckle. “Others have said that of me. Now, wife, get me another cup of tea, then I’ll be off to do my chores.”

  She grabbed up the teapot and was tempted to empty the scalding liquid into his lap, but didn’t quite dare. There was not a shred of doubt about it. Wilbur McIntyre was insane.

  When he finished his breakfast he stood, gave a manic laugh and strode off.

  Mattie was shaking so much she had to sit down. I have to get away from this place, but how?

  After McIntyre left, she cleaned up the kitchen and did other household chores. Mid-morning she wandered into the hallway and stopped at the closed door of the small bedroom. Pushing it open she dubiously entered.

  It contained a double bed with a mattress but no bed covering. A large chest of drawers with a matching wardrobe in dark wood was the only furniture. The room was dusty. Spider webs hung from the ceiling. Obviously this room had not been used or cleaned in a long time.

  In the wardrobe hung a brown woolen skirt and a faded grey cotton skirt, plus a couple of high-necked blouses in a dirty yellow color. They might once have been cream.

  McIntyre’s mother must have been a tall, slimly built woman. A brown bonnet sat on a shelf in the wardrobe. No shoes, though.

  There was a brown shawl and three pairs of white cotton drawers, a petticoat and a nightgown. There was also a sewing basket. It was humiliating having to wear a dead woman’s clothing. McIntyre obviously had no intention of buying her any clothes. So much for grandpa thinking she would be well taken care of.

  She had a roof over her head and food in her belly. In return he expected her to work hard around the house and let him have his way with her at night in bed. Her life was going to be one of drudgery and servitude, she didn’t doubt that for a moment now. One day, hopefully not in the too distant future, the opportunity to escape would come. He hadn’t even let her collect her meager belongings from grandpa’s tent.

  Exploring outside in bare feet wasn’t too bad if she didn’t venture beyond the fenced in back or front yards. A dozen or so chickens scratched around in their wire enclosure. She collected several eggs from the nesting boxes.

  Cooking, especially with plentiful supplies, took no great effort. Feeding him well was the only winning card she held in the pack and she had to use it wisely. Regaining his trust was now vital if she ever hoped to escape. What she would do when she left here she didn’t know or care, but life was intolerable with McIntyre.

  ***

  Seven months later.

  Mattie moved around awkwardly because of her heavily pregnant condition. Her belly strained against her skirt, and backache plagued her. The soles of her feet had hardened now. During winter McIntyre had let her wear her boots outside as she performed her chores. His callous disregard for her discomfort caused hatred to build up. It festered like an open wound. Some days she had to fight to keep the poison from erupting.

  They were eating breakfast this one particular morning when he announced. “I’ll be going into town today; we’re getting low on supplies.”

  “Can I come?”

  “No.”

  “Please, husband. I haven’t left this place for over six months.”

  “There’s nothing in town for you.” He kept on eating his porridge.

  “I need material and wool to make the baby’s layette.”

  “Cut up some of Ma’s things.”

  “I can’t, they aren’t suitable, besides I’m wearing most of them.”

  He stopped eating, his expression contemplative. “All right,” he finally said. “Might as well show the townsfolk how virile I am. Try anything while we’re in town, and I swear on Ma’s grave, you will live to regret it. Don’t think your condition will stop me from belting you to within an inch of your life. I don’t care one way or the other about this brat you’re carrying.”

  She stifled her gasp of shock by turning it into a cough. “Thank you, husband,” she said meekly, inwardly fuming. If she got the chance she would buy rat poison in town and put it in his food.

  “I’m leaving in half an hour, be ready or I go without you.”

  As soon as he finished eating he sauntered off. She quickly did the dishes and swept the floor. She hated having to wear the ugly brown skirt, but her gown was too tight and uncomfortable to wear now.

  She brushed her hair, plaited it and coiled it around the back of her head and pinned it in place. Her hands were chapped and rough, even though she had been rubbing them with the oily residue from the sheep’s wool. If only she had a pair of gloves to hide their work worn appearance.

  McIntyre strode into the bedroom. “I’m ready” she said, reaching over to pick the shawl off the bed.

  “Lift your skirt,” he ordered.

  “What!”

  “Just do it.” From behind his back he produced a set of handcuffs. “You’ll wear these.”

  Shocked, she watched him apply the bands just above her knees and lock them into place.

  “You…you, can’t.”

  “I can and I have. Now, wife, you can walk in these, the length of the chain will allow you to take small steps. In other words, you are hobbled, and be assured you will be wanting to walk as little as possible.”

  His harsh laugh echoed around the bedroom. “You will never get the better of me, so give up trying.”

  To walk, she had to take tiny steps. He was right, she wouldn’t get far wearing these shackles. He obviously had a madman’s cunning. He sauntered out of the room; she shuffled along behind him, despising him more with every labored step she took.

  He lifted her down from the porch and waited by the wagon until she shuffled up to him. His cold eyes gleamed. One of the first times she had seen any life in them.

  “You will eventually learn, wife, and I don’t care how long it takes, that you don’t defy me and get away with it.”

  Two horses pulled the wagon. Each of them received three sharp slaps on their backsides with the reins to start them off. It was going to be a bone shaking ride, and after only half an hour she was regretting having asked to come.

  The yellow wattle added a splash of color to the green/grey of the trees. Buttercups and white and pink daisies covered the grass.

  The spring sun shone brightly, but could not warm the coldness that seeped through her, slowly, insidiously poisoning her. At least you’re not starving. You have a roof over your head and clothes on your back, even if they do belong to a dead woman.

  No word was exchanged between them. Nothing broke the stillness except for an occasional bird call and the sound of horses’ hooves or the wagon wheels crunching over stones.

  Every now and again McIntyre gave the horses three slaps with the reins to keep their minds on the job.

  “I won’t be coming into town again until next year,” he suddenly said. “So make the most of this trip. I certainly won’t be taking yo
u or the brat in with me next time.”

  They reached the outskirts of town. Tears sprang to her eyes as they passed by the graveyard. The mound where grandpa lay was carpeted in green grass, but there was no headstone. No marker whatsoever. In time when the ground settled, people would walk on top of him unaware that it was a grave.

  The main street was busy. Horses tied to the hitching rails out the front of shops, buggies and wagons lined one side of the street, and people hurried about their business. She prayed that they would get a spot outside the general store. It would be impossible for her to walk very far.

  They pulled up out the back of the general store. McIntyre lifted her down before putting the brake on the wagon and tying the reins to the side of the seat.

  He offered his arm and she had no option but to take it. Mattie shuffled along, taking tiny steps. He matched his stride to hers, for all intents and purposes a caring husband looking after his heavily pregnant wife.

  Around the side of the store, they made their way. Several people stared at her with interest and greeted McIntyre who only nodded in response.

  At the entrance to the store, she almost collided with the preacher. “Good morning, Mattie.” He stared at her swollen belly. “McIntyre.”

  “Good morning, Reverend Johnson,” she forced herself to say, then lowered her gaze.

  “Morning, Preacher,” McIntyre said.

  “Good, you took my advice I see,” the preacher said with a chuckle. “Vigorous beating and a baby in her belly doth maketh a docile, obedient wife.”

  “Certainly does.”

  “Hard to reconcile this demure creature to the little wildcat you married, my boy.”

  “You know better than to defy me now, don’t you, wife?”

  “Yes, husband.”

  The weight of the cuffs made her legs ache, and her inner thighs stung from rubbing together. She wanted to get into the store, buy what they needed and head back to the farm.

  “When the child is delivered, I’ll want to baptize it.”

  “All right.” McIntyre obviously tired of the conversation. “We’re in a hurry.” He stepped aside so Mattie could precede him into the store.