over in his mind until he reached the cottage, and by then he had come to a decision. He’d make it his business to find out what was what over the next day or two because – excitement surged again, filling his body and causing his breathing to quicken – he intended to have Hannah’s daughter as, by rights, he should have had the mother. And if Heath, or anyone else for that matter, got in his way they would be dealt with. He’d been given a second chance. He knew it.
Polly would have to go. The thought stilled his hand on the latch of the front door. But only for a moment.
There were ways and means, he told himself grimly. But first he needed to see how the land lay, and to do that he would need to proceed carefully. But he could be patient when necessary. That was one of the things the fools who had under-estimated him in the past didn’t understand. He was cleverer than all of them put together. That was why they scratched a living in filth and muck under the ground like the ignorant animals they were, and he lived in comfort and prosperity.
Pushing open the heavy oak door he walked into the cottage. The appetising aroma of his dinner vied with the smell of beeswax from the many items of fine furniture he insisted were polished every day. Polly appeared in the kitchen doorway with his slippers in her hands. Her voice matched her thin frame, mousy hair and nondescript features. Dully, she said, ‘The water’s hot and I’ll bring it straight up.Your clothes are laid out on the bed.’ It was his custom to wash his face and hands on returning home and change into a clean shirt and his smoking jacket.
Kneeling in front of him she took off his boots and he stepped into his slippers. He did not thank her for her ministrations but walked to the stairs, and behind him he heard her scurry into the kitchen. Her fear of him pleased Vincent; in fact, it was the basis of their relationship. When he’d brought Polly to the cottage from the workhouse twelve years ago, ostensibly to care for his mother who was ailing and see to the house, he’d chosen a girl he could easily bend to his will. His mother had died slowly and painfully, since the poison he’d used had to be given in small quantities to remain undetected, and by the time she’d passed away Polly wouldn’t so much as breathe unless he gave the word. Orphaned and placed in the workhouse as a baby she had been trained not to think for herself since a child but to obey unquestioningly, and he had taken full advantage of this.
He had first taken her on the evening of the day of his mother’s funeral, and once he had found he could subjugate her as he wished, had given free rein to the strong unnatural desires he’d previously kept for the women in the brothel he’d frequented. The indignities he heaped upon her were never spoken about between them; in fact, he rarely spoke to her at all. She did not – and never had – receive a wage; her reward for her services as his ‘housekeeper’ were a roof over her head and being fed and clothed.
The bedroom was as warm as toast when he opened the door, the fire in the small black-leaded grate heaped high with glowing red coals. Every item of furniture in the room was of superior quality, from the James I carved oak tester-bed, wardrobe and chest of drawers, to the pair of leather armchairs with padded arms which stood either side of the window with an oak wash-stand between them. Anyone entering the room could have been forgiven for thinking it was that of a gentleman, and one of some standing to boot.
Once Polly had entered with the water and left again,Vincent did not immediately begin his toilette. After taking off his greatcoat he walked across to the beautifully wrought cheval mirror in a corner of the room, standing and surveying his reflection for more than a minute. He was thirty-four years of age and he wasn’t an unattractive-looking man. His hair was still thick and strong, and although the alcohol
Polly would have to go. The thought stilled his hand on the latch of the front door. But only for a moment.
There were ways and means, he told himself grimly. But first he needed to see how the land lay, and to do that he would need to proceed carefully. But he could be patient when necessary. That was one of the things the fools who had under-estimated him in the past didn’t understand. He was cleverer than all of them put together. That was why they scratched a living in filth and muck under the ground like the ignorant animals they were, and he lived in comfort and prosperity.
Pushing open the heavy oak door he walked into the cottage. The appetising aroma of his dinner vied with the smell of beeswax from the many items of fine furniture he insisted were polished every day. Polly appeared in the kitchen doorway with his slippers in her hands. Her voice matched her thin frame, mousy hair and nondescript features. Dully, she said, ‘The water’s hot and I’ll bring it straight up.Your clothes are laid out on the bed.’ It was his custom to wash his face and hands on returning home and change into a clean shirt and his smoking jacket.
Kneeling in front of him she took off his boots and he stepped into his slippers. He did not thank her for her ministrations but walked to the stairs, and behind him he heard her scurry into the kitchen. Her fear of him pleased Vincent; in fact, it was the basis of their relationship. When he’d brought Polly to the cottage from the workhouse twelve years ago, ostensibly to care for his mother who was ailing and see to the house, he’d chosen a girl he could easily bend to his will. His mother had died slowly and painfully, since the poison he’d used had to be given in small quantities to remain undetected, and by the time she’d passed away Polly wouldn’t so much as breathe unless he gave the word. Orphaned and placed in the workhouse as a baby she had been trained not to think for herself since a child but to obey unquestioningly, and he had taken full advantage of this.
He had first taken her on the evening of the day of his mother’s funeral, and once he had found he could subjugate her as he wished, had given free rein to the strong unnatural desires he’d previously kept for the women in the brothel he’d frequented. The indignities he heaped upon her were never spoken about between them; in fact, he rarely spoke to her at all. She did not – and never had – receive a wage; her reward for her services as his ‘housekeeper’ were a roof over her head and being fed and clothed.
The bedroom was as warm as toast when he opened the door, the fire in the small black-leaded grate heaped high with glowing red coals. Every item of furniture in the room was of superior quality, from the James I carved oak tester-bed, wardrobe and chest of drawers, to the pair of leather armchairs with padded arms which stood either side of the window with an oak wash-stand between them. Anyone entering the room could have been forgiven for thinking it was that of a gentleman, and one of some standing to boot.
Once Polly had entered with the water and left again,Vincent did not immediately begin his toilette. After taking off his greatcoat he walked across to the beautifully wrought cheval mirror in a corner of the room, standing and surveying his reflection for more than a minute. He was thirty-four years of age and he wasn’t an unattractive-looking man. His hair was still thick and strong, and although the alcohol
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