Abbeyford Remembered by Margaret Dickinson Page A

it?” His voice was low with emotion. “ Rough I may be, but I’m no ignorant brute. But you’re my wife, and, by God, you’ll be my wife!”
    Gone was his joviality. There was no mistaking the steel in his voice. Carrie shuddered. She had heard it before, but never directed at herself until this moment. He turned and strode from the room, banging the door behind him. As she heard his feet clatter down the stairs, Carrie could only feel relief.
    Lloyd Foster made his way to the saloon bar, where he drank steadily through the night until drunkenness dulled his frustrated passion for his bride.
    The following day, much to Carrie’s surprise, Lloyd Foster seemed to have recovered his usual cheerful spirits. He laughed loudly with the innkeeper, tipped the stable boy lavishly for looking after the horse and was courteous towards Carrie. She avoided meeting his gaze and so did not see for herself the pain deep in his eyes, hidden by his outward show of good humour. She was quiet, withdrawn into her own private misery, repulsing all attempts Foster made to reach her.
    They travelled on, Carrie sullen and silent, Foster singing Irish folksongs at the top of his loud and surprisingly tuneful voice. They stayed in a pleasant hotel in London, though where Foster slept Carrie never knew nor cared to enquire, for each night she slept alone.
    He took her to the shops and insisted she should buy herself a trousseau, but Carrie had no idea how a lady should dress and was at the mercy of the dressmaker. All manner of clothing was laid before her, such items as she had never seen, let alone possessed. Flannel vests, cotton chemises, petticoats, corsets, cotton drawers, white thread stockings, coloured silk stockings, kid gloves, silk gloves, morning dresses and afternoon dresses of silk cashmere, black silk skirts and bodices, two evening gowns and a white lace ball gown, so beautiful it took Carrie’s breath away. Shawls and cloaks and hats, even a parasol edged with lace. Neat button boots and shoes for day and evening wear which Carrie’s feet had never known.
    â€œI can’t accept all this,” she hissed at Lloyd Foster, gesturing towards all the garments being wrapped by the willing assistants.
    â€œAh, so you can find it in you to speak to me,” Lloyd said, his mouth smiling but his eyes reproachful. It was the first time she had spoken to him since their marriage – except to answer his questions in sullen monosyllables. “And you will accept it. It is a husband’s duty to provide for his wife, is it not, now?”
    Her violet eyes flashed – the first time she had shown any spark of life since leaving Abbeyford.
    â€œI’ll not be bought !” She glared at him, standing facing him in the centre of the fashionable shop, her hands on her hips.
    â€œOh, an’ I love you when you’re angry,” Lloyd Foster’s booming laugh rang out, causing the dressmaker to ‘tut-tut’ and her young assistants to giggle to each other. Carrie stamped her foot, causing the girls to give little shrieks of horror. It was the behaviour they were not accustomed to seeing in their shop – not the behaviour of a lady!
    â€œ I’m serious – even if you’re not,” Carrie cried angrily.
    â€œOh, me darlin’, I was never more serious in the whole of me life.” The hint of steel was in his eyes again. He took hold of her wrist, and though he only held her lightly with one hand, she could feel the strength in his fingers. “You will accept these gifts, my lovely wife !” The accent on the last word was audible only to Carrie.
    Thwarted, she flounced out of the shop and stood waiting for him in the street outside. He sauntered out in due course, now seeming quite unperturbed by her outburst.
    As they walked along she stole a glance at him. Wherever he was, she thought, he seemed at ease. Whether it was amongst the navvies, covered