Cavendon Hall. Barbara Taylor Bradford
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such an odd place for it to visit. She couldn’t help wondering why it kept coming back, but then perhaps it liked the stream and the woodland setting. Maybe it feels at home—
This thought was cut off when something hard struck her back, just between her shoulder blades. She pitched forward, hitting her head against a log as she fell to the ground. She lay still for a moment, stunned and overcome by dizziness. Realizing she had been attacked by someone, she endeavoured to stand up; she managed to get onto her knees, was about to scramble to her feet, but instead she was pinned to the ground from behind, and with brute force.
She struggled to free herself but the weight on top of her was too much; suddenly she was turned over, roughly, and laid on her back.
Daphne stared up at her attacker, the man who was pinning her down with such strength. He had wrapped a dark-grey scarf around his head and face, and all she could see were his eyes. They were hard, cruel, and because of the scarf she had no idea who he was. And she was terrified.
Understanding that she had no chance of escaping him, she began to shake, apprehension overwhelming her. In one last valiant effort, she pushed at him hard, but it was impossible to throw him off.
When he brought his hand close to her neck, she cringed and held herself still. She thought he was going to strangle her. Instead he ripped the front of her blouse, bent over her; he found her breasts, began to fondle and then pinch one of them harder and harder. He hurt her, and she screamed. This he immediately stopped by putting his hand over her mouth. With the other he lifted her skirt.
Rigid with fear, knowing there was no escaping him, understanding his intentions, Daphne snapped her eyes shut and prayed to God he would not kill her when he was finished with her.
He raped her.
The wild, rampaging man forced himself on her. He was hurting her; pain flowed through her, and she felt as though her insides were being ripped apart. She knew that to scream again would be useless, and gritted her teeth, turned her head to one side, straining away from him. There was nothing else she could do … except to shut it out.
All of a sudden the man began to move against her very quickly, shuddering and gasping. With a long groan he finally stopped moving, fell against her, all of his weight on her. And his body went limp.
In that instant Daphne seized the moment. She reached up, grabbed at the scarf around his face, tugged at it hard. When it came away, and she saw his face, she gaped at him in astonishment, horror and disbelief.
The man who had just raped her was Richard Torbett, Julian’s older brother. Still stunned by the violent attack, aghast that someone she knew had done this to her, she was unable to speak.
As for Torbett, he was infuriated that his identity had been revealed. Bright colour flooded his face as anger took hold of him.
He leaned down, brought his head close to hers. Against her ear, he hissed, ‘Speak of this to anyone and they will be killed. Your baby sister and your mother. I know men who’ll do the job for a few pounds. Not one word. Understand?’
Shock and genuine fear rendered Daphne speechless. She could only nod.
He pushed himself to his feet, stood looking down at her. ‘Remember, keep your mouth shut.’
Daphne closed her eyes. She heard him rustling through the bushes, obviously not wanting to be seen on the path. She felt as though her whole body had been bludgeoned. And so she lay very still, trying to breathe normally, hoping to get her strength back, wondering if she would be able to walk. She wasn’t even sure she could get up. Tears seeped from underneath her eyelids and trickled down her cheeks, as she continued to lay there dazed, unable to focus, hurting all over. He would not return, of that she was certain. He had taken what he wanted.
Daphne felt a gentle finger on her face, smoothing away the tears, and then a voice was saying her name. ‘Lady Daphne, Lady Daphne.’
She opened her eyes and saw the gypsy girl kneeling next to her, looking concerned.
‘Genevra,’ Daphne said, attempting to sit up.
The girl offered her hand, and helped Daphne into a sitting position. She said, ‘Come on … let’s go, m’lady. Dark clouds. Mebbe rain.’
With a bit of effort, Daphne managed to get to her feet, and immediately straightened her clothes, pulling her jacket around her torn blouse. Genevra handed Daphne her hat, which had fallen off in the struggle, and she put it on her head. Then she limped back to Cavendon, helped by Genevra all the way. When they came to the end of the woods, Genevra stopped, and gave Daphne a penetrating look. She said, ‘Yer fell down, my lady.’
Daphne stared at her, puzzled. She frowned at the gypsy girl.
Genevra said again, ‘Yer fell down, Lady Daphne. That’s wot ’appened ter yer.’
Daphne nodded. ‘I fell down,’ she repeated, and realized immediately that Genevra had witnessed the attack on her. She shrivelled inside at the thought, a shocked look on her face.
The Romany nodded, swung around and pointed towards Cavendon on the hill. ‘Go, Lady Daphne, go on! There yer’ll be safe.’ She smiled, raced off, heading for the long meadow.
Daphne watched her go, feeling grateful to her. I didn’t even thank her for helping me home, she chastised herself, annoyed at her thoughtlessness. On the other hand, she was still reeling from what had occurred, her horrific violation, stunned that she had been attacked by one of her own kind, an aristocrat, no less, who had known her all her life.
Genevra had been right. It began to rain. Daphne felt the first drops on her forehead as she arrived at Cavendon. Avoiding both the kitchen and the front doors, having no desire to run into anyone, she slipped into the house through the conservatory. Only she and her mother used this room, and her mother was in Harrogate today.
Once she was inside the house, Daphne experienced an enormous sense of relief. She also wondered how she had managed to climb the hill. Walking the final stretch on her own had been difficult. It struck her that she would never even have made it through the woods, if not for the gypsy girl’s help. Genevra had supported her, held her upright all the way.
Crossing the terracotta-tiled floor of the conservatory, Daphne went up the back staircase. Half way, she had to sit down on a step for a moment. Her back hurt, and she was sore and bruised. What she needed was a hot bath to ease her aching body. She must also calm herself, take control of her swimming and troubled senses, come to grips with what had happened. She was filled with fear, as well as horror-struck by what had been done to her with such force and cruelty.
Taking a few deep breaths, she finally rose and continued up the narrow staircase. When she finally stepped out into the bedroom corridor, she found herself standing in front of DeLacy and Cecily. Both girls had their arms full of summer frocks, and Alice was immediately behind them.
‘Daphne!’ DeLacy cried, when she saw her sister. ‘Whatever’s happened? You look as if you’ve been pulled through a hedge backwards!’
Cecily was also gaping at Daphne, looking startled, but she did not utter a word.
Filled with dismay, her heart sinking, Daphne remained silent. She had been taken by surprise, and was flustered, rooted to the spot. Cringing inside, she shrank closer to the wall.
It was Alice Swann who immediately took charge. She had noticed Daphne’s dishevelled appearance at once, knew something was terribly amiss, and was alarmed by Daphne’s stricken expression.
Turning to the girls, she said, ‘Please take the frocks upstairs to the sewing room.’ She smiled at DeLacy, ‘And why don’t you try on a few of them, m’lady? You and Cecily can decide which ones you like the best. I will join you shortly.’
They did as she suggested, knowing it was best not to say anything,