Rosetta Read Online Free PDF Page A

whiskey. Rosetta puzzles over this prolonged absence. Suddenly lonely, she longs for his company.
    When she hears the rasp of the key turning in the lock, she looks up eagerly. She has no doubt what a new husband’s customary expressions of devotion might be. Rosetta anticipates a charming compliment and the type of romantic gesture described in the novels she borrows from the library. (They make much of eyes meeting eyes and lips other lips, say little of greater familiarity.)
    The door swings open. She sees Louis frowning. He is terse, says only, ‘I left you long enough. Yet I see that you have chosen not to prepare yourself for me.’
    Rosetta is confused. What does he want? Why are his lips so narrow, his jaw so tight? Her husband’s arms are folded high upon his chest. His hands are clenched in a way that reminds her of the men she has seen outside factories when there is no work to be had. She hasn’t seen him look like this before, frustrated and annoyed and grim. He has always seemed reasonable and moderate. Rosetta does not know what she has or hasn’t done to bring about this change of temperament.
    She looks away, finds herself confronted by the ruby coverlet upon the bed, the amber and the gold of its embellished trim. This lavishness, so recently admired, now cloys. She feels uncomfortable.
    Louis steps forward. He holds her shoulders, hard, looks at her and says, ‘I expected you to be ready in the manner in which a wife should be. Take off your clothes now, Rosetta.’ He does not like women to toy with him.
    She does not like his voice. She hears a razored edge. It brings out the wilfulness within her. She may be just eighteen but, as an eldest child of many children, Rosetta is used to commanding some authority.
    She does not try to struggle from his grip, not yet, but merely says, ‘What right have you to speak to me like this?’ The tone shestrains for is imperious, but a tremor in her voice betrays a lack of certainty.
    â€˜Rosetta, I am your husband.’
    It is not the words – they are innocuous – but the way in which he speaks them that penetrates. There is no tenderness, no warmth. Even anger would be better. At least that would provide some evidence of feeling. Often Rosetta’s own emotions bubble over – the younger children know when to avoid her quick tirades. But she has always been filled with life and when she swings them high or plans some adventure they soon forget her hot temper, the sudden slap.
    Louis’ tone is cold. Cold and hard as metal railings on a freezing day. He is a strong man with muscled arms and a fierce grip acquired by heaving bails of wool and lifting bags of wheat. He hoists them in the air to feel their weight, trusting instinct more than the scales of other men. He will not be taken for a fool.
    Now his strength is used against Rosetta. He spins her around, forcing her down until she is pinned to the bed. Rosetta’s face is buried in that treacherous coverlet. It seems to rise up about her so that she gasps for air. One of Louis’ hands moves from her shoulder. It clamps a flailing, pale-skinned arm. His other hand claws at the silken undergarments beneath her petticoats and gown. The sound as they tear and give way is like a sea bird’s cry, a sharp lament.
    She has misjudged him. He is not passionless and cold. His manner masks the fury of a man who, thwarted, feels humiliated. Rosetta tries to stop him, tries to strike out with the hand she still has free. He doesn’t notice, immersed in a ruthless mission all his own. Face still down, struggling for breath, Rosetta is blinded. It is impossible to see or know what is taking place. Possession, when it comes, is short and brutal. Any softness she has felt for him has been replaced by something poisonous and molten. Her sightlessness intensifies the pain. Robbed of one sense, those that remain are so heightened that all her being is inhabited