Torn. Karen Turner

He leaned back in his seat, pulling the reins taut but the coach rocked back and forth as the horses danced in fright and Jemima barked furiously.

      A stable boy attempted to grasp the horses’ halters but ducked immediately to the side, narrowly avoiding the startled, sidestepping animals.

      Simon continued to hold Jemima, and Maeve was clutching the squirming cat to her chest, but the infuriated feline lashed out to rake her face. Maeve’s cry of pain changed to one of alarm as, in a tumble of white fluff, the animal leapt free, streaked across the lawn and disappeared among the trees in the park.

      Jemima squirmed frantically, desperate to give chase. Had I been holding her rather than Simon she’d have surely broken free; as it was, she began a high-pitched yelping.

      “Boy,” Gerrard addressed the stable lad, “go fetch some help – find that cat.”

      The lad nodded and dashed away.

      Maeve began to cry and her father folded her against his broad chest.

      Suddenly Mother was at my shoulder. “Alexandra, I have warned you about that dog in the past. Bring the stableman now. I shall see he knocks it on the head. It is more trouble than it is worth.”

      “But Mother,” I pleaded. “She’s only being a dog. Please, I’ll keep her tied up, I –”

      Mother held up her hand. “We’ve had this discussion before Alexandra, and I’m in no mood to continue it now. Anne, run along, fetch the stableman.”

      Anne stood rooted to the spot, her eyes wide with dread, “Mother …” she began softly.

      “Go Anne, I’ve had well enough – go now.”

      Still Anne hesitated. “Mother, please don’t ask this of me …” she said, her lisp more pronounced than normal.

      Maeve stood in the circle of her father’s arms. She glanced at me apologetically, then turned to Mother, “My lady … please …”

      Mother ignored her. “Now!” She demanded, in a voice that made the horses toss their heads in fright again. “That dog has to go, Alexandra, you’ve been warned time and again … useless cur … get rid of it,” she turned to Anne. “Go! I’ll not repeat myself again.”

      “Mother, no!” I wailed, while Anne continued to stare at Mother. This could not be happening. My eyes darted frantically from face to face, and came to rest on Simon. He’d been looking at Patrick and now he turned to me.

      “Simon … please …” I begged and tears ran unchecked down my cheeks.

      He shook his head. “Zan –”

      “Please …” I cried again.

      At that moment, Patrick spoke up – his first words since arriving.

      “Give me the dog. I’ll take it to the stableman.” Mother eyed him curiously for a moment before nodding curtly and pointing to the side of the house towards the stables.

      “No!” I screamed and lunged towards Jemima but Simon was already dragging her in Patrick’s direction.

      “Mother no … please … please!” I was screaming now and Jemima, confused and suddenly aware that she was in great trouble, cowered on the ground. Leaning over, Patrick easily scooped the frozen dog into his arms and walked away.

      “No …!”

      Simon tried to pull me into his arms but I fought him.

      “Alexandra! Go into the house!” Mother commanded but I paid no heed. “Alexandra!”

      I stopped and turned to her. “Why are you doing this? Why would you kill my dog?”

      “I said, go into the house now, and I’ll not say it again.”

      “Do as she says,” Simon said firmly.

      “How can you do this? You of all people … Simon?”

      “Oh for goodness sake, Alexandra, do as instructed for once in your life.” Mother looked weary, but she was not going to back down. I looked at Anne’s stricken face, at Gerrard wiping Maeve’s tears with his handkerchief, and knew nobody would take my part.

      I let myself go limp in Simon’s arms, long enough for him to relax his hold – this was my cue. With an explosive burst, I broke into a run but, hampered by my skirt, I’d only gone a few yards when a strong hand grasped my arm, all but jerking me off my feet.

      “Simon! Let go …!” I struggled desperately, screaming and slapping at him. “What’s wrong with you …?” I sobbed, “Let go … let … me … go!”

      “Alex, stop it!” he shouted into my face, “It’s too late …”

      I beat at his chest with my free hand but he gripped my chin, forcing the direction of my head. That’s when I heard the crunch of gravel and saw Patrick’s return, his face set like stone.

      “See?” Simon said, gently. “It’s over.”

      I cried until my head ached and my eyes were so swollen I could barely open them. I held the pillow to my face and screamed until my throat hurt, but still the pain throbbed and constricted my chest. How could this have happened? How could Mother have ordered such a monstrous thing? I thought my heart would break apart from grief and anger.

      And Patrick! How dared he? He no sooner arrived and … I could not even shape the words in my mind.

      “Oh Jemima …” I cried and turned to my pillow again.

      Was it quick? Oh God! Please let it have been quickly done. How I hated Patrick. I’d known him less than ten minutes and I hated him with every drop of blood, every bone in my body. Was he trying to win favours with my mother? Surely if he’d not interfered I could have reasoned with her. And as for Simon … We’d always defended one another, but when I’d needed his support … nothing! The sooner the two went to university the better. And as for the others … they could all go to the moon in a basket!

      Some time later there was a tentative knock at my door. “Miss Alex, I’ve brought your supper.” It was Janet. I didn’t answer. “Miss Alex?” The door opened slightly, there was a pause, then it closed quietly and I was alone again – with Jemima’s cold, empty basket beside my bed.

      Appropriately, it rained that night. I remained in my room, having no desire to see or speak to anyone. By morning, my head was pounding mercilessly, and when Janet brought a breakfast tray, I turned away.

      “Cook made it especially,” she said, smiling cautiously. “Fruit-bread, still hot from the oven. Oh Miss Alex … I’m so sorry.”

      I stared vacantly at the drapery around my bed and, though the bread smelled good, I could not stomach it. Janet rinsed a cloth in cool water and bathed my face. I didn’t speak; I had no words. I hated everyone. I particularly hated Patrick.

      Finally, to my relief, Janet left me in peace and I continued to stare at my wall – I may even have slept, for I started slightly at another knock at my door.

      “May I come in? It’s Pat.” His voice was soft and hesitant but instantly my blood began to boil and hot tears of rage welled in my eyes.

      “You get the hell away from me!” I swore at the door.

      Defiantly, it opened and his tousled blond head appeared. “Get out!” I screamed, but he slipped inside: infuriatingly, in the face of my anger, he was calm. I took up a glass from my side table and hurled it with everything I had. Sadly, it missed its target and smashed against the door.

      “Whew,”