Pit Bank Wench (13 page)

Give him his peace? Emma stared at the curls of smoke spiralling into the sky. Give the preacher man his peace. But who would give
her
peace?

‘Has it been done as I ordered?’

Carver Felton stood in the yard of the Topaz mine. Beside him John Barlow touched one hand to his badly swollen face.

‘I sent half a dozen men with pickaxes over there at first light. Them folk will be out and the houses half down by this time.’ Barlow winced from the pain of moving his split lip.

Carver watched as a young boy pushed against a bogie loaded with coal then struggled to hitch it to the steel rope of the donkey engine that would haul it the rest of the way to the loading bank. The houses at Plovers Croft were being demolished to make way for the canal that would carry his coal and his steel. The fact that families would be put out on the road caused him not a moment’s concern.

‘I want no hitch,’ he snapped, watching the boy run back towards the shaft head where yet another loaded wagon waited to be pushed to the donkey line. ‘See that it is finished before dark. I want nobody slipping back there.’

Pain registering the move of sore limbs, Barlow touched a finger to his brow as Carver turned away. ‘There’ll be nowhere for them to slip into, Mr Felton. Rest assured, Plovers Croft will be nowt but a pile of broken bricks afore nightfall.’

Swinging himself easily into the saddle, Carver touched a heel to his grey stallion. It would be as Barlow said, but nevertheless it would do no harm to see for himself.

It could be he had razed those houses for no purpose. He considered the possibility, allowing the horse to set its own pace. He had the agreement of Langton and Payne, they had seen the extra profit a speedier means of getting their wares to their respective markets would bring. But to do that, to connect a waterway to the existing canal, meant getting the consent of the owner, and the aristocracy were not noted for their concessions to what they called tradesmen. But there were means and there were ways. Carver smiled. He knew them all. The master of Aston Grange might be a lord, but he was also a man, one whose appetite for pleasure went far beyond the bedroom door. There would be no problem meeting the price of Anslow Lacy. And that other problem . . . how would he meet the price set by Cara Holgate?

Beautiful, greedy Cara. Satisfaction in his smile, Carver glanced towards the distant town. He already had the answer to that.

But did he have the answer to his other problem? The one that had haunted him day and night since raping that girl. What in hell had driven him so far?

Paul was his only brother, it had been done for him, to save him from himself, the young fool couldn’t possibly know what he was doing, marrying a pit bank wench. Talking to him would have done no good, his brother could be obstinate . . . too obstinate. No, it had to be done that way. Only by his turning the girl into a whore would Paul be made to see sense; and he had to see it. Keeping his place in society made that a must, and to keep that place meant marrying well; if Paul could not see that for himself then Carver must look to it for him. Losing the wench might sting Paul’s feelings for a while but he would get over that. He would see the name of Felton had to come first, that it was for his own good . . .

And the girl’s good, what of that?

‘
A present of considerable value . . .
’

Cara Holgate’s words returned to his mind. She had asked for twenty per cent of his canal venture for the use of her body while he had taken the pit bank wench for a shilling.

A shilling for her virginity!

The thought a guilt-tipped spear in his mind, he touched heels to the horse.

There could be nothing of greater value, nothing more precious for any woman to give to a husband, and he had robbed that girl of hers.

But he had done it for Paul . . . done it to prevent his brother from making a mistake, the mistake of marrying beneath himself, of tarnishing the family name.

That was what he told himself each time that lovely frightened face stared at him behind his closed eyes, each time he tried to sleep.

He had done it for Paul!

But had he? Carver’s fingers tightened on the rein.

A man could lie to anyone except himself.

Cresting a small hillock he stared across a flat expanse of heathland. This was where his canal would cut through. Felton Canal. He liked the sound of it. He had chosen an ideal spot; this land would need no levelling to take warehouses or a wharf.

‘Why did you order our houses flattened?’

Immersed in his thoughts Carver paid no attention to the people straggling across the heath. Now he looked down into the face of a young man, an old one holding to him for support.

‘Are you questioning me?’ His reply as cold as his stare, Carver tightened his grip on the reins.

‘Yes, I’m questioning you. Why have you had Plovers Croft flattened?’

There had been no touch to the forehead, no begging his pardon or calling him sir, none of the respect a labourer commonly showed when speaking to his superior. The open lack of it annoyed him more than the question and his reply was curt.

‘You were given the reason!’

‘Oh, arr.’ The young man’s eyes flashed. ‘That arsehole creeper you call a manager gave the reason and laughed at the giving, but he weren’t laughing when he left.’

So that was what had happened to Barlow! Carver continued to stare at the younger man. The manager had been beaten, and not lightly judging by this man’s physique.

‘Plovers Croft was home to us Mr Felton, sir.’ The old man lifted a finger to his brow. ‘Begging your pardon, but what do we do? We ’ave no place else to go.’

‘He’s not interested in whether or not we have a place to live, Grandfather, all he’s interested in is profit. Who he steps on to make it is of no consequence to him.’

‘Correct.’ Carver’s mouth hardened. ‘You have a sharp tongue as well as a hard fist. Take care you don’t find them both cut away!’

‘And you have a high seat.’ The young man stepped forward. ‘Take care you don’t find yourself tumbled from it!’

‘No, Seth!’ The old man caught at his grandson’s arm. ‘There has been enough brawling. More will bring nothing but hurt to the body and a sure sending down the line for you. Leave it be, we’ll find a place.’

‘Where?’ Furious eyes glared up at Carver. ‘Where will we find a place . . . can you tell him?’

The stallion moved restlessly, sensitive to the anger in Seth’s voice.

‘I can tell him where he will
not
find a place, and neither will you!’ Carver answered. ‘That being anywhere on Felton land. Nor will you find employment in any mine or foundry owned by me. Now, get out of my way!’

‘Why, you . . .’

Shrugging away the hand that had rested on his arm, Seth reached up to Carver, catching his breath as the whip slashed across his face. Whistling as it cut the air, the snake-like strip of plaited leather rose and fell, slicing into his flesh with every stroke. Only when the younger man’s knees buckled and he slumped to the ground did Carver stop.

‘Get him off my land!’ he breathed. ‘And if you don’t know where to go, I believe the workhouse is in that direction!’

Setting his heels to the animal’s flanks, Carver put it to a gallop. One man had learned today it was not a good idea to cross Carver Felton. Others remained to be taught.

‘But what of the burying?’

Polly Butler frowned deeply as she looked at the girl who had spent the night beneath her roof.

‘Surely you will stay for the burying?’

‘There’s nothing to bury.’ Emma suffered agony at each word. The fire had taken every trace, her family was gone.

Polly felt the warmth of colour in her cheeks beneath the film of coal dust that clung to her. She had spoken without thinking. Emma was right. The men had searched the burnt wreckage of that house but had found no remains. Even so, there had to be a service of sorts, it would not be right not to have one.

‘Eh, but Emma wench, you’ll stay for the funeral?’

She’d known she would be asked that. Jerusha had told her so before they parted. It would be easier on her to go in some other direction than toward Wednesbury, her friend had said. By doing so she would avoid the stares of the women picking coal from the pit bank. But Emma could not leave without thanking Polly. Now, as the woman lifted the corner of a rough black apron, wiping it across her face, Emma shook her head. How could there be a funeral when . . .

‘No,’ she murmured, tears thick in her throat.

Polly dropped her apron, one hand smoothing it over her long skirts, her glance quelling the disapproving murmurs of the listening women.

‘Look, Emma. I know this is a terrible time for you, that all you be wanting is to hide yourself away, but the dead must be given their due. They must be laid to rest in the proper manner.’

Eyes brimming, every word a fresh lance of pain, Emma cried out: ‘How? How can I lay the dead to rest . . . where do I find them . . . where? Tell me!’

Pity rising in her, Polly touched one hand to Emma’s. ‘There can be no coffin, that we know. But still we must ask the Lord to take the souls of those you loved, and we respected, into His keeping.’

‘Amen.’ The watching women each crossed her breast as she spoke the one word.

‘We can’t not hold a service for the man who was always ready to do service for the folk of Doe Bank. We can do none other than give him the respect he deserves. You see that, don’t you, wench?’

Respect. Emma felt a sudden desire to laugh. They must show their respect for her father, for the preacher man? Show respect for the things he had done for them. And what of those other things, the vile things he had done to Carrie and maybe others besides? What if she told these women about that, where would their respect be then?

‘I understand.’ Emma drew her hand away. ‘And I thank you for the respect you wish to show to my family. But I will not attend any service. Ask the Lord what you will, I’ll never set foot inside that Chapel again.’

Undeterred by Polly’s scolding glance, withering rebukes followed on her heels as Emma turned away.

Respect and love? She needed no church in which to show them. She would carry them in her heart for as long as she lived. They would both have respect and love forever, her mother and her sister. But what of her father, the preacher man, what would she carry for him?

One hand pressed to her mouth, holding back the sobs, Emma walked away across the heath.

Chapter Nine

‘Carver, how pleasant. I had not thought to see you here.’ Cara Holgate stretched out a hand.

‘I have business in Wednesbury.’ He lifted the gloved hand a little short of his lips. ‘But I had not thought it to bring me the pleasure of seeing you.’

Head bent over her hand, his eyes glinted with suppressed amusement. There was no pleasure for Cara in this meeting, that had showed in the strained look of her painted face and the quick glance she had darted at her companion.

Tight-lipped, she half turned to the woman standing beside her. ‘Lissa, may I present Carver Felton. Mr Felton, my cousin, Miss Melissa Gilbert.’

Carver had not missed the lack of enthusiasm in the introduction, and as he acknowledged the younger woman he wondered at it. Would Cara prefer they had not met? Did she not wish to introduce him to her cousin?

Releasing her hand he gave his most charming smile. Hair the colour of ripe chestnuts and drawn deliberately severely back beneath a pale blue bonnet gave added intensity to the grey eyes smiling back at him from an oval face. The woman, just a little into her twenties, he guessed, was pretty, yet there was something about her that belied the softness of her mouth. The look in those pale eyes held little but calculation.

Alike in more than looks, Cara and her pretty cousin. Carver’s smile deepened. But why had this one not been seen before? Was her delightful chaperone afraid she might meet with undesirable influences, or was the devious Cara protecting her own interests?

If the latter then he must discover just what those interests were.

‘Wednesbury is doubly fortunate.’ He looked deep into the obvious invitation of those grey eyes. ‘Two very beautiful women is one asset this town will be happy to possess. You must stay with us a long time, Miss Gilbert.’

‘Melissa will shortly be returning home, her visit is to be a brief one!’

Carver saw the hand go protectively to her cousin’s elbow and the tightness about Cara’s lips.

‘A pity,’ he returned. ‘But not
so
soon, I hope? Perhaps Miss Gilbert will accompany you to dinner at Felton Hall this evening? You did consent to grace my table with your presence, Cara. Allow us also the privilege of your cousin’s beauty.’

Cara’s glance spit a coldness that would challenge an iceberg. ‘Melissa is still convalescing from a recent illness, she must not be overtired.’

‘Oh, but I am quite well now, Cara.’ Grey eyes smiled directly into Carver’s. ‘I would be delighted to visit Felton Hall. I look forward to it, Mr Felton.’

‘Not as much as I.’ Carver took her hand, pressing it lightly against his mouth. ‘Until this evening.’

Lifting his silver-topped cane in farewell, the smile he gave Cara was triumphant. He turned in the direction of the Golden Cross Hotel. Cara Holgate most definitely did not want him within miles of her attractive cousin. Dear Cara. His smile faded. We cannot always have what we want.

The sound of horses’ hooves and the rumble of carriage wheels roused Emma. It was dark. She glanced towards the distant road that cut across the empty heath, watching the carriage lanterns bob away into the blackness. She must have fallen asleep. She had talked to Polly then . . . She blinked, trying to clear her brain of the shadows of sleep. Then she had walked, but how far? She had been so tired, so utterly weary, that she must have drifted into sleep almost the moment she had sat down in the shelter of a rock.