Pit Bank Wench (20 page)

Young Payne might be a bit of a fop but beneath it all there lay a brain. If only his father had forced him to turn it to the steel works instead of letting him fritter away his time in gambling houses and whores’ beds.

Carver ran a glance over the rack of shirts hanging in his dressing room.

They had signed contracts that morning, each taking a copy as proof of his one-third share in the canal venture. Carver had not counted on that happening.

Selecting a shirt of ivory silk, he slipped it on, fastening each tiny mother-of-pearl button with dextrous fingers.

Contracts had a way of binding a man to his word. But contracts could be bought or given away!

Settling on an amber silk cravat, he slipped it about his neck, fashioning it into a graceful knot at his throat.

It was fortunate Payne liked the ladies; even more fortunate that one of those ladies was Melissa Gilbert. It had been obvious that night at dinner. Arthur Payne would like to know that particular lady a little more intimately. Carver gazed into the mirror. But there was the problem of the over-attentive Cara. The woman was possessive where the pretty Lissa was concerned. One would almost think she was the girl’s mother! Though even mothers could be persuaded.

Shrugging into the dove grey cashmere jacket set out for him, Carver brushed his finger over its velvet collar, a speculative expression on his face.

Cara too could be persuaded, if it was to her financial benefit. A contract in exchange for a rich husband for her beloved cousin, the exchange of a contract for a hefty sum for Cara Holgate. Taking gloves and handkerchief from a mahogany tallboy, Carver smiled. The contract would not lie long in Arthur Payne’s safe!

Dismissing the smile but not the thought as his carriage stopped at Cara Holgate’s house, he walked inside.

‘There’s no need for introductions.’ Cara gestured gracefully to a chair as he was shown into the drawing room. ‘You know everyone here, Carver, we’re all friends.’

‘Indeed we are.’ He acknowledged each with a nod but coming to Melissa Gilbert, raised her hand to his lips, saying, ‘But with some we would have that friendship become . . . deeper.’

‘We were just discussing a shopping expedition.’ Cara moved quickly to stand beside her cousin’s chair. ‘Melissa is very fond of enamels. She was enchanted by the brooch you gave me for Christmas. I thought we might visit Birmingham, they have a larger selection of shops than we have here.’

‘They have shops it is true.’ Carver smiled at Cara’s cousin. ‘But we can do better than any shop. A visit to an enameller’s workshop, to commission a trinket of your very own design. You would not find such in a Birmingham store.’

‘Oh, come now, Carver.’ Harriet Langton admonished him. ‘You cannot possibly mean to propose a visit to such a place? The dirt and the smells . . . oh, my dear Melissa, you have no idea what those places are like!’

‘They are dirty, just like an iron foundry is dirty.’ Carver continued to look into Melissa Gilbert’s cool grey eyes. ‘They smell of chemicals and smoke as do the factories of this town, but the skills of the Bilston enamellers are worthy of a visit. Their work is the finest in the world, even Her Majesty has said so.’

‘But Melissa can see their products just as well in a shop.’ Harriet waved one hand dismissively. ‘Tell him so, Cara, tell him you will not allow her to go swanning around filthy workshops . . .’

‘My cousin does not order me,’ Melissa broke in before Harriet could say more or Cara could answer. ‘She advises, Mrs Langton.’

‘Then listen to her advice, child!’ Harriet flapped her ornately painted fan. ‘Men sometimes forget there are places where it is not seemly for a woman to be seen.’

‘Harriet is speaking sensibly, my dear.’ Cara watched Carver settle into an elegant Sheraton chair. ‘The workshops at Bilston are not a suitable place for you. You will do far better to visit the shops at Birmingham.’

‘Have you ever visited the enamel workshops, Cara?’

Eyes widening innocently, Melissa twisted around to look into her cousin’s face.

Taken aback by the question Cara breathed a relieved sigh as dinner was announced.

‘You did not answer me,’ Melissa reproved as they took their seats at table. ‘I asked, have you paid a visit to these Bilston enamellers?’

Damn Carver Felton! Cara spread a perfectly laundered napkin across her lap. She knew what lay behind this talk of a Bilston visit. Carver would have Lissa to himself, maybe for longer than it took to view some pretty bits and pieces. He was not interested in where the girl chose her trinket. So just what was it that interested him?

Her smile not reaching her eyes, Cara lifted a crystal glass, taking a sip before replying. ‘Yes, I have. Carver took me there a year or so ago.’

‘Then that settles it! If it is a place my cousin can visit then I am sure, Mrs Langton, you will agree it is not unseemly for me to do the same. And since you have been once already, Cara, I will not ask you to repeat the disagreeable experience. I shall ask Mr Felton to take me. I am certain you will have no objection to that, Cara?’ Melissa turned her face to Carver. ‘You will take me to Bilston, will you not, Carver?’

‘Providing your cousin has no objection to your being alone with me, then I would deem it an honour.’

Bastard! Lids veiling her green-gold eyes, Cara hid the animosity that rose high in her. He knew an answer such as he had given left no room for refusal without downright rudeness. Not that she and rudeness were strangers, but for now she would observe the proprieties.

But soon, very soon now, Carver Felton would be brought to heel. Once they were married the situation would be very different indeed.

‘Wait for me at the top end of Union Street.’ Those had been Daisy’s words before they had parted early that morning. They had both agreed it might be easier for them to find work singly rather than together. Emma drew her shawl more tightly about her. For herself it had been another day that brought no reward, the answer the same wherever she asked. No help wanted.

Things could not go on this way. Sick with hunger, she leaned against a shop wall. They had talked of their situation for a long time last night, sheltering behind the sheds at the railway sidings. Emma had told Daisy that there was no alternative, they must go to the workhouse. But she had not told the girl of the child she carried. Maybe Daisy would have been more understanding had she done so; as it was she had made no answer, merely lowered her face into her shawl. And now she was not where she had promised they would meet!

Pushing herself away from the wall at the approach of quick footsteps, Emma caught her breath as a woman turned the corner and collided heavily with her, knocking Emma off her feet.

‘Why don’t you shift yourself out of the way!’ the woman snapped angrily. ‘You’d do a bloody sight better were you to find yourself work instead of hangin’ about the streets getting under the feet of honest working folk! I don’t know what things be coming to, I really don’t – standing begging in the streets, living off the backs of others afore you’ll do a day’s work!’

‘I apologise if I was in your way.’ Emma steadied herself as the woman hitched a basket higher on her arm. ‘But I am not begging, I am . . .’

‘If you ain’t begging then what do you be doing standing on the street and it almost ten o’clock at night?’ the woman replied tartly. ‘Waiting for some man who’ll part with a shilling for a feel beneath your skirts? Well, we’ll see what the bobbies have to say about that!’

Muttering beneath her breath, she swept on her way.

That woman had thought she was a beggar. In the darkness Emma’s cheeks flamed, then just as quickly her blood turned to ice. It was worse than that. The woman had thought she was a whore! Behind her the shop door rattled loudly as it was flung wide and a tall man, made taller by the top hat he wore, came out.

Peering at Emma threateningly, he raised the stick he held to shoulder height.

‘What be you up to?’ he shouted and stepped closer, the stick lifting several inches. ‘I seen you bump that woman, trying to knock the basket from her arm!’

Nervously Emma stepped backward, feeling the brick wall hard against her back. ‘I . . . I beg your pardon? I think you have made a mistake.’

‘I made no mistake.’ The stick danced in the air. ‘I seen you, through my shop window. You deliberately pushed that woman!’

Both hands clutching the shawl across her breasts, Emma stared at him with frightened eyes and when she answered her voice shook. ‘I . . . I told you, sir, you have made a mistake.’

‘And so have you!’ he snarled. ‘If you think you can rob folk outside my shop then it be
you
have made the mistake.’

‘Rob?’ Nerves taut as a pulled thread Emma stared in disbelief at the shopkeeper, the stick now held above his top hat. She had tried to rob no one. That woman had bumped into her, had almost knocked her down, he must have seen that.

‘Your sort need a few strokes of the cat.’ The stick cut through the darkness and Emma screamed as it bit through the thin shawl and slashed her shoulders. ‘A swish or two of that one’s tail and you won’t be so quick to rob the next woman.’

‘I didn’t rob her, I didn’t . . .’ Her words fell away as the stick whistled once more, striking her arms heavily as she curled her head protectively into them.

‘Gaol be where you belong.’ The stick struck again, tumbling Emma to the ground. ‘Ten years’ hard labour be the lesson needed to teach you to keep your thieving fingers to yourself!’

At the sound of footsteps coming towards them the man took a step away from Emma’s crouching figure and the stick dropped to his side. Glancing quickly sideways as two women rounded the corner, he said loudly, ‘It’s as well I caught you, woman, or who knows how many more you would have robbed tonight?’

‘Robbed!’ One of the passersby gasped, drawing back as though a leper’s bell had rung.

‘Your sort are a disgrace to this town and a danger to honest folk.’ He affected not to have seen or heard the two women. ‘You walk the streets, waiting your chance to rob . . .’

‘No!’ Emma pushed herself to her feet. ‘I have robbed no one. I had no intention . . .’

‘Oh, I know of your intention, I
seen
your intention, now the magistrate will hear what you were up to.’

‘What has this woman done?’ A little braver than her companion, a woman in a feathered bonnet stepped up to the shopkeeper.

Pretending surprise, he raised his top hat. Standing aside for the woman to pass, he shook his head sorrowfully. ‘I regret you had to come face to face with such a woman, ladies, really I do. I would not have had you witness such a distressing scene.’

‘I asked what it was she has done?’ The feathered bonnet bobbed irately.

‘Perhaps you would care to take shelter in my shop?’ The tall figure bowed obsequiously.

‘Take shelter? . . . Take shelter, pah! Is the woman about to attack all three of us, and you so brave as to take a stick to her?’ The woman turned to Emma. ‘You, girl, what is it you did to deserve a beating and an appearance before the magistrate?’

‘I have done nothing, ma’am.’ Emma looked the woman in the eye, her glance open and unwavering. ‘I was waiting for my friend when a lady bumped into me and I fell against this shop window. I did not rob her, I would never do such a thing.’

‘I seen . . .’

‘No.’ The woman spoke quietly, her own glance on Emma. ‘No, I do not believe you did rob anyone. Now get you home before any other mischance occurs.’

‘But I saw her!’ the shopkeeper protested, seeing his moment of glory fading before it got started.

‘You believe what you
think
you saw.’ Turning her cool stare on the shopkeeper, feathered bonnet bobbing in the pale light from his window, the woman answered firmly, ‘But we cannot allow what we think to influence us unduly. Has that person returned . . . whoever it was who claimed to have been robbed?’ She glanced again at Emma. ‘The light here is not too good and mistakes are easily made. Now do as I say and go to your home.’

Sobbing her thanks, Emma gathered her skirts, and as the women turned away she began to run.

‘Bloody interfering do-gooders!’ Muttering beneath his breath, the shopkeeper watched the two women disappear into the shadows. ‘No wonder there be thieves on the streets when there be folk like that to stick up for ’em!’

Turning towards the shop he halted. There on the ground, right where the lady with the feathered bonnet had stood, lay a small dark object, only just visible in the weak gaslight from his shop.

A smile on his mean mouth, he picked up a small leather purse.

‘Bloody do-gooders,’ he chuckled, slipping it into his pocket. ‘They done a bit of good after all!’

Her lungs bursting for breath, Emma came to a stop, shrinking back as a handcart rumbled past. Daisy wasn’t coming. She must have thought that without her Emma would go into the workhouse. Fright and hunger too strong for her to contain, Emma sobbed aloud. Daisy had been such a loyal friend, she could have left before spending the money she had earned by scrubbing ’til her hands bled. It would have lasted longer with only one mouth to feed. Then there had been the nights in the lodging house; they had cost money too but Daisy had made no complaint. She had paid the cost but if she had been alone she would not have taken lodgings. She had only done it for Emma’s sake – and all the time she had positively refused to allow the spending of Carver Felton’s shilling.

Carver Felton! Emma pressed one corner of her shawl to her mouth, holding back the sobs. Did he ever think of what he had done to her, ever feel remorse? No, Carver Felton would feel nothing. To him she had been a woman of no account, someone to use and then forget, just another of the things he had abandoned.

And Paul, did he think of her? He had promised that on his return they would be married.