Pit Bank Wench (26 page)

‘. . . but the best of all be this. Come and see, Emma. Come and see what Mrs Hollington has given to us.’

Grabbing her hand, Daisy pulled her across a cobbled yard that ran behind the house, the whole enclosed by a high garden wall.

Too full of memories of Doe Bank to protest, Emma allowed herself to be led towards a small brick building set a little apart.

‘It be all right, Emma.’ Daisy gave a little laugh as Emma hesitated at the door. ‘We ain’t going where we shouldn’t. Mrs Hollington says we can stay here, can have this place as our home. Look!’ She threw open the door, pulling Emma inside. ‘Look at it, ain’t it lovely?’

Blinking in the light as Daisy turned up the oil lamp, Emma looked around the small room. Pretty curtains sprigged with honeysuckle hung at the single window beneath which a brownstone sink gleamed. Set against one wall stood a bed covered with a patterned quilt, while the centre of the room held a scrubbed table and two straight-backed wooden chairs.

‘Didn’t I say it was lovely?’ Daisy jigged up and down, her face radiant. ‘Oh, Emma, we’ll be so happy here.’

Looking at her friend’s grinning face, Emma felt her own tiredness and misery fade. ‘Yes, Daisy.’ She smiled. ‘We will be happy here.’

A sound at the open door catching their ears, the two girls turned.

‘My Samuel told me about the pork chops.’ Sarah Hollington stepped inside, an enamelled pot in her hands. ‘I’ll not say as it weren’t a daft thing to do, to go giving away your own supper, but it were a kind one.’

Putting the pot on the cast iron stove, she faced the girls. ‘This don’t be much of a place, being only the old brew house, but it be dry and the stove will keep it warm and cook a meal.’

‘It’s very nice, Mrs Hollington.’ Emma’s eyes reflected her gratitude. ‘We are both very grateful for your kindness and we will work hard for you.’

Her fingers going to her apron, Sarah fiddled with its corners. ‘Samuel and me don’t hold no fears on that score. Now you get that broth inside of you and then get yourselves to bed. ‘Specially you, Emma. You needs to take care of yourself with a child coming.’

‘Mrs Hollington?’ Emma began as Daisy lifted the lid from the pot, sniffing appreciatively at its contents. ‘How did you know I was pregnant?’

Her mouth quivering, Sarah Hollington glanced at her fingers still twiddling the corners of her apron, and when she spoke tears trembled in every word.

‘When a woman has carried three times then she recognises the symptoms in another.’

‘I didn’t know you had children, Mrs Hollington? You never said.’ Daisy returned the lid with a clatter.

‘That’s because I don’t have any.’ Sarah’s face was clouded. ‘I said I’d carried children but I never birthed not one. Seven months they stayed in my womb, for seven months they were a part of me, and then they were gone. I could never carry full-term, that was what the doctor told me, and his words were true. Samuel and me, we never did have a child.’

Emma felt her heart swell with pity. What was it that caused people like the Hollingtons to be afflicted by such sorrow while those like Caleb Price and Carver Felton were spared it? Was this God’s will? Her veins turning cold as once more Carrie’s frightened face showed in the mirror of her mind, she shivered, the next question filling her brain. Or was it that there was no God?

‘Mrs Hollington, I am so very sorry.’ The words inched out as the woman drew a long breath.

‘Arr, wench, so were we. But it be long past, and what the Lord denies with one hand he makes up for with the other. Me and Samuel have one another and life hasn’t been a bad one.’

They had one another! Emma watched the door close behind Sarah. Her own family had been denied her and what had she been given in return? A bastard child. What God would allow such things to happen?

‘It won’t work this time, Carver, I won’t go.’

Lips white with temper, Paul Felton faced his elder brother.

‘You deliberately withheld telling me until we were at Cara Holgate’s house. You thought that way there would be no refusal, no opposition. Well, you were right. But we are not at Cara’s now and I am telling you: if you want business done anywhere at all before I have found Emma, then you can do it yourself!’

‘You still intend searching for her?’

‘Yes!’ Paul snapped. ‘And I’ll go on searching until I find her, no matter how long it takes.’

Returning the pen he held to the crystal ink stand, Carver studied his brother now glaring at him from the other side of the heavy walnut desk. Hands resting lightly on its polished surface, he said quietly, ‘I must warn you yet again, Paul, time may be all you have in the future.’

‘Don’t give me any more of your warnings!’ Paul’s own hand slammed down hard beside Carver’s as he leaned across the desk. ‘That is all I have heard from you since Father died. Well, they don’t frighten me any more. There is nothing you can do. I am going to look for Emma and you can’t stop me!’

‘Oh, but I can!’ Eyes like black ice looked deep into Paul’s. ‘You know very well what I can do. I will brook no argument. Believe me, brother, either you agree to do as I say or you will be under lock and key before nightfall. Should you decide to run after that slut you will greatly facilitate my actions. A runaway minor is always more easily committed to an institution than an obedient one. Think about it, Paul. You have until lunchtime to make up your mind.’

Straightening up, his hands dropping to his sides, Paul stared at the man sitting at the desk where once his father had sat.

‘What has happened to you, Carver?’ he asked. ‘I don’t know you any more.’

Sunlight from the window catching the silver streaks in his hair, Carver leaned back in his chair, his mouth barely moving as he answered.

‘Don’t worry, you’ll learn to!’

‘Yes.’ Paul turned away. Opening the study door he glanced back. ‘Yes, I’m sure I will.’

What the hell did his brother see in that girl? Carver pushed himself angrily away from the desk and crossed to the window. A common, no-account wench, scratching a living from the waste heaps of the Topaz. A girl with no more than the rags on her back. Was it her looks? True she was pretty enough judging from what he remembered, but there were other girls with pretty faces and breeding to go with it.

So what was it had Paul ready to risk everything to go haring off after her? Carver stared sightlessly out over the garden. The question plagued his every off guard moment, but it did not worry him so much as the one he would not answer. Why was he deliberately preventing his brother marrying Emma Price?

‘Your pardon, sir. You asked to be informed when your visitor arrived.’

Turning from the window, Carver nodded briefly. Grateful for the interruption he walked from the study, but knew that was all it was, an interruption. The question of the Doe Bank girl, together with the vision of that frightened face, would return to haunt his sleep.

‘Sir Anslow has considered your request.’

Carver tensed as the man withdrew a sheaf of papers from a black Gladstone bag but his mouth and eyes betrayed none of his anxiety. He had already sunk a lot of capital into this canal project. If it should be turned down . . .

‘He has had his own engineers study the plans you sent to him.’

The man paused, clearing his throat. Damn you, say what you have to say! Carver forced himself to remain silent though the words were shouted in his mind.

The man went on importantly, ‘They . . . the engineers . . . reported to Sir Anslow . . .’

Reported! Carver felt tension turn to irritation. Why could not this ferret of a man just give him the decision?

‘. . . the plan was quite sound provided . . .’

‘Provided?’ His temper mounting, the word snapped from Carver’s mouth.

Adam’s apple bobbing up and down in his throat, the man held out the sheaf of papers, his glance dancing nervously over Carver’s tight features.

‘Provided you had a good engineer of your own to oversee the work. Sir Anslow seemed to think Mr Telford . . .’

Carver released the breath he had not realised was dammed in his throat. ‘You may assure Sir Anslow that none other than Mr Telford will supervise the work.’

‘Sir Anslow was certain you would agree.’ Closing the Gladstone bag, the man edged towards the door. ‘You will find his signature on the papers. Good day to you, Mr Felton.’

He had agreed. Sir Anslow Lacy had agreed! Carver swept up the papers, carrying them to the study where he spread them on the desk. He could cut a link into the Birmingham Navigation Canal and thereby triple Felton business in a year. That was how it would be once he had those damned contracts from Payne and Langton in his safekeeping. Signing those was obviously Arthur Payne’s idea. So far as Carver knew Rafe Langton had never signed a contract in his life. He was of the old school where a man’s word was still his bond.

Gathering the papers together, Carver stared at them. At present he had two partners in the venture, two other people to reap its profits. But he had a plan in hand to ensure control of them came to him. Would he could do the same with regard to Paul.

Paul! His fingers whitened as they gripped the sheaf of papers. What would he do about his brother?

He could not go on sending him on errands about the country. In a few months Paul would indeed be his own man and have full say in the running of Felton’s . . .

There is a way. Carver almost heard the words. There is a way to make sure he will not meddle too much. Help him find Emma Price! He would be so occupied he would want no part of directing business for a while. Marriage to the Doe Bank girl . . .

Marriage to the Doe Bank girl! His nostrils dilating, lips thinning, Carver’s head whipped upward. Crushing the thought as if it were a weed between his fingers he strode from the room.

Chapter Eighteen

‘Eh, Emma, don’t this be wonderful!’

Running a few steps ahead Daisy jumped into the air, both arms stretched wide.

Yes, it was wonderful. Emma gazed over the heath. The first tints of autumn gave it a blush of amber and mauve. This had always been Carrie’s favourite time. She’d said the colours were quiet after the brightness of the scarlet poppies and vivid yellow dog daisies, the brilliant blue of violet and cornflower that threw a riot of colour over the summer heath.

Bending she picked a stalk of ling, touching a finger to the soft mauve head. Carrie had loved the tiny plant; loved to take off her shoes and stockings and run barefoot through what seemed to them as children an ocean of purple silk.

‘What are you thinking?’

Eyes blue as the cornflowers she had been remembering, Emma smiled. ‘I was thinking of when we . . . I . . . was a child.’

‘You said we!’ Daisy’s ears, alert as ever, caught the slip. Coming to stand beside Emma, she glanced at the sprig of heather held between her fingers. ‘You meant Carrie, didn’t you? You was remembering her.’

‘Yes,’ Emma said huskily. ‘I was remembering Carrie.’

Sitting down, legs outstretched in front of her, Daisy plucked another stem of ling. ‘I ain’t never had a sister. Not as I know anyway. It must have been great, the two of you walking on the heath, doing everything together.’

Not everything! Emma’s fingers stilled on the flower head. There were some things . . .

‘Would you tell me, Emma, about your sister? Then I can pretend she was my sister as well.’

Daisy’s words had driven away the terrible thoughts and Emma smiled gratefully. ‘Yes, I will tell you about Carrie. And were she here, I know she would want to be your sister too.’

Sitting herself beside Daisy, she spread her skirts in an arc over the sweet-smelling heather.

‘What are you smiling at?’ Daisy caught the smile hovering about Emma’s mouth.

‘I was remembering Gertie Bowen’s umbrella. Gertie was our neighbour at Doe Bank. She was a kindly soul who always had a smile for us children, except if one of us touched her beloved umbrella. No one quite knew where it had come from but it was her most treasured possession, coming out only on high days and holidays. Not that the folk of Doe Bank really had holidays.’

‘What colour was it?’ Daisy lay back, folding her arms beneath her head. ‘Gertie’s umbrella, what colour was it?’

Smiling at the flower between her fingers Emma seemed to look back over the years, across the barrier that divided childhood from the present.

‘Black.’ She smiled. ‘It was black and several of its spokes were broken, but that made no difference to Gertie. She loved it as a king loves his crown. It was Easter Sunday when last I saw her carrying it. Carrie was about eight years old. We were with our mother on the way to Chapel. Father had gone on ahead to prepare for taking the service . . .’ Emma broke off, mention of her father bringing a coldness to her spine.

‘Go on!’ Daisy urged. ‘What happened then?’

‘Well,’ she resumed, ‘March was living up to its reputation, the day being chilly and quite blustery. Halfway to Chapel it came on to rain, not heavily but enough to give Gertie the chance to show off her treasured umbrella. It was such a comical sight! Gertie, her spine stiff as a ramrod, holding up an umbrella that hung lop-sided and flapped in the breeze. I remember Mother reprimanding Carrie and me for giggling, but when I looked up she too had a smile on her face.’

‘Then what?’ Daisy closed her eyes conjuring the scene.

‘We only had a few yards to go to reach the Chapel when a huge gust of wind turned the umbrella inside out and snatched it from Gertie’s hand, blowing it half across the field. Poor Gertie! I remember the cry she gave as she watched it go. Then a couple of the boys set off in pursuit.’

‘Did they bring it back?’

‘Not them.’ Emma’s smile returned. ‘They turned back on seeing the bull. It had seen the umbrella sail across its field and then the boys following after. But the bull was having none of that. Head down, it chased them away.’