Pit Bank Wench (28 page)

‘
Wash yourself all over and brush your hair every night.
’ She smiled into the mirror, remembering her mother’s words so often used to Carrie and herself.

‘
And say your prayers, remember always to say your prayers. A clean body and a clean soul find favour with God and man.
’

She and Carrie, had they not always followed their mother’s maxim, had they not prayed together each night before climbing into bed, prayed even after an evening of the long drawn out sermons their father was fond of preaching to his family?

The preacher man! Emma stared into the speckled mirror Mrs Hollington had given them. How could he preach the word of God, sermonise on the evils of waywardness and following after the Devil, when all the time . . .

‘You have such lovely hair, it shines like wheat when the moon be on it. I wish I had hair like yours.’

‘You have lovely hair too.’ Emma turned to Daisy, sitting up in bed with her knees drawn up to her chin.

‘You just be saying that. My hair be an awful colour, it ain’t a proper brown, it be . . . well, I don’t know what the colour be but I know I wish it were the same as yours.’

‘The colour is auburn, Daisy, a deep rich auburn, and it gleams like the last rays of a setting sun.’

‘Oh, go on!’ Daisy blushed but her eyes glowed with pleasure. ‘You just be fooling me.’

‘I am not.’ Laying the brush aside Emma proceeded to plait her own hair. ‘Yours is the colour my sister most admired, she always had a yearning for hair of that very shade.’

She had not quoted Carrie’s words exactly, but Emma knew her sister would not have minded.

‘Was your sister very pretty, Emma? Was she as pretty as you?’

Suddenly she was back with her mother and father and a six-year-old Carrie on a sun-gilded evening beside the stream that powered Fincher’s flour mill. Carrie had found a tiny pool cut off from the stream and had knelt beside it, looking into its still water.

‘
I can see a water nymph.
’ The laughter that had broken from her drifted on the waves of memory and Emma’s hands became still as she listened. ‘
Shall I ask her name?
’

‘
Yes.
’ Emma had knelt beside her. ‘
But I think I know it already.
’

Carrie’s large brown eyes stared out of the mists of time, tugging at Emma’s heart. ‘
Do you, Emma, do you? Tell me what it is?
’

‘
Well!
’ Emma had sat back on her heels. ‘
Her name is Caroline and she is not just an ordinary water nymph. She is the most beautiful of all the sea princesses and has swum upstream on an adventure.
’

‘
How exciting!
’ Carrie had clapped her hands. ‘
What sort of adventure?

‘
The adventurous sort, of course
,’ Emma had teased. ‘
But now, thanks to the wicked witch of the sea, she is trapped in this tiny pool.
’

Carrie’s mouth had drooped. ‘
That’s awful. Can’t we do something to help?
’

‘
We could try, but only if she agrees. Will I ask her?
’

Carrie had nodded so hard the ribbon had slipped from one of her plaits, landing in the tiny pool so the image was distorted.

‘
Wait!
’ Emma had answered her cry of disappointment.
When the water is still maybe she will come back
.’

Almost afraid to breathe, Carrie had bent over the patch of water. ‘
Come back, sea princess
,’ she had called softly. ‘
Please come back, we want to help you. We want to free you from the trap the sea witch set for you.
’

Gradually the ripples had died and Carrie’s face was reflected once more on its quiet surface. ‘
She’s come back.
’ Carrie’s smile had broken out again, lighting her small face. ‘
Ask her now, Emma, ask her before she disappears again!
’

‘
Very well, but don’t call out or you may frighten her. Sea princesses are very gentle as well as very beautiful.
’

Carrie had smiled in that special way a child has of knowing when something is not true but being said to please them. Then, bending over the pool, she listened to Emma’s whisper.

‘
Sea Princess Caroline, I know you are trapped by a wicked witch. Will I set you free?
’

‘
Oh, yes!
’ Lost in the fantasy, Carrie had replied in a voice as hushed as her own. ‘
Oh, yes, please.
’

They had each found a stick then and scraped a shallow channel in the soft earth then stood watching the patch of water run back into the stream.

‘
Goodbye, sea princess.
’ Carrie had waved her small hand.‘
Goodbye.
’

Carrie had been their princess and like the mythical one had found herself trapped, not by any sea witch but by her own father. Emma held the long plait of her hair, self-recrimination dulling her eyes. She should have known something was wrong. Carrie changed so much as she grew older, that wonderful smile so rarely lighting her face. Had Emma bothered to find out why she could have ended it, freed the real Caroline. But she had not!

In her mind’s eye she watched the soft brown eyes stare sadly at her, the gentle mouth whisper goodbye.

‘Emma? Oh, Emma, I didn’t mean to make you cry!’ Daisy scrambled from the bed as a sob broke from Emma. ‘I’m such a fool, I never think before I speak.’

‘You did not make me cry, Daisy.’ She sniffed. ‘I . . . I was just remembering.’

That was all she would ever have now. Memories of her mother and Carrie . . . and of her father, Caleb Price, the preacher man.

Chapter Nineteen

A pottery jug held beneath her shawl Emma made her way along the Shambles. There was usually a lull at this time as women hurried home to prepare the midday meal. Samuel chose this time every day to eat his dinner and chat to fellow traders and she had got used to fetching him a pint of beer from the tavern.

He used to take his daily pint from the Turk’s Head but would not have her go there. Fearing what had happened in the alley that ran alongside the Turk’s, he chose instead to send her to the Grapes Inn which stood in Upper High Street.

Emma enjoyed this short daily walk, it gave her a break from handing out packages of meat to women mostly in too much of a hurry to do more than check their change.

But Jesse Newman always had a cheery word for her, and so did his wife. As one served her at the outdoor, the dark narrow corridor where ale to be taken off the premises was served through a small window, the other would come and pass the time of day.

Turning the corner at the end of the Shambles she walked to the crossroads, hesitating as a carriage swept past. Watching it stop at the George Hotel she felt her hands tremble.

Following behind a shorter, plumper man, a tall straight figure stepped easily down to the pavement. A figure with raven hair, sunlight glinting on the twin silver streaks that swept back from his forehead.

Carver Felton!

He was here in Wednesbury, just a few yards from her.

Emma’s senses swam, sickness rose in her throat and her legs began to tremble.

‘Eh, up!’ Dropping a package on to the wagon he was loading, a carter caught her as she swayed. ‘You all right, missis?’

‘’Course her ain’t all right.’ A woman bustled out of a nearby shop. ‘A wench don’t go fainting off her feet if her be all right!’

Taking Emma by the wrist she led her into the shop, sitting her on a chair beside the counter. Fetching a glass of water she held it out.

‘Get yourself a sip of that, wench. It ain’t brandy but it will help just the same. I reckon that babby you be carrying has turned. It be frightening first time but after you’ve had six like I have, you get used to it.’

Taking the water Emma forced a little of it down, feeling her stomach churn, resenting the intrusion.

‘Yes,’ the woman breezed on as she took the glass back. ‘Six of ’em I’ve had and like to have had six more if my old man hadn’t up and left. Enough be as good as a feast, I told him, I was keeping my half-penny well covered in future. So he buggered off, but between you and me I ain’t missed him, not once in ten years, and I reckon I won’t in the next ten.’

‘Thank you.’ Emma got to her feet. ‘I’m all right now.’

‘Arr, you might be.’ The woman’s yellowed teeth showed in an uneven line. ‘But that jug won’t be lessen you holds it tight.’

The carriage was gone. Emma forced her legs to carry her over the crossing, pulling her shawl well down over her face as she passed the hotel. Would he recognise her if he came out now, would he recognise the girl he had raped? If so would he drive her from Wednesbury as he had driven her from Doe Bank? Every nerve tingling, every inch of her body trembling, she hurried past the hotel, only breathing when she reached the inn.

Carver Felton had not seen her. He must never see her again.

‘I must say you got a move on. Last I heard Sir Anslow Lacy was still considering the scheme. Now here you are with Irish workmen already digging out the channel. Like I said, that be quick work even for Carver Felton. How on earth did you manage it?’

‘Forethought.’ Carver studied the gilt-embossed menu card a waiter presented with a deferential bow of his pomaded head. ‘My father taught me always to be one step ahead of the next man.’

‘Your father were a wily old fox.’ Rafe Langton laughed, his several chins moving concertina fashion beneath long sideburns.

‘But a wise one. His teaching proved sound.’

‘In more ways than just making money, eh, Felton!’

After ordering roast duck, Carver handed back the menu as Rafe nodded his agreement and called for a bumper of claret.

‘His teaching has proved useful in many ways.’

‘But especially so with women.’ Rafe waved an impatient hand as the wine waiter poured a little of the claret for his approval. ‘Fill it up, man, what do you expect a man to make of a toothful!’

Carver took half a glass.

‘I wish I had a little of your expertise. What wouldn’t I give for a night or two with a woman like Cara Holgate!’

‘I have plenty of notions as to what you would not, but what exactly
would
you be prepared to give?’

Swallowing a mouthful of wine, Carver watched the other man over the rim of the glass.

‘For a night with a woman like Cara?’

‘No.’ His movements slow and deliberate, Carver set the glass on the table but his eyes, black and calculating, stayed fixed on the other’s plump face. ‘For a night
with
Cara.’

Across the table Rafe Langton’s brow furrowed and his eyes receded into their sockets. ‘Ain’t no chance of that. I’ve tried afore but she ain’t interested in trinkets. No, Felton, I could never get Cara Holgate to play my game.’

Waiting as the meal was served, Carver shook open the brilliant white linen napkin, placing it across his knee.

‘Perhaps you did not offer the right sort of trinket?’

His mouth half full of duck, Rafe spluttered indignantly. ‘Not the bloody right sort! You don’t get no better sort than diamonds.’

Touching the napkin to his mouth, Carver reached for his glass, smiling into its ruby depths. ‘Maybe no better, but a trinket more . . . shall we say . . . to Cara’s taste.’

His mood deepening to truculence, Rafe stabbed his fork at his food. ‘If diamonds don’t be to her taste then what is? What do you give her to make her say yes?’

He might never have a better chance. Carver kept his glance fixed nonchalantly on his wine glass. Rafe Langton liked his mistresses, but he also liked a gamble.

‘We’re not discussing my method of payment, we are discussing yours. So, Rafe, what
are
you prepared to give?’

‘Pah!’ Rafe grabbed his glass, draining the claret at a single gulp. ‘Ain’t no use talking about it. I’ve tried, and I tell you that woman turned her pretty nose up every time. Necklaces . . . bracelets . . . she refused the lot. And you don’t offer money, not to a woman of her class.’

In fact, there was no better inducement to offer Cara Holgate. Carver kept his smile beneath the surface.

‘Not in sovereigns, perhaps.’

‘Eh!’ Gravy trickling down his chin, Langton swallowed noisily. ‘What other way is there to offer it?’

Pushing his plate aside, Carver refilled the other man’s glass; he would sow the seed, the wine would water it!

‘Cara likes to take chances, but the stakes have to be high before they interest her.’

‘Go on!’ Rafe took his glass.

‘Cara is not like most women. She prefers to be independent, that takes money . . .’

‘But . . .’

Carver raised a hand. ‘Hear me out. Cara Holgate likes her independence but in order to maintain it she must make money, and not the sort that comes from selling off her trinkets. Offer her that sort of money and she will warm your bed, not to mention your blood.’

Draining his glass and rubbing at the gravy on his chin as he watched it refilled, Rafe’s expression was confused.

‘How?’ He shook his head, jowls wobbling. ‘You said yourself she don’t take sovereigns, and I’ve tried jewellery, what else is a man to try?’

‘Paper,’ Carver answered flatly.

‘Paper?’ The word exploded scattering a myriad drops of claret over plate and table-cloth. ‘Stop arsing around, Felton. I ain’t in the market for jokes!’

‘And I am not peddling them.’ Black eyes glinting, Carver fixed them on the plump wine-splattered face opposite him.

‘But . . . you said . . .’

‘I know what I said, and it is what I meant, and if you desire the woman enough you will pay her price.’ Waving away dessert, he went on, ‘Cara must have a more regular income than can be depended upon by accepting trinkets if she is to maintain her life-style. I ask you again, Langton, how high are you prepared to pay for the lady’s favours?’