Pit Bank Wench (3 page)

‘I don’t want anything, Mrs Paget.’

‘I knows that.’ Jerusha nodded. ‘What you have done for me and my man been offered from the kindness of your heart; you have shared what little you have and now I am doing the same.’

‘No.’ Embarrassed, Emma took a step away. ‘I can’t . . . I won’t. That is your wedding ring.’

‘Arrh, that’s what it be.’ Jerusha stared down at the circle of gold held between thumb and forefinger. ‘That be the ring Jacob Paget set on my finger forty years ago and one I vowed would not leave it until the day him and me were parted.’

‘Then you must keep it.’ Emma felt relieved. She could not accept payment for a few pies, hard as it had been for her to stretch the housekeeping so as to give them.

‘Until the day him and me were parted.’ Jerusha’s tired eyes lifted, and in the slant of the evening sun Emma could see the pain in their depths. ‘That day be here. By the dawn Jacob will be with the Lord and I will have no further need of this.’

‘Please, Mrs Paget, you must not think like that.’ Emma pushed the ring away. ‘Your husband will . . .’

‘Be with the Lord.’ Jerusha smiled, a brief sad smile that accepted life as it had been set out for her. ‘I know what I know and that be part of it. But I also know that you will have need of this ring, and of the protection it can afford.’

Grabbing Emma’s wrist, she pulled her hand free of the shawl. Pressing the ring into the girl’s palm, she folded each finger firmly over it.

‘Take it, Emma Price,’ she murmured. ‘Take my gift to you and remember Jerusha Paget when the time comes for you to wear it.’

Emma usually enjoyed the two-mile walk from Plovers Croft to Doe Bank even though it always meant hurrying to reach the house before her father got home from work. Caleb’s pretended piety did not extend to the giving away of anything, he would not take kindly to her taking food to the Pagets.

But this evening she found no pleasure in the clover and the kingcups, their mauve and gold glinting among the greens of gorse and purple of ling; nor did her gaze appreciate the strange beauty of furnace stacks and colliery winding houses, their ebony silhouettes etched in gold against the pearly colours of the evening sky.

She was aware only of the ring. Pushed deep into the pocket of her skirt, it seemed to weigh heavy against her leg. Why had Jerusha Paget insisted she take it? What had she meant when she’d said Emma would need the protection it could afford?

Hitching the basket higher on her arm, her skirts brushing the wild flowers that on any other evening she would have gathered, Emma could not rid herself of the fear those words had brought to her heart; a sudden cold touch that chilled it still.

But it was stupid to feel afraid, nothing could harm her. Lifting her face to the last rays of the sun she slipped the shawl from about her head, freeing her hair to the breeze. Soon she would be Paul’s wife and would have a wedding ring of her own. What need could she possibly have of the one in her pocket?

Poor Jerusha. Emma felt a rush of pity for the woman her mother had often called upon for help in times of sickness, as did all the women of Doe Bank. There was no talk of payment then. It was accepted that a kindness was not done in hope of reward, one woman helped another in any way she could, it was the only way to survive in the coalfields. She would return it on her next visit. Yes, she would give the ring back to Jerusha when next they met.

A short distance ahead the coppice adjoining the grounds of Felton Hall rose like a dark island from the heath. Emma hesitated, eyes lifting to the tops of the trees. They were so beautiful, cloaked in lush greens, their tips crowned by the sunset. Beautiful but forbidding somehow, their leafy branches forming a barrier in her path. It was almost as if they forbade her approach, the guardians of Felton Hall.

The thought bringing a shiver to her spine, Emma stood staring at the wood. This was the second time today she had felt the coldness of fear, the second time some unknown chill had touched her.

A sudden clatter among the branches sent a shower of leaves spinning to the floor and the blood racing in Emma’s veins. One hand rising automatically to her throat she stood staring, then loosed a long sigh as a wood pigeon flew from the trees, its loud indignant cooing shattering the silence.

Relief warming away her fear, Emma smiled at her own foolishness. A dispute over nesting rights and for one moment she had been a young child again, imagining demons in the dark.

At the edge of the heath the sun allowed itself to be drawn down into the arms of night and the scarlet-tipped clouds faded to mourning grey.

She had not thought it to be so late. Emma glanced again at the densely packed grove of trees. She should not take that way home, so late in the evening, but to go around it would add to her journey; another hour’s absence to explain to her father. Well versed in his anger, Emma’s mind was made up. Drawing the shawl close about her shoulders, she walked into the shadow of the trees.

Leaving his bedroom, Carver glanced across the wide landing towards the closed door of his brother’s room. Paul had wanted to leave the Hall after that last row about the Price girl, to take up residence in Beaufort House, the home that would come to him at the age of twenty-one. But as his legal guardian, Carver’s refusal had had to be accepted.

The age of twenty-one! Carver’s face darkened. That phrase had haunted him for years, figured in his waking thoughts, taunted him in his dreams. Paul would have half of everything then: land, money . . .

But what was money? What was land? He could make one and buy the other. At the head of the wide staircase he halted, gaze taking in the tasteful sweep of the entrance hall below. Felton Hall was his, deeded to him by his father as Beaufort House had been to Paul. But would his brother be satisfied with taking just the house? Would he renounce responsibility for the running of the coal mines and iron works, taking half their market value, instead, selling his inheritance?

‘
A mess of pottage’.
The quotation rang again in Carver’s mind as he began to descend the stairs. He had no intention of becoming another Esau, but then . . . would Paul?

‘Will the staff wait up for you, sir?’

‘No.’ Carver refused the topcoat the manservant held out for him. ‘Let them go to bed, I probably won’t be back until tomorrow. If I am, I will see myself in.’

‘What of Mr Paul, sir?’

‘My brother will most likely not be home before the end of next week.’ Carver let the answer drift over his shoulder as he walked toward the rear of the house. ‘He is in Blaydon on the business of iron for a bridge they are constructing across the river there.’

‘Blaydon, sir? I don’t think I am familiar with a town of that name.’

Carver smiled as the butler held open the door that gave on to the half-moon courtyard around which the stables and carriage houses were grouped.

‘I’m not surprised you are unfamiliar with the name. It’s a small town in the North East. They want to bridge the River Tyne to link themselves with Scotswood, and my brother is there to tender for the supplying of the girders.’

‘I hope he meets with success, sir.’

‘So do I, Morton. So do I.’

Swinging into the saddle of the horse ready prepared for him, Carver glanced at the sky. The sun already hung low over the horizon, it would be after nine when he reached the Mounts, but he was in no hurry. Langton was a bore, but a bore who must be tolerated at least until the venture Carver had in mind was achieved.

Touching his heels to the animal’s sides he set it to a steady canter. Paul had been reluctant to go to Blaydon, no doubt thinking of his Doe Bank wench. But Carver had insisted he must acquaint himself with the overall running of the business, told him to make himself as conversant with it as he could so he might slip more easily into his place as co-owner.

But that had been a lie, a stratagem to get his brother safely away from Wednesbury. And when he returned? When Paul returned there would have been changes made.

Reaching the tall stone pillars that held gates wrought from iron forged in Felton foundries, Carver reined in his horse. Before him the heath stretched like a green carpet to the distant town, only the steeples of the parish church and its RC fellow competing against the belching chimneys of iron works and the great winding wheels of coal mines. It was no paradise that town, but beneath its perpetual pall of black smoke it made the kind of money that could buy a man a share of paradise.

But Felton would share with no man. He touched his heels to the horse’s sides, body moving in perfect unison with it as it cantered on. Wednesbury or paradise, it must be theirs alone. Money and land, that and the power they brought would belong to none but them.

But what if Paul would not agree, would not relinquish the Doe Bank wench. Would he, Carver, truly confine him to a mental institution? Turning the horse towards the coppice he allowed himself a smile. The answer was yes the only question being, how soon? How could he broach the subject with his brother?

A short distance into the wood, Carver tightened his grip on the reins, knees pressing into the stallion’s body as it reared. Startled by a covey of partridge breaking cover at their approach it had gone up on its hind legs, a snort of fear clouding from its nostrils. Holding firm to the reins, keeping the stallion’s head high, he rode out its shocked reaction, voice calm in the horse’s pricked ears, soothing, bringing it gently down under his hands.

With the horse steady once more he sat contemplating the idea that had formed in his mind. A partridge shoot. What would make for a more perfect excuse to bring Langton and a few other coal owners together? And what better time to put his proposition than after a day’s good shooting followed by a hearty dinner?

This notion a pleasant conclusion to a problem he had pondered for several days he made to urge his mount forward, but a sound from the trees stayed him. That had been no partridge breaking cover nor a fox either, that had been the sound of a twig snapping beneath a man’s foot. Damned poachers! Carver’s mouth set in a straight line, his fingers tightening about his whip. This one would be sorry he had chosen Felton land to poach from!

To back the horse further into the cover of the trees would cause at least a rustling of the coarse bracken, and if the animal should choose to snort or even take fright again it would be enough to warn the poacher. That Carver did not want. Tonight would prove a lesson for the men of this town, they would learn that it was wiser not to trespass on his land.

Holding the reins in one hand, the other clutching the whip loosely at his side, he listened to the intruder’s approach. The man was either stupid or very inexperienced at what he was about. A cold smile touched the corners of Carver’s mouth. A few minutes of the whip and the fellow would have the kind of lesson that should rectify at least the latter.

The trees were sparser here, forming a natural clearing. He glanced to each side of him. Should the fellow make a run for it, the horse could easily overtake him. The coppice was not so dense as to prevent that. A few yards ahead, following a faint track that led through the heart of the wood, a figure came into view.

Holding the animal’s head firm, Carver stared. This was no man poaching his land. Overhead the risen moon filled the clearing with a cool pale light, its silver gilding blonde hair, touching a high-buttoned collar and spilling over dark skirts.

A woman! Carver sat motionless. A young and pretty woman if the moonlight had not deceived him.

‘Good evening.’

A touch of his heels swinging the horse across her path, Carver touched the stock of his whip to one side of his brow. His sudden appearance had the desired effect. The woman gasped, one hand going to her throat while the other clutched a basket.

‘Isn’t it a little late to be gathering herbs?’ He lowered the whip, a slow, deliberate movement meant to catch the eye. ‘That
is
what you’re in Felton Wood for . . . or is it to carry away a poacher’s ill-gotten gains?’

‘I . . . I was not gathering herbs.’

Emma felt the tightness at her throat and the thumping of her heart against her rib cage, but forced herself to answer calmly. This man was merely passing through the coppice, no doubt taking a shorter route home as she was.

‘Oh, then it
is
a poacher’s trophy you are here to collect!’

Emma lifted her head, the movement trapping moonbeams in her hair, turning her eyes to silver. Carver felt a quickening low in his stomach. The moonlight had not deceived him, the woman was pretty. Damned pretty. Pretty enough to delay him . . . for a while. His glance quickly scanning each of her hands he noted the absence of a wedding ring. Pity, he thought, a husband could make a useful scapegoat. A pity but hardly a disaster!

‘I’m not collecting from any poacher!’ Indignation sharpened her voice as she answered. ‘I am on my way home from visiting a friend. I left a little later than usual so decided to cut through the wood, it takes quite some distance off the journey.’

‘I see.’ Carver traced a glance over the length of her. A pretty face, a pleasant voice. And the body beneath those shabby clothes, would that be as appealing?

‘And where might this friend live?’ He directed his horse to the right and then to the left, matching Emma’s steps as she tried to pass.

Indignation retreating before a fresh surge of fear, Emma clutched the basket to her. He had no right to question her but arguing would only serve to lengthen an encounter she wanted over and done with.

‘She . . . they live across the heath, over towards the path that links Coppice Bridge to Lea Brook Bridge. Mr and Mrs Paget.’

He knew the place, a few vermin-ridden houses. They too figured in the project he intended putting to Langton.

‘And you?’ Carver leaned forward as the moonlight fell once again on the face turned up to his, and the quickening in his stomach became a jolt of desire. ‘You said you were on your way home.’