Pit Bank Wench Read online

  Pit Bank Wench

  Meg Hutchinson

  www.hodder.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain in 2000 by Hodder and Stoughton

  An Hachette UK Company

  Copyright © 2000 by Meg Hutchinson

  The right of Meg Hutchinson to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

  Epub ISBN: 9781444718645

  Book ISBN: 9780340696903

  Hodder and Stoughton Ltd

  338 Euston Road

  London NW 1 3BH

  www.hodder.co.uk

  CONTENTS

  Pit Bank Wench

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  About the Author

  For Judith Murdoch and Sue Fletcher, who both took a chance on an absolute beginner, and whose words of encouragement picked me up on the many times I stumbled.

  Thank you both.

  Chapter One

  ‘Are you mad?’

  Carver Felton stared at his brother.

  ‘If you’re thinking to marry that wench then you are mad. Stark, staring, raving, bloody mad!’

  ‘No, Carver, I am not mad, but I am going to marry her.’

  Steps long and easy, carrying his lithe frame with an almost feline grace, Carver crossed to one book-lined wall of the octagonal-shaped library. Selecting a book he flipped it open, dark eyes following words that failed to register on his mind.

  Seventeen years older than his brother, he had been appointed his guardian by their father’s will, but that guardianship might well be ending sooner than Carver had anticipated. He had been given guardianship:

  . . . until my son, Paul Beaufort Felton, reach the age of twenty-one years, at which time he shall enter into the inheritance I bequeath him. That being Beaufort House and estate together with co-ownership of all Felton works and businesses. In the event of the marriage of my son, Paul Beaufort Felton, taking place before his reaching the age of twenty-one years, the said inheritance is to become his on that wedding day . . .

  The age of twenty-one years or that wedding day . . . Carver continued to stare blindly at the book.

  ‘So!’ Snapping it shut he tossed it casually aside, glance lifting to his brother. ‘You are going to marry this Price wench. By whose say so? I am your legal guardian for twelve months yet, you cannot marry without my consent and I am not about to give it.’

  ‘But why?’

  Paul frowned, bringing finely arched brows together over a well-shaped nose, his brown eyes questioning.

  ‘Why? You ask why?’ Carver met question with question, a tactic he’d used often before with his brother. ‘Can you really be so naïve? The wench is a nothing, a nobody. She lives along Doe Bank. That alone should tell you why I refuse to allow you to marry her.’

  ‘She can’t help where she was born!’

  Carver’s smile at this defence was harsh with contempt.

  ‘Neither can I. But I can prevent her from thinking to better herself by marrying above her. She’ll not be moving to Beaufort House and her bridegroom will not be you. She’s not of your class, Paul. Take her to bed if you want to, ride her as often as the mood strikes you. But as for marrying her, forget it!’

  A frown deepening across his brow, Paul Felton looked hard at his stepbrother. Born of different mothers, not only was their physical appearance different but their whole temperament too. Seventeen years was a wide enough gap to cause distance between two brothers; they had not grown together as children, never seemed to form the bond of brotherhood, never developed similarities in thought and action that marked them as family. Carver was harsh in his dealings with other men, especially if those dealings threatened the business of which he had held sole charge for nine years. But he, Paul, was not just another man, he was Carver’s brother. Though since when had that made any difference? To Carver he must always be a child, shown no indulgence to choose his own way. Well, in this he would.

  ‘That is what you would do, is it, Carver?’ His stare brown ice he held his brother’s gaze. ‘Take what you want from a woman then forget her!’

  Carver’s mouth was a cold contemptuous curve, one dark brow raised. ‘You can always leave her a shilling for her services. You can be sure it is more than she will be paid by any man in Doe Bank or any place else in Wednesbury.’

  ‘Those other men including yourself, no doubt?’

  The smile remaining, Carver gave a half nod. ‘Should I stoop so low as to acquaint myself with a woman from that end of the social scale then I would deem a shilling to be a high price to pay.’

  ‘So social scale has a bearing on morality?’ Paul asked, allowing his feelings to freeze his words.

  ‘On mine, no.’ Carver’s smile widened. ‘But on my immorality, then definitely yes. I take a little more care in the choosing of those with whom I share my bed.’

  ‘Making no preference as to whether or not they be another man’s wife.’

  ‘You have been most observant, brother. It would have been churlish of me to refuse . . . but there, I must not name the lady.’

  ‘Lady!’ The word burst furiously from Paul as he watched his brother sink easily into a leather armchair. ‘You call Cara Holgate a lady? I think a better term would be whore. The only difference between her and the lowest woman of the streets is the clothes she wears.’

  Leaning back in his chair, Carver watched the anger play over his brother’s face. Paul did not often cross verbal swords with him. That wench must have a stronger hold than he’d thought!

  ‘That is a distinction I cannot make.’ He crossed one leg over the other, the languorous deception of it hiding deep irritation. ‘You see, I have not indulged myself with a woman of the streets. But it appears you have. How else could you make the comparison? I know the woman at the lower end of the scale but who I wonder was . . . is . . . the counter balance?’

  ‘There is no counter balance!’ Paul felt the blood drive furiously through his veins.

  ‘No.’ Carver ran a finger along the immaculate crease of his grey cashmere trousers. ‘There is only Emma. The daughter of a coal miner. Tut-tut, dear brother, I hardly call that experience enough on which to base a judgement.’<
br />
  ‘I don’t need the experience of the likes of Cara Holgate to make my judgement or my choice.’

  ‘Maybe not!’ Carver’s smile disappeared, his brows pulling together as his foot found the floor, ‘and you don’t need a slut of a miner’s daughter for a wife. I have told you, forget Emma Price.’

  ‘You have told me!’

  Eyes burning, his whole body tense, Paul glared at the figure still seated in the comfortable chair.

  ‘And that is supposed to be an end to it, is it? Master Paul must be a good boy, Master Paul must not ask for things his brother has said he cannot have. That is how it has been for nine years Carver, my whole life dictated by you, my very thoughts ruled by your decree. But not any more. You will not tell me what I can or cannot do. From now on I am my own man, Carver. I will make my own decisions and one of them is to marry Emma!’

  Holding tight to the anger that strained the leash of patience, Carver chose instead to smile, the same infuriatingly mocking smile that proved such an efficient weapon against his brother whenever he tried to assert himself.

  Looking at him now, eyes cold as black ice held none of the smile but all of the mockery. ‘As always, Paul, you do not have things quite right. I only hope the next twelve months will see a change for the better, that by the time you take your place in the Felton business you will have learned to think things through more clearly. But . . .’ Carver lifted his shoulders in an eloquent shrug ‘. . . until that change takes place, I will just have to continue to set you straight. You are not yet a man, regardless of the antics you may have performed with your Wednesbury trollop. Until you are of legal age you will continue to do as I say, you will abide by my decisions, and it is my decision you have no more to do with that wench. You will not see her, speak to her, or in any way communicate with her.’

  ‘You can’t forbid . . .’

  ‘Oh, but I can.’ Cutting quietly across Paul’s furious interruption, Carver rose from his chair, the two inches of his superior height seeming more dominant as he moved towards the door. ‘I can forbid it and I do. And you, dear brother, would be well advised to do exactly as I say.’

  The door half open he turned, glance wandering over his brother’s face. This time no smile touched his mouth.

  ‘Remember, Paul, for the next year I am your legal guardian. Your life is mine to do with as I think best. And if I think it best . . . for your own good, of course . . . to have you confined to an institution, then that I will do. Think it over, brother, and this time think it through. All the way through!’

  ‘Twelve months will pass, Carver. It will pass and then you will have no more jurisdiction over me. I will marry Emma, she will be mistress of Beaufort House. That you can do nothing about for the house is mine under Father’s will.’

  Carver watched his own fingers move dextrously over a grey silk cravat as he fastened it about his neck.

  Paul had flung those words at him this morning after yet one more altercation over that damned wench.

  The cravat fastened, he slipped into a matching figured silk waistcoat then reached for a deep plum-coloured jacket.

  His brother had found himself more than a trollop, he had found his own feet. From now on it would become increasingly more difficult to impose restrictions upon him. But it was no empty threat he himself had made a week since. Money could be made to do anything, including committing a sane man to an asylum; and Carver had money enough to pay for anything.

  He glanced at himself in the long dressing mirror. Paul could marry, that was of no real concern to him, but marriage to the Price wench was out of the question. Even had she been the richest of the rich there would still have been no marriage.

  Reaching for the calfskin gloves laid ready for him, Carver’s mouth tightened as familiar thoughts pushed into his mind bringing the same old resentment.

  He was the first-born. Felton’s was rightfully his, in its entirety. Not a half, not a shared portion, but all of it. That was his birthright.

  ‘A mess of pottage’. The quotation rang in his mind. The biblical Esau had been deprived of his heritage for a bowl of broth, but Carver Felton would not be so easily robbed. Their father had thought to divide not the business perhaps but certainly the running of it. He had thought that the terms of his will safe-guarded that intention. But their father had made a mistake, the mistake of appointing Carver his brother’s keeper. He would share his authority with no man, and if that meant having his brother locked away, then so be it.

  And the wench, the drudge his brother had hoped to make his wife? Carver smiled into the mirror. He must be prepared to make some small concession. The girl would be taken care of.

  ‘I tell you, Emma, nothing can come of this, nothing but heartache, ain’t no coal master’s son going to look for a wife among the like of us.’

  Emma Price’s lovely face creased into a smile lighting midsummer blue eyes.

  ‘Paul has already asked me to be his wife, Mother, we will be married as soon as Father says I might.’

  Turning from the pot in which she had been stirring broth for the evening meal, Mary Price stared at her eldest living child. Emma was so beautiful, with hair the colour of wheat and a complexion like a lily fresh bathed with the dew of the morning, was it any wonder she had caught the eye of the Felton lad? But catch his eye or his fancy there would be no marriage made there. Want it he might, but what of his family? They would certainly harbour no Doe Bank wench.

  ‘So he’s asked you to be his wife.’ The wooden spoon she had been using dripped gravy onto the floor but Mary had forgotten it. ‘That be one question he’s asked and one you seem agreed to; but what of the other?’

  ‘Other?’ Emma looked up from the pastry she was rolling. ‘What other question?’

  Mary felt a tug at her heart. Both of her daughters were pretty and she loved them both; but not equally. She had a feeling for Emma she had not had for the children who’d been taken from her, and one she did not feel for Carrie. Oh she loved her younger girl, of course she did, but not with the depth of feeling she had for Emma. Now seeing the shadow that forever stalked women of their class looming close to her daughter she felt that strong, protective love burn hot in her veins.

  ‘The question of you lying with him, of you being a wife to him afore the ring be on your finger.’

  Mary saw the slow tide of colour rise in her daughter’s cheeks and a sharp stab of anger and despair shot through her. Was it already too late, had Felton already taken what he was really after? Doubtless that was all it could be. To him, Emma would be no more than an entertainment, a pastime to be cast aside once he tired of it . . . or when it became an embarrassment.

  ‘Paul has not asked . . . asked any such question.’ The flush in her cheeks burned bright but Emma’s eyes, as they rested on her mother’s face, were cool and steady. ‘He would never ask such a thing, he would not even think it.’

  ‘All men think it.’ Mary’s glance turned inward, remembering. All men think it and many ask it, but how many stand by the consequence? Pushing back the ghosts of the past she looked again at Emma and this time her own faded blue eyes suddenly shone with an intense new burst of life. ‘Tell me Emma, tell me true, has Felton laid with you?’

  Her own love answering her mother’s, Emma felt no resentment or shame at the question, only a strange turning of the heart, a deep wrenching inside as she looked at the thin lined face.

  ‘No, Mother.’ She answered softly. ‘Paul has not lain with me.’

  Across the room Mary Price’s eyes glowed with a passion they had not held for twenty years, and her words came with a low almost ferocious urgency.

  ‘Then you must not! No man is a saint, they all gets the urge, some stronger than others. It be a sweet pain that drives and drives, a hunger that gnaws until they has to satisfy it. The promise of a wedding ring is many a man’s route to paradise and many a woman’s road to hell. Take heed of what I says Emma, take heed of your mother for I be treading that ro
ad still. Keep what you can give only once, keep it until the ring be on your finger and the sheet you soil be on the marriage bed. Be no man’s whore no matter what the promises he makes. Give me your word, Emma, give me your word.’

  Despair and sadness vivid colours that painted every word, Mary stared hard at her daughter but in her mind she saw a different, younger face; a face drawn with fear and washed with tears.

  ‘Be no man’s whore,’ she whispered, ‘for heartbreak be the payment they give, sorrow and shame the coinage they use, and the woman has a lifetime in the spending of it.’

  Her fingers suddenly trembling, Mary dropped the spoon bringing her hand to cover her face, long shuddering sobs shaking her thin body.

  Ignoring the flour on her hands, Emma ran to her mother, flinging her arms about her, understanding for the first time the full rawness of the pain always present in her tired face, the sadness haunting her weary eyes. But what had caused so much sadness and pain, what was it haunted her mother?

  ‘You have my promise Mother,’ she murmured, her fingers stroking the hair that had long lost its lustre. ‘You have my promise.’

  But Mary did not hear; she heard only the words followed by heartless laughter: ‘What else can you expect? You play the whore, you get treated as a whore . . .’

  ‘But I was not a whore . . .’

  Emma felt her nerves tighten as she caught her mother’s whisper. ‘I was not a whore. There was no man but him. I loved him, I loved Luke Carter, and he said he loved me, that we would marry in the summer. “Lie with me, Mary,” was what he asked. “Show me the love you have for me,” was what he said. But when the new life quickened within me he turned from me, he would not marry a whore . . .’

  Sobs cutting off the words, Emma held her mother tight in her arms, the dreadful implication of what she had just said hitting her with the force of a blow.

  Luke Carter, her mother had said. She had lain with a man named Luke Carter. But her husband was Caleb Price! Her mother had known two men. Emma felt a tremor in her knees. Which of the two was her father? Was she Caleb Price’s daughter or Mary Price’s bastard?