Pit Bank Wench Page 15
Biting into the still too hot food he danced his jaw up and down jiggling the sausage on his tongue as he grabbed quick shallow breaths to cool his tongue.
Hiding her smile, Emma laid the smoking pan on a nearby pile of bricks, sitting herself beside it.
‘So what you two be going to do?’ More wary this time, Enoch blew on his sausage before taking a second bite. ‘I doubt you’ll be taken on anywhere in this town. Folk with money have all the help they need, and them without . . .’ he shrugged ‘. . . them without have a hard time feeding themselves. You’ll find there be precious few have anything to spare. So I reckon you two will have to settle for the parish. I hear several from Plovers Croft have already gone into the workhouse, God pity them, and you for having to follow.’
‘No!’ Squatting beside the brazier Daisy’s eyes flashed bright as the sparks shooting from the coals. ‘We’re going into no workhouse! This time I do know what I am saying, Mr Birks. I spent years in that hell and I’ll die before I go back there. Nothing can be worse than that place . . . nothing!’
In the ensuing silence Emma heard Daisy’s stifled sobs and moved closer, taking the younger girl in her arms. Beside the old man the dog nudged its nose into his palm.
‘Seems General Kitchener agrees with me,’ Enoch said at last. ‘He reckons you should spend the night in the hut. That be if you two young ladies can trust an old soldier?’
‘Implicitly, Mr Birks.’
Smiling at Emma’s answer, the old man rose to place a kettle of water in the heart of the brazier.
‘Then get you inside while I brew a mash of tea. A warm drink and you can settle to sleep. And you need have no fear of being disturbed, not with old Kitchener on guard. Don’t even a beetle get past him.’
Helping Daisy to her feet, Emma paused beside the old man then shyly kissed his cheek. ‘Thank you, Mr Birks,’ she whispered. ‘Thank you very much.’
‘I told you!’ Daisy smiled broadly, every trace of her sobs vanished as they entered the small brick hut. ‘I told you we’d get shelter here for the night, and I was right. Give the watchman a share of the sausage and he gives us a place to sleep.’
‘Yes, you were right, but it can only be for one night.’
‘But why?’ Daisy grinned, settling herself into a corner. ‘Share and share alike, the old man said so. We share our supper, he shares his hut. There’s nothing wrong in that. It can go on just as long as we have money to buy supper.’
‘No, Daisy, it cannot. Mr Birks is an old man, he needs his rest more than we do. He can’t be put out of his hut night after night, he has to sleep.’
Daisy sat up, tucking her skirts over her feet. ‘But he’s a night watchman. He’s supposed to keep watch, not sleep.’
‘We both know that. But he’s old, Daisy. Too old for this job but it’s probably the only way he can earn enough to keep him from the workhouse. It’s the dog that does the watching, you must see that.’
Her grin dissolving in a shame-faced expression, Daisy nodded. ‘I guess I knew that all along, but the thought of that workhouse keeps everything else away. I’m sorry, Emma. We’ll share the tea with him and then we’ll go.’
‘Go where?’ Balancing a tin cup and two jam jars filled with tea on a broken slate, Enoch stood in the doorway.
Emma turned. ‘We were thinking, Mr Birks. We shouldn’t deprive you of your hut. We’ll share your tea and gladly, but then we’ll leave.’
Holding out the slate first to Emma and then to Daisy, the old man took his cup and sipped his tea.
‘So you would leave!’ Grey head lifting, he stared deep into Emma’s eyes. ‘You would share your meal with an old man then refuse the only hospitality he has to offer in return?’
The heat of the tea burning her through the glass jar, Emma set it down on the upturned tea chest that served as a table.
‘You were welcome to a share of our food, Mr Birks, but Daisy and I both feel we must not deprive you of your hut.’
Dropping into the lone chair, Enoch placed his cup beside Emma’s jar. ‘I was welcome to what you had to give.’ He spoke quietly, one hand falling to the head of the dog that padded in after him. ‘But my hospitality is not welcome to you. This hut holds little comfort, but then I thought you would have known that afore you accepted. Seems I were wrong, that you expected more.’
‘No, we didn’t. We expected nothing more.’ Emma glanced unhappily at Daisy sitting huddled in the corner, the jar of tea untouched on the floor beside her.
‘Truth is, Mr Birks, it were my idea, all of it. I told Emma you’d likely let us spend the night in your hut in return for a few sausages.’
‘Which I did.’
‘Yes, Mr Birks, which you did,’ Emma answered. ‘And very kindly. ‘But we feel we cannot put you out of your hut. You cannot spend the night outside.’
‘Share and share alike!’
Recognising in his tone a mixture of hurt pride and dignity, Emma blushed for shame. Glancing again at Daisy she saw contrition on the girl’s face. Returning her glance to the old man, Emma smiled.
‘Then share with us, Mr Birks. Share the hut.’
Old eyes displaying his appreciation of the trust placed in him, Enoch fondled the dog’s ears. ‘The General and me appreciates that, wench. We both hopes you find the sort of life you deserves.’
The sort of life she deserved? Lying beside a sleeping Daisy, Emma’s mind refused the opium of sleep. ‘What did she deserve, a girl who never saw the torment that drove her sister and her mother to suicide? Never recognised the evil that lay behind her father’s preaching. She deserved only what she had: a life on the road and a bastard child in her womb.
Chapter Thirteen
‘So you see, Langton, we bring a canal through here and getting our products to market can be accomplished in less than half the time.’
From the carriage’s stopping place on the road, Carver Felton pointed out over the expanse of empty heathland.
‘A canal is only part of it, Felton.’ Rafe Langton ran one hand over his bushy side whiskers. ‘There be other things to be taken in consideration. Things like wharves and loading sheds and like as not a basin barges can pull into while they wait for cargo. It all takes money.’
‘He’s right, it does take money, and I for one am not certain I wish to invest in such a scheme. We’re getting our steel away quite comfortably using the present carrier. I don’t see any real necessity for change.’
Arthur Payne couldn’t see a brick wall at five paces! Carver glanced at the younger man. Show him an Italian leather boot or a fancy jacket and he’d see every stitch. But business? It was a pity old man Payne had no son but this to leave his steel works to; but the son of Carver Felton would be different; he like his father, would see the chances in life. He would continue where his father had left off, build Felton’s into a commercial empire.
But for the moment it would prove beneficial to carry these men with him into the venture. Their money would help to make the prospect a reality, and then . . .
‘It takes money to make money.’ Carver kept his voice level. ‘Your father was a man who saw that.’
‘My father is no longer head of Payne Steel.’
Carver’s black eyes glinted and his mouth held a touch of mockery as he looked at the man leaning back languidly against the carriage’s blue upholstery. ‘That is an obstacle one can only pray Payne Steel will surmount!’ he rejoined.
‘Look here.’ Rafe Langton took a watch from his waistcoat pocket, checked the time then returned it. ‘You two pups can snap and snarl all day but I have a good lunch waiting and I don’t intend to see it wasted. We came out here to decide once and for all what we mean to do regarding this canal. Now either we do that or I’m off!’
Shrugging his shoulders, Arthur Payne flicked a gloved finger over the hat resting on his knee.
‘What about labour, Felton?’ Langton went on without pausing. ‘That will add considerably to the final investment.’
‘Eh!’ His interest freshly kindled, Rafe Langton edged forward in his seat. ‘Half the amount, you say, and just how do you propose doing that?’
‘There is a threatened famine in Ireland. Their potato harvest has all but failed yet again, so I am reliably informed. When men are starving they will work for pennies. I intend to bring some of them over here to dig out this canal.’
‘But will that not give rise to further expenditure?’ Arthur Payne smiled triumphandy. ‘There are men hereabouts who have need of work, you would not need to pay to have them brought in.’
‘That is very observant of you, Payne.’ Carver nodded indulgently. ‘But once more you seem to have missed the point. A man from Ireland will not only work more cheaply, he will work twice as hard for fear of losing the job that will keep his whole family from starvation. He will also bear in mind the fact that if that job is lost, so are his chances of earning the fare to return to them. So, you see, we can only benefit from bringing them here and will recoup the cost of their transportation in a matter of days.’
‘And the cost of housing these men?’ Arthur retaliated. ‘Have you considered that in your book keeping?’
‘Housing?’ Carver turned his head, the sunlight flashing silver from the twin streaks sweeping back from his brow. ‘We undertake to give a man a job, we do not offer a house to go with it!’
‘But they will need a place to sleep. Surely, Felton, even you can’t expect them to live without shelter?’
The derisory smile once more touching his mouth, Carver climbed back into the carriage. ‘Even you, Payne, must have heard of tents? We provide tents. If they want more than that, they provide it for themselves.’
‘My God, Felton, you’ve thought this business through.’ Rafe Langton’s fat jowls wobbled as he nodded his approval. ‘I must say, I’m impressed. How about you, Payne?’
Eyes the colour of burnt toffee were fixed on Carver, the message they contained very different from the words Arthur Payne spoke. ‘Oh, I’m impressed! But then, Carver never fails to impress.’
‘So, can we say we’re agreed? Are you definitely in?’
Toffee-coloured eyes never wavering, Arthur Payne inclined his well-groomed head. Felton made money whatever he touched, and like the fellow or not, the chance to share in his profit could not be overlooked. Especially when some other fellow did the donkey work.
‘You have my word upon it. Shall we say tomorrow at eleven to sign the necessary contracts?’
‘We need no contracts.’ Rafe Langton’s heavy body swayed as the carriage lurched forward. ‘A man’s word is as good as his signature any day.’
‘Agreed.’ Arthur’s brown eyes met Carver’s black stare. ‘But a man’s word cannot be locked in a safe.’
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 t
ake 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!’