Pit Bank Wench Page 16

  ‘I apologise if I was in your way.’ Emma steadied herself as the woman hitched a basket higher on her arm. ‘But I am not begging, I am . . .’

  ‘If you ain’t begging then what do you be doing standing on the street and it almost ten o’clock at night?’ the woman replied tartly. ‘Waiting for some man who’ll part with a shilling for a feel beneath your skirts? Well, we’ll see what the bobbies have to say about that!’

  Muttering beneath her breath, she swept on her way.

  That woman had thought she was a beggar. In the darkness Emma’s cheeks flamed, then just as quickly her blood turned to ice. It was worse than that. The woman had thought she was a whore! Behind her the shop door rattled loudly as it was flung wide and a tall man, made taller by the top hat he wore, came out.

  Peering at Emma threateningly, he raised the stick he held to shoulder height.

  ‘What be you up to?’ he shouted and stepped closer, the stick lifting several inches. ‘I seen you bump that woman, trying to knock the basket from her arm!’

  Nervously Emma stepped backward, feeling the brick wall hard against her back. ‘I . . . I beg your pardon? I think you have made a mistake.’

  ‘I made no mistake.’ The stick danced in the air. ‘I seen you, through my shop window. You deliberately pushed that woman!’

  Both hands clutching the shawl across her breasts, Emma stared at him with frightened eyes and when she answered her voice shook. ‘I . . . I told you, sir, you have made a mistake.’

  ‘And so have you!’ he snarled. ‘If you think you can rob folk outside my shop then it be you have made the mistake.’

  ‘Rob?’ Nerves taut as a pulled thread Emma stared in disbelief at the shopkeeper, the stick now held above his top hat. She had tried to rob no one. That woman had bumped into her, had almost knocked her down, he must have seen that.

  ‘Your sort need a few strokes of the cat.’ The stick cut through the darkness and Emma screamed as it bit through the thin shawl and slashed her shoulders. ‘A swish or two of that one’s tail and you won’t be so quick to rob the next woman.’

  ‘I didn’t rob her, I didn’t . . .’ Her words fell away as the stick whistled once more, striking her arms heavily as she curled her head protectively into them.

  ‘Gaol be where you belong.’ The stick struck again, tumbling Emma to the ground. ‘Ten years’ hard labour be the lesson needed to teach you to keep your thieving fingers to yourself!’

  At the sound of footsteps coming towards them the man took a step away from Emma’s crouching figure and the stick dropped to his side. Glancing quickly sideways as two women rounded the corner, he said loudly, ‘It’s as well I caught you, woman, or who knows how many more you would have robbed tonight?’

  ‘Robbed!’ One of the passersby gasped, drawing back as though a leper’s bell had rung.

  ‘Your sort are a disgrace to this town and a danger to honest folk.’ He affected not to have seen or heard the two women. ‘You walk the streets, waiting your chance to rob . . .’

  ‘No!’ Emma pushed herself to her feet. ‘I have robbed no one. I had no intention . . .’

  ‘Oh, I know of your intention, I seen your intention, now the magistrate will hear what you were up to.’

  ‘What has this woman done?’ A little braver than her companion, a woman in a feathered bonnet stepped up to the shopkeeper.

  Pretending surprise, he raised his top hat. Standing aside for the woman to pass, he shook his head sorrowfully. ‘I regret you had to come face to face with such a woman, ladies, really I do. I would not have had you witness such a distressing scene.’

  ‘I asked what it was she has done?’ The feathered bonnet bobbed irately.

  ‘Perhaps you would care to take shelter in my shop?’ The tall figure bowed obsequiously.

  ‘Take shelter? . . . Take shelter, pah! Is the woman about to attack all three of us, and you so brave as to take a stick to her?’ The woman turned to Emma. ‘You, girl, what is it you did to deserve a beating and an appearance before the magistrate?’

  ‘I have done nothing, ma’am.’ Emma looked the woman in the eye, her glance open and unwavering. ‘I was waiting for my friend when a lady bumped into me and I fell against this shop window. I did not rob her, I would never do such a thing.’

  ‘I seen . . .’

  ‘No.’ The woman spoke quietly, her own glance on Emma. ‘No, I do not believe you did rob anyone. Now get you home before any other mischance occurs.’

  ‘But I saw her!’ the shopkeeper protested, seeing his moment of glory fading before it got started.

  ‘You believe what you think you saw.’ Turning her cool stare on the shopkeeper, feathered bonnet bobbing in the pale light from his window, the woman answered firmly, ‘But we cannot allow what we think to influence us unduly. Has that person returned . . . whoever it was who claimed to have been robbed?’ She glanced again at Emma. ‘The light here is not too good and mistakes are easily made. Now do as I say and go to your home.’

  Sobbing her thanks, Emma gathered her skirts, and as the women turned away she began to run.

  ‘Bloody interfering do-gooders!’ Muttering beneath his breath, the shopkeeper watched the two women disappear into the shadows. ‘No wonder there be thieves on the streets when there be folk like that to stick up for ’em!’

  Turning towards the shop he halted. There on the ground, right where the lady with the feathered bonnet had stood, lay a small dark object, only just visible in the weak gaslight from his shop.

  A smile on his mean mouth, he picked up a small leather purse.

  ‘Bloody do-gooders,’ he chuckled, slipping it into his pocket. ‘They done a bit of good after all!’

  Her lungs bursting for breath, Emma came to a stop, shrinking back as a handcart rumbled past. Daisy wasn’t coming. She must have thought that without her Emma would go into the workhouse. Fright and hunger too strong for her to contain, Emma sobbed aloud. Daisy had been such a loyal friend, she could have left before spending the money she had earned by scrubbing ’til her hands bled. It would have lasted longer with only one mouth to feed. Then there had been the nights in the lodging house; they had cost money too but Daisy had made no complaint. She had paid the cost but if she had been alone she would not have taken lodgings. She had only done it for Emma’s sake – and all the time she had positively refused to allow the spending of Carver Felton’s shilling.

  Carver Felton! Emma pressed one corner of her shawl to her mouth, holding back the sobs. Did he ever think of what he had done to her, ever feel remorse? No, Carver Felton would feel nothing. To him she had been a woman of no account, someone to use and then forget, just another of the things he had abandoned.

  And Paul, did he think of her? He had promised that on his return they would be married.

  ‘Ask my brother to marry you now!’

  The words mocked her from the darkness as they had mocked her then. Carver Felton had deliberately raped her to prevent such a marriage.

  ‘Paul,’ Emma whispered. But there was no answer. There never would be. Paul was lost to her. She would never be his wife. And the child she carried? Jerusha had said it would bear its father’s name. But Carver Felton would never own to the bastard child of a Doe Bank wench.

  ‘Leave me be!’

  The cry was that of a woman, one as frightened as herself. Unsure whether it had come from her own fearful mind, Emma listened.

  ‘Let me go! Leave me be!’

  Daisy! Emma’s head jerked up, her own fear fading instantly. That was Daisy’s voice. Hearing the harsh laughter that followed it, Emma sprinted towards the sound. From the alley beside the Turk’s Head Hotel the noise of a scuffle and the throaty cursing of a man caught her ear.

  ‘Daisy!’ she shouted and rushed into the alley. Almost hidden in the shadows she saw the figure of a man, his back to her. ‘Daisy!’ she called again, then hurled herself at the struggling shape.

  ‘Leave her alone, you beast!’ Emma screamed as she
pulled at the man attacking Daisy. ‘Leave her . . .’

  The rest was lost as she felt herself knocked backward, the breath forced from her as she was slammed against a wall.

  ‘Well now, if there ain’t another of ’em!’

  Beer-sodden breath fanned her face. ‘Now ain’t that a bit of luck? Here’s old Charlie a-waiting of his turn with the young ’un, but there be no need of waiting now. I’ll take you instead.’

  ‘No!’ Emma screamed again as he pressed against her, one hand restraining her shoulders, the other drawing her skirts up over her hips.

  ‘You can take your time with that ’un, Tom . . .’

  Emma’s stomach turned as fumes of beer and sour breath touched her face.

  ‘. . . old Charlie Bates has one of his own.’

  ‘Old Charlie Bates best leave that woman alone unless he wants to leave this alley in a bed cart!’

  An oath falling from his lips, the man turned away but his hold on Emma stayed firm.

  ‘You go find your own whore, you bloody . . .’

  ‘I said, leave that woman. Do it now or I’ll lay this about you.’

  ‘You hear that, Tom?’ The man laughed again. ‘This here bloke threatens to hoss whip Charlie Bates. What say we do him first then turn our attention to the women? They’ll be the more enjoyable for the wait.’

  Growling his assent the one called Tom joined his companion, leaving Daisy free to run to Emma.

  Staring past them to the man who had just challenged them, Emma caught her breath. Holding a candle jar in one hand and a short-handled whip in the other, butcher Hollington stood his ground.

  ‘You’re going to be sorry you stuck your nose where it had no business,’ Charlie Bates sneered.

  Hollington made no move as the two men stepped towards him.

  ‘Arr, bloody sorry,’ Tom added. ‘I don’t take kindly to being interrupted when I be with a woman.’

  ‘Even if that woman does not welcome your dubious attentions!’

  ‘They be a couple of trollops,’ Charlie sneered. ‘What other reason to hang round this alley? ’Sides, they don’t belong to no man, they wears no wedding ring. In my book that makes ’em fair game!’

  ‘Not in mine.’ Hollington raised the whip.

  ‘What you standing there chuntering for!’ Tom pushed past his mate. ‘The more you talk, the longer I have to wait. And this between my legs won’t last all night.’

  Lunging forward, he recoiled as the whip sang past his ears.

  ‘Why, you bastard!’

  Defying the threat of the lash the man rushed forward, shielding his face with one arm. His hand grabbing the wrist that wielded the whip, he yanked at it but the butcher held on tight.

  ‘Mr Hollington . . . is that you in there?’

  Emma could not hold back a cry of relief as a voice called from the street.

  ‘It is that.’ The butcher wrenched his hand free. ‘And I’d welcome your help.’ He lifted the jar and light from it illuminated the men’s faces. ‘We have men in Wednesbury who will give you pair the beating you deserve,’ he declared, ‘and that without the sovereign I am willing to pay them. We don’t take kindly to our women being threatened in the street, and give short shrift to a man who dares attack one of them.’

  ‘That what these two been up to?’ The brawn of them filling the narrow alley, four men came up behind the butcher. ‘Then you can keep your sovereign, Mr Hollington, we’ll see to this scum for the pure pleasure of it. You get on home. And you women do the same.’

  Clinging to each other, Daisy and Emma squeezed past the men who had attacked them, the hands of the others passing them safely out on to the street.

  ‘Oh, Daisy!’ In the light that spilled from the bow windows of the hotel, Emma’s face glistened with tears. ‘Daisy, we can’t go on like this . . . we can’t!’

  Her own face wet with tears, Daisy nodded. ‘You’re right, Emma, we can’t go on like this. We’ll go to the workhouse tonight.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  ‘They came out of the Turk’s Head just as I was passing.’ Daisy still held tight to Emma’s hand. ‘They grabbed me before I could do anything and dragged me into that alley. I was so scared, Emma.’

  ‘I know, I know.’ She felt her heart twist in sympathy. Carrie must have felt like this when their father . . . so scared . . . But Carrie had not screamed or struggled. She had probably thought at first that what was happening to her was a normal thing, the act of any loving father.

  Loving father! The words were like dry dust in her soul. Caleb Price had loved only himself. Even his love for the Lord must have been only a pretence, a show put on for the benefit of others, while he . . . Emma swallowed the bile in her throat. While he abused his own daughter.

  ‘They said . . . they said they were going to . . .’

  ‘Shhh.’ Squeezing the hand held in hers, Emma tried to still the girl’s fears. ‘It’s over, Daisy, they won’t hurt you now. Try to forget it.’

  Feeling the tremor run down the girl’s arm, Emma realised the futility of her last words. Had Carrie been able to forget? Had she herself been able to forget what Carver Felton had done to her? Could any woman ever truly forget the man who raped her?

  Her own father, Carver Felton, Eli Coombs . . . how many such men were there in the world, men who saw women as inferior to themselves, objects fit only for their amusement?

  Even as the thought rose within her Emma knew it was unfair. She had never received so much as an unkind word from the men of Doe Bank, and though some of the jaggers who had bought the coal she picked from the waste heaps of the Topaz had been rough, they had never made an untoward remark. And then there had been Paul. He had shown her nothing but gentleness. Had said he loved her, said they would marry. But his brother had damned that hope, destroyed that dream forever. Paul Felton would return but she would be gone.

  ‘I tried, Emma, I wanted to keep you from going into the workhouse . . . I’m sorry.’

  Emma glanced at the building looming out of the shadows, the steep angles of its roof cutting into the night sky, a low-slung lantern throwing a dim light over pilasters and moulded architraves that lent an air of false grandeur to the heavy door, the small windows that flanked it closed and blank, like blind eyes turned on a pitiless world.

  The workhouse.

  The uneven cobbles before its entrance biting through the thin soles of her boots, Emma felt the misery of this place drift out to meet her, touching her like a living thing, and shivered.

  ‘Oh, Emma, I’m so sorry!’ Daisy turned to her, taking her shiver for fear.

  The shelter of shadow hiding her true feelings, Emma tried to keep despair from her voice. ‘It’s not your fault, Daisy,’ she murmured. ‘If it weren’t for you we would have been here a week ago. Don’t worry, they may find us work somewhere.’

  ‘So long as it isn’t with another Eli Coombs.’

  How would they be able to tell? Until it was too late. Grasping the other girl’s fingers firmly in her own, Emma walked towards the door of the workhouse.

  ‘Be you positive that is the place you seek?’ His handcart rumbling on the cobbles, Samuel Hollington came up behind them. ‘That there be naught but a stopping off place for the cemetery. I pity the poor souls who find themselves in there.’

  ‘It’s the only place left to us, Mr Hollington.’ It was Emma answered him. ‘We have both tried to find work but without success.’

  ‘Arrh, times be hard.’ Samuel ran one hand over the bushy whiskers that framed a face ruddied by long hours spent in the open. ‘But the workhouse be harder.’

  ‘Beggars do not have the luxury of choice,’ Emma answered quietly.

  ‘If each man were given his choice then the world would hold naught but kings. Then who would tend a farm, or labour at a steel furnace, or even sell meat in the Shambles?’ The butcher chuckled. ‘King Samuel! Don’t sound right somehow, but butcher Hollington . . . yes, that be more like it. I guess I would stil
l be a butcher.’ Resting the handcart on the ground, he pushed his straw boater back on his head, peering at Emma.

  ‘I’ve seen you two afore that shemozzle in the alley.’

  Daisy stepped forward. ‘I’ve been to your stall every night for a week. I bought a pound of sausages each time.’

  ‘Yes, you did.’ He chuckled again. ‘I got to look forward to them visits, to your smile and chatter. It were so polite but bright and breezy at the same time.’

  ‘I enjoyed it too, Mr Hollington.’ Daisy smiled despite her dread of the building that stood, bleak and stark, behind her. ‘I don’t suppose I will have that pleasure again so I thank you for your kindness now.’

  ‘Well said, my little wench.’ Samuel Hollington beamed.

  ‘I offer my thanks too.’ Emma smiled. ‘Especially for your help tonight. Those men . . .’

  ‘Arrh, them!’ Samuel’s voice hardened. ‘I don’t reckon they come from these parts. I haven’t seen them afore and I know most of the men in Wednesbury. They’re likely travellers, out on the road seeking work, or a way they can have themselves a good living without it. But you rest assured, wench, you won’t meet with them again, not in this town you won’t, not after the handling they’ll get tonight! Men who go around raping women aren’t dealt with lightly hereabouts.’

  Her smile fading as she glanced up again at the dark building, Emma murmured goodnight.

  ‘Hold up!’ Samuel raised a hand as if to hold her back. ‘You don’t have to go to that place.’

  ‘I am afraid we do.’ Emma shook her head. ‘We cannot spend another night under a hedge.’

  Touching the back of his boater, the butcher slid it to the front of his head. ‘You slept under a hedge . . . you mean, every night for a week?’

  ‘Usually,’ Daisy volunteered. ‘One night we swapped a share of our sausages for a place in the watchman’s hut along of the Monway. I thought it were fair trade but Emma wouldn’t have we do it again. She said the man were old and needed his sleep.’

  ‘But a watchman isn’t supposed to sleep.’ Samuel smiled.

  ‘I told her that an’ all,’ Daisy answered ruefully. ‘But she still refused. I reckon he would have been glad to trade, seeing what short work he made of our sausages.’