Pit Bank Wench Page 2

  Her sobs quieting, Mary sank to a chair, her hands closing about Emma’s as she dropped to her knees. ‘I know what you be thinking, what everybody thought when they found I was pregnant and no man to take me . . .’

  ‘No, Mother.’ Her eyes glistening with tears that were more for her mother’s pain than her own fear, Emma pressed her cheek to the thin hands. ‘I am not thinking what others may have thought, you are my mother and I love you. What happened when you were younger makes no difference.’

  ‘Oh, but it does, it will.’ Mary looked at the head bent over her hands, at the shining pale gold hair so like her own had once been. ‘The stigma is never allowed to die, it passes from woman to child, an unjust heritage; and that heritage will be used against you, used to keep you in misery should what I did so long ago ever be brought to light.’

  A heritage of shame. The words branded themselves on Emma’s brain. She was not the daughter of Caleb Price. She was another man’s love child! But where was the love when that man had turned his back on her mother?

  ‘It will not matter that you are not the fruit of my transgression, of my wrongdoing; that will not deter the hand that is raised against you, stop the tongue that speaks ill of you. Should it be known you are the daughter of a woman left in shame then that shame will become yours, such is the way of this world.’ Releasing her hands, Mary cupped them about her daughter’s face, reading the uncertainty in those lovely eyes, her own heart crying out afresh at the thought of how soon that must give way to condemnation, to disgust.

  ‘You might not be thinking what others have thought.’ She spoke softly but her eyes cried out to her daughter from the depths of her soul. ‘But should the time come when you are tempted to think in such a way, then remember what I say to you now. Before God and before heaven I tell you, you are not the child folk may say you are. You are not my first-born, though you be the first I bore of Caleb Price. You are his true daughter though he has always fear of the truth of that. He took me knowing I had given birth to another man’s son, a child that lived barely a month. In twenty years he has not forgiven. Once a whore, always a whore is Caleb Price’s thinking.’

  ‘But you were married!’

  ‘Yes, we were married.’ Mary gave a half smile that was as heartbreaking to see as her sobs had been to hear. ‘But the condemnation never stopped, the judgement sentence never fully served. In the eyes of Caleb I could never be trusted. He could never be sure the babes I carried were his. His fears have cast a coldness over this house, one that can never be warmed. It killed what love I could have felt for him, killed it nigh on twenty years gone. You, Emma, were the only one of his children gotten in tenderness, a tenderness that died long before your carrying was done. Mistrust and bitterness was his marriage gift to me. I suppose I could expect no other in exchange for a dowry of shame.’

  ‘But you have not . . .’

  ‘No, not once in twenty years.’ Mary smiled through a film of tears. ‘I have looked in no direction but that of Caleb Price, but bitterness be a hard taskmaster and jealousy a cruel mistress. Your father danced at their bidding until they became second nature to him. Had he even wanted to shake them off it soon became impossible and they have lodged in this house ever since, a grinding obsession of his he will not forsake until we are both carried out in a box.’

  ‘But surely Father must know?’ Emma stared up at her mother. ‘He must know you would never be untrue to him.’

  Mary touched her lips first to the soft gold of her daughter’s hair, then dropped her hands to her lap. ‘He knows. But the seeds of doubt are strong. They flourish in the driest of ground, and once sown can never be fully harvested. Caleb has his beliefs and I have my bitter harvest. But you, Emma, you must never go the way I trod, you must give yourself to none but the man who weds you, and then not until after the marriage lines be signed. Remember that when next a man smiles into your eyes and takes your hand in his.’

  Half an hour later, her hands washed and a cup of tea made for her mother, Emma returned to her baking.

  She would not forget what Mary had told her, but she need have no fear that the same pain would be hers. Paul was not of that breed. He would not ask her to give herself before marriage and certainly would not leave her should she expect his child. Paul Felton loved her, and tonight when they met he would tell her so again. It would shine in his eyes, ring in his voice as he asked her father’s permission to marry her.

  Rolling pastry on a floured board, Emma glanced at her mother, thin shoulders hunched as she stared into the fire. Caleb Price had married her knowing she had borne a child by another man, but what had motivated him to do so? Had it been pity for a young girl reviled by others? Was it charity?

  Lining an enamelled dish with pastry, Emma filled it with chopped mutton and potato.

  Watching her mother rise, steps slow as she walked into the scullery, Emma guessed it was neither of those things. Caleb Price had brought no happiness and precious little comfort to the girl he had married, his continued fault finding and demanding ways making her old before her time. No, he had not married to comfort her but to satisfy his own desires, the greatest of which was to be seen as a pious, godly man.

  Placing a pastry lid over the dish, Emma crimped the edges with a vengeful thumb. The only one he cared for was himself, the only religion he followed was his own. Caleb Price was god in his own kingdom.

  But her own marriage would not be like that. Paul Felton loved her. There would be no unhappiness for her, no stigma in the eyes of the world. Hers would be no dowry of shame.

  Chapter Two

  Emma picked up the empty basket with one hand, the other lifting her shawl over her head.

  ‘It be a kindly thing you do, bringing me a pie every week.’

  Jerusha Paget followed Emma to the door of the tiny back-to-back house, its rear joined to an identical house. They were two in a block of eight, each damper, colder and more rat-infested than its neighbour.

  ‘I only wish it could be more.’ Emma’s answering smile was filled with sympathy.

  ‘Nay, wench, your family has precious little as it is. We as serves the Feltons all be in the same boat. Work a man ’til he drops and then to buggery with him, that be their way. They have love for nobody ’cepting themselves.’

  Emma felt the sting of those words but even so could not deny them. But Paul had told her of his plans to alter the living conditions of the miners’ families; told her of all he intended to do once he reached his majority. Once he was twenty-one he would have a full say in the Felton business and that included how its workers were housed and treated. But until that time, he had said, she should say nothing to any of them.

  But why? Emma tucked the corners of the shawl tighter beneath her small breasts. Was it because of his brother? She knew from odd snatches of conversation that Paul had a brother. He never discussed him, not even saying his name, but she knew it. Carver Felton. That name was all too familiar, she’d heard it often enough, spat out by the men of Doe Bank. But she had never seen him. What was he like, the brother of Paul’s, and why had she not been taken to meet him?

  ‘I will call again next week.’ Emma glanced over the woman’s shoulder to the iron-framed bed that occupied most of the poky room. ‘I hope Mr Paget will be better by then.’

  ‘That be a hope we will both be denied,’ Jerusha answered quietly. ‘But there be more will be denied you yet.’ Drawing the plain gold band from the third finger of her left hand she held it towards Emma. ‘This be all I have to give you, Emma Price, but had I riches a-plenty I could not give you anything that will be of more use to you in the days that lie afore you.’

  ‘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 we
dding 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.