Pit Bank Wench Page 4

  She would return the amount with interest. Emma’s hand tightened on the shawl as she thought of the coin hidden beneath the underwear in her drawer. She would never spend that shilling, never let it pass to another living soul, not until the day she could hand it back to Carver Felton.

  She had carried it home clutched in the palm of her hand, still clutching it as her mother had hurried her up to the bedroom she and Carrie shared. Caleb had not yet returned from the mine, she’d said, they must get her washed and into bed before he did. Though her mother had been incensed at what had happened she had shown no real surprise. Emma visualised her mother’s expression as she had gathered her in her arms. There had been no shock in those faded lacklustre eyes, only pity. It was almost as if she had expected what had happened.

  ‘Men,’ she had muttered, holding Emma tight in her thin arms, ‘they be all the same, bad through and through, and his sort be the worst of all!’

  It was later, after the tin bath had been emptied of coal-filmed water and Caleb given his evening meal, that her mother had come to sit beside Emma’s bed. It was then, between stifled sobs, that the whole story came out. Mary had listened without interruption until Emma had reached beneath her pillow, bringing out the small silver coin.

  Taking it into her own hand she had stared at it, glinting in the light of the candle. ‘One paltry shilling!’ she had murmured almost to herself. ‘That is the price of a woman’s virtue, the payment for shattering her life. One single shilling and the man goes scot free!’ Folding her fingers over the coin she had tilted her head back, eyes tight closed, just a shadow of movement about her lips as she spoke. ‘May the Good Lord call him to book for what has been done this night. May the hosts of heaven pay him back!’

  Now, her head bent, Emma hurried on. Carver Felton would be made to pay. With or without the help of heaven, he would pay!

  That was her solemn vow.

  ‘You say your fear be that you may be carrying the seed of rape?’

  Jerusha Paget sat, hands folded in her lap, eyes on the drawn face of the young girl sitting opposite, the firelight dancing in her pale hair as she nodded.

  ‘That be the first time a man has lain with you? There has been no other?’

  ‘No!’ Emma’s head lifted sharply, denial in her eyes. ‘He must have thought I had, he implied that his brother and I . . .’

  ‘That his brother had taken the privilege of a husband?’

  ‘Yes. But he had not . . . I would not. That man called me a slut, treated me as a whore, but I have never been that, not even for . . .’ Dropping her gaze to her fingers moving restlessly against her skirts, Emma left the rest unsaid.

  ‘You have given no name to the man who forced himself upon you, though it lies in your heart in letters cut deep.’ Jerusha shifted her gaze to the fire, its glow seeming somehow to spread itself about her, wrapping her in the veil of its light, touching her worn features with new life, smoothing and renewing, setting a circle of soft radiance about the faded hair.

  The strange, almost frightening beauty of the scene caught at Emma’s throat and when Jerusha began to speak she felt the nerves in her spine tingle, for the usual softness of the woman’s voice had changed, becoming dull and flat.

  ‘Those letters lie hidden deep and your tongue has spoken them to none, but this night will see the loosing of your tongue. Yet will you carry that name with you as you will carry the desire for revenge, but one will not still the pain of the other. The mark of rape goes too deep ever to be wiped away completely. It will come to you at night cloaked in darkness, it will break in upon your thoughts in the light of day, tormenting you with its evil. Time . . . time can be your only healer and love, one man’s true love, your only physician. Deep lie the letters, but not so deep Jerusha Paget cannot read them, nor the reason you have come to Plovers Croft. You have not yet asked for the potion you want, that which will carry away the seed of Carver Felton . . .’

  Emma caught her breath, the sound loud in the shadowed room, but Jerusha seemed not to hear.

  ‘. . . but that potion I am forbidden to give – ask not by whose hand I am stayed. There is a child within you, a child that will be born into the world, one that will carry the name of its father.’

  ‘No!’ Emma’s cry was as keen as the grief within her. ‘Why? Why should I carry a child I do not want, a child I did not ask for?’ Dropping her head into her hands she sobbed. ‘Why has this happened to me . . . what have I done to deserve this?’

  A half-buried coal settled low in the grate swamping the flames, the glow that had settled about Jerusha dying with it.

  ‘You have done nothing, wench.’ Her voice held its customary gentleness as her gaze returned to Emma. ‘The wrong that has been done owes nothing to you . . .’

  ‘Then help me, Jerusha!’ Emma thrust forward her whole body, pleading. ‘Help me as my mother said you would. As you have helped other women.’

  ‘Mary Price spoke truly.’ Jerusha’s head moved with a slow bobbing motion. ‘I have helped other women in the way you came to ask. I have given the potion that flushed away the seed they did not want, that which they could not afford to keep, and I would help you too . . .’

  ‘Then do it, Jerusha!’ Emma pushed herself from the chair, going down on her knees before the older woman. ‘Give me the potion . . . please!’

  Bringing her hand to the head now lying in her lap, Jerusha’s face lapsed into the old careworn creases, her eyes reflecting the pity they had held so often for women who came to her asking for herbal cures, for their men or themselves or their sick children when the money to pay a doctor could not be found; that pity, deep and rending, when she knew her skills would not be such as to bring a cure and more rarely when, as now, she had been forbidden to try.

  It had been a silent voice in her mind, a vision visible only to her inner gaze, only a feeling. But a feeling so strong it could not be denied. It had been this way from girlhood. An inner sense so powerful it filled her whole being, lifting her, holding her, closing off the world until it seemed she floated within its silence, the peace of it absolute, and from that peace came the knowledge, from that silence the direction she must follow.

  ‘That is not the help I must give you.’ Jerusha stroked the silken hair. ‘That is not to be the way of things.’

  ‘But you can, Jerusha!’ Emma lifted her tear-stained face. ‘You said yourself I was not to blame so why won’t you do what I ask? I will pay . . .’

  ‘No, Emma.’ Jerusha dropped her hand. ‘I would take no payment from you or any other soul I could bring help to. It is true you are not to blame as it is true the cure you seek you will not find; not in Plovers Croft nor any place else. As for blame and the carrying of it, that will be yours for years yet to come. You are bound, as I am, by cords that cannot be seen, the cords of fate. They bind us all in one way or another and will not be broken, not ’til that which has been set be at an end. The child will stay within you until the time of its birthing even though now you think to turn to some other for the shifting of it.’

  Emma dropped her eyes. The thought had risen in her mind, the thought of looking for someone else skilled in the use of herbs. But how could Jerusha have guessed . . . and how had she guessed the name of Carver Felton?

  Cupping Emma’s face, Jerusha tipped it gently upward. ‘Save yourself the pain, Emma wench,’ she said softly. ‘There will be enough of that when the months of carrying be over.’

  Despite the thoughts that must have shown in her glance, Emma looked up. ‘But how do you know? How can you be so sure, so certain it cannot be taken away?’

  Jerusha closed her eyes, and in that brief moment it seemed once more she was in that silent golden place, enfolded in a peace that knew no end; and when she opened them again that same certainty glowed in their faded depths.

  She smiled and in her eyes there was a sadness that seemed to Emma as she watched to be a sadness outside of that the woman might feel for her, a sadness that was Jeru
sha’s alone. ‘I know what I know, child. I ask no question as to how, I only take that which is given to me. That I speak and no more. This also I know. What is given to Jerusha Paget by the voice of silence, that is what will be. Trust me, child. That I’ll tell you and no more.’

  Emma rose to her feet. Her mother had been so certain Jerusha would give her that which would leave her clean of Carver Felton’s vile act, take away the seed growing within her. None but the three of them would ever know. But now! Emma turned to the door. The whole of Doe Bank would soon know Emma Price was carrying a child but had no husband. Her mother had understood, she had believed her. But what of her father? Emma felt the world reel about her. Her father would never accept the truth, he would never believe she had been taken against her will. To Caleb she would be as guilty as Carver Felton. How would she live with her father’s condemnation? A condemnation she knew he would hold to for the rest of his life.

  Tears gathering in her throat, she drew her shawl across her shoulders and as she turned again to the older woman, caught the sorrow that showed in her face as she stared at the empty bed. Jerusha Paget had her own unhappiness with the loss of her husband, Emma would not be the cause of more.

  Swallowing her tears, she placed her arms about her friend. ‘Thank you for believing me,’ she said softly. ‘You would not turn me away without cause. You would have helped if you could, I know that.’

  For a moment Jerusha stood silent, feeling the tremors that shook Emma’s body. The child had suffered a great hurt and there were more yet to come; but the man who had wronged her would feel the hand of heaven against him. The torment this girl was feeling now he too would feel and only she would have the power to end it.

  ‘I wish I could comfort you more, wench.’ Holding Emma at arm’s length Jerusha looked deep into her swamped eyes. ‘But it was not to be. The fates have their reasons though they do not always choose to show them to me. But this I can tell you: a few years will see the changing of your life. Many times it will seem to you that you have not the strength to bear the burdens that will be a part of those years, but the strength will be given you. Have faith, wench, remember my words, and when the time comes remember too the ring that hangs from a bootlace about your neck; it will bring you the comfort no word can give.’

  ‘The comfort no word can give.’ Walking home across the heath those words returned to her. The only words she had wanted to hear would never be spoken now. Paul would not ask her to be his wife. Carver must have told him, why else had he not come?

  Words! Emma felt bitterness, dry and harsh in her throat. They could bring so much happiness, so much despair! Jerusha had talked of her life being changed. Those words at least carried truth.

  A bastard child. That would change her life in Doe Bank. From now on Emma Price would be an outcast among her own.

  Chapter Four

  ‘But I’ve been away for over a month. You cannot possibly expect me to leave again so soon?’

  Paul Felton got up from the table, his face stormy. Home less than twenty-four hours and already his brother wanted him to make another business trip.

  ‘How else can you meet with clients?’ Carver watched him steadily. ‘They cannot all visit Felton Hall. You have to learn, Paul, business is as much diplomacy as it is commerce. You have to know when to give as well as when to take; that includes your time. We all have other things we would prefer to spend our time doing, but that is a luxury we cannot afford to indulge.’

  ‘Meeting new clients is all very well, but does it have to be so damned quick? I didn’t get back from Blaydon until last night!’

  Drawing a slow affected breath, Carver placed his linen napkin beside his plate. ‘If Felton’s are not there when coal and iron is required then some other firm will be. We are not the only iron masters in Wednesbury, brother, nor is the Topaz the only coal mine. Trade will not always come to our door, so if we wish to keep it then we must be prepared to pander to our clients a little. Trade has its whims, rather like a woman. You want the favour, you pay the price.’

  ‘The price should be shared, Carver!’ Paul rounded on him sharply. ‘Surely this time you should be the one to go?’

  ‘If that is what you wish.’ Carver’s reply showed none of the anger beginning to build in him. Argument was something he did not tolerate lightly, especially when it might affect plans he had so carefully laid. ‘But bear in mind the fact that I learned the art of meeting prospective business associates, of doing business with them, long before you were out of the school room. I know what it is all about. But you, Paul, what do you know? How many buyers have you come up against . . . how many rivals outbidding you on every deal? Where did you learn to match cunning with cunning, to recognise which hand to shake and which held a knife? The answer is, you have not learned, and you never will so long as you are not prepared to go out and do so. I do not need that education Paul, you do. My meeting those clients will not provide you with it. I am afraid that the putting aside of personal preferences is all part of running a business and if you intend taking your place as a co-director then that is a fact to which you must get used.’

  ‘So how long will this proposed trip take?’

  The expression on Carver’s face remained the same but inside he smiled. It had never taken him long to impose his will on Paul. His brother would leave Felton Hall tomorrow, and this time for much longer than a month.

  Helping himself to another cup of coffee from an elegant Spode china pot, Carver added cream and sugar. ‘That will very much depend upon you. Your personality is one way of putting it. You must sell yourself if you wish to sell iron. Be pleasant and agreeable, show an interest in all the customer has to say, visit with him if that is what he wants. A quick, “How do you do, sir? I am leaving” will fill no order books.’

  Displeasure still drawing his brows together, Paul answered, ‘You sound as though you expect it to take some time?’

  Carver stirred his coffee, his eyes on the creamy swirls. ‘I expect you to do what is best for the business.’

  ‘The business!’ Paul kicked the leg of a dining chair. ‘Why always the bloody business?’

  ‘For God’s sake, Paul, grow up!’ Giving way to his anger, Carver threw the spoon he was holding across the table. ‘It is that “bloody business” that has kept you all those years. It is the business that put food in your stomach and fancy clothes on your back. What paid for your schooling? What keeps Felton Hall and Beaufort House if not the business? That is what you have lived on in the past and it is what will keep you in the future. But it did not build itself. Father left the foundry and the coal mine but it is me that made them what they are today. My time . . . my sweat . . . it was my preferences were put aside time and time again. And I tell you, brother, it is time you played your part. If you wish to go on living in the style to which you are accustomed then you will shoulder some responsibility for providing for it. You will go to Birkenhead and you will stay there for however long it takes!’

  The spark of defiance dying in his brown eyes, the frown of annoyance turning to dull resignation, Paul glanced at his brother. ‘When?’ he asked dully. ‘When do you want me to leave?’

  ‘Tomorrow. There’s a train in the afternoon. It will leave the Great Western station at Wednesbury at two. I’ll take you there in the brougham.’

  ‘So soon?’ Paul’s glance lifted automatically to the mantel of the carved fireplace, looking for a clock. Finding none he drew a gold hunter from the pocket of his waistcoat.

  ‘I did request you go a week from now,’ Carver lied with consummate ease. ‘But Aston insisted it be tomorrow, and as I said a moment since . . .’

  ‘I know, I know!’ Paul’s answer was resigned. ‘Putting aside personal preferences is all part of business.’ Flicking open the front of the watch, he glanced at the dial before snapping it shut. ‘Can the business spare me for a few hours this afternoon or is that too much to ask?’

  ‘Of course. You may take the rest of the
day to do with as you wish. If you would care to use the carriage, I’ll . . .’

  ‘No.’ Paul returned the watch to his pocket. ‘I will take my horse. The afternoon is mild, it will prove a pleasant ride to Doe Bank.’

  Carver’s lips tightened imperceptibly. Doe Bank meant only one thing: the Price girl. She was the reason Paul was reluctant to go on business trips and the month away had made no difference to the feeling his brother had for her. Well, maybe it hadn’t. But the fact that she had lain with Carver and taken payment for doing so should put paid to any feeling of Paul’s . . . infatuation or otherwise!

  ‘You’re going to see . . .’ He paused, giving the impression he could not recall the name that had risen so easily to his mind.

  ‘Emma.’ Paul strode to the door. ‘Her name is Emma, and yes, I am going to Doe Bank to see her. I am going to ask her to become my wife.’

  ‘It is as well she has a year to prepare for the wedding.’

  Carver took a sip from his cup and when he replaced it in the saucer the glance he lifted to his brother was one of icy cynicism. ‘She will need every moment of that time to earn enough to buy a decent nightgown much less a trousseau. Pit bank wenches make very little money picking over the colliery waste heaps. But then, there are always the taverns and beer houses.’ He raised one eyebrow, the movement at once disparaging and supercilious. ‘She can no doubt earn a shilling or two in those. There are always men not too fussy about where they buy a woman for the night, or as to how many times she has been bought before.’

  ‘Damn you, Carver!’ Paul whipped about, fists clenched. ‘I’ll push every one of those words down your bloody throat!’

  His movements unhurried, Carver rose to his feet. ‘Before you get yourself hurt, little brother, I suggest you go see the wench. Ask your question then if you must. But remember to tell her there’ll be no marriage for a year. You’ll be given no consent by me.’