Pit Bank Wench Page 5

  The slam of the door reverberating around the dining room, Carver smiled as he picked up his cup again.

  Yes, a great deal could happen in a year.

  *

  Emma heard the hoof beats before the horse breasted the small rise in the ground that was Doe Bank.

  Carver! The pain that had twisted her stomach for several hours lanced her again, sharp and griping, snatching the breath from her lungs. Only the Feltons rode in these parts and Paul had gone away, left a month ago with no word. It could only be that he had thought better of wanting to marry her; he must have realised he was not in love with her after all. But to leave without a word . . .

  Then had come that terrible night, the night Carver Felton had raped her. He had done it quite deliberately. It had not been an act of passion or even of lust. It had been a cold, calculating move designed to bar any hope she might have had of becoming his brother’s wife.

  And now he was here at Doe Bank! But for what reason? He had done his evil. Repeating it would serve no purpose, hold no logic.

  Pain striking her again, Emma clutched at her abdomen, breath coming out in a short hard gasp.

  Were purpose and logic part of Carver Felton’s make-up? She gasped again. She had only met him once but that meeting had shown her that they were. Logic and purpose were very much a part of the man . . . was his purpose in coming here to rape her again?

  Emma glanced about her. The small group of houses stood silent, their occupants at work earning their living; except for the old who sat close to their fires, or the sick like her mother laid up in their beds.

  Was that why he had chosen this time of day to pay his visit? Knowing that even the children of the village would be away with their mothers; all but the very youngest hands must work to live. Had he called at the pit bank and learned she had taken the half-hour break to run home to see to her mother, then followed her here?

  Forcing herself to stand upright, Emma turned to face the rider breasting the hill. Thank God she had not allowed Carrie to come home in her place.

  ‘Emma!’ The rider swung himself to the ground, sunlight glinting on his rich brown hair.

  ‘Emma, it’s so good to see you.’

  Another wave of pain twisting through her, Emma stared at the man approaching her with long easy strides. Paul . . . it was Paul Felton come to Doe Bank, not his brother.

  ‘Emma, I’ve missed you so.’ Catching both her hands in his, he smiled down into her face.

  ‘Why haven’t you been to see me? It has been almost a month.’ The question came out abruptly. If Paul had been missing her so much then why had he stayed away so long?

  ‘I have been away on business. Carver insisted I go, left me no time to come and see you first to tell you I would be gone for such a length of time.’

  Carver had insisted? Emma felt her senses whirl. Had theirs been an accidental meeting that evening? Perhaps, but his rape of her must have been the outcome of long consideration. ‘Ask my brother to marry you now!’ Those were the words he had spoken. His violation of her had not only been deliberate, it had been planned. With his brother out of the way, Carver Felton could carry out his scheme at any time, their meeting had merely played into his hands.

  And now Paul was back and here at Doe Bank. How much did he know of his brother’s attack on her? Had Carver told him or said nothing at all?

  ‘Did my brother send no word?’ Paul caught the shadowed expression in her eyes. ‘Did he not spare a moment to come and see you, to tell you the reason for my absence?’

  Emma dropped her glance. It was obvious not only from Paul’s happy smile but also from his question: Carver had said nothing of what he had done. But there could be no doubt he would, should Paul introduce her as his future bride. That would be the obstacle he would raise and it would be insurmountable. How could Paul marry her, knowing what he would then?

  Even should the fear she had carried since that night prove unfounded, should her monthly flow still come, even then she could not marry Paul. That terrible truth would always be there between them. Carver’s sentence upon her had taken only minutes to execute, but the serving of it would last a lifetime. Her lifetime! Never would she be free of the memory of it, never free of the shame.

  ‘Your brother sent no word,’ she said quietly, but could not bring herself to add that he had indeed seen her.

  ‘Damn him!’ Paul’s smile faded. ‘Too wrapped up in the business to think of anything or anyone else. Emma, I’m sorry you were not told, but this time you will know . . .’

  ‘This time?’ She looked up sharply.

  ‘Yes. It’s a bind, I know, but there is nothing I can do. Carver insists I go to Birkenhead tomorrow. He says that to have a proper understanding of the business I need to meet people on their home ground, and until I reach twenty-one I have to do whatever he decides.’

  Whatever he decides . . . It was almost a malediction, a curse pronounced by Carver Felton on all who might dare to question him; a power he would wield over his brother as he had wielded it against her. But Paul would eventually be free from Carver’s hold, whereas she never would.

  ‘But once I am of age . . .’ Raising her hands to his lips Paul kissed each in turn ‘. . . we will be married, and then I will never have to leave you again. We will be together always.’

  Together always. Emma felt coldness seep into her veins. Or until Carver should decide otherwise?

  Tense with the pain in her stomach and the coldness in her veins, Emma struggled to keep her voice steady.

  ‘Paul, thank you for coming to explain. It was kind of you to take the time when you must have so many preparations to make before tomorrow . . .’

  ‘I had to come, Emma.’ He drew her close, his arms going about her. ‘I had to see you to tell you that I love you and want you for my wife. A year seems an eternity to wait before that dream can come true. But it will, my dear, it will.’

  Letting herself rest against him, her head against his shoulder, Emma gave herself up to the one moment of joy left to her, the last time she would be in Paul’s arms. This was all she would have of the bright promise of a few weeks ago, all that was left of the dream Carver Felton had destroyed.

  Pain rising like a tide, Emma watched him ride away. Carver Felton had imposed his will upon them both. Paul would not be allowed to marry a girl from Doe Bank, and his coming of age would have no bearing on that.

  ‘Eh, Emma! What have you done?’ Carrie stared at her elder sister, who was clutching her abdomen, her already pale face turning chalk white.

  ‘Only what . . . what had to be done,’ she gasped. She would not have believed it would give her so much pain. She had gone from Jerusha Paget’s house to another of which she had heard women on the waste heaps talk. A woman who for a shilling would give a potion that would rid another of an unwanted child, clear it from the womb without hurt. The house had been dark, but not dark enough to hide the dust and dirt within from Emma’s shrinking gaze.

  ‘How long?’ the woman had asked, already knowing in her mind the reason for Emma’s visit. ‘How long ’ave you gone?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ Emma remembered the look the woman had squinted at her, a look that spoke the silent question: Have there been that many times . . . so many men?

  ‘How long since you’ve seen . . . how long since you last had a show of blood?’

  The question was sharp, irate; the woman obviously thought her an idiot. ‘A little over a month,’ Emma answered, once more suffering the squinted appraisal.

  ‘How little?’

  ‘Two or three days.’

  ‘Tcha!’ The woman stood with her hands on her hips. ‘That don’t be long enough for you to be certain. Could be you be throwing your money away.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Emma had answered quietly. ‘It could be that my monthly flow is late in coming, I know there can be many causes of that happening.’

  ‘But there be one cause you don’t be prepared to risk?’

&nb
sp; Waiting for Emma’s nod, the woman had gone into her scullery, returning with an enamel mug.

  ‘Drink.’ She had shoved the chipped mug into Emma’s hand. ‘Get that down you, it will put an end to what be worrying you. There’ll be nowt for you to fret over by this time tomorrow. Not ’til the next time anyway.’

  She had laughed as she added the last, a horrid cackling laugh that had set Emma’s nerves on edge.

  ‘Go on, wench, drink it. It will do no good you staring at it.’

  In the shadowed gloom of the house, Emma could not see the colour of the liquid in the cup but the smell as she lifted it to her lips caused her to heave. She had drunk it. Drunk whatever it was the woman had given her, then paid her shilling.

  ‘You weren’t sure,’ Carrie protested, helping her to the bed they shared in the tiny back bedroom. ‘You could have waited a few more days.’

  ‘And if it didn’t come then how many more days should I wait? How many before it becomes too late?’ Emma whimpered as pain seized her again. ‘I couldn’t wait, Carrie. I can’t risk being pregnant, Father would never forgive me.’

  ‘Father!’ Carrie suddenly trembled. ‘Why does he do such things? Why, despite all his preaching and sermonising, does he . . . does he fon . . . Mother is with child so often it’s a wonder she is not dead. Oh, I know very well why she is sick now. Another baby to be got rid of, another bout of suffering while he struts about spouting the Bible and being all holier than thou!’

  ‘Carrie!’ Emma’s eyes widened.

  ‘It’s true!’ her sister returned, almost to herself. ‘He knows what he does is wrong, it cannot be as he says it is – that it is the duty of every woman to satisfy the man, let him . . .’

  ‘Carrie, stop!’ Emma looked at her sister, usually so timid and quiet, hardly ever speaking of their father, going up to the bedroom as soon as he came home.

  ‘Carrie, you should not talk like that. How do we know whether or not Mother is . . .’ Emma broke off, embarrassed by the turn the conversation had taken.

  ‘How?’ Carrie rose to her feet, her eyes brimming with tears. ‘For the simple reason she makes so many visits to Jerusha Paget. You know what she goes for, I know what she goes for. It is the same thing you went to ask for, the potion that ends a pregnancy; the potion that will kill her if she goes on taking it. And it will be his fault!’

  What Carrie said was true. Emma folded her arms across her stomach, trying to ease away the pain. Their mother did go to Jerusha, two or sometimes three times in a year, afterwards suffering the same agony she herself was presently sharing. But better that, she had told Emma, better to suffer the pain of the body than the pain of the heart trying to raise a houseful of children on the wage their father earned, raise them in the squalor of Doe Bank, and so each time she visited Jerusha.

  ‘It’s so unfair, Emma. Why should women suffer so much? Why can a man take pleasure where he pleases when we feel only pain and heartbreak?’

  ‘It might not be like that for every woman.’ Emma watched her sister through eyes dulled with pain.

  ‘You think not?’ Carrie turned away, her face hidden from her sister. ‘I have not known a single woman in Doe Bank give birth without suffering torture. I’m afraid, Emma. I don’t want to go through that . . .’

  ‘What do you not want to go through, Carrie?’

  Both girls looked sharply towards the door of the bedroom where their mother stood watching them.

  ‘I asked you a question, child. What is it you do not want to go through?’

  A hint of colour touched Carrie’s cheeks and her eyes lowered. ‘The pain of childbirth. I . . . I’m afraid. I am afraid of . . .’

  Mary Price’s faded eyes melted with love as she crossed to where her youngest child stood trembling. ‘You need not be afraid, my love.’ She looked across the girl’s bent head to Emma and her eyes asked forgiveness. ‘There is nothing to be feared of. You have been listening to the gossip and dirty talk of the pit bank.’

  Held against her mother’s breast, Carrie shuddered. ‘It is no lie what they say, is it, Mother? I have only to look at Emma and at you to see that. Both of you drinking that . . . that brew, while Father and whoever . . .’ She lifted her head, her eyes at once apologetic. ‘Emma, I didn’t mean . . .’

  ‘Go downstairs, Carrie.’ Mary spoke to one daughter but her eyes stayed fixed on the other. ‘Your father will be home soon, go see the meal is not spoiling.’

  ‘No!’ Carrie’s fingers tightened on her mother’s hand. ‘I want . . . I’m afraid . . .’

  ‘Afraid?’ Mary kissed the soft hair. ‘Afraid of the dark? Not my girl! The lamp is lit and your father will be home in a few minutes. He’ll let nothing frighten you, he will let no harm come to you.’

  Carrie walked slowly from the room, the words echoing in her heart. No harm, Father . . . no harm.

  ‘Don’t scold Carrie for listening to those women. She is very young yet, Mother.’

  ‘Arr, she be young and every bit as foolish.’ Mary sat beside her daughter. ‘But time will put the first right, and with God’s help and the love of a good man she will lose her girlish fears. But you, Emma, I never thought you to be so foolish . . . as to walk through those woods alone.’

  Clutching her stomach as breath closed her throat against the hot lash of pain, Emma turned her face to her mother. ‘I did not lie willingly with . . . with the man, Mother. Let heaven be my witness, I did not!’

  ‘You don’t have to tell me that, I know you would never do such a thing.’ Taking her daughter in her arms, Mary touched her lips to the pale shining hair. Emma was beautiful, far too beautiful for the life Doe Bank would give her, and some man had seen that beauty, used that slender body then thrown her aside. But who was the man? Why had Emma given him no name despite a mother’s asking?

  ‘I meant you were foolish in going elsewhere than to Jerusha Paget,’ she said, gathering her daughter in her arms.

  Pressed close against her, Emma felt the tears squeeze from beneath her closed eyes. ‘Jerusha would not give me what she gave to . . .’

  ‘To me,’ Mary finished the sentence quietly.

  ‘I . . . I had to go to that other house.’ She sobbed. ‘Jerusha would not help so I had to find someone who would. I had to, Mother. I could not take the risk of carrying Ca— a child. The woman said it would be all over by this time, that there would be no pain . . .’

  ‘But she was wrong, wrong on both counts. You have seen no blood, have you, Emma?’

  Feeling her tremble, Mary’s arm tightened. If that man’s seed had taken root then there would be no flow of blood despite the potion Emma had drunk. The child would grow and it would be born . . . and her daughter would know the shame of it.

  ‘Mother.’ Emma lifted a face stained with tears. ‘Supposing I am with child? Supposing what that woman gave me does not work, what will happen? Father will not believe I was . . . was raped.’

  No, Caleb would not believe that. Mary rested her head against her daughter’s. Caleb . . . the preacher man . . . would see only a temptress, a Jezebel, for in his eyes it would be Emma who was to blame.

  ‘We can only wait and see,’ she murmured. ‘We can only hope.’

  Chapter Five

  Emma watched her mother leave the bedroom, her wasted body seeming to wince with every step. Carrie had been right, their mother did suffer too many pregnancies, each more painful to end than the last. Surely their father knew why his wife always looked so tired? Why she was regularly confined to her bed with gripe of the stomach? Yes, Caleb Price knew, but it seemed his rantings against the sins of the flesh applied only to women.

  If he should discover her sin . . . Emma felt her blood turn cold. There would be no pity in him, no forgiveness.

  But perhaps he need never know? The pain of the last few hours had seemed to tear her apart. Surely the potion must have done its work?

  Even though she was alone in the room, Emma crossed to the corner farthest from the door
. Keeping her back discreetly towards the bed, instinctively seeking the only privacy the room afforded whenever her sister was present, she took the folded cloth from between her legs.

  It was unmarked! Emma felt despair sweep over her. There was no stain upon it, no trace of blood. Whatever the mixture she had drunk, it had had no effect other than to put fire in her belly.

  She stared at the rag. So much pain, so much fear. And all for nothing! If Carver Felton had left her with child, then the child was still inside her.

  ‘There is a child within you . . .’

  Emma heard the words in her mind, the words Jerusha Paget had spoken.

  ‘. . . a child that will be born into the world . . .’

  That then was how it would be! A sense of acceptance wrapping about her like a cloak, Emma took a piece of paper from the chest of drawers she shared with Carrie. Wrapping the cloth, she pushed it into the pocket of her skirt. Carver Felton’s child would be born into the world but the Feltons would never know.

  Downstairs she took the paper-wrapped cloth, thrusting it deep into the fire. Behind her Mary Price’s face twisted with sympathy. Her daughter was condemned to a life of sorrow. She would bear her burden alone, with every hand but her mother’s and her sister’s turned against her, with no hope of a father for the child other than the man who had . . .

  Mary turned away, the bitterness of the rest of that thought stinging her heart like acid. But who was that man? Why would Emma not say his name? Had it been someone she knew, someone who knew her? Suddenly Mary felt a new coldness. Was it a man who already had a wife and children . . . a man from Doe Bank?

  ‘Serve the meal.’

  Mary glanced up as Caleb strode into the house. Usually he washed away the dirt of the mine before taking his food.

  ‘Serve the meal!’ Caleb’s narrow features were drawn together with the anger that rang in his voice. ‘Serve the meal and then gather your belongings. We be leaving this house afore morning.’

  ‘Leaving?’ Mary’s startled glance changed to a frown that creased her brow. ‘Caleb, I don’t understand?’