Proud Mary

by Proud Mary (retail) (epub)

  She reached up and hugged him, hot tears pressing against her closed lids. ‘Sounds as if you’re saying goodbye, boyo. Not thinking of marriage so soon, are you?’ She paused. ‘You’re young yet, only sixteen, there’s a lot you should do before you settle down.’

  ‘I’m going on seventeen, Mary,’ he said as he held her shoulders and looked into her face. ‘I’ve lived a lot and worked like a man and nearly died. What more do I need do know?’ He smiled ruefully.

  ‘Rhian’s aunt will take us in with her. I’ll be the breadwinner, it’s true, but one day the house will be Rhian’s and mine and so I suppose it’s only fair that I pay towards it while I’m young.’

  He touched her cheek lightly. ‘Only one thing worries me, what’s to become of you?’

  Mary rose to her feet and stared down into the greyness of the dead fire. Billy was gone from her, enclosed behind prison bars, and now Heath was about to leave. Her life was changing. Like a rushing tide that could not be stopped it was carrying her hither and thither, a twig upon a wave. But self-pity was something that did no good, she had learned that lesson early. She smiled and turned to her brother.

  ‘Well, when is this wedding going to be?’ she asked brightly. ‘There’s plenty of sewing for me to do if I’m to send you off properly.’

  Heath pushed himself away from the table edge and Mary noticed afresh how tall he had grown. ‘The autumn, we thought, end of September or beginning of October. But how will you pay the rent without my wages coming in?’

  She smiled brightly. ‘Well, it so happens that I might be moving anyway.’ She took a brush from the drawer and began to tidy her hair. ‘I’ve been offered a job, a good one but it means living in.’

  Heath’s smile betrayed his relief and Mary turned away so that he would not see the darkness of her fear.

  ‘That’s lovely then. Who will you be working for? Tell me all about it, Mary, it sounds exciting.’

  She shrugged. ‘It’s all right. Working in Sutton’s Drapers down in Wind Street, it is, supervisor over all the girls. Good wages too.’

  Heath sighed. ‘Well, that seems to solve all our problems. I’m so happy for you, you don’t know how bad I felt telling you I meant to leave.’

  ‘Remember this, cariad,’ Mary said softly, ‘that you can’t live another person’s life for them. You must be the master of your own destiny. I’ve been around a lot longer than you and so I know what I’m talking about.’ Heath moved towards the door. ‘Well, I’ll sleep with an easy mind tonight.’ He smiled. ‘You’re a clever girl, Mary. How could I doubt that you’d find a job?’

  Mary sat alone in the kitchen for a long time, knowing that her path was clear before her. She was alone now without a man to work for her or a roof over her head. She must make what she could of her own future. Tomorrow she would go to Dean Sutton, tell him that if he still wanted her she would accept his offer. She held herself unconsciously straight as she rose to put out the lamp.

  ‘I’ll be a damn good shopkeeper,’ she said out loud and then grimaced a little. ‘What’s more, I’ll make sure I’m the best damn whore Sweyn’s Eye has ever seen!’

  Chapter Eleven

  Delmai Richardson paced the hallway, waiting impatiently for the groom to bring the carriage round to the front entrance. Rickie had left the house early without speaking to her and she had felt nothing but relief as the door closed behind him.

  Since the evening of her father’s visit, when she had caused a scene, she had managed to stave off all his attempts to ingratiate himself with her. One night when he had entered her room, she had threatened to scream and call the servants if he so much as laid a finger on her.

  The firearm was safely tucked under her pillow as an extra precaution, but it was Rickie’s innate fear of ridicule that kept him away from her. Just the same, the sooner she was out from under his roof and installed in her own house the better she would be pleased.

  A slight movement attracted her attention and Delmai became aware of the maid bobbing her a curtsey. ‘Kent is outside, Miss Delmai, he’s ready for you.’

  ‘Thank you, Gwen.’ Delmai moved across the hall with a sigh of relief, for it would be good to be outdoors riding along in the warmth of the sunshine. She was nervous but at the same time exultant, knowing she was taking the first step to freedom for she intended to speak to Mary Jenkins and tell her that she must leave her house in Canal Street at once.

  The brougham, though old-fashioned, gleamed with the care the groom showered on it. Kent helped Delmai into her seat with respectful diffidence and Delmai, scarcely noticing him, glanced towards the gardens which were rich and full of blooms glowing in the summer sun.

  Perhaps this was what she would miss, she decided, for the house in Canal Street had no garden to speak of, just a pocket-handkerchief square of lawn to the rear of the building. But her peace of mind was a more important concern than a few flowers, she told herself sharply as she sank back in her seat, feeling she was taking the only course of action open to her.

  The gentle clip-clop of the horse’s hooves lulled her, a fat-bodied insect droned around her head and a breeze fanned her hot cheeks. She sighed and twisted her hands in her lap. It was not going to be easy to face Mary Jenkins.

  Delmai allowed herself a few minutes to think of the woman to whom she would be dealing an unkind cut. Mary Jenkins had kept the house in Canal Street pristine and fresh and until recently had paid her rent without a day’s delay. In fact she had been an ideal tenant and to evict her now seemed shabby treatment meted out when times were hard for the woman. But then Mary Jenkins by all accounts was used to hardship and as she was strong she would doubtless survive such a temporary setback.

  Delmai was not completely insensitive. She felt sad that the woman was to lose her home, but there was no alternative. She shuddered, for nothing on earth would induce her to live with her husband a moment longer than necessary. It was clear that her own need was the greater and Mary Jenkins would just have to solve her own problems.

  Nevertheless, when Delmai stepped out of the carriage and stood outside the door of the neat little house, her heart began to beat a little more swiftly and her hands trembled.

  Her knock was answered at once and Mary stared down at her, giving Delmai the irritating impression that she was small and helpless by comparison.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ she said briskly, making her way uninvited into the neat parlour. She did not sit in one of the highly polished chairs but stood with hands folded across the smooth fine linen of her skirt and stared at Mary unflinchingly.

  ‘I’m afraid I have to ask you to give up the tenancy of my house by the end of the week.’ She spoke loudly, uncertain how to react to Mary who was conducting herself like a grand duchess. There was no sign of servitude and certainly no indication of the tearful pleas Delmai had half-expected.

  ‘I see.’ Mary’s voice was calm, light with a warm trace of a Welsh accent but without the tiresome sing-song quality that was often heard in the streets of Sweyn’s Eye.

  The silence dragged on endlessly as Delmai waited for Mary to make some protestations, berate her even, but the woman lifted a strand of thick dark hair and patted it into place, outwardly at least quite composed.

  ‘I have to move into the house myself,’ Delmai said quickly. ‘I need to be alone and Canal Street is the ideal situation for me.’ She did not know why she was babbling so inanely, but something in Mary’s deep eyes unnerved her.

  ‘You may think me harsh, but in any other circumstances I would give you time to make good the arrears.’ She shrugged. ‘As it is, I must ask you to leave the property as soon as possible.’

  Mary inclined her head graciously in acknowledgement. ‘I understand and it’s all right. I have packed up my belongings.’

  Delmai was bewildered by Mary’s apparent control of the situation. Here she was being put out of her home, a home she kept in excellent order, yet she did not show by even so much as a flicker of an eyelash that sh
e was disturbed. But these people were stoics, Delmai reasoned; they were born and bred to face difficulties, so how could they be expected to have sensitive nerves as she did. She made a slight movement towards the door, feeling absurdly as though she was intruding.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Her words fell into the silence, cold like chips of ice, a gesture but nothing more and Mary recognised them as such.

  How would Mary Jenkins have dealt with a man like Rickie, Delmai wondered. Sharply, no doubt, but then Mary was tall and statuesque, strong in character as well as frame; she would be a fighter, a she-wolf.

  Delmai sighed. ‘I’d better go,’ she said bleakly, but suddenly the room seemed dark and she stumbled a little, feeling suddenly ill.

  Mary Jenkins held out a steadying hand. ‘Would you like some tea?’ She spoke kindly as though to a child and to her surprise, Delmai found herself nodding. She lifted her hand to her head and allowed herself to be guided towards a comfortable armchair.

  She looked around her as Mary left the room, noticing that there was not a speck of dust to be seen. The piano stood against one wall, the wood shining so brightly that she could see her reflection in the mirror-like surface. The curtains hung soft and fresh to the floor and the inevitable lace covered the body of the window, preventing the curious from staring inside the little room. Delmai felt as though she was intruding on the woman’s privacy and looked quickly down at her hands.

  Mary brought a tray and placed it on the table. It was surprisingly well appointed, with thin china crockery and a silver teapot. The more Delmai saw of Mary Jenkins, the more of an enigma she became and she found she was watching her curiously. Mary had been Billy Gray’s sweetheart before his arrest, but Delmai could not envisage the relationship being a successful one. Mary was too strong, too superior for Billy who was a sensitive being and needed gentleness not strength.

  ‘I really am sorry, you know.’ Delmai was feeling better already. She took her cup and sipped the tea that contained milk instead of lemon, but found that it was refreshing. Also it gave her time to study Mary more closely.

  ‘What can’t be cured must be endured,’ Mary said with such an air of resignation that Delmai felt for the first time that she was really depriving her of her home.

  ‘I don’t get on very well with my husband,’ she said, surprising herself with her confession, but once started she seemed unable to stop. ‘I suppose I did not know what to expect of marriage.’ She stared at Mary more closely. ‘Why have you remained a spinster so long?’

  Mary’s eyes met hers coolly and Delmai found herself colouring with embarrassment. ‘That was rude of me,’ she said quickly, but Mary smiled.

  ‘It’s all right, I suppose the answer is that Billy and me never felt passionate enough about each other to set the date for the wedding.’

  Her words gave Delmai a glow of happiness, though she did not care to examine the reason for it. The chinking of cups against saucers seemed unnaturally loud in the sudden silence and she felt the need to speak again.

  ‘Marriage is not romance and roses as I was led to expect – it’s a trap.’ Her words tumbled from her lips and Delmai could not check them. ‘I was not so much a wife as a piece of breeding stock, used cruelly and without feeling. I suppose I was enchanted with the prospect of being married without considering what the role demanded.’

  Mary’s gaze had softened as though she sympathised, but she didn’t speak. Delmai wished suddenly that she could make friends with Mary Jenkins; she was an unusual woman, beautiful in a big-boned almost peasant way and yet with a sort of regal dignity that Delmai found impressive.

  ‘Have you been able to see much of Billy?’ she asked and her heart was beating uncomfortably fast as she waited for a reply. At last Mary shook her head.

  ‘Only once.’ She stared down at her hands as though the memory was painful to her. ‘There was a nasty incident, Billy was hurt and the warder stopped me from going again.’

  ‘Do you love him very much?’ Delmai hated herself for prying and yet she waited eagerly for Mary’s reply.

  Mary sighed. ‘I think I love Billy as a brother.’ Her shrewd eyes rested on Delmai in a disconcerting way. She did not enlarge on her statement and Delmai could not bring herself to dig any further into what was really none of her business.

  ‘I visit the prison regularly,’ she said brightly. ‘If you would like me to take anything in to Billy…’ Her voice trailed away as Mary shook her head. ‘Well, I really must be going.’ She rose to her feet. ‘Thank you.’ She did not know why exactly she was thanking Mary Jenkins, but she couldn’t take her leave without some kind of gesture of apology.

  As she rode home in the carriage, Delmai felt strangely exultant, knowing she would be happy in the little house on Canal Street. As soon as Mary Jenkins moved out, she would have the whole building refurbished; there would be new, softer, richer carpets, curtains and covers of her own choice. She would have the front door painted and replace the tarnished knocker with a bright new one. Feeling more confident and happy than she had done for a long time, she wondered again to herself at her apathy in remaining with Rickie when he had made her life so miserable.

  She would take Gwen with her to Canal Street, of course, and she would need to hire a cook and a kitchen maid. Her staff would be very small, for there was no room for a retinue of servants. She would live quietly, contenting herself with good works, she told herself a little smugly. There was the prison visiting, which had become entirely her province now that Bea Sutton was too sick to leave her bed. Delmai smiled, because it was a task that she had accepted gladly since it meant she could meet with and talk to Billy Gray each week.

  Rickie was at home when she returned and Delmai felt the usual shrinking feeling inside her whenever she was in his company. She seated herself quietly in a chair, hoping he would not notice her, but after a long moment of silence he looked at her sourly from over the top of his newspaper. She tensed, waiting for some reproof or other, preparing a reply that would make him more amenable. But when he spoke his criticism was not, for once, directed at her.

  ‘That stupid American doesn’t know what he’s doing.’ Rickie’s brows were drawn together in a frown. ‘Trying to bring out a handbook for the tinplate men indeed what rubbish! Only an American could be so namby-pamby. There are bosses and workers and both can’t be on the same side, but try telling that to Brandon Sutton.’

  ‘Is the prospect of the handbook being published so bad?’ Delmai said mildly, happy that her husband’s mind was on other matters and that he had not thought to question her absence from the house.

  ‘Bad? It’s downright absurd!’ Rickie replied fiercely. ‘The workforce must be kept in their place, otherwise they strut around talking of strikes. This fool American is encouraging them. Drummed out of the Employers’ Association, that’s what he should be.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’ Delmai was not in the least interested in the subject, but it diverted Rickie’s attention from herself. ‘What is this book you’re talking about, what harm will it do?’

  ‘It will give men ideas above their station.’ Rickie was agitated, his face flushed as he shook the newspaper violently. ‘Letting them think they can have fair wages for all, and the owners footing the bill.’

  He paused, his brows drawn together in a frown. ‘If there are spoiled sheets the workers are at fault, but Brandon Sutton wants the men to be paid for the hours they put in and not for the end results.’ Rickie sighed and shook his head. ‘Pay the men by the box, he says, whatever size of sheets are worked. The fool American doesn’t know what he’s talking about, he’ll soon be bankrupt and where will his workers be then?’

  Delmai rose slowly to her feet. Looking at Rickie’s flushed faced, she wondered how she could ever have brought herself to marry him. The scales had dropped from her eyes now and with a vengeance.

  ‘I’m going upstairs,’ she said softly – so softly that Rickie, shrunk once more behind his newspaper, did not hear
her which was exactly what she wanted.

  In her room, she sat on the bed, staring out into the gardens below.

  The grounds were rich and lush – a riot of colours with huge rhododendrons and beds of geraniums set among green lawns. But she would be happy in her new home, she told herself. Small it might be, but it was what she wanted. She shivered, for Rickie would rant and rave when he saw that she really meant to leave him, but nothing would stop her now. She smiled happily to herself, for in the meantime – while she was preparing the move – there was always the prison visiting to keep her spirits high. As she lay back on the softness of her bed and closed her eyes, the image of the gentle face of Billy Gray was suddenly very clear in her mind.

  Chapter Twelve

  The blast furnaces were being tapped out and the sky above the tall iron-clad stacks was illuminated with a yellowish molten glare. Clouds of smoke thrust heavenward, blotting out the rays of the sun so that the day seemed shadowed and overcast.

  Brandon, standing on the banks of the river Swan, glanced upwards wondering at the mighty spectacle which never failed to impress him. He felt a glow of pride that he owned the works; he had sunk all his money into the venture, but at moments like this the risk seemed well justified.

  He could imagine the heat inside the works, almost feel the sweat breaking out on his brow. The men in the sheds worked like donkeys and determination rose within him to see that they were given fair play.

  Mark came hurrying across the uneven ground, a newspaper in his hand.

  ‘Look at this, sir!’ he said breathlessly. ‘We’ve been given headlines on the front page – got the date we intend to publish, they have, God knows know.’

  ‘Damnation!’ Brandon thrust his hands into his pockets, his face grim. ‘Where do these reporters get their information from? It looks as though someone inside the works is feeding them this stuff, otherwise the facts wouldn’t be so accurate.’ He shrugged. ‘I suppose there’s nothing we can do about it now.’