‘Let’s go see the bearded lady,’ Katie said, smiling over her shoulder at Mary. ‘I always feel like pulling at the hair to see if it’s stuck on.’
‘You go ahead,’ Mary said brightly. ‘I think I’ll get another drink and I’ll catch up with you later.’
Katie hesitated but Mark was tugging at her arm eagerly. Mary winked and with a quick smile, Katie allowed herself to be drawn away.
Mary wandered aimlessly between the stalls, watching idly as a group of children ran pennies along chutes screaming as the coins spun around before falling on to a board covered in numbered squares.
Once or twice she had a distinct feeling that she was being followed, but when she looked over her shoulder, there was never anyone behind her. She told herself she was becoming nervous and tetchy as a proper old maid. In a few more years, she would be thirty yet until just the other day she had never been really kissed. Well, that wasn’t quite true. Billy had kissed her but never with any real passion.
Brandon was the man who had aroused in her the knowledge of her own sensuality. She had responded instinctively to his touch, wanted him as she’d never wanted anything in her life. But he was false, a man who wanted a tumble with a working wench but lacking the honesty to say so.
She looked around her but could see no sign of Katie. The air was growing chill now, the dying sun streaking the sky with red. Mary drew her shawl closer around her shoulders, deciding that she would make her own way home. Katie would probably not even miss her, she thought dryly.
As she left the recreation ground, she once more had the feeling she was being followed. She sensed a shadowy figure moving behind the trees, and wondered if it could be one of the sailors Katie had teased earlier. She shivered a little. ‘There’s soft you are, Mary Jenkins!’ she scolded herself out loud. ‘Who would want to follow you?’
And yet as she made her way through the streets of Sweyn’s Eye, she could not shake off the feeling that someone was watching her every move.
* * *
Brandon stood on the curve of the bay staring out to sea. Lights from the pier reflected in the dark shimmering water and red from the sunset lay like liquid fire on the rippling surface. He felt strangely restless. Perhaps he thought, it was the smallness of the town which gave him his sudden feeling of claustrophobia.
America was big and open and Brandon had travelled the land from south to north. Here, in Sweyn’s Eye, the streets and houses huddled together as though for warmth, courts were narrow and dark, the cobbled roads barely wide enough to allow a pony and trap to pass.
The hills rose on either side of the town, overshadowing the string of iron and copper works that lay along the banks of the river Swan.
It was only here, near the sea, that he felt any sensation of space. He breathed deeply of the salt air and front out in the bay heard the mournful sound of a tug boat guiding home a steam packet with the incoming tide.
Brandon moved away from his view of the ocean and stood on the dunes looking across at the lights from the fairground. Music brazen and brash shattered the silence of the evening and crowds of people thronged between the brightly lit sideshows. Men in caps and scarves were showing off to their womenfolk whose long skirts swept the dusty ground.
Brandon’s senses were suddenly alert as he caught sight of Mary Jenkins. She was alone, an unmistakeable figure, tall and stately, her head held high as she walked along the lush grass of the recreation ground. But what concerned Brandon was the man at her heels who hurried from tree to tree watching Mary’s progress. He was careful to keep out of her sight whenever she glanced over her shoulder and as the last rays of the fading sun struggled through the clouds, Brandon’s suspicions were confirmed. The man following Mary was Gerwin Price. The question was, did she know of his presence? She turned often to look behind her as though expecting to see someone, and there was no telling the workings of a woman’s mind. Brandon slowly moved from the dunes and into the roadway, his steps measured, his hands thrust into his pockets. It might be just as well, he reasoned, to find out exactly what was going on between Gerwin Price and Mary Jenkins.
Chapter Fourteen
Darkness slivered through the passageways and a cold easterly wind rattled the windows as Mary let herself into the house on Canal Street. Suddenly the sky was overcast, darts of spiteful rain beating up off the cobbled roadway. No one would believe that the fairground had been washed with sunlight only a short time ago.
Mary shivered and hurried into the kitchen, bending over the dying embers behind the black-leaded bars of the grate. She pushed rolled paper into the greying coals, endeavouring to fan the flames into life once more, and was rewarded by a small spark.
The evening stretched ahead of her long and empty and on an impulse Mary decided that she would bring in the zinc bath which was hanging on the back door and put it before the fire which would soon grow into a cheerful blaze.
Later, after bathing, she would wash her best petticoat and camisole so as not to waste the hot water. She lifted her skirt and grimaced as she saw that the dust from the fairground had stained the hem of her petticoat.
She was wearing her best underclothes, finely stitched and highly decorated with drawn threadwork. Mary was proud of the quality of her linen, which was a symbol of the success she had made of her life.
The soft cotton and pale ribbon were a far cry from the unbleached calico she had worn as a child. She clearly remembered how her underclothes had been tattered and grubby, hanging loosely from her shoulders, for she had been painfully thin.
Mary brushed the thoughts aside and went out into the yard. The lawn beyond was full of shadows and she shuddered, quickly lifting the bath from its hook and carrying it indoors.
It took her some time to boil enough kettles of hot water to half-fill the zinc bath. Adding cold water, she stood for a moment breathing in the steam and anticipating the comfort of the water on her limbs.
Then she carefully removed her clothes, slipping open the linen-covered buttons of her camisole and letting it fall from her shoulders. With a sigh, she stepped into the bath; she was tired now and low in spirits, knowing that this would be the last time she would use the house in Canal Street as her home.
The water lapped warmly over her body as Mary soaped her skin and tried to relax. She hoped she would not be awake half the night thinking of the plans she must make, the clothing she must pack and all the difficulties of moving. She had not yet spoken to Dean Sutton and she shivered, wondering if his offer was still open or even if she wanted it to be.
The fire threw a red-gold glow over her bare breasts, the warmth was soothing and gradually she began to feel more cheerful. She would make herself some hot milk and then go to bed early, leaving her problems until the morning.
When she heard a scraping noise outside the back door she froze for a moment, listening intently, but the sound was not repeated. She was becoming over-imaginative, she told herself; she was worried and tired and her nerves were strained. All the same, the bath no longer seemed as soothing as it had been.
She stepped from the water on to a rug, noticing a chink between the curtains where it would be easy for someone to peer in at her. But that was absurd, she told herself; she had bathed this way all her life, so why should she suddenly be self-conscious now?
There was a sudden crash and Mary screamed as the door burst open. She reached frantically for a towel with which to cover herself, conscious of another presence in the small kitchen. A shadowy figure moved slowly into the light and Mary trembled, gasping in fear, for Gerwin Price was staring at her with a greedy expression in his eyes.
‘Get out of here, what do you think you’re doing?’ she said loudly. For a moment he wavered as though he might meekly go away; he half turned towards the door and Mary held her breath.
‘I only came to ask you for more food, Mary, and a few shillings if you can spare them. I mean no harm.’ He shuffled from one foot to the other, his eyes dark and frightening as he s
crutinised her.
‘Don’t treat me like I was dirt under your feet, I’m human just like you after all.’ He stared at her as though he could see through the soft material of the towel, his tongue running over his lips as though he had a great thirst. His hair stood up from his head in tufts, his attitude menacing even though his tone was conciliatory. He moved forward and Mary, reading his intentions, backed away. Her feet slipped on the wet floor and as she fell, she screamed in terror.
Afterwards she could never recollect exactly what happened. All she knew was that Gerwin was suddenly thrown against the wall, his face was bloody and he was whimpering with fear. His hand rubbed the blood from his face and he looked like a trapped animal.
‘Get out of here, Price, while you’re still alive!’ The voice spoke over Mary’s head and dimly she recognised it as belonging to Brandon Sutton. He stood over her, his fists bunched, his face a mask of anger.
Gerwin scurried to the door, calling threats over his shoulder until his voice died away into the silence of the night. Mary found herself being lifted to her feet then and harsh sobs racked her body.
‘Don’t cry.’ Brandon’s voice was gentle now. ‘You’re all right, I’m here.’
She stared up in bewilderment at the strong-boned face so near her own. ‘Brandon.’ She could scarcely believe that he was really standing there in her kitchen, holding her in his arms.
Mary drew a ragged breath as she clung to him, glad of his strength for her legs were trembling so badly she wondered if they would support her.
‘Come on, I think you’d be better off in bed.’
Brandon lifted her into his arms and made his way up the curving staircase as though her weight was nothing at all. In her bedroom, he set her down lightly and drew the covers over her nakedness.
She was still trembling as she clung to his hand and he hushed her softly. ‘Don’t be afraid. I’ll stay with you for a while.’
Mary felt exhausted emotionally as well as physically. She curled beneath the sheets, aware of him lying above the blankets, his warmth and nearness comforting. Her head was pounding and she doubted that she would ever sleep, yet a great weariness drew her slowly downward into a warm welcoming darkness.
It was dawn when she awoke and she was immediately aware of a soft breathing on the pillow beside her. Carefully she raised herself on to her elbow and stared down in the dimness of the morning light.
‘Brandon.’ She whispered his name and then his eyes were open and he was staring at her in a way that made her heart pound. He was so close to her that she could feel his breath against her face.
‘Mary,’ he said softly and the sound of her name on his lips was like a caress.
His finger traced a line across her shoulder and down to the tip of her breast and she shivered, sensations she had never experienced before running through her so that she felt weak.
‘You’re very beautiful.’ His mouth was above hers and Mary waited breathlessly for his kiss. When his lips touched hers, flames of desire ran through her and she felt as if she was being washed by a sea of warmth and passion. Her arms crept around his neck as if of their own volition and she clung to him desperately.
She wanted him with all of her being and at the core of her desire was the knowledge that she loved him as a woman can only love one man. However impossible the idea might be, she was Brandon’s woman. He had come to her in the darkness like a knight in shining armour and was holding her now with such gentleness that he must surely love her a little in return?
Brandon’s hands moved to her breasts, caressing, teasing, rousing emotions that Mary had never known existed. She stared at him in the pale light of morning and he was magnificent, strong, his shoulders muscular and broad. Now he was drawing the sheets away from her and as they touched, his skin felt like silk beneath her fingers.
Mary was past reasoning now. All she knew was the exquisite swamping of her senses, a rush of emotion as they lay side by side, breast to breast and thigh to thigh. His hands were moving over her back, caressing the nape of her neck, moving lower and tracing the firm line of her spine.
His tongue probed her mouth and she pressed herself against him, drinking in his nearness, wanting to become part of him. She longed to cry her love out loud but she merely whimpered as he continued to arouse her.
He kissed her breasts, his mouth like flame on her proud flesh. Her thoughts and feelings became a kaleidoscope, whirling and turning. He was above her, within her, around her, possessing and delving until they were one flesh.
She thought that she cried out in a mixture of pain and joy, but she could not be sure. She was drowning in sensation, giving herself completely into his care – trusting him, loving him, wanting only to belong to him utterly.
When it was over, they lay side by side and Brandon’s hand caressed her hair, brushing the strands away from her damp brow. They lay silent and yet together for a long time, but when the sun crept into the room warming it into life, Brandon stirred. Mary watched as he left her bed, wanting him to say he loved her, but his back was turned and his broad shoulders bent as he drew on his clothing. She wished she had the courage to beg him to come back to bed and take her once more, but she was tongue-tied and shy and was possessed by an overwhelming desire to cry.
He came and sat beside her, staring down at her almost with wonder in his eyes. ‘I didn’t expect that,’ he said softly and Mary shook her head, not trusting herself to speak. Brandon kissed her mouth softly. ‘It hadn’t occurred to me that I would be the first, I’m sorry.’
Mary tried to make sense of his words, an emptiness growing inside her as she stared up at him. ‘There’s a strange thing to say.’ Her voice trembled. ‘Did you think I was a whore, then?’
He didn’t reply and Mary’s heart sank. Clearly the experience they had just shared did not mean as much to Brandon as it had to her. Anger began to blossom inside her. She sat up straight, her languor vanished, and held the sheets around her body in a protective gesture that did not escape his notice.
‘You thought I’d been with Billy, didn’t you? And perhaps with other men as well? All this night meant to you was a means of relief from your urges. Any woman would have served the same purpose – it’s true, isn’t it?’ Her voice rose and Brandon turned away from her, thrusting his hands in his pockets.
He spoke slowly, his voice devoid of emotion. ‘You wanted me as much as I wanted you.’ His eyebrows lifted, almost as though he was making fun of her and Mary felt the rich colour flood into her cheeks. She avoided his eyes, for her own were full of tears as he leaned over and touched her shoulder gently.
‘It was good for both of us, but let’s not make it out to be more than it was. You are more suited to Billy Gray, we both know that. You’re missing him and it’s perfectly natural that you should turn to another man for comfort.’
Mary shook her head dumbly, too overwhelmed with misery to say anything. If she had allowed herself to speak, she might have blurted out the truth, that she loved Brandon as she had loved no other human being in all her born days.
The events of the night had changed her irrevocably and she could not even consider becoming Billy’s wife now. If she was honest with herself, she would be bound to admit that she had already come to believe there had never been anything but friendship between them. And now Brandon Sutton had taken her life and broken it between his fingers as surely as if he had held her throat and squeezed until she was dead.
He was fully dressed now, standing looking down at her with his hands thrust into his pockets in a gesture that was characteristic of him. He looked so handsome, so sensual still with his eyes dark and unfathomable that her heart contracted in pain.
Then a cold anger began to bring her strength. She threw back the bedclothes and rose with as much dignity as she could muster, unaware of her beauty as she drew a chemise over her head.
‘Is it true you have to leave Canal Street?’ Brandon was speaking to her politely as though she was a st
ranger and Mary looked over her shoulder at him, her eyes narrowed.
‘Yes, that’s right.’ Her voice was clipped and hard, but Brandon appeared not to notice.
‘Where will you go?’ he asked and she turned to face him, her hands clenched at her sides.
‘Why?’ she said harshly. ‘Thinking of having your way with me again are you, hoping I’ll play the whore whenever you want a woman?’ Anger was like a flame inside her now as the full import of what had happened sunk in.
Brandon gave her a quick look, his face hard. ‘If you’re trying to say I deflowered you against your will, it’s not true. The first man to come along would have had just what I did. You’re a plum ready for picking, honey, and I just happened to be the one to catch the windfall.’
Mary wanted to hit him, to keep battering at his face until the derision was wiped away. Instead, she drew herself up proudly and stared at him as though she had no further interest in him.
‘Well, to answer your question about where I shall be going, my future is all mapped out.’ Her voice was calm. ‘If you’re really interested, then I’ll tell you – I’m going to become your brother’s mistress.’
She saw his eyes widen and with a surge of savage satisfaction saw that her jibe had struck harder than any physical blow.
‘Dean’s mistress?’ He echoed her words disbelievingly. ‘But I thought you were above that sort of thing. If I had known you wished to be a kept woman, perhaps I would have made you an offer.’
He stared at her, a smile beginning to curve his lips though his eyes were like ice. ‘Dean would be surprised to know that I’d pipped him at the post, don’t you think?’
Mary lifted her chin defiantly. ‘I don’t think he’d believe you.’ She smiled bitterly. ‘Anyway, I’m taking up residence in his house as from next week and I shall manage his shop in Wind Street; it’s all arranged.’
Proud Mary Page 17