Brandon walked to the door and stared back at her for a long moment. ‘Well, I’ll say this much for you, Mary Jenkins,’ his voice was deceptively soft, ‘you’ll make a damn good whore.’
As she listened to his footsteps hurrying down the stairs, Mary felt as though her world was crumbling around her. She sank down on to the bed and put a shaking hand to her face, feeling the tears run down her cheeks and into her mouth.
She felt utterly weary as though she had been running for a long time without stopping. Her body ached and a pain crushed her spirit. Lying with Brandon had been the greatest experience of her life and then he had had to go and tarnish the beauty of it. Well, he had made his position more than plain, he could not put it more clearly; he wanted a tumble, he was attracted to her, nothing more. It was a great pity, she thought bitterly, that Brandon had wanted only her body when she was prepared to give him her soul. She would not be taken in again, she promised herself.
Finally Mary rose wearily from the bed and went downstairs into the kitchen to wash in the cold bathwater. Mechanically she tidied up the room, putting away towels and then hanging the zinc bath outside on the door.
She did not shiver in the early morning breeze that drifted in from the sea, for she already felt numb and lost and the coldness within her was worse than anything that could touch her body. She paused in the doorway for a moment, staring out across the row of backyards that nestled close together as though for comfort; soon she would leave Canal Street behind her for good, and perhaps it was just as well.
She would lie down on her back for Dean Sutton and she would build up a store of money so that, one day, she could be her own woman and beholden to no man. She realised that she had never really believed she would accept Dean Sutton’s offer, but now in her bitterness she wanted to reach out and hurt anyone who came within her grasp.
Mary returned indoors and sank into a chair before the cold grey ashes of the fire and then the tears came, hot and angry. ‘Brandon,’ she whispered his name into the silence of the morning. ‘Oh, Brandon, why couldn’t you have loved me?’
Chapter Fifteen
It seemed as though the whole of Canal Street came out to see Mary Jenkins’ humiliation. The sun shone across the cobbles, the shadows soft in the pale early morning sunshine. The lamplighter had finished his round extinguishing the flames and he stood now with hands thrust into shabby coat pockets, his eyes narrowed as though he still looked into the white glare of the gaslight.
On the doorstep of one of the houses was Mrs Benson, her white nurse’s apron crisp and fresh, crackling with cleanliness, the starched folds glittering like icing sugar. On the low wall that separated the canal from the roadway, children gathered to stare, sucking fingers, eyes wide in pale faces.
Mary lifted the grandfather clock on to the cart, looking at the growing pile of her belongings with pain but determined not to shed the tears that burned her eyes. Eviction – the word was ugly and harsh and even though she was moving before the bailiffs had been sent in, Mary was aware that the entire neighbourhood knew of her shame.
‘To be sure, haven’t folk anything better to do than stand and gawp?’ Katie Murphy had come to Mary’s side, her soft voice filled with indignation. Mary straightened her shoulders in an involuntary movement.
‘Curious, that’s all they are so don’t be too hard on them,’ she said quietly. ‘I think that’s all now, and the house looks as though I’d never set foot inside it, let alone spent part of my life there.’
‘Me dad’s coming out the back way,’ Katie said softly. ‘He’s carryin’ your tin bath under one arm and a chamber pot in the other.’
Mary’s face relaxed into a smile as Tom Murphy staggered round the corner and made his way to the cart. The big horse moved restlessly between the shafts and Tom called to him impatiently.
‘Hang on there, Jim! Don’t want to shed the load before we’ve left the street.’
Mary stood as tall as the Irishman, thinking he was not a man to inspire great friendship. His eyes were narrow beneath the ginger shelf of brows and his mouth was weak, but for all that he had come to her aid when she had needed him.
‘Thank you, Tom Murphy.’ Mary pressed some coins into his hand and he touched the brim of his cap.
‘That’s all right, miss, I’ll see that your bits and pieces get safely put away in the shed at the back of my house.’
Even as Mary nodded her head, she was thinking it ironic that all her possessions amounted to nothing more than what Tom considered ‘bits and pieces’. Then she became aware that Katie’s hand was resting on her arm.
‘Come on home with me, have a cup of tea and a bite to eat for by the name of the Blessed Virgin, you’re as white as the sheets I pack all day at the laundry.’
Mary shook her head. ‘No, I’d better get along to Mr Sutton. I want to find out how I stand straight away.’
Katie stared at her for such a long moment in silence that Mary felt uncomfortable. ‘Are you sure you’re doin’ the right thing, now?’ Katie’s soft Irish voice was filled with sympathy. ‘There’s still time to change your mind.’
Mary shook her head firmly. ‘Working in the drapers will suit me,’ she said. ‘There’s no other way out for me. Mr Sutton is offering me a job and a roof over my head, don’t you understand?’
Katie shook back her fine red-gold hair. ‘I understand more than you give me credit for,’ she said as she moved away. ‘But sure an’ you’re big enough to know what you’re about when all’s said an’ done.’
As Mary hurried away from Canal Street she felt almost ill, overwhelmed by the misgivings she had denied feeling. It was one thing to lie with a man because of love and quite another to take a cold-blooded decision to be a kept woman.
Her one comfort was the way Dean Sutton had reacted when she had gone to see him at Ty Mawr. His face had become wreathed in smiles as she falteringly told him she was accepting his offer of help and he had placed a large hand on her shoulders, squeezing gently.
‘You realise all the implications, don’t you honey?’ His voice had been soft, his eyes warm.
Mary’s gaze did not waver. ‘It’s all right, Mr Sutton.’ Her tone had been level. ‘I know perfectly well what I’m doing, so there’s no need for you to worry.’
A tram came rattling along the street and shuddered to a stop and Mary climbed on board, seating herself near the doorway, her eyes straining to see the house where she had been so happy. But all that was visible now was the uneven slate roofs of the tall houses and, running alongside like a ribbon, the waters of the canal.
How much her life had changed in the last few months, she thought in bewilderment. It seemed that the coming into her life of the men of the Sutton family had created a maelstrom, totally disrupting the even tenor of her life.
There was no going back, she reasoned. She was a different woman now from the one who had sat in the courthouse with heavy heart and listened to the life sentence imposed upon Billy Gray.
He had been everything to her then, or so she had believed – yet how easily had she forgotten him as she had lain in Brandon’s arms.
She had made every attempt to visit him and had even tried to approach the governor and ask him to override Griffiths’ orders. But she had been baulked by a wall of silence; Griffiths, it seemed, had the upper hand. Perhaps she could speak to Dean, she thought guiltily, and ask him to ease the situation for Billy. There were soft options even behind prison walls.
As Mary stepped off the tram, a chill autumn wind was drifting over the hilltop. The trees waved gold and red leaves over her head and the spiky gorse bushes gleamed with yellow blooms. Her steps slowed as she reached the imposing gates of Ty Mawr, feeling as though she, like Billy, was entering a prison from which there would be no escape. She moved round to the back of the house, where she was obviously expected for the door stood open.
‘Come in, Mary Jenkins, there’s no use standing out there staring.’ The maid was crisply dressed in
a dark gown and a clean white apron that was decorative rather than functional, made of lace and ribbons and daintily sewn seams. ‘I’m Bertha, and I’m to welcome you and show you where you’re to stay.’
Mary entered the long passageway and gazed through the open door to her right. The kitchen was the largest she had ever seen, with a huge range dominating the room and a long table at which worked two young girls.
‘Mr Dean is away on business and Mrs Sutton is too sick to see you, so you’ll have to put up with me.’ Bertha’s tone was hostile and as Mary followed her up the dark back stairs, she sighed softly. It seemed that even here she was not welcome.
Her room was at the top of the house, little more than an attic but well-furnished and with a cheerful fire glowing in the grate. ‘Sorry you’re put right away from the rest of the servants,’ Bertha remarked as she paused inside the door with one hand on the polished knob. ‘But Mr Dean wanted you to be somewhere quiet.’
It was clear from the way she spoke that the maid knew exactly what Mary’s position in the household was to be. Mary stared at her levelly, unwilling to apologise for her role.
‘I understand your loyalty to your mistress,’ she said crisply, ‘but I don’t like the way you pass judgement on me without waiting to learn my character.’
Bertha appeared a trifle put out by Mary’s bluntness but she soon recovered her composure. ‘It’s not my place to pass judgement,’ she protested, ‘but I do not want my mistress upset. She’s very sick, but then I suppose you know that.’
Mary shook her head. ‘I guessed as much, but I am not a threat to Mrs Sutton – there’s no fear of me wanting to take her place, now, is there?’
After a moment, Bertha nodded. ‘We’ll call a truce then, and we’ll see what happens when Mr Sutton comes home, but I warn you now that everyone from the cook to the kitchen maid knows you’re really here to warm the master’s bed.’
‘That is no one’s business but my own.’ Mary lifted her head high and stared down at Bertha, and the maid moved back a pace with a new respect in her eyes.
‘Some food will be sent up on a tray,’ she said, her tone practical now. ‘Later this evening you may like to come below stairs and eat with the rest of us. And I wish you luck.’ She allowed herself the glimmer of a smile.
Bertha’s eyes suddenly had a faraway look. ‘Mr Sutton always wanted a son, but Miss Bea couldn’t oblige him, her being sick an’ all.’ She shook her head as though seeing things that troubled her mind, then blinked rapidly as her gaze rested on Mary. ‘You’re big and strong, a fine woman, you could give Mr Sutton the boy he’s set his heart on.’
Mary’s thoughts were tumbling over each other in confusion. ‘There will be no son,’ she said fiercely and turned away, the set of her shoulders indicating that the conversation was at an end.
When Bertha had gone, Mary turned to look at the closed door, standing quite still in the centre of the room and trying hard not to let the burning tears slide down her cheeks. She was in an unfamiliar world now, a hostile world where her position was tenuous, depending upon the whims of a man she hardly knew.
After a moment she removed her hat, set it down carefully on the washstand and moved to the window, pushing aside the curtain. Far below the sea washed against the shore, the white lip of the waves curving round the bay like the smile on the face of a clown. What if Dean Sutton did get her with child? It was a sobering thought and one she had never considered. Indeed, she had not thought beyond moving into his house. The idea of going to Dean’s bed had been one she had kept at bay on the fringes of her mind.
Now she sat in a chair and leaned her head back against the antimacassar, her eyes closed. Dean might possess her body any time he chose but he would never possess her soul, would never even know the inner being that was Mary Jenkins.
Panic beating dark and suffocating within her, she rose abruptly to her feet. She paced the length of the room, turning, retracing her steps, hands clasped together.
‘Be calm,’ she told herself as she paused before the window once more, hearing the tiny whimper of surf on the golden shore below. At least she had a reprieve, the opportunity to think things out, since Dean was gone away on business. She would give herself time to recover from the events of the last few days and perhaps find there was an alternative open to her.
She lifted a strand of hair from her hot brow, deciding to unpack only the clothes she would need right away, so that if she decided to leave she could do so without delay.
A knock on the door startled her. ‘Come in!’ she said quickly and a thin young maid entered the room, carrying a silver tray which appeared to be much too heavy for her. Mary took it and set it down on the table beside the bed.
‘Cook is asking, would you like lamb for supper?’ The girl’s eyes were large in a pale face and Mary smiled reassuringly.
‘Lamb is my favourite meat,’ she said gently. ‘Don’t look so frightened, I’m not an ogre whatever you might have heard.’
After a moment’s hesitation, the maid smiled. ‘I’m Muriel, miss. I do odd jobs, mostly sewing, I hope you like it here,’ she said hurriedly. ‘Can I be excused now? Cook will fetch me a blinder if I don’t get straight back to the kitchen.’
Mary sighed as the door closed quietly behind the girl. It seemed as though the tone had been set and the domestic staff at Ty Mawr were going to treat her like an outsider. Well, so be it, it would take more than a few servants to frighten her off.
She sat down on the bed and stared at the tea tray set with fragile china resting on an immaculate linen cloth. She had a difficult role to play in the Sutton household and no one, not even Dean Sutton himself, would dictate to her just how she should play it.
* * *
It was early Monday morning when Mary met Bea Sutton. The sun was shining with a mellow autumnal glow slanting across the wide bed so that the figure beneath the sheets appeared small and at first glance insignificant. But on closer inspection, Mary saw that Dean’s wife had fine eyes and a noble cast to her forehead, the only remaining evidence of the beauty she had once enjoyed.
‘Good morning, Miss Jenkins.’ Bea smiled and her face was illuminated. Mary wanted to look away, but the direct, honest gaze of the woman in the bed did not waver.
‘Good morning, Mrs Sutton,’ Mary replied, her even tones betraying nothing of the turmoil within her. The instinct to turn and run was very strong, but she forced herself to remain where she was.
‘Here are the keys of the shop, my dear.’ Bea spoke slowly, her voice trembling as though she was a very old woman. ‘Take them and look after the business well, my husband too.’ There seemed to be a double meaning behind the lightly spoken words which Mary chose to ignore.
‘I shall do my best, though as I explained to Mr Sutton I’m not experienced in drapery work.’
Bea allowed herself a brief smile. ‘I’m sure you are a very quick learner. Just keep your patience and above all, bide your time.’ Her eyes met Mary’s and it was clear to see that Bea Sutton knew her days were numbered. Mary searched her mind for something to say, but the words would not come. Bea lifted her hand in a gesture of dismissal. ‘Go now, we shall doubtless talk again some time.’
As Mary left the bedchamber that reeked of sickness, her heart was heavy. Mrs Sutton was a fine woman, full of strength and character and it was almost certain that she knew the true purpose of Mary’s presence in the house.
Mary pushed the unpleasant thoughts aside, uncertain still as to what she would do when Dean returned home. A small hope flickered within her that once she was established in the shop, he would find her invaluable as an employee and would put aside any idea of making her his mistress. She hurried back to her attic room and sat near the window, her hands clasped in her lap, the silence enveloping her. It was very peaceful at Ty Mawr, but it was that very peace which gave her time to think and to remember the joy she had found in Brandon’s arms. She sighed. The sun was rising from behind the mists; soon she would p
ut on her coat and leave the house to take up the reins of the drapery business. A faint feeling of hope and optimism grew within her as she left her seat near the window and picked up her coat from the bed.
Her first day at the shop was one that was to leave an indelible imprint on Mary’s mind. As soon as she stepped inside from the cobbled roadway of Wind Street, she became aware that she was in another world. Bales of cloth were stacked on shelves from ceiling to floor, a headless dressmaker’s dummy stood in one corner, swathed in a bolt of organdie, fluffed and befrilled, giving the appearance of a ballgown. Cards bright with ribbon lay strewn untidily over the polished wooden counter and threads of cotton covered the marble floor.
As Mary clipped the bunch of keys to her belt she heard the ticking of a large clock in the silence of the room which should, by now, have been bustling with activity. She moved to the closed door behind the counter and unlocked it. Facing her was a kitchen, untidy and smelling of grease. To her left was a shadowy staircase and Mary moved upwards to the room above.
In the large front bedroom two young girls lay heavily asleep, neither of them so much as stirring as Mary stared down at them. In the smaller back room, in a narrow single bed, a plump grey-haired woman lifted her head to stare at her with sleepy eyes. Mary sighed.
‘When the cat’s away the mice will play,’ she said loudly. Then she lifted a large tray from the chest of drawers and banged it boldly against the wall. The effect was startling and screams rent the stillness of the morning as the girls appeared on the landing.
‘I’m Mary Jenkins,’ she said with heavy authority. ‘This is the first and the last time I want to find you abed when I arrive in the mornings. Is that understood?’
The silence lengthened and the hostility was almost tangible but Mary was not perturbed. ‘I don’t care a shirt-button if you like me or not,’ she continued to talk loudly. ‘But I will have your obedience or it’s out on the street with you.’ She moved towards the stairs. ‘I shall expect you down in the shop fully dressed and ready for work in five minutes.’
Proud Mary Page 18