‘It’s a hotel room, silly.’ Brandon took off his coat and cast it aside and it lay discarded, one sleeve turned inside out, the shot-silk lining glowing before Mary’s eyes.
‘Why have you brought me here?’ Her voice cracked and Brandon drew her towards him, his mouth going to her throat and then moving with tantalising slowness to the open neck of her blouse. She leaned back, trying to draw away from him but his mouth had captured her nipple and flames of sheer joy ran through her veins. Mary felt his hair crisp beneath her fingers, and she closed her eyes in an involuntary movement, her breathing ragged.
‘I brought you here to do this to you, Mary… and this.’ Brandon kissed her breasts in turn and then his mouth was on hers, his tongue quick, sending shivers through her body, yet warning bells were ringing in Mary’s mind. Brandon had not seen fit to take her to his house but had brought her instead to an hotel room. She pushed him away suddenly, shame drawing the colour from her face as she held her bodice over her breasts and stared at him, her eyes hot with unshed tears.
‘You’re treating me like a floosie!’ she accused. ‘You’ve brought me here just to to…’ Her words trailed away and Brandon smiled.
‘To make love to you, Mary, is that so wrong? I want you, I desire you greatly, you’re very beautiful – but then you know that, you’ve been told it many times before, I daresay.’
Mary backed away from him, pain slowly filling her until she thought she must scream out loud with it. ‘And then, when it was over,’ she panted the words, ‘were you going to leave me a shilling for my pains?’
Brandon’s eyes were cold. They roved over her and she put up her hand, trying vainly to tidy the fall of long thick hair.
‘I had no intention of offering you money.’ His voice was hard like stones that hurt and wounded. ‘I assumed you did this sort of thing with all and sundry for the sheer love of it. You’re a sensual woman, Mary, you have needs and I am not averse to catering for them from time to time.’
She could scarcely believe she was hearing him properly. ‘How dare you talk to me like that?’ she said, buttoning her blouse with shaking fingers. ‘I’m not the bad woman you make me out to be, mind.’
He folded his arms across his chest and put his head on one side as though summing her up. ‘No, not bad at all, I’d say you were very good.’
Colour rushed into Mary’s face as his meaning became clear and she moved towards the door, her legs almost failing to carry her. He caught her wrist and stared down into her face, his mouth twisted into an angry smile.
‘You certainly gave my brother as much as he could take,’ he said after a long silence in which Mary thought she might break down and cry. ‘He took great pains to tell me about you – the white of your shoulders and the way you look with your hair loose – oh, he was quite graphic in his descriptions!’
‘But Dean doesn’t know anything about me!’ Mary gasped. ‘It’s not true, believe me, it isn’t true! Dean has never touched me in that way, never!’
Brandon caught her face in his hands and his fingers bruised her flesh.
‘He shared your bed, Mary, that’s why you spent all that time at Ty Mawr. Need I say more?’
Suddenly Mary lashed out with her fist. ‘It’s not true! I never let him sleep with me, he’s lied to you and like a fool you believe him.’
‘Then convince me, Mary,’ Brandon said harshly. She shook her head in defeat, remembering suddenly and with sharp clarity the moment when Dean had come into her room while she was still half asleep. He had seen her then, had lit the gaslight, stared at her as though she was a hated stranger. She put her hand to her mouth and turned away and Brandon drew in his breath sharply.
‘So you’ve remembered my brother bedding you?’ He spoke with heavy sarcasm. ‘I don’t think Dean would take kindly to your casual attitude to him.’
Mary stared at Brandon appealingly. ‘All right, Dean did come to my room, to my bed, I was half sleep, I…’ She stumbled to a halt, knowing by the look on Brandon’s face that he believed the worst of her.
He pushed her back gently but determinedly on to the bed. Mary covered her face with her hands. This could not be happening, it must be a nightmare from which she would soon awake.
He took her quickly, and when he was done he took out a handful of coins and threw them at her.
Without sparing her so much as a glance, he turned and picked up his coat and then the door closed quietly behind him. Mary lay where she was unmoving for a long time, tears coursing down her cheeks and running into her hair. She felt dead inside as though she had no more emotions, no more love or hate, just a nothingness where her heart had been.
She roused herself at last and washed in the water from the jug on the ornate marble stand. Then she brushed at her hair with her fingers and turned to look around her desperately, wondering how she would find her way out of the hotel alone.
The corridor seemed never-ending and brightly lit and Mary prayed she would meet no one. The stairs fell away towards the stained-glass doorway and she attempted to keep in the shadow of the potted plants as she passed the desk. But the porter looked at her without interest as she let herself out into the street; doubtless he saw a great many comings and goings and turned a blind eye to it all.
Out in the roadway, Mary felt the cool evening air on her cheeks with a sensation of relief. She hurried away from the noisy streets where the taverns spilled light and men out onto the pavements and up the hill towards Market Street, her breathing laboured, her heart heavy and her limbs seized with a trembling she could not control.
Only Katie was still up, sitting in the kitchen and drying her hair before the dying flames of the fire. She looked at Mary, her eyes suddenly concerned.
‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph!’ She rose to her feet. ‘Can I get you anything, you look awful.’
Mary sank into a chair near the table and covered her face with her hands. ‘Don’t ask me any questions, now, please,’ she said in a cracked voice. She felt Katie’s hand brush her shoulder.
‘Go on up to bed and rest yourself, have a little while alone while I dry my hair.’
Gratefully Mary stumbled upstairs and sank onto the bed behind the curtain. She stared for a long time out into the darkness of the night, her hands clenched into fists as she thought of what had happened to her that night.
‘I hate you, Brandon Sutton,’ she whispered to the stars but they seemed to mock her as at last she lay down and closed her eyes, knowing in her heart that she lied.
* * *
Mary quickly put her business plans into action. She paid a carpenter to make the stalls to her own requirements and saw the amazed curiosity on the faces of the other traders with a dry amusement. Next she needed to find a girl, someone who could sew, and in that instant she thought of Muriel who worked for Dean Sutton. It would do no harm if she stole away the young maid; indeed, it would go a little way to paying Dean back for his cavalier treatment of her. She did not trust herself to go up to the Big House in person, fearing that her anger might just get the better of her. Instead she gave a shilling to one of the Murphy boys, telling him to give Muriel a message. As it turned out, the girl was more than happy to do some work for Mary in her spare time. Mary smiled to herself; now she would have the use of the sewing machine belonging to the Big House as well as Muriel’s expertise.
She spent the early hours of the next morning walking to and from the abattoir carrying sides of beef across her shoulders, until her whole body ached. But at last she had one stall set up and by the time the sun was rising into the sky she was ready to do business.
Instead of waiting patiently beside her stall as did the other people around her, Mary began to call out loudly: ‘Fresh meat, killed today, take some home and salt it and it will keep for weeks. Lower price than any you’ll find in Sweyn’s Eye!’
Soon she was doing a brisk trade. People gathered just to watch and most of them stopped to buy. Mary found she was enjoying herself hugely; she took
money briskly, thrusting it into the large pocket in her apron and cut up her meat with more zeal than skill. But the customers didn’t seem to mind, they laughed along with her at her mistakes and she felt warmly that she was winning them over.
She ate a hot pie for her dinner, sitting alone at her stall. It seemed that the other traders were giving her a wide berth. Soon she was back at work and it was much later in the afternoon when she looked up to find Muriel standing staring at her almost in awe. Mary smiled and beckoned to the girl to come nearer.
‘I know I must look a sight with my apron covered in blood, but I’m quite harmless really.’ She smiled and Muriel, relaxing, drew nearer to the stall.
‘Think you can run me up some undergarments on that sewing machine of yours?’ she asked briefly, and when Muriel looked at her blankly Mary explained in more detail.
‘I’ll buy the material and you make the goods and we might both have ourselves a good profit, mind.’
Muriel looked doubtful. ‘But what if Mr Sutton found out? Cook is so nosey, she would worm out of me what I was doing and then run to the master with it as soon as she could.’
Mary thought quickly. ‘Well, what if I send Cook a nice piece of beef now and again and you make her a new apron or a blouse occasionally? Do you think that would keep her sweet?’
‘I think so, but you’d have to put it to her,’ Muriel said slowly.
‘Right then,’ Mary nodded, ‘I’ll take care of it, you just be ready to start sewing when I give you the word.’ As Muriel disappeared into the crowd Mary smiled to herself. She had the girl interested and that was a good enough start. Cook would be no problem – she would take the beef and charge it to Dean Sutton, pocketing the money with no qualms at all.
By the time Mary returned to Market Street, her back ached fit to break and her shoulders felt as though they were still weighted down with a side of beef. Mrs Murphy took one look at her bloodstained clothing and shook her head ruefully. ‘Sure and doesn’t the meat stink just as bad as the fish, why couldn’t you do something ladylike, Mary?’
Mary laughed. ‘There are too many down there doing that and no butcher in sight. I’ve sold all I bought this morning and made a good enough profit. Tomorrow, if things go as well, I’ll be very pleased.’
‘Away with you now out into the back and have a bath,’ Mrs Murphy said, holding her nose. ‘And put them clothes in water to soak after you’ve finished.’ Mary boiled just enough water so that she could stand in the zinc bath and soap herself all over. She would have muscles like a man at this rate, she thought ruefully as she rubbed her aching shoulders. But soon she would have more than enough money to pay Mali back what she owed her.
Mary ate her food with eyes half-shut and then climbed up the stairs to bed, glad that Katie was still out and she wouldn’t have to talk. She fell asleep immediately, only to dream about Brandon and awake before sunrise with tears on her cheeks.
In the market square, the stallholders were already setting up. Mary opened up the locks and dropped the flaps and her stall was ready for business.
She laid papers out over the wooden cutting slab before wrapping a stiff canvas apron around her waist. So preoccupied was she that she didn’t notice a man standing before her, waiting to catch her eye.
When she did look up, he smiled and doffed his hat and his lips were thin beneath the sparse line of his moustache.
‘Good morning, Miss Jenkins,’ he said. ‘I’m Alfred Phillpot from the Sweyn’s Eye Cooperative Movement.’
Chapter Nineteen
Brandon rode his horse with almost brutal energy. He forced the animal onwards across the dew-wet fields and the pounding of hooves echoed in his brain.
‘Whoa, King’ he panted, hauling on the reins and leaning forward to pat the stallion’s heaving flanks. ‘Good boy, that’s enough for today.’ He turned the animal around and headed for home at a more leisurely pace.
The sky above him was blue and it was one of those autumnal days when summer paid a brief return visit, lightening the earth and turning the rolling seas into an unbelievable blue.
But Brandon’s thoughts were dark, his brow was furrowed as he thought of Mary Jenkins. He had tried to erase her from his mind and yet the image of the pain on her beautiful face as he had taken her so savagely haunted his imagination.
He had no right to be angry with her; what she did with her life was her own business and no affair of his. Why had he reacted so violently to the knowledge that his brother had made love to her? Was it the memory of Dean stealing Mary Anne Bloomfield from under his nose? His pride had taken a tumble then as it had now.
Mary Anne had been young and impressionable, but Mary Jenkins was a different kettle of fish. She was a woman of strength, she knew her own mind; had she not told him to his face that she would become Dean’s mistress? She had dared him to condemn her and she was right, blast her! But the thought of his brother or any man possessing that sweet body set Brandon’s teeth on edge.
But what was he making all the fuss about? he asked himself impatiently. ‘Dog in the manger!’ he said out loud and the words were carried away on the breeze. But it was true. He did not want Mary for himself – not as a permanent feature in his life, anyway – and yet he begrudged her finding pleasure elsewhere. He could have sworn that she had fallen in love with him, but then he had always been an egotistical bastard where women were concerned.
The sun was rising higher in the sky as Brandon rode King into the paddock behind the house. He entered the hallway glancing up at the clock, cursing himself for being a fool. Now he would be late for work and any sign of slackness on his part would be to set the men a bad example.
The atmosphere was as hot as Hades when later he walked across the floor of the mill where the men were working a heat. Once the round of heating, rolling, doubling and trimming began there could be no stopping. It was a continuous process, requiring coordination and concentrated effort. Brandon watched the men with respect as the tinbar was hauled and rolled and eventually forced into shape. He waited until the end of the heat, when the men could relax for a few minutes, before approaching them. Heath Jenkins was wiping his streaming face with his sweat cloth, his shirt jerking up to reveal a thin wiry torso.
‘Come to see me at the office when your shift is finished,’ he said and the boy nodded, his eyes filled with curiosity. As Brandon moved away, he smiled to himself. Heath was a good worker despite his youth and he deserved a rise in pay. The wish indirectly to benefit Mary was not a small factor in his decision, Brandon realised wryly.
In the office, Mark was leafing through the books. He glanced up as Brandon entered the small room and brushed back a lock of hair that had fallen across his eyes.
‘Plenty of orders here, boss,’ he said genially. ‘Both Mansion Polish and Trubeys Salmon are calling out for tinbar. You’ve enough work here to keep you going for months.’
Brandon nodded, peering over Mark’s shoulder. ‘Things are looking up,’ he agreed. ‘I guess we’re building ourselves a good reputation.’ He studied the books, frowning. ‘The first shipment should reach the railway before morning.’ He paused. ‘There’s been a lot of talk against me and my handbook; there could be a demonstration outside the gates, so we’ll ship the tin tonight.’
A movement at the doorway caught Brandon’s eye and he looked up quickly. Rees was standing just outside the office, gripping a finger from which blood was slowly dripping.
‘Nothing serious, sir,’ Rees said heartily. ‘Better get off home, though, get my old girl to bandage it for me, all right?’
Brandon nodded. ‘Get on off with you then, and tell your wife to wash the wound clean.’
‘She’ll do that all right, sir,’ Rees said. ‘My old girl is a dab hand with herbs and potions – you remember that if you ever get the bellyache.’
Brandon watched Rees make his way out of the gates. ‘We’ll have to get another man over to the mill,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Who do you suggest?’
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Mark considered. ‘I think Heath Jenkins could work the furnace for today and we could put on a boy from the wash room as a behinder. Best we can do for the moment.’
‘I guess that will be fine. See to it, will you Mark.’ Brandon was well pleased with his manager’s suggestion, which would be a good enough reason for giving Heath a rise. Perhaps if the boy worked out well, he could be promoted permanently before long. Rees was not getting any younger and would soon need a lighter job. It was strange the way boys started in the steel at the easier jobs, then worked their way through the tough, back-breaking processes of tin making only to end their days demoted to the same tasks they had started with. It seemed an insult to offer a man boy’s work, but the alternative was nothing at all.
Later when Heath arrived at the office, his face sweat-stained, lines of fatigue around his mouth and eyes, Brandon stared at him levelly.
‘Mark tells me you’ve done well on the furnaces. I’m glad to hear it.’
Heath smiled. ‘It’s a bit like being a juggler with a load of tin going to fall on your head, boss. But rewarding it is, moving the plates about the oven, getting them all at a regular heat, enjoyed it I did.’
‘How would you like to keep the job?’ Brandon said casually, watching the boy’s face light up with a sense of satisfaction. Heath rubbed at his neck with his sweat rag and grinned.
‘I’d stand on my head in the corner and sing “Rule Britannia” for a proper man’s job.’ He paused, adding, ‘with a man’s wages behind it, mind.’
Brandon nodded. ‘Oh, yes, there’ll be that, all right.’ He thrust his hands into his pockets. ‘By the way, what’s happening to your sister these days? I haven’t seen her about lately, all right is she?’
Heath sighed. ‘Had to get out of the house,’ he said. ‘Rented it was, see, and Mary loved it like it was her baby. That home meant everything to her. Lodging with the Murphys in Market Street she is now. Got her own stall in the square as well. Won’t keep a girl like my sister down for long, be a rich woman she will in a few years.’
Proud Mary Page 23