Convenient Women Collection

by Delphine Woods

  When Tom finishes, he wipes his mouth with the back of his sleeve, puts his hand to his stomach, pats it, and sighs. ‘That’ll do me for today,’ he says. ‘Thank you, Mr Brown. I’ll be seeing you.’ He slips his coins across the counter and strolls out like the little gentleman he thinks he is.

  What to do with the rest of the day? His money jingles in his pocket, and already he is thinking about where he might find a sausage stall or someone selling sugar mice.

  He dawdles for a while, looking at nothing and everything. Girls of all kinds saunter past him. On the corner of one street, a shoeblack pummels away at a gentleman’s feet. The gentleman has his nose in a newspaper and takes no notice of the girls that walk by.

  The streets Tom roams are well and truly alive with the hustle and bustle of the city. Omnibuses whirr past him, carrying little plump ladies or fellows with untidy facial hair and smears of paint on their dour faces. He kicks his heels, wondering what shop he might explore today, or whether he should spend his money on an omnibus to the park and run around in the bleak November sunshine. He has just about made up his mind to do so when a glimmer of white catches his eye.

  He pushes through the throng of black trousers and around the bustle of dark skirts until he comes upon something the like of which he has never seen before. A globe of silver hair hangs over a hidden face, and one white stick of an arm protrudes through a filthy brown rag.

  He inches towards the strange creature and touches the blanket. The creature is startled, and an ashen face looks up at him. A scarlet gash on the girl’s forehead glistens in the daylight and blood seeps towards eyes of such a piercing green that Tom feels he has seen them somewhere before. Her whitened, cracked lips part and close and part again, and Tom is dumbstruck until he notices the arm reach out, open palmed, in his direction.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he says, and for the first time in his whole life, he blushes as he realises he has said something stupid.

  A whine escapes from her throat. Her tongue brushes her lips with the barest of saliva.

  ‘Here.’ He pushes his flask towards her. He has to tip it into her mouth for she is too weak to do it herself.

  She sips as if scared at first, but as the liquor trickles into her mouth, it brings life. Soon, she grasps the flask and guzzles until it is drained. She gasps for breath and blinks as if awakening.

  ‘Food,’ she says.

  Tom buys a dozen oysters. They find an empty recess in a wall and sit there.

  ‘Here.’ Tom hands her two. ‘Eat them slow though, else you’ll be sick.’

  He watches her as she eats, the effort clear in her face. She swallows hard, then asks for another. Tom gives it to her.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Liz.’

  ‘Where do you live, Liz?’

  Liz’s gaze wanders from the oyster shell to the sky. She does not answer.

  ‘Do you have a mother?’

  Her lower lip trembles. ‘I don’t know where she is.’

  Tom doesn’t know what to say to this. People go missing all the time, he knows that. He’s never thought about what it would be like to lose anyone – his mother is always in the same place. Then suddenly, he has an idea.

  ‘Come on.’ He hops to his feet and holds out his hand.

  ‘Where we going?’

  ‘Home. You can come with me. I’ll take care of you.’

  The girl hesitates, glances around her.

  ‘I’ve looked after you today, ain’t I?’

  She nods.

  ‘I’ll always look after you,’ he says. ‘Come on.’

  Still, she is hesitant.

  ‘Do you trust me?’

  The question lingers between them for a moment, then Liz slips her tiny hand into his, and their fate is sealed.

  An ordinary door in an ordinary street, where the low-to-middling kind of folk tend to pass through, opens before her. Inside, it is dark once the front door is shut. She tries to adjust her eyes to the mint-striped wallpaper and the thinning carpet, but she is pulled through a narrow corridor and into another room. Before she has chance to notice the state of the shabby furniture and the grand piano in the corner, she is stunned by the presence of a beautiful woman draped on a scarlet velvet chair, reading a book.

  ‘Mother, I …’ Tom says but does not manage to distract the woman from her book. ‘I found something. Someone. Mother, I found a girl.’

  Awoken from her trance, the woman peels her eyes from the pages and casts them upon the waif stood in the shadow of her son. Liz squirms under the penetration and wonders if she should run.

  ‘A girl? Does she have a name?’

  Tom takes a breath, but his mother holds up one long finger to stop him.

  ‘Can she not speak for herself?’

  ‘Liz.’

  ‘Is that what your mother calls you?’

  Liz nods.

  ‘Where is your mother?’

  ‘Lost,’ Tom says. ‘She says she’s been gone the longest ever. I said we could help.’

  ‘Did you?’

  His mother raises a black eyebrow but continues to look at the girl. Then she rises to her feet, slinks towards the child and kneels so that their beautiful faces are parallel. This close, Liz is transfixed.

  ‘I’m very sorry, child, but I fear your mother is dead.’

  The sweet scent of the woman’s breath lingers in Liz’s nostrils, the music of her voice dances in her ears, and the meaning of her words is lost in the hypnotism of her eyes.

  ‘But do not worry, now, little Lizzie. We will take good care of you.’

  The woman comes closer, so close that Liz can see the pulse under her sharp jawline when she kisses Liz on the forehead.

  ‘You can call me Mother now.’

  The End

  Volume Three

  THE BUTTON MAKER

  Inspired by

  Ding dong bell

  Pussy's in the well

  Who put her in?

  Little Johnny Flynn

  Who pulled her out?

  Little Tommy Stout

  What a naughty boy was that

  Try to drown poor Pussycat,

  Who ne'er did any harm

  But killed all the mice

  In the Farmer's barn!

  Prologue

  He rallied himself from the last blow. His pride had been stung. The poison was lacing through his veins. He balled his fists, curled back his lip in a snarl, and lunged.

  Somewhere at the back of his mind, behind the blood flow and the rage, he heard something shatter. High pitched, sharp – glass. He recognised the sound too late – he was moving too fast. He slammed into the jagged bottle edge, unable to stop himself.

  The glass thrust into his neck. He did not feel the pain, just the sense of an action cut short, his goal deprived. He lashed out, stumbled back. His throat was held tight by the bottle, gripping him like an enemy’s hand.

  Warmth spread slowly over his chest, uncontrollable, like the shameful sensation of pissing oneself. The ground met his backside as he slumped to the floor, the pain now penetrating his mind.

  There was a commotion above him. He tried to look, but as he struggled to see, agony blinded him.

  Then, the vice was gone, his neck was freed, and his chin slammed into his chest. Blood gushed from his artery, hot and fierce, and drenched his abdomen. He gasped for air, and salty bubbles burst in his throat. His mouth filled. He spewed and dribbled as the world around him shrank, darkened, until there was nothing but black.

  Chapter 1

  October 1853. Wallingham Hall.

  Osborne ducked under a low branch, squeezing his thighs tight around his stallion and digging in his heels. Dead leaves flicked up under the beast’s hooves and tumbled over the sheer edge of the woodland. His hounds gained speed beside him, their tails pricked high, their teeth and tongues showing.

  He would ride like this all day, with the sun streaking through the thinning canopy and stroking his b
ack, trying to soothe him, trying to make him slow down. But he could not slow. He needed to feel the hardness of the ground stomping into his animal’s legs, he needed the wind to slap and bite at his skin, he needed the cold sweat to run down his spine as sharp as nails; he needed the pain that would allow him to stop thinking. Only then would the image of his father, smiling and waving from his carriage, vanish. Only then would his guilt fade.

  The dogs dived out of sight and into the undergrowth. Squirrels and pheasants shot from their hiding places as the hounds tormented them. The stallion swerved one low flying pheasant, losing its footing and sliding off the edge. Its rear hooves slipped on fallen leaves as it struggled for firm ground.

  Osborne leaned forward, holding onto the horse’s mane, urging it onwards. He kicked and thrust forward, and in a moment, the horse’s rump was in line once more, and Osborne could sit back in the saddle. He did not let the horse slow – he smacked it on the backside so it would hasten.

  The gallop made his flesh wobble and his eyesight blur. He blinked, and his father returned in the darkness … The tight smile, the carriage rolling away, the fog of Osborne’s breath on the windowpane …

  He opened his eyes, shook the sight out of his mind. He reached for his necktie and unfastened it, feeling the chill of the air waft over his wet skin, and heard his dogs barking.

  It was an unusual sound; not one of exaltation from the chase. His dogs were alert, and growling fiercely. He followed the noise, gently tugging on the reins so his stallion slowed to a trot. His dogs met him halfway into a dip in the hillside, their hackles raised, and led him on.

  He heard water splashing as he emerged near a natural pool. The sink of the land had only just started to fill in again after the hot summer, and the water was black and dank, with orange leaves and green spots lying on its surface. It took him some moments to see the two dark, moving figures at the other end of the lake, and to detect where the noise was coming from.

  A woman was submerged under the water, and her arms were flailing wildly, like swan’s wings when they try to take flight. A man crouched above her, his arms straight and powerful, his hands about the woman’s neck, grimacing as he held her down.

  Osborne was off his horse and sprinting towards them before he knew what he was doing. Like in dreams, it seemed to take too long for him to reach them. The woman’s arms were slowing. Her legs, which had struck out at the man’s groin, had gone limp.

  She would die, and Osborne would not have saved her.

  He pushed on harder, his muscles screaming at him, his leather soles sliding on the loose ground and tripping over tree roots.

  The woman’s arms were now still. He could make out the rise and fall of the man’s chest, exhausted from his kill, but still, he held her head under.

  Osborne sprinted harder, crying out in rage, and the man raised his head to meet Osborne’s gaze just as Osborne crashed into him, bowling him several feet away from the woman and knocking the air from his lungs.

  Osborne turned to the woman and dragged her out of the pool. Her skin was whiter than last night’s full moon, and the red crescents around her eyes and the cut on her pale lips were striking. Her short, wet hair splayed across her cheeks. Her bodice had darkened where it had soaked up the stagnant water. She was not breathing.

  Osborne wiped her hair out of her face and rolled her onto her side. Water spilled out of her mouth. He hit her on the back.

  ‘Come on,’ he whispered and hit her again between her shoulder blades. Still, she did not stir.

  ‘Come on!’ She would live. She had to live.

  He rolled her onto her front and slammed his palm against her spine. Water trickled onto the fallen leaves, but she remained limp in his grip.

  ‘Please,’ he breathed to anyone who might be listening. He hoped God would hear him.

  He shook her, then slapped her again, over and over, fear and rage making him feverish. She had to live! Today of all days, she had to live. Osborne could not let her die.

  Suddenly, a torrent of brown water flooded out of her mouth. Her body convulsed against him, shuddering as the water continued to slide out of her, as she struggled for air.

  He collapsed into the earth, weakened by relief, as she fell back onto her side. Her blue eyes found his as she clutched her throat and wheezed, and then they rose to look beyond him and widened in fear.

  Just in time, he saw the woman’s attacker stagger to his feet and attempt to run. Osborne pounced on him at once. He grabbed the man’s greasy coat and spun him around, and landed a brutal blow on his face. The man fell backwards as blood seeped into his eye.

  ‘Who are you?’ Osborne said, his fists raised and ready to deliver another blow, his voice rough with exhaustion and adrenaline.

  The man cradled his face, and his gaze dropped to the woman behind Osborne. She had pulled herself to the nearest tree and was resting against its trunk, one hand still clutching her scarlet throat, the other holding onto a small leather case. To Osborne, she mouthed two words:

  ‘Help me.’

  The man clattered to his feet and charged at the girl. Osborne heard her yelp and caught the man by the throat before he could reach her.

  In Osborne’s grip, the man seemed oddly small. A scattering of ginger whiskers shadowed his cheeks, and his eyes were a pale, mean blue. His cap had been knocked off in the scramble to reveal a closely cropped head of red hair. He was the type of man who would dissolve in a crowd.

  ‘Your name,’ Osborne hissed, and the man flinched.

  ‘She was trying to kill me!’

  Osborne would have laughed at such a ridiculous notion if he had not been chilled by the unmistakable lilt of the man’s accent. Osborne cast him away and wiped his hand on his trouser leg. Filthy vermin – he shuddered at the thought of his skin against such a man.

  The man crashed onto the ground but recovered quickly. ‘She got my knife there.’ He pointed to somewhere near the water, but Osborne did not bother to look. ‘She got my knife, and she was going to kill me. I swear it.’

  ‘What is your name?’ Osborne said.

  ‘Jim.’

  ‘Jim what?’

  The man licked his lips and searched the ground by his knees.

  ‘Jim what?’

  ‘Wilde. Jim Wilde.’

  Osborne sniffed and wiped the wet tip of his nose on the back of his hand. His cheeks burned, and he knew they would be as pink as a whore’s. He took a long, slow breath, and willed himself to stop shaking.

  ‘You are on private property, Jim Wilde.’

  ‘I was lost.’

  ‘What were you doing here?’

  ‘I was heading for Liverpool, for the docks. I got lost.’

  ‘Were you poaching?’

  ‘No!’ The man struggled to his feet, and his head shook violently from side to side.

  ‘I don’t care for poachers.’ Osborne had dealt with the likes of him before, the kind that lie as easy as breathing, the kind who shoot you when your back is turned.

  ‘I was not poaching!’

  ‘Who is this woman to you?’

  ‘A stranger. I don’t know. She ambushed me.’

  Osborne glanced at the girl. She was weeping, her clothes quivering. She looked little more than a child.

  ‘Please, let me go. I am innocent.’

  ‘Innocent?’ Osborne’s laughter bubbled up his throat. He laughed harder when he saw the terror in the man’s eyes. He dipped his hand inside his coat and felt the cool, wooden handle throbbing to be held. He had waited a long time for this moment.

  He pulled the revolver out of its holder and pointed it at the man’s chest.

  The man balked, stumbled backwards. ‘Please …’

  He liked to see the fear. He wanted to hear the man beg for his life. He stepped closer, cocked the hammer. The man shook his head, his eyes flicked to the left as if searching for an escape.

  ‘Oh no,’ Osborne said, ‘you are not going anywhere.’

  H
e pulled the trigger before the man had time to flinch. Through the smoke, he saw the man drop.

  The woman shrieked and, when he turned, he found she had fainted against the tree.

  His breath shuddered out his lungs, and shivers washed over his body. He stepped towards the man – who had fallen onto his face – and kicked him onto his back. The life was slowly draining from him, the blood sliding down the slope towards the water’s edge. His dead eyes gazed vacantly up at the sky.

  Osborne cocked his gun once more and aimed it at the man’s heart. The shot echoed through the woodland.

  ‘Scum.’

  Chapter 2

  October 1853. Wallingham Hall.

  Cat felt the warmth first. Heat spread from the tips of her toes all the way to her shoulders. A moment of lucidity; the unusual softness against her skin, the nearby sound of someone breathing deeply, the paleness against her closed eyelids. She rolled her head to one side, letting her warm cheek rest on crisp cotton and her dreams flash in her vision. She was being pulled into the darkness again when her empty stomach churned. She would have slept, but with each grumble in her gut, the more the light beckoned. She peeled her eyes open and squinted against the brightness.

  She was alive.

  She was reborn.

  Above her, a canopy of dark, chiselled wood showed images of woodland creatures frolicking amongst themselves, and dense green curtains were pulled back and fastened to the thick bedposts. Opposite where she lay, a vast window let in the white light from a cloudy, autumnal day. She blinked the murkiness of sleep from her eyes and looked to her left to see the fire at the end of the room, the burning logs sizzling and cracking and spitting out shards of amber light. Sat beside it, with a guard to shield the flames from her skirt, was a girl, perhaps no more than sixteen years of age, darning old stockings.

  Cat pushed herself up onto her elbows. She lay in the middle of a large bed with embroidered sheets, and she could make out the lump of a bedpan under the covers near her feet, which accounted for the warmth.