Cat sat beside the fireplace, gazing at the sharp blue of the sky, thinking of the day she had almost died – thinking of the cold water and the way it had filled her lungs until they had seemed to be on fire. Was that what it had felt like for her mother? Was that moment, when the fear and the pain burnt the mind to oblivion – blissful, peaceful oblivion – what it was like to die? A second of euphoria when everything ceased to matter – when all one’s problems suddenly amounted to nothing.
True freedom.
What was this life she had now, after that moment in the light? A second chance, undoubtedly. She would not go back to before; she would take death over her old life. Here – Wallingham Hall, Osborne – was an opportunity. Here lay her future, if only she could be smart enough to get it.
Nelly burst into the room.
‘Had no hands to knock with,’ she said as a way of apology, showing Cat the bouquet of flowers in her one hand and the stack of boxes under the other arm.
‘What’s all this?’
‘From Master Tomkins.’
‘For me?’
‘No, for me.’ Nelly snorted and set the vase on the table by the mantelpiece. ‘Of course, they’re for you. Aren’t they beautiful? The colours of the season. Master had them put together for you, especially.’
Cat inhaled the sweet scent of the bouquet and stroked the velvet tips of the amber roses and the waxy leaves of the green ferns.
‘And these,’ Nelly put the boxes on the bed – three pale pink boxes wrapped in ribbon, pretty enough as presents in their own right. ‘These are your new dresses.’ She opened each of the lids. One held lilac and pink striped material, the other a vibrant green with a hint of a tassel, and the final one a deep blue. ‘A day dress, an evening gown, and a travelling outfit.’
Cat’s belly lurched. ‘Travelling outfit? Why should I need one of those?’
Nelly shrugged. ‘For walking, going in the carriage, things like that. Or if you’re planning on leaving soon. Are you?’
‘No.’ Cat crept towards the boxes and caressed the material with the back of her hand. The velvet and satin were as smooth as a cat’s fur. ‘Not if the master doesn’t wish it.’
‘Not much chance of that. He’s asked if you’d take a walk with him this afternoon if you’re feeling up to it?’
‘Of course, I am.’ She wished people would stop thinking she was an invalid. But then, perhaps it was better they considered her an invalid – maybe that was the only thing keeping her here.
‘Good.’ Nelly started putting the dresses in the wardrobe, muttering to herself how grand they were. ‘Ah! Almost forgot.’ Her hand dived into the pocket of her apron and pulled out a piece of paper. ‘From the master.’
Cat took the letter, noticing the way the corners had become dog-eared from being crumpled in Nelly’s pocket. It was unsealed, the words on the page for anyone to read. She eyed Nelly. ‘Have you read it?’
Nelly closed the wardrobe and a flush of scarlet spread over her cheeks. ‘No.’
Nelly busied herself by straightening the bedsheets, fluffing the pillows, never meeting Cat’s eyes.
‘Nelly.’ The sharpness in Cat’s voice made Nelly stop. ‘Have you read it?’
Cat waited expectantly, just as her mother used to do to her when she was little; the silence brought forth a confession sooner than a slap.
‘I …’ Nelly swallowed, bit her teeth together, and raised her head to look Cat in the eye defiantly. ‘I can’t read.’
It was Cat’s turn to be embarrassed now. She felt the blood rush to her face as Nelly refused to look away. She fiddled with the letter in her hands. ‘I’m so sorry. I … thought …’
‘I’m not a liar.’
‘No. No, of course, you aren’t.’
Nelly sniffed. ‘Right. Well, if that’s all.‘ Nelly stormed towards the door.
‘Wait!’ She could not let the girl leave like this. ‘I’d like it if you stayed with me while I read it, Nelly. Perhaps I could teach you some of the words?’
Her hand on the doorknob, her back to Cat, Nelly replied, ‘I shouldn’t like to know the private thoughts of the master.’
‘Well … then, how about I teach you from the bible?’
‘It’s above me.’
‘Nonsense. If I can do it, so can you.’
Nelly turned a little, softening. ‘You think so?’
‘Absolutely. It’s not that hard, once you get the hang of it.’
Nelly raised an eyebrow doubtfully. ‘If you say so.’
‘Tomorrow, then?’
Nelly shrugged and opened the door. ‘All right.’
The girl’s pride had stopped her from sounding too enthusiastic, but Cat could tell the girl was intrigued – even excited, perhaps – and with a sigh of relief, Cat sank into her seat beside the fire.
Alone now, Cat stared at the letter. The paper was as soft as an old woman’s skin between the tips of her fingers. What did it contain? A summons, perhaps? A small selection of curt words to tell her that her company had been nice but that she had outstayed her welcome – could she leave before the month was out?
She held her breath as she read the slanted, scratchy letters.
Dear Catherine,
I must apologise for my behaviour at dinner last night. It was not the appropriate time to tell you of such news, and I hope you have forgiven me for my impertinence. I do not often have visitors, least of all female visitors, and I forget your fragile natures.
I hope the flowers cheer you this morning and bring some joy to your day. I have only ever wished for your recovery and your happiness, ever since the moment I first saw you.
I should like it if we might take a walk around the grounds this afternoon, so we may speak a little more to one another and get to know each other. I should like to show you more of my home, so you may feel more comfortable in it, for I hope you shall stay for as long as you wish.
Yours,
Osborne
She met him outside the front door in her new blue cloak and bonnet. His dogs circled his legs, jumping from foot to foot, ready to be out in the open air. Against the brilliant sunshine, he cut an elegant silhouette in his black frock coat and high boots.
‘Miss Davies.’ He bowed to her, then scanned her outfit, checking that the cut was well-fitting, that the material was fine enough. ‘You look much better.’
‘Thank you, sir. And for the flowers and clothes too. You do too much.’
He laughed and shook his head. ‘This way.’
He led her between an avenue of horse chestnut trees. A slight breeze trickled through the air, tickling the exposed skin of her neck. Her new, long skirt swished over the ground, now littered with spiked Conker shells and leaves which crunched underfoot. Against the azure blue of the cloudless sky, the branches of the trees reminded her of witch’s fingers, the odd yellow leaf acting as the wart.
The dogs streaked ahead, playing between themselves, growls and barks of excitement erupting from them as they leapt across the grass.
‘Are we going into the woods?’
‘I didn’t think so. Not after …’
‘Thank you.’ She squinted into the horizon. ‘How much of this is yours?’
‘Everything you can see.’
‘The woods too?’
‘I’ve twenty miles of woodland.’
Cat shook her head. Numbers meant nothing to her. Twenty miles could have been the whole of England for all she knew. ‘What do you do with it all?’
He laughed. ‘Enjoy it. Farm it. I’ve cottages rented to my labourers.’
‘Hunt?’
‘Deer. Game.’
‘With your revolver?’
His easy footsteps stalled for a second. ‘No, with my hunting rifle.’
She nodded as silence fell. In the field to their right, the sheep shuffled away from them, huddling together protectively. The dogs took little notice of the sheep, their noses stuck to the ground, their front paws kicking out their l
ong ears.
‘Tell me about yourself,’ Osborne said, rousing her out of the uneasy quiet. ‘Your memory is better now? You remembered my revolver.’
She glanced at his face and found him smiling. She smiled back. ‘What would you like to know?’
‘Where did you live? What did you do?’
‘I lived in the middle of town, in a small place. You would find it appalling.’
‘I would not,’ he said, without conviction.
‘I worked in a button factory. It was what my ma used to do and her ma before her.’
‘You said you had no family.’
‘Both my parents died.’
He stopped. They had reached a gate which led into another field. ‘An orphan.’ He unlatched the gate and smiled sadly at her. ‘Like me.’
She returned his smile, and for an instant, her hand brushed across his as she walked past him. ‘I’m sorry to hear that, sir.’
She noticed his eyes drop to watch her hand as she replaced it by her side. He fixed the latch behind him, then joined her to walk on.
‘And you’ve no other family?’
‘I have sisters. Two. They don’t live in town anymore. They are my most treasured things in all the world.’
He grunted, his gaze now occupied with his dogs. ‘And you can read? I was worried when I sent the note that I might have done the wrong thing yet again.’
‘I went to Sunday school. The vicar’s wife taught us all from the bible.’
They reached a bench beside an oak tree. Osborne gestured for Cat to sit. ‘You are a Godly woman, then?’
‘I try to be a good Christian, sir.’
He reached for her arm. The suddenness of his eager movement made her flinch, but she did not shrug out of his grip.
'Call me Osborne.’
She nodded at his command, then felt his palm fall away from her reluctantly.
She tilted her face towards the sun and, though her eyes were closed, she knew he was gazing at her. ‘I can feel God’s warmth here, Osborne. Town is so harsh, the people so hard. It’s difficult to feel anything but the cold and the dirt over there.’
‘I should like it if you never felt the cold and the dirt again.’
The sun blinded her as she met Osborne’s gaze. He drew himself towards her, his hot breath making white wisps in the space between them.
‘Do you mean that?’
He nodded, and his tongue peeked out to wet his lips. He inched closer again, but she shielded herself with her bonnet.
‘Please do not make promises if you will not keep them.’ Too many people had devastated her before, and she could not face another.
‘I am a man of my word, Catherine.’
She was about to face him. She was about to let him see the tears building in her eyes – real tears, tears of hope and longing and relief, when the gate crashed open and footsteps pounded towards them.
‘Sir!’ A boy, who Cat had not seen around Wallingham before, stopped a few feet away from them, his chest violently rising and falling, his cheeks as pink as pig’s skin.
‘What is it?’ Osborne sniped, not looking at the child.
‘Mr Dixon told me to tell you that there is a telegram for you.’
Osborne’s breath hissed out between his lips – those lips which only seconds before had been so close to touching Cat’s!
He swatted his hand at the boy who ran away immediately, his gangly legs flicking out like a colt’s behind him.
‘I must return.’ Osborne got to his feet and offered Cat his arm. She took it, mustering all the good grace she could, trying to replace the disappointment in her face with a smile, and hoping the boy had not ruined her one and only chance.
The glass had grown warm in Osborne’s hand. The wine had soured as he swirled it around his mouth. The table before him was as elaborate as it had been last night (after he had told Mrs Lewis to make the room so extravagant that Catherine would be too stunned to notice his nerves), but now he looked on it as a charade, a game, a tableau of his stupidity.
Dixon hovered behind his shoulder, and Osborne could sense the words held back in the man’s throat, ready to ask if he could get him anything, do anything at all, that might ease the tension that was building.
Then footsteps. Her footsteps. He was not used to them yet; the light tap of them, the slowness, as if she placed each foot with the greatest of care. He squared his shoulders, straightened his spine, and nodded for Dixon to allow her inside.
He heard the faint murmur of her thanks, then the swish of silk satin against the door. He saw her skirts before he saw her face, the deep green fringed with delicate black lace. He studied her from the floor up. The dress suited her. Her waist was pulled in tight, one of the smallest waists he had ever seen; what wealthy women would give to get the waist of a pauper! She cradled her hands before her stomach, palms clinging together too inelegantly, showing she was not made to wear white silk. What did her hands look like beneath those gloves? He could not remember them from when he had rescued her; he had not been looking then at the finer details. They must be red and dry – working hands; ugly hands. And further up: her spine straight; her shoulders neat and low; her neck long and elegant; her hair worked into beautiful curls. Yes, from the shoulders up she passed for one of his kind.
‘Good evening, Osborne.’ She said it with a small smile. Such a beautiful smile, the face perfectly symmetrical. Yet, the slant of her pronunciation – the missing ‘g’ at the end of her words, the twang of her vowels – made the hideous truth of her town origins clear.
‘Sit,’ he said, the word almost sticking in his mouth. He cleared his throat, dabbed his napkin to his lips.
She took the seat to his left, and when he turned to her, he felt the heat from the fire burn his face. The light behind her made her pale hair shine like a halo. The smile which had been open before had now closed a little – her lips too hard and fixed.
‘Is everything all right, Osborne?’
He gestured for Dixon to pour the wine. Her fingers stubbed into her glass, making it teeter before she clasped it and brought it to her mouth. He watched her drink, saw the way her pink lips suckered onto the rim, the quick flash of a red tongue, the movement in her throat. He dropped his eyes to his empty plate.
‘You never told me what you were doing when that man attacked you.’ He glanced up quickly, quick enough to see the spark of fear flicker over her face. She set her glass on the table with precision. ‘What were you doing on my land in the first place? It seems odd that two strangers would happen to bump into each other on private property.’
‘I suppose I was lost.’
‘Where were you going?’
She raised a hand to her head. He would not ask how she was feeling.
‘You do not remember?’
‘To see my sister. She works as a maid in Chester.’
He stretched his neck and felt the bones creak. He drank his wine. ‘You said you worked in a button factory. Which one?’
‘In the centre of town, you probably wouldn’t know it.’
‘Wouldn’t I?’ His voice was hard. The softness she had brought to him before was beginning to calcify once again. He glared into her face and saw the moisture building at the corners of her eyes. ‘I know of a factory named Bronson’s.’
Her lips parted, and a sheen of white ghosted over her skin. ‘That was it.’
He had her! He forced himself to relax. It would all be over soon, and the pain which was beginning to bud in his chest would soon shrivel to nothing, as most of his feelings did these days.
‘I sent a telegram to the police, asking if they had any information on the man who attacked you. I received a reply today.’
She raised an eyebrow, though did not speak.
‘He was an Irish immigrant. He gave me a false name. His real one was Jonathan Murphy, so they’ve discovered. Not much information about him except where he lodged and where he worked. Where do you think that might have been?’<
br />
She looked at her hands which fidgeted in her lap. He noticed the pale blue veins on her eyelids, the dustiness of her long eyelashes as they lay against her white cheek.
‘Bronson’s Button Factory.’
He let the words vibrate in the room. Dixon was silent behind his screen.
‘I find it an odd coincidence that two people, of similar age, who lived in the same town, who worked at the same factory, could be in the same place together all those miles away from home, and claim to be strangers to one another. Don’t you?’
Her shoulders lifted, tensed.
‘Would you not find that odd too, Miss Davies?’
From beneath her lashes, a tear fell. It dropped onto her skirt, marking a dark spot on the vibrant material. She raised her eyes to him, and they were like jewels of sapphire.
‘It is true, I knew him.’ Her voice was barely audible.
For a moment, he did not think he had heard her correctly. He had been expecting an argument, for the girl to grow savage, as those of her status always did when their true natures were revealed. He had not expected to see her crumble before him.
‘John Murphy – he was the cruelest man I ever knew.’ She raised a finger to her cheek, the exact place where one particularly nasty bruise had just managed to fade. ‘I will tell you all, sir, if you will listen?’
He cleared his throat and took a deep breath. It would do no harm, he supposed, to listen to whatever trite little story she could come up with.
‘Dixon, leave us.’ A shadow slipped from the room. ‘You will tell me the truth?’
‘I will, sir.’ She swallowed and brushed her hand over her wet chin.
‘I met John a few years ago. He seemed nice, at first.’
‘He was Irish.’
Her forehead wrinkled into a frown for a moment. ‘Yes. He worked as a burnisher at the factory, sir, and he offered me help when I needed it.’
‘What kind of help?’
‘Food. A smile.’ She smiled at Osborne, the saddest of smiles … He dug his nails into his thigh to keep him still, to keep his brain sharp so he would be able to spot her lies.
‘I was young, sir – young and naive, and he knew it. I thought he loved me.’
Convenient Women Collection Page 44