Convenient Women Collection

by Delphine Woods

  He laughed. How many times had that been given as an excuse? How many times would silly girls have to have their hearts broken before they realised that love meant nothing to young men?

  ‘Please don’t be cruel, sir! I didn’t know what he was then. I had no money, no family, no friend to talk to. Ma was dead. I thought he would marry me, but he was a monster!’ She wiped her nose on her hand, then hid her hand in her skirt as if embarrassed by her lack of decorum.

  ‘He … made me do things. Things that no Christian man should ever want for his sweetheart. And when I refused, he would beat me until the world went black, and I’d wake up with cuts and scars all over me.’

  Sickness gnashed inside him. Hadn’t he seen what that man was capable of? He had witnessed first-hand the man’s violence, the man’s derangement. Suddenly, the bitterness he had felt towards Catherine ebbed. He recalled that day at the lake, the whiteness of her skin against the red gashes of her wounds – the wounds inflicted by the man she had once trusted. To be betrayed by those one loves the most must surely be the worst kind of pain.

  Fumblingly, he touched her hand. She stilled, the muscles taut in her forearms, and for one dreadful moment, he thought she was scared of him. But then she threw herself at his knees, and great sobs wracked her body.

  ‘He gambled and drank away both our wages. He made me sell my hair so he could settle his debts – said they’d string him up if not, and me with him. I knew him to be a violent man, sir, to me, but I never imagined him a murderer, I never imagined that he could do such a thing …’ Her voice broke off.

  Osborne pushed his napkin at her. ‘Hush now, Catherine. He cannot hurt you anymore.’

  ‘And I have you to thank for that, sir!’ She raised her head. Her skin was blotchy, and her eyes were raw. He wiped her cheek.

  ‘What happened the night he killed that man, Catherine?’ If she would tell him the truth, then he might be able to understand, to forgive.

  ‘I don’t know, sir. I was at my lodgings. He used to go out, saying he’d find us money. I never asked how; I didn’t want to know. I was sleeping, sir, and the next thing is my door's being rammed in, and John’s there, blood all over him, looking like a madman. I only had time to pick up my bag and then he was dragging me out, saying we needed to be gone and fast. I was so tired, I didn’t know what was happening. I followed him blindly for days, never sleeping. Then I asked where we were going.’

  She sighed as if the exhaustion was on her again now.

  ‘He said he was taking me to Liverpool and then we’d sail for America, start afresh.’ She looked up to Osborne, horror in her face. ‘I didn’t want to go to America! How could I leave my home? My sisters? My mother in her grave? He hated this country, sir.’

  Osborne grunted, his stomach now in a tight ball. If only he had the man before him, he would kill him all over again.

  ‘Said there was nothing good here. Said the English were devils. And I said, in my rage, that it was him who was the devil for killing a man and that I would not go with him.’

  Her tears had dried, her eyes were beginning to shine.

  ‘I wasn’t going to take it anymore. I’d never felt more proud of myself.’

  He cradled her cheek and imagined her, feisty and determined. It seemed impossible now, with her here at his feet, that she could ever have had the courage to face up to someone so evil.

  ‘That’s when he came for me. I was so scared.’ She rested her hot forehead against his leg and whispered, ‘and then you saved me.

  ‘I could not find the words to tell you before, sir. I was – I still am – so ashamed of everything. I will spend the rest of my life on my knees praying for forgiveness, for my own and John’s sins.’

  He gripped her neck and made her look at him. ‘You will not pray for that man. He is rotting in hell now.’

  Another tear bled down her cheek, and he gently brushed it away. Silently, he cursed his own cruelty towards her and blushed at his earlier thoughts. He peeled a glove off her hand. The skin was a little chapped but beautiful nonetheless. He brought her naked fingers to his lips and kissed them. ‘Forgive me.’

  ‘It is me–’

  ‘My behavior just now, it was … I thought you …’ He shook his head, swallowed. ‘I am so sorry for what that man did to you.’

  She leaned back onto her heels and sniffed. ‘I will go, sir, at first light.’

  He gripped her tighter. ‘No.’

  ‘I was dishonest with you–’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘I did not tell you the truth.’

  He pulled her close. ‘You have now, and that is all that matters.’

  In the quiet, he listened to her breath, as gentle as lapping waves. She soothed him. She would heal him. He could not lose her.

  ‘Do not leave. I beg you, do not leave me.’

  He kissed her wet cheeks. How could he have been so foolish? How could he have thought this girl, so innocent and small, could have been anything like that Irishman?

  ‘You are safe here, Catherine. You will always be safe with me.’

  Chapter 7

  August 1851. Birmingham.

  The metal blurred as she pushed it along the machine. Press and push, press and push. A drip of sweat fell onto her hand. No time to wipe her forehead with her handkerchief, no time to straighten up and feel the ache sigh over her body, no time to stop.

  A shout above her head. Something familiar about the shape of the words … She looked up.

  Across the shop floor, between the reddened faces of the women, her sisters stopped their tasks and walked together towards Mr Criton. He ushered them out of the door with a sweep of his arm, then shut it on them and turned back to face his workers. He caught Cat’s gaze and raised his eyebrows. Cat dipped her head and continued cutting.

  Time passed slowly. She cut circle after circle, waiting. Where were Helen and Lottie? Had they done something wrong? Had they ruined stock? In the months since Mother’s passing, they’d become better workers – the dreams and the childishness had been shaken out of their innocent heads. They no longer giggled like they used to, nor whispered excitedly between themselves.

  A whoosh of a door opening – she saw their moon-like faces, eyes wide, lips pursed together, chins wobbling as Mr Criton let them pass into the shop floor. They ran straight to Cat, tears bubbling over as they reached her.

  ‘What is it? What’s happened?’

  ‘No work,’ Helen said, pushing her fingers into her eyes. ‘He said there’s no work for us.’

  ‘Why? What’ve you done?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Lottie said. ‘It’s not our fault. Just business.’

  The metal tingled in Cat’s fingers, and despite the heat, a shiver passed over her spine. ‘Right. Wait outside for me. There are only a few hours left.’

  ‘What will we do?’ Helen wailed, and the women either side of them brought their heads up to stare.

  ‘Shush!’ Cat grabbed her hands and held her still. ‘Go outside and wait for me on the wall. Don’t go anywhere else, you understand?’ They nodded. ‘I’ll sort it.’

  She shooed them out, and the workers’ eyes followed them all the way to the door.

  Fear gripped her stomach. For a moment, air would not find her lungs. She stared at the shimmering metal in her hands, at the scraps that littered her lap … not even worth a button.

  Her neighbour coughed, and Cat looked up. The face beside her had never been a soft one, never one keen on smiling, but there was the faintest sign of pity in the frown. ‘Best get on, else he’ll have you out next.’

  Cat glanced at Mr Criton, such a small cog in Bronson’s wheel, yet with the power to crush her. His eyes were slits as he stared back, waiting for her to make one wrong move. She ducked her head and continued to punch out the metal until the minutes and hours blended together, and Mr Criton finally called time on the day.

  She flew past the women, shoving into their shoulders as they gasped and cursed at
her. She ran out between the high brick walls until she was into the street. It took some minutes for her eyes to adjust to the brightness of the evening, but then she saw them, right where they should be, their heels kicking into the brickwork in boredom.

  ‘Stop that!’ Cat smacked their legs. ‘You’ll have nothing for your feet if you do that.’

  A new wave of tears burst from Helen, and Cat wished she’d held her tongue. She pulled the girls close to her chest. ‘Hush now, don’t go crying.’

  ‘There’ll be no money, Cat, no food.’

  ‘I’ll sort it. There’ll be other jobs, other work you can do. You’re good girls. Did Mr Bronson say he’d give you references?’

  ‘It wasn’t Mr Bronson.’

  ‘Who was it?’

  They shrugged. Of course, it wouldn’t have been Mr Bronson getting his hands dirty. ‘Did he say you’d have a reference?’

  They nodded, and Cat sighed, relieved. ‘That’s something, at least.’

  Something brushed against her skirt, then knocked into her arm. A worker, she supposed, in too much of a hurry, though she thought they’d all passed by now. She turned to glare at him.

  ‘Sorry,’ the person mumbled, his voice low, his accent unusual. Beneath his cap, she saw the milkiness of his skin, the spots of freckles over his nose.

  ‘It’s all right,’ she said, staring into his pale, blue eyes. The lashes that framed them were blonde so that they looked bigger in his face – like blue buttons in the snow.

  Had he heard her and her sisters talking? Talking of poverty and interpreting the unsaid danger which hung over their conversation – the threat of the workhouse. Blood rushed to her cheeks. She would not have others knowing their desperation.

  His gaze dropped to the floor, and he turned away from her. She watched him walking. He was a small man, not much taller than herself. His trousers were baggy, though the gap between his legs was wide. He walked with a rolling motion as if one leg might have been shorter than the other. He disappeared into a small crowd of men heading into the heart of town, where they would become different men to the ones who worked on the shop floor in the daytime. She hoped he was not the gossiping type when the beer took him.

  Lottie’s whining voice roused her, and she dragged her eyes back to her whimpering sisters.

  ‘I don’t want to go anywhere else.’

  ‘You’re big girls now; you’ll go where you’re needed.’

  ‘We want to stay together.’

  Cat forced a smile. ‘You will. I promised, didn’t I, that we’d all stick together?’

  They nodded, trusting.

  ‘Now, come on.’ She pulled them off the wall. ‘We’ll tell Michael and see what he thinks about it all.’

  ‘What’ve they done?’ Michael’s hands cradled his head as he leant back in his chair, finding something on the ceiling more interesting than his snivelling sisters.

  ‘They haven’t done anything. There’s no work for them.’

  ‘Why haven’t they let someone else go if that’s it?’

  ‘I don’t know!’ Cat dug her fingers into her hips, breathed out slowly through her nose. There was no point letting him aggravate her; it would only make him do it more.

  ‘You should have been taking better notice of them.’

  She bit her tongue before she cursed at him. ‘Instead of blaming me, can you think of anywhere that’s hiring now?’

  She heard the shift of his jacket against the wooden chair. A shrug. A grunt.

  ‘Right, well, you’ll go round in the morning girls.’

  ‘Where?’ Helen said. ‘What if we get lost?’

  Lottie’s chin began to quiver again; there was nothing worse than getting lost in town.

  Michael pushed out his chair and went for his cup. He filled it full with beer, leaving little for the rest of them. He drank from it deeply as he looked into the fire. ‘Try the service?’

  ‘No.’ Cat shook her head. The girls frowned at her.

  ‘Bed and board, all covered. Send their wages here.’

  Cat couldn’t hold back her sharp snap of laughter. ‘You’d send them off to work for your beer money? My goodness, Michael, you really are our father.’

  He drank again, as if he hadn’t heard the insult, or had not thought it one. ‘They’d have better things than here. Food in their bellies, for one.’

  ‘And worked day and night until they’re good for nothing at all.’

  ‘What’s the difference?’

  ‘They’ll be split up.’

  The girls gripped her dress.

  Michael shrugged, again. The girls started to cry.

  Cat searched her brother’s face for a sign of softness, a ghost of the child she remembered playing and chuckling with when they were little. His eyes were too dark now, the lines around them deep from so much scowling and frowning. He was an ugly boy.

  ‘Please … I can’t lose them too, Michael.’

  He nodded, sniffed, then grabbed the chunk of bread on the table that Cat had yet to slice so it would stretch between the four of them. He bit into it, stuffing almost half of it onto his mouth.

  He chewed it as they gawped at him, his jaw working up and down, round and round, his white cheeks stretching, and then, with effort, he swallowed. He licked his lips.

  ‘Starve then.’

  Chapter 8

  December 1853. Wallingham Hall.

  Fingers of sweat tickled the back of her neck. The fire was high behind her, too high. The wine was flowing too freely, was too easily consumed, as glass by glass was refilled. She could feel it in her stomach, swirling around the bits of partridge and pheasant and venison and beef and mutton and chestnuts and sugared fruit. She thought of her stomach like a thin strip of copper, the corset the press, clamping down on her, cutting into her, squeezing the life from her.

  She pushed her napkin to her lips and inhaled, smelling clean linen, and the sharpness of the soap brought her back to reality.

  To her left, the Reverend – Mr Turner – was talking about something confusing. She had not been paying attention to his words, but she smiled like the others smiled and laughed when they did so too.

  Looking up, she caught the direct gaze of May Harlow. She was a beautiful woman, some years Cat’s senior but no more than thirty. She had eyes the deepest shade of brown, and her hair was just as dark and glossy, with strands of red catching in the candlelight. Her eyes were as sharp as knives, and she gazed over at Cat as if she was looking down on a mouse; it was Cat who weakly looked away first, sipping more wine as a way of distraction.

  Cat had done well tonight, she reminded herself. She had learnt the etiquette of the table; she had done nothing wrong or out of place. Perhaps she had been a little quiet, speaking only when spoken to, but that was to be expected in such new company. Each time she’d glanced at Osborne she’d found him grinning at her, and a slight nod of his head would reassure her that she must stop worrying.

  Suddenly, chair legs screeched across the floor, and May stood. Ruth, Mr Turner’s wife, stood also. Cat hesitated as all eyes fell to her.

  ‘Shall we withdraw?’ May said, acidity dripping from every syllable.

  Under the table, Osborne tapped Cat’s knee – her cue to leave. She followed behind May and Ruth obediently, and wished she could stay in the safety of the dining room, in the safety of mixed company – women could be feral. Closing the door, she heard Mr Turner, Osborne, and Mr Stephen Harlow take up a suitably dull conversation about business.

  In front, May led the way through the great hall as if it were her own house, her gown swishing over the flagstones, Ruth a few feet behind.

  Ruth and May did not like each other either; despite their ladylike politeness, even Cat could see the way May struggled not to roll her eyes whenever Ruth spoke, and how Ruth found the tablecloth infinitely more interesting than any of May’s grandiose tales.

  Indeed, Ruth could be quite the shrew, so Cat had discovered. Cat had visited the vic
arage after church service twice since her arrival at Wallingham, accompanied by Osborne both times. As the men had discussed the service, Cat had felt Ruth’s eyes bore into her face. Seated in the parlour, with a low fire burning in the grate and surrounded by potted plants and china ornaments and oil lamps with fringes to rival Cat’s new dresses, an interrogation disguised as polite conversation had swiftly begun. On both occasions, Ruth had asked the same questions, no doubt trying to make Cat’s story fold. But Cat had answered the specific questions honestly. She had described the desperate state of her previous life and the horrific way Jonathon Murphy had treated her (for that certainly was no lie), skipping only a few of the more gruesome details until Ruth’s cheeks had paled – no one needed the whole truth.

  But still, suspicion clouded Ruth’s eyes whenever they met Cat’s. She was a hard woman to win over.

  Now, May led them all into the drawing room. The fire, again, was high, the room too pressing. A tea set had been placed on one of the tables, and three pretty cups and saucers were waiting for them. Each of them took their seats, keeping a fair distance from one another, and the silence stretched for several uncomfortable seconds until Mrs Lewis entered and poured the tea.

  She handed the first cup to May with a smile that Cat had never seen on her face before. She gave the next to Ruth and then, only three-quarters filled, Mrs Lewis slammed the final cup and saucer on the table nearest Cat. The liquid sloshed back and forth – rather like how the contents of Cat’s stomach were doing right now – and slopped over the rim of the cup.

  All three women watched and waited to see how Cat would respond.

  She swallowed and forced back her shoulders. ‘You’ve spilt that.’

  To her right, Ruth watched the scene blankly. Cat heard May snigger. Mrs Lewis’s straight lips could not hide the glint of laughter and the flare of triumph in her eyes.

  ‘Fetch me a clean cup.’

  Mrs Lewis’s smugness was replaced with anger. She did not move for a moment, only worked her jaw and held Cat’s glare with one of her own, but Cat was not going to back down tonight. Tonight, she needed to prove herself.