‘Is she clean?’
‘How dare you!’
The door rattled against her ear from the noise of Osborne slamming his fist into the table.
‘I take it you’ve slept with her?’
‘I have not.’
Stephen laughed waspishly.
‘I would not take such advantage of her. She is a good woman.’
‘My God,’ Stephen’s voice was now soft. ‘She has you good and proper.’
‘I love her, Stephen.’
‘She knows your worth, I take it?’
‘She does not care for money.’
‘Everybody cares for money, and if they say they do not, then you know them for a liar.’
‘She could take all my money.’
‘Be quiet, man! Have you lost your mind completely? Just think of your father.’
‘Do not dare bring my father–’
‘What he would have to say about this? His son marrying a slum girl.’
‘You will not mention my father!’
She jerked back, nervous even from this safe distance of Osborne’s rage.
‘You will leave immediately,’ Osborne hissed.
‘You choose her over your oldest friend?’
‘Oldest, yes, but you are no true friend when you cannot see my happiness.’
‘I see your happiness, Tomkins, but I fear it will shatter around you.’
Footsteps.
She dashed to the library and hid behind the doorframe just in time to see Stephen stalk out of the study. A moment later, Osborne emerged, hatless, his shoulders crumpled forward. He inhaled deeply as if exhausted, then made for the great hall.
She had seen the Harlows' carriage roll over the drive only an hour later. She had watched from her window and had sighed in relief once they had disappeared.
‘Master Tomkins would like you to wear these tonight.’
Now, she drew her attention away from the star-filled sky and found Nelly holding a chain of pearls.
‘They were his mother’s. He said he’d like you to have them.’
The pearls dripped around Cat’s neck uncomfortably, but she kept them on, then made her way to the drawing room where Osborne waited for her. He stood beside the fire, watching the flames.
‘Thank you for the gift,’ she whispered.
He smiled at the sight of her. ‘I knew they would shine on you.’
‘Your guests left early today. I thought they meant to stay for lunch?’ She perched on the edge of the silk chair opposite him, stroking her skirt smooth.
‘I must apologise on their behalf. I did not mean for them to upset you.’
‘Ah, I have suffered worse.’
His face was pained as he looked at her.
Somewhere in the distance, the sound of voices travelled over the air. ‘What’s that?’
Osborne extended his hand towards her. ‘Come with me.’
He led her through the great hall and to the porch. ‘Ready?’ He opened the door.
She had never seen such a beautiful sight. Outside, a group of villagers had gathered. Candle lanterns lit their faces with a golden hue. Some played the pipes while the others sang the carol, O Holy Night.
She watched, stunned, as snow began to fall. She stepped out into the cold, palm facing the sky, and caught some flakes. She studied their perfect symmetry before they melted.
‘Come inside, you’ll freeze,’ Osborne said, opening his arms for her.
She dived inside them and felt his chin press against her head. They watched the carollers, swaying a little to the tune, and she felt him shift beside her, then his mouth came close to her ear.
‘I love you, Catherine.’
She turned her face towards him. Could she say it back? It was not love she felt, but it was close, wasn’t it? It could grow if she allowed it, if she could forget …
‘And I you,’ she whispered.
Chapter 9
December 1851. Birmingham.
Two small leather cases, barely filled – a paltry amount to account for two whole life’s worth of belongings – lay on the bed. Lottie’s bag had Mother’s shawl. Helen’s bag had Mother’s handkerchief. Both had a lock of each other’s hair, plaited and tied and kept in the lining for safety. The only other clothes they had were the dresses on their backs; the promise of a uniform had meant they could sell everything else and take the few pennies with them, as an emergency fund.
Cat brushed their hair as they wept. She braided it and fixed it in a bun, smoothing down the flyaway strands with her spit so they would look neat and presentable.
‘Hush now,’ she said, stroking their heads. ‘Think of the fine houses you’ll be living in. And country air is nicer than town air. You’ll be able to see the stars at night.’
Still, the girls cried. She sat between them and pulled them into her arms. ‘You’ll make lots of friends.’
‘I don’t want friends,’ Lottie said.
‘And there’ll be footmen. They’re the most handsome of men.’
Helen clasped her hands around Cat’s waist. ‘Don’t make us go, Cat.’
Cat sniffed back a threatening tear. ‘It’s not all bad, you know. You’re not that far away from each other.’
‘Where is Cheshire?’ Lottie said.
‘Not far.’
‘Will you visit me?’ Helen said.
‘If it’s allowed.’ She would make no promises. ‘Now come on, you’re not to be late.’
She ushered them downstairs. Their bags, though small, seemed too large against their little bodies. They gazed about the kitchen, eyes wide, not believing they would never see it again.
A rumble came from outside – wheels over uneven ground. Cat opened the door to see a cart with one short, fat horse and a mean-looking driver pulling up.
‘For Ashton Hall,’ he said, pinching his collar tight against his neck.
She grabbed Helen. ‘Look what a nice carriage they’ve sent for you.’
Helen clung to her skirts. ‘I won’t go!’
‘Stop it now. It’s for the best, you know that.’
‘Please.’ Tears sprouted from Helen’s eyes.
Cat glanced at the driver, who was fidgeting, reaching for his pocket watch. She hardened her voice. ‘Enough, Helen. You are not a little girl now. Stop crying and do as you are told.’
Helen glared at her. Lottie ran for her twin and squeezed her hard.
‘Come along.’ Cat had to break them apart. She pulled Helen to the cart and shoved her onto the seat. ‘I love you. Do Ma proud.’ She turned away before she could see Helen’s eyes fill with tears again.
She found Lottie waiting in the doorway, watching her sister disappear.
How could Cat do it again? How could she send another sister away to a strange place?
Lottie’s lip quivered, but she rolled back her shoulders. ‘I’ll wait here.’
And so they stood on the threshold with the December wind slicing into their faces and waited to be torn apart.
Eyes peeped from the windows around them, trying to get a good look. Lottie would not let them see her cry. Cat took strength from her sister; when a tear fell onto her cheek, she brushed it off quickly. She kept her gaze fixed on the gutter in the centre of the road and hoped that wherever the girls ended up, they would never have to see such a gutter again.
Another pony-cart pulled up, the horse a better breed than the last one, though a little skittish; it was not accustomed to such an environment. The driver seemed kinder too, portlier, and Cat prayed that Lottie would be treated well and grow fat and healthy. She kissed her sister’s forehead and guided her to the cart. Lottie’s lip quivered harder.
‘Goodbye, Cat,’ she said, her voice cutting off here and there where it stumbled on the lump in her throat. ‘I hope I’ll see you soon.’
‘Soon, I promise. We’ll all be together again – I’ll make sure of it.’ Cat squeezed Lottie’s small, sticky hand, trying to imprint the feel of it, the warmth of it,
into her mind as her only keepsake. Then she nodded to the driver who, bless his heart, had a blanket waiting for Lottie’s knees.
‘She’ll be right, miss.’
How she prayed for the driver to be telling the truth!
Staggering inside, she dragged herself upstairs again. Her own case lay open on the otherwise empty bed. Mother’s comb, a few bits from the kitchen that she’d chosen not to sell, some blankets from the bed – the others were in Michael’s bag – lay before her.
She held the blankets to her nose, but Mother’s smell was gone. Mother was not a part of the house anymore; her soul had long since risen, taking all traces of her with it.
Michael crashed into the room. He did not ask after his sisters. Ignoring Cat, he threw his shirts into his case and some of Father’s old trousers which he could now wear as long as he had braces to hold them up.
Both of them finished packing in silence. Every so often, Cat glanced up at her brother to see if there was any sign of sadness in him. She found nothing in his features at all.
He closed his bag, picked it up, and began to walk out of the room. He was going to leave without even saying goodbye!
She grabbed him and embraced him. He was stiff underneath her arms, his body still as if he was holding his breath. She let go of him after only a few seconds.
‘I’ll miss you, Michael.’ She wiped her eyes on her skirt.
He shifted his weight to his other leg. ‘It’s for the best.’
‘I don’t know if it is.’
He pinched his lips together, blew out sharply through his nose. ‘Make a decision and stick to it.’
She would not argue with him on their last day together. She nodded.
‘You’re too much like her.’
‘Who?’
‘Mother.’ He said it as an insult.
‘And what’s wrong with that? She was a good woman.’
He sighed, shook his head, and left the room. The bubble of rage inside Cat’s gut suddenly burst.
‘You seem to forget that our father was a violent drunk.’
He was halfway down the stairs when he turned on her. ‘Only because he was driven to it.’
‘How can you say that?’
‘She was a useless wife.’
‘She raised us, Michael.’
He laughed. ‘Yes, and look how we’ve turned out.’
Cat grabbed hold of the bannister. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She couldn’t believe the hatred spewing from Michael’s mouth, the slanderous words spilling out between his lips about their own mother, their own, dear, loving mother.
How long had Michael resented her, resented them all? There had been a time when he had been happy, she was sure of it. There had been a time when they had giggled and played together. She would never know when that had changed, but she guessed it must have been the first time Father had beaten him after he’d finished with Mother.
‘I’m sorry for you, Michael.’
He marched down the stairs. ‘Don’t be.’
She ran after him, clutching for his coat as he opened the door. ‘Will you tell me where you’re staying?’
‘You don’t need to know.’
‘Please, Michael! I could visit you?’
He stopped a few paces out of the front door. She could see his shoulders moving up and down, fast to start with, then slower. He faced her, and he was as cold as he had ever been.
‘I don’t want to see you again, Cat. Ever.’
She closed her bag. The house loomed around her. She had always thought of it as small – the six of them had always seemed so cramped together in only two rooms. Now, with everyone gone, the place was too large.
She stepped over to Michael's bed, the same bed which Ma had died on. With the blankets gone, she could see how thin and stained the mattress was. Would the next family who came to live here sleep on it? Would they feel Mother’s ghost lying beside them as they closed their eyes?
She sat on the edge of the mattress, rubbing her hand over it as she gazed around the room. Memories fluttered in her mind. She’d been born in this room. So had Michael, but she couldn’t remember his birth. She remembered her sisters though, coming into the world one after the other. She remembered Mother’s screams, how frightened Cat had been as she’d curled up on the top of the stairs, watching the shadows swirl hectically under the door. A woman from nearby had come to help, as well as Mrs Smith from next door. In the years which had followed, Cat had come to learn that it hadn’t taken long for the twins to be born, but on that night it had felt like weeks. Cat had thought she would never see her mother alive again.
The girls had been like little worms, covered in slime and blood, wriggling in the cold. Cat had helped Mrs Smith wipe them clean, and Mrs Smith had told her how to hold them properly. She’d kissed their foreheads, grimacing at their odd smell, and had said she loved them.
‘I’ll get them back, Ma,’ she said now, her voice too loud in the silence. ‘I promise.’
Something caught her eye – something shimmering between the floorboards by her feet in the place where the rag rug used to be. She’d burnt the rug in the fire downstairs only yesterday, shuddering as fleas had jumped away from the flames. Now, she got to her knees, bringing her candle with her. In the crack of the floorboards, something smooth and gold caught the light. She touched it with her finger and felt the coolness of it.
She set the candle beside her on the floor and dug into the floorboard. The wood was beginning to rot and splinters stabbed under her nails, but she did not stop, even when blood dripped from her fingertips. With one last tug, it came free.
She held the thin, gold ring in her hand. Mother’s wedding band, bent out of shape a little, the gold tarnished. It must have lodged itself in there after it had fallen off Mother’s finger that time.
She took it as a sign, a reassurance. Mother was there with her.
She kissed the gold, then slipped the ring into the lining of her case and left the bedroom forever.
She did not linger downstairs – she did not think she would be able to leave if she allowed herself to wallow. So she marched straight to the door and propelled herself into the world outside. She walked away from her home and into the darkness of the night.
‘Cat!’ Mrs Smith hobbled out of her house, her eyes red, a handkerchief in her hand. ‘You’re going now?’
‘Yes. And thank you for everything, Mrs Smith.’
The old woman dabbed her eyes. ‘I’d have you here, but …’
In Mrs Smith’s window, the old woman’s daughter-in-law watched Cat with a scowl. She was a bitter woman, the bane of Mrs Smith’s life, and with a voice so shrill it penetrated streets, let alone walls.
‘Don’t upset yourself.’ Cat rubbed the woman’s arm. ‘I’ll be fine.’
‘Have you found yourself somewhere decent? You could stay with us for a few nights until you’ve got yourself sorted?’
‘I’m going to Able Street. I have a room in a house there.’
A shadow crossed Mrs Smith’s face. ‘Oh, Cat. Come here with us. Come on.’
‘No.’ Cat could see the snarl in the daughter-in-law’s face. ‘No, I’ll be fine there.’
‘But it’s–’
‘It’ll do me for now, just for the moment.’
Mrs Smith grabbed Cat’s hand, pulled her close, and whispered into her ear, ‘You come to me if there are any problems, you hear. Take no notice of her.’
Cat embraced the woman, smelling the sting of carbolic on her clothes which was as familiar to Cat as her very own face. She sniffed, bit her cheek, and forced herself to be strong.
‘Goodbye.’
She turned away before another word could be said.
She knew the streets of the town now the way she imagined that her mother used to. She knew the ones to avoid, the ones where she must pull her cap around her face and stay in the shadows, the ones where she might be permitted to gawp at the public houses and the shop fron
ts without fear.
It was a winding path through town, and seemingly endless, but eventually the stench of the cut permeated the air. The filthy scent of the canal, and the blackness that seemed to simmer up from the water to mix with the coal smoke in the atmosphere, enveloped her – she was close.
She took the next right and delved into a narrow street. If she were to stretch her arms out, she would be able to touch the bricks, but she kept them glued to her sides – this place was alive with shadows. Indistinguishable shapes scuttled between the gutters. Doors opened and slammed shut. Babies wailed. All sorts of sinful business took place in black corners.
She shuffled along, head down, her shoes sliding on the muck under her feet until she came to the end of the terraced houses and rapped her knuckles on the last door.
A boy, perhaps eight years of age, opened it, wearing nothing but a tattered rag over his bony frame. His hair was shaved short to his head, showing the lines of his skull.
‘Miss Davies? This way.’
He stepped aside, allowing her to enter a thin corridor. The boy’s candle was the only light once he shut the door behind her, and it cast shadows in the gloom. She could make out four doors on this floor. The noise of families, of children and babies mewing, of men coughing filled the silence. Cigar smoke spilt from under the nearest doorway and curled at the boy’s feet as he stepped through it towards the staircase.
‘Up here.’
She followed closely behind him, not wanting to be left in the darkness. Another floor, and another set of doors with the same sounds scratching from behind them. The stench of piss and shit was overwhelming as they passed by one window, and glancing outside she saw the privy below, no doubt shared by the whole house, if not the entire street. She put her hand over her nose and gratefully breathed in the lingering scent of Mrs Smith’s clean clothes.
Another staircase, narrower this time, led to the attic. The roof crouched on top of them here, the eaves making her stoop. One door was to her right, and the sound of a woman’s business came from behind it; grunts, giggles, moans of false pleasure. Cat blushed, but the boy took no notice. He stood in front of the door to her left.
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