Convenient Women Collection

by Delphine Woods

  ‘Rent upfront.’ He held out his hand.

  She reached for the purse in her bag. She counted out a few coins, let them warm in her hands as she wondered whether she could really live in a place like this or whether she should run back to Mrs Smith.

  ‘Staying?’ The boy looked her up and down with disinterest.

  She tipped the coins into his hand. He pushed the bedroom door open. From her bag, she retrieved the stump of a candle and lit it on the boy’s before he ran downstairs, leaving her alone in her room.

  By candlelight, she examined the state of things, then quickly wished she had not looked so hard. Animal droppings scattered the bare floorboards. Above the bed, a patch of damp stained the ceiling. The bare mattress was in a worse condition than her mother’s old one, with red and yellow and brown stains. She set a blanket over it before she lost her nerve to sleep on it.

  There was a washstand with one cracked bowl on it – she would have to use it as a piss pot, for Michael had taken theirs with him. A set of wonky drawers stood in one corner of the room, and she dragged them in front of her door so that no one could get in during the night.

  She took her mother’s ring and the rest of the blankets out of her bag and curled onto the mattress. Squeezing her eyes shut, she pulled the blankets over her head, held the ring to her face, and wept.

  Chapter 10

  May 1854. Wallingham Hall.

  A shower of rice fell onto her. She laughed, exalted, threw her head back, and saw the brightness of the sky. Osborne held her hand – the left one where the diamond ring bulged over her fourth finger – and guided her down the church steps between the row of villagers who called out blessings and well wishes. Two white horses and Osborne’s most elegant carriage waited for her. He helped her inside. Her white skirts caught on the latch for a moment, tugging her back, but Osborne released the material and jumped in beside her, grinning, and banged on the carriage roof.

  The horses were whipped into action. Cat waved through the window, seeing the villagers pour out of the church and Mr and Mrs Turner standing in the porch, waving back at them.

  Osborne grabbed her face and brought his lips to hers. His tongue flickered hard against hers.

  ‘I am the happiest woman alive,’ she said, kissing him again, opening her mouth and letting him inside.

  ‘I wish we could go away now,’ he said, his voice low. He shifted in his seat, uncomfortable and impatient.

  ‘Soon.’ She turned her face to the window, watching as Osborne’s estate – their estate – engulfed them.

  Wallingham Hall glimmered through the trees, and then the carriage rumbled onto the drive. Cherry and apple blossom mingled with the gravel, blown in from the orchard at the rear of the house, perfuming the air. Spring. A time for new life. She skipped like the lambs in the field towards the door. Osborne was close behind her, struggling to remain sober. He lifted her off her feet.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she said.

  ‘For good luck.’ He held her in his arms, stepped through the door, and kissed her before he set her on the ground again.

  They emerged from the porch and into the great hall. Garlands of flowers draped the walls, the smell of them thick and sickly in the air. Candles burned, though the sunlight which shone through the windows rendered them useless. The grand table had been piled high with food and drink, and the cake – a white, towering masterpiece – sat as the centrepiece.

  She gawped at it all. The servants, standing at one end of the room, smiled at her wonderment. She found Cook and thanked her for the cake, and the woman’s cheeks blushed scarlet and wobbled as she shook her head, saying it was no trouble at all.

  Osborne grabbed Cat’s hand and made her sit on one of the two finely carved oak chairs. Then the servants came up, one by one, congratulating them both on their marriage. Nelly was sobbing by the time her turn came and could not get the words out.

  ‘What a silly girl you are,’ Osborne said, laughing, and Nelly laughed with him.

  Only Mrs Lewis did not smile. She offered some curt congratulations to her master but said nothing to Cat.

  Cat felt Osborne stiffen beside her. His lips worked, and she knew, from the months she had spent observing him, that he was angry. She felt him brace, ready to stand and admonish Mrs Lewis.

  ‘Leave it,’ Cat whispered, reining him back. ‘Do not ruin our day for one bitter maid.’

  Outside, the sound of laughter and footsteps crunching over gravel grew louder. ‘Our guests have arrived.’

  The villagers swamped the hall until the room was bursting with people.

  ‘Should you cut the cake?’ Nelly said in Cat’s ear as she handed her another glass of wine.

  Cat and Osborne sliced the fruitcake, fat raisins tumbling onto the stand, as the crowd cheered. Cook and some maids took the cake away to the kitchens to be sliced and packaged for the guests.

  ‘Congratulations, Osborne,’ Mr Turner said for the umpteenth time that afternoon. His white collar was slightly askew, his face pink from the sunshine and the wine. ‘Your father would be so happy to see you now.’

  Osborne’s smile fell. ‘Thank you, Walter. I wish he could have been here.’

  Mr Turner patted him on the back – nothing else to be said.

  ‘Ma’am?’ Nelly again, always like Cat’s shadow now. ‘Should you get changed?’

  Cat kissed Osborne’s cheek and slipped through the gathering. On the stairs, she hesitated. The day had somehow managed to be the longest ever, and yet it had passed in the blink of an eye. And it was not over yet.

  ‘Are you all right, ma’am?’

  She smiled at Nelly. ‘Wonderful.’

  Her honeymoon luggage was already packed and in the carriage, and when she entered her chamber, the room seemed oddly bare.

  Nelly skipped to the wardrobe and took out the dark grey travelling dress and cloak which had been specially made for this day. She sighed over the silk of the skirt and marvelled at the intricate details woven into the bodice.

  Cat stood by the window and gazed at the view. A few of the villagers lingered on the driveway, heads close together as they gossiped. The dogs cavorted amongst them, playing between themselves, sliding on the gravel and sniffing for bits of dropped food.

  ‘What do you know of Osborne’s father?’ Cat said, unfastening a pearl earring. These last five months, she had managed to bite her tongue whenever the question had tried to come out. Osborne’s reactions regarding his father were always precarious, and Cat had not wanted to risk her position at Wallingham by probing him or the staff who might have ratted her out. But now, with her position secure and firmly rooted, she was determined to find out the truth.

  ‘It was before my time here, ma’am,’ Nelly said, suddenly serious. She came behind Cat and started taking the pins out of her dress.

  ‘I haven’t asked him, you know. He always gets so sad …’ or angry, she thought but did not say. ‘I would like to know so that I don’t upset Osborne in the future.’

  She waited, but Nelly remained silent.

  ‘I suppose I will just have to ask him outright and see what happens.’

  Nelly took the bait. ‘He was killed, so I was told.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Someone … shot him.’

  This, she had not been expecting. What had she thought? Some terrible accident somewhere? A dreadful lingering disease slowly sucking the life from him? A sudden attack making him drop dead in his dinner?

  ‘Who would do such a thing?’

  Nelly pulled off Cat’s white skirt, avoiding the question.

  ‘Who shot him, Nelly?’

  ‘I was told it was an Irishman.’

  The satisfaction of discovering the truth was short-lived. Despite the heat of the day, a chill scratched down her spine.

  ‘Where did he die?’

  ‘Ireland.’

  She swayed as Nelly’s strong hands fixed the new skirt around her waist. Reaching for the support of the wi
ndowsill, she studied the blue sky, the clumps of white cloud building in it, and tried to think why on earth Osborne’s father should have been in Ireland at all.

  ‘Why was he over there?’

  Nelly shrugged. ‘Business? I don’t know. As I said, it was before my time. I only heard bits from Mr Dixon and Mrs Lewis, and only when they thought no one was listening.’

  ‘Eavesdropping, Nelly?’ Cat teased to try to lighten the mood, though neither of them found her joke amusing.

  ‘I’ve never heard Master Tomkins talk of it. Mrs Lewis said that Master Tomkins found the whole thing so awful that we were never to mention his father, never to ask any questions, never to speak of him at all. I’ve had no problem with that, of course. It’s his business, his grief. I suppose we all have our different ways of dealing with such things.’

  ‘Mmh.’ But Cat was not so certain. Despite the ache in her heart, she would gladly have talked about her mother all day, if anybody had bothered to ask. No – only shame made people want to hide from the truth, and Cat knew all about that.

  ‘Thank you for telling me, Nelly.’

  Nelly smiled, and finally, the tension in the room lessened. ‘Where is the honeymoon, ma’am?’

  ‘I cannot tell you, Nelly, you know that. You may nag me all you like, but my lips are sealed until we reach the ship.’

  ‘The ship?’ Nelly jumped in the air and clapped her hands. ‘We are going on a ship!’

  Cat laughed with her. ‘Yes, yes. But first, you are to post these for me.’ Cat retrieved two sealed letters from her dressing table; one to Coventry, the other to Cheshire. ‘You must be quick, or else we’ll be late.’

  Nelly ran from the room, too excited to ask questions. Cat had no intention of telling her that the letters were destined for her sisters, promising them a better life, just as soon as she had returned from Paris.

  Chapter 11

  January 1852. Birmingham.

  A dull thump of a headboard against a wall. Moans – pleasure, pain, a mixture of the two? The faint noise of babes crying, of someone stumbling around their rooms unaware of the time, the day, the year. All these sounds were her lullaby now – in the darkest hours of the night, as the sun tickled the morning, as a clock somewhere struck midday. Endless.

  Her curtains, half hanging off the wall, allowed in the low, mid-morning light. Curled on her side, holding her stomach, she heard the end of the business next door, the brusque voice of a man who should have already left, the flat call from Ruby that she’ll see him soon, rapid footsteps squeaking down the stairs. Then, a knock on her door.

  She flinched. No one ever knocked. She raised her head off her pillow, listened, and heard someone sigh.

  ‘It’s Ruby.’

  Cat sat upright. The room whirled around her and darkened at the edges. ‘What do you want?’

  The door handle turned. The door came open an inch before it slammed into the chest of drawers.

  ‘Christ’s sake!’ A murmur. Another sigh. ‘Just wanted to see if you were all right. Shan’t bother again.’ Footsteps retreating.

  Cat stumbled to her feet, shoved the drawers to one side, and opened the door. Ruby – small, shoulders no wider than her head, corset-less. She had the wickedest of smiles – her canine tooth always managed to sparkle – and her eyes glimmered as if eternally lit by a fire. A bottle of gin, half-drunk, swung in her hand.

  ‘Want some?’

  Cat’s tongue ached. She took the bottle and poured the liquid inside her, feeling the cracks of her mouth soften and sting. She stopped for air and wiped her hand across her lips.

  A knife stabbed into her skull, then sawed down into her right eye. The wall came behind her. She had the sensation of falling …

  ‘Sit down.’

  She felt Ruby’s hot hands push on her shoulders, and then the bed came underneath her, solid and reassuring.

  Ruby took the bottle back, drank, and slumped at Cat’s feet. ‘We’ve never had a proper chat, have we?’

  The room was coming back into focus now. The knife was slowly sliding out of her head. She rested against the headboard so she could observe her uninvited guest.

  ‘I ain’t heard you go out for days now.’ Ruby said it as a question as her gaze lighted over her surroundings. ‘When was the last time you ate something?’

  The reminder of food made Cat’s stomach pound. She pushed her arms into the hollow of it.

  ‘Thought you worked at Bronson’s?’

  ‘I do.’ Cat’s voice cracked; she had not used it for days.

  ‘You sick or something? You look it.’

  ‘Less hours.’

  ‘Oh.’ It came out long, like how a woman might respond to scrap of gossip from her neighbour. ‘They got you on the casual?’

  Cat nodded. The gin had brought back some of her senses. There was a stench coming from somewhere. She sniffed, searching, until she realised it was her piss pot under the bed. She hadn’t emptied it since … she tried to think, but it hurt to do so. She would have blushed, but her blood seemed as frozen as the ice on the window.

  Ruby jumped to her feet and skipped out of Cat’s room. Cat watched her become a shadow in the gloom of the corridor, then saw her bedroom door open. Daylight glowed through the smoke, and Cat could make out the rugs on Ruby’s floor, the edge of a bed that took up all of the space. There was the sound of something sliding open, then Ruby’s silhouette returned, and the girl was in Cat’s room once again, a stained cloth bag in her hands.

  ‘Have some of this.’

  Cat pushed her fingers into the opening and felt the crust of bread. It was in her mouth, her teeth chewing through it and threatening to break, before she realised. Saliva slithered between her gums once more. She closed her eyes, feeling the bread soften over her tongue, turning to gloop. With all her effort, she swallowed, and the food bumped down her throat.

  ‘Better?’ Ruby smiled as Cat continued to eat. With only a mouthful left, Ruby snatched the crust back and ate the last bit herself. ‘You ever thought of … you know? The oldest trick in the world?’

  Cat pulled her feet away from Ruby’s skirts. ‘No.’

  ‘I was like you, you know. Just like you. No work. No man. No food. Can’t go without my food, I get nasty.’

  ‘I would never–’

  ‘You would never do nothing.’ Ruby’s eyes hardened. ‘Don’t think yourself better than the rest of us here, Miss Catherine. We’re all getting by in our own way. And I ain’t hurting anyone, the opposite, actually.’

  Cat thought of the bruises, the cuts on Ruby’s brows, the sores that appeared on her lips from time to time. She might not be hurting anyone, but they were hurting her.

  ‘We could pair up, you and me.’ The smile returned; the glint. ‘Set ourselves up in a business, of sorts.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘They’d pay well for you. Clean. Pure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Ruby threw her head back and laughed. ‘You’re the first virgin I’ve seen for years.’

  ‘Ben,’ Cat said, reminding Ruby of the boy who looked after the house.

  ‘Even Ben.’

  ‘If you’re going to lie to me, you can get out.’

  ‘I ain’t lying to you. We’re all whores eventually, Cat. Even you.’

  Ruby slapped her thighs and stood. ‘I’ll be waiting for your knock.’

  She flounced out of the room, shutting the door behind her.

  Cat ran for the drawers and dragged them back into place, feeling safe once more. She returned to her sour sheets and hoped that she would sleep until she was next needed for work.

  She pushed the copper strip along. The lever went down, the metal cut. She pushed the strip up again. Lever. Cut. The familiar sounds of machinery and little feet. The dust particles filtering into her nose, drying out the crevices of her mouth, tickling her lungs. She coughed, trying to dislodge something and only making it worse. The cough continued. She felt her throat rip. The water in her eyes blinded h
er. There was no air to breathe.

  She released the strip of metal, held her hands over her face and spluttered, feeling the flecks of blood and spittle fly onto her palms until she found her breath once more. She inhaled slowly, feeling the air snag on something. She pushed her fingers into her eyes, brushed away the wetness. She sat upright and returned to her machine.

  A dozen sets of eyes stared at her. She would not look at them. She pushed the copper along …

  Dark trousers came before her. She raised her eyes to find Mr Criton above her. From this angle, she could see straight up his hooked nose. His eyes seemed crossed as he glared down at her.

  ‘You’re slow, Miss Davies.’

  ‘Sorry, sir, I had a cough.’

  ‘Before that.’ He pointed at the circles she had cut. ‘Half of what you should be doing.’

  She glanced at her neighbours, trying to see their work piles, but her eyes would not focus.

  ‘Sorry, sir, I–’

  ‘I don’t want to hear an excuse, Miss Davies. Hurry up, or you’ll have no hours at all.’ He walked away, examining the workbenches as he went. The women doubled their speed.

  The metal strip blurred before her, but there was no time to stop. She moved on, pressing and cutting, her fingers coming perilously close to catching in the vice. She would have lost a finger gladly if it meant her job would be guaranteed.

  The day was long. She knew she was slowing, but as hard as she tried to hasten, her hands would not move to her command. The sky outside had darkened hours ago, and with it, she had begun to shiver. Her fingers were uncontrollable. The circles were deformed, unusable. Her neighbour watched her, and winced as Cat struggled, but offered no help.

  Cat glanced at Mr Criton and found him staring at her. She forced herself to continue, wiped the cold sweat off her forehead, and bit her lip when her stomach churned in agony. She worked like that until he rang the bell, at which point she dropped over her machine, exhausted. Around her, women jumped to their feet and scurried away. Voices chattered, heavy feet plodded along the wooden boards, and bodies brushed past her.