Convenient Women Collection

by Delphine Woods

  There was no point trying to walk amidst them; she would get trampled. So, she waited for the crowd to thin. She rested her cheek on her cold, hard machine, and let her sore eyelids finally fall …

  Something dug into her shoulder. She had the strange sensation of being surrounded by silence when there should have been noise and, raising her head, she realized her cheek was numb. Looking up, she saw Mr Criton’s nose again, his pale lips hidden in the bush of his moustache.

  ‘You aren’t needed tomorrow, Miss Davies. Come back when you can work properly.’

  ‘Please, sir–’

  ‘Go home.’ He walked away.

  Fingers of panic raced over her spine as she realised she was all alone. The gas lights had been turned off, and darkness surrounded her. Machinery crouched in the shadows, like giant spiders, and the silence was overwhelming.

  It was this unnatural fear which made her flee the shop floor, crashing into benches and tables as she ran, stumbling down the staircase until she emerged outside. Her heart beat inside her chest as fast as sparrows’ wings.

  Her legs shook. The ground seemed too close. She stretched out her arms and felt sharp bricks to her left. She collapsed against them, her body suddenly too heavy to lift all by herself. She worked her fingertips into the gaps of cement and dragged herself along, moving an inch at a time.

  She focused on the streetlamp in the distance. If she reached it, she would be out in the openness of town. She would be free.

  The light swayed and flickered in her vision, but she kept pushing on as darkness surrounded the yellow, glowing dot.

  Squinting, she saw a figure standing under the light. She tried to make it out, but it was fuzzy around the edges.

  She blinked. Then blinked again, the figure now starting to clarify. Strands of coarse hair stuck up from the figure’s head, shining like toffee. The waist was cinched in tight. Slim ankles were visible beneath a short skirt. The face was lined and soft, like a white loaf of bread. Blue eyes shone.

  Gently, a hand reached for Cat, reached for her cap. Warm fingers brushed against her cheek as her cap was pulled low, and her shawl was tightened around her neck. Velvet lips kissed her forehead.

  ‘Ma,’ Cat whispered, and let herself fall into her mother’s open arms.

  The ground slammed into her – something cracked somewhere, but she felt nothing of the physical pain. Her heart was breaking as she searched for her mother only to find that she had vanished; the lamplight showed only moths circling around its covered flame.

  She grappled for the lamp post. The iron bit into her hands and stung the grazes on her palms. She pulled and pulled, trying to stand, but her legs buckled each time her feet found sure footing.

  She slumped on the ground. In the oasis of the lamplight, the world around her was blacker than ever. Sounds clicked and ticked here and there, distant then close. She shrank away from them, fearing them to be rats or men. She held onto the streetlamp like a raft in the middle of the sea.

  Death came for her. She saw it moving in the space beyond her vision. A cold death. A brutal death. A long death. She would not see the light again.

  She squeezed her eyes shut and thought of Lottie and Helen, warm somewhere she hoped, perhaps beside a huge kitchen fire or eating their supper with their friends. She wished they were happy and ached at how she did not know this for a fact. She had failed her mother. She had abandoned her sisters. Who would tell them that she had died alone on the street? Who would find her body? Would anybody care at all?

  Death tapped her arm. She gasped and hid her face from it. She was not ready to go yet. She would not let herself be taken.

  Death gripped her elbow.

  ‘No,’ she said. She thought she had screamed it, but the sound was distant even in her own ears.

  Death put her arm around its shoulder and lifted her to her feet. The ground slipped beneath her shoes, but Death caught her by the waist. It made her walk, and she opened her eyes to find herself being moved from the light into the darkness.

  ‘Please …’

  ‘You’ll be safe with me.’ Death’s voice was steady and low. Its accent was unusual.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘My place.’

  She pushed her eyes open, suddenly alert. It was not Death who had a tight hold of her, it was a man. She squirmed under his grip.

  ‘Stop that!’

  ‘Let go!’

  It was all a rush of arms and hands and jackets and skirts and legs. Then bricks slammed behind her back, her hands were pinned to her sides, and a body crushed against her. Breathing hard with panic, she inhaled someone else’s air and tasted their sourness on her tongue. A foreign mouth was too close to her own. She tried to pull her head back, but the wall trapped her.

  ‘Steady now,’ the mouth said.

  She stilled, blinked. Another streetlight not too far away lit the face before her in monotone shades. She saw the greyness of smooth lips, a spattering of black dots on a pale cheek, the white speck of light caught in the glassiness of an eyeball. Beneath the rim of a hat, she made out the shadow of close-cropped hair.

  ‘I won’t hurt you, I promise,’ the man said. ‘All right?’

  It was not all right, but she did not have the confidence to protest.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Cat.’

  The corner of his lips rose. ‘Nice to put a name to the face. I want to help you, Cat.’

  ‘Why?’

  She felt him shrug. She waited for his eyes to roll down, the way that men’s eyes always did, but he kept looking into her face. ‘You seem like you need it.’

  Chapter 12

  June 1854. Wallingham Hall.

  The tension from the long, jolting journey eased out of her shoulders as the carriage rolled onto the drive.

  Home. Wallingham Hall.

  It really was a lovely house. Purple wisteria hung onto the honey-coloured stone and draped over the doorway, the windows sparkled in the sunshine, and smoke rose from the kitchen chimney. So grand yet so cosy. And now her name would be forever etched onto its history; a factory worker amidst the names of the gentry!

  Osborne grasped her hand and smiled at her as the line of servants came into view. The driver slowed the horse, then with a click, the carriage halted.

  Nelly’s voice boomed as the girl dismounted. Boxes! Be careful with those boxes! With glee she ordered the young lads about, buzzing between them all, her finger poking in front of their faces menacingly.

  There really were so many boxes! All of them filled with new dresses, hats, shoes, lampshades, oil paintings. A whole host of pink frilly boxes and leather cases and wooden chests brimming with Paris’s finest, the perfume of French shops still clinging to them.

  Paris! She had never seen anywhere so beautiful. Streets of white and gold, rising into blue skies. Avenues of pink blossom. Gardens shaped like Greek statues. Golden carriages. Ballrooms and drawing rooms and parlours and hotels, every surface gilded and bursting with bouquets. The splendour at first had been overwhelming, then slightly nauseating.

  ‘Are you happy to be home?’ Osborne said, taking her hand once more and guiding her towards the door.

  ‘Delighted.’

  They reached the line of waiting servants who bowed or curtseyed to their masters, and Osborne took up conversation with them about the honeymoon. They smiled at him, eating up his words, their eyes shining as they imagined the golden city. He told them how everyone had adored his wife, had found her charming and beguiling, and the servants smiled on Cat as if they were responsible for her making. All, but one.

  ‘Mrs Lewis, I trust there were no problems while we were away?’

  ‘No.’ Mrs Lewis said, her eyes focusing somewhere behind Cat’s shoulder. ‘I run a good household here.’

  ‘Quite.’ Cat turned to Osborne. ‘I must see to the luggage. I shall be in my room.’

  ‘I thought we might take some tea?’

  ‘Later,’ she kissed him
on the cheek, and the servants looked away, ‘once everything is sorted. I would hate anything to be ruined. Mrs Lewis, come along.’

  ‘Sit down.’ Cat ushered Mrs Lewis inside.

  ‘I’m fine standing.’ Mrs Lewis crossed her hands over her chest and stood rigidly before the empty grate.

  ‘Very well. Nelly, would you give us a moment?’ Nelly, who had been studiously emptying the boxes, now bobbed a curtsey and somewhat reluctantly left Cat’s bedchamber.

  Cat strolled towards the window. Below, the boys were still unloading more boxes. The carriage from above was just as spectacular as on the ground, and the white horses patiently waited for a brush down and a drink.

  ‘A grand day, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Everyone is so happy for our return,’ she faced Mrs Lewis, ‘apart from you.’

  ‘I am happy that the master has come home.’

  ‘But not me.’

  Mrs Lewis’s lips quivered as if her words were itching to come out.

  ‘You don’t like me, Mrs Lewis?’

  Silence. Her chin was hard and stubborn.

  Cat laughed. ‘What a silly question. Why should your opinion of me matter?’

  Mrs Lewis’s cheeks flared red; the woman was so easy to rile. Her eyes, which had lowered, now rose to stare at Cat. ‘You’re right. I don’t like you. I don’t trust you.’

  ‘I am Osborne’s wife.’

  ‘You have bewitched him.’

  ‘So now I am a witch? I thought I was just a button-maker’s daughter?’

  Mrs Lewis stepped forward, a snarl on her lips. ‘I’ve been at this house longer than anyone here. I’ve seen Master Tomkins come into this world, I’ve watched him grow, I’ve seen him grieve. His heart is pure.’

  Though he has blood on his hands, Cat thought, but she did not say it. ‘I know.’

  ‘You know exactly how much of a fool the man is. I have wished for him to find love, but with you? Never with the likes of you.’

  ‘The likes of me?’

  ‘There’s something …’ she scrutinised Cat’s face. Cat stepped back. ‘There’s something not right about you.’

  ‘I don’t want him for his money.’

  ‘Not only. And that’s what troubles me. There’s something more. There’s a darkness around you.’

  Cat pulled her gaze away from the woman and looked out of the glass. She held onto the windowsill for support.

  ‘I hear you praying at night.’ Mrs Lewis came behind Cat, her voice hissing over Cat’s shoulder. ‘I come and stand by your door. So many sins … I wonder what they are? I wonder if Master Tomkins would still love you if he knew them all.’

  ‘Enough.’ Cat turned on her, making her step back. She forced a smile to her lips. ‘I love Osborne very much. He has saved me, in more ways than one, as you and he and all the world knows. I am truly honoured that he has taken me for his wife.’

  For one awful moment, Cat thought Mrs Lewis might spit at her, but then she seemed to compose herself. Cat inhaled, and did not try to conceal the smugness in her voice – she had been waiting for this day for months.

  ‘And in doing so, he has made me the lady of this house. You understand, Mrs Lewis, that for the house to run smoothly, there must be no angst between the lady and her staff.’

  Mrs Lewis fidgeted, her eyebrows creased together.

  ‘So I am sad to say that I fear your time here has come to an end.’

  The uncomprehending look on Mrs Lewis’s face was satisfaction for all the months Cat had endured the woman’s hostility and condescension.

  ‘How could I possibly keep you as a housekeeper after what you have just told me?’

  ‘You wanted the truth.’

  ‘Yes, and now I have it. Not only do you think yourself above me, but you spy on me and accuse me of sin. How could you want to work for somebody such as me?’

  ‘I work for Master Tomkins.’

  ‘You work for me.’ Cat prowled towards her. ‘You will be gone by this time next week.’

  Mrs Lewis’s lips opened and shut, her eyes wide in shock.

  ‘You can’t. I’ve been here–’

  ‘For years, yes, I know.’

  ‘Master Tomkins–’

  ‘Agrees with me.’

  Mrs Lewis chewed her lips; Cat thought she might be about to cry, so before that could happen, Cat opened the door and gestured for her to go. The hurt on Mrs Lewis’s face transformed to rage.

  ‘You’re a witch! And a whore.’

  From the doorway, Cat heard footsteps coming up the stairs; she knew them for Osborne’s. ‘Please control yourself, Mrs Lewis, you are humiliating yourself.’

  ‘I will not be told how to behave by a factory girl!’

  Osborne’s pace grew faster, his frown deep. Cat lowered her gaze, put her hands to her eyes.

  ‘Please, Mrs Lewis …’

  ‘You do not fool me, Catherine Davies. You will ruin this house, and you will ruin Master Tomkins.’

  Osborne ran into the room, barging past Cat and coming face to face with the housekeeper. Mrs Lewis froze, her mouth agape, her skin whitening. She dropped into a curtsey. ‘Master Tomkins.’

  ‘Get out.’

  Cat reached for his arm, sniffing back tears. ‘Osborne, don’t.’

  ‘Get out, Mrs Lewis!’

  ‘Sir, I am–’

  ‘Gone. I will have you out of this house by nightfall.’

  ‘Osborne no!’

  ‘Out!’

  Mrs Lewis wailed as she fled the room.

  Osborne turned to Cat and pulled her into his arms. She rested her cheek against his sun-warmed jacket and cried a little longer. Osborne brushed away her tears.

  ‘Don’t let the old hag upset you, my love. You won’t ever have to see her again.’

  ‘Where will she go?’

  ‘Damned if I know. Or care.’

  ‘You will give her a reference, though, won’t you?’ Despite her contempt for the woman, Cat did not want to see her destitute. She would not wish the workhouse on anyone.

  ‘I don’t see why I should.’

  ‘Please Osborne.’

  He sighed, and his anger melted. ‘I will do whatever makes you happy. And I will make sure the ungrateful woman knows it was you who persuaded me, though I would have cast her onto the streets.’

  She wrapped her arms around his neck and brought his face down to hers. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered, her lips brushing against his ear lobe. She pushed the door shut behind them and led him towards the bed.

  Cat stood in front of the open window, praying for a breeze. To her left, Nelly huffed as she sat on the chair, sewing. All morning, the sheen of sweat had not left the girl’s brow, and she was grumpy about everything. In the field below, the sheep huddled together, unsure of the day. The air was too close, the clouds too grey and heavy. Even the flies seemed doped on laudanum, buzzing into the windowpanes and falling onto their backs. She thought she heard a rumble of thunder somewhere in the distance, but it could just have been the crunch of gravel under Mrs Lewis’s boots.

  Mrs Lewis threw her suitcase into the back of Osborne’s black Brougham, then trudged to the carriage door and hesitated, her fingers resting on the handle. She turned towards the house and gazed at the property, and as she lifted her head to take it all in, Cat saw her face. Her eyes were wet and red. Her chin wobbled as she cried. She seemed so small and lost – like a little girl being shunned from her home.

  But then she saw Cat in the window. The softness vanished. She blinked the tears away and straightened her spine. After the slightest of curtseys, she turned back to the carriage and slammed the door shut behind her. The driver whipped the horse into action. Gravel churned under the wheels until the Brougham had rounded the side of the house and disappeared.

  A spot of rain hit the windowsill, splashing onto Cat’s arm. The sky had morphed into a giant bruise as if God had punched it. Another drop, fat and heavy. And then the patter turned
into a downpour, and the sheep in the field shuffled under the chestnut trees for protection. A white flash broke over the land, and then thunder roared. The world sounded as if it was splitting.

  Mrs Lewis would not have a pleasant journey all the way to Scotland.

  Chapter 13

  January 1852. Birmingham.

  In her delirium, she didn’t recognise where she was. It was like she was a child again – the streets too dark to seem real, the shadows like demons waiting to pounce. She held onto the man’s coat, feeling the greasiness of the wool under her fingertips which reminded her of Father and Michael.

  He led her onwards. Hundreds of feet had churned the ice on the road into sludge, the kind that crunched under her shoes and left her stockings wet and brown. By the time he opened the door to a house, her eyes were half shut, her body so cold and numb that it did not feel as if it belonged to her.

  He helped her up the set of stairs. She thought how quiet the place was and how the stairs seemed sturdier than those in her own lodgings. There was paper on the walls, curling at the edges, but still – there was paper on the walls!

  He opened another door on the first floor and brought her into his room. It was twice the size of hers. The bed was a good foot wider than her own. Two wooden chairs and a small table sat before the grate, and the man placed her on a chair as he stoked the fire and made the flames high. He pulled her closer to the heat, then set a kettle of water to boil.

  ‘Your name?’ Her skin was starting to prickle; she was thawing.

  He put a loaf of bread, a hunk of cheese, and a pot of dripping on the table, along with two cracked plates and a knife.

  ‘John.’

  He sliced the bread thickly, poured himself a cup of beer, and when the water had boiled, made her some tea. She held the hot cup between her hands, feeling the stab of her blood warming in her veins.

  She waited for him to eat first, then with all the dignity she could muster, she spread her slice of bread with dripping and ate.

  With food now in her belly, her eyes began to droop, her jaw slackened, and her head dropped onto her chest. She woke with a start and found John watching her.