Convenient Women Collection

by Delphine Woods

  She blinked the tiredness away. ‘John, who?’

  ‘Murphy,’ he said, smiling.

  She didn’t like to be laughed at. Her voice came out like daggers.

  ‘From where?’

  ‘Ireland.’

  ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘I’m a burnisher at Bronson’s.’

  She did not give herself time to consider. ‘No, I meant, why are you here in Birmingham? Why did you come here?’

  His smile fell. ‘Hard times at home.’

  She took the final bite of bread. Looking around, she noticed a cross on the mantelpiece wrapped in rosary beads. There was a tiny framed painting of a woman beside the cross, and even from here, she could see that the artist had not been talented; the features were too large and obscure. She turned back to the table and found John scowling at her.

  ‘I haven’t seen you at Bronson’s,’ she said, eyeing up the rest of the loaf. Her stomach yearned for more now that it had been given a taste.

  He drank from his cup and leaned back in his chair. ‘You saw me a few months ago.’

  ‘Did I?’ She would not admit that she thought she recognized him – the man who had bumped into her after Helen and Lottie had lost their jobs. ‘I don’t remember.’

  He grinned. She sipped her tea.

  ‘A burnisher, you said?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘How long have you worked there?’

  ‘Four years now.’

  She raised her eyebrows, then shrugged. ‘It’s a big factory. I don’t know half the people there.’

  ‘You’re a cutter.’

  She swallowed, raised herself a little higher in her chair. ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ve seen you.’

  She breathed in deep, her mind racing, trying to work out how to play this. He was a stranger to her, an Irishman. She was alone with him in his rooms. Trapped.

  She cursed herself for her stupidity.

  She pushed out her chair. ‘Thank you for the tea and the food, Mr Murphy.’ She tried to stand.

  ‘Sit.’ He said it as if he was speaking to a dog, his hand out in front of her legs commanding her to stay down.

  ‘I must get home.’

  ‘Why?’ He smirked, again. ‘Why would you want to go back there tonight?’

  ‘Because …’ She stood, pushing past his hand, her skin shivering when she realised he knew where she lived.

  ‘I have food here, more tea, beer if you want some?’ He held his cup to her, but she shook her head. ‘It’s nicer here, isn’t it?’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I’ve seen you on my way home.’

  She strode for the door, but he leapt in front of her, blocking her way.

  ‘Let me out.’

  ‘Forgive me.’ His breath came quickly. The smirk was lost. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.’

  ‘I am not the type of girl you think I am.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No,’ she said, between gritted teeth, staring him down.

  He dropped his gaze. ‘I only want to help.’

  ‘In return for what?’

  ‘Nothing, I swear.’ He stepped away from the door. She took the cold handle and turned it.

  ‘Cat, there’s more food and drink here. You’ve no need to stay, but I’ll walk you home if you choose to go.’

  ‘Why?’

  He shrugged. ‘Because you’re exactly the type of girl I thought you were. The type who should not walk the streets of town on their own at night.’

  She knocked on the door — three little taps; their code. John opened it with a smile. He’d cleaned himself up after his shift, set the table with bread and cheese and beer, and stoked the fire. The bed was made, the curtains drawn.

  ‘Come in.’

  She went straight to her seat beside the grate and warmed her hands over the flames. She took off her damp shoes and put them before the fire so they would dry out by the time she had to walk home again.

  John cut the bread, and they ate together, talking about the news of the factory. She had only been called into work twice in the three weeks that had passed since Mr Criton had said she was not needed, and although she had worked better since then, cutting like all the other women, her hours had still not improved. But now she had John, who was happy to share his tea with her in exchange for company and a smile.

  ‘Who is that?’ she said, her mouth full, as she pointed at the painting on the mantelpiece. Over the last few weeks he had been softening, his grin not quite as calculated, throwing her titbits of information about his life in Ireland. But he had never mentioned the woman in the painting.

  His eyes now glazed over. He dropped them to his plate. ‘My mother.’

  ‘Oh.’ Cat nodded, a warm buzz inside her. She had thought it might have been his sweetheart.

  ‘It’s a shite painting.’

  ‘It’s not.’

  ‘It is, and I know you think so too. The artist didn’t have much to go on.’

  She raised her eyebrow.

  ‘It was my description of her.’

  ‘Why didn’t she sit for him?’

  ‘Because she was dead two years by then,’ John snapped and tore into his food, and silence filled the room. Cat wished she had not asked.

  ‘Sorry.’ John shook his head. He sighed and finally looked at the bad replica of his mother. ‘I just wanted something to remember her by.’

  Cat had never seen him so vulnerable. She would have taken his hand and tried to comfort him, but shyness made her keep still. ‘I think it’s a lovely thing to do.’

  He ripped into the bread again and stuffed a handful into his mouth.

  ‘How did she die?’

  ‘Influenza. She was so weak from … everything going on. She hadn’t the strength to fight it.’

  ‘My ma was the same.’ An image of Cat’s dead mother flashed before her. She shook it away. ‘What about the rest of your family? Your father? Do you have brothers or sisters?’

  ‘Two brothers. Younger than me.’

  ‘Where are they?’

  ‘In Ireland.’

  ‘Are they coming over here soon?’

  ‘Not here. America.’

  ‘America! Why would they want to go there?’

  ‘Opportunities. You can be anything you want to be over there.’

  ‘There are opportunities here.’

  He sneered and swigged his beer.

  ‘When will you see them if they go to America?’

  He slammed his cup on the table and laughed. ‘You ask so many questions, Cat!’

  She blushed, shrunk back, but then his hand was on hers, rough and smooth at the same time. His eyes darted between her and the table, his thumb rubbing almost painfully over her skin as if he was … nervous? Surely not. Nervous was not a word she had ever associated with John.

  ‘I heard it was bad over there?’ she whispered, nervous now herself for bringing up his past again, but he did not lash out. His eyes misted slightly as he stared at the floor.

  ‘You couldn’t imagine.’

  ‘Tell me,’ she breathed. She so desperately wanted to know more about him.

  He sucked his lower lip between his teeth and nibbled it for a moment as if deciding whether to speak or not. He took a long, shuddering breath.

  ‘Corpses in the streets … people just lying there, right in front of you. In ditches, doorways, on the roadside. You’ve never seen anything like it.’

  She’d heard tales of the horrors in Ireland, as well as arguments to say the whole thing was a lie. She felt the blood rush to her cheeks at how she’d thought it all a bit of a drama – every country had its problems, didn’t it – what made Ireland so special? How could she have been so stupid?

  ‘The dead were walking, that’s what it looked like,’ John continued. ‘People were nothing more than bones. All trying to get to the docks, to the ships, and dying on the way.’

  ‘What happened to you?’
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  ‘We were farmers.’ John shrugged as if that should have been enough of an explanation. ‘I thought we’d be all right at first. I got work doing the roads. Pa joined me too. But it just wasn’t enough. We couldn’t pay the rent, like everyone else.’

  ‘You were evicted?’

  He laughed, though there was no humour in it. ‘They burnt our cottage. All of our cottages – us tenants. Made us watch.’

  She grasped his hand harder and wished she could pull him into her arms. She could see him weakening, the memories threatening to make him crumble …

  ‘So, we moved on. Looking for work, for charity, like everyone else.’

  ‘Your mother? When did she …?’

  ‘Mothers are so selfless, aren’t they? She hadn’t eaten for weeks.’ He shook his head and brushed his fingers over his eyes. ‘She died in a priest’s house. He’d let us stay for a night. She never woke up.’

  He dropped his head. Cat would not have known he was crying if she had not noticed the tears which splattered against his trousers.

  ‘I’m so sorry, John.’

  He sniffed, then jerked his head up and scratched the tears off his cheeks. ‘He buried her for nothing. He was a good man.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘We carried on. But it was too much for Pa. The workhouse took us in, but we’d have been better on the streets. Pa didn’t last a week in there.’

  ‘He died in the workhouse?’ she said, horrified.

  His eyes glazed over as he remembered. ‘I’ve been to Hell, Cat. It isn’t fire and boiling pots and all that shite. It’s hunger so bad you feel like nails are tearing out your guts. It’s the stench of disease clawing into your nostrils and down your throat. It’s babies sucking at their dead mother’s breast. It’s bodies piled on top of bodies in pits in the earth, rotting before they’re even covered over …’

  She hugged him tightly. She didn’t care if it was the proper thing to do. She couldn’t bear to listen to anymore, to imagine him so tortured. She held his head against her chest and pressed her lips into his short, spikey hair, wishing she could squeeze all those terrible memories out of his mind.

  ‘I have to get them out, Cat,’ he said between sobs. She knew he meant his brothers. ‘I promised them when I left. I said I’d get them a new life.’

  She cradled his face and made him look at her. ‘You will.’

  Gently, she wiped the tears off his face. His eyes were beginning to dry, and they were the palest, most beautiful shade of blue she had ever seen.

  She felt something … strange. A warmth inside her. The sickness she had been feeling changed into something else – like a fluttering sensation.

  His face came closer to hers, and his breath traced over her lips. Just an inch away … she closed her eyes. His lips touched hers for a second, and then they were gone.

  She opened her eyes to see him watching her, assessing her. She kissed him again, longer this time, and suddenly his hands dug into her hips. He lifted her off her feet, carried her to the bed, and lay her down. He hesitated only a moment.

  Chapter 14

  June 1854. Wallingham Hall.

  Osborne had been absent all morning. After midday she sought him out, finding him in his study. The curtains were shut, and the candles lit, setting the room in a sick, yellow light. His hair was unbrushed, his shirt undone and collarless, and he hunched over his desk surveying papers which splayed messily before him.

  ‘May I come in?’

  He frowned at her for a moment, as if he was struggling to place who she was, then his face relaxed. ‘Please do.’

  She shut the door behind her. The room smelt of ink and paper dust as if it had been shut up for too long. She drew back the curtains and allowed in the sunshine. She shoved the windows wide open, noticing how they stuck as if they had not been opened for years. The sound of bees in the wisteria around the pane filled the room.

  Osborne winced at the light and glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘Sorry, my love, I had no idea of the time.’

  He pulled her to him, sat her on his knee, and rested his hand on her thigh.

  ‘I do not want to disturb you if you are busy.’

  He leant into her neck, nuzzling his nose against her soft flesh. ‘You are a most welcome distraction.’

  She kissed him and let his hand roam over her bodice.

  ‘Are you happy?’ he whispered into her ear.

  ‘That’s a silly question, Osborne. How could I not be happy? Even the new housekeeper delights me.’

  Osborne laughed, then rested back in his chair and gazed at her. ‘I am the happiest man on this earth.’

  She swept her fingers down his cheek. He looked tired as if nightmares still lingered in his eyes.

  ‘I cannot wait for this place to be filled with children,’ she said. ‘The sound of laughter in the hallways, little feet stomping, making the chandeliers sway.’ She placed his palm against her stomach. ‘Soon.’

  His eyebrows raised, his eyes widened. She looked away.

  ‘I didn’t mean to say that … Nothing has changed for me yet.’

  He sighed, then embraced her. ‘We have plenty of time.’

  She wriggled and giggled in his lap as his fingers traced over her skin, shifting against him until she felt him underneath her skirts. He pressed his lips against the back of her neck, his teeth grazing her skin, and she moaned.

  From this angle, she saw the papers on his desk. The words were a blur for a while, all black letters, slanted – financial figures that made no sense.

  ‘I am glad I have cheered you,’ she said, facing him once more. He was flushed, ready for action, but she only kissed his forehead. He sniffed, rearranged himself, and sobered when he knew there would be no passion just yet.

  ‘You looked so serious when I came in. Is everything all right?’

  He raked his fingers through his hair and came to his papers. ‘Yes.’

  ‘There are no … problems? With the house?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  She would try a different approach. She glanced over the desk. ‘I have never seen so many papers. I could never understand business as you do.’

  He held her hand. ‘You will never need to. You will never have to worry again.’

  ‘I would like to help, though, if I could, if only to be someone you can share your burdens with.’

  ‘In truth, there are no burdens.’ He gestured at the papers. ‘Everything is well. The land overseas is flourishing.’

  She stalled. ‘Overseas? I thought Wallingham was everything you owned.’

  ‘We have over a thousand acres in Ireland.’

  She swallowed, breathed in deep. She used the desk to steady herself, hoping it looked as if she was merely coming for a closer look at the papers. ‘How long have you had land over there?’

  He blew through his teeth. ‘A hundred years and more.’

  ‘What do you use it for?’

  ‘Farming. Mainly beef and sheep. The land is supposed to produce good-tasting meat.’

  She perched on the edge of the desk. ‘What is it like over there?’

  He shrugged. ‘Never been.’

  ‘You’ve never been to your own land?’

  A hardness came onto his features, his mouth set. He folded his arms across his chest. ‘Why should that matter?’

  ‘Because …’

  ‘Why should I visit that God-forsaken place?’

  The room moved around her. The heady scent of wisteria and climbing roses suddenly seemed too sickly, as if sugar was being poured into her nose. She was clammy from the closeness of the walls.

  ‘Are you well, Catherine?’

  ‘I am a little light-headed.’

  He came to her side and held her by the elbows. ‘Perhaps you should lie down.’

  ‘Yes. I think I will.’

  He kissed her cheek then called for Nelly. The girl appeared in an instant, and he handed Cat over to her. ‘Get well soon, my love.’
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  Chapter 15

  June 1852. Birmingham.

  The smell of the town blew in through the open window. The thin curtains curled and looked pretty in the white light of morning. The house was hushed. There was nothing sweeter than a Sunday morning when the world seemed to slow and catch its breath.

  Cat rested her head on John’s bare chest and played with the red hairs across his skin. Looking up, she noticed the stubble on his chin, too long. He would shave tonight, ready for work in the morning. How she loved watching him shave! He was always so gentle with the razor, so particular and neat as he gazed at himself in the cracked looking glass above the washstand.

  ‘You’re staring,’ he said, his lips barely moving.

  ‘Sorry.’ She snuggled into his chest again.

  It could be like this, she thought. It could be like this forever, just John and Cat.

  ‘I wish we could be married, John.’ It was a whisper, a breath.

  ‘You know I’ve not the money for it.’

  She sighed. Lots of people, who had not a penny to put together, were married. Did he think she needed a diamond ring? A posh do somewhere? She would have been happy getting married in a hedgerow.

  ‘You know we are married in my mind,’ he said. ‘I would not have anyone but you.’

  ‘I don’t need anything much, John–’

  ‘It should be enough what we have now. Why would you want to ruin this?’

  ‘I don’t.’ She gripped him tighter. ‘It is enough. But I want to be a wife, John, before God. I know my wages are little, but yours are … better. We could live just as we are now but as man and wife. I could keep this place for you, and I could raise our children.’

  The words lingered between them.

  ‘I’ve not the money.’

  ‘Not right now, but we could save. Your wages are triple mine.’

  ‘I don’t keep all of it.’

  Half of it he sent to his brothers, he had already told her, several times.

  ‘Why don’t they just come over here for now? What’s the rush with America?’

  He stiffened underneath her, then raised himself. She slid away from him. ‘I’ve told you. I’m not bringing them to this shithole.’