‘Just for a while. Not forever.’
‘I said no. It’s my money, and I’ll do what I like with it.’
‘But what about us, John? What about me?’ She heard herself whining and wished she could stop herself, but lately, her passions were uncontrollable – moments of ecstasy followed by a deep, crushing sadness. She felt rages burning inside her, spewing out of her mouth when she least expected it. ‘Why would they want you to live like this and be unhappy? Why can’t they just come here and work themselves?’
The bed rocked, her body tipped, and suddenly John was on top of her, his hand tight around her throat. His fingers dug into her flesh until the pulse in her head felt as if it would burst through her skin.
‘You will not talk about my family like that.’
She gasped for air, her lungs burning, and pulled on his arm until he broke away from her. She rolled onto her side, feeling the soreness of her throat, and gulped the air. Black dots sparked in her vision. The breeze from the window clawed against the sweat on her back, rancid and sticky.
She heard John walk across the room, the clink of a bottle against a cup, liquid pouring into a glass. She flinched when he touched her shoulder.
‘Have this,’ he said, gentle again, holding the glass before her.
She rolled back and pushed herself up the bed. The glass shook as she held it, the gin sloshing at the bottom of it. Hot tears pricked the corners of her eyes, but she brushed them away discreetly as John sat on the edge of the bed. The gin scorched her throat as it slid inside her.
‘Sorry.’ He stretched out his fingers, then clamped them between his legs. ‘I shouldn’t have. It’s just … my family, you know?’
‘I shouldn’t have said anything,’ she whispered. Her throat hurt too much to speak properly.
‘I want a better life for them Cat. There’s nothing but smog and poverty here. I want us all to be free.’
A tear ran down his cheek and dripped onto his trouser leg. She crawled over to him and wrapped her arms around him, no longer feeling her own pain.
‘We need more money.’
‘What can I do?’ she said against his scalp.
He shook his head.
‘I’m on so few hours.’ She silently cursed Mr Criton for ruining her life yet again. ‘Look, why don’t I just move in with you here? I wouldn’t have to pay for my room then. I could give that money to you.’
‘No. People would say things.’
‘I don’t care.’
‘You do.’ He met her gaze. He was right, of course. No matter how much she loved him, she kept him a secret from everyone. She did not want to be known as that sort of woman.
‘And I won’t take it from you anyway.’
She turned his face towards her and kissed him. ‘I would give you anything, John. I would give you everything I had.’
He smiled – she was forgiven for her earlier selfishness.
‘I know you would.’
Chapter 16
June 1854. Wallingham Hall.
Osborne bit into a strawberry. Sweetness burst onto his tongue, the pips sticking in his teeth. It reminded him of his summers as a boy. The first strawberry of the season had always been his mother’s favourite. He remembered how his fingers would be stained scarlet as he and his mother filled their baskets and gobbled all of the fruit before it had time to get to the kitchens.
He smiled at his memories as he gazed at the sky outside – bright red, like the strawberry. Dusk was only just upon them, and it would be a while before the sky was black enough to see the stars. Summer was always his favourite season.
Catherine did not seem to share his jovial mood. A strawberry sat on her plate, but she made no move to eat it. She looked pale, and the skin around her eyes was darker than usual. She had been quiet too; his questions had been met with one-word replies. Perhaps her head still ached from this afternoon?
‘Are you still pained, my love?’
She raised her eyes to him, and it took her a while to reply. ‘A little.’
‘Have you asked Cook for anything? That woman knows all about which herbs do what. Perhaps she could make you tea or something?’
‘What happened in Ireland?’
The question caught him off guard. Why on earth should she be bringing up Ireland now? He dropped the green stem of the strawberry onto his plate and sipped his wine. His mouth cringed against the tannin.
‘What do you mean?’
‘What happened during the famine? On your lands?’
He would not think about it, not tonight, not with the sweetness of the strawberry still lingering on his tongue. He would not mar another happy memory.
‘I don’t know much about it.’
‘So many people starved to death,’ she said.
‘The papers exaggerate these things, my dear.’
‘Why would they?’
‘To make us all feel sorry for them. To stir the country into a frenzy. To cause chaos.’
‘Are you saying there never was a famine?’
He cleared his throat and smiled. He could not blame her for her ignorance. ‘Let’s not talk about this, eh? It’s all over now, anyway.’
She nodded and picked the leaves off her strawberry. In the silence, all he heard was the ripping and tearing …
‘Did your tenants die, Osborne?’
He picked up his glass. He would not think about the tenants, the Irish. Scum. ‘People die all the time, Catherine.’
‘Not like that.’ The paleness had faded from her cheeks. Suddenly, she was ferocious. ‘Did you throw them out of their homes?’
‘It was their own fault. What would your landlord have done if you’d not paid the rent? You would have been thrown out too, and sooner, I dare say, than what my father allowed those tenants. He had months of nothing from them.’
‘They were starving.’
He clicked his fingers, and Dixon emerged. ‘Port.’ Dixon disappeared behind his screen and returned with a glass of blood-red liquid.
Osborne gulped it down and gestured for another. He needed to control himself. If Catherine did not have the decorum required for the dinner table, then he must. This kind of scene would never have happened if he had married a lady, and he cursed himself for his folly whilst, at the same time, he accepted that he had chosen this type of woman – he must endure her volatile emotions.
‘Catherine, I know you think you understand it, but how can you? Please trust me when I say that everything my father did was out of necessity.’
She sneered, and the sight of her face rendered so mean and ugly, mocking him, belittling him, made his fists clench.
He slammed his glass on the table. The port spilt over the side and stained the white tablecloth. ‘Are you implying that my father was unfair? That he was cruel?’
She dropped her eyes to her lap, his anger weakening her resolve.
‘My father was a good man, and all he got for it was ingratitude! It was them who let him down, Catherine. In the hour of need, he was over there, doing his best, trying to save his family. Those … people couldn’t see a good man when he stood before them. It was them who were cruel and unfair, Catherine. It was them who shot him!’
He found himself standing, his fists gripping the edge of the table. All of it had poured out of him, whether he had wanted it to or not. Even Catherine had whitened, scared from his outburst.
His hand shook as he smoothed his hair, regaining his composure.
‘I am sorry, Osborne,’ she whispered.
His legs were stiff as he tried to sit. He dragged in his chair and drank what remained of his port.
‘I don’t know why you try to defend them.’ His voice was low again now, controlled, although it was rough after shouting. ‘You could surely see their depraved nature in Jonathan Murphy?’
‘Yes. Yes, you are right.’
The ugliness had vanished; now, she looked small and shamed, her head low, her eyes wet. He reached for her hand, thought
how cold it was through the glove, and kissed her fingers.
‘Forgive me,’ she whispered. ‘I won’t bring it up again.’
The morning was dull and sticky. She longed to wash the night away from her, the tangled wet sheets, the sounds of gunfire and weeping and broken glass. She opened the window wide when Nelly came with her wash things, searching for a breeze but finding none.
‘Feeling better this morning, ma’am?’ Nelly helped soak her feet and ankles.
‘Thank you, Nelly. Still a little sickly.’
‘Hope you haven’t caught anything, ma’am, no French cold or anything else foreign.’
She was not in the mood for talking, least of all with Nelly. She longed for her sisters, precisely as she had seen them all those years ago. To smell them, to feel the softness of their skin, to play with and plait their hair. She was alone here. She was Catherine, not Cat. Mrs Tomkins, not sister. She was a different person. Which was what she had wanted, she reminded herself, but she couldn't shake off all of her past.
Refreshed and in clean clothes, she sought out Osborne in his room. Osborne smiled when she entered, and it was as if the night before had never existed. The tension in her stomach eased as he kissed her.
‘What are you doing today, my love?’ he said, fastening his buttons in front of the mirror.
She shook her head. What she always did now, she supposed; sit, sew, walk the grounds with the dogs. She had never been so idle. ‘I thought I might write a letter.’
‘To who?’
‘My sisters.’
‘Ah.’ He nodded and straightened the collar of his shirt.
‘I thought,’ she walked towards him and helped him with his waistcoat, ‘they could come here?’
‘We have no need for further staff.’
Speechless, she watched him in the looking glass as he fastened his waistcoat, wondering if he was jesting.
‘I do not mean as staff, Osborne. I mean to live here as my sisters.’
‘Oh.’ He pointed to the jacket hanging on the wardrobe and Cat fetched it for him. ‘I shall see if there are any cottages free.’
She stood before him and made him look at her. ‘Osborne, I want them here, in this house, with me, with us, as a family. There is space for them.’
‘Yes, but … Well, we are newly married.’ He held her neck between his hands. ‘I do not want your sisters interrupting us when we …’
‘Why would they interrupt us?’ she sniped. She wanted nothing less than to feel his lips on her skin at this moment. ‘I do not plan to have them in my room. They will have their own.’
He stepped away from her so he could see his reflection again. ‘I will think about it.’
She checked herself before she argued further. She couldn’t afford another row after last night. If Osborne said he would think about it, she would have to pray that he came to the right conclusion.
Strolling to his washstand, he dipped his fingers in the water, slathered them with soap, rinsed them off, dried them on a towel, then repeated the actions again. She had seen him do this before; he did it any time he planned to leave the house.
‘Are you going somewhere?’
‘To town.’
‘Birmingham?’
He laughed. ‘Yes, Birmingham. Do not fret; I am not taking you with me.’
‘Why are you going there?’
‘To see Mr Brent and get everything sorted out. I have been so occupied with my new wife that I have failed to get things straight.’
‘What things?’
After the third time of washing his hands, he folded the towel back into place. ‘For you, for the future. If anything was to happen … What kind of a husband would I be otherwise?’ He turned to her and stared at her stomach. ‘What kind of a father?’
She dropped her eyes. ‘I am not–’
‘Not yet.’
‘And what do you mean – if anything was to happen to you? You are well, aren’t you?’
He kissed her cheek. ‘Perfectly, but no one’s future is guaranteed. Now,’ he patted her arms, ‘I must hurry else I will never get there.’ He marched from the room.
She trotted behind him and followed him outside. The horse and carriage were already waiting.
‘How long will you be gone?’
‘I shall be back in the morning.’
‘A whole night!’
He chuckled and tickled her chin. ‘Will you manage without me?’
She cleared her throat, nodded. ‘I’ll miss you.’
‘And I you.’ He opened the carriage door, then gasped as if a thought had suddenly just struck him. ‘I could have a tour of town while I’m there. See your old parts.’
She grabbed his jacket. ‘No.’
‘I could go to Bronson’s and tell them your good news. I would love to see their faces.’
‘No!’ She wished she could slap the laughter out of him. ‘Please, Osborne, I beg you.’
‘I would like to see your past.’
‘You will not love me if you do.’
‘I will always love you, Catherine.’ He kissed her slowly. ‘You have stolen my heart completely.’
‘Promise me you will not go,’ she whispered.
‘Fine. I promise.’
A pink tea set with gilded edges sat on a silver tray on an iron table. The afternoon had brightened, and an umbrella was needed to shade the ladies as they sat in the vicarage garden surrounded by fat, scented roses. Somewhere in the house behind them, Mr Turner was reciting his service for the coming Sunday, and Ruth’s maid was scrubbing and humming in the scullery.
‘He does things like this sometimes,’ Ruth said, holding her cup and saucer above her chest. ‘Goes off. There is nothing to worry about.’
But of course, Cat was worried. She would not be here if she weren’t. She would not be trying to reassure herself that her past was indeed behind her by taking tea with the vicar’s wife – to show that she was finally accepted by those who mattered in Osborne’s life – if there was not something niggling at the back of her mind. Something dark and forboding.
‘It’s just … Birmingham!’
‘I know you have ill memories of the place.’ Ruth did not need to say more.
A bumblebee floated past them, dozily, and landed on a flower head beside Cat. She watched its long tongue, as sharp and delicate as a needle, probe at the heart of the flower.
‘Would you tell me some of Osborne’s past? Sometimes I find him as closed as a book, and I do not want to upset him by asking about his father.’
Ruth placed her saucer on the table. ‘It is a sore subject.’
Cat nodded, wincing at the memory of the argument the previous night.
Ruth smoothed her skirts and glanced over her shoulder at the window behind. ‘I shouldn’t talk without his–’
‘Please.’ Cat grabbed her hand, then dropped it quickly as she saw the shock on Ruth’s face. ‘I know his father was shot. I know Osborne is traumatised by it. But I feel like part of him is missing to me. Perhaps, if I understood that part, I might be a better wife to him?’
Again, Ruth checked over her shoulder, then, seeing that all was clear, leaned closer to Cat and talked in hushed tones.
‘Osborne idolised his father. He was only a boy when his mother died, you see. Eight? Nine years old?’ She frowned at herself. ‘I forget exactly, but he was just a child.
‘Theodore doted on him – too much, some said. After his wife’s death, he wrapped Osborne up in that house and never let him do a thing. He was too scared he would lose him as well. His wife, you see, died of typhus, and he was terrified that Osborne might catch something too. I suppose Osborne was all he had left of her.’
She shook her head and stared at her roses. ‘Boys need to be able to grow, to go out on adventures, to get mud on their boots. It was an … odd childhood. Osborne had only his father for a friend. And Theodore … well, he had these moods sometimes. Dark moods. For months on end. Osborne would have no one
but his dogs and his tutor.’ She sighed. ‘It was only when Osborne left for university that he met other boys like him and learnt the way of the world. But he had to come back eventually.’
She finished her drink. ‘More tea?’ Ruth filled their cups.
‘Anyway, they fell back into their old ways together, though I understand Osborne had more of a hand in running the estate. There was even talk of finding Osborne a wife. Theodore loved children; he yearned for a grandchild to make the house happy again.’
‘Was there ever anyone serious?’
‘Not really. The girls adored Osborne – who wouldn’t? But it was like he could only ever love one person at a time, and that was his father. After what happened … I’ve never known a grown man cry like that. He was angry too – no one could get near him. He shut the house for a while, locked himself alone in there for weeks. When he let everyone in again, he’d–’ She stopped herself quickly and buried her nose in her cup. She drank slowly. ‘I shouldn’t be telling you all this.’
‘Please. I would know my husband.’
Carefully, Ruth replaced her cup in its saucer. She fiddled with the china handle, flicking her nail against it until she began again.
‘The doctor was called, and it was sorted. In a few months, Osborne was more himself. But so terribly sad! He blamed himself, you see, he felt he should have gone over there instead of his father. He came here once and cried on my knee,’ she patted her skirts, ‘and said he should have saved him.’
She glanced at Cat uneasily. ‘That’s why he saved you. He just wants to save people.’
Cat swallowed. ‘That was why he killed Jonathon Murphy?’
Ruth’s face hardened. ‘How do you mean?’
‘Because the man was Irish. He hates the Irish for what they did to his father.’
Ruth rolled her eyes skyward. ‘Osborne shot that creature because he was trying to drown you, Catherine. That the man just so happened to be Irish was an unfortunate coincidence. Anyway, can you blame Osborne for such feelings? Wouldn’t you hate the people who had killed the only person you loved?’
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