The mist was thick enough now to shield her from the sights around her, though she could hear them; the grunts of men taking their pleasures in dark corners. John pushed her forwards, past other girls who waited and glared at her as she walked by.
‘Stand here.’
To her left, there was nothing but silence and the black shadow of a low bridge. To her right, women and men and noise. Behind her, the stab of brambles and thin trees. In front, the water.
He kissed her cheek. She longed to hold his face to hers, his lips to hers, but she let him pull back.
‘I’ll be watching,’ he whispered, adjusting her clothes, opening her shawl and exposing her to the cold.
‘John, I don’t know if I can.’
‘Of course, you can.’ He dragged a lock of hair over her shoulder and smiled. ‘Remember to take them to the bridge.’ Another kiss, and before she could stop him, he was gone.
She closed her eyes and inhaled. She would be sick if she did not calm herself. She dug her fingernails into her arms and focused on the pain, only on the pain, nothing else, until the world around her disappeared and there was nothing but the blissful crushing and pinching of her skin.
Footsteps. She tore her fingernails away with a gasp and watched the fog spit out a man. She dropped her gaze as he strolled towards her and stopped to look, then walked on.
She let out the breath she had been holding. Her legs shook, her head spun, and she doubled over and vomited into the cut. She felt better for it, though the gin stung just as much coming up as it had going down. She straightened herself, her head clearer, her stomach settled, and waited again.
It was not long before another man came, and this time he did not walk away.
‘How much?’
She said what John had told her to say.
The man laughed, and she saw the coal smears across his cheeks, the dirtiness of his skin. It was impossible to tell whether his features were handsome, if he was old or young, if he seemed kind or not. His voice, though, was scratchy, as if he spent most of his time shouting.
‘I’m clean. First time.’
He stopped laughing. He pressed cold coins into her hand, then gripped her shoulder and clutched her skirt.
‘Wait,’ she wriggled away from him. ‘Under the bridge. I would be dry.’
He huffed but did not argue as she took his hand and led him under the bridge. His heavy breathing echoed around them. He pulled her to halt and pushed her against the stonework. It was an awkward position – her head pressed against the wall so that her neck was bent forward.
The man’s hands rubbed over her body. His face came into hers, sniffing her skin. His beard scratched against her chest.
‘First time?’ he grunted, face buried in her bodice as he pulled up her skirts.
She grunted back at him, unable to speak. Cold wrapped its fingers around her calves and tickled her thighs. Her skirts did not take much getting up, for John had told her to wear only one petticoat over her slip – easier to deal with. How would he know, she suddenly thought? And why hadn’t she asked that question at the time?
She shook her head – she would not think about John with other women, not now, when her skirt was edging up her thighs.
Blood burned her face as her arse felt the chill of the night air. She turned her head away from the man, squeezed her eyes shut, and began to recite the Lord’s prayer.
‘Be quiet.’
The man kicked her feet apart. She heard the ruffle of his clothes – his breeches being lowered – as he shuffled against her, until something wet and hard touched her.
She jerked backwards, but she had nowhere to go.
‘Stay still,’ he said, shoving her shoulder into the wall. ‘Christ!’
‘I haven’t …’
What was the use in trying to explain? How could she tell him she hadn’t done it standing before? She hadn’t even thought of how it might be possible, and now, with him fumbling about, she realised that it wasn’t. She would be torn in two if it continued. Panic squeezed her throat.
Then, he spun her. He gripped her hips, pulled her backside against him, and pushed her head down. Off-balance, her hands slapped into the muck on the floor, but he held her tight. His fingers clawed into thighs, and she felt his hardness come between her legs, its aim better.
She held her breath as she gazed at the dirt on her hands and waited for the rip …
Then the muck met her face. She smashed into the ground as the man’s grip vanished. A foot stepped on her calf, and she cried out with the pain.
A slap of bone on stone echoed behind her. She forced herself onto her hands and knees and crawled through the dirt, pulling her skirts down as she went. A few feet away from the commotion, she caught her breath and turned to see her punter cowering below another man, their silhouettes black against the white of the fog. Something glinted and caught her eye – the shine of a knife against the punter’s throat.
‘Give it,’ the attacker growled, holding out his other hand.
She struggled to her feet. She needed to get past the attacker to get back to John. Where was he? He should have been watching. She edged forward, hoping she could sneak past them.
She made a run for it, but the attacker was quick. He lunged for her, his palm smacking into her throat, and threw her against the bridge.
‘Give it,’ the attacker said again, one hand holding the knife at the punter, the other keeping her in place.
There was a rattling of coins as the punter held out his money. The attacker snatched them and kicked the man in the groin. The punter coiled inwards, groaning in agony.
‘Go.’ The attacker kicked the man again, urging him to his feet. The punter scrambled away and glanced back at Cat.
‘Help me,’ she mouthed to him, but he was soon lost in the fog.
The knife now pressed against her lips.
‘Please,’ she whispered, straining her head away from the masked man. ‘Please, I’ll do what you want.’
His body crushed against her as his hand slid from her neck, over her collarbones, and gripped her breast. She closed her eyes as the hand continued to slide down and found her purse and the coins within.
Then, hot lips kissed her, and a familiar chuckle rumbled against her ear.
Her legs buckled.
‘Eh, quiet now. Hush,’ John said, catching her just in time before she crashed into the floor.
‘What … Why did you …’ She pounded his chest, but she was so weak with terror that her fists made no impact. ‘I didn’t know it was you!’
Her anger dissolved into tears. She sobbed against his jacket, exhausted. How long the day had been! Those last few minutes had been the longest of her life. She wanted to go home, to scrub herself clean of muck and sin, to wrap herself in a soft blanket and lie on her bed until sleep allowed her to forget everything.
‘Why would you …?’
‘Had to look convincing, for your sake.’
She frowned at him.
‘I told you I wouldn’t let anybody hurt you.’
‘You planned this?’
For an instant, his confidence wavered. She recalled the horror, the terror of it all. She had been so sure the knife would slit her mouth open; slit all of her open.
‘How could you?’
‘This is better, Cat. You don’t have to fuck them. But you’ve got to be convincing.’
‘I can’t, John.’
He grabbed her face and made her look at him. Once more, his eyes shone. There was a buzz emanating from him; he was alive more than she’d ever seen him before.
‘You can do this, Cat. Look.’ He showed her the man’s coins. ‘That’s over half of what you earn in a week when you’re working at Bronson’s.’
‘It’s bad money.’
‘Money’s money.’
‘I … I’m all,’ she gestured at the state of herself, hoping he would understand that however dirty she was on the outside, she felt filthier on the inside.
‘We’ll get you cleaned up soon.’
She sighed and rested her forehead against his. ‘I just want to sleep.’
‘I know.’ He kissed her. ‘Only a few more.’
‘What?’
She backed away from him, unable to believe what he was trying to make her do. He closed the space between them until his eyeballs were only inches away from hers, hard and determined.
‘You said you’d do anything to help, Cat. You said that, not me.’
‘I know, but–’
‘And did you get hurt? Did you really get hurt tonight?’
She shook her head.
‘No, because I saved you. I’ll always save you.’ He kissed her again, impatiently. ‘Come on.’
Chapter 19
June 1854. Wallingham Hall.
She saw him coming from her bedroom window. Cat had been waiting, arms resting on the sill, forehead pressed to the glass, all afternoon. The sun was still fierce even now, though dinner was not far away, and it shone upon him as he dismounted his carriage. He walked towards the front door, his feet scraping over the gravel as if he did not have the energy to pick them up.
She called for Nelly to dress her; she would look her best tonight. But by the time dinner came, her stomach, cinched tight in her corset, felt too sick for food. The bannister slid beneath her gloved hand unsteadily, her shoes tapped on the wooden stairs too loudly, and she met Osborne in the dining room with a nervousness she couldn’t fully comprehend. He stood to greet her, placing a cold kiss on her cheek, never quite managing to meet her gaze.
‘How was your journey?’ she said once the wine and the first course had been placed on the table.
‘Fine, thank you.’
‘Your room was comfortable last night?’
‘Yes.’
Another course came and went. Cat wished the stupid fire had not been lit – why on earth did Osborne insist on a fire in the height of summer, even if it did only burn low? Her new dress, of pale white cotton trimmed with pink silk satin, which Osborne had failed to notice, clung to her hot, damp skin. She wafted her napkin before her face.
‘And your meeting with Mr Brent?’
‘Everything is sorted.’
She eased back and forced her hands to stop fiddling with the edge of the tablecloth. ‘That is good.’
She was not a fool. Her husband had returned a different man. His gaze had not left his plate, the sweat had grown on his forehead and had not once been wiped away, his glasses of wine had been refilled more often than usual.
‘Is something wrong, Osborne?’
He shook his head slightly.
She pushed out her chair, unable to bear it, and stalked to the window. ‘It is that town. It does no one any good at all.’
‘You are right there.’
She whirled around to face him. His lips had grown hard and flat.
‘Well, I too, am feeling a little unwell. If you will excuse me, I will retire to my room for the night.’ She bobbed her head, as if she was his maid, and made for the door.
In the great hall, she gulped in the cooler air. Her head felt as if it hovered a foot above her neck. She gripped the wall as she staggered for the staircase.
He did not love her anymore. That place had turned him against her, as she had warned him it would.
She was at the top of the stairs when she heard rapid footsteps below, running up towards her. She scurried down the corridor towards her chamber door, turning to see Osborne gaining on her, face furious, fists clenched by his sides. She clutched her door handle just as he grabbed her. He pushed her back against the wall.
‘I have missed you,’ he said, but there was no gentleness in his words. His fingers dug into the tops of her arms as he kissed her. Her head banged against the wall as his mouth drove into her, parting her lips, opening them for his tongue.
She shoved him away and wiped his spit from her mouth. He recoiled, back turned to her, as his breath blew out of him in a long hiss.
‘Sorry, Osborne,’ she said, forcing her words to be steady, for her voice to resemble normality. ‘I am not well, my head … I would prefer to sleep tonight.’
She saw his shoulders shake before he sniggered. ‘Did you say that to the other men who have known you?’
The wall came behind her again; the air punched out of her lungs.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Do you think me a fool? That I would not find out?’
‘You promised me …’ she said meekly.
‘I am a grown man!’ He turned to her. ‘I go where I desire. Not that I can say I had any desire to be in such a rat’s nest as Able Street.’
He inched closer. Cat cringed away from him, but she had nowhere to hide.
‘How did you find it?’
‘I will know the woman I married, whether you wish it or not – whether I wish it or not. A whore!’
She flinched. For the first time, she was aware of the size of him. Almost two heads taller than her, his shoulders broad and deep, the bones of his face cut large and angular. He could kill her with a single strike to the head.
‘Please do not say such a thing.’ Tears scored down her cheeks. ‘I am different now. I am re-born, remember? Like we said before.’
His palm slammed into the wall beside her face. She felt the vibrations in her back.
‘How do I know?’
She fell to her knees before him and grabbed his hands. ‘You knew what I was before you married me.’
He tried to prise himself away, but she held him fast.
‘Please, Osborne. Please believe me that I never meant you any harm, any deception. I had hoped you had taken me knowing the truth, and it will kill me if you now think me a liar.’
‘Get up, Catherine,’ he hissed. She remained at his feet.
‘I am ashamed of my past, Osborne. Ashamed! I hoped you would never have to see it. I told you, remember? I told you that you would not love me if you went there.’
She sniffed and glanced at him. His eyes were closed, his brows knitted together painfully.
‘It was John who made me do those things, Osborne. Anything for money. My soul for drinking money. And I was so stupid! But I was scared, Osborne. I was scared that if I did not go to it willingly that he would make it happen anyway, and it would be worse for me. Do you see? Do you see that I had no choice?’
His grip was beginning to soften in her hands. She kissed them, wetting them with her tears.
‘I had no choice, Osborne, I swear it!’
‘Stand up, Catherine.’ His voice had lost its edge. Tiredness made his words gentle as he pulled her to her feet. When she rested her head against his chest, he did not push her away, so she clung to him. She clung to him, for her life depended on it.
‘For years, I thought I was bound for hell. When I was in the water, when John was holding me down, I thought I was going to die, and I knew that the devil would take me. I could feel the fire, you know, before you saved me. I could feel it around my body. And then you came.’ She kissed his chest. ‘I did not deserve you.’
He remained tense beneath her.
‘I prayed, and I still pray now, every day, for the forgiveness of my sins. Still, I am not sure if I have it. Mr Turner says that my soul is clean, but I am uncertain. If you cannot forgive me, Osborne, if you can no longer love me, then I will be lost.’ A howl broke from her, and she shook with fear. She could not lose everything now when she had come so far.
Osborne lifted her face to his. His dark eyes were glassy, and there was a smear of mucus on his top lip. ‘Of course, I love you, Catherine.’
‘I will die if you do not. Please do not abandon me!’
Osborne pulled her closer and rocked her from side to side.
‘Never.’ He kissed the top of her head. ‘I have been a fool. I have listened to poisoned tongues.’
She swallowed. ‘Whose?’
‘It does not matter now. Come on.’ He opened her door, guided her
inside, and sat her on the bed. He wiped her cheeks with his handkerchief.
‘I am sorry for what that man did to you–’
She put her finger over his lips. ‘I don’t want to think about him.’ She kissed Osborne’s cheek and squeezed the image of John out of her mind. ‘I don’t want to think about him ever again.’
Chapter 20
March 1853. Birmingham.
A curl of cold wind trickled through the shoddy windowpanes. The looking glass, old and greened at the edges, reflected a pale face haloed with golden hair, a strand of it tickling a perfectly straight nose as it caught in the breeze. She smoothed the hair into place with some spit, pinched the blood into her cheeks, then waited on her bed.
Her room was almost bare now. Most of her things were at John’s. It had happened accidentally; one thing forgotten on the table, another left between the sheets, until shawls and combs and stockings remained in his room, turning her place into nothing but a shell. And she liked it like that. Slowly, she would migrate to John’s room forever, whether he wanted it or not.
She rose from her bed and glanced outside. It was almost time – dusk had faded to blackness. Able Street was alive now more than any other time, the shadows dancing in the darkness, hiding from the gloom of the gaslights. She wrapped her shawl around her shoulders and paced the floorboards, waiting for John to arrive and lead her to the cut.
Three knocks on the door. She opened it with a smile and found John smiling too, wider than usual. She stepped forward, ready to leave, but he stopped her, checking over his shoulder before moving her inside and making her sit on the bed. He threw off her shawl, tugged her bodice loose, and pinched her cheeks hard.
‘Come on!’ he whispered, his breath tasting of stale beer, ‘make yourself up.’
He took three giant steps around the room, stuffing old petticoats into the set of drawers and shoving old bottles under the bed as he went. He was tidying!
‘What you playing at?’
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