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Convenient Women Collection

Page 54

by Delphine Woods


  He turned towards her, wild, his breath feverish, then marched from the room. She watched him go and saw the crack of light from Ruby’s door across the landing. The girl would be spying; if there was one thing that could be as valuable as a fuck, it was information.

  John returned in an instant, gripping a man by the shoulders – not a man, a boy. Her tallowlight barely reached him, but John pushed him inside so that she could see the length and thinness of his limbs as if childhood was struggling to hold onto him. The boy’s gaze fixed on his feet.

  ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘A friend.’ John slapped the boy on the back. The boy stumbled, his cheeks flaring as he glanced up at Cat.

  ‘Why is he here?’

  A flicker of anger swept over John’s face. ‘Because he needs the love of a good woman, eh?’

  He smiled at the boy and nudged him in the ribs. The boy nodded.

  ‘He needs a girl with a good heart to take care of him for the night.’

  Cat held onto the edge of the bed. John pushed the boy beside her, and she felt the mattress dip slightly from the boy’s weight. Still, the child did not look at her.

  ‘I’ll be back in a few hours if you can last that long.’ He patted the boy’s thigh and laughed, winked at Cat, then skipped from the room, closing the door behind him. They listened to his footsteps trip down the stairs. The boy looked as abandoned as she felt.

  In the silence, she took the time to study his face. His cheeks were smooth – never seen a razor. The light showed the fuzziness on his top lip, a few sprouting, blonde hairs on his chin. His skin was milky and clean; he was not a boy raised in this part of town.

  His eyes twitched to take in his surroundings. He was stiff, uncomfortable, unused to such a state of poverty. She supposed that was the whole point – he would have a full wallet.

  ‘What’s your name?’ she said, turning towards him a little.

  ‘Matthew.’

  ‘How d’you do, Matthew. I’m Catherine.’

  ‘Catherine,’ he breathed as if testing it on his tongue. ‘That’s a nice name.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She took his hand and felt the cold sweat on his palm. He tried to pull it back to him, but she kept hold of it.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said.

  ‘What for?’

  The boy shrugged.

  ‘You’ve nothing to apologise for.’

  ‘It’s my … they’re all expecting …’ His gaze rose towards the window. His eyes were dark blue, the rim of them thick black. Beautiful – eyes which would break hearts someday.

  ‘Are they waiting for you?’

  He frowned. ‘In a beerhouse somewhere, most likely.’

  His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down in his throat. She brushed her fingers over his forehead to straighten out the creases. ‘A handsome man like you should not frown.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  She laughed and, for the first time, he met her gaze, and his lips tilted upwards.

  ‘You must stop apologising,’ she said.

  ‘I …’ he licked his lips. They too were pretty; full and red. ‘I don’t know if I can do this.’

  Neither did she, in truth. She cursed John for bringing this child to her. It was one thing to rob old blokes by the cut, the ones who had hard hands and mean eyes, but to do it to an innocent like Matthew? A boy no more than fifteen or sixteen years of age – this sweet boy with a pretty face – it was just cruel.

  She kissed him, trying to ease his nerves and her conscience. His lips were unresponsive for a moment, and then they moved softly against hers. When her hand came upon his knee, he gasped.

  ‘What is wrong? Do you not think me pretty?’

  ‘Oh, no! I mean, yes, I do, I do think you are very pretty. I think you are the prettiest girl I have ever seen.’

  She smiled and pressed her forehead against his.

  She would do this for John. She would do this for their future. Cynically, she told herself that at least the boy would learn never to trust so easily again.

  Her hand, still on his knee, slid upwards. He squirmed.

  ‘Hush now,’ she said, her kisses moving down onto his neck. ‘I will take good care of you.’

  She studied the patch of damp on the ceiling above her. It was growing. She could feel it on her lungs, stifling her breath. The ceiling would be ruined by next winter.

  Her fingers twirled the boy’s lock of soft hair. She felt the gentle rush of his breath against her breasts as his head rested on her chest. He was sleeping, worn out.

  Between her legs, wetness dribbled out of her. It had only been John’s before, and now … now she really was what she said she never would be. How often had Ruby laid like this with a stranger on her naked flesh, watching the damp swell above her, hearing the sounds of Able Street below her? If the boy had not weighed her down, Cat would have vomited into her piss pot.

  The door creaked open. John peeped his head around and smiled at what he saw. She could not look at him. She nudged the boy’s shoulder until he stirred and frowned at her, dreams still in his eyes.

  ‘Matthew, it’s time to go home now.’

  He rose and rubbed crusts of sleep away.

  ‘Good night?’

  Matthew jumped; he had not been aware of John. He shielded his nakedness with his hands and scurried to retrieve his clothes, which lay in heaps on the floor. Once he was dressed, he turned to Cat, a scared little boy again.

  ‘Thank you, miss.’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ she said, trying to smile for the boy so he would know he’d done well.

  He stumbled towards the door and straight into John’s hand. ‘Ah, yes, sorry. Sorry.’

  She heard the rattle of money, then the rush of metal over leather as the coins dropped into John’s hand.

  ‘Good lad.’ John patted his shoulder and showed him out, watching him down the stairs.

  ‘You should see him through the street, John. They’ll eat him alive out there this time of night.’

  John laughed.

  ‘I mean it. They’ll have his pocket.’

  ‘They can have it.’ John shut the door and slumped onto the bed. ‘There’s nothing in it.’

  He showed her his full hand. She rolled away from him to find her slip.

  ‘Don’t you want to know how much?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Fine.’ He put the coins in his pocket.

  She grabbed one of her old petticoats and wiped the wetness off her legs, then stood in the centre of the room, her back to John. She wished he wasn’t here. She wanted this time to herself. The cold air made her skin shiver, and she was sick with tiredness. She closed her eyes, and the sounds and smells disappeared. She felt the ground beneath her feet sway as if the earth was rocking her.

  She longed not for John’s touch, but for the taste of the medicine, bitter and sharp. She yearned to escape these thoughts that swarmed her mind and to feel nothing, absolutely nothing. She craved the black abyss.

  John took her by the waist and brought her to sit on the bed beside him.

  ‘You didn’t come.’ she said.

  He waited before he spoke. ‘No.’

  ‘This is it, now, is it? What you want me to do.’

  He coughed, sniffed. ‘You’re in the warm.’

  To call her room in the attic warm, where the wind and the rain came through the cracks in the brickwork and windowpanes, was a stretch.

  ‘Better money this way. Better people.’

  She didn’t understand why anyone, man or boy, rich or poor, would want to come here for a fuck. At least by the cut, there was an air of mystery, and the darkness made no pretence necessary, by anyone.

  ‘He was fine, though, wasn’t he, that boy? No harm done?’

  She shook her head. Matthew … his body only just beginning to harden into a man. A child. Gentle. Pliable. She felt she held some part of him inside her, a pearl of him, the very last part of him that had been pure; she had stolen it from him, as John had sto
len hers.

  John stroked her cheek. ‘You should sleep now, Cat.’ He moved her under the blankets and pulled them up to her chin.

  ‘No more tonight?’

  He shook his head. ‘Sleep. We need you pretty and clean.’

  Her gaze wandered to the damp above her. It was blacker now, the heart of it looking as if it would fall through any moment. She couldn’t take her eyes off it.

  ‘Sleep.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Close your eyes …’

  But she couldn’t. The black was growing. She felt a drip on her forehead and flinched. The water would be brown and stagnant, filled with dust and spiderwebs. It would fall on her as she slept, and it would fill her mouth. It would roll around her teeth, and she would suck it into her lungs, and only when the water had choked her would she wake, and it would be too late.

  ‘Cat?’

  There was water on her face. She wiped it off her temples, feeling the warmth of it on her hand. She jumped out of bed, ran for the drawers, and tugged the bottom one open. She flicked off the bottle’s stopper and drank. She gulped it down as the water dried on her skin, and finally, her legs ceased quivering.

  John snatched the bottle from her. ‘What’s that?’ He read the label. ‘Why are you taking this?’

  It had done its work. Warmth tingled in her stomach as if someone was holding hot coals against her. Her breath came easier as she slipped into bed. Her eyelids drooped as the heat trickled through her veins deliciously. She smiled at the damp above her, the blackness now fading to a grey-brown, the ceiling sturdier than before.

  ‘Cat?’

  ‘So I can sleep. And forget.’

  John came beside her. His cold, woollen clothes pressed against her hot skin and his head rested beside hers on the pillow.

  ‘You staying here?’

  ‘Of course.’ His lips touched her cheek, and she reached for his arm beneath the covers. She held onto it, hugging it to her, its weight anchoring her to him.

  ‘I love you, John.’

  ‘I know.’

  Chapter 21

  September 1854. Wallingham Hall.

  Nelly’s hair was like her mother’s used to be; coarse, lined with ridges, short strands poking out all over the place. Cat ran her fingers through it, tugging out the knots, watching Nelly’s head nod backwards as if she was on the edge of sleep.

  She began to plait it like she used to do with her sisters’ hair. The familiar action comforted her. She weaved the sections together, concentrating on the rhythm, the distraction, then let it spring back into its unruly mess.

  She patted the girl’s shoulders. Nelly stood, twisted her hair into a bun, covered it with her cap, then started to work on Cat’s hair. Her fingers were as soft as falling leaves pattering over Cat’s scalp.

  ‘You seem tired, ma’am.’

  ‘I don’t sleep well.’

  ‘Is there anything I can get you?’

  The temptation was on the tip of her tongue. Say it. Beg for it. Rationed as it may have been these last months, a drop had been enough to aid sleep. Now, the bottle was empty.

  ‘No, thank you, Nelly.’ She rolled her head backwards, let the weight of it rest on the top of her spine. Nelly’s fingers caressed her forehead. ‘I am worried about Osborne. He has been distant.’

  ‘Has he?’ Nelly – loyal as a dog to her master.

  ‘There’s something … something growing in him. A restlessness, a guard.’

  ‘It’s almost that time of the year, ma’am.’

  ‘What time?’

  ‘His father. Every year around now he … well, he changes a little. I would not worry that it’s you, ma’am.’

  Cat sighed. ‘I must go to him. After all, we women are nothing but distractions, are we not?’

  ‘Ma’am?’

  She smiled at the ignorant girl but did not try to explain. Perhaps, one day, Nelly would understand.

  She found Osborne in his study, leaning back in his chair, his face to the ceiling. His eyes lowered as she entered, and he acknowledged her with the briefest of smiles. She tiptoed towards him.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ he said. Lately, his voice had flattened, the richness had faded.

  ‘I would see to my husband. You are sad?’

  He shook his head but did not meet her gaze.

  ‘This time of the year … I understand.’ She rubbed his shoulder and eased herself onto his lap. His face remained still, controlled, and unflinching.

  ‘Might we not think of it as something else from now on? Not so much of a sad time but,’ she chose her words carefully, ‘as a blessing in the darkness.’

  His eyebrow raised. Still, he would not look at her. ‘Why?’

  ‘Our anniversary, Osborne. Our first year of knowing each other.’

  He levelled his head, frowning as if this was a new concept to him. ‘Yes. Yes, I never thought of it like that.’ He did not smile. ‘Blessings and curses.’

  She chose to ignore the stab of fear inside her and embraced him. She felt something hard in his jacket, and she trailed her fingers down to touch warm wood. She pulled out the revolver.

  ‘Why do you carry this always?’

  He shrugged. ‘Protection.’

  ‘Why would you need protection here?’

  ‘Protection is always necessary.’

  She looked at the gun in her hand. It was lighter than she had imagined it would be, and smooth in her palm – inviting. She placed it on the table, the barrel pointing away from them. ‘I don’t like it.’

  ‘You’d be dead without it.’

  She cleared her throat. The water … the shot, as if the bullet had blown through her ear … nothing but ringing and silence as the world turned the other way around, forever.

  ‘Yes, you are right.’ She picked it up again. ‘Will you show me how it works?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I should be grateful for it, as you said. And I cannot be grateful for something which I don’t understand.’ She jumped off his lap and waited.

  With a groan, he showed her the six chambers of the gun, some already filled. ‘Gunpowder in there, followed by the bullets.’

  ‘Show me.’

  He opened one of the desk drawers. Amidst a sea of bullets, he pulled out a pot of gunpowder, scooped some out, and trickled it into an empty chamber. Then, he pressed a bullet into the chamber and used the ramrod to set it all in place.

  ‘Cock the hammer and pull the trigger.’ He aimed the gun at the door. She waited, readying herself for the shock of the sound, but he only set it back in its holder. He slammed the drawer full of bullets shut.

  ‘So many dangers,’ she breathed.

  ‘Everywhere.’

  ‘You do not trust anyone, do you?’

  He looked up to her, bare, exposed. She saw the boy inside of him, the one who had been cut from his bubble so brutally, lost in a place he could not comprehend.

  ‘How can I trust anyone, Catherine, when I do not even trust myself?’

  Silence. She felt fingers of warning reaching out for her. Now was the time to tell him.

  She sat on his lap once again and brushed his forehead, feeling the cold wetness of his skin.

  ‘Are you happy, Catherine?’ His breath blew against her neck.

  ‘Of course, I am.’ She held his head against her bosom, and he softened. From above, she saw his eyelids flutter, then rest. ‘I am the happiest woman alive.’

  The room around them was silent but for the clock. Cat counted to thirty as Osborne grew heavier, his breathing slower and deeper. ‘Osborne,’ she whispered into his hair, ‘I am with child.’

  The words stuck in the air.

  ‘Osborne?’

  She went to stroke his face, but he jerked away from her.

  ‘You will be a father.’

  He moved beneath her, and she staggered as he pushed her off him, grabbing hold of the desk for support. He strode towards the window, his shoulders violently ri
sing and falling.

  ‘Osborne, are you not happy?’ There was a glitch in her voice as it bumped up her throat. Be calm. Breathe. But the air was having trouble squeezing down her throat. ‘Osborne, please?’

  Something broke in him. His spine, once so rigid, now collapsed. He turned towards Cat, his hardness replaced by a sense of sagging as if he’d been deflated. He walked towards her, his feet dragging over the carpet, and placed one dry kiss on her cheek.

  ‘Wonderful news.’ His nose twitched, like a snarl struggling to be free. She shook the idea from her mind – she was imagining things.

  He returned to his chair. ‘I have things to be getting on with, Catherine, if you wouldn’t mind …?’ He nodded at the door.

  She did not wait to be told twice.

  Chapter 22

  March 1853. Birmingham.

  She had been summoned. She rushed to Bronson’s, keen to make an honest day’s pay. She hadn’t been required for weeks – her nights had been filled with strangers to her room. She was sore between her legs. The condom she insisted they wear now rubbed inside her. She felt raw, as if she’d been sliced open and dirt had been crumbled into the wound.

  She found her old place and settled onto the hard stool like it was a soft armchair. She felt the stares from the women around her, but she did not care. She caressed her machine, ran her tender fingers over its sharp, iron ridges, and began her work.

  ‘Miss Davies.’ Mr Criton stood before her, as miserable as ever. ‘Come with me.’

  She followed him through the shop floor and to his small office. He did not sit, and he did not offer her a seat either.

  ‘We are letting you go.’

  He said it so casually, she did not understand his meaning. He leaned against the wall, face turned to the window in the door so that he could keep an eye on his workforce.

  ‘I thought you wanted me to work today?’

  He rubbed his fingers together. They were thin, little fingers, the type that would only be good at holding a pen.

  ‘Bronson’s do not employ women such as yourself.’

  ‘Women such as myself?’

  He sighed as if the meeting had taken up too much of his time already. ‘There have been complaints about you.’

 

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