He was panting by the time he had made it down the stairs. The chill of the house pressed against his wet forehead, and he shivered; he had become used to the fire and the bedpan in his room. He wiped the cold sweat away and held onto the bannister as he collected himself. His breath came too short nowadays as if he could never get a proper lungful of air, and it made his insides flutter with panic until he told himself to stop being so foolish.
He forced his spine straight, struck out with his cane, and stalked to the dining room.
Catherine sat at the far end of the table. She rose when he entered, and for a moment he thought she might run to him, embrace him, kiss him, but his stare made her remain where she was. Dixon helped him into his chair, then poured the wine.
‘You look better, Osborne,’ she said.
He noticed how she tried to smile, but the warmth did not spread to her eyes.
She was a beauty. Even with the faded bruise and her arm in a sling, he could see how he had been so easily bewitched. No one would have ever known, as she sat at his grand table, wearing beautiful clothes he had bought, her golden hair perfectly styled by the maid he paid for, that she was a street rat.
He could hear Dixon behind the screen, readying dishes.
‘Leave us.’
Silence.
The fire was beginning to warm him. The more he relaxed, the more she stiffened.
‘I will divorce you.’
‘Osborne, I am–’
‘Carrying my child, yes, you said.’ He swirled his glass, and the red wine whirled high towards the rim.
‘Why do you not believe me?’
He set the glass on the table and watched the liquid settle before he allowed himself to answer. He would not waste his energy getting angry.
‘You have done nothing but lie to me, Catherine, ever since the day I met you. You are a whore.’
‘Was. I was a whore, and I am not proud of it. You knew that from the start.’
‘Perhaps, though I tried to deny it to myself. But I certainly did not know you for a poisoner. You were no victim of that Irish scum, were you? You were his accomplice.’
She pursed her lips. Her face, even when hard and bitter, was still beautiful.
‘Gutter rat,’ he whispered and smiled as she blushed. ‘I will not forgive you, and neither will God.’
He saw the pale blue veins across her eyelids as she stared at her lap, then, the dimpling of her cheeks as she smiled back at him. The tiniest peal of laughter fluttered out of her, like the ringing of a distant bell.
‘You find this amusing?’ He spat his words at her. He would strike that smile off her face if she were not so far away.
‘I could have loved you, Osborne. I could have made you happy.’
‘Never.’
‘I would have forgotten him, for you, eventually. If you’d have kept your promises. But you lie like all men lie. You think you scare me, Osborne, but you are a mouse.’ She laid her gloved hand against the bruise he had given her. ‘This is nothing. The men I have known would tear you limb from limb if you ventured where I have been.’
‘So, you accept it?’ He would not acknowledge her insult. ‘You accept my accusations?’
She inclined her head, the smile smaller now but sharper. ‘Nearly.’
‘What do you protest against?’
She pulled her lips between her teeth. She was teasing him, dangling bait before him.
‘Tell me, Catherine!’
Another peal of laughter.
‘Tell me!’ He did not use his cane as he flew towards her. She was too slow to move out of his way. He had her by the throat in seconds, hauled her from her seat, and threw her against the wall. ‘What do you not accept?’
‘Irish scum,’ she said, her breath hot against his face as he pinned her against the wooden panelling.
He held her still, his grip tightening around her throat, his fingers meeting his thumb at the back of her neck.
‘You think yourself different from John and you are; you are worse.’
Her cheeks were burning. He tightened his grip around her neck until she was struggling to speak.
‘Why did you save me? Because you couldn’t save your father, could you? You were too weak. A coward. You sent him to his death – a death which he deserved.’
He growled as he lifted her off the floor. Her feet jabbed at his legs, her free arm battered his chest, and her face turned from red to purple, bloating …
There was knocking on the front door of the house. He heard Dixon permit the men to enter, their voices deep and terse, the words indistinguishable from this side of the wall.
He dropped Catherine. She crashed to the floor at his feet, her skirts puffing around her. Her breath sounded scratchy as she sucked it in, and her eyes shimmered with tears as she glared up at him, rubbing her throat.
He steadied himself on a dining chair, smoothed his hair into place, then hobbled for his cane.
‘The police are here for you, Catherine. They know everything about you. I will divorce you on the grounds of adultery. Your unsavoury nature will go against you. You will be charged with conspiracy and theft.’
‘There are no witnesses.’
‘Ruby.’
Catherine snorted.
‘Laugh, Catherine, while you have the chance. I will throw every charge against you that I can.’
A cough bubbled up his throat. He pounded on his chest, tasted the mucus on his tongue, and spat it into the fire. He must calm himself – he would not let her ruin him like this.
‘If the law does not hang you, I will find another way to have it done. Perhaps one of those men, the ones you said would tear me apart, would be happier to tear you apart instead?’
He marched towards her and pulled her up by her hair. She screamed in agony as he kicked open the dining room door and threw her out into the great hall where the men were waiting for her.
She fell into the room. The flagstones cut against her knees, and she caught herself with her good hand, feeling something else shudder in that wrist too. She dragged her eyes upwards to find Norton in front of her. Beside him were two men, taller and broader than Osborne.
‘Take her,’ Osborne said from somewhere behind.
Norton offered her his arm.
‘Get her out of my house.’
She spluttered as she stood, her sobs choking up her sore throat. She put her hand to her neck and winced. Norton held her by the elbow and moved her hand to see the red rash of finger marks on her skin.
‘I said, get her out!’ Osborne’s voice bellowed.
At the far end of the hall, the door creaked open, and Nelly’s pale face peeked between the gap.
‘Stay there,’ Cat said, and the sound was rusty. Nelly did as she was told.
‘Norton! Take her away. Why are you waiting?’
Doctor Norton pulled his eyes away from Cat’s throat and stepped between her and Osborne. The men stepped forward too.
‘Mr Tomkins, will you please come with me?’
She peeped over Norton’s shoulder. Osborne leant on his cane and looked as if he might topple over with the shock. The blood seeped from his skin as confusion morphed to understanding.
‘You need rest, Mr Tomkins,’ Norton continued, edging closer like he was nearing a wild animal. ‘You need to get better for the baby.’
‘I am not the father of that whore’s child! Get away from me.’ Osborne flicked his cane at them, jabbing the air with it so Norton would stay back.
‘Mr Tomkins, calm yourself. You are still unwell; you must not exert yourself.’
‘She is a liar!’ He was raging now, shaking with anger. His eyes were wide, terrified, crazed as he scowled at her. ‘She is a whore, a poisoner!’
‘Osborne.’ She sobbed harder and rubbed her drenched face with her gloved hand. ‘Osborne, please, you must rest. Please.’ She touched her stomach.
‘No!’ Osborne yelled, breaking with tears. ‘No! It is not mine.’
/> ‘I swear to you, on my sisters’ lives, the baby is yours.’
‘Your lips have never spoken the truth!’
She hardened. ‘I would not lie about this. The child is yours, whether you like it or not.’
They glowered at each other. Osborne panted, sweated, staggered against the wall. Norton nodded at the two men, and they advanced on Osborne.
Osborne dropped the cane and pulled out his revolver. ‘Stay away from me.’
The men halted and glanced at Norton.
‘Put it down, Osborne,’ Norton said, his voice slow and controlled.
‘Osborne, my love, please do not do this.’
‘You are false, Miss Davies. You have always been false. God will curse you and your child.’
She stepped towards Osborne. The doctor tried to pull her back, but she slipped away, gesturing for him to stay where he was, to trust her. She saw Nelly at that moment, crying in the doorway, mouthing at her to keep away from Osborne. Cat turned her back on the girl and crept into the gaping space of the great hall.
Her audience watched and held their breath. The gun pointed at her heart.
‘You will not hurt me, Osborne.’
‘Stay away. Stay there!’ He shook his gun at her. She felt the men behind her step forward, eager to pull her back to safety. She stopped them with her hand.
‘Give me the gun, my love.’
‘Do not call me that!’
‘I love you, Osborne.’
He shook his head, and mucus flew from the tip of his nose. He was weakening, his arms were drooping with exhaustion, the gun lowering so the tip pointed at her stomach. He raked in a breath and, in that instant, he was a little boy again. A little boy who would grow into a cruel man, like her brother had, like all the men she had ever known had. She would not be their victim anymore.
‘You are my saviour.’
His eyes met hers, and she smiled just for him.
He tensed, raised the gun, and aimed for her face.
She froze. She closed her eyes. She held her breath.
The trigger clicked.
Silence.
The trigger clicked again. And again. And again and again.
Osborne screamed at his weapon, at how it had failed him in his time of need, and while he was yelling at it, the two men balled into him.
Norton caught Cat as her legs gave way.
‘Catherine?’ His lips were close to her ear, and she felt his sweet breath catch the wisps of her hair. ‘Catherine, you are safe.’
Real tears burst from her eyes. She clung to him, letting everything flow out of her, the fear, the anger, the shame.
‘Catherine, you are safe now.’
How many times had a man told her that before? All of them had lied to her.
She glanced at Osborne through the open door. The men were barrelling him into a carriage and the horse, unused to such a commotion, fidgeted and whinnied as it waited. She heard Osborne scream, his profanities aimed at her, and she shied away from the scene.
‘What will happen to him?’
‘He is going to a good place. He will get the rest that he needs.’
‘When will he come back?’
Norton cleared his throat and scratched his nose. ‘I cannot say. When he is recovered, and these delusions have ceased.’
She dropped her head onto his shoulder and shuddered. ‘He will send me away. I will have no home to go to.’
‘He cannot do that, Catherine. He made vows to you, promises, assurances, before … Those cannot be changed now his mind is unsound.’
She wiped her tears away. ‘My child?’
‘Will be safe.’
That was all she had ever wanted. And hadn’t she told Osborne – hadn’t she warned him – that she would do anything for her baby?
‘Catherine.’ Norton licked his lips and put an awkward hand on her arm. ‘If you ever need anything, anything at all, you must call for me.’
‘Will I be able to visit Osborne?’
‘That is not advised.’
She nodded. Good. She wished to never see him again. ‘Then, perhaps you could call for tea sometime and tell me of his progress?’
Norton smiled such a handsome, sweet smile. He reminded her of Matthew, the boy who’s purity she had stolen on a cold night in Able Street, a lifetime ago. ‘I would like that.’
Chapter 28
December 1854. Wallingham Hall.
She strolled through the house. It smelt of Christmas; bows of holly and ivy and bay lined the bannister, the mantelpieces, the door frames. The fires crackled with forest wood. Cloved oranges hung on red ribbons beside ornate glass baubles on the tree which reached to the ceiling in the great hall. All was quiet. Peaceful.
She patted the dogs’ heads as they sat before the fire, warming themselves after Dixon had taken them for their walk around the estate. They nuzzled into her legs and licked her hands, then lay down and closed their eyes, contented.
She climbed the stairs, growing a little short of breath, though the child was still a few months from birth. She had been so tired ever since Osborne had been taken away, sleeping for hours, catching up on all the sleep she had been deprived of during those long, wakeful nights in previous years.
She entered Osborne’s mother’s room. Two months ago, she had never stepped through the doorway; now she came whenever she pleased. It was a grander room than her own. The bed was bigger, softer, though she had never had the nerve to sleep on it. A portrait of the woman hung on the main wall, observing; Cat could never look into the eyes of it. Whenever Cat entered, she came only for one thing: the jewels.
The dressing table drawers were full of them. A locked chest beside the fire held an even larger hoard. Gold chains lined with emeralds, rubies, gemstones. Threads of pearls and fat diamonds. Rings which dwarfed Cat’s fingers. Earrings so heavy that earlobes must surely have ached under the strain.
She had stared at it all, initially, dumbstruck, unable to move or think. She had tested it out on herself, but the sight of her reflection had made her sick — so much wealth. Fury had taken hold. She had thrown the jewels across the room in her rage, taking delight in how they had smashed against the walls, but the plaster had come off the worst. She had burnt herself out and had crumpled on the floor amidst the treasure until she had come to think of a better use for it.
Now, she took out a handful of tangled gold chains and piled them in her arms. She left the room to return to her own chamber where Nelly was waiting for her, eyes cast to the floor. Cat spread it over the bed.
‘Take your pick.’
Nelly had been reluctant the first time, keenly aware of the bribe, but she had not refused. Now, she chose a fine gold chain, small and delicate, with one tear-drop pearl attached to it. She slipped it into her pocket; perhaps she would wear this one rather than sell it. Maybe she was thinking of wearing it on her wedding day, for she had started courting one of the grooms with Cat’s permission.
Cat piled the remaining jewels into the cotton bag. Nelly would take this to town today, to the jeweller who Cat had told her to go to, for he was a decent man who gave fair deals. Nelly would stay a night at an inn on the outskirts of Birmingham, and Cat wouldn’t ask whether or not she and the groom had taken separate rooms for the night. In the morning, Nelly and the groom would return, as formal as ever, and Nelly would hand over the bag of money and not ask any further questions.
‘Any news of Master Tomkins?’ Nelly said as Cat tied the bag tight.
‘I am waiting on Doctor Norton for the latest information.’
‘I hate to think of him there, in one of those madhouses.’
‘Doctor Norton assures me he is well cared for.’
Nelly nodded and did not press further. Her hand wriggled in her pocket as she played with the necklace.
‘And how are you today, ma’am? How is the baby?’
Cat beamed at her rounded stomach. The sickness of the first months had ended, and now she was rad
iant. ‘Strong.’
Nelly jumped up, excited for the arrival of a baby in such a quiet household. ‘May I?’
Cat nodded, and Nelly placed her hand on Cat’s stomach. They waited, then a kick. They giggled together.
‘I have a message I want you to deliver to Brent’s solicitors while you’re in town.’ Cat retrieved the letter from her dressing table. She had sealed it now that Nelly could read – she did not want the girl to know its contents; how she had commanded Brent to write to Osborne’s Irish estate and inform Mr Griffin that the new, wealthy farmers would have to find themselves different land. If Mr Griffin wanted to keep his job, he was to allow the previous tenants back into their cottages with the promise of lower rents.
Nelly stuffed the paper into her pocket.
‘Hurry.’ Cat ushered Nelly out of the room. ‘You must be out of town before nightfall, remember.’ She would not have her maid – her confidante – in that wretched place as darkness descended.
Chapter 29
October 1853. Birmingham.
The night was blacker than usual. There was a mist hanging in the air, choking the light from the moon, the streetlamps, the windowsills. It crept over her skin, making her shiver, making the hairs on her arms stand rigid.
The muck on the street was deep, but this was a better part of town. The door of the address that John had given her was smart, unsplintered, painted, and some plants grew either side of the frame, though they were beginning to wither as autumn took hold. Through the bay window, she could see the fire burning in the parlour, the chairs soft and inviting, and empty.
The door was unlocked, as John always made sure it was. She slipped through the hallway and headed straight for the stairs; she had to look as if she knew exactly where she was going. The house was quiet, the rooms on the first floor seemingly unoccupied. A gentle clearing of her throat and the door at the rear of the house opened. She slid inside.
‘Anyone see you?’ John said, his head poking into the landing, checking it was clear.
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