‘An accident,’ she lied, ‘I wasn’t watching where I was going and a cart . . .’
‘Eh, wench! You ’ave to be careful . . . there be folk about who ’ave no care for others, they’d run you down as lief look at you. Them bruises be the only ’urt, I hopes, you don’t ’ave no bones broke?’
‘None.’ Saran shook her head, then before the woman could speak again said quickly, ‘I am going to call on Livvy later, perhaps you would be kind enough to tell her . . .’
Beneath the shawl the woman’s head shook and her eyes took on a different question. ‘You mean you ain’t ’eard? But I told that lad that was with you in that ’ouse, told ’im meself, I did.’
Breath still ragged from her dash along Union Street, Saran trembled slightly. What had she told . . . was this what she had waited to hear, prayed to hear every day? Did this woman have news of her family . . . had Luke thought her too ill to be told, was that the reason he had said nothing, knowing she would have gone to them no matter how ill she felt?
Her heart drumming painfully she forced the questions away.
‘He come to see the Elwells, same as you be goin’ to do, but like him you won’t see ’em. They be gone.’
‘Gone!’ Her brows drawing together, Saran stared at the woman. ‘Gone where?’
‘Who knows.’ A ragged shawl lifted as the thin shoulders shrugged. ‘All I be knowing is the bums throwed ’em out . . . the lad seen for ’imself the house were empty, I’d ’ave thought he would ’ave spoken of it.’
Livvy and her family evicted by the bailiff ! Stunned by what she heard, Saran stared after the figure hurrying between stalls dotted about the market place. Luke had known, yet even this morning he had said nothing!
‘This must be my lucky day.’
Pleasant with the trace of a laugh, a voice at her elbow spoke again.
‘Please, Miss Chandler . . . Saran . . . don’t say you have forgotten me already.’
‘I . . . no . . . I . . .’
‘For God’s sake, girl, what happened to you! Those bruises . . .’
Struggling against the shock of what she had just been told, Saran looked at the man staring at her, his handsome face drawn with concern.
‘An accident . . . it’s nothing.’
‘Nothing! Lord, girl, you look ready to faint.’
‘Not again, Mr Ensell.’ Saran pulled the shawl across her cheek. ‘I would not cause that trouble again, it was unforgivable the first time. Please excuse me, I have an errand . . .’
‘You are not going to get five yards judging by the look of you. The errand can wait at least the time it takes for you to drink some tea.’
‘No, I can’t, I—’
Catching her hand, Jairus Ensell’s tone was firm. ‘I’m not taking “no” for an answer, so unless you want me to carry you into that tea house you will agree to my suggestion.’
He looked as though he would carry the threat through. Saran looked into the eyes regarding her challengingly. A few minutes, she would stay a few minutes then make her excuses.
In the cosy room, tea set on the table, Jairus Ensell watched the girl sat opposite. Purpling bruises dark against a creamy skin and a mouth still a little swollen from the cut visible beside it, disguised but did not hide a certain prettiness. A flower waiting to bloom . . . Saran Chandler was all of that.
‘Better?’ He smiled as her glance lifted to him.
‘Tea is a wonderful medicine,’ she nodded, ‘I do feel much better.’
‘Enough to tell me what really gave you those bruises? You did not bump into any door, that much I’m sure of. Saran, if any man has raised his hand to you I swear he’ll pay.’
For a moment the eyes looking into hers glittered with unspoken threat, and far in the reaches of her mind something stirred. What was it? Saran strove to remember, then she knew. She had seen that look before . . . seen it in the eyes of Enoch Jacobs!
‘You can’t tell me.’ The threat gone from his eyes he smiled briefly. ‘It was arrogant of me to think otherwise, a man you scarcely know . . . how could I expect you to confide in me? Please forget I was rude enough to ask.’
Was that the way her mother would want her to appear, thankless of this man’s solicitude? Pink tingeing beneath the bruises she lowered her glance.
‘I do not think you arrogant,’ she murmured, ‘you are one of the kindest people I have ever met.’
‘Then let me help, let me deal with whoever hurt you . . . with what is still troubling you.’
‘Whoever it was attacked me . . .’
‘Attacked you!’ Jairus Ensell’s fist clenched on the table. ‘You say some swine deliberately did that to you?’
‘It happened two days ago . . .’ Speaking in hushed tones she related the whole of the event.
‘As you say, the rogue will be long gone,’ Jairus said after listening. ‘He won’t stay in the area if he knows what is good for him and, though it is small consolation, he did not get what he was after.’
‘The brooch . . . no, I had left that with Luke.’
‘And Luke has it still?’
Shaking her head Saran drew the trinket from her pocket. Laid on the white tablecloth, its glass heart gleamed like wet grass in sunlight. ‘Luke gave it back to me before he left for the tube works this morning. I took it to the pawnbroker.’
‘Kilvert?’
A nod her answer, Saran watched him pick up the brooch and hold it to the light as the pawnbroker had done.
‘It would be a pity to hide so pretty an ornament away in a pawnshop when it should be worn and enjoyed; but why did Kilvert refuse you a pledge . . . is the brooch so very cheap he was afraid you would not bother to redeem it?’
‘Quite the opposite, he seemed anxious I should sell it to him, he was willing to offer ten pounds or a little more for what he called goodwill.’
Bringing the glass centre closer to his eye, Jairus smiled through it.
‘Ten pounds . . . and you did not take it, why ever not? It is a pretty piece, I own, but ten pounds would buy you a hundred, and each as pretty as this.’
Why had she not taken that money . . . why had she refused the offer that pawnbroker had made? Only now, watching another man twist the brooch to the light, did she admit the answer.
‘I could not accept the money.’ Holding her hand for the brooch, she smiled. ‘The woman I helped said it was worth almost nothing, obviously she made a mistake. It is probably worth even more than Mr Kilvert offered, therefore I must return it to her.’
‘Good for you.’ Handing back the trinket, Jairus’s fingers closed over those receiving it and his dark eyes glowed their approval. ‘But you must not go alone . . . would you allow me to take you?’
Pulling her hand free Saran felt the colour deepen in her face. ‘I don’t know the name of the people . . . I only know the men who carried them took the Darlaston Road.’
‘Then I will take you to Darlaston now.’
Returning the trinket to her pocket, Saran stood up. ‘Thank you, but I can’t go now, I promised Luke I would go with him later.’
‘And you do not break a promise.’ Dropping a silver coin on the table, Jairus smiled at the waitress bobbing him a brief curtsy.
That was not the promise she had made to Luke. Leaving the tearoom Saran wondered why she had told yet another lie . . . and why she felt no urge to retract it.
‘Did Livvy say where they might go?’
Saran had stared at the house the Elwells had lived in, at the workshop where they had tried so hard to make a living. But despite the hours they put in, despite the toil, they had failed. Stood now in a tiny brewhouse that was workshop and washhouse to the woman she had talked with earlier, she watched the same routine that was the nail-maker’s life, the endless movement between forge and anvil, the constant hammering of red-hot iron, stoking the forge and working the bellows with no pause even to wipe perspiration from the face.
‘’Er said only as there was nothing left, that the nail master
had teken the lot, including tools which ’ad been paid for by the Elwells, said as they would go against what were owed . . .’ The woman pressed a treadle with her foot to bring the Oliver down viciously on the almost completed nail, the weight of the heavy hammer flattening the iron to form the head. ‘Though saying them folk owed so much as a farthing be a lie by my reckoning, nail masters don’t allow no credit, not even a farthing.’
Flinching at the clang of hammer on iron, Saran watched the finished nail eject from the bore, the woman returning immediately to the tiny forge for the next piece of red-hot rod.
‘Did they have relatives, someone they could turn to?’ The shouted question mixed with the ringing clamour of hammer blows, no Saran was unsure it had been heard, but the woman shook her head.
‘Nobody I knows of, ain’t no visitors, other than yourself and the lad which come with you, been to the ’ouse; but that don’t be surprisin’ for nail-making leaves no time for visiting.’
Her presence in the stifling, dusty workshop was an intrusion, an interruption to work she knew meant the difference between a slice of bread or no meal at all, yet still she had to ask, had to find out all she could.
‘The children,’ she called again over the resounding clang of the heavy Oliver, ‘what of the children?’
Hands and feet working in rhythm, the woman did not lift her eyes from the work in hand, only the timbre of her voice changed to one of pity as she called her answer.
‘Broken-’earted were Livvy, God ’elp ’er, broken-’earted when her took them poor mites.’
‘Took them where? Where did she take them?’
Wanting to snatch the hammer from her hand, to push her foot from the treadle operating the Oliver, to silence the bellows and make the woman stand and answer, Saran could only watch the repetitive, soul-destroying cycle.
‘Where else do you tek babbies when they be near enough starving!’ The woman brought the hammer viciously to the narrow iron strip. ‘Where else when you no longer ’ave a crust to put in their ’ungry bellies? ’Er took ’em to the place where we all find ourselves afore long, ’er took ’em to the parish.’
The workhouse! Like the pounding of the hammer, the words struck against Saran’s brain. Livvy had been forced to put her children into the workhouse! Stood in the tiny shared yard she stared through tear-filled eyes at the house whose door had been so readily opened to herself and Luke, her heart aching for the woman who had shared her last bread with total strangers. Livvy was suffering as she herself suffered, Livvy was feeling the pain that would never lessen, the pain of being torn from her family; the tears she shed were the same tears, the heartbreak the same heartbreak, the hopelessness, the desolation, they were all the same and they would go on for Livvy as they went on for her.
The choking in her throat thickening, she walked slowly to the street. Livvy and Edward had done all they could for her and she, what had she done in return? She could have helped them, could have prevented the taking of those children to the workhouse. But she had done nothing. It would have been so simple. Head bowed she retraced her steps, the noise of the carts and wagons rumbling past, the calls of traders in the market square making no headway against the sting of guilt pressing on her heart. It would have been so easy to sell that brooch, to take the money and share it with that family, and now it was too late, the Elwells were gone!
Had Luke known they were to be evicted or, like herself, had he found out only after they had already left? It had to be the latter; Luke was as grateful to that couple as she was herself, had he suspected they would be turned so soon on to the streets he would have found a way to prevent it; sold the brooch . . . anything . . . he would have helped them. She had come so close. Her hand closed over the trinket in her pocket.
So close to saving that family. Pressed into her palm the brooch dug into the soft flesh. It was hers and Luke’s, given to them, the woman would not have parted with it had she not wanted them to have it; the brooch was theirs to do with as they thought fit and Luke would see things as she saw them. Drawing the shawl closer she walked on.
It was too late to help the Elwells.
15
‘You still don’t ’ave it! All this time and you still ain’t got it!’ Heavy jowls quivering beneath long side whiskers, small eyes wreathed with lines that deepened now as his podgy face screwed in anger, Zadok Minch glared at his tall visitor. ‘All this time and you waltzes in here with nothing to show forrit!’
‘I told you what happened.’
‘Oh you told me right enough!’ Zadok’s temper snapped. ‘You told me . . . but telling don’t be what I wants, that bauble be what I wants. William Salisbury’s mother were a granddaughter of the Davenports of West Bromwich . . . the granddaughter of an earl . . . that tells me that any jewellery her left behind won’t be no rubbish and who would that jewellery got to but her son and it would be his wife would ’ave the wearing of it.’ Pausing for breath he slapped a hand noisily on the desk, setting quilled pens rattling on their crystal stand. ‘It be my belief that brooch be part of what were bequeathed, that what that wench thinks be no more than a trifle be a jewel of value. Now you get it afore her teks it into her head to be rid of it.’
‘And how do you suggest I do that?’
The smoothness of voice, the mouth curving in a half smile, was fuel to Zadok’s fury. ‘I ain’t yer mother!’ he exploded. ‘I don’t wipe your arse for you . . . I don’t care how you do it so long as it’s done!’
And so long as you get the brooch. Hidden behind cool eyes the thought played gently. Zadok Minch was prepared to leave the risks but ready to grab the prize with both of those fat greedy hands. But that brooch was one prize he would not get.
‘You had the wench once, beat her senseless if what reached my ears be fact,’ Zadok ranted on, ‘then like a fool you left her, ’stead of holding on to her. That kid her be tagging along with, he’d have spoken up quick enough if he knew her were being held for exchanging with that bauble, he knows no more of its likely value than do the wench herself, he would have found where her had it hid and handed it over soon as asked, so set yourself to finding the girl and one way or the other you’ll ’ave found the brooch. That be easy enough even for a fool like you to understand, and now it be said you can leave, our business be done ’til you brings what I asks.’
There were fools and there were bigger fools. Easing his frame in the restrictively narrow chair kept for visitors to the office located above the floor of a large warehouse, his own anger curbed behind a cool smile, the younger man watched the other push away from the desk. Then there were fools the size of Zadok Minch!
‘Not quite done,’ he said as Zadok turned towards a bureau, fishing a key from the pocket of his waistcoat, ‘we have not yet agreed payment for the consignment delivered last night.’
‘I ain’t had time to reckon that.’
‘But you have had time no doubt to sample it.’ The younger man rose. Tall and well muscled beneath a tweed jacket he towered over the thickset nail master. ‘A debt settled can be a debt forgotten, by both you and me, so I suggest we settle this one now.’
There had been no room for misunderstanding. With several banknotes in his pocket Zadok’s visitor strolled easily from the warehouse. Should Minch want more deliveries of that he was greedy for, he would pay . . . and next time the price would be higher.
What was wrong with the lad? The newspaper his mother was always given once the owner of Oakeswell Hall had finished with it lying forgotten on his knee, Gideon Newell stared into the fire. Luke Hipton had been such a friendly youngster, but now . . . it was like he could not bear to look . . . whenever spoken to he turned his back. He had felt like grabbing the lad, shaking the reason for his surliness out of him; but that would do no good, a man could lead a horse to water but he couldn’t make it drink, and Luke Hipton was a stubborn character, he wouldn’t be forced into anything.
Something had hurt him. Gideon watched blue-tipped flames flicker
cautiously into the black emptiness of the chimney before being snatched into the dark void. He had asked, but Luke had turned away. Whatever was riding the lad must have happened during the time he, Gideon, had been away from the tube works; but then why no evidence of displeasure on his return, why wait until the following day? It didn’t make sense. But then a lot of things in life appeared to make no sense, such as the task he had been set that day, the same task he had been about today.
The newspaper slipping from his knee he retrieved it, folding it in half, his mind on other things. Questioning eyes had followed him as he had walked from the works, and those of the lad had been among them; but where the glances of the men had been open, that of the lad had been dark and hostile, and behind that had been anger and accusation. But allowances had to be made, a lad went through all kinds of moods and fancies while becoming a man, hadn’t he himself suffered the same?
‘Folk be like the caterpillar . . .’
Gideon smiled as he remembered the comforting words his mother had often spoken those times emotions had got the better of him.
‘. . . they be all wrapped in a shroud of their own mekin’ until one day the wrapping splits and they comes out changed . . . they be given a new start.’
A new start! That was what he himself would have now the bargain he had made was fulfilled. The reward would see Gideon Newell walking a different path.
‘Get it for me, bring me what I ask and you’ll not go unrecognised.’
Those had been the words, the words that promised a fresh start, a better life; and today he had delivered what was asked for.
‘You say her ain’t been ’ere all day?’
‘That be right, lad, that be what I’m sayin’.’
‘But I told her afore I left, I told her to stay close alongside yourself and your wife.’
A pitchfork in his hand, the ostler paused from loading hay into a byre set on the stable wall. Wiping a sleeve over his moist face he looked at the lad hovering like a mayfly at his side.
‘I’ve no doubt you did, Luke, but women be women and there be some among ’em as can’t tek a telling.’
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