She had not meant to leave Wednesbury, not meant to go any place without first talking with Luke, without giving him an explanation. She had promised . . . promised him she would not think of doing such a thing; and that was the trouble . . . she had not thought! She had let her own wants come first, allowed her emotions to get the better of her. Huddled in the worn-through shawl Saran shivered as much against a world darkened by shadows as against the sharp nip of night air.
She had excused herself from the company of Jairus Ensell as quickly as good manners allowed. He had walked with her to the edge of the market place and for a moment she had thought he would insist upon accompanying her further but he had smiled at her refusal and turned away. Why had she refused? The thought had risen more than once and each time she had no answer, just as she could have no real answer for breaking her word to Luke; no answer other than a heart breaking for the Elwells, for the children sent into the workhouse, the driving guilt of not helping them when she had the chance. That had been her reason, her only reason, for doing what she had.
She had known she ought to have taken the time to return to the tavern, ought to have told Ben and his wife of her intention, to have left word for Luke, but instead she had taken the road to Bilston. There had been no carter’s wagon to give her a ride and her legs already ached as she had reached the small octagonal toll-house that stood at the boundary of Moxley.
‘Darlaston, you says.’ The toll-keeper had smiled kindly. ‘Well, I reckons if you takes the track through them there cornfields you’ll save yourself a lot o’ walkin’ for it’ll tek you direct to that town, though you needs ’ave a care when them fields end for there be a mess o’ gin pits, they pocks the ground an’ some of ’em grown over with grass so a body don’t know they be there, so keep you to the track. You’ll come to the Lodge Holes colliery along near the top, folk there will be able to direct you should you need ’elp with finding the rest o’ your way.’
But she hadn’t known the rest of her way, hadn’t known which direction to ask for or even the name of the woman she hoped to find. All she had was the desire to be rid of that brooch.
Ahead, the sound of footsteps echoed in the darkness, sounding and fading, returning to tease her ears like moon-touched shadows. Whoever was there would let her walk with them, surely they would not refuse. Forcing her tired limbs to hurry she paused as a figure emerged from the gloom, a tall figure whose hands reached for her.
‘Please!’ she gasped, pain lancing fresh along bruised arms as the hands gripped her. ‘Please not again . . . Gideon!’
‘I’m sorry, Luke, the last thing in the world I wanted was to cause you concern yet that is what I did . . . I didn’t stop to think about consequences.’
‘No need to go on about it, I just be glad it were Gideon an’ me come across you on that road, it could so easy ’ave been . . .’
The rest too awful even to contemplate, Luke let it fade. By what John Adams had said, it was not Gideon Newell who had attacked Saran, but the name that had come from her in the darkness had been his. Why . . . why that name if he had not been the culprit?
‘Was Mr Newell very angry hearing you say all those things?’
‘Well, he weren’t pleased. I thought when he shoved me out of the ’ouse that I were in for a lathering.’
‘He would have been judged within his rights if he had given you a hiding.’ Saran glanced at the boy walking beside her. ‘I must thank him for not doing so.’
‘I thanked him already,’ Luke grinned, ‘said I was grateful he ’adn’t left me in pieces.’
Many a man would have done just that having been accused of assault. Walking on in silence Saran went over Luke’s story in her mind. He had thought that Gideon Newell had beaten her then left her on the edge of a cornfield . . . that the man had wished to rob her of the brooch . . . and yet he had insisted on accompanying Luke in his search for her. Did anyone who wished you harm do such a thing? That question had stayed in her mind, for she had known Luke’s sharp brain would have come up with a dozen reasons for just such an action. But it had remained unasked, not simply because of that . . . With a faint hint of pink rising to her cheeks Saran felt the real reason beat hard in her chest. She did not wish to hear anything that would place a shadow of guilt against a man who had shown them both kindness.
‘You be ready for a rest.’ Luke had spotted the faint blush of colour and was concerned. ‘I said it were too soon yet for you to be walking any distance.’ Taking off the jacket whose sleeves hung well clear of his wrists, he laid it on the rough grass, hovering over her and insisting she sat on it. He was so thoughtful of her and she . . . she had acted without a thought for him, of the worry she would put him through. If hearts could sigh Saran knew hers did then, knew that even though Luke had forgiven her she could never fully forgive herself.
Stretched out beside her on the wide empty heath, his eyes closed against the bright afternoon sky, Luke chewed on a blade of grass as he spoke.
‘It took courage doin’ what you did, I ain’t sure I could ’ave done the same thing. Tekin’ that brooch and givin’ it back after being offered ten pound . . . I ain’t sure I could ’ave done that at all.’
The one doubt she had had made itself felt again. Half of that ten pounds would have belonged to Luke, but she had given him no opportunity of accepting or refusing money that would have helped him make a start in life; she had robbed him as surely as that attacker along the Bilston Road had wanted to rob her.
‘Luke.’ She glanced at the lad. ‘Luke, it’s not too late . . . I could go back, ask to be given—’
‘You ain’t going back nowhere.’ With his eyes springing open, Luke sat up. ‘I knows what be eating you, though you ain’t said it. You thinks you took my dues from me when you refused to take that ten pound; well, they was dues I wanted none of; I’d told you to do as you would wi’ that trinket and if you had throwed it in the brook then that would ’ave been all right wi’ me. I tell you one more time, you be all that matters, you, Saran, and not some brooch whatever it be worth; money buys a lot of things but it don’t buy a quiet heart and it don’t buy happiness. I’ve got both in our friendship.’
Smiling against the tears the words brought to her throat Saran watched as he settled once more on the springy turf. Luke could be happy with so little but she could never be really happy until she had her mother and sister with her again. She had asked in that town, in Darlaston. Some of the women she had spoken to had frowned and hurried on their way, too taken with their own troubles to be bothered with hers; some had stood and listened, but none had known of a woman and young girl having been bought. ‘It would ’ave been the talk of the town,’ they had said, ‘we would ’ave heard. No, wench, ain’t nothing like that happened in these parts.’ But it had happened and only a few miles away; somebody somewhere must know of it.
There had been no such problem tracing the couple she and Luke had found that night lying injured on the heath. It seemed all of Darlaston knew of the birth of the child, of the injury to the father, all of them speaking of the miracle of their being found, and if any of them wondered why a stranger spoke of it they did not question, they simply enjoyed the relating of a tale, the like of which seemed to have been a miracle of heaven.
Darlaston House had stood a short distance from the nucleus of tiny shops and several taverns that was the heart of the smoke-laden town. Set in wide flower-bordered grounds, the red-brick building rose square and imposing, windows glinting like crystal, tall chimneys lifting to the sky; it had been so grand she had almost turned away, run back to the more familiar background of workshops and hammers beating out iron on a hundred anvils. Only the touch of that stone against her fingers had kept courage from deserting her, but the thought of climbing the wide curved steps which reached up to a heavy door had been too much; her nerve failing, she had gone quickly to the rear whose beautifully kept lawns and rose beds complemented the house in the same way as the front.
‘You should speak wi’ Mrs Clews,’ a stable hand had told her, ‘her be the housekeeper and will answer to you.’
The woman had come to the kitchen. The spring sun warm on her face, Saran stared into the distance to where the black spire of Wednesbury parish church pierced the blue like a dark needle. The master could not possibly be disturbed, he was not yet fully recovered from his accident . . . and no, she would not bother the mistress with some passing beggar!
It had not been embarrassment she had felt when the kitchen maid had sniggered, nor anger at the woman’s tart snub, but almost a sympathy, a regret for manners so lacking as to permit a reply of blatant rudeness to a simple enquiry; but then had she not met with that at other houses . . . been answered in like fashion by those who felt little charity for folk placed less well than themselves?
‘Passing, yes, ma’am, but a beggar, no. I came here not to ask anything of your mistress but to return this. If I cannot be allowed to do so myself then, ma’am, perhaps you would do so in my stead.’
The quiet dignity with which she had spoken had carried the effects of a thunderbolt. It had spread a wave about the large kitchen swallowing in its wake the smirks of maid and cook alike, leaving the housekeeper gasping at sight of the brooch gleaming like green fire in the palm of Saran’s hand.
The woman had been gone only a few moments then she had returned, her tone chastened as she had invited Saran to follow her to the mistress’s sitting room.
Across the open heath a tree pipit in love with spring clung to a clump of gorse, its canary-like song serenading the afternoon while beside her Luke sighed, for a time at least in a heaven of his own.
Dressed in the palest of lemon voile, raven hair caught high on her head, the woman whose face she remembered so well had welcomed her into the elegant room, her smile one of genuine pleasure. But the smile had faded when Saran had refused to accept back the brooch.
‘But it was a gift!’ Ann Salisbury had insisted. ‘A mark of my gratitude. William, will you not tell her?’
His left leg heavily bandaged between two slats of wood, William Salisbury smiled at his wife as he was brought into the room, his wheelchair drawn close beside the couch on which she sat.
‘My housekeeper tells me you were our angel of the night, Miss . . .’
‘Chandler, sir.’ Saran had blushed as she bobbed a curtsy but her glance had not strayed from the man’s face, ‘My name is Saran Chandler.’
‘Well, Miss Chandler, before I agree to my wife’s request to say what it is she would have me tell you, allow me to voice my own most heartfelt thanks for your assistance that night. The men who carried us home tell me that had it not been for your intervention, my wife and my son may well not have survived, for that part of the heath is not well travelled by miners, the coal once worked there being as good as exhausted. But am I not correct in thinking you had a young man, a brother perhaps, with you, one who fastened bits of my broken coach to my leg?’
‘Luke was not to blame for ripping up the seats of your carriage nor for the burning of parts of it, that was my doing and I will take the blame for it.’
‘Blame!’ William Salisbury had laughed, but there had been an open admiration on his face. ‘There can be no blame except it be mine for attempting to drive across that heath at night . . . but we need have no discussion of that, my lesson is well and truly learned.’
‘We tried to find where you lived,’ Ann Salisbury had said then, ‘we made so many enquiries but it appeared no one in Darlaston knew of you. My husband and I wished so much to thank you for all you did but our efforts at tracing you came to naught, my only consolation was your accepting that worthless trinket.’
‘The trinket is not worthless, ma’am, it is worth ten pounds and that is why I cannot accept it!’
William Salisbury’s smile had died at the quick outburst, his eyes showing a trace of disappointment. ‘You have had the trinket valued and obviously do not hold it worthy of the assistance you and your brother gave my wife and myself. In that case, Miss Chandler, be good enough to state your own price, just what is the reward you came here to claim!’
17
‘I am not here to claim any reward, either for myself or for the boy you call my brother.’
Sat in the warm sunshine, a tree pipit singing its aria, Saran remembered the swift flood of indignation that had the colour deepen in her cheeks as she had answered what literally was an accusation of attempting to elicit a larger sum.
‘Luke is my friend and I have his full approval in returning that brooch to your wife. I had thought to sell it, that I admit, but when the pawnbroker told me the amount he was willing to pay I knew that not only could I not take it but that there was a likely possibility of the trinket being worth even more; that being so Luke and I agreed it must be returned.’ She had drawn a deep breath, sending her glance to the woman watching from the couch. ‘What little both of us did for you, ma’am, was done with a glad heart; your child being delivered safe into the world is all the reward we ask. I thank you for seeing me.’
‘Wait!’ William Salisbury had reached out a hand as she had dropped a brief curtsy to his wife. ‘I would see this trinket you have returned.’
He had taken it from his wife. Saran watched the small bird lift from its perch to skim across the heath. They had both watched in silence as he stared at the brooch, turning it several times before asking, ‘This is the trinket my wife gave you, and you say your friend Luke is in agreement that it be returned. Then the bruises to your face have nothing to do with this?’
Tossing the brooch into the air and catching it in his palm, he had asked the question then listened in silence to her explanation, touching his wife’s hand as the woman caught her breath in horror.
‘Yet you ran the same risks in coming here today with no companion; was that wise?’
‘Possibly losing the brooch was also a risk,’ she had answered, ‘one neither Luke nor I were willing to take.’
‘He knew its worth?’
She could have told the answer, said she had not spoken with Luke, said that it was not the returning of that gift had seen her on the Bilston Road that day, but she made no answer.
‘My wife made you a gift out of gratitude, I now offer you that same gift. Whatever its value it is yours with our thanks.’
He had held the brooch towards her. Saran remembered the sudden shaft of sunlight slanting in at the window, how it had caught the large stone, causing it seemingly to erupt into a thousand tiny shards, each a glittering spear of green tipped with gold and silver.
The tinge of guilt at not answering his last question truthfully pricking her conscience she had faced him squarely.
‘I thank you for myself and for Luke but the answer is the same; we want no reward other than knowing you and your child took no serious harm from your accident.’
He had made one further effort to detain her then had his wife ring for a servant to show her out.
She had refused to accept both the brooch and the money that had been William Salisbury’s last offer. Why, when it would have meant food and a roof over their heads? That too had been unfair on Luke, he must have felt some sort of disapproval even though he admitted to none. Looking at the thin figure lying beside her, trousers and jacket ragged and far too small, boots with barely a sole, she blamed herself as she had done on the way back from Darlaston, blamed her silly pride!
Opening his eyes Luke smiled up at her. ‘Shall we try further on?’
Could she take any more disappointment, hear any more people say they had not seen or heard of her family without bursting into tears? And what would her weeping do other than add to the concern she knew this young lad held for her? Climbing to her feet she held a hand to him, groaning at the pretended strain of hauling him up. Tears would wait.
The girl had been terrified, her whole body was shaking as he caught her . . . and she had cried his name!
Watching his mother tie her best Sunday bonnet, Gideon’s
thoughts strayed to the scene he had played over and over in his mind. Luke and himself had passed no one after leaving the High Bullen to follow Trouse Lane then on to the Bilston Road, the latter being so empty of movement it seemed they alone were the only people left on earth.
‘You should come, lad, come pay the Lord His dues, you’ll feel the better forrit.’
‘The Lord knows He gives nothing I don’t thank Him for,’ Gideon smiled as he answered, ‘but I’ll thank Him in my own room, not kneeling on the ground in yonder church.’
Her bonnet tied, Charity Newell looked at the tall strong figure that was her son and could not prevent a rush of pride. He was a fine upstanding man, one any mother would hold dear, and, though his views were not always in keeping with her own, the code he lived by were a fine one; do a man a good turn but be beholden to none.
Pulling the shawl about her shoulders she lifted her face for his kiss. Yes, Gideon Newell were a good son and one day, God willing, he would make a good husband.
Pay the Lord his dues. Returning the door to the latch Gideon resumed his seat beside the hearth. Hadn’t he done that, thanked Him over and again that they had found the girl when they did, that nothing untoward had happened to her? Staring at marionette flames prancing as to the pull of a string, a small disparaging laugh locked in his throat. Heaven must have been heartily sick of Gideon Newell that night!
She had cried out as she caught sight of them in the shadows, he had felt the frightened thump of her heart those few moments he had held her close, a figure so light and fragile he could have broken it with ease; but he had held her as a king might hold a crown, respecting, revering . . . but it had been more than that, he had held Saran Chandler with love.
Sixpenny Girl Page 17