Sixpenny Girl

by Meg Hutchinson

  He had tried to deny it. Called himself all kinds of a fool as he had lain awake listening to her voice return on the silence of the night hours, watched her smile at him from enticing moonlit shadow. But still the fact had remained, that what he felt for that girl was more than respect, more than admiration. Yet her feeling for him was nothing other than fear; like Luke, she believed him guilty of attacking her, of trying to rob her of some paltry brooch. It had shown on her face as he had stepped towards her, sounded in that cry: please not again . . . Gideon. His name! Coals falling in on themselves sent a shower of rainbow sparks over the hearth but they died unnoticed against the thoughts plaguing Gideon’s mind. It was his name had fallen from her lips, his name brought the fear that had her crumple to the floor, his the figure that had terrified her.

  Luke would have told her by now. The glowing heart of the fire held his gaze. Yes, he could believe that; the lad had been scourging in his accusations but his apology had matched that forcefulness. Yes, he would have told the girl what had been said by John Adams, that he, Gideon, was at Monway Field at the time she had been attacked. But would what seemingly had satisfied Luke Hipton satisfy Saran Chandler, or would she still believe it was he had struck those blows?

  But why did she believe he had . . . who had she seen to think it was him returning to hurt her again? And she obviously had thought just that or else why cry his name?

  ‘I told only you.’

  Luke’s bitterly spoken words resounded in Gideon’s brain and, swift on their silent heels, a question. Had Luke overlooked talking to someone else . . . had he spoken elsewhere of the gift made by William Salisbury’s wife? There had been so many opportunities; men at the tube works, the Turk’s Head tavern where he said they had slept, carters whose wagons he helped load or unload. The list was long. Gideon drew a deep breath, his glance following the dance of fire. But it was one he must go through if he were to clear his name.

  The bells of the distant church were ringing evening service. With Luke silent beside her, she rode the sound back into childhood. They had never missed church on Sunday. Herself and Miriam dressed alike in pretty cotton dresses with wide sashes, ribbons catching long ringlets beneath bonnets adorned with bows; and their mother, in her best blue taffeta dress, its slightly funnel-shaped skirt set off with a buckled belt and high white fichu gathered about the neck with a matching blue ribbon, looking regal beneath a wide-brimmed bonnet decorated with pink satin bows and tiny silk roses. Her father had been so proud of his little family and they had loved seeing him dressed in his single-breasted dark frock coat and striped satin waistcoat, all set off by his best Sunday top hat.

  She smiled, the peal of the bells awaking memories she had long hidden. Sunday had been a special day, going to church together, the walk home with her father carrying their small white prayer books thus freeing tiny hands for picking flowers from the wayside; but even more special had been summer evenings when the last service was over, those precious few hours when their father had walked them through the meadows or along by the stream, pointing out a bird or a flower, laughing with them when either Miriam or herself could not pronounce the Latin name then telling them its common one. Those days had been magical and she had thought they would never end . . . but they had, her lovely secure world had been snatched away with the death of her father and in its place . . .

  ‘Saran.’ Halting his step with the last peal of the bell Luke looked at her, then switched his gaze quickly to the horizon. ‘Saran, there be something I ain’t told you . . . something as you should know.’

  ‘There is something I have not told either, something I meant to say but each time—’

  ‘If it be more to do with that brooch—’ He turned quickly.

  ‘Not that itself,’ she shook her head, ‘I had hoped . . . intended to take a reward . . .’

  ‘But you said you d’ ain’t want nothing!’

  Hearing the bewilderment in his voice she forced herself to meet his gaze. ‘I know what I said and in its way it was the truth. I did not want money for myself and . . . please understand this, Luke . . . I did not wish it for you.’

  ‘Then what?’ Luke’s blue eyes showed confusion. ‘If not for either of we then what did you want it for?’

  ‘For the Elwells,’ she answered quietly, ‘I wanted it for the Elwells.’

  ‘But they were—’

  A smile tender as her eyes touched Saran’s lips as Luke shifted his gaze. ‘I know, they were gone, the woman in the market place told me of their eviction . . . No,’ she shook her head as he made to answer, ‘you don’t need to explain why you said nothing yourself, you thought I had all I could contend with that night and, truthfully, perhaps I had.’

  ‘But if you knowed they was gone then how did you expect to give them money you might ’ave got from Salisbury? Lord, Saran! They could be anywheres.’

  ‘Yes, Livvy and Edward could be anywhere but not their children . . . they are still in Wednesbury . . . in that workhouse. I wanted money for them, Luke, to get them out of that place, but I failed them as I’ve failed my mother and sister, as I have failed you.’

  ‘You ain’t failed . . .’

  ‘Yes, Luke, I have! I refused money that would have helped me in the search for my family, that would have bought them back once I found them.’

  ‘Why then . . . why did you refuse?’ The boy in Luke had vanished, leaving the man she had glimpsed before, one now demanding she face a truth behind her action. ‘All of what you’ve just said was knowed by you afore you went to Darlaston, you knowed what you speak of now would need money, yet you turned down ten pounds from Kilvert and who knows how much from Salisbury. Ask yourself what truly made you act so, for you’ll ’ave no peace until you does!’

  She did not need to ask, she already knew, had known all along; only the turmoil of her own emotions had kept her from admitting it. To take money for giving aid, for an act of charity, went against all her parents had taught. Help folk where you can and count it a blessing. That had been the principle by which they had lived, to have gone against their teaching would have been to break faith with them . . . to have followed the path of Enoch Jacobs.

  Having listened to what troubled Saran, Luke resumed the way to Wednesbury. She had confessed to what lay heavy on her conscience, but could he do the same? She relied on him, depended on him to be sensible, to look at things and not let emotions get in the way. He hadn’t done that, though; he had let his heart rule his head. It wouldn’t be so bad if the repercussions of what he had done rebounded only on himself; he could take it and willingly. But his rashness meant Saran must suffer, she would bear the brunt of his stupidity.

  Zadok Minch had set his mind to owning that brooch. The door closing quietly behind him as he was shown from the nail master’s fine house, Zadok’s visitor smiled to himself. The heavy jowls had reddened, the small eyes receding into enveloping folds of flesh as he had listened, the twitch of short thick fingers drumming his growing anger.

  ‘You lost it!’ he had almost screamed. ‘Worth a bloody king’s ransom and you lost it! I could kick your arse so ’ard it would be Christmas afore you put it on a chair again; get rid of you once an’ for all!’

  He could . . . but he hadn’t! Taking his carriage from the attentive groom he flicked the reins, leaving the horse to trot along the curved drive. Clear of the house he allowed the smile he had suppressed to touch his mouth. True, there were plenty of men ready to take his place as a fogger, a go-between who bought from the nail-makers at a price acceptable to Minch; yes, there were those would do that . . . but the other? Not so many were willing to involve themselves in that trade. And Minch knew it, he also knew the consequence to his standing in society and the world of commerce should a careless tongue give word of it. There were many liked to play but none cared to be found out, and if Minch were brought into the open, so would several more be; that . . . for all the nail master’s chagrin . . . could not be risked.

  He t
hought his reasons were not known. The smile on the handsome mouth widened. Minch believed the truth behind his wanting that brooch so badly had not been guessed at. Well, in a way, perhaps that was right for he himself had not guessed . . . he knew. He had known from the moment Minch had first asked him to steal it from that girl. With that trinket in his possession the sly little nail master could bring about the social ruin of William Salisbury. By paying a whore to swear that brooch had been given for ‘extra’ services a scandal could be created that would drive the man from Darlaston, leaving his copper and iron foundries to be bought for a song . . . and Zadok Minch was quite a tenor!

  Zadok did not have the brooch but neither did he. Servants were always ready with gossip and those of Salisbury proved no different. A carter paid to keep his ears open and his mouth shut had brought the news. A wench had asked to see Ann Salisbury and when refused had requested a brooch with a green heart be taken to her. Gloved hands flicked the reins, urging the horse on. His own desire for that bauble matched that of Minch, only the reason for having it differed. It had belonged to a countess, a member of the aristocracy, and that meant it would be no worthless trifle; Minch had realised that and so had he. The money it would have fetched would have bought him a new life, a life far from the smoke and grime of Wednesbury. But the wench had robbed him of that, she had given back the brooch and so snatched away his dream.

  The smile was dead but in the gathering dusk dark eyes glinted like black ice.

  But all was not lost. The wench was still in Wednesbury.

  He had not thought the lad to ask his help. They had gone together to search for the girl, to bring her back to that makeshift bed in the hayloft of the Turk’s Head tavern and Luke Hipton had been genuine in his thanks. Yet the feeling had remained that the lad had come to him only in rage, only to accuse, and as he had walked home after seeing them both safe Gideon had held the convinction that real friendship between them had ended. After all, the lad too had heard the name which had fallen from Saran Chandler’s lips, heard the fear in it, so how could he expect real trust from him again?

  Yet he had come. Early that next morning he had come and the question he had asked had left Gideon open-mouthed. Where had he got the idea, how could he hope to carry it through?

  Restless as his own thoughts, Gideon reached for the jacket his mother preferred he wear on Sundays; the Lord’s day must be respected.

  ‘I’d do it on my own without botherin’ you, ’cept I knows they wouldn’t listen.’

  Letting himself from the house Gideon remembered the look in those bright blue eyes. Compassion, sympathy, pity? No, they had held more than that, beneath it all had gleamed something else: Luke Hipton’s eyes had burned with horror!

  The lad had certainly been correct in his thinking, they wouldn’t listen. But who could say there was wrong in that? A lad no more than twelve years old . . .

  ‘Evenin’ there, Gideon, ’ow be your mother, lad?’

  Touching his brow, Gideon showed his respect for the elderly man who spoke as he drew near.

  ‘She is well, I thank you, Ben.’

  ‘The Lord shows His mercy.’ A gapped smile showed as the bent figure tapped a finger to brow and chest in the sign all had been taught in their turn.

  Spending a few minutes with the old man, minutes which proved a struggle to hold his mind to, Gideon nodded at the supposition he was making for the church from where he would walk his mother home. That had not been his intention, but then what had?

  Pushing his hands into his pockets Gideon refused to accept the answer in his heart.

  A lad no more than twelve years old, Luke had stood at the door of the house, his look saying should Gideon refuse him then he would find some other way . . . and find it he would; Luke Hipton was quite a lad and one day he was going to be quite a man!

  To go from one to another in Wednesbury asking their assistance in what he planned would only serve to prolong the boy’s heartache, feed the anguish darkening his eyes, for there was none would agree to what they were asked.

  Then why had he agreed? Unmindful of direction Gideon turned downhill along Springhead. Was it a young lad’s biting pain, the mental suffering that had his hands clenching and unclenching, the urgency behind his plea? Yes, it was all of that and he would have given his help had Luke refused the terms he had laid down in exchange . . . terms which involved Saran Chandler.

  18

  She would bear the brunt of what he had done! Guilt and worry swirling thoughts into a whirlpool in his mind, Luke walked in silence. Saran had told what troubled her, had spoken of what she had withheld from him . . . but he couldn’t be as open, he couldn’t tell what it was he and Gideon Newell had agreed between them.

  ‘Luke, what I told you just now, if . . . if it has offended you—’

  ‘Why should you say that?’ Luke saw the shadow flick across the bruised face. His retort had been too quick, Saran had caught the undercurrent of disquiet, the unease which gripped him; now that the time when she must find out was near, his anxieties could not remain hidden.

  ‘I wouldn’t hurt you . . .’

  ‘Nor would I ’urt you . . .’ catching her hand Luke brought them both to a standstill, ‘not for all the world I wouldn’t, but . . .’

  ‘But what?’ Saran frowned.

  His head lowered so she could not see his face, his voice aching with regret, Luke answered, ‘I ’ad to do it, Saran, Gideon wouldn’t never ’ave consented ’ad I refused . . . and there were nobody else I could ask . . .’

  Gideon! Saran’s nerves quickened. What was he to do with Luke’s distress?

  ‘So I said yes,’ Luke rushed on, ‘I said yes without askin’ you, without givin’ you the chance to say no . . . I weren’t thinking proper, the only thing in my mind were how to get it done, I give no thought to you ’aving to pay; I be sorry . . . I be truly sorry. I’ll ask him, Saran, I’ll ask him to overlook the promise—’

  ‘Luke, stop!’ Her hand gentle beneath his chin she lifted his face. ‘What are you sorry for, what is it I must pay for, what promise have you made to Gid— to Mr Newell?’

  ‘I didn’t want to spoil the day by tellin’ you.’

  ‘I have had a lovely day and nothing you say will spoil it, so long as we are together.’

  ‘That be it . . .’ Jerking his head free Luke turned away. ‘We won’t be together once this day be over.’

  ‘Won’t be together . . . Luke, what are you talking about? Haven’t we both given our word?’

  ‘Yes, I know what were promised but my word proved to be like meself . . . no good.’

  ‘Now you stop that!’ Grasping his shoulders tightly Saran shook the thin figure. ‘I won’t have you say such. You are the one good thing in my life. Now we’ll sit down again and I won’t move until you have told me everything . . . everything, Luke! Let there be no half measures between us.’

  Settled on the warm turf Luke hesitated. No half measures; yes, they had come too far together for that, but once she heard . . .

  The smile playing on Saran’s mouth was tender. Poor Luke, one moment so very much the man and the next still so very much the boy. But Gideon Newell was no boy! The smile fading quickly she felt her nerves jar again. Unlike Luke, Gideon Newell was a man full grown, his was the mind of a man used to dealing with the world; so what had that mind dreamed up, what could he want from her now he knew the brooch was beyond his reach and that she had accepted nothing in its place?

  ‘It were while you was sleeping, I couldn’t clear my head of it.’ As Luke began to speak Saran forced away her thoughts. ‘It played there the whole night, fading a bit from time to time but never goin’ completely and every time it come back it were stronger and stronger ’til it got so I couldn’t stand it no longer . . .’

  She could make him stop, tell him to organise his thoughts, but that might fluster him more; far better to let him speak them as they came.

  ‘I d’ain’t go with the idea of bringing you
into it . . . of mekin’ no bargain but I . . . I couldn’t help meself, Saran, on God’s honour I couldn’t help meself !’

  Lifting his face he looked at her, the pale light of early evening sparkling on tears glinting in his blue eyes, and in that moment she was twelve years old again comforting a younger sister who had fallen and grazed her knee.

  ‘It’s all right.’ She drew him against her as she had drawn another child. ‘It’s all right,’ she whispered now as she had whispered then. The memories so powerful they had her trembling as she pressed the tousled head close to her chest, her lips touching a kiss to it as they had kissed her sister’s. ‘We will make it better, Saran will take the pain away.’ Words and pictures dancing in the theatre of her mind showed her tying two small handkerchiefs into a bandage, smiling into a small tear-stained face as she fastened it about Miriam’s knee.

  The pictures fading as Luke sat upright she stifled the sob rising to her throat. No bandage would salve Luke’s hurt, no story of fairies would take his mind from the pain; she could not kiss him better as she had a four-year-old . . . she could only listen.

  ‘I suppose that while I was so worried as to you . . . where you’d gone and was you all right,’ Luke sniffed, ‘I kept the thoughts to the back of my mind, but once I seen you was safe, that no harm had come to you then I couldn’t hold ’em back no longer . . . they come and they come giving no rest ’til I thought I’d go mad. That were when I knowed I had to do it so I slipped away while you slept. I went to the house of Gideon Newell, I asked him would he go with me to the workhouse, would he ask for the release of the Elwell kids, for the authorities wouldn’t give ’em over to me cause of my not being of age.’

  ‘The Elwell children!’ Saran could not hold back the gasp. ‘You asked for the Elwell children?’

  ‘What I told you were the truth.’ Blue eyes pleaded for understanding. ‘Thought of them being in that place, of that little wench being slapped and treated like dirt under the feet of them wardresses, of the lad mebbe locked in a glory hole and left alone same as I was. Oh, I’d talked to men at the tube works, men who knowed folk as was sent to that place and it were no better than the one I was in, it were the devil’s own house they told me, a place folk would choose to die on the road sooner than go to and I couldn’t bear the thought of the Elwell kids being there so I asked Gideon Newell to help me get them out.’