He did not ask her to sit. Unease tickling her spine, Saran glanced towards the door as it closed.
‘Well now, Miss Chandler, what is it you want us to do for you?’
‘I . . . I came to ask . . .’
‘No cause to be shy; times are hard in Wednesbury, many of its people need the help of the parish and we are here to help.’
There was something about the man, something in the way his eyes suddenly gleamed and the tip of his tongue ran swiftly over his lower lip, something about the smile which, despite itself, revealed more menace than kindness.
‘You are needful of a place in this institution?’ Keeping his eyes fixed to her face he moved around the desk, the serpentine tongue flicking twice, the gleam in close-set eyes already a smoulder.
She had seen that same look on men’s faces, knew the evil which lay behind it. She had seen it in that beerhouse where she had been paraded for the amusement of would-be buyers, known the evil that had brought Enoch Jacobs to a child’s bedroom. Panic that the memory always brought clawed her throat, danced along her veins, swirled in her head. Saran instinctively drew the shawl closer.
‘No!’ The cry as much a castigation of her thoughts as it was a denial of the man’s belief in her reason for being here, she stepped away from the hand reaching towards her. ‘No, I am not asking for a place in the institution.’
‘Then why come?’
Her stepping away had not halted him. Saran’s back came up against a cupboard. Breathing deeply, fear still throbbing in her chest, she stammered, ‘I . . . am looking for a child . . . a little girl, I think she is here.’
Inches from her, the insidious smile slid further over the slack mouth while the eyes took on a dark heat, a calculating, purposeful fervour.
‘A sister?’ The hot eyes slithered over her face then down towards breasts hidden beneath the shawl.
Fear and disgust imprisoning words, Saran shook her head.
‘Not a sister?’ The smile widened, a sly satisfied gratification.
‘Her name is Elwell, Martha Elwell; she was admitted some days ago along with her brother Joseph, they are the children of a friend. Joseph, I believe, is no longer in the care of the parish but Martha, she . . . she was returned.’
‘Returned!’ Heat-filled eyes lifted, boring deep into hers. ‘The child is no kin to you but is the daughter of a friend.’
Caught between his body and the cupboard, fighting hard against the returning panic, Saran tried to answer calmly.
‘Yes. Edward and Livvy Elwell are friends of mine and I would like to give their daughter a home.’
‘Like.’ He took half a step closer. ‘We all have our likes, Miss Chandler, some can be satisfied free of charge while others must be paid for.’
‘I can pay, I have money.’
As her hand dropped to her pocket the worn shawl fell open and as though drawn by a magnet those glittering snake-like eyes fastened on the small mounds pushing against the blouse Ada Mason had given her.
‘Money does not always purchase what we want.’ Cool and deliberate he touched the topmost button. ‘You want my help . . . it is there for the giving.’
‘the tits, show we the tits . . .’
Suddenly she was back in that beerhouse, the bawdy shouts ringing in her ears, Enoch Jacobs’s touch burning her flesh. Her eyes tight shut against the horror of it, she moaned, ‘The money . . . in my pocket . . . take it, take it all.’
A laugh, hoarse and thick, sounded as he brought his wet mouth against her throat, fingers snatching the buttons free, clutching fingers closing over her breasts, squeezing and crushing. ‘Keep your money . . . I prefer these.’
Lips sliding wetly downward closed over her nipple, sending a shudder of revulsion stinging from head to foot, driving fear before it. Fastening her fingers in the thinning grey hair Saran snatched hard. With his head back almost to his shoulder blades, a gurgle rattled in the governor’s throat then turned to a gasp as, all her strength behind it, she pushed, sending him sprawling across the desk. Following with an equally swift move she flung open the door to the wardress, who every sense told her had been listening.
‘I have come for the Elwell girl,’ she gasped, her fingers trembling as she fastened her blouse.
‘The Elwell girl, she—’
‘Get out!’ Scarlet with fury the governor roared at the wardress’s attempt to reply.
‘The girl, sir?’ the woman asked, averting her eyes from the man scrambling to his feet.
‘The girl stays where her be! And you . . .’ he glared at Saran stood close to the door as the wardress clicked away down the gloomy corridor, ‘you will regret your little display of modesty, false as it was, for you won’t ever see the child you asked for and the child won’t ever see the outside of these walls . . . many folk die in a workhouse, one more won’t never be noticed!’
She had come here to help, to take a child from the suffering and heartbreak life in the workhouse was said to be, to take her and keep her safe for the sake of those two kind people, but all she had done was condemn the child to a possible life of torment.
‘Please,’ she took the coins from her pocket, ‘there are almost ten sovereigns.’
‘Keep it!’ The close-set eyes gleamed their pleasure as he stood straight. ‘You keep your sovereigns . . . I will keep the girl. Now get out or I’ll have the Watch take you out!’
It would do Martha no good to argue, the man was incensed and in this place, where he was accountable to no one, that fury might well be visited upon a helpless child. Turning away she shuddered at the crash of the door being kicked shut. Like Enoch Jacobs, the workhouse governor would grab at any weapon to fight with when denied what he desired, and his particular weapon was the holding of Livvy’s daughter.
‘It be a palace!’ Luke repeated the phrase he had breathed on entering each of the rooms of Brook Cottage but Saran could make no answer. This house with its three bedrooms and small front parlour needed no renovation, it had been carefully prepared to receive herself and Luke; the pretence that repairs were necessary had been a way to ensure they accept the twenty pounds. Saran followed the excited lad back to the comfortable kitchen filled with the warmth of a glowing fire and appetising aroma of roast lamb. She had left the workhouse, running from Meeting Street, but though her breath was gone on reaching the Market Square every moment of the minutes spent with the governor remained strong. Why did fate give a man such as he a position whereby he could ruin other people’s lives, make their days a misery?
‘What’s up Saran?’
Luke had asked the question twice since returning to the kitchen but she had not heard. Now he put it again, catching her hand as she reached for plates.
‘Don’t tell me there be nothing for I knows you ain’t listened to a word. Be it the house . . . be there summat about it as you don’t be easy with?’
The note of regret behind the obvious concern reached where no words had. ‘The house . . .’ she forced her thoughts to come together, ‘the house is perfect, everything we could need is here.’
‘’Cept your heart.’
‘What?’ Surprised by the quiet interruption she stared at the troubled young face.
Letting her hand fall Luke turned his face to the fire. ‘It’s been obvious since my comin’,’ he said quietly, ‘you’ve been looking for a way to say it but you don’t ’ave to for I knows what be troublin’ you; it ain’t proper for a lad and a wench who don’t be no kin to live together in the same house.’
‘Luke . . . Luke, what are you saying?’
He did not turn but his shoulders in their too-small jacket drooped. ‘I be saying you have no cause to feel uneasy . . . I be leavin’.’
When was she ever going to see past her own misery! Again she had failed to recognise the pain she was causing a lad who had no objective other than to give her comfort.
‘Luke.’ She touched a hand to him. ‘The only proper thing left in my life, the one thing giving me a
ny sort of solace is you. You are the one person in the world I turn to for hope, without you my last joy would be gone, you are the rod which supports me . . . without you I don’t want to go on.’
Relief glinting in blue eyes dewy with desperately fought tears Luke turned.
‘If it don’t be as I thought then what do it be, Saran? For you’ve scarce spoke a word and heard far less.’
She had to tell him the whole of the day’s story, Luke was too shrewd to accept anything other than all of it.
‘I set away from the tavern with the intention of coming straight to Brook Cottage.’ Drawing the reluctant Luke after her Saran settled them both in chairs she had earlier drawn to the fire. ‘But I got to thinking of Livvy’s neighbour, the one you asked to care for Martha. I wanted to thank her for sparing time to speak with me the other day and for trying to talk the man from the parish into allowing the child to stay with them in Russell Street . . .’
‘Talk the man into . . . what man?’
Luke was on the edge of his chair, his eyes turning to blue fire as Saran recounted the day’s happenings, how Livvy’s friend had not known the identity of the man come to reclaim Martha, of her visit to the workhouse – leaving out the governor’s attack on her – and about how, after standing some time outside the Coronet Tube Works, she had come here to Brook Cottage.
‘I wanted to face him there, where every man he works with would know the kind of man he is! To shame him into telling me where he has taken Martha.’
‘Who?’ Luke’s hands clenched about the curved arms of his chair. ‘Who were it you wanted to shame?’
‘I wanted to let them all know what he did, how he could take his revenge on a child, but then I realised that to cause a fuss would rebound on you . . . you could be sacked; but I won’t let him get away with what he has done.’
His voice cracking with the first deep notes of manhood Luke leaned forward, grabbing her hand and shaking it until she looked at him.
‘Let who get away? Saran, who be it you wanted to shame?’
Trembling with the emotion which had ripped through her, the answer came raggedly. ‘Gideon Newell . . . it was Gideon Newell I wished to shame.’
‘Gideon Newell!’ The blue fires died, Luke’s hand released its grip. ‘You wished . . . but why!’ He shook his head. ‘Why Gideon?’
A furnace of anger, which had burned in her since discovering the child had been removed from the house of her parents’ friends, glowed still in the bitterness of Saran’s answer.
‘Why? Because his sordid little scheme failed . . . because with William Salisbury’s gift I no longer have to lie with him, be the sixpenny girl he had no need to pay for!’
Brows drawn together in confusion Luke took a moment to answer and when he did it was with a blend of disbelief.
‘Gideon asked that of you . . . asked you to . . .’
‘Why else do you think he forced that agreement on you, one that gave me in exchange for taking Martha out of that terrible place? He knew it was the only way.’
‘Saran, I didn’t—’
‘I’m not blaming you, Luke,’ she cut in swiftly. ‘Like myself, you were willing to accept anything in order to gain that child’s release, and Gideon Newell . . . he was willing to do anything to get his revenge.’
Hanging above the fire the kettle steamed, setting its lid rattling. Understanding having its birth quietly in his mind, Luke reached across and shoved the bracket back against the cast-iron fireplace.
‘We did ’ave an agreement, Gideon and me,’ he said slowly, ‘it was one which involved you.’
‘Luke, you don’t have to . . .’
‘Explain?’ He smiled. ‘One of we has to and I doubts that will be Gideon. What you thinks don’t be the understanding I had with Gideon Newell. True, he placed a price on what he were asked to do and that price were you, Saran, but not to be his . . . his whore; what he demanded were that to get his help I had to agree to your takin’ a room at the house of his mother’s friend . . . that were all, as God be my judge he asked no more.’
He had asked no more! Stunned by Luke’s words, Saran stared into the fire. She had accused Gideon Newell of using Livvy’s daughter as a means to his own ends! Had accused him . . .
Covering her face with her hands she tried to shut out the rest, to silence the words screaming in her mind.
‘A sixpenny girl! You guessed correctly, Miss Chandler; that is all you are worth!’
He had bought the nails cheaply. Telling those families to take the price he offered or to try to sell their products elsewhere had paid off. ‘No other fogger would buy from you,’ he had said, ‘try any other middleman, you will only hear the same answer, “I’m buying no more nails or tacks, there be a glut of them.”’
Folding several five-pound notes, a tall dark-haired man placed them carefully into a pigskin wallet. Doing business his way was proving quite a financial success and one that would go on into the future. It be too much! Climbing into a small carriage he smiled, remembering the wince of Zadok Minch as that man had heard the asking price of this latest shipment, but he had paid.
A satisfied smile touching a handsome mouth he took the reins between strong hands. Yes, Minch had paid . . . and he would go on paying. The man had requirements not all foggers could fulfil, the goods he asked for needed special skills, the touch of an expert, to produce and not every man had such skills, in fact – he flicked the reins, setting the horse to a steady trot – he knew of none other than himself, and Minch knew that also; hence, unwilling as the man might be to do so, he would continue to part with his money. And should the day come when he would not? Cloaked by night shadows the handsome mouth smiled again. That bridge would be crossed when reached and until that time he would enjoy the proceeds a shrewd mind and a clever tongue brought.
It was almost too easy. The seller and the buyer both eager to do business and there was plenty of that to be done so long as men like Zadok Minch existed.
But too much too soon jaded the appetite. The goods acquired solely for one nail master would be held back for a while; it could be they might be said to have been offered for by another . . . the market proved nothing worked so well as competition, and Zadok was not a man to lose a monopoly!
To say that special product was sought after elsewhere . . . that would be excellent play, a mark of the true connoisseur! The clap of hooves the drumming of applause in his ears, Zadok’s handsome visitor drove into the night.
21
It had been several days since apologising to Gideon Newell but the embarrassment of it was as fresh as though it had been done not an hour ago. He had been gracious enough in accepting what she had believed as being a mistake, saying it was one any woman as worried as herself might make, but his handsome mouth had quivered while dark eyes had openly smiled.
Mixing yeast with warm water Saran covered it with a cloth then set it aside to rise. Luke said the matter had not been spoken of between himself and Gideon Newell but for her, in the long hours of the night, the conversation ran again and again.
She had told him of Luke’s exact words, it was nothing he had said had caused her to think as she had, it was all her own constructing. That was when she had seen the smile in those dark eyes, watched the fine mouth quirk.
Spooning flour and salt into a bowl she added lard, rubbing them vigorously together until they were the texture of breadcrumbs.
He had not laughed nor had he rebuked her.
Adding milk to the bowl she blended the whole to a soft pastry. Shaping it on a board she lifted it into a greased tin then added potato and mutton she had diced, finishing the dish with a pastry lid.
‘You were frightened, Miss Chandler. Under such circumstances it is understandable you could misinterpret my intentions.’
Brushing the pie with a little of the milk she carried it to the oven, the words of Gideon Newell clear in her mind.
She had been afraid . . . afraid and upset.
Reac
hing for the large crock bowl in which a quantity of flour had been put to warm, she tipped the bubbling yeast into it then, with a little tepid salt water, mixed the ingredients to a stiff dough.
Why could the man not have been angry?
Placing a clean cloth over the bowl she stood it in a corner of the hearth where the warmth of the fire would help the bread to rise.
Anger she could have understood!
Scooping up the utensils of her cooking she scrubbed each of them in the shallow brownstone sink.
Anger would have been easier to deal with than the shadow of a smile. A show of indignation, animosity or even downright hostility she could have coped with.
Snatching a cloth from a line strung across the scullery she dried each piece in turn, mortification adding a briskness to her fingers.
His giving vent to the anger he must feel would not have made for a pleasant meeting but at least it would not colour her every waking hour as that quiet smile had done.
The dishes finished and put away, she lifted the pie from the oven.
Why was the memory haunting her, why were those dark eyes watching from the depths of her, why would the scene of that meeting not fade from her mind?
She had arranged with Luke to be waiting just beyond the gates of the tube works; that way, to inquisitive eyes, it would seem she was waiting to walk home with him.
Fingers holding the shawl were shaking as the tall dark-eyed man, the boy at his side, had come towards her.
‘Luke said you wish to speak with me.’
The quiet evenness of those few words, the complete absence of displeasure or resentment had thrown the practised apology from her mind and she had stammered awkwardly.
‘I . . . it was wrong . . . I should not . . .’
‘There is no need—’
‘Yes!’ she had interrupted. If he did not listen to her now he might never listen. ‘Yes, there is. I should not have acted the way I did, I might at least have given you a chance to speak.’
Sixpenny Girl Page 21