Forcing her mind under control she placed both hands on the woman’s heaving shoulders while keeping her touch and voice gentle.
‘Mother,’ she asked quietly, ‘where is Miriam?’
A series of stifled sobs hindering the reply, Saran felt the touch of fear close like a block of ice about her heart.
‘I . . . I don’t be knowing . . .’
So it had come at last. Choked with tears the one sentence Saran dreaded hearing more than any other fought its way past the woman’s grief. The long-prayed-for miracle had only been half granted; her mother was restored to her but her sister was still lost. But she would find her. Gathering the weeping woman once more in her arms Saran gazed at the dreaded door through tear-glazed eyes. Yes, given God’s help she would find her sister.
‘It was lucky I saw you, it’s not often I find myself that way but I was visiting an elderly cousin of my mother and Meeting Street was the shorter route back to the town.’
‘I’m very grateful to you, I don’t know how I could have managed on my own.’
‘And I am grateful fate gave me an extra opportunity to be with you, Saran . . . albeit for a little while.’
The name slipped easily from Jairus Ensell’s tongue, the smile curving his handsome mouth matching its smoothness; and as he took her hand, raising it to his mouth, his voice became soft.
‘I pray that same fate might smile upon me daily.’
‘That would be an incursion on your time and I would not be responsible for that.’ Saran blushed.
Smoky eyes lifted to hers, fingers tightening on the hand she shyly tried to pull away. ‘My time is yours,’ he said quietly, ‘I want you to take every minute of it . . . I want—’
‘That tea be wanted now!’
Framed in the doorway that gave on to the stairs Luke glared at the scene being played. He could guess what Ensell were at, the same game so many of the likes of him played: win a girl’s gratitude and you’d won your way into her bed. But Jairus Ensell were not going to find his prey in this house, nor out of it, if Luke Hipton had any say in the matter. His stare unrelenting he watched their visitor take up his tall hat. There were no need for him to come to Brook Cottage; true, he had helped Saran bring home a woman too overcome with grief to walk unaided, and what with the hand cart and all! But that didn’t mean Ensell had to call again tonight!
Seeing Saran’s smile, hearing her soft acquiescent reply to his request for permission to call again, Luke felt the animosity to the man build into a wall. Why couldn’t Saran smile at Gideon Newell in that way, why couldn’t her words to him be sweetly said as they were to Ensell, why did her favour that one above Gideon? Women! He swallowed hard. They had little sense while they was babbies and it seemed they had none at all when they was growed!
He waited for the door to close on Jairus Ensell before reaching for the tray stood alongside an ancient wooden dresser, its shelves filled now with pretty plates, cups and dishes Saran had bought from a potter whose house stood at the end of the lane which had taken the name from the trade once prevalent there. ‘I’ll tek this upstairs,’ he said as Saran returned to the kitchen. ‘You set yourself by the fire and rest.’
‘You are a sweetheart and I love you.’ Dropping a kiss on his cheek Saran smiled as he rubbed a hand ferociously over the spot. ‘But you have done enough already and after a day in the tube works you are the one should rest.’
Busying himself setting cups on the tray Luke thought of the man just left. Had Saran fallen in love with him? If she must have a sweetheart, why not Gideon Newell, a man worthy of her? P’raps telling her, telling her Jairus Ensell were no man to trust her life to . . . but it were no business of his what Saran did or who her gave her heart to; he was just Luke Hipton, a runaway from the workhouse, a lad who, purposefully or not, had caused the death of a wardress. A murderer! Luke felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. That is what the law would call him should it ever suspect the part he had played in that drama. But, like the drowning of Saran’s stepfather, the death of that hateful woman had never been reported in any newspaper or any Watch station he had dared to look at; but still in his worst nightmares he felt the heavy hand of the Night Watch fasten on his shoulder and heard the words, ‘taken to a place of execution’.
Bringing the teapot from the hob Saran caught the look on Luke’s face, a look that perfectly portrayed the feelings she sometimes still woke to in the depths of the night when imagination mingled with the darkness, bringing again the horror of those hands touching beneath the bedcovers, the loathsome mouth whispering its sick lies in her ear, when her whole body stiffened with the nauseating fear that had been Enoch Jacobs; that was the look she saw now, Luke was afraid as she once had been.
Setting the prettily painted teapot on the table she went quickly to him and this time he made no effort to rub away the touch of her face against his cheek.
‘What is it, Luke?’ she asked quietly.
For a moment Luke wallowed in the luxury of being held, allowing memory to replace Saran’s arms with those of his mother, letting her lips become the ones that had so many times kissed him and Emmie goodnight; but it wasn’t his mother, it was Saran, and she must not think him a cry baby. Breaking away he kept his face averted, using the excuse of fetching milk from the scullery in order to dash away the tears rising to his eyes.
Taking the milk jug from him, adding a little to each cup then filling them with tea, Saran understood the defiant pride of the lad and, respecting it, asked no more questions, instinct telling her it was old memories had painted the look of fear on the young face. But Luke need fear no more institutions, they had a home and, whatever else may happen, she would defy heaven itself to keep it.
‘Her be woke now.’ Luke gave a sideways nod towards the stairs door. ‘Her said yes when I asked would her like a nice cup o’ tea but lessen you gets a move on I reckons her’ll be asleep again without ever ’avin’ a taste of it.’
He was chiding her in order to take her attention from himself. Smiling to herself Saran picked up the stout wooden tray. Luke Hipton was a sweetheart but he wasn’t quite as smart as he would have himself think.
‘my girl don’t be inside that workhouse’
Carrying the tray slowly up the narrow staircase, Saran let her mind return yet again to the scene in Meeting Street. She had literally thrown the hand cart aside, running to that thin figure whose skirts spread like a dark cloud as it crouched beside that closed door, drawing it into her arms, pressing kisses to the shawl-covered head, her heart leaping with a wild singing joy. Her mother was returned to her; heaven had, after all, heard the prayer of a broken heart. At first she had not believed her sister was not in that squat austere building begging the charity of the parish, it was only after the words were repeated that the horror of them hit her. Halfway up the stairs she paused, wanting the rest of her thoughts to go away, thoughts in which she had almost believed her mother had managed to escape while leaving Miriam to her fate. How could she have imagined such! Guilt tripped her senses as she forced herself to go on, each step of the stair a mountain it took all of her determination to climb.
‘Where is Miriam?’
In the silence the words rang in her mind as clearly as if spoken aloud, and the answer followed close behind. ‘I don’t be knowing!’
She had held the thin quivering figure in her arms while her brain had reeled from the blow; Miriam was still lost to them.
Stood on the small landing Saran breathed deeply, trying to still the shaking of her hand which had the cups rattling on the tray. There was enough sadness in that small bedroom, she must not add to it.
Tapping at the door with the toe of one boot she waited until it opened. Stepping inside she lay the tray on a small table set to one side of the bed then, straightening, smiled at the figure lying there in a white cambric nightgown, grey hair, combed and braided, lying over each shoulder and highlighting the pale sad face.
‘I thought you might apprec
iate some tea,’ she said, holding a cup for the trembling hand to take.
‘Saran, wench, this be right good of you.’
Looking at the figure in the bed, Saran shook her head. ‘It is no more than Edward and you did for Luke and myself, Livvy, I am only glad I was in time to prevent you signing the both of you into the workhouse.’
How was it she had made such a mistake . . . how could she not have known the figure she held in her arms was not that of her mother?
Having sponged and dried her body, Saran slipped a plain cotton nightgown over her head.
Why had she not recognised the voice as being different, had she not heard that of her mother all the sixteen years of her life?
Taking her hairbrush from the small dressing table she had bought from a second-hand shop she drew it slowly through her hair.
But she had not stopped to think or to ask how. She had seen the crouched figure and suddenly all reason had flown on the wind; it was her mother . . . it had to be her mother. And there was the reason for the mistake! She had wanted that reunion so badly, prayed for it so many times, a need in her driving so hard, that rhyme or reason had found no place in her thinking on seeing what her heart had so long desired.
Laying the brush aside, unmindful of the paler streaks the sunlight had painted in her light brown hair, she weaved the heavy strands between her fingers, twining them expertly into plaits on the ends of which she fastened narrow white ribbons.
Longing had made her blind and deaf to all except what she wanted to see and hear, and longing had played her false! Her toilet finished she knelt beside the bed, resting her forehead on clasped hands. It was not her mother and sister she had been reunited with today, but heaven had demonstrated its mercy and thanks must be given. Murmuring her prayers she ended with the words said so many times before, ‘Lord, watch over my family, keep them from harm and, if it be Thy will, send them back to me.’
Settled in her bed, the candle blown out, Saran’s brain refused to rest. In the shadows cast by a silver moon phantom figures moved, playing out the rest of what had happened outside the workhouse.
‘My girl, my little wench, they say her don’t be in there but her has to be, I took her there meself along of her brother.’
Held close against her shoulder the woman had spoken, but her words, muffled and interspersed with sobs, had failed at first to make any impression on Saran’s consciousness. Then, like a stone splashing into water, it had struck, ripples of understanding spreading and widening, forcing itself to the forefront of her mind.
‘along of her brother’
Each word had been the clang of a bell, leaving her brain reverberating, sounding and resounding until at last she had taken the frail shoulders again in her hands, forcing the woman to look into her face.
What had she felt then! Saran’s eyes closed tight and, though the silvered shadows were cut off, the pictures still played across her eyelids. Her agony had shown! The look on Livvy’s face and her strangled cry, ‘I be sorry,’ had proved that. It had taken minutes for the shock to fade and the disappointment to become thankfulness that at least Livvy was returned to her home. But then the woman had sobbed out her story. Edward and she had found no work, they had tried in towns and villages but everywhere was the same, no hands were wanted. So Livvy had no home.
‘I ’ad to come back.’
The sobbed words seemed to echo in the silence of the night, and as Saran’s eyes opened the woman’s stricken face stared at her from the shadows.
‘I ’ad to see my babbies, hold ’em once more afore I die . . . but they don’t be ’ere; them inside says they be took out . . .’
It had become too much for Livvy then and she had slumped forward, her slight weight pressing Saran back on her heels. She had been struggling to lift the sobbing Livvy to her feet when two strong hands had taken the limp figure, lifting it easily then supporting it with a strong arm while Saran herself clambered upright. Lying in her bed she remembered the rush of relief she had felt at seeing the tall man, a quizzical anxiety marking his handsome face as he reached his free hand to help her to stand.
‘What is happening here?’
Jairus Ensell had kept hold of her hand while asking the question and now, in the darkness of her room, her cheeks burned with the pleasure of his touch.
At that moment Edward had stepped back into the street and she had pulled quickly free but her nerves had trembled from the knowledge that Jairus Ensell looked only at her.
‘They says as they ’ave no name for the man that took our children!’
He had looked helplessly at his wife who collapsed against Jairus, her cries pitiful to hear. Jairus! In the soft intimacy of shadow a smile curved Saran’s lips. He had been so kind, offering to pay for lodgings for the Elwells, then when she had said they must come to Brook Cottage he had half carried the weeping Livvy the whole of the way, giving no heed to the dried mud brushing from her skirts on his costly clothes; and reaching the house he had drawn water from the well, tipping it into the brick boiler built into the brewhouse then lighting a fire beneath it so Livvy and Edward could both take a warm bath.
So much care for others and for herself – the blush returned, hot and disturbing – those deep eyes had never been far from her face, those hands always there to help; brushing against her own, touching yet not touching. And this evening he had returned with clothing he said was no longer required by his aunt or himself, waving away the thanks of a grateful Edward who had carried them upstairs to his wife.
There had been no onus upon Jairus to give assistance, no responsibility, yet he had done so willingly just as he had several times previously; he had also repeated his promise to continue to search for the whereabouts of her family and now those of Livvy’s children. He had shown nothing but consideration from their very first meeting, wanting no more than friendship; but was that all she wanted or had the touch of those fingers, the warmth in those dusky sensual eyes aroused a deeper feeling?
Restless with the emotions churning inside her she climbed from the narrow bed, going to stand at the window that looked out over heathland flirting with dancing beams of silver moonlight.
Had she read too much into what was meant to be no more than a helping hand . . . was she allowing herself to see what was not really there?
‘My time is yours.’
The intoxication of the softly whispered words quickened the flow of blood along her veins, fanning the embers of the fires they had lit, but they had meant nothing! Saran rested her forehead on the window-pane, seeking its coolness.
‘I want you to take every minute of it . . . I want—’
What was it he would have said had not Luke interrupted? What was it Jairus Ensell wanted?
Lifting her face from the cool glass she stared out over the moonlit emptiness, a heavier and more pressing question in her heart.
What was it Saran Chandler wanted?
23
That bloody cheat of a fogger had tried his tricks again! Zadok Minch fondled the slender-limbed body lying beside him on the wide bed. The price had had to be raised in accordance with the difficulty of obtaining specialised goods. Had to be raised! Irritation tightened his fingers on tender flesh, causing his companion to protest. The price, though, hadn’t been all of what was raised; his temper had not merely kept pace with inflation, it had exceeded it. The fogger had shrugged elegantly coated shoulders, saying he could always sell elsewhere, and yes, there were others in Brummajum would pay. But that avaricious swine knew that to keep the price he must keep the circle of buyers small . . . too wide and goods lost their intrinsic value.
Smart! Zadok stroked the white thigh. But not as smart as Zadok Minch; he had told that fogger what to do with what he had for sale, though the following of such advice would mean the man being unable to sit down for a very long while.
‘What are you smiling about?’
An attractive face lifted from its place on his shoulder as Zadok chuckled.
At the answer violet eyes darkened, a full-lipped mouth tightening.
‘You promised, Zadok,’ the husky voice had an edge of pique, ‘you promised me there would be no more!’
‘And I’ve kept me word.’ Zadok hid the irritation prickling his skin. How many more bloody times would he say that before it became one time too many!
‘There is only me, isn’t there, Zadok?’
For the present! Zadok kept the thought cloistered in his mind; this one gave the sort of pleasure he wanted, but pleasure could be offset if the giver became too demanding, and there was always another strumpet to be found.
‘There be only you,’ he lied, trailing a hand over a flat stomach. ‘I were smiling at thought of the fogger that were here a while since. He were trying to raise the price of some special nails I were wanting but he reckoned without Zadok Minch, I pay no man over the odds, I told him he couldn’t raise nothing with me.’
Sixpenny Girl Page 23