28
‘She went where!’
It was not a question, it was an explosion and the whole force of Gideon Newell was behind it.
‘Brummajum,’ Edward Elwell answered, confused by the other man’s anger. ‘The lad were tellin’ how it were he got away from the man who had ’im, said a woman . . .’
‘A woman!’ Gideon’s nerves jarred.
‘Ar,’ Edward nodded, ‘said the woman were good to ’im, seen to it ’e were fed . . .’
‘The name . . . did the boy say the woman’s name?’
‘Not so my Livvy remembers.’
No name! Gideon struck restlessly at the doorpost of Edward Elwell’s house. So why had she gone careering off like a demon was at her back? Without a name there could be no telling who the woman was, though he knew who it was Saran Chandler wanted it to be. But what were the chances that woman would be her mother?
She would be in Birmingham by this time. Gideon looked at the sky, the moon hidden by racing clouds. The night was bringing a storm and no coach ran at night; would she find lodging or would she walk home?
He had come to the Elwells in answer to the message brought earlier that day by Saran and had found a still tearful Livvy, and Edward seething yet with an anger that had burned the entire afternoon.
‘Why did you let her go?’
‘Weren’t my choosin’, lad,’ the older man answered the question he knew was an accusation. ‘I wanted to go find that swine, to rip ’is filthy heart out . . . all I could think was to kill ’im for what he’d done to my boy; but Saran, her were all calm, said that I ’ad no proof, that to injure that scum of a man without evidence would put me on the gallows, and where would my loved ones be then? Her said to wait a while ’til I was calmer.’
Where would Edward Elwell’s loved ones be without him!
Gideon almost groaned at the hopelessness encasing his heart. Where was Gideon Newell without his love . . . where would he be when Saran became the wife of Jairus Ensell?
Had she gone to him, had Ensell escorted her to Birmingham? A thread of hope piercing the worry of what might be, he looked again at the man beside him. Edward Elwell was no coward, he would not have stayed behind willingly.
‘I told ’er,’ Edward booted the door frame venting a little of the frustration which, during Saran’s absence, had turned to guilt. ‘I told ’er it should be me go to Brummajum but ’er wouldn’t listen.’
He could well believe that; Saran Chandler could be anything but biddable when she set her stubborn mind to a thing. Gideon touched the other man’s shoulder. ‘Don’t blame yourself, Edward, I fear the Lord and His entire heavenly host couldn’t have stopped her once she heard of that woman.’
‘What’ll we do . . . it be gettin’ late for the wench to be on the road; Livvy already be beside ’erself worryin’ what could come of it.’
‘I’ll go look for her.’
‘I’ll come with you, lad, and don’t say no for I won’t be put off a second time.’
He would rather be alone, Gideon thought as Edward called to tell his wife of his decision. But he could hardly order the other man to stay behind. Keeping silence until they reached the market square, he then said, ‘Perhaps Saran went to ask the help of Jairus Ensell, maybe she is at his house now.’
‘Seems like summat a wench engaged to a man would do.’ Edward nodded agreement. ‘P’raps Ensell went along of ’er to see Minch.’
‘It would be the sensible thing to find out. If you would go enquire I will take the Birmingham Road. The quicker we find Saran the easier we will both be.’ Leaving the other man, Gideon ran in the direction of the Turk’s Head inn. If there were a horse, Ben Mason would see he had the use of it.
She had clung to Jairus. Safe now in his carriage, Saran used the darkness like a cloak to hide the shame of what had happened, but the need now driving like wild horses deep within her she would never hide, she would let it blaze, let it burn on until revenge was hers.
She had taken Jairus’s hand, had hidden her fear on his shoulder, wanting only to be out of that house, but as Zadok had laughed, as he had spoken her mother’s name, she had turned to look at him.
Standing upright, making no effort to conceal his bare flesh, he had laughed but deep in those fat-shrouded eyes had gleamed the fires of hell and his words had spat like molten lava from between clenched teeth.
‘You asked did I whip your mother half to death same as I whipped the boy?’ he gloated. ‘The answer be no, it wasn’t half done, I finished that job . . . down there in the kitchen I made the whip sing, I finished the worn-out bitch and her young ’un along of her!’
She had stared at the heavy face, the world withdrawing then sweeping back, all she could think of was where . . . where are they buried?
‘Buried?’ He had laughed at the question she had not realised she asked. ‘I neither knows nor cares, a sovereign took care o’ that, same as it sees to all the shit needs collecting from my house.’
Jairus had raised the whip then but, suddenly calm, strangely in complete control and all fear of the nail master gone, she had laid a restraining hand on his arm.
‘No,’ she had heard herself say in an even voice. ‘Not that way.’ Then freeing herself of Jairus’s hold, she had taken one step forward. ‘I have hated the thought of you ever since the night you bought my mother and my sister, purchasing them as you might a dog; hated you though I did not know you; now I do and that hatred has become loathing, a detestation. You are an abomination, one which I swear before God I will remove. I will destroy your life as you destroyed those of my mother and sister. From this day I make this my solemn oath: I will tear down your life, piece by piece. I will not stop until I see you grovel as you made my family grovel. The whip I use will not be of plaited leather and its slash will leave no weal, but its bite will be every bit as deep, every bit as painful. The strokes I make will not cut into your flesh as yours cut into that of my mother and sister, but each will take a little of your life, it will slice away your arrogance and pride until nothing is left. This is my promise to you, though it should take my own life I will see you ruined!’
Words! They had been her only amunition. But they would not become an empty threat. Somehow she would find a way to give them meaning, one day she would see them fulfilled.
Curled in upon herself in the dimness of Jairus’s carriage Saran did not notice the dark outline of a horseman rein in to watch the vehicle go sweeping past, nor did she hear the softly spoken words which said, ‘Thank God, she’s safe.’
‘The candle lamps bobbin’ in the distance said as it were a carriage and we guessed it would be Ensell. We thought he were coming to call on Saran but her were in that carriage along of him.’
Sat on a pile of iron tubes Gideon listened to Luke’s explanation as they ate their midday meal.
‘Don’t ask how he knowed Saran were at Minch’s house, but I thanks God he went there.’
How had he known? Gideon chewed on bread and cheese. Was the girl the real reason of Ensell’s visit to the nail master or was his finding her there a surprise? Whichever way it didn’t much matter so long as Saran had been escorted safely back to Brook Cottage.
‘Saran wouldn’t say what had gone on atwixt her and Minch, said only as her family weren’t at that house.’ Luke bit into his own sandwich, juggling the food in his mouth in his eagerness to talk. ‘But Mrs Elwell could see her were upset and went to take her on up to her room. It were when Ensell were ’anded back the coat he had wrapped around Saran that it were seen . . .’
Seen! Gideon’s breath held in his throat. What was it had been seen . . . an injury . . . had Saran been harmed in some way?
‘Mrs Elwell, her screamed so I nearly jumped into termorrer!’ Luke continued. ‘At first I thought something must be wrong with Saran but then I seen for meself, it weren’t no such . . .’
Relief almost painful, Gideon released his pent up breath. Had she come to harm he would have killed M
inch with his own hands.
‘Livvy . . . Mrs Elwell,’ Luke corrected himself, ‘her caught sight of what Saran were holdin’, it were a bit scruffy and screwed up but you could tell it were a doll. Her kept saying it were her Martha’s doll, that her had stitched it from a worn-out frock and sewed eyes and mouth with bits of wool on a piece of cloth to make the face; kept cryin’ that her babby, her little wench had took the doll with her to the workhouse.’
‘She said it was the same doll she had made for her daughter?’
‘Ar.’ Luke bit again into his sandwich as he nodded. ‘Said her would know it anywheres, said it had a rip along of its back and the rip were pulled together with stitches big enough to anchor a warship, that were due to Martha sewin’ it up herself, and sure enough there it was, ’zactly as her said.’
So how did Saran come by it? She couldn’t have had it before leaving for Birmingham or Livvy would have known of it.
Almost as if the thought had been spoken aloud, Luke answered it. ‘Saran were flummoxed, we could tell the way her looked at the thing that her hadn’t the knowing of how her ’ad come to be holdin’ it.’
She hadn’t known of it. Gideon took a swallow from the jug of cider the errand runner had brought in from the inn across from the Bullen. The only other explanation was Ensell!
‘Saran couldn’t say how her had come by that doll but Ensell was quick enough to answer.’ Luke took the jug and quenched his thirst. ‘He apologised for having forgotten about the doll, said all thought of it went right out of his mind when he heard Saran had took the coach for Birmingham.’
‘But how come he had it in the first place?’
The steam whistle announcing the ending of their meal break, Luke shook the crumbs from the cloth which had held his sandwich, folding it so it fitted into his pocket. ‘Said as a collier had found it out on the heath near to Ryders coal pit but seeing as his family were all lads he had no use for a wench’s toy. Ensell heard the others playin’ the fool, pulling the pitman’s leg sayin’ he should keep the doll against his missis havin’ the next babby, and him shakin’ his head and sayin’ there wouldn’t be no more now he’d found out what caused ’em; seems at that he throwed the thing back over his head and it landed in Ensell’s carriage. He had been about to reach it out when a business colleague had called to him and after that had forgotten all about it.’
The toy had been found over against Ryders colliery! Following into the heat and noise of the tube works Gideon frowned. That whole area of Wednesbury was riddled with abandoned gin pits, their open shafts deep enough to swallow a man without trace; those spending all of their lives as miners treated that part of the heath with caution, but a child . . . ? It would have no chance!
Manoeuvring short iron tubes heated to the point of fusion on the draw bench, Gideon hammered the two pieces, butt-welding the iron into one longer tube before signalling for it to be removed. Supposing Livvy’s daughter had somehow come to be on the heath, how had she got there? Busy as his hands, his mind formed question after question. Somebody had to have taken her there . . . somebody perhaps wanting rid of her!
With his hammer ringing on iron, he let his mind run free. The governor of the workhouse had said the child had been taken by a gentleman . . . Jairus Ensell was naught but a fogger, a middleman who got his living by taking every farthing he could slice from a nailer’s earnings, but those slices added up to a nice fat whole; but was it that whole or was it his grandmother’s money paid for clothes and carriage which marked him as a gentleman?
Pausing to wipe perspiration from his brow Gideon caught Luke’s smile across the body of the factory. Luke had no love for Jairus Ensell, seeing the man as no partner for Saran. Returning to the iron tubes glowing on the draw bench Gideon owned to the reason of his wild thoughts. They were the product of bitterness, of jealousy. Jairus Ensell had taken the girl he loved, leaving him prey to every kind of feeling. But much as he cared for Saran he should not give way to thoughts such as the ones edging into his mind, making him ready to suspect Ensell of . . .
‘Hey up there, Gideon, be you butt-weldin’ them toobs or be you hammerin’ ’em flat!’
Recalled to the task in hand Gideon smiled, but somehow the smile was empty.
‘Be you calling on the Elwells later?’ Having said goodnight to the watchman at the works’ gate, Luke turned to Gideon.
‘Not tonight, Livvy needs rest and Edward will do best to stay with her. The work on the warehouse will take no harm from being put back for a while, but you might tell them I was asking after them.’
‘I’ll do that, and should I tell Saran the same?’
For a moment it seemed Gideon would not answer, then already turning away he said quietly, ‘Please give Miss Chandler my regards.’
‘give Miss Chandler my regards’
Irritatingly the words played in Luke’s brain. Regards . . . tcha! What was the matter with Gideon, why the hell not even try for Saran, why give Ensell a clear field! Leave it much longer and it would be too late, she would have married the man, would be the wife of Jairus Ensell . . . Christ, the thought alone gave him the creeps! Lord, if only he were older he would try for Saran himself . . . What would it take to make her see, make her realise that one was not a man for her? They hadn’t exactly known him for years but one thing Luke Hipton were sure of, the centre of Jairus Ensell’s world were Jairus Ensell, he . . .
A slight movement, a rippling of the shadows to his left had the thoughts slip from his brain like water from a jug. The heath was empty, devoid of movement, yet it was a movement had him suddenly still. From the distance the clang of nailers’ hammers echoed faint in the darkness, their beat challenged by the thump of Luke’s chest. It was not wages day, he had no tin, surely any thief would know that. His breathing slow and shallow he listened to the song of the night. Rustlings in the coarse grass, the whisper of leaves tossed by a light breeze, the hoot of a barn owl. But it was none of these had lifted the hackles on his neck.
Above his head clouds, dense and thick, cleared momentarily, flooding the heath with silver light, yet it showed Luke’s swift gaze nothing but the ribbon of road leading to the villages of Ocker Hill and Gospel Oak, and the track he was standing on. But he was not alone, his every fibre told him something watched, waiting its chance. Was he to suffer the same fate as little Martha Elwell . . . would he find a hard bed at the bottom of some pit shaft? But his death would not be as that of Edward’s child, his would be no accident as a result of wandering across that mine-pocked heath; whatever it was waiting beyond the edge of sight would find Luke Hipton no easy prey!
Thought was simple, but persuading himself to move on that was something else. Pulling in a breath he forced his legs to move. Why was it waiting . . . but then why call what watched from beneath the cover of darkness a thing? There were no wild animals roamed the heath apart from foxes and rabbits and they were hardly likely to stalk a human.
Behind or beside! His nerves stretched taut, veins throbbing from the pain of blood suddenly turned solid, he strove to define where the sound had come from. It had not been his own breathing yet it was breathing; short, rapid, nervous as himself, something breathed close by. Hands doubling into fists, teeth clenched, Luke began a slow turn, his gaze scything the shadows. Nothing! Brook Cottage was within shouting distance, he glanced at the oblong of light that was a window. But what stalked his steps would strike at the first call, better to go on, get as close to the house as he could.
His senses strained to the limit he moved, then froze as a hand gripped hard to his shoulder.
Livvy had been a woman demented. Having stayed with Ezekiel only long enough to agree to his proposal to fill several more casks with wheat wine, Saran had finished her bread deliveries with the same speed then hurried home to throw herself into the making of the next day’s supplies. She had not truly realised what a help Livvy was with the baking. She lifted a flour-covered hand to her hot cheek, pausing long enough to draw a tired bre
ath. But Livvy would be in no state to work for days to come.
She had snatched the little rag doll, holding it to her face, crying her daughter’s name over and over. Setting dough to rise in the corner of the hearth Saran relived the heartbreak.
‘My babby be dead, my little wench be dead.’
The repeated words had drifted behind as Edward had half carried the distraught Livvy to their home.
They had got her at last to bed and she had stayed in the room with Edward until sleep claimed Livvy, then she had returned to Brook Cottage. Jairus had gone. Saran straightened from the hearth, only now remembering he had offered no help to Edward, given no assistance in getting Livvy to her own house. But that was understandable, Jairus would feel responsible . . . feel he was to blame by having left the toy in his carriage; feel he had, although unwittingly, brought more grief to the Elwells.
But what Livvy felt was more than grief, more than sorrow. The woman knew, as she herself knew, the misery of heartbreak. Her little girl was lost to her for ever, as Miriam and their mother were lost. The child was dead as surely as they were dead and, like Livvy, she would never know the lonely grave that held her dear ones.
A tap at the door claiming her attention Saran turned to see Edward, cap in hand, standing just inside the scullery. He looked so desperately tired. She felt her heart go out in sympathy. He could not have slept at all yet had insisted on carrying on with the day’s work.
‘I brought the tallies for the day.’ He held out a fistful of paper slips.
He would not agree to let things lie over until tomorrow. Saran thought quickly, searching for a way which would do no injury to the man’s quiet pride.
‘Edward,’ she glanced meaningfully at the evidence of her own exhausting efforts, ‘would you mind if we did not fill in the accounts tonight? I . . . I’m so tired I really need to rest. Perhaps we can do them tomorrow.’
‘You does too much, me and my Livvy ’ave said it afore now.’ He laid the slips on a board set close to the scullery sink. ‘That don’t be all we’ve said and now I be saying the same to you; God bless you, Saran Chandler, God bless you for your kindness to me and mine.’
Sixpenny Girl Page 29