Sixpenny Girl

by Meg Hutchinson

  It had been several hours since Edward had called. Glancing at the tin clock set on the mantelshelf Saran felt a tingle of alarm. Luke was never long in coming after Edward brought the day’s tally. His own day’s work finished he would sit with her and she would teach him accounting as her father had taught her. But tonight Luke had not come home.

  Trying to take her mind from worry she moved about the kitchen moving things, tidying what had been tidied a dozen times before. Where was Luke? He had never been as late as this!

  Too restless to sit she wandered to the window, staring out into the blackness. The heath was dangerous even in daytime, open shafts overgrown by heather and ling dotted every part of it, waiting for the unwary. Could Luke have strayed from the track, had the tragedy of Livvy’s daughter happened all over again? No . . . She rejected the thought. Luke was too wise for that, he knew the hazard of the heath at night. Yet where was he? Turning, she glanced again at the clock. Perhaps the owner of the tube works had asked him to stay on, to help complete some urgent order. And if he had not? Catching up her shawl Saran wrapped it over her head.

  There was a way in which to find out!

  29

  Zadok’s visitor stretched long legs, crossing one leather-booted foot over the other.

  ‘I don’t want it!’ Zadok kicked at the brass fender set around an ornate fireplace.

  The nail master’s temper had not been improved by the attack made upon him. A knife the woman had used . . . Zadok had not seen that coming. An amused smile stayed behind the visitor’s closed lips. The great Zadok Minch attacked by a woman! And one no doubt already half dead from neglect; anyone need only look at the man’s wife to see how servants were treated in this house.

  ‘You can tek it back where you got it from for I wants no truck wi’ it!’

  His long fingers tapping against a well-formed mouth Zadok’s visitor remained silent. Let the nail master rant on, let him get some of his anger out then it could well be business as usual.

  ‘A knife blade in the arm,’ Zadok fumed, ‘’ad I not been so quick it could ’ave been in the heart . . . in the bloody heart, I tells you! But her paid. Oh, her paid all right, that seen her off !’ Eyes hot with unspent fury glanced at the long-handled whip stood beside the fireplace. ‘Knife be no match for a whip . . . seen her off, it did.’

  ‘The woman ran away?’ It was asked merely as a vent to syphon more of the wrath. The sooner the steam had gone out of Zadok the sooner he would settle to business, and business was all he himself was here for.

  ‘Ran away!’ Zadok laughed harshly. ‘Her couldn’t stand let alone run, not after I were finished with her! Her were bloody well dead and serve her right . . . nobody raises a knife to Zadok Minch and walks away; and that one paid the penalty. Like I told that Chandler wench when her called here, nobody raises a hand to Zadok Minch.’

  Seeing his visitor’s eyebrows raise Zadok growled. ‘Ar, and afore you gets any bright ideas, her weren’t invited. Come off her own bat, but I sent her away with a flea in her ear!’

  ‘And that was all she was given, a flea in her ear . . . nothing between her legs? Not becoming choosy, are we Zadok?’

  ‘You knows me . . .’ the heavy jowls moved as the rumble of a laugh threatened the older man’s still uncertain temper, ‘swings and roundabouts, I likes both.’

  Watching the older man, Zadok’s visitor gauged the situation. Flatter the man’s sexual ego and the deal was as good as done. ‘And ride both equally well, I’ve no doubt,’ he smiled.

  ‘I gets my entertainment . . .’ This time the laugh rolled free of the heavy chest. ‘I sees to that.’

  ‘So why not the Chandler girl?’

  ‘I likes to choose who I teks my pleasure with and that one I had no liking for . . . too skinny by ’alf; a man gets no enjoyment from lying on a hard bed, and tumbling a bony woman be the same . . . no pleasure in it!’

  A little longer, lead the nail master just a little further before returning to business. He must get the man to buy the goods, money was in short supply and any chance could not be allowed to slip from the fingers. Keeping his face blank Zadok’s visitor rearranged long legs before asking, ‘So why, if you had given no invitation, why did the Chandler girl come here to your home?’

  As he touched a hand to his wounded arm, Zadok’s face darkened. ‘Bloody cheek!’ he spat. ‘And that one downstairs bringin’ ’er up to the sitting room! That were summat her paid for an’ all. My word be law in this house and everybody best see they sticks to it!’

  ‘That is only as it should be.’ The dark head nodded in sympathy.

  ‘I allows nobody to question me, nobody meks accusations! I be master . . . the wench found that out when the whip caressed her shoulders. I could ’ave finished her then, dealt with her as I dealt with the one give me this . . .’ Zadok rested his free hand gently on the arm caught up in a silken sling. ‘I could have seen her off for good ’cept I wanted to see her face, see the look on it when I told her the mother and sister her asked about were dead, courtesy of that whip.’

  There had been enough questions concerning the Chandler girl, any more and the nail master’s vitriolic temper would flare again, and spending half an evening soothing this man was not the object of the exercise. Drawing in his long legs, Zadok’s visitor leaned forward in the deep leather armchair, his dark eyes approving.

  ‘I’ve no doubt you had worthy cause to do as you did, your judgement has always proved sound, as it will again if you accept this latest consignment.’

  ‘The world be full of bloody fools!’ Zadok’s raucous laugh echoed from the walls of the tasteful room. ‘I thought her downstairs were daft but you be more so if you thinks I be going to buy what you brought tonight. I told you, I don’t want it; now you tek your nails and the rest of the rubbish you brought with you and sell ’em to whoever be willing, but that man ain’t Zadok Minch!’

  ‘Estate!’ Charity Newell looked up from her mending. ‘Whatever give you that idea?’

  ‘One or two things Luke has said.’

  ‘Then Luke has got it wrong, the lad be mixed up in his thinking.’

  It would be unlike Luke to get his facts wrong. Gideon rested his head on the back of the chair which had been his father’s. The boy was sharp in his thinking, he carried a wise head on young shoulders.

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Gideon put thought into words. ‘Luke has mentioned it more than once in conversations, the estate belonging to Jairus Ensell’s grandmother.’

  The mending resting in her lap Charity looked at her son. ‘Mebbe it don’t be as wide known as it were, not now so many of the old folk ’ave gone to their rest but there still be one or two in Wednesbury can tell you the same as I tells you. The only estate Jessie Tandy ever knowed was that belongin’ to Silas Thursfield, the owner of several collieries. Flighty piece, were Jessie, flaunting what her had wherever her thought it would do her a bit o’ good. Well, her flaunted her charms one time too many and tumbled to Thursfield. The fact her were pregnant cut no ice with that man’s wife, Amelia Thursfield sent her packing . . . only her give her naught to pack. Seen her off without the shillings Jessie had worked for, said her had the pay her deserved. So what does Jessie do then but play her game with Thomas Ensell. That man had no more than a tiny cottage and half an acre of land out along Moxley way, but he could give name to the child he knew nothing about, so Jessie dupes him into marrying her and that half acre were the only estate Jairus Ensell’s grandmother ever had, and, so far as be known to me, her lives there still. So whoever be filling young Luke’s head with a different tale be—’

  A knock at the door breaking off her account Charity set aside her mending, going to open it.

  ‘I beg pardon for disturbing you . . .’

  Gideon’s heart stopped, then began a race which churned the blood in his veins. Saran! It was Saran had knocked at the door.

  ‘It is a liberty coming to your home but, please, I had to ask . . . Is Luke here,
is he with Gid— Mr Newell?’

  ‘Luke? No, wench, the lad don’t be here, but come you in.’

  ‘No, no I must not impose.’

  The trembling voice answering his mother’s firm one brought Gideon to his feet.

  ‘There is no imposition in your calling here, Miss Chandler,’ he said, ‘but please accept my mother’s invitation to step inside.’

  ‘It’s Luke.’ Hazel eyes wide with worry looked first at Charity then at the man beside her. ‘He has not come home . . . I thought perhaps he might be with you.’

  Frowning, Gideon shook his head. ‘He left the works with me, we walked across the Bullen together, same as always, the watchman will tell you the same.’

  ‘I called at the tube works, the watchman said Luke and you left together that is why I thought—’

  ‘The lad ain’t been to this house,’ Charity answered. ‘I bet he be dawdlin’ in the town somewheres, lads of that age find mischief in the most unlikely places.’

  ‘Luke would not loiter in the town.’ Saran pulled her shawl closer. ‘Forgive my intrusion, Mrs Newell . . .’

  ‘Wait up, wench!’ Charity said quickly. ‘You can’t go searchin’ on your own and as for crossing the heath and nobody with you . . .’

  ‘My mother is right.’ Blood still pumping like a steam engine Gideon reached for his jacket. ‘It isn’t safe for you to return to Brook Cottage alone and certainly not to enquire in some of the taverns. I will take you home and if Luke is still not returned then I’ll look for him.’

  There had been no ‘will you allow me’. Charity Newell closed her door, her mind thoughtful. Gideon had not asked would the wench allow him to see her home, and his eyes as he’d looked at her . . . Oh, it had been Mr Newell and Miss Chandler between them, but Gideon’s eyes . . .

  Returning to her chair she picked up her mending but her fingers remained still, her glance lost in the heart of the fire.

  Gideon had appeared cool, his words calm, but his eyes . . . they had told a different story.

  He had looked in every place he had thought Luke likely to be and in several he had hoped the lad never to be. Where in the name of heaven could he have got to . . . where else was there left to look?

  From the hill overlooking the town the parish church of St Bartholomew chimed eleven. It had been several hours since his leaving Saran at Brook Cottage. He had suggested she stay with the Elwells ’til his return with Luke but she had refused, saying they had troubles enough without sharing hers.

  Her face had been so pale, her hazel eyes glistening with tears she was fighting so hard to hold back, and himself? Gideon’s mouth tightened. He had fought hard to prevent himself taking her in his arms, to tell her of the feelings that made his nights unbearable, to tell her of the love that burned so deep his heart was afire. But he had not, he had simply promised he would find Luke.

  That was proving a promise he could not keep. Had he searched as thoroughly as he might or had he been somehow sidetracked? Or was it an accident, had Luke daydreamed as he crossed the heath, had the mouth of some gorse-covered shaft opened beneath his feet? Gideon rejected the thought. Think, he told himself, think logically. But hadn’t he done that already and got nowhere! So do it again. Trying to remember every word of the day’s conversation with Luke, Gideon analysed them carefully, trying to discover in them some clue which he had missed, something which might tell where it was the lad had gone.

  A burst of laughter from across the way breaking his concentration he glanced towards where a black-lacquered carriage was drawn up at the entrance of the elegant George Hotel. Elegant the building was, Gideon thought acidly, but many of its patrons left a great deal to be desired.

  The laugh pealing again he looked more attentively at the well-dressed figure highlighted in the doorway, a silk-gowned woman to each side of him.

  Jairus Ensell! Luke had talked of the man and of his grandmother’s so-called estate, but Luke had not gone there. Watching the man, one woman clinging close on his arm, Gideon felt a rush of distaste; this was the man who was to marry Saran but that fact obviously did not preclude his sporting with other women.

  Grabbing the second woman giggling at his shoulder, Jairus bent to kiss her and as he raised his head his eyes closed with Gideon’s.

  ‘Well, well!’ He laughed again. ‘We have an audience, my dears. Good evening, Mr Newell, you find our entertainment to your liking?’

  ‘Will you not introduce us, Jairus?’ The woman he had kissed giggled again.

  ‘To a workman! I hardly think so. Come, we must not embarrass the poor man, once is enough for any evening.’

  The several lanterns illuminating the façade of the gracious George Hotel caught Ensell’s eyes as he looked directly across the narrow space and Gideon saw they were laughing.

  Just as he had laughed earlier! That was the once Ensell had spoken of as being enough. The bitterness of distaste was gall in Gideon’s throat as he watched the carriage and its occupants drive away. Walking slowly into Union Street and on into Dudley Street Gideon followed the road towards the heath which bordered the town. Luke had talked of the man’s grandmother so that had seemed a likely place for the lad to have gone, but the cottage had been locked and barred, the woman likely in her bed. So he had made his way to Ensell’s house.

  ‘Luke has not honoured me with a visit, but then what would a foundry rat have with me?’

  Gideon remembered the smirk with which it had been said, and the almost uncontrollable urge to punch away the supercilious smile; but he had made do with words, words that for an instant had brought fear to that arrogant face.

  ‘Maybe he doesn’t believe in fairy stories, the kind that tells of an old rag doll being found near the coal shafts then being tossed into your carriage, maybe the lad thinks as I do, thinks you too know fairy tales aren’t true!’

  ‘Doll?’ Jairus Ensell’s finely marked brows had drawn together. ‘Oh, but of course, the toy Saran tells me belonged to the Elwell child; but that was no fairy tale.’

  It had been said carelessly but, sensing the fear behind the smile, Gideon had left nothing to be guessed from his answer.

  ‘The doll, no, but how it came to be with you . . . that is a fairy tale. I think you are lying, Ensell, I think you know a damn sight more than you’ve said, and should that prove no fairy tale I will break every bone in your body before throwing you down a mine shaft!’

  ‘How very distasteful.’ Ensell’s arrogance had returned. ‘It strikes me you think I have something to do with the child’s disappearance even though the workhouse could give no name to her benefactor . . . Perhaps you think her here in this house, in which case I insist you look in every room.’

  Ensell had not expected the invitation to be taken up. Gideon recalled the surprise on the handsome face as he had pushed past into the house. But the child had not been there . . . and neither had Luke.

  Nobody knew what he was doing or where he was. Luke gently lifted the window he had prised open, holding his breath against a possible sound. Saran would wonder at his not being home at the usual time but he would make some excuse of throwing dice with some of the men he worked with and forgetting the time. The window wide enough to afford entry he slipped easily inside the house, his breath returning as it lowered again without noise. Standing in the silent darkness he listened. Had he been seen . . . heard? With his heart beating rapidly he waited, flinching nervously, as the sounds of old timbers creaked and groaned from the roof. Would he find anything of value here, enough to make the risk worth while?

  What would Saran think if she knew what he was doing . . . what would Gideon Newell think of him? For a moment Luke felt a twinge of guilt then quickly pushed it away. It didn’t matter what they thought, they or anyone else; he had lived long enough under the eye of people who had him do as they thought he should, but now he was free of the workhouse and its warders, this was his life and he would live it as he wanted!

  Around him the darkness bega
n to take on darker shapes, silhouettes of chairs, cupboard and a deeper central pool of blackness which had to be a table. Accustomed now to the change from clouded moonlight to the gloom of the unlit room he moved cautiously to a door, listening intently as he eased it open. To be caught would not mean the workhouse, it would mean years of hard labour or even the gallows; the law did not look kindly on people breaking into the homes of others.

  Taking one slow step at a time, listening at intervals, he moved along a short corridor coming to what the dull glow of a low fire showed to be the kitchen. Fire! Luke’s nerves twitched. There must be someone in the house!

  In the room he had just left a clock chimed, but soft as the notes were they sent the blood racing along his veins. Every sense telling him he should leave, go now before he was discovered, Luke gritted his teeth. He wouldn’t go with nothing!

  Resolution firm in his mind he moved cat-like in the darkness, touching lightly against furniture, intuition warning him when to stop. Forcing himself to concentrate, to ignore the settling of embers in the grate, which jangled his already taut nerves, the continuing crack of age-old timbers, he sought in his mind the location of the stairs. In this type of house they always led off the kitchen. His feet making no sound on the stone-flagged floor he edged carefully between the clutter of furniture. Knock anything over and it would ring through the house like church bells!

  There had to be a door! Taking a deep breath Luke let his brain take over. Acting like a blind man he listened to his innermost sense. The wall opposite the fireplace, that was the most likely place for a door giving on to stairs.

  It had been a fruitful guess. Testing each bare wooden step with a light press of his foot it seemed to Luke’s pressured nerves that years passed before he reached the top. On the small square of a landing he paused. That fire in the kitchen grate said the house was occupied . . . whoever lived here would be in a bedroom, but which bedroom . . . and were they asleep or awake and listening? Waiting for him!