Sixpenny Girl

by Meg Hutchinson

  Stepping to the bedside he looked once more at the blood-soaked body. Yes, it was no more than he deserved. ‘Get water and a cloth then bring clothes he wore for business,’ he said. Then, as the lined face frowned, he snapped, ‘Do it . . . now!’

  The barked order more to her understanding than softer sympathetic words the woman scurried like a dark shadow to do as she was told.

  Waiting until she was out of the room Gideon took the blood-soaked ribbon between finger and thumb. Minch did not deserve burial as a full man. Disgust thick in his mouth he flung the organ into the fire.

  Why had he not come to Brook Cottage? Her heart heavy inside her, Saran pushed the ledger to one side. Luke had told her how Gideon had ridden to the house of Zadok Minch only to find him dead of an affliction of the heart and his wife distraught. He had been so kind easing the shock of Zadok’s wife who had thought her husband sleeping following a fraught day at his business. It was Gideon who arranged for the death certificate, he who organised the funeral, even going with the woman to the interment. But then that was Gideon, ever ready to help, to offer assistance where he realised the need, as he had once tried to offer assistance to her.

  But she had thrown it in his face, accused him of thinking her a common prostitute. A sixpenny girl! Drawing the ledger to her again she opened it, her glance following neat columns of figures. She was worth a great deal more than sixpence now.

  ‘as you walks you casts a great shadow, a shadow that covers many’

  Out of the past the words returned. Her shadow did indeed cover many, earning their living at the jobs she had provided. But the prophecy muttered so long ago had spoken of things other than shadow, it had told of grief and anguish, of bitterness and misery; and just as one part had proved true so had the others. Grief had come of being unable to find her family, and anguish at learning of their terrible death, anguish that remained with her still, that came again and again out of the loneliness of the night; and bitterness? That had been born of her accusing Gideon Newell of something she had learned over the years he would never think. And the misery? That came from a love she held yet could never share. She loved Gideon Newell but it was a love too late. Luke in his awkward way had tried to show her she was wrong to trust herself to Jairus Ensell, Luke had always championed and admired the man who was now his partner in business, but she had been stubborn, stubborn and blind. Luke – she smiled – forthright dependable Luke who had stayed with her through the hard times, who was with her yet.

  ‘there be one walks beside you’

  Luke had walked beside her, but one day Luke would marry, one day his life would be locked with another.

  Her thoughts interrupted by a knock, Saran felt the colour rise in her cheeks as she opened the door to Gideon Newell.

  ‘Luke . . . Luke is not here,’ she stammered, ‘he is with the Elwells.’

  ‘It is not Luke I came to see . . . it was you.’

  Quickly turning back into the lamplit kitchen she crossed to the fireplace, hiding her blush beneath its crimson glow.

  ‘Would you care for some tea?’ The question asked to cover the sudden emotion whirling inside her Saran kept her back to her visitor.

  His refusal abrupt, Gideon looked at the slender figure. He had argued with himself over the stupidity of coming here, of having to look at the woman his heart cried out for but whom he must never touch, of having to talk with her when all he wanted was to hold her, to whisper he loved her. Why could he not have asked Luke to deliver the message, why cause himself so much pain?

  ‘Then what can I do for you, Mr Newell?’

  She had turned to face him. Light from lamp and fire combined to sprinkle red-gold glints among pale hair caught from a face whose lovely eyes gleamed like dew on grass. Breath caught in his chest, Gideon could not answer for a moment and when he did it was with a sharpness directed against himself.

  ‘I suppose I should have given Luke a message but . . .’ he hesitated, ‘this is a matter I prefer to put to you myself. Bridget Minch—’

  ‘Luke has told me of the death of Zadok Minch, of his wife finding him in his room. An attack of the heart; it must have been very frightening for her. It is kind of you to have helped as you did.’

  Luke could not have told the whole story for he himself had not been given it. Seeing compassion darken those hazel-gold eyes Gideon knew it was right to have kept the details secret. Like the man’s wife, Saran Chandler had suffered enough from Zadok Minch, it was useless to add the burden of pity.

  ‘I have not called to discuss my actions, suffice to say the business is all but over.’

  He was finding his visit far from his taste. Saran felt the brusqueness of his answer sting inside. She must make it brief for him.

  ‘Then say what it is you have called for, Mr Newell, as you no doubt noticed I am very busy.’

  The mouth had tightened at her reply and the eyes had hardened. ‘Miss Chandler, I am not here for myself.’

  ‘not here for myself’

  The words had rocked her world. Gideon Newell had not called with a wish to see her but on behalf of someone else.

  Sat once more at the table, the ledger opened in front of her, Saran’s mind played over the events which had followed.

  He had come on behalf of the wife of Zadok Minch, come to ask Saran to agree to meet with her. How could he ask that, ask her to visit the house of the man who had killed her mother and sister, who had offered to tell where their bodies lay only if she would lie with him, a man who had sent another to kill her?

  But he had asked. The pen falling from her fingers she stared into the past, stared at a heavily jowled face, narrow ferret eyes gliding slowly over her while thick lips shone wet with the lust of imagination.

  ‘None of that was his wife’s doing,’ Gideon had remonstrated at her refusal to meet with the woman. ‘She was as badly dealt with as you, maybe more so for she was married to the swine; she felt his cruelty every day, for her there was no escape.’

  ‘There was no escape for my mother and Miriam! Have you forgotten that?’ But even as the words had been flung from her she had known he had not. Once again she had accused him. The look of hurt in those grey-blue eyes swam now before her own, clearing her vision of Zadok Minch, of the heavily jowled face mocking from the shadows of her mind.

  Gideon had stepped to the door and when he turned to look at her again the hurt was gone, but her own hurt would never go, that deeper hurt which came from not being able to speak her love for him.

  ‘I thought you to be of finer stuff than to refuse a woman who has done you no harm.’ It had been cold, cutting deep as a blade, the sting of it bringing sharp breath from her throat as if he had struck her. She must have cried out for he was suddenly so close she felt the warm breath of him. But he had not touched her. Instead he had spoken gently, as to a child, and for the first time he had said her name and not retracted it.

  ‘Saran,’ he had murmured, ‘for your own sake if not for that of Bridget Minch, I ask you . . . meet with the woman. Trust me, just this once.’

  That had been all, no goodnight, no word for Luke, and none of any regard for her. Gideon Newell had simply turned on his heel and walked out of her house . . . walking once more out of her life.

  36

  Dressed head to toe in black, Bridget Minch looked at the young woman sat facing her. She was beautiful, her face almost a replica of the child that had once been in this house, a child whose mother had died trying to protect her.

  ‘It makes what you have suffered no easier, but before the Lord I swear to you I had no part in my husband’s doings.’

  She had no need to apologise, the deep-grooved lines on that tired face stood witness to the fact she had been no more than a tool in that man’s hands. Saran had sat in silence listening to the woman’s sobbed account of her husband’s sordid life. How had she borne such treatment . . . but then had her own mother not borne much the same at the hands of Enoch Jacobs?

 
‘Joseph Elwell told us of how you tried to be kind to him, that you did not try to prevent it when the other woman’s attack on your husband gave him the chance to get away. You must not blame yourself for lack of courage, that is a thing we all experience, especially in the face of such cruelty.’

  ‘That, child, is the one thing I will never forgive myself for.’ The grey head swung slowly. ‘But I did not ask you here to talk of my failings, I wish to—’

  ‘Mrs Minch,’ Saran interrupted quickly. ‘Luke and I, we want to return this to you, please . . . don’t refuse.’

  Opening the parchment given her the woman’s hands trembled, her faded eyes sparkling with tears as she finished reading. ‘This house,’ she murmured, ‘you return this house to me, after all—’

  ‘No more talk of that, it is over and done.’

  Laying the paper aside the older woman smiled. ‘No, child, not quite over. I have not yet asked what Gideon Newell said I should ask for myself. He said I should ask you come with me to the cemetery.’

  Gideon had said she should ask that . . . he could be so heartless as to suggest this woman ask her to visit the grave of a man who had murdered her mother and sister! Aghast, Saran stared at the face watching the nuances of emotion play over her own.

  ‘Please, child, it would mean so much to me.’

  ‘I thought you to be of finer stuff than to refuse’

  It sang in her brain. He had known what it was this woman wanted and yet he had spoken those words!

  ‘I see you cannot, but then I should not have asked.’

  It wasn’t this woman should not have asked but Gideon Newell. He would have known the feelings such a request would arouse yet still he had suggested it. But in respect of Bridget Minch he had been right, she could not be held to account for the evil done, and refusing her one request would undo none of it.

  Rising to her feet at the same time as her hostess Saran swallowed the bitterness of what she saw as betrayal, saying she would accompany the woman.

  The hansom ride was short but to Saran, struggling with her emotions, it seemed like half a lifetime.

  ‘Your usual day, mum.’ Her bonnet wide as her smile, a flower-seller seated at the tall iron gates facing the cemetery exchanged a posy of violets for the coin Bridget Minch handed her.

  ‘It’s this way.’

  Boots crunching on dry stony ground the woman walked quickly, leading the way past ornate tombs, their stone figures bent on prayer, past headstones carved from white marble or black granite, their floral tributes stood in tiny vases beneath lavish phrases. Which would mark the resting place of Zadok Minch, what words would speak to the world? None which would speak the evil which their stone covered.

  ‘It’s here.’

  The black-robed figure had stopped and now stood looking at a small stone half covered by a great yew draping its branches protectively over it. Surprised at the unexpected simplicity Saran waited while the older woman laid the tiny offering against the stone, whispering words she could not discern. Only as Bridget Minch rose did she see the carved inscription.

  Sacred to the memory

  The letters danced before her eyes, twisting wildly together as she read again.

  Sacred to the memory of Rebecca Chandler

  Her mother! It was not the grave of Zadok she had been brought to visit but that of her mother! The carved letters drowning in the ocean of her tears Saran flung herself across the grass-covered mound.

  ‘Mother,’ she sobbed, touching a hand to the name cut deep into the headstone. ‘I looked for you . . . I tried so hard to find you . . . Jacobs, he . . . he said who bought you and Miriam. Oh, Mother! I tried so hard . . .’

  ‘The stone is so very small, but I did not have a deal of money and I dared not ask Zadok.’ Sat once more in the hansom Zadok’s wife spoke quietly.

  Eyes brilliant with tears resting at their brim, Saran’s answer throbbed with emotion. ‘He said they had been taken with . . . with . . .’

  Behind her black veil Bridget Minch’s mouth portrayed her feelings. Zadok had bought people like others bought household utensils, using them, selling them on when he had no further need for them, even destroying them if they failed to please him. This girl’s family had been no different in his eyes: they were simply part of the ‘goods’ he brought to the house. ‘I can guess what he said,’ she answered, ‘but like always when temper got the upper hand I was left to clear away the results. Zadok never asked of your mother and I never told him she had been laid to rest in holy ground. Oh my dear, believe me. I asked Gideon Newell what he knew of you, other than Zadok’s attempt to have you killed. He would not speak at first, but when I told him of that grave and who lay in it he, too, thought the woman had to be your mother.’

  Gideon . . . Gideon had known, that was why he had urged she meet with this woman.

  ‘The words on the stone,’ Zadok’s widow went on quietly, ‘it was virtually all I knew of her, she never said the name of her husband.’

  Her mother had not spoken of Enoch Jacobs, had not once mentioned the man who had bartered her for beer money; had not owned to his name while in that house! She would not be made to own to it in her grave.

  ‘What you did for my mother I will never be able to repay. I have lost her but now my mind can rest, knowing she received a church burial. I will always be grateful.’

  The hansom rocked on its springs, the driver calling the horse to a standstill. Glancing from the window Saran’s brow creased. They were driving to the coach departure point but the large house set behind tall ornamental gates was no coaching inn.

  Alighting, Bridget Minch glanced back to Saran. ‘Forgive my not asking if you would mind my calling here before taking you to catch the coach but this house it . . . it makes me so nervous . . . please, Miss Chandler, would you come inside with me?’

  Missing the coach would mean a wait of hours until the next one, but what was that against this woman’s kindness.

  At the door the older woman hesitated, and behind the fine gauze of her veil her faded eyes held a new light. ‘Miss Chandler,’ she whispered, ‘what I say while in this house . . . support me, please.’

  It had been too late to ask why. Sat in a leather-upholstered chair in a book-lined, tall-windowed room, Saran remembered the agitated shake of the older woman’s hand on her arm as the door had opened immediately on her words. Something here frightened Bridget Minch.

  ‘I received the letter from your solicitor, Mrs Minch. Allow me to express my condolence, your husband was a fine, well-respected man.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Bridget’s handkerchief lifted to her mouth.

  ‘So what is it I can do for you?’ His hands folded on the large leather-topped desk, a well-dressed man watched Bridget with shrewd eyes.

  ‘The truth, as my niece here will adduce to and my solicitor will no doubt corroborate, is that my husband died virtually penniless. The businesses he had, even the house we lived in, are gone . . .’ the handkerchief rose again, ‘so I am afraid there can no longer be payment made to this establishment.’

  As if by some unseen hand the suave smile was wiped from the man’s face. Glancing at Saran, who felt herself nod agreement, he cleared his throat noisily.

  ‘I see.’ The hands moved out of sight. ‘That creates something of a predicament. This sanatorium is not a charity, we cannot house and feed without the necessary fee. You must understand, Mrs Minch, much as I would like—’

  Behind the handkerchief Bridget sobbed. ‘I do understand, Doctor Spence, that is why I have called today. My niece,’ she reached a black-gloved hand to Saran, ‘has offered me a place with her but she . . . she finds herself unable to continue paying the cost of keeping my daughter here.’

  Her daughter! Saran’s nerves jolted. Zadok Minch had a child, a daughter of his own, yet he could do what he did to children! But why put that daughter here in an institution? Was she disabled in some way . . . did she suffer from a feeble mind . . . or was there some more s
inister explanation?

  ‘It is regrettable, Doctor,’ Bridget sobbed again, ‘but I must take my daughter away.’

  White hands reappeared, splaying dramatically above the desk. ‘My dear Mrs Minch, as our annual report to your late husband disclosed, your daughter, though well in health, has made no recovery. She still does not speak, extreme care is needed if she is not to relapse into the same severe state of shock she was in when she was brought here to this sanatorium. I must advise your niece that proper medical supervision . . .’

  The gloved fingers pressed slightly, the woman was asking for support. Looking directly at the doctor, Saran nodded. ‘I agree, medical supervision is best for my cousin but sadly my finances do not run to providing your fee. However . . .’ she stood up, helping Bridget also to stand, ‘if you can arrange for her to remain here without that fee then both my aunt and myself—’

  ‘I explained, we are not a charity!’ The doctor interrupted, bringing both palms flat on the desk.

  An arm about the older woman’s shoulders, Saran felt the quiver run through the thin body. Was it simply tension or was it fear . . . fear that somehow her daughter could be kept from her, locked away for ever behind these high walls?

  Voice and eyes a match in coldness though her nerves burned, Saran looked directly at the man who had not risen from his desk.

  ‘Precisely so, Doctor,’ she said icily, ‘neither am I, and as I have no intention of wasting time repeating that, either you release my cousin to her mother’s keeping or we bid you good day!’

  He had taken no further persuading. Bridget’s hand clutched to hers Saran waited as the uniformed nurse he had rung for stalked away on her errand.

  How long had it been since this woman had seen her child? What had caused the severe state of shock the doctor had spoken of, and what was hindering recovery? Thoughts tumbling through her mind Saran watched the pen whisk busily over the paper which she guessed was to be signed by Bridget to say she had withdrawn her daughter from this man’s care. As her glance returned to the trembling woman she saw the lips form a silent warning: Remember you are her cousin!