However, next moment he was sprawling on the street, having been tripped up by another worker.
“Stop, men! I order you!” cried Lydia. The ring broke. “Mr Sheridan, are you hurt?” She bent over him. He was looking up at her. It was then she felt a hand on her sleeve, restraining her. She turned It was Caleb Vyne! The salters fell back.
“On your legs, man,” he said. Charles tried to get up, but tottered. Lydia made as if to help him, but Caleb Vyne was still preventing her. She looked down in sheer amazement at his strong hand. That he dared touch her was intolerable.
“I beg you to leave me go,” she said.
“When I have tamed this whelp,” he retorted. And then she realised Caleb Vyne must have been watching it all. And doing nothing!
Sam Shrike was standing, head erect, jaw thrust out, fists still clenched. Suddenly, she felt the pressure on her arm cease. Lydia couldn’t believe it. She was horrified. Caleb Vyne was clapping Sam on the shoulder as though he had done no wrong!
“Go home now, Sam. Nothing will be mended by such behaviour.” Suddenly Sam and the other salters were backing right off. As they turned away, they doffed their caps deferentially - to Caleb Vyne!
Meanwhile Charlie Sheridan had struggled to his feet, his chin blue under the bruising and a trickle of blood coming from his mouth. His blue eyes were staring out of his head.
“You see, Miss Annesley, how I’m persecuted by my own kin!” Lydia’s hostile eyes stared into Caleb Vyne’s.
“This is the most shameful encounter I have ever witnessed,” she said, her breath coming fast. Caleb’s dark eyes stared back at her. Eyes, which had been so warm and probing when he had promised her his help.
“Get off home, Charlie,” he said dismissively. Charlie was feeling his chin gingerly. To Lydia’s amazement, he didn’t remonstrate. He was stumbling a little as he acknowledged Lydia with the briefest of bows. Then he walked off. His half-brother turned to her:
“Did I warn you to be wary, Lydia - or not?” How could Caleb Vyne use her name in such a familiar way? Was he a monster?
“The salters had good cause for anger! You should not have meddled,” he added.
“How dare you, Mr Vyne?” Lydia drew herself up haughtily. “You encourage my salter to brawl with your own kin and you call it meddling. Good day to you!”
Lydia could stand no more, but her heart was thudding as if it would burst. With Blanchard close by her side, she was handed into her carriage, where Sarah was seated, crying into her shawl.
As Lydia tried to console her overwrought servant, she felt almost as dizzy as the street outside.
When Blanchard finally wheeled the carriage round the corner, she caught a glimpse of Caleb Vyne standing, tall and erect, still on the spot where she’d left him, staring boldly in the direction of her retreat.
She questioned his behaviour over and over again. What kind of man was he to stand by and see his brother beaten? And he had said there was good cause!
Lydia quizzed Sarah as the carriage made its way smartly back to Annesley:
“I know you were frightened, and not without reason, but you must not let yourself go like that.” Lightly scolding her maid gave Lydia herself courage.
“Weren’t you afraid, miss?”
“A little, but they wouldn’t have hurt me.”
“They would have Mr Sheridan!”
“Do you know why it happened, Sarah?”
“No, miss!” Scarlet cheeks had replaced the tears.
“Perhaps you do?”
“I can’t honestly say, miss!” Lydia knew she shouldn’t question a servant.
“Alright, Sarah, I believe you. However, as I’m new to all here, I’ll ask you one more question --”
“Yes, miss?” Sarah looked quite afraid.
“Is Mr Sheridan not liked?”
“He is not, miss!” The reply was vehement.
“And Mr Vyne?” Sarah’s look was furtive.
“Dunno, miss. He’s the master.” Lydia had to conclude the worse from that. There were so many things she had yet to find out about the Strettons. But from whom? Would she ever learn the secret of Raven’s Mill or understand the brutal behaviour of its inhabitants?
CHAPTER 6
If Caleb Vyne had been in a better mood, he wouldn’t have failed to notice the beauty of that frosty morning. But Sam Shrike’s attack on that rascal Charlie was fresh in his mind. To think the fight had been played out in Miss Annesley’s presence.
And it had been carried on when he had returned to Raven’s Mill. There had been more harsh words and more! Caleb swore with frustration.
To outsiders and workers alike, he appeared cold and insensitive, but no one understood how much the hard, young taskmaster of Stretton had a great reverence for the presence of beauty, especially that in the countryside around solitary Raven’s Mill.
Caleb was no poet, nor could he put into words what he felt except he realised that, as a boy, he’d loved every shady den in the trees, every dark outhouse, smelling of hay and cowcake; every quiet pool, stuffed with grayling and perch and now, as a man, was often able to find in those heedless boyish haunts, peace and release from the cares of running Stretton Salt Works under such violent family pressures.
But, that day, there were too many troublesome things on his mind! He couldn’t have stayed in the house with those damned Sheridans a moment longer!
As Caleb strode over Stretton land towards the river, bruising and trampling the delicate marsh plants underfoot, he was too out of sorts even to notice how wild and unkempt the land had become for lack of pruning.
What was uppermost in his thoughts was a determination never to show any softness that risked destroying the stern composure he retained whatever ill luck followed him. He had no desire to become a drunken fool like his stepfather nor a wastrel and womaniser like Charlie Sheridan.
He could not share with anyone the injustice to which he was subjected daily and his boots strode on subduing the hummocks of grass, proud and stiff under their white-whiskered burden of early morning frost.
The bare sticks of the hazel bushes, which grew so profusely about the wild gardens of the Mill, cracked as they brushed against his body, showering him with a bloom of frost to which Caleb was oblivious as much as he was to the shining, biting earliness of that fairylike winter morning!
He reached the Salwarpe, stared into the water, wishing it could wash away his resentment and anger. But it was as furious as he, throwing itself around fallen branches and soaking grasses, dragging them hurriedly on to the bursting Severn in floods of foam.
He closed his dark eyes, breathed in to shut out the world in an effort to calm himself then, opening them looked down. suddenly he could see the nodding specks of white emerging from a heap of rotting sticks close to the edge.
Caleb crouched to look. A cluster of snowdrops! He stretched out and plucked a single flower, stared at the lovely delicate head hanging from the transparent stalk and found himself thinking of Lydia, who had stood before the great fireplace and denied him the chance to help her. He knew she thought ill of him for thrashing his brother, for his apparent sternness,
But how did he think of her? Something stirred inside. The secret world of the Raven’s Mill he alone knew must never touch her! Already, his anger was ebbing at the thought of Lydia Annesley. He bent once more and picked a bunch of those white heralds of spring, placing them in the clasp of his cloak. Then Caleb turned away from the river and made for the house..
Somehow, his mother had made her way downstairs without help. As Caleb hurried through the flagged hall, he could hear the pleading tone. Surely she was not crying already?
“Billy, I beg you!”
“Back to your bedroom, Lavinia!” Billy Sheridan’s command was, as usual, followed by a curse. Caleb clenched his fists as he walked through the door into the drawing-room.
What had once been a beautiful place was tawdry now. The carpets were brown with age, their brightness d
immed. The silver was tarnished; the furniture scratched and worn. The oil paintings he’d loved as a child still hung intact, but they were spotted and fly-blown. Billy Sheridan had soiled everything with his drunken and violent behaviour.
Lavinia was seated at the table. Caleb’s heart quickened at her paleness. His mother’s long red hair hung loose and flowing over her robe, which displayed remnants of its once brilliant green and was now, in places, just as sadly faded.
She was afraid to let Caleb buy her new and had told him so often spoiling her would make it worse for her! How many times had he begged her to follow him from this hell-hole but there was still something inside her which clung to Raven’s Mill and the feckless Sheridans.
And there was something in Caleb too. He would stay and claim his birthright as a Stretton. He’d been here first, was part of the place, and it would belong to him finally!
“Don’t fret, mother,” he said, ignoring Billy Sheridan’s hostile glance. “Are you feeling worse?” She shook her head. “Look, I’ve something for you.” He unclasped the snowdrops and handed them to her. Then he poured himself a drink, his stepfather watching all the time.
This morning, Billy Sheridan could sense Caleb’s mood and wouldn’t curse him for bringing snowdrops and ill luck into a house, where all was bad luck and devious planning.
“You like them, mother? I found them by the Salwarpe.”
“It means spring’s on the way,” she said softly.
“Yes, and I shall take you out as soon as the weather’s better. Away for a while.”
“No, no, I can’t, Caleb. There’s the workers to think of and all that new machinery.” Caleb shook his head at her words, put an arm about her. Lavinia hadn’t been to the works for years. It was just her defence against what was happening to her own weak body.
And all the time Billy Sheridan sat watching them with sneering hate in his eyes, while Caleb hated him back for how he had met, duped and ill-treated his mother.
Billy had been handsome once; he still had some curls on his head but they were thinning. Where he’d been lean as a young man, he was now paunchy come from a monstrous appetite for drink, which showed in the florid red of his face.
All that was left of the good-looking Irishman who Lavinia Vyne had met at the London exhibition were his brilliant blue eyes, which he’d handed down to his son, Charlie. Their look had been the downfall of too many women!
Charlie was his father’s son alright. Caleb looked at Billy with contempt and thought about the latest wrong Charlie had wreaked on an innocent female. At that moment, Caleb would have liked to beaten both of them to a pulp, hang or not!
“Don’t look like that, Caleb!” pleaded Lavinia. She was frightened at his face. She could stand no more trouble that morning. She’d heard Caleb and Charlie cursing each other late in the night and then Billy had come up, heavy with drink. She was feeling sick.
“I’ll take you back upstairs, mother. You need to rest.” Lavinia was grateful. When Caleb had flung out of the house to control his temper, she’d feared it wouldn’t work. But her son was as good a man as his father had been. Why did you have to die, Harry, she asked under her breath, and leave us like this?
“And you need warmer clothes than this in the house!” Caleb added, feeling her gown. “This old thing is made of nothing!”
“No,” she whispered, as she leaned on her son as they walked slowly from the room. “I can’t part with it. Your father brought it from Birmingham as a present when we were first married.” Caleb smiled.
“Alright, mother, you keep it. But put some warmth beneath it!” He could show his mother that he had loving feelings, but only her and no one else.
When he came downstairs, his stepfather was waiting.
“Snowdrops for mother!” he sneered.
“Aye, flowers, man,” said Caleb, jumping the last five steps and catching Billy by the arm.
“Leave go!” shrank the coward. “I would there were flowers on your grave!”
“They’ll be on yours before mine, Sheridan. And your cursed son’s! But they won’t be snowdrops!”
“Watch your tongue, lad. Remember you’re dealing with an Irishman!” Caleb knew he could have broken his stepfather’s neck with ease and the man was still full of pompous wind!
“Then see you hold yours! I say what I mean. And where is your precious Charlie? Perhaps I should tell his grandfather that he is still in bed. Or about one of his indiscretions?”
Caleb was determined Billy would know of his son’s reprehensible behaviour, and the best way to scare him was to intimate the Sheridans might fall from favour with old Mr. Stretton, who kept to his room, but still held the reins of control.
He added, “Grandfather Stretton may dote on Charlie but would he condone rape?”
“What lies are these?” stuttered Billy. Yet, for a moment, Caleb had seen surprise and fear in his eyes.
“Aye, rape,” repeated Caleb. “And I have proof.”
“What? The word of some whore who’s after a place with the master?”
“No whore,” said Caleb evenly, “but a girl of respectable family. Charlie has overstepped severely this time - and he’ll suffer for it!” He was thinking of the way the salters had ganged up against his half-brother outside The Talbot.
Caleb should have let them get on with it. He would have done so if Miss Annesley hadn’t been watching! Charlie was a real coward and could never take punishment. And a mere girl had managed to save him this time!
Later, as Caleb ate his breakfast, he was thinking how Charlie only took advantage of females and why women always looked for and found the worst of men to be with!
*
The rest of the Shrikes had gone to work, leaving Sally alone. She lay quiet on the hard bed-stock which she shared with her mother, wondering why things always went badly for her.
Mrs Shrike had often said her troubles had begun the day she’d had Sally. That hadn’t been a kind remark, but Sally had learned to live with it. She had to admit she enticed trouble easily.
Even as a little girl left alone for a second while her mother ladled salt, she had almost fallen in the pit. Perhaps it would have been better for all the Shrikes if she had done?
She turned her face into the prickly pillow. The only comfort she could feel on her cheek was her own hair, loose about her and thick as a blanket.
Sally ought to have gone into work but she felt far too ill. And hadn’t the young mistress sent her home to gain strength? She thought about Miss Annesley, who had a fine figure and beautiful face.
Sally stared at a strand of her own hair. What if it curled and coiled like Miss Liddy’s? But it would never be the colour of chestnuts, those bright playthings she, Sam and the boys had threaded on string and fought with; or made into the only kind of necklaces Sally could afford.
And now this! She put a hand gingerly beneath her swelling breasts. When would it be her belly? When would they all start to notice and jeer her? She would be like the lepers in the Testament!
Sally began to cry. It was a wicked thing to have a child outside wedlock. A child without a father; a baby put inside her without her will! To hear his name spoken out loud was enough to make her sick. She wished Sam and the boys had killed Sheridan like they’d wanted to, but that would have been murder and they’d be hanged.
She could have murdered him herself! She’d never wanted him, never made him do what he did. And now part of him was growing inside her. Sally Shrike shivered, rolled off the bed and crossed the room which served the Shrikes for living, eating, sleeping, all in one.
The fire was almost out, but she was afraid to put on coal because of the expense. Living near the coal yard was more tantalising than advantageous. However, sometimes, at night, she and her young brothers and sister would go out and riddle through the discarded slack to find small lumps for the fire.
Today she’d have to go outside and gather some sticks...She found the bundle leaning against the privy
and blessed her brother. He’d broken the pieces small enough for her to handle, She brought them back in and fed them to the fire.
As she watched the flames licking their twiggy sides, Sally went over and over what had happened in her mind, wishing her seducer would burn like that in Hell...
It had been only a few days before Christmas and Upwych had been on fire with oil lamps and candles, with the shops stuffed full with sweetmeats and presents for those who could afford them.
Sally had taken two of her younger brothers and one small sister to see the church dressed in its finery. There had been ivy leaves twisted about the pillars - and baubles. Sally had told the excited children to stop shrieking excitedly in the house of God and then they’d crept about instead with only John’s boots making a noise on the stones.
It had been his turn to wear them, so the brother next in age to him, Tim, had stayed at home. Sally had promised to take him out tomorrow. Her sister had done well because the vicar had sent Mrs Shrike a parcel from the Aid Society, containing two pairs of girls’ boots.
The littlest boy, Tommy was wearing the other. He didn’t care whether they were girls’ or too big, as long as he could see the Christmas dressings.
Outside the church they were lucky to meet two of the wives from the Vynes, who’d been blessed with good money from their men and took the young Shrikes off for a farthing each of sweets.
Sally was glad because her arms ached from dragging the children along. She was free to walk up the crooked lane and look in the watchmaker’s window. She heard the tinkling bell on the shop door and stood aside to let the customer out.
Then she was looking up into the blue eyes of Mr Sheridan, the young master from Raven’s Mill. She hung her head.
“Sally Shrike,” he said.
“Sir?”
“Shopping?”
“No, sir. Out with me brothers and sister.” He was laughing pleasantly,
“And where are they?”
“Down town, sir, with some Vynes women. Buying a penn’orth of sweets between them.” He was feeling in his pocket. She watched, fascinated.
The Price of Beauty Page 9