Sweet Songbird

by Sweet Songbird (retail) (epub)

  He glanced at her, his face startled.

  ‘I’m going to keep him,’ she said, flatly.

  He did not, she thought, look as surprised or as shocked as she had imagined he would be. And yet there was a flicker of something in his eyes that she could not identify. ‘I suppose I always thought there was at least an even chance that you might,’ he said after a moment.

  ‘He’s mine. I won’t give him away. I can’t. I’ll manage somehow. I could foster him, perhaps – buy a little cottage in the country somewhere – no one need ever know—’

  He looked at her, his face sombre. ‘Not even Luke?’

  ‘Least of all Luke.’

  He shook his head. ‘You can’t do that.’

  ‘I can. I’m going to.’ Her voice was very calm.

  ‘If he found out—’

  ‘Who’ll tell him?’ She lifted a challenging head, a tigress defending her young. ‘You?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘I’ll manage it,’ she said again, as if in the repetition she would convince herself. Then her voice softened, and she held out a hand to him. ‘Jem – thank you. For everything. For now, and for the past months. For bringing me here. For giving me time.’

  He ducked his head. ‘It’s nothing.’

  ‘It’s everything,’ she said, firmly. ‘I couldn’t have done it without you. And look at him – isn’t he worth it?’ Gently she fondled the soft, baby head. ‘Jem, if – when – I have Michael christened – would you stand as his godfather?’

  He looked at her for a long moment, on his face that same baffling flicker of emotion. Then he smiled. ‘Of course. I’d love to.’

  It was not until after he had left her alone to feed the child that it came to her with a shock of surprise that what she had seen in his face had come very close to pain. And then she dismissed the silly thought. Motherhood was making her fanciful.

  * * *

  She recovered quickly from the birth. Within a few days she was up and a few days later was active again. The child absorbed her totally. She carried him with her everywhere, resting in a sling that Jem had contrived for her of canvas and linen, which she slung around her neck so that the baby rested securely against her breasts. He was a contented child, rarely crying, and he grew very fast. Inexperienced as she was in such matters yet still Kitty could see that he was a fine child, healthy and strong. In the weeks that followed she devoted herself to him utterly, feeding him, watching him, playing with him, talking to him, singing for him. Jem watched, strangely quiet and with a sadness in his eyes that she was too absorbed to notice. There was a cold snap in January that kept them within doors, though still it was not the bitter weather that they were both used to at that time of the year. Even on the coldest days the spring-fed pool kept its warm and steady temperature and the grass grew green as emerald on its wooded banks. The place was idyllic, and in its peace Kitty grew strong again, nursing her child, noting with pleasure that apart from her milk-swollen breasts her figure had returned completely to its normal, boyish shape.

  Of the future she simply refused to think, though once or twice and more often as the month drew to its close Jem questioned her. She would think about it tomorrow – next week… The baby needed time, time to grow and to strengthen. She would make plans soon. But not now. Not right now.

  Time drifted on. January slid into February almost unnoticed. At the back of her mind she was aware of it, as she was aware that she must eventually leave this enchanted place and face the world once more; but again and again she pushed the thought away. When she discovered a tiny cluster of fragile snowdrops upon the banks of the pool her pleasure at their beauty was marred by a pang of something close to panic. She could not stay here forever: yet she could not – she could not! – yet face the thought of leaving.

  In the end her indecision proved to be for the worst, for the world, too long ignored, came to her, and the shock was the greater.

  It was a chill, sunny day in mid-February. With Michael in his sling, safe and warm within her woollen cloak, she had walked the little way to the pool and then followed the path past the derelict mill buildings to the curve of the river’s bank. There she stood for a while watching the swirling, cold-looking waters that glimmered in the pale winter sunshine. She would have liked to walk further, but the bank path was muddy and treacherous in places and with her precious burden she would not take the risk. Instead she struck out at an angle through the wet grass around the front of the house to the rutted drive. In the distance a horse and cart plodded along the lane. She narrowed her eyes against the bright light; earlier that morning Jem had set off for the market in the nearby town of Fumel. It was surely too early for him to be returning yet?

  Michael stirred sleepily at her breast. Her eyes still idly upon the approaching cart, she rocked him gently, making small, soothing noises.

  The cart had stopped, and through the trees Kitty saw a small figure clamber awkwardly from it before it set off again, continuing along the lane. The lone figure stood for a moment looking about him. From this distance she could see nothing familiar about him. It most certainly was not Jem.

  Curious, she strolled towards him, half her attention still upon the restless baby.

  The small man, head down, shoulders hunched, was trudging up the drive towards the house.

  She recognized him while he was still yards away and before he had seen her at all. She stood stock still, dry-mouthed, feeling as if every drop of blood had drained from her heart. Of all the people she had thought to see, this incongruous figure was the last, and oddly the most ominous.

  He stopped when he saw her, stood for a moment, taken back by her unexpected appearance. He wiped his dirty coat sleeve across his nose, sniffing.

  She could not speak. Her heart that the moment before had seemed to stop entirely was pounding now, taking her breath with fear. Luke. Something terrible had happened to Luke. He was dead. Imprisoned. What—?

  ‘Spider,’ she said, and her voice sounded strange, lost in the dry winter’s air. ‘What are you doing here? What’s happened?’

  ‘I bin lookin’ fer you fer weeks, Miss,’ the little man said, unsmiling and with no greeting. ‘No one knew where you were—’

  ‘How did you find me?’

  ‘Found a girl named Lucette. Friend of Jem’s ’ad told ’er ’e was ’ere. It was ’er guess you were with ’im.’

  ‘What’s happened?’ Her voice was dull. Her sudden grip upon the child had startled him. He started to whimper. She saw Spider’s eyes open wide in his wrinkled face. She caught his arm. ‘It’s Luke, isn’t it? Something’s happened to Luke?’

  He shook his head, his bemused eyes still on the child where the smooth dark head appeared in the opening of Kitty’s cloak. ‘It ain’t the Guv’nor, Miss, no. It’s yer brother. It’s Matt. They got ’im in Newgate. They say ’e murdered Moses Smith. They’re goin’ ter top ‘im for it—’

  Chapter 3

  The journey back to England was a nightmare. The weather was appalling, the trains crowded and uncomfortable. The baby – his regular and peaceful regime so arbitrarily disturbed – was fretful and difficult. Afraid to spend money that might somehow be used to help Matt, she travelled second class together with the uncommunicative Spider and Jem, who had insisted upon accompanying her as far as the Channel.

  After a dozen attempts to drag a coherent story from Spider and after the dozenth reiteration of ‘—the Guv’nor knows what ’appened. ’E‘ll tell yer—’ she gave up, trying unsuccessfully to govern a raging and fear-filled impatience. The facts that she did elicit were basic; Moses was dead, his throat cut in one of the bedrooms at the Song and Supper Rooms, and Matt had been taken and charged with the crime. And – to add to her frantic worry – all this had happened months ago, at the beginning of November, whilst she had been contentedly wandering the autumn woodlands of the Lot. Genevieve’s plan to protect her had worked all too well – Luke had sent Spider to Paris to find her, and the u
nprepossessing little man had, until the stroke of luck that had taken him to Lucette and her accurate if ill-founded guess, met with a wall of silence. It had taken him nearly three months to track her down. And Kitty now had to face the thought that during that time anything might have happened; she might already be too late.

  On the way through Paris she called upon Genevieve, a flying visit to tell her what little she knew herself of what had happened, and to tell her too of her decision with regard to Michael. Genevieve gestured with milk-white hands, helplessly philosophic. ‘It must be as you wish, of course, my Kitty. But I tell you – you will not be able to hide the child – especially now, with such trouble come upon you. If they hang your brother the newspapers will—’

  ‘They won’t! Don’t say it! He didn’t do it. He couldn’t have done it. I know him. There’s been some terrible mistake, that’s all.’

  ‘Of course, chérie, I’m sorry—’ Genevieve was soothing, but her voice was unconvinced.

  And for all her brave words Kitty herself suffered the most agonized misgivings as once more they sped northwards, towards the Channel. As she sat, rigidly sleepless and uncomfortable beside the dozing Jem, Michael’s small head a cramping weight upon her arm, it seemed to her that the rhythmically clicking wheels mocked as they rode – and the words they used she had heard before, and never forgotten since they had been spoken that day that their troubles had begun: Are you familiar, Matt Daniels – the humming wheels spoke in the light, supercilious tones of Sir Percy Bowyer – with the saying that those who are born to hang will never drown – never drown – never drown – And then Luke’s voice – we’re the other kind – born to hang – born to hang – She could not stop the words that hammered in her brain.

  She said goodbye to Jem at Boulogne almost peremptorily, her mind abstracted with anxiety, her every thought concentrated on her need to get home to Matt. The crossing was rough and Spider was miserably sick. Kitty, determinedly, was not. She sat huddled on a cold and windblown bench, her child clasped to her, and tried to think coherently, to make some sensible plan. Until now she had thought of nothing but getting back to London as swiftly as possible. Now it came to her that in a very few hours she would be there. She had to make up her mind what she intended to do. But first she had to try to ensure Spider’s silence upon the matter of Michael.

  She tackled him with misgiving as they waited, cold and depressed, for the train that would take them on the final leg of their journey.

  ‘Spider – I wanted to – ask you something. A favour.’

  The little man looked at her, his face blank to the point of hostility.

  With sinking heart she struggled on. ‘The child—’ She hesitated. ‘You must have wondered why I ran away from Paris? Why I hid?’

  ‘It’s nothin’ ter do with me.’

  ‘But it is. Because you know about the child. And – I want you to keep it a secret.’ She cuddled the baby to her, hiding the dark hair, the huge, black eyes. Spider had hardly glanced at the child, had shown in fact no interest at all after the first shock. Please God, he had not marked the resemblance. ‘The child – isn’t Luke’s. That’s why I hid. I was afraid. And, Spider – surely you can see that we’ve all got quite enough trouble to contend with at the moment? If Luke should find out…’ She let the words die between them, miserably. Their breath hung, chill mist upon the bleak, dark air. With a huff of steam the great engine was pulling into the platform.

  ‘Spider – please?’ she said, urgently, hating the need to beg.

  ‘It’s nothin’ ter do with me,’ he said again, shrugging.

  ‘You mean – you won’t tell him?’ She despised the desperation in her own voice but could neither disguise nor prevent it.

  He made an irritated, dismissive half gesture with which she had to be satisfied. They spoke only once more before reaching London, when Kitty roused herself to ask him if he knew where Pol was living and Spider muttered that she and Barton Wesley had rented a house in Pascal Road, just three doors from where Amy was living. Kitty relaxed a little – that at least was good news.

  At Victoria Station Spider left her, ungraciously ignoring her halting attempts to thank him. She stood alone with the child, surrounded by what luggage she had brought with her – the rest Genevieve was sending on from Paris.

  ‘Cab, lady?’

  With relief she nodded. ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘Where to?’

  She hitched the child tiredly onto her hip. ‘Paddington,’ she said. ‘Pascal Road.’

  Early darkness had fallen by the time she reached the address that Spider had given her. With relief she saw that lights gleamed behind the lace curtains of the small windows. The cab driver deposited her luggage upon the pavement, then cheerfully held the child as she hunted for the coins to pay him. Then he flicked a finger to his cap, swung expertly back up onto his high driving seat and at a touch of his long whip the horse ambled off into the gathering darkness. Mist hung about the street lights, smudged darkly with the soot of winter fires. It was bitterly cold. Kitty stepped to the door and knocked loudly.

  She heard Pol’s voice before the door was opened. ‘’Oo the blazes is that at this time of the day? Bart? Bart – you there? There’s someone at the door! Oh, all right. Might ’ave known. If yer want somethin’ done, do it yerself—’ Grumbling good-naturedly she swung the door open. ‘Yes? ’Oo is it?’ She stood, plump and solid, outlined against the light, garish hair like a nimbus of fire about her head – so familiar, so dear, that for a moment Kitty, clutching Michael to her breast, could not speak.

  ‘Well, dearie?’ Pol peered into her shadowed face. ‘What can I—?’ She stopped. There was a moment’s incredulous silence. ‘Kitty? It can’t be – Kitty!’

  ‘Yes. It’s me.’

  ‘Kitty!’ Pol threw herself upon her, arms stretched to hug her. Kitty felt her stiffen and then draw back. Kitty followed her into the light. Michael whimpered. ‘Gawd Almighty,’ Pol said, very softly. ‘Great Gawd Almighty. So that’s it?’

  Wordless, Kitty nodded.

  Sober-faced Pol parted the shawl that protected the tiny head.

  ‘Pol,’ Kitty said, and was appalled at the helpless wobble in her voice. ‘Oh, Pol!’ she was crying then, crying and babbling, her face buried awkwardly in the other girl’s shoulder. ‘Oh, Pol, I’m so glad to be home – I never thought I’d get here – I’m so frightened – what’s happened? How’s Matt—?’

  Pol held her for a long moment, comfortingly, including the baby in her embrace, patting Kitty’s shoulder, making wordless, soothing noises.

  Kitty drew back at last, sniffing. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just – it was such a shock – about Matt, I mean. And it’s been such a horrible journey.’

  ‘’Course, love. I understand. But you’re ’ere now. Nice cup of tea. That’s what’s called for – Bart!’ She raised her voice to a muted shriek that might have been heard at the far end of the street. ‘Bart! Come down ’ere! Look ’oo’s come ’ome to us!’

  Barton Wesley, obviously alerted by the commotion, had already appeared at the top of the stairs. ‘By cracky! Kitty!’ He came down the stairs like a small avalanche, gave her a smacking kiss on her tear-wet cheek then, as Pol had done and with much the same expression, stood back to survey her whimpering burden. ‘Whew!’ he whistled softly, and exchanged a glance with Pol.

  ‘No questions,’ Pol said, firmly. ‘Not till later. Let’s get you in an’ make the babe comfy. Then we’ll talk.’

  Kitty allowed herself to be enveloped by the brisk ministrations of her friend. Tea was made, baggage brought in from the pavement. Settled in peace and warmth by the fire in the tiny parlour, she fed Michael and made him comfortable, settling him securely in the depths of a massive armchair which she pushed against the wall. Then she took her empty tea cup and went out into the hall, following the sound of voices to the half-open kitchen door.

  ‘A kid, eh?’ Pol was saying, her voice edged clearly with anxiety. ‘W
hat a turn up for the book. As if she ’asn’t got enough on ’er plate!’

  ‘Is it ’is, d’you think?’ Barton asked.

  Pol snorted. ‘You blind as well as daft? ’Course it is. Gawd ’elp the poor little bugger.’

  ‘Well – it’s just – all them stories that went around—’

  ‘All them lies, more like.’

  ‘What lies?’

  Pol spun to where Kitty stood at the doorway. ‘What lies, Pol?’ Kitty asked again, quietly.

  Pol opened her mouth, hesitated, then said flatly, ‘Word was that you’d gorn orf with some feller. Some rich Froggy count or somethin’, Lottie said.’

  ‘Lottie?’ Kitty cut in.

  ‘Lottie,’ Pol repeated, grimly. ‘She said that when they saw you in Paris you were knee-deep in Russky princes an’ flashy French aristos. An’ ’is Lordship certainly came ’ome with a flea in ’is ear, anyone could see that. So – well, when you disappeared word was that you’d found yourself a nicely feathered little nest somewhere—’

  Kitty stared, appalled. ‘And you believed that?’

  Pol shrugged. ‘Didn’t ’ave much reason not to.’

  ‘And – Luke? He believed it too?’

  Another shrug.

  Kitty sat down hard upon a wooden chair. Here was a complication she had not envisaged.

  Pol poured her another cup of tea. ‘Gawd, what a mess! Still, when ’e sees the bairn—’

  ‘No!’

  They both blinked, startled at her vehemence.

  ‘No,’ she said again, determinedly. ‘He’s not to know. I don’t want him near Michael. I don’t want him anywhere near my baby.’ Tears were close again. She shook her head angrily.

  ‘But – you can’t do that! ’E’s bound ter find out sooner or later.’

  ‘Not necessarily. Not if you’ll help me. You will help me, won’t you? We can hide him – I can find someone to look after him for me – he’s mine, Pol. I won’t give him up and I won’t have Luke take him from me. When this awful business with Matt is sorted out—’ She had been talking feverishly. At the flicker of pain that crossed Pol’s open face at the mention of Matt’s name she stopped. Dead silence fell. She looked from one to the other. Barton could not meet her eyes but stared gloomily into his empty cup. The compassion in Pol’s face brought a wave of panic, fluttering suddenly in Kitty’s throat, all but stopping her breath. ‘What’s happened?’ she whispered through dry lips.