Chapter Four
‘Where the devil have you been?’ Esther Ward was standing beside the fireplace in the drawing room, with her hand still clutching the bell-pull and her whole countenance one of extreme impatience. Fixing her beady eyes on Miss Mulliver, she told her in a scathing voice, ‘I have been standing here five minutes… five minutes, I tell you!’
She angrily flicked the bell-pull away and strode across the room to where Richard was seated in a tall, stiff armchair, a blanket over his legs and his head leaning back into the chair; his eyes were closed, but he was not asleep. ‘It’s chilly in here,’ she snapped at the maid. ‘How many times must I tell you that the master must be kept warm?’ She glanced down at her husband as though seeking his approval, quickly returning her attention to the dogsbody when he remained unmoving. ‘Well! Don’t stand there dithering, woman,’ she growled. ‘Put some coals on the fire.’
‘Begging your pardon, Ma’am.’ Miss Mulliver hurried to carry out the instructed task. ‘It’s just that when you rang, I was taking a tray of bread from the oven, and I had to change my apron.’
‘A likely tale.’
Having built up the fire, and thinking that the air in the room was stifling and most unhealthy, Miss Mulliver asked whether she should open the window.
‘You’ll do as you’re asked, and no more,’ came the reply.
‘Very well, Ma’am. Will that be all?’
Esther hesitated for a moment, all the while regarding the other woman with a curious expression. After a moment she said, ‘No. Get about your work,’ adding quietly as the woman was about to leave, ‘Is my son home yet?’
‘No, Ma’am. At least, I haven’t seen him. Would you like me to check his room?’ She was well aware of Ben’s comings and goings at all hours; on more than one occasion he had been hopelessly inebriated; on another he was accompanied by a woman of the streets. Since his father’s attack the night Beth had been sent packing, that young man had gone from bad to worse, with his mother covering up his every misdemeanour.
‘No. That will not be necessary.’ Esther loathed the fact that this lowly woman had seen the disgraceful decline of her son. When the door was closed, she sighed with unusual weariness and went to the window where she gazed out at the January landscape. It had not stopped snowing for two days now, and still it fell from the sky with a vengeance, covering everything in a thick white layer that blinded the eye and merged with the horizon so there was no judging where land ended and sky began. At eight o’clock on a Sunday, Bedford Square was quiet as usual. A solitary wagon went by, the horse’s hooves plunging silently into the snow and the driver huddled up front, his flat cap pulled low over his ears and his scarf wrapped high up round his face. Only his eyes showed, narrowed against the cold. The trees around the square looked like silver ghosts, their boughs weighed down by the weight of this relentless snowfall.
Turning away, Esther blamed the hard cold weather for her strange mood. ‘Will it never end?’ she murmured, as always her mind on her wayward son. The last time she had seen him was yesterday evening as he was going out of the house. When she had asked him to be home early, in order that they might talk, he had made the comment, ‘We have nothing to talk about, Mother.’ But on being pressed, he had promised to be home by midnight. Hoping that this time he would keep his word, Esther had waited in the drawing room, going to this very window so many times that she had lost count. She had watched every carriage that went by, jumping up from her chair at the slightest sound, thinking it might be him at the door. Midnight came and went. The grandfather clock had struck the half-hour, then it was morning; one o’clock, two-thirty. When it struck three times it woke her from an uneasy slumber. Greatly troubled, she had hurried upstairs to see whether he had come in and gone straight to his room. His bed was not slept in. It was then that she went to her own bed, angry, frustrated and desperately worried. With Richard ill, she had entrusted a greater responsibility to Ben. Now it seemed she might have made a grave mistake: only this week she had discovered that he had seriously jeopardised the completion of a most important deal.
‘I know how worried you are, Esther, but it isn’t fair that you should take it out on Miss Mulliver.’ Richard Ward shifted in his chair, his soft hazel eyes quietly regarding his wife. He had heard the conversation between her and Tilly Mulliver, and though he had learned of old not to intervene, his sympathies lay with the servant. She was a good and kind soul. Indeed, he had often been cheered by her bright affectionate smile.
‘Richard!’ Esther Ward had been startled by his softly spoken voice. At once, she was on the defensive. She had gone to great pains to prevent him knowing about Ben’s unpredictable and damaging behaviour. Her apprehension betrayed itself on her face as she came across the room. ‘What do you mean? Why should I be worried?’ she asked, forcing a smile. Richard Ward had built up his business against all the odds. It would kill him if he thought his only son was driving it into the ground. If Beth had been the problem, she would not have hesitated in telling him, but she would never willingly condemn her son.
‘I mean you, Esther, constantly worrying about me. There’s no need. I’ll be fine, you’ll see. I’ll be on my feet and at the helm in no time at all. So do try not to take your frustrations out on poor Miss Mulliver. She has enough to be going on with, I think.’ He smiled as she came closer, but the smile did not reach his eyes.
‘Oh, but of course I worry about you,’ Esther retorted. She could barely hide her relief. If only he knew that it was Ben she was more concerned about, not her husband. ‘No one will be more delighted than me when you’re “back at the helm”,’ she admitted reluctantly.
‘Nonsense, Esther. The company is in good hands with you and Ben. I’ve never fooled myself that I was indispensable.’ He knew only too well that he was driven by his wife. It was not something he enjoyed, but neither was it something that could easily be rectified. Over the years he had come to accept it. And, sometimes, even to welcome it.
‘I don’t want to hear you talk like that,’ she warned. She also had been taught a lesson these past months, and it was this… her active part in the company was no secret amongst Richard Ward’s business colleagues; even the bank manager was quietly aware of it; but since her husband had been struck down and she had emerged as the figurehead, doors were beginning to close in her face. She was a woman in a man’s world, and while they were prepared to tolerate it as long as Richard was in the foreground, it had proved to be a different matter altogether, now that they were asked to deal directly with his wife. In desperation, yet not without a certain amount of pride, she had pushed Ben to the forefront. It was clear now, that he was neither mature nor committed enough. The whole exercise had been a disastrous mistake, and one which threatened to be the ruination of all that Richard had worked so hard to achieve. In a moment of vulnerability, she reached out to take her husband’s hand. The rare and impetuous fusing of their warm flesh was a shock to both of them. When he looked up, surprised and puzzled, she said quietly, ‘I mean it, Richard. No one can take your place at the head of the Ward Development Company.’ She continued to stare at him for a moment before turning away, suddenly afraid that the truth would show on her face and he might suspect the real reason for her remark.
As it was, he asked, ‘Everything is all right, isn’t it?’
‘Of course!’ she told him, beginning to walk away. ‘Everything is fine.’ Inwardly cursing herself for that one weak moment when she might have aroused his suspicions, she went quickly to the door. ‘I’m tiring you,’ she said, turning with a half-smile. ‘I’ll go and see what’s keeping that wretched nurse.’
‘Esther!’ His voice was sharp with pain.
‘Yes?’ She remained motionless, her hand fidgeting on the door knob, and a look of irritation beneath her gaze. ‘What now?’ For what seemed an age, he gave no answer. Then, in what was almost a whisper, he asked, ‘Have you heard… from Beth?’ He saw her bristle. Memories of that night spran
g to his mind and the pain was unbearable. Even now, he could not find it in his heart to forgive the daughter he had idolised for so many reasons, and who was now carrying the bastard child of one of their labourers. It was happening again, just like before. Not for the first time he wondered whether all of this was sent to punish him. ‘I’m sorry,’ he murmured. He dropped his gaze to the floor, deliberately casting the memory of Beth from his mind.
‘No!’ Esther swung open the door, her face set stonily. ‘I have not heard from her. And, even if I did, she would not be welcome in this house. Never again. Not while I am mistress of it.’ Her voice took on a menacing tone. ‘You do understand why I could never have her back, don’t you?’
His answer was a slow, definite nod. But he did not look at her. He understood. Oh, yes, he understood only too well.
‘Then let that be an end to it.’ She looked at his bowed head, and she remembered also. There should have been compassion in her heart for the manner in which he had suffered all these years; a suffering which she herself had viciously prolonged. ‘Elizabeth has shown her true character, and as far as I am concerned, she can rot in Hell.’ Her voice was like the hard scrape of metal against metal.
He knew she was waiting, waiting for him to say the words that would not come. He remained silent, And still she waited, and still he did not look up. Even when he heard the door abruptly close, he kept his eyes cast downwards for a moment, before closing them against the tears. ‘I can’t forgive you, Beth,’ he murmured brokenly. ‘All these years… and you finally played right into her hands. God help me, but I can’t forgive you.’
* * *
It was a week later, on a bitter cold afternoon towards the end of January, that Tyler Blacklock straightened his back from his labours, wiped the sweat from his brow and started his way towards the timber office, where most of the men were already waiting to collect their wage packets. As he picked his way over the trenched, uneven earth which would soon carry the railway lines far beyond London town, the legacy of his terrible beating was painfully obvious. The deep scar that ran from his temple to the base of his jaw would heal in time, as would the ones on his body – so the doctors told him. But the jagged breaks to his right leg, and the ensuing treatment, had left him with a degree of pain and a marked limp that could well plague him for the rest of his life.
‘I ain’t sorry to be finished here, I can tell yer!’ The big ganger swung the pickaxe on to his shoulder and shivered. ‘The gaffer an’ me have never seen eye to eye. The day had to come when he handed me me cards. No matter. I’ll find work. I ain’t never been out on the streets yet,’ he said, falling into step with Tyler. ‘And I ain’t sorry it’s the end of the week neither… me throat feels as dry as a bleedin’ desert.’
‘Gerraway, Pickerton!’ yelled a broad-chested fellow from somewhere behind. ‘It ain’t “cold” nor “thirst” yer thinking on… it’s them painted floozies wi’ their legs wide open that’s calling yer.’
‘Aye, that’s right,’ shouted another, ‘but don’t forget the buggers’ll ’ave their fists open an’ all… waiting ter rob yer of every soddin’ penny yer’ve earned.’
‘Mebbe! But it’ll be worth it, I reckon,’ laughed the big ganger, playfully pushing Tyler and urging him, ‘Come with me, why don’t yer? Them little cows’ll fall over themselves to bed a big ’andsome bugger like you.’ In the two months that Tyler Blacklock had laboured on this site, Abe Pickerton had come to respect and like him. In spite of his troublesome leg, Tyler had shown himself to be a strong and conscientious worker, although his quiet serious manner meant that he had become something of a loner.
Glancing at his companion, Tyler shook his head, saying in a firm friendly voice,’ Thanks all the same, but no.’ His dark eyes were smiling yet intense. ‘My wages are already spoke for.’ He laughed, a low rich sound that reassured the other man. ‘No doubt you’ll manage to keep the ladies well satisfied.’
The big ganger laughed also, with a noise like the earth shaking. ‘Too bloody right I will! What’s the point of earning a wage if yer can’t spread it about a bit?’ he wanted to know.
‘It’s easy ter see yer ain’t got no missus at ’ome!’ came a shout from ahead. ‘Else it’d be yer bloody brains that’s “spread about a bit”.’
There followed a chorus of like calls and laughter, which swelled to uproar when the big ganger yelled back, ‘Oh, I’ve had a missus, don’t think I ain’t suffered wi’ the rest of yer. But the bugger ’ad a tongue like the crack of a bleedin’ whip, an’ she were too fond o’ showing other folks ’er arse… so I left ’er wi’ me best friend who’d tekken a fancy to ’er. Poor sod! I’d bet me week’s wage he rues the day… if he ain’t long gone by now, that is.’
Some half an hour later, the men were dispersing in different directions, each to enjoy their respective weekends in their own particular way. ‘Sure yer won’t come along?’ the big ganger asked once more. When Tyler politely declined, the fellow shrugged his shoulders, took off his cap and stuffed it into his pocket. Then he spat into the flat of his hand and smoothed it over his roughened fair hair until every strand was larded to his head like a second cap. ‘Suit yerself,’ he said. ‘Though I can’t see what’s so important that yer should save every penny like a bloody miser.’ He had long been curious about Tyler. He regarded him now, looking him up and down before saying, ‘That gammy leg o’ yours… how did it get damaged?’
Having learned how to avoid such questions, Tyler merely replied, ‘It’s a long story.’
‘Yer a strange feller,’ the ganger said, his inquisitive gaze following the scar on Tyler’s face. ‘Either you’ve been in some accident or other, or you’ve got some very bad enemies.’ He waited, half-expecting a helpful response. When all he got was a wry smile, he laughed and nodded his head. ‘All right, I’m a nosy bugger and should mind me own business,’ he said, adding in a serious voice, ‘but I’ve tekken a liking to yer, Blacklock. You’ve a good head on yer shoulders, an’ yer ain’t afraid of hard work.’ He paused, biting his bottom lip and nodding his head as he struggled to find the right words. Presently he told Tyler, ‘Tell me it ain’t none o’ my business if yer like. And you’d be right, I’m not denying that. But I’d like yer to know that… well, if there are them as mean yer harm…’
Anticipating his offer of help, Tyler was quick to assure him: ‘If it was anything like that, you’d be a good man to have on my side. But, it’s nothing. It’s over and done with. An unfortunate incident best forgotten.’ Those weeks when he had been at the lowest ebb in his life, the thought of revenge had sent him almost insane. Time and again he relived that night when the ruffians came at him out of the darkness. He suspected that Florence Ball might have sent her two lodgers after him, but he could never be sure. Their faces were hidden from him by the gloom, and not once had they spoken so he might recognise their voices. Then again, the bastards could have been any two rogues wandering the streets, looking for a likely victim. Even if they passed him face to face in broad daylight, he would not know who they were. He recalled only the blackness, the shuffling of feet, the ferocity of their attack, and his desperate struggle to fend them off. Beyond that there was merely pain, a dull invasive pain that had remained with him for many long weeks afterwards. Only the memory of Beth and his love for her dulled his thirst for revenge. After a while, he could think of nothing else but Beth. The longing to contact her was like a burning fever inside him, raging night and day. Scarred and broken, he was tormented by the fact that all his plans for their future had come to nothing. The doctors had warned him he could be crippled for life. What could he offer her now? What hope was there for a life together?
For a long time he had wandered the streets of London like a tramp; going from place to place looking for work, any kind of work that would bring him a decent wage and give him back his self-respect. But when people looked at him, they saw only a down-and-out with a scarred face, a cripple who would be of little use to them. ‘Sorr
y,’ they said, shaking their heads and frowning. ‘We’ve no work here.’ And so he moved on, snatching a day’s work here, a few hours there, living from hand to mouth and lodging in the worst dives imaginable. Every minute of every day he had to fight the desperate need to contact Beth. Shame and pride kept him from doing so. But above all else, he resisted for her sake. How could he expect her to pick up where they left off? He would not ask that of her. But he loved her more than life itself. They would be together again, he never doubted that. But first, there was much to do. And anyway, Beth believed him to be in the North. Let her go on believing that, until he was a whole man again, one who could take care of her. One who would not go to her empty-handed.
Two months ago, Tyler had learned how the railway authorities were looking for gangers to lay a new line from London to the developing suburbs. The foreman had not looked at the scar on his face, nor at the curious dip in his stride. Instead, his observant eyes had taken the measure of the man… the broad straight shoulders, the capable height and the strength in his arms and back. ‘Can you start right away?’ he had asked.
Tyler started work within the hour. Before nightfall he had secured a room and lodgings in a decent boarding house on the outskirts of the city. Before the week was out he had shown himself to be worth every shilling paid him. Within a fortnight he had purchased a decent set of clothes and put a small sum of money to one side. He had a rage to save every farthing, to save and save until he had a sizeable sum. If he had learned one thing, it was that money was a powerful asset. It could open doors through which no poor man could ever enter. More than anything, money could make it easier for a man to take the woman he loved, and give her the life she deserved. Beth was his driving force. She alone was the reason for his existence. Every waking and sleeping moment, every minute of every hour, every hour of every day, week and month, it was Beth who kept him going. She burned inside him like a warm glowing light. She was his life. His love. Everything he did was for her. He had no idea how long it would take, or whether she would forgive him for staying away, but he knew in his heart that there would come a day when he would hold her close. The long painful days in between might seem like a lifetime, but it would be a small price to pay when he had his Beth at last.
Don’t Cry Alone Page 12