A Dorset Girl

by Janet Woods

  ‘He has a loft over the stables, miss. He said he prefers to sleep there rather than in the house. He comes inside for his breakfast and dinner though, as hungry as a horse. Hollow legs, that there lad’s got. Just like my brother had when he was Josh’s age.’

  Josh was nowhere to be found. ‘Who knows what he gets up to?’ Rosie said. ‘He goes off somewhere when his work’s done.’

  Siana, satisfied that Josh’s quarters were snug and warm and his belly was kept full, concluded that Josh was old enough to make his own decisions regarding his comfort.

  The house felt oddly empty and unsettled without Edward. Siana pondered the relationship existing between Elizabeth and Edward. Sometimes she caught herself wishing Edward would call off his marriage to Isabelle. When Tom died, he could wed Elizabeth instead.

  One day when they were eating breakfast, Elizabeth looked up from her plate and said, ‘Edward has offered to lend me the capital to start my business. It’s a fine morning. Now our bruises are healed and we do not look such frights, I’m going to consult an agent about finding suitable premises for my Ladies’ Accessories salon.’ She eyed Siana’s brown dress. ‘Edward has also charged me with fitting you out more suitably, so if you have nothing better to do, you can accompany me. We shall look at some material and patterns. Rosie can mind Daisy.’

  Siana didn’t quite know what to say, so she mumbled, ‘The squire has been kind to me.’

  Elizabeth was in the middle of spreading honey on her bread. She paused for a moment, her head tilted to one side. Her eyes were sad as the golden drops of sticky liquid gathered at the end of the spoon. ‘Sometimes his kindness takes hostages.’

  Siana didn’t understand what she meant. ‘He loves you, I think,’ she dared to say.

  Elizabeth’s fine blue eyes were turned her way. ‘Edward’s love is unpredictable.’ The globule of honey lengthened into a string that stretched slowly downward. It spread into a miniature golden sun on the edge of the plate. Elizabeth laughed a little unsteadily. ‘Yet for all its danger, the pull of it is hard to resist, as if one is a bee being drawn to the source of the honey.’

  Leaving her seat, Siana impulsively kissed her cheek. ‘Perhaps he will not marry Isabelle, after all.’

  ‘You have a romantic soul.’ Elizabeth smiled and gently patted her cheek, adroitly changing the subject when Rosie came in with a tray of tea. ‘I wonder what that awful housekeeper was thinking of when she bought you that gown. It must be the ugliest garment in the world.’

  ‘It most certainly is not; the black one is. This one is the second ugliest.’

  ‘She’s a black-hearted old hag is Mrs Pawley,’ Rosie grumbled almost to herself. ‘She can jump on her broomstick and fly off into the night for all I care.’

  They both began to laugh then, gazing at each other with pleasure, were joined by some inexplicable bond of togetherness.

  Mrs Pawley had taken advantage of her master’s absence to visit her sister in Dorchester. The two women hunched over a pot of tea and ate a chunk of fruit cake stolen from the manor pantry, spreading it with blackberry conserve from the same source.

  The room they were sitting in was mean and dark. It smelled of mice droppings and stale urine.

  Agnes Pawley, older than her sister, bent, crone-like and dressed in black, gently felt her bodice then picked some crumbs from it. She ate them one by one, sucking them through the gaps in her almost toothless mouth. She gave a sigh of satisfaction. ‘A nice bit of cake that, our Ethel. Won’t it be missed?’

  The housekeeper shrugged. ‘If it is, no one will suspect me. I’ve bin there too long.’ She leaned forward, dropping her voice as she began to gossip with her sister. ‘You’ll never guess what’s bin going on up at the manor lately.’

  Agnes leaned forward too, her eyes milky, her face avid for any news that might involve the manor. A good titbit of gossip in the right ears would see the pennies cascade into her begging cup.

  Ethel Pawley could hardly contain herself; squeezing her thin thighs together, her voice hissed triumphantly from her mouth like a blast through a tin whistle. ‘There were two of them damned strumpets in the house last month. As bold as brass, they were. That Siana Lewis was one of them, all bruised up and with her arm broken. She had an infant held in her good arm. About a year old it were, and looking like her who up and died on him all them years ago. Squire fussed over them both like he owned them. Wouldn’t be surprised if the kid ain’t his, neither, and the mother no more than seventeen. It’s not decent.’

  ‘Never,’ Agnes breathed, her dim eyes gleaming.

  ‘Guess who he gets in to look after her? Go on, guess.’

  Agnes shook her head.

  ‘His other harlot, the one he foisted onto the girl’s stepbrother. She looked as beat up as the girl. Next thing they was all bundled into the carriage and taken away. I overheard the squire tell Elizabeth Skinner that he had bought them a house in Poole to live in. What d’you make of those goings-on, then?’

  ‘There’ll be a fine old dandy when that sweetheart of his gets to hear of it, that’s what I think.’

  ‘D’you think she will get to hear of it then, our Agnes?’

  Agnes gave a sly chuckle. ‘Wouldn’t be at all surprised. You could allus tell ’er yerself.’

  Ethel’s mouth became a spidery pout. ‘Of course I could, dearie, but we wouldn’t want it to get back to the squire’s ears, now, would we? It would lose me my job, then where would we be?’ Sliding her hand into her pocket, Ethel brought out a coin and handed it over to her sister. It was immediately snatched from her hand and slipped into her sister’s pocket.

  Ethel smiled a little when Agnes said, ‘I reckon she might learn of it, at that. Word of mouth is a funny thing. A hint here, a hint there . . . but not yet a while. She be in London right now, being fitted for her trousseau. I heard she’s got so fat they had to put a panel of material in her wedding gown to let it out.’

  Ethel sniggered. ‘Squire likes them a bit on the lean side. She looks a bit like his late wife, does the Lewis girl. A real lady, she was. He doted on her. A pity she went mad. He had to lock her in her room in the end. It’s still locked. Nobody’s bin allowed in there since she died, not even to clean it. Sometimes he goes in there and stays there all day.’

  Edward inserted the key in the lock and turned it. The door had begun to squeak, he noticed.

  Closing it behind him, he sat in the pink-brocade armchair by the cold, ash-filled grate and listened to the sounds of the departed. The room was hushed and whispery, smelling faintly of lavender.

  Over on the dresser a bowl of water had evaporated, leaving a series of faint brown rings, like tide marks on a sea wall. Dust coated the furniture, the curtains were drawn across, the blue velvet faded now from a couple of summers of neglect. The bed was unmade, the covers thrown back.

  The last time he’d seen Patricia she’d been lying there, dead and cold. Her hands crossed on her chest, her hair fanned loose and free on the pillow. Adjoining, was the room of their child, empty for more years than he liked to think about. His darling baby girl had been cruelly choked by an illness that had started as a simple sore throat.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ he whispered. ‘But I was left behind to live with it, and for the first time since, I feel totally alive.’

  Rising from the chair, he strode to the window and jerked the curtains aside. Light streamed through the window, dust motes danced. He sneezed and gazed up at the portrait over the fireplace, handkerchief held to his mouth.

  Patricia stared back at him, her painted smile wryly amused. Her hair was black, her eyes green and brilliant. Her skin was painted in delicate brushstrokes of peach tints on almond silk. Shadows cleaved between perfect breasts peaking under a bodice of pale green satin. Diamonds shone on her fingers and in her ears.

  Patricia had not aged well. Her mouth had pulled down at the corners with snarling discontent, her eyes had developed a vacant, staring meanness to them. She had sc
arred herself constantly, scratching at her breasts and stomach until she bled.

  He could almost see the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. Almost feel her warmth. Almost . . . but not quite.

  He closed his eyes in anguish. She’d fought him when he’d held the pillow over her face, but not for long. A heart attack, Dr Bede had put it down to. Edward gave a faint smile. Thank God for Bede’s incompetence. Francis would have spotted his guilt in an instant.

  Funny how the peasant girl had picked up on his sadness in the carriage. ‘Is she always with you?’ Siana had asked.

  Of course she was. Every minute of every day. A man couldn’t easily shed his guilt over a woman he’d murdered, however much she’d needed to be put out of her misery.

  He smiled one last smile at Patricia’s painted face. ‘You do understand, don’t you, Patricia? I did it for your own good and mine too. I needed my freedom. Now I’m in love again. No matter how unsuitable the match seems, she will provide me with heirs.’

  ‘I miss my dear Charlotte every day. We never did talk of her death, did we? You were so self-absorbed. You didn’t give a thought for anyone else’s grief but yours and refused me the right to have another child.’

  The expression on the woman’s face in the portrait didn’t change.

  ‘The servants will come in here and talk about you – about me. They will handle your clothes and gossip. They’ll try to imagine what you were like. No doubt Mrs Pawley will tell them.’

  ‘The poor mistress was insane from grief, she’ll say. Lord, how that woman likes to gossip.’

  He shrugged and managed an apologetic smile. ‘You must go now. From my house, my life and my heart. I’ll leave the door open this time, so you can get out. Goodbye, Patricia. Look after our beautiful girl until we meet again in heaven.’

  Blowing her a kiss, he turned on his heel and left, leaving the door wide open behind him.

  Going to the drawing room, he poured himself a stiff brandy and gazed out into the windswept garden. It was late afternoon, the light gloomy. He sat for a while, sipping at his drink and thinking his thoughts, growing increasingly mellow. Eventually, he reached a conclusion that both startled and pleased him.

  Spring had already started to lay a bloom over the land, he noted. Soon, the earth would blossom. He smiled, feeling himself blossom. A great weight seemed to have dropped from his shoulders.

  Summoning the housekeeper to the drawing room, he stared at the funny little black-garbed woman, recalling her from his childhood. She was as thin as a stick, dried up. He wasn’t sure that he liked her, but it didn’t matter. Her function was to make sure his house was kept clean and she did it well.

  The house was large, it needed children to fill it. Several children. He thought of Isabelle, flat on her back, her legs spread wide, her bosoms flattened against her chest like two round pillows.

  He chuckled as he shook his head to dispel the image.

  ‘I want the rooms of my deceased wife cleared out,’ he said. ‘The furniture, ornaments and pictures can be taken to the attic. The personal items must be burned, clothing, furnishings, toiletries, toys . . . everything.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Mrs Pawley said, her eyes beginning to gleam.

  ‘Be aware,’ Edward said gently, ‘I’m familiar with every item remaining there. Should any of them turn up in the market place, I will hold you personally responsible.’

  12

  The Dorchester Assizes. March, 1834

  ‘The object of all legal punishment is not altogether with the view of operating on the offenders themselves, it is also for the sake of offering an example and a warning.’

  Judge Baron Williams exchanged a brief glance with William Ponsonby MP, foreman of the Grand Jury, and brother-in-law to the Home Secretary, Lord Melbourne. Then he allowed his glance to rest on the remainder of the jury – on the representation of magistrates. Morally sound, upright men, every one of them. With the wealth of legal expertise present, there was no doubt in his mind that they’d reach the right conclusion.

  Rapping his gavel to demand attention, the judge then ordered, ‘Bring in the prisoners. Let the trial commence.’

  Josh had got rid of his cockles early that day, the crowds outside the assizes only too eager to sample his cooked shellfish. He could have sold three times as many. They’d fetched a nice price, too. Twice what the sailors paid him for them on the quay at Poole.

  What with that and the shillings garnered from his cartage business, he was in possession of what seemed to him to be a small fortune, even though he’d had to spend much of his precious earnings by buying a small cart from a bankrupt baker the month before.

  Josh was proud of his cart. JOSHUA SKINNER, COCKLES AND CARTAGE, POOLE, he d painted on the side in large blue letters, after acquiring some marine paint on one of his night forays into town. The writing was a bit uneven, but still, it got the message across. As an afterthought he’d added, SMALL GOODS ONLY, because neither he nor Jasper would have had the strength for large or heavy loads, even if the cart had had the room, especially over a long distance.

  Business was brisk. At the rate he was going, he knew he’d soon be his own man rather than be obliged to take up the employment offered by the squire. His brother Tom had been in the squire’s pay, and look what it had got him. A whole heap of trouble. Everyone had hated Tom Skinner when he was able. Now he was down-and-out he didn’t have a friend in the world.

  In fact, people were waiting for him to die, but the bugger was too mean to let go of life. Instead, he took up a bed in the infirmary and gazed through hate-filled eyes at everyone who went near him. Josh had heard that Tom snuffled like a pig through his chewed nose and his skin was covered in boils from the pig shit he’d wallowed in, especially the stump of his leg. It had poisoned his blood, the doc had been overheard saying. Josh couldn’t think of a better fate for Tom.

  He whistled happily to himself as he gave Jasper a feed of oats. ‘Now don’t you go to sleep on the way home, after that,’ he warned, and one of Jasper’s ears swivelled back to listen. ‘You can have a bit of a rest while I go in the bank when we gets home. All right?’

  He reckoned it was about time he opened a bank account. But not in Dorchester. Oh no! If Tom happened to recover and got wind of it, the thieving bastard would soon have it off him. Josh had already decided. He’d use the same bank in Poole as Elizabeth used.

  Turning the cart around, he walked Jasper through the milling crowds.

  ‘Oi! Josh lad,’ somebody shouted. ‘Wait up.’

  Josh turned, grinning at Pete Barrow who, with cap pulled down over his eyes, came sauntering out of a laneway.

  ‘What can I do for you then, Pete?’

  ‘Be you going back to Poole?’

  ‘Sure, but if you want something delivering it’ll cost you sixpence a piece.’

  Pete lowered his voice. ‘There’s a couple of parcels of trout to go to the fishmonger. Make it thruppence and there might be a regular run in it.’

  Josh laughed. ‘D’you take me for a fool? Risky business, trout. I reckon word must be out and they be keeping an eye on your usual runner. A tanner apiece. That’s my cut.’

  Pete thought for a moment, then nodded. ‘Fair enough. Wait for me at the clearing down by the stream.’

  ‘Not for too long, I gotta get back to Poole. Got some business to conduct,’ he said importantly. ‘I be going to open meself a bank account.’

  ‘Going up in the world then, are you?’ Pete grinned. ‘Well good luck, young un, that’s all I can say,’ and he melted back into the crowds and was gone.

  The clearing was deserted. Josh ate a pennyworth of meat pie whilst he waited, appreciating the rich gravy. It sat nicely in his stomach. He wished he’d bought two portions. ‘By crikey, I gets hungry these days,’ he said to Jasper. ‘Seems to me that the more you get to eat the more you want.’

  Soon Pete arrived. The man was out of breath as he threw two sacks onto the cart. Josh held out his h
and and a shilling was pressed into it.

  ‘Quickly, get going. I think someone followed me.’

  Josh was on the road inside a few minutes. Jasper went at a fast trot for half a mile, then Josh slowed the mule’s pace to something less tiring. They had a fair lick to go and he didn’t want to wear the old boy out. Rounding a bend, he came upon Hannah, her infant squalling in a sling on her hip, a basket in the other arm.

  He was tempted to pass by her without a word, but when she moved into the middle of the road he had no choice but to stop.

  ‘I’m fair worn out. Give us a lift to the turn off, our Josh.’

  Taking her basket from her, he jerked his thumb at the back of the cart, saying ungraciously, ‘Hop up, then.’

  George stared at him for a moment, his eyes blue and watery. Mucus ran from his nose.

  The poor little bugger, Josh thought, and smiled at him. George burst into tears and Hannah smacked his arm. ‘For God’s sake shut up, else you’ll get a good hiding next,’ she shouted.

  ‘Leave the kid alone,’ Josh said fiercely.

  ‘And who d’you think you be to tell me what to do with me own child?’

  ‘The person who owns this cart, that’s who. If you lay one finger on George in front of me you can bloody well get down and walk home.’

  Hannah’s eyebrows rose. ‘Since when did you own a cart? I know where you got that murdering mule from, and good riddance to him. But how d’you get the money to buy this rig. Steal it?’

  ‘By working for meself, that’s how.’

  ‘Working for yerself? Glory be, Josh Skinner, you allus was a sharp un. You’ll be riding in a carriage next, and too good to speak to the likes of us.’ Her eyes took on a sly slant. ‘ I thought mebbe Siana gave you the money now she’s bedded down with the squire.’

  ‘What d’you mean, bedded down with the squire?’

  ‘You know ’zackly what I mean. The whole village is talking. They say the squire’s allus been a stallion, and now he has two mares in his stable. Tom is right pissed off about it, I can tell you. I wouldn’t like to be in Elizabeth’s shoes if he recovers.’