Pit Bank Wench

by Meg Hutchinson

  Pressing her lips to her daughter’s head she stared at the body of Caleb already half engulfed in rising flames.

  ‘Welcome to Judgement, Caleb,’ she murmured as the fire closed about her too. ‘Welcome to Judgement!’

  Emma could not hurry the old woman, darkness on the heath was treacherous; well as you might think you knew it, danger always awaited the careless or unwary. Emma held the basket she had taken from Jerusha, her other hand supporting the woman’s elbow. Should she trip it could well mean broken bones. Yet every fibre of Emma cried out for her to run, to go on ahead of Jerusha. Every vessel in her blood screaming that Carrie was lying injured . . . that Carrie might die.

  Walking beneath the great star-strewn canopy of night, Jerusha sensed the turmoil within the girl at her side. But even though she knew the strongest of legs and the fleetest of feet could not get them to Doe Bank in time to save the girl’s family it would be heaping cruelty upon cruelty to tell her so.

  Beneath the wrapping of her shawl Jerusha sighed. There was so much evil in the world, so much unhappiness, and the girl who walked beside her would have more than her share of it.

  ‘I didn’t see what she held.’ Emma spoke suddenly, as if words trapped within her had at last found a way of escape. ‘Not until it was in her hand. And then . . .’ She swallowed a sob. ‘Carrie was always so quiet, so timid, but tonight . . . It was when Father raised his hand. She must have thought he was about to strike Mother. I never saw such a look on Carrie’s face before, it was so full of . . .’

  ‘Hush, child.’ Jerusha drew her shawl more firmly about her head. ‘Keep your mind on where Jerusha be placing her feet, old eyes are no match for darkness.’

  Jerusha spoke out of sympathy. She would save the girl the pain of speaking, at least for tonight, for there was torment lying ahead across the heath. Old eyes were no match for the night but Jerusha Paget did not need the light of day to see what was happening at Doe Bank.

  ‘Mother will be so frightened,’ Emma went on, despite Jerusha’s words. ‘So worried for Carrie. She was so pale and there was so much blood. Oh, Jerusha, will . . . will she be all right? It would kill Mother if . . .’

  ‘Do you trust me, child?’ The question was simple, rising quietly out of the darkness.

  ‘Trust you . . . Jerusha, you must know that everyone at Doe Bank trusts you. Mother would have no one else to look at Carrie . . .’

  ‘I did not ask if everyone at Doe Bank gave me their trust, I asked you, Emma Price. Do you trust me?’

  The potion! The potion that other woman had given her, Jerusha must know of it. But how? Beneath the cover of darkness Emma felt the flush of colour rise to her face. But Jerusha did not always need to see nor yet to be told to know of a happening, every woman on the pit bank said so, said that Jerusha Paget had the sight, that she could see that which was forbidden from others; and hadn’t she, Emma, already had proof of that when she’d asked Jerusha for a potion? She had not spoken Carver Felton’s name, but the old woman had known it, and now she was questioning Emma’s trust in her.

  ‘Yes,’ Emma replied, surprised at the relief that one word engendered in her. ‘Yes, I trust you.’

  The heath receded from beneath her feet, all around the night sounds faded into silence, one that engulfed Jerusha, lifting her into herself, a vast light-filled silence of which she was the heart.

  Coming to a halt she stood with her head slightly tilted and in the moonlight her face seemed to lose all signs of age, all marks of a life of hardship and worry, a look of such serene peace taking its place, such quiet beauty, that looking at her, Emma caught her breath.

  ‘Mary Price feels no fear.’ Jerusha’s lips barely moved, her words no more than a breath on the wind. ‘She knows no anguish. She is with her daughter, the child of her body, they are together. There is no pain. The sting of the knife is gone . . .’

  The breath in Emma’s throat hardened like a stone. She had not spoken of the knife.

  ‘. . . the mother holds the child in her arms and they are comforted. But the eyes of Mary Price turn to the daughter who stands now on the heath, a daughter who will go on alone. She stretches out a hand to that child, a hand that will be felt whenever sorrow seems too heavy to bear. She will always be close, and though your eyes may not see, your heart will hear.’

  Overhead a bank of cloud swallowed the moon and in its shadow Jerusha lowered her head. Ignoring the past moment she began to walk on. Emma, still lost in what she had said, had to skip to catch up.

  Jerusha’s words on that other night had proved true. She had gone to someone else to seek a potion that would rid her of the child Carver Felton may have left within her, but it had not worked; there had been a great deal of pain but nothing else. The child was still there, just as Jerusha had predicted.

  Emma walked on, forcing her steps to keep pace with Jerusha’s.

  All had gone as she had said, so why should the words she’d spoken a moment ago be any less true? Carrie and her mother were comforted, Carrie was in no pain, everything would be all right. In the near distance the crimson glow of an opened furnace outlined the rise of Doe Bank. A few minutes more and she would be with her mother. Cresting the last of the rise Emma stood stock still.

  Then, her mouth opening in an agonised scream, she ran towards her burning home.

  Chapter Seven

  Carver Felton adjusted the pearl-coloured silk cravat. His brother had gone to Birkenhead as he had been ordered. His little brother! Carver smiled at his own reflection. Trust Paul to do as he was told, he always did. He was in Birkenhead, and from there would be sent somewhere else, and from there to the next place, until he had got the Price girl out of his system. Not that his brother could be entirely blamed should that take some time. Carver thrust a gold tie pin into the silk. From what he could remember of that face swathed in shadow she was quite a pretty little thing, and the hair . . . His fingers fondled the silk. The hair had been the silver of moonlight. Had she been of their class, with the same breeding, she would have made an acceptable wife. Supposing, of course, she brought money. But she had neither of those things. All she had was her beauty. Slipping his arms into his coat, Carver smoothed it over his hips. But, by God, she had that, and for many a man it would have been enough. But it was not enough, not enough for her to become a Felton.

  Turning from the mirror he glanced towards the door of his dressing room.

  ‘Excuse me, Mr Felton, sir, but Barlow is downstairs asking to see you. Will I tell him to call back tomorrow?’

  Coming into the large well-furnished bedroom Carver drew his gold hunter from his waistcoat pocket, glancing at the time before replacing the watch.

  ‘I have a few minutes yet, I am not due at Miss Holgate’s until nine-thirty. Show him into the study and say I will be with him directly.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  Carver continued to stare at the door as his manservant withdrew. Barlow. That meant the job was done, or at least it had better be if the manager wanted to hold on to his own.

  ‘Good evening, Mr Felton.’

  John Barlow shuffled his feet nervously as Carver entered the room.

  ‘Is it done?’ He ignored the greeting.

  ‘I did as you instructed, sir.’

  ‘And?’ Carver demanded.

  ‘And . . . and nothing, Mr Felton,’ Barlow stammered, uncomfortable at being in Felton Hall, and wary of the man who stood glaring at him with eyes black as the coal his miners ripped from the earth. ‘What else could there be?’

  ‘The man Price, did he say anything?’ Carver grabbed a pen from the desk, twisting it irritably between his fingers. ‘Did he ask why?’

  Barlow touched the palm of one hand to the edge of his jacket with a quick nervous movement. Why had he been told to report here to the house? Why didn’t Felton wait until his next visit to the mine . . . in fact, why ask for a report at all? He had given men their tins before and never asked how they reacted, so why this time?
What was so special about Price?

  ‘Arr Mr Felton, he asked, but like I told him, the owner don’t ’ave to give no reason. You said as ’e was finished at the Topaz and that was all the reason necessary. I ‘ope I did right, sir?’

  ‘Of course you did right!’ Carver threw the pen on to the desk, watching it roll the width before dropping off the edge. He gave no man a reason for his actions, explained himself to nobody. Yet the feeling of guilt that had resolved itself into anger persisted as he asked, ‘The man . . . this Price . . . you are sure he was the right one?’

  John Barlow swallowed, the Adam’s apple of his throat moving visibly. A man needed to take care in his dealings with the like of Carver Felton. One wrong word was all it would take, just one wrong word, and he would be in the same boat as Price was in now and the bugger would sink just as fast.

  ‘You said as the one I was to finish was the one living up along Doe Bank.’ Barlow hesitated, then when Carver made no answer went on, ‘Well, the preacher man lived there . . .’

  ‘Preacher man?’ Carver looked up from watching the pen.

  ‘That be the name folk have given him, though ’e were baptised Caleb . . . Caleb Price.’

  ‘So why the title? Is the man a priest?’

  ‘Caleb Price ain’t never been ordained, he be no true priest.’

  Carver’s brows drew together and beneath the branched gasolier the twin streaks of silver shone among the darkness of his hair.

  ‘So where did the name come from?’

  His throat still working, John Barlow studied the face of his employer. So many questions about a man he had never mentioned until yesterday, questions that did not come from an easy mind. But why the preacher man? What was it about him that so disturbed Carver Felton?

  ‘Caleb Price fancies himself as something of a lay preacher. He sometimes takes a service down at the Chapel and teaches a bit of Sunday school for the young ’uns, though I’ve not heard him myself, being a Church of England man. But I ’ave heard him spouting off to the men at the mine. A real Bible thumper is Price, I reckon he quotes the Scriptures more often than did any of the Disciples.’

  ‘The preacher man.’ Carver mulled over the name. ‘Interesting. Did he preach you a sermon when you gave him his tin?’

  Barlow shook his head, though his glance as it rested on Carver was keen as before. ‘Not as such, sir, though ’e did say as how no man acted of his own accord. That all was done according to the will of God.’

  The will of God. Carver smiled as the mine manager left. Or the will of Carver Felton.

  ‘I thought at first it was a furnace being opened.’ Emma sat in a neighbour’s house. It had taken two men to drag her there, to prevent her from racing into the burning house, and all the time she had screamed her mother’s name.

  ‘It looked so beautiful, the crest of the hill black against the red glow . . . how could I?’ She sobbed into her hands. ‘How could I have thought it beautiful when it was my own home that was burning?’

  ‘You were not to know, wench.’ Polly Butler spoke soothingly as she brewed a third pot of tea. Tea and sympathy, that was all anybody could offer at a time like this. Emma had come flying over the heath, hair and skirts spread on the wind, her screams like those of the damned; it had only been the quick action of Sam Davis that stopped her racing into the flames. Now he stood guard at the door lest she try to run back. But there was nothing to run back to except a smouldering ruin.

  ‘Come on, try to drink a drop of tea.’ Polly placed a cup before Emma. ‘It’ll help you feel better.’

  Nothing could do that. Emma closed her fingers over her face, wanting to hide herself away, to hide from the awful reality, to shut out the scene that seemed to be painted on her eyes. She would never feel better, never forget the events of this night.

  Getting up from the stool Polly Butler had drawn to the fire, Jerusha drew back the cloth cover she had placed over her basket. Taking out a small dark blue glass bottle she sprinkled a few drops of clear liquid into the cup, a faint shake of her head warding off the other woman’s enquiry.

  ‘Drink this down, Emma.’

  Jerusha’s tone was firmer than that of Polly, she was used to handling the sorrow of those who had lost loved ones; only her own sorrow, that of parting with Jacob, only that did she find hard to deal with. But deal she must until her time came.

  With the obedience of a small child Emma took the cup. ‘How could it have happened?’ She looked into Jerusha’s face. ‘What could have caused it?’

  Jerusha could answer each of those questions but now was not the time. That moment would come, Jerusha felt such pity for the girl, but when it did it must be in a moment of comfort. To speak the truth now would only add to the burden of sorrow that was crushing the girl’s heart. For now that terrible truth must remain locked inside Jerusha’s own, she would tell no one what the silence had revealed to her.

  Taking the cup as Emma finished her drink, Polly glanced at Jerusha. ‘The wench best stay with us, my lads can bed down in the scullery . . .’

  ‘But I can’t take your sons’ room!’ Emma was almost on her feet as she spoke.

  ‘Well, you can’t go back to . . .’ Polly checked herself, a faint blush rising fast to her cheeks. ‘You can’t go back to Jerusha’s place again tonight, it be overfar for her to walk.’

  Catching Polly’s eye Jerusha nodded, approving the quickness of the woman’s recovery.

  ‘And you certainly ain’t going to sleep under no hedge. It be best you both bed down here in this house. Unless, of course, you would rather go to another in Doe Bank? Every door be open to you.’

  Jerusha placed her empty cup on the table, nodding as Polly held up the teapot offering a second cup. ‘That we be aware of and both of us be grateful. Thank you for your kindness, Polly Butler, we will bide the night beneath this roof.’

  ‘But your sons . . .’ Emma felt suddenly weary, her protest fading as tiredness swept over her.

  ‘My lads will take no harm from bedding in the scullery or here on the hearth afore the fire. ‘Tain’t nothing they haven’t done many a night gone. Now you just sit you there a minute longer while I puts clean sheets on the bed and then we’ll have you tucked up.’

  Taking her cup, Jerusha sipped the tea, eyes following Polly as she drew two spotless white sheets from one of the long drawers set beneath a tall cupboard built into an alcove alongside the black-leaded fireplace. Still folded as the day they were bought, she knew they had never yet seen use for these were the burying sheets. Kept by every family, even if the buying of them meant going without food; they were the sheets that would cover bed and body whenever death struck the family. Using them now was a measure of the woman’s pity for the young girl, for it meant the sheets could no longer be kept for the purpose they were intended. Pennies would be scratched and scraped together, set aside in some secret place until there were enough to buy another pair that would be laid away for ‘the burying’.

  ‘I should have been with her. With both of them.’ Tears rose fresh and hot and Emma brushed them with her fingers. ‘Mother must have been so terrified. If only I had been there . . . I should have been there . . . I should not have left them. It’s my fault . . . oh, God! It’s all my fault.’

  ‘No fault lies with you, child.’ Jerusha moved close, arms going about the sobbing girl. ‘It was not meant for you to be in that house.’

  ‘But I could have helped them, helped Father get Mother and Carrie away from . . .’

  ‘No, child.’ Jerusha laid a hand on Emma’s head, holding it against her. ‘Believe me, you could not have helped your father. Nor either of them.’

  Sobs choking her throat, Emma drew away to look into the face of the woman who held her. ‘But how do you know? How can you be so sure?’

  ‘How? That I can only answer vaguely, child. I can only say it is given to me to know, and I am sure because never once have I been given that which proved other than true.’

 
; ‘Then who is it gives you this knowledge . . . where does it come from?’

  Above Emma’s head, Jerusha stared into the fire. Flames tinged with blue and gold suddenly shot high, losing themselves in the black void of the chimney.

  ‘I ask no questions as to who or where. I ask none for myself and will ask it for no other. The truth guides Jerusha Paget, that is all I need to know.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘No, child. Ask nothing more tonight.’ Jerusha directed her glance to Polly as she came into the room. ‘Go with Polly now and try to sleep. The days ahead will have time enough in them to ask your questions.’

  Time enough to ask her questions. Jerusha watched the two women, one with a helping arm about the waist of the other, leave the room, then turned her eyes once more to the fire. But for all their length they would not hold time enough for her to find the answers. Emma Price would carry the mark of this night ever in her heart. Forgive and forget. How often had that been preached? Time! Jerusha stared at the dancing flames. Time would bring about the first, but all eternity would not achieve the second.

  Emma Price would forgive, but she would not forget!

  ‘Are they really going to put money into that scheme of yours?’

  Cara Holgate raised one skilfully plucked eyebrow, her fingers toying provocatively with the ribbons of a silk velvet bed coat.

  ‘Do you doubt it?’

  The man lying with arms folded beneath his dark head, his naked limbs gleaming against the deep peach of the bed cover, smiled at her, confidence visible in every line of him.

  ‘No.’ Cara pulled a silk ribbon, a slow enticing movement that was not lost on her companion. ‘I don’t doubt it, knowing you as I do. I do not doubt you could achieve anything . . . once your mind was set on it.’

  His smile curving the corners of his well-shaped mouth, he watched the long slender fingers toy with a second ribbon. ‘You always did show sense as well as taste, Cara.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She drew the tie long and slow, holding it outstretched, green-gold eyes regarding him from beneath a sweep of dark lashes. ‘But you forgot to add influence. I have a great deal of that . . . to use in any way I please.’