Pit Bank Wench

by Meg Hutchinson

  ‘Oh, but that time must be far away yet.’ Recovered from Cara’s acerbic snub, Arthur Payne added his entreaty to Carver’s. ‘You must press her to stay, Cara.’

  ‘I would very much like Melissa to stay, I would like her to make her home with me, but she insists upon returning to Rugeley though there is no one to share that huge house with her except a few staff.’

  ‘Really, cousin, what would Bessant do if I left her all alone?’

  Cara pulled a wry face. ‘Bessant is Lissa’s nanny and should have been pensioned off to a cottage years ago . . .’

  A tap on the door cutting off further explanation, Cara glanced up as Carver’s manservant entered to announce the arrival of more guests.

  ‘Carver . . . I’m so sorry we’re late, do forgive us.’ Harriet Langton, maroon taffeta gown swathed in ribbons and bows and topped by feathers and diamanté clips in her elaborately coiffed hair, sailed into the room.

  ‘I would only not forgive you if you did not come at all.’ Rising to his feet Carver took the podgy hand half covered in a fingerless black lace mitten, touching it to his lips.

  ‘Carver, you’re so sweet. Isn’t he sweet, Cara?’

  ‘Isn’t he!’ Her glance meeting that of her host, Cara made no attempt to conceal her cynicism.

  ‘Blasted carriage horse cast a shoe and we had to come halfway at a walk.’ Rafe Langton followed his wife into the room. ‘Sorry, my dears, didn’t see you there. Language not suitable in front of ladies.’

  ‘If I’ve told him once I’ve told him a thousand times about his language!’ Harriet’s simpering smile faded. ‘The trouble is he never listens. I told him, I said one day he would forget himself, and then where would we be!’

  ‘Exactly where you are now.’ Melissa’s smile passed from the embarrassed Harriet to her husband. ‘Among friends. Please, Mrs Langton, do not scold. A slip of the tongue is something we all make, myself most of all. I am certain no one takes offence.’

  ‘True, my dear, true!’ Rafe’s smile spread across an expansive face whose sidewhiskers and beard were a perfect replica of those worn by the Prince of Wales. ‘A slip of the tongue, anybody can make one. But my apologies just the same.’

  Settling the portly Harriet in another of the graceful chairs, Carver caught the eye of the attentive servant waiting at the doorway.

  ‘Mr Langton will be needing the loan of a carriage horse later this evening. See to it, Morton.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I will have his horse taken to the farrier tomorrow. Will I then have it returned to Mr Langton or would he wish to collect it himself?’

  ‘Send it over to Portway House.’ Rafe dropped heavily on to a matching couch, the weight of him jolting the seated Cara. ‘That be a good man you have there, Felton.’ He accepted the glass held out to him. ‘If ever you be going to give him the sack, you let me know. I could find a place for him over at my house.’

  ‘You must wait in line, Rafe, I have staked a prior claim. And you know the saying: women and children first.’

  Swallowing half of his drink in one mouthful he pressed his lips together, savouring the after-taste. ‘I don’t know as to children,’ he laughed, ‘but as for ladies, I’d never deny them anything. Especially when they are as pretty as you, Cara. You too, Miss Gilbert.’

  ‘Prettily said, Rafe.’ Cara returned her untouched drink to a small table set at the arm of the couch. ‘You are every bit as much of a flatterer as Arthur.’

  Somewhat peeved at the attention being paid to the younger women, Harriet took the arm Carver held out to her as dinner was announced. Seated at the table she took control of the conversation. ‘Tell me, Carver, how is that young brother of yours? Rafe tells me he is away somewhere.’

  ‘Rafe is correct,’ Carver answered, aware the question had caught the ear of everyone seated in his dining room, including that of Arthur Payne who had been paying intensive court to the delicious Melissa.

  ‘I am disappointed,’ Harriet continued though Carver’s short answer had implied he preferred not to. ‘I was hoping to see him, such a charming boy. When can we expect him back?’

  Waiting until the first course was served, Carver answered, ‘That depends upon how quickly he can conclude his business.’

  ‘Business?’ Rafe looked up from the plate he had filled liberally from the serving dishes offered him. ‘What business might that be?’

  Having no intention of satisfying the other man’s curiosity, Carver smiled across the beautifully appointed table. ‘I think we may leave that discussion until some other time, Rafe, we should not talk shop when ladies are present.’

  It was enough to deter the iron founder but his wife was not so easily put off. Her husband returning concentration to his roast beef she pressed her point. ‘When he does return you must bring him to Portland House, it has been much too long since he was there. I hope that happens before you leave us, Melissa.’ She smiled at the girl. ‘I know you would enjoy meeting Paul, he is such a pleasant young man.’

  Pale grey eyes sweeping to Carver’s, holding them for a moment before lowering, Melissa answered softly, ‘I look forward to meeting him if he is anything like as charming as his brother.’

  An expert dissimulation! Carver smiled to see it. A man might be forgiven for believing this girl to be shy. But if Cara Holgate was anything to judge by, shyness was not a character trait of the family.

  And that, he thought with an inward smile, would be to his advantage.

  Her fingers tight about the wrist of the girl who had saved her, Emma ran from the barn as Eli Coombs shouted and his wife screamed. The rain had stopped but the sodden grass brushing against her skirts soaked a line almost to her knees but she gave no heed, her only thought being to get as far away from that barn as she could.

  ‘Hold on . . . hold on!’ Gasping for breath, the other girl at last pulled her wrist free. ‘I’ve got the stitch!’

  Leaning against one of the low outcrops of limestone that dotted the heath like pale ghosts, she pressed one hand to her side as she gulped in air.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Equally breathless, Emma stood panting beside her. ‘I . . . I just wanted to get away from that man.’

  ‘You and me both.’ The girl had bent almost double, keeping her hand pressed to her side.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I will be in a minute.’ She straightened up slowly. ‘I always get the stitch when I run too far, but it’ll pass, it always does.’

  ‘I didn’t think.’ Emma was contrite.

  ‘You thought quick enough a couple of minutes since.’ In the wash of moonlight the girl’s smile was visible. ‘You got us away from that swine Coombs, and I reckon he won’t be following after us tonight, not with that to see to!’

  Following the line of the girl’s nod, Emma caught her breath.

  Across the heath flames shot upward, splitting the night sky.

  ‘That’s Coombs’s barn and I hope to God the filthy swine be in it!’

  The girl’s mouth was twisted, eyes brilliant with hatred.

  ‘That’s what they do with pigs.’ The girl’s voice fell to a whisper as she stared at the leaping flames. ‘They roast them. He should have roasted long ago, and her along with him!’

  In the lee of the rock the ground had been sheltered from the driving rain. Taking hold of the girl, Emma drew her down, sitting beside her as she sank to the ground.

  ‘I vowed one day I’d kill him.’ Knees drawn up to her chin, the girl seemed to speak to herself. ‘That I would make him pay for what he did to that child . . .’

  Feeling her tremble, Emma put her arms about her, holding her close. ‘Don’t talk about it now.’

  ‘That were what he said.’ A long sob cracked the quiet voice. ‘He said not to talk about it or I’d go the same way. She were only a child when he fetched her from Meeting Street, no more than nine years old. Pretty she were with yellow curls and eyes blue as a summer’s morn. To help in the house, that was what he told the Boar
d. Not that they cared what work she was to do so long as she was off their hands, one less mouth for the parish to feed. But within a month of coming to the Coombses’ farm she were like a scraggy shadow, whimpering every time he came in sight. One night I heard her sobbing. Eli had come downstairs and was taking Lily . . . that were her name . . . almost dragging her across to the barn. And I knew what for. He was doing to her what he once did to me. Not satisfied with what his wife was giving him, he’d forced himself on me not three days after getting me from the parish workhouse. It became a regular thing and I was too frightened to do anything to stop it for he swore he would kill me if I said a word. Then, when he took Lily from the workhouse, it stopped and I thought it was over, that maybe he had been found out. But that night it began again, only the agony was not mine, it was hers.’

  ‘Don’t!’ Emma tightened her arms about the trembling body. ‘Don’t go on, try to rest.’

  But in between the racking sobs, the quiet almost soulless voice went on.

  ‘I followed them to the barn. I saw him snatch the frock from her, take her clothes off one by one, run his great hands over her nakedness, slap her hard when she tried to pull away. I thought . . .’ almost choking, the girl looked into Emma’s face ‘. . . I thought that would be all he would do, that he wouldn’t . . . that she was too little. But then, when he began to undo his trousers, I knew that he would, even with a child like Lily! So I crept out of the barn and made a noise, calling his name as though I were Liza come to look for him. He scuttled off pretty quick then and I went into the barn to comfort Lily. She told me what Coombs had been doing to her though I needed no telling. I held her for hours, held her while she cried for her dead mother, but in the end I fell asleep and when I woke Lily was gone. She were found that morning floating in the canal. The child had killed herself because of Eli Coombs and from that moment I vowed someday to kill him!’

  ‘You must not think such a thing,’ Emma said softly. ‘Believe me, I know what you are feeling but you must not think of killing. You must leave the punishing to God.’

  ‘God!’ The girl threw up her head. ‘There is no God. If there were he would not permit a man such as Eli Coombs to live!’

  A man such as Eli Coombs. Emma stared towards the dull red glow. Nor one such as Caleb Price.

  And what of Carver Felton?

  ‘You must leave the punishing to God.’

  That was what she had told the girl sobbing in her arms. But was she prepared to do the same?

  Langton had not asked again about the business that had taken Paul from home.

  Carver untied his silk cravat, drawing it slowly through his fingers.

  It had gone as he’d known it would, the liberal supply of wine washing all thoughts of business from Rafe Langton’s mind, leaving only those centring around the pretty Melissa.

  Laying aside the cravat Carver continued to undress, concentrating hard on the events of the evening to keep his mind from returning to that night some weeks ago when he had encountered the girl. No, he would not think of it now. Kicking free of his trousers he walked into his bathroom and plunged his face into cold water. She had been a pit bank wench, nothing for him to dwell on.

  But Melissa Gilbert was no pit bank wench. Drying his face, he returned to the bedroom.

  Harriet had continued to ask about Paul. Why had he been sent to Birkenhead? When did Carver think he might return? Her questions had been relentless and he had answered them, but all the while his attention had been on her husband. He had watched Rafe’s face. Not once had the man’s eyes left Cara’s cousin, and rarely had Cara’s own eyes left Rafe. Jealousy! Even from his seat next to Harriet he had seen it burn in those green-gold eyes. Jealousy! He smiled slowly. It was a useful tool. One that he would use when he was ready.

  It had been while they were seating themselves in the elegant drawing room – Carver grateful once again that his mother’s taste in furnishings had not followed the heavy Victorian styles – that Harriet at last arrived at her intended goal.

  Did Paul have a special friend? Was there perhaps a fiancée somewhere? The smile died from Carver’s mouth, leaving a tight line. Harriet Langton was an inquisitive bitch but her ferreting this evening had produced no rabbit. Paul was nearing his majority, she had announced, calling to Melissa to listen. Soon he would no longer be his brother’s ward. Then he would be wanting a wife, someone to share his life and his home. She had beamed at Melissa Gilbert, a world of meaning in her eyes, and Carver had caught the open annoyance in Cara Holgate’s face. His brother was a catch for any woman. Money, property, a half share in a business that dominated the area and gave much of the town its living. Yes, Paul Felton was a prize worth the winning but he was not on Cara Holgate’s carousel. Or was her cousin not the prize on offer?

  Her reply to Harriet’s ill veiled innuendo had been razor sharp, her voice hard as steel. Melissa was currently recuperating from an illness, certainly not husband hunting.

  Carver walked over to the bed.

  Cara had insisted that her cousin was too young yet to think of marriage, to tie herself to husband and family. She should travel, see a little of the world before settling down.

  The shadows at the edges of the room remained untouched by the flickering light shed by the oil lamp he preferred to gaslight. Carver saw in them the shadows that had crept into Cara’s eyes, that had touched her mouth as her cousin had replied that, yes, she would like to see other parts of the world, but would enjoy them more with a husband at her side.

  Cara had laughed then, but Carver saw the shadows remain. When that time came, she had said, Melissa would not make her choice from among mine owners and iron founders, she would not make her home among the smoking chimneys of the Black Country. Why, even the Queen had ordered the curtains of her carriage closed when she had travelled through it by train.

  That might be true or it might not, Harriet had retorted, her pride in what she saw as her own high social standing locally stung. But black or not it was the heart of this country. The coal and the iron taken from it and the graft of its colliers and iron workers had done more to secure wealth for England than any backside that had sat on the throne or any of them that called themselves lords.

  Carver smiled now as he had then. Harriet, for all her injured pride, was right. The towns were the heart of England, they were its treasure, its black pearl. One Cara wished to own but was reluctant to wear. Or, it seemed, to permit her cousin to wear.

  Reaching for the night-wear he had ordered specially tailored, and continued to have made since rejecting odious flannel nightshirts, he slipped his arms into a blue silk jacket, feeling the coolness of it against his skin.

  Just what had Cara in mind for her cousin? He slipped buttons one by one through hand-stitched buttonholes. If not a husband from among her wealthy acquaintances, then what? Was it her intention the pretty Melissa should follow her example, not take a husband at all but an assortment of lovers, receiving no wedding ring in return for her favours but just about everything else?

  Perhaps it was not such a bad return. He fastened the last button. Certainly for him anyway. He could avail himself whenever he wished for the price of a bauble, and without sharing a marriage bed. Yes, that suited him, or at least it had until Cara had turned her beautiful greedy eyes on Felton industries.

  Blue silk trousers clutched forgotten in his hand, Carver stared hard into the lingering shadows. Paul would soon be twenty-one, he would be entitled to his share of Felton industries. That he could have; wealth, property, land, a part in the running of the business! All of that he could have. The experience he was gaining and had gained would serve the purpose it was meant to, to separate him from that girl; for marriage to her he could not allow his brother. A wife Paul may take, but she would not be the child of a Doe Bank collier!

  Slipping his legs into the cool silk, drawing it over his hips his mind returned the picture of a young girl with hair the colour of harvest moonlight. A girl with a baske
t over her arm and a shawl about her shoulders.

  Throwing back the covers he dropped into bed at the same time turning off the lamp. Lying back on the pillows darkness rushed in on him but the shadows that filled his eyes gained no entry to his mind. The face imprinted upon it stared back at him, that soft mouth trembling with fear, lovely eyes wide with accusation.

  ‘Bloody wench!’ Carver swore softly. ‘It’s as well I sacked her father. Now we are rid of them Paul will soon forget he ever knew the girl!’

  But would he, Carver, forget? Could he forget when at every instant his guard slipped that lovely face returned to haunt him? He had wronged her but it had been for Paul, for his sake. He had wanted only to protect his brother.

  But had it been just for Paul? Carver stared into the shadows. How much of the truth would he allow even himself to know?

  Memory sweeping him back to that night in the coppice he saw again the beautiful startled face upturned to his, the wisps of moon-kissed hair floating in the breeze.

  A wife Paul may take, but she would not be the child of a Doe Bank collier . . .

  Remembering his own words Carver lay still beneath the realisation of the truth.

  Jealousy. It was a useful tool . . .

  Thoughts he had smiled over earlier in the evening returned to him but he was not smiling now.

  Sometimes tools could be turned against their user.

  Chapter Eleven

  Her joints aching after spending the rest of the night in the lee of the rock, Emma pushed herself wearily to her feet. In the distance grey smoke curled into the soft pearly light of the morning sky. The barn had been consumed by flames, just as her own home had been.

  Pain, hot and fierce as ever, flooded through her. All of her family gone! Her mother, her sister and her father, all taken from her by that terrible fire.

  And that other fire, the one from which spirals of smoke still drifted, had that too taken life? Had Eli Coombs and his wife, guilty as they might be of abusing the girl still sleeping on the ground, also been taken by the flames? ‘No,’ she whispered from between white lips. ‘Please, God, no!’