‘Well,’ she resumed, ‘March was living up to its reputation, the day being chilly and quite blustery. Halfway to Chapel it came on to rain, not heavily but enough to give Gertie the chance to show off her treasured umbrella. It was such a comical sight! Gertie, her spine stiff as a ramrod, holding up an umbrella that hung lop-sided and flapped in the breeze. I remember Mother reprimanding Carrie and me for giggling, but when I looked up she too had a smile on her face.’
‘Then what?’ Daisy closed her eyes conjuring the scene.
‘We only had a few yards to go to reach the Chapel when a huge gust of wind turned the umbrella inside out and snatched it from Gertie’s hand, blowing it half across the field. Poor Gertie! I remember the cry she gave as she watched it go. Then a couple of the boys set off in pursuit.’
‘Did they bring it back?’
‘Not them.’ Emma’s smile returned. ‘They turned back on seeing the bull. It had seen the umbrella sail across its field and then the boys following after. But the bull was having none of that. Head down, it chased them away.’
‘Poor Gertie! Losing her umbrella to a bull!’
‘She didn’t lose it. Gertie wouldn’t give up that easily. Watched by the rest of us, she hitched up her skirts and climbed the stile into the field.’
Daisy’s eyes bulged. ‘You mean, she went into that field? With a bull!’
Emma laughed. A laugh lightened by memory. ‘She most certainly did. No bull was having her umbrella.’
‘Lor’!’ Daisy breathed. ‘She had more courage than I’ve got. I wouldn’t tackle no bull, not for a gold sovereign.’
‘Ah, but you are no Gertie Bowen, and next to her umbrella a sovereign meant nothing. Spine straight as ever, she set off across the field, skirts flapping like crow’s wings in the wind. The bull stood still. The steam from its nostrils was filmy white and I swear its eyes were red. Carrie hid her face in Mother’s skirts as it began to paw the ground. Gertie was halfway to where her umbrella had landed when the bull let out an enormous bellow. I heard several women scream as it began to trot towards her but by this time my face too was pressed to Mother’s side.’
Her tone laced with disappointment, Daisy shut her eyes again. ‘You mean, you missed it? You didn’t see what happened after that?’
Tempted to keep the remainder of the story to herself to tease Daisy, Emma at last relented.
‘Not exactly. I heard the men’s shouts and I just had to look. Several of them had jumped into the field and were waving their jackets to distract the bull’s attention. Marching like a guardsman, Gertie went on regardless. Two of the braver lads caught up with her as she reached her goal, and even from the hedge we could see the look of horror that crossed her face. Spread in a black arc at her feet her beloved umbrella lay trampled . . . across several mushy cow pats!’
Daisy’s laughter rang across the heath, sending a pair of startled peewits winging upward, black and white plumage stark against the blue sky.
‘You mean, Gertie’s umbrella was covered with . . .’
‘Cowpats!’ Emma’s eyes twinkled.
‘Eh, poor soul!’ Daisy wiped the back of her hand across her eyes. ‘After all that she still didn’t get her umbrella.’
‘I told you, Gertie didn’t give up easily. She picked up the umbrella and with the tips of her fingers folded it right way out. Then, with all the dignity of a queen, she closed it and marched back across the field. Then, as if nothing had happened, she sailed on to Chapel.’
‘She took that umbrella into Chapel, cowpats and all?’
Emma nodded. ‘She did. If the umbrella didn’t go to Chapel then neither did Gertie. We were all even more relieved than usual when that service ended!’
‘What happened to Gertie’s gamp?’
‘She cleaned it and treasured it every bit as much as before. It became something of a byword in the village. If someone had something a little out of the ordinary it was described as being “precious as Bowen’s brolly”.’
‘Eh, Emma!’ Daisy sighed. ‘You and Carrie must have had such fun together.’
Emma’s gaze travelled over the silent heath. Yes, they had had fun, but they had also had sorrow.
‘Sure, and didn’t I think it were the little people I heard laughing?’
Startled, Emma scrambled to her feet as Daisy sat up.
‘But then, isn’t it the little people I be looking at, for you ladies be much too pretty to be mortal.’
‘We . . . we didn’t hear you coming.’ Emma brushed away the pieces of dry bracken clinging to her skirts.
‘Now that’s not surprising, the heather here be wondrous thick.’
‘Ling,’ Emma corrected. ‘The plant is called ling.’
‘Is it now?’ The man smiled, the warmth of it reaching his eyes. ‘Aren’t I the ignorant one? My mother always told me lack of learning did a man no good, and isn’t she proved right for here I am not knowing the name of a plant.’
‘I think that can be forgiven.’ Emma felt the infection of his grin and she too smiled.
‘But not my startling you. That was thoughtless. But as my mother would tell you, rest her soul, Liam Brogan was never a great one for the thinking.’
‘That style of speech, it ain’t from Wednesbury?’ Daisy was on her feet.
‘No.’ The man smiled again, the blue of his eyes deep as a sapphire. ‘I am from Ireland, a village in the north. I have come here to work on the new navigation.’
Curiosity bright as her smile, Daisy regarded the man. Thick brown hair the colour of the cinnamon sticks in Sarah Hollington’s pantry waved thickly back from an open, weather-bronzed face, its strong chin marred by a small Z-shaped white scar.
‘Ireland? That be foreign parts, don’t it?’
‘You could say that.’ He grinned. ‘Seeing as there be a sea that divides it from this country, though the English landlords who profess to own much of the land would deny it.’
‘You say you came here to work.’
‘That I did, along of others.’ He swung his glance to Emma. ‘We were brought over by Mr Felton, to dig out his new canal.’
Brought over by Mr Felton? She felt the world sway beneath her feet. Was that where Paul had been since last she saw him? And would he come looking for her now as he had once before?
‘’Twill be a fine waterway when it be finished.’ Liam Brogan shaded his eyes as he looked towards the town. ‘Managed well it will bring work to Wednesbury and fortune to the builder. But then, Carver Felton be a man who knows that well enough.’
Carver Felton! Emma’s senses reeled. It was not Paul he spoke of but his brother.
‘Where are these new navigations to be built?’ She swallowed the fear building in her throat.
His eyes still squinting in the direction of the two church spires set on the hill above the town, Liam Brogan answered, ‘The link will join the main waterway to a basin that is being constructed at a place they call Plovers Croft . . .’
Then it was true. The rest of what he said was lost on Emma. Jerusha Paget’s home and those of all the others living in the village had been sacrificed just so Carver Felton could build his canal. The man who had raped her and robbed her of her home, had razed an entire community in order to further his own ends. Just how many more people would he hurt?
Drawing her shawl about her, Emma managed a smile. ‘It’s time Daisy and I were going, Mr Brogan.’
‘Daisy.’ The name rolled off his tongue. ‘To be sure that’s a pretty name an’ all. And what be your own? For ’tis sure I am that it will be just as pretty.’
‘Emma.’ This time the name clung to his mouth as if he were reluctant to let it go. ‘No, ’tis not a pretty name, it be a beautiful one. A name such as heaven might give.’
‘We have to be going, Mr Brogan.’ Emma blushed and Daisy giggled. ‘Good afternoon to you.’
‘It is an afternoon such as you say for haven’t I met the pair of you,’ he called, the breeze carrying his voice across
the heath.
‘He was nice. I hope we meet him again.’
Walking beside her, Daisy chattered on but Emma did not hear. Her mind was on Plovers Croft. Carver Felton had wiped it from the earth. And what of Doe Bank, had that too been sacrificed on the altar of his ambitions?
Her fingers clenched beneath the shawl she walked on. Were the houses of her own village still standing? Did Jerusha have a roof over her head? Some day, God willing, she might find out!
Arthur Payne glanced at the girl sitting beside him in the carriage. Pretty as a picture in ice blue velvet, a beribboned bonnet setting off her heart-shaped face, Melissa Gilbert returned his glance, her own eyes dark with invitation.
He had been a regular caller at Cara’s house ever since Carver Felton had introduced them. Melissa settled her hands deeper inside her ruched muff. It had been so easy to hook him and now she would reel him in like a fish on a line.
‘It is so kind of you to give me your time, Arthur.’ Her lips, faintly rouged, parted showing small even teeth. ‘You must have so many other things you should be doing.’
‘Nothing so important as giving you pleasure, my dear. To be truthful, being alone with you is a joy I thought never to experience, Cara is so protective of you.’
Melissa gave a short tinkling laugh. ‘That is precisely what Carver said only a week ago.’
‘Carver?’ Arthur Payne’s mouth tightened within the frame of his well-clipped beard. ‘Carver Felton called on you?’
‘Why, yes. He is a regular caller, and such a dear. He escorted me to the theatre at Wolverhampton on Wednesday evening. What a wonderful time we had. Carver is so attentive.’
I bet he is! His thoughts acid sharp, Arthur flipped the reins, setting the pair of beautifully matched greys to the canter.
‘He so often suggests outings for just the two of us, I think it makes my cousin a tiny bit jealous. But then, Carver is so terribly handsome I can quite understand her feelings.’
‘So can I.’
Melissa’s eyes adopted a look of concern, but the smile inside her was wide with satisfaction. She had fed Arthur Payne titbits concerning Carver’s relationship with her; maybe those titbits contained more than a liberal amount of non truth, but Arthur Payne was not to know that.
Using a little girl tone she turned towards him. ‘Arthur, you . . . you are not cross with me, are you?’
‘Not you, Melissa, but that Felton . . .’
Satisfaction mounting, she breathed audibly, ‘Oh, Arthur, it is so selfish of me but I am so glad it is not me with whom you are annoyed.’
Guiding the carriage into Dudley Street, he released one hand from the reins, touching it gently to her arm.
‘How could I be annoyed with you, Melissa? You are the sweetest, most thoughtful of women. You could never annoy me, my dear, for I . . .’
A cart laden with grain sacks turning in the road ahead and demanding his attention, he broke off.
Damn! Melissa swore silently to herself. She had spent almost an entire afternoon with this fool fawning all over her and just when he came up to scratch, he was stopped by a wagon!
Waiting until they’d cleared the obstacle and still using the little girl tone, she returned to the topic.
‘I would never willingly annoy you, Arthur, I value your friendship too highly.’ Withdrawing one hand from her muff she pressed it to his. ‘Say you will always be my friend?’
He brought the carriage to a sudden halt on the heath that edged the road. ‘I will say that if it is all you will allow me to say.’ His voice thickening, he caught her hand, clasping it between both of his.
Triumph in every beat of her heart, Melissa dropped her lashes. ‘I . . . I don’t know what you mean, Arthur,’ she murmured. ‘What more could you wish to say?’
‘That I want to be more than a friend to you, my dear. I want to be your husband. I love you, Melissa, and I want to marry you.’ Lifting her hand to his lips, he pressed them against her palm. ‘Say you will, Melissa? Say you will be my wife?’
‘Oh, Arthur!’ Withdrawing her hand she lowered her lashes again, as if too shy to look longer into his pleading eyes. ‘I . . . I don’t know.’
‘I know you could not possibly be in love with me.’ He kissed her palms again. ‘But I will be a good husband to you, and in time perhaps . . .’
Keeping her voice as shy and demure as the look she now lifted to him she touched a hand to his face. ‘I do not need time, Arthur. I . . . I do love you, but . . .’
‘But what?’ Grabbing the hand that touched his face he smothered it with kisses.
‘I . . . I had always promised myself I would try my hand at business. Oh, I know what you will say, the same as my cousin does: a woman has no place in business. But I know if I do not try it will be a source of regret to me all my life.’
‘There must be no regret in your life, my dearest. Of course you must try if that is what you wish, and my wedding gift to you will be a business.’
‘Arthur,’ she simpered. ‘Arthur, what are you saying?’
‘I will do more than say – I will show you your wedding gift.’
Taking up the reins he set the greys to a fast trot towards Lea Brook.
Pretended alarm, as much a part of the make up on her mouth as the rouge that coloured it, Melissa clung to his arm. ‘Arthur, where are you taking me?’
Minutes later he brought the horses to a standstill then pointed across the heath.
‘There’s where I am taking you. There is my wedding gift to you, my darling. A one-third share in the new Wednesbury Canal.’
‘Oh, Arthur, I can’t . . . I couldn’t . . . I could not take on a venture of that sort. What if I should fail?’
‘You will take it on, my love, and you will not fail. But should you tire of being in business then you can always hand it back to your husband. Provided, of course, you will marry me. You have not yet given me your answer?’
Letting her lashes droop again, Melissa concealed the triumph gleaming in her eyes. ‘I . . . I do love you, Arthur, but I am afraid.’
‘Afraid!’ He caught her to him. ‘Afraid of what? Of Cara?’
Her laughter soft against his chest, she whispered, ‘No, not of Cara, but of accepting your wedding gift. I fear you will think I accept your offer of marriage simply in return for that.’
Gently lifting her face, he touched his lips to her brow. ‘I know that is something you would never do, Melissa.’
‘Then I will marry you, Arthur.’
Exultation washing through her in a warm tide she gave herself to his embrace, then leaning back against the soft upholstery smiled up at him. ‘Cara will never believe this, our becoming engaged and . . . and your gift to me. Arthur dear, are you sure?’
‘Never more sure of anything, my love. And neither will your cousin be when I bring you the contract I signed with Carver Felton, reassigned to you.’
Driving back, Melissa smiled that deep hidden smile of victory. One fly was in the web, the second would soon be joining him. Tonight she and Cara would celebrate.
Taking the brush she had bought for a penny from the bric-à-brac stall in the market, Emma pulled it through her hair.
‘Wash yourself all over and brush your hair every night.’ She smiled into the mirror, remembering her mother’s words so often used to Carrie and herself.
‘And say your prayers, remember always to say your prayers. A clean body and a clean soul find favour with God and man.’
She and Carrie, had they not always followed their mother’s maxim, had they not prayed together each night before climbing into bed, prayed even after an evening of the long drawn out sermons their father was fond of preaching to his family?
The preacher man! Emma stared into the speckled mirror Mrs Hollington had given them. How could he preach the word of God, sermonise on the evils of waywardness and following after the Devil, when all the time . . .
‘You have such lovely hair, it shines like wheat when the moo
n be on it. I wish I had hair like yours.’
‘You have lovely hair too.’ Emma turned to Daisy, sitting up in bed with her knees drawn up to her chin.
‘You just be saying that. My hair be an awful colour, it ain’t a proper brown, it be . . . well, I don’t know what the colour be but I know I wish it were the same as yours.’
‘The colour is auburn, Daisy, a deep rich auburn, and it gleams like the last rays of a setting sun.’
‘Oh, go on!’ Daisy blushed but her eyes glowed with pleasure. ‘You just be fooling me.’
‘I am not.’ Laying the brush aside Emma proceeded to plait her own hair. ‘Yours is the colour my sister most admired, she always had a yearning for hair of that very shade.’
She had not quoted Carrie’s words exactly, but Emma knew her sister would not have minded.
‘Was your sister very pretty, Emma? Was she as pretty as you?’
Suddenly she was back with her mother and father and a six-year-old Carrie on a sun-gilded evening beside the stream that powered Fincher’s flour mill. Carrie had found a tiny pool cut off from the stream and had knelt beside it, looking into its still water.
‘I can see a water nymph.’ The laughter that had broken from her drifted on the waves of memory and Emma’s hands became still as she listened. ‘Shall I ask her name?’
‘Yes.’ Emma had knelt beside her. ‘But I think I know it already.’
Carrie’s large brown eyes stared out of the mists of time, tugging at Emma’s heart. ‘Do you, Emma, do you? Tell me what it is?’
‘Well!’ Emma had sat back on her heels. ‘Her name is Caroline and she is not just an ordinary water nymph. She is the most beautiful of all the sea princesses and has swum upstream on an adventure.’
‘How exciting!’ Carrie had clapped her hands. ‘What sort of adventure?
‘The adventurous sort, of course,’ Emma had teased. ‘But now, thanks to the wicked witch of the sea, she is trapped in this tiny pool.’
Carrie’s mouth had drooped. ‘That’s awful. Can’t we do something to help?’
‘We could try, but only if she agrees. Will I ask her?’
Carrie had nodded so hard the ribbon had slipped from one of her plaits, landing in the tiny pool so the image was distorted.
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