‘Wait!’ Emma had answered her cry of disappointment. When the water is still maybe she will come back.’
Almost afraid to breathe, Carrie had bent over the patch of water. ‘Come back, sea princess,’ she had called softly. ‘Please come back, we want to help you. We want to free you from the trap the sea witch set for you.’
Gradually the ripples had died and Carrie’s face was reflected once more on its quiet surface. ‘She’s come back.’ Carrie’s smile had broken out again, lighting her small face. ‘Ask her now, Emma, ask her before she disappears again!’
‘Very well, but don’t call out or you may frighten her. Sea princesses are very gentle as well as very beautiful.’
Carrie had smiled in that special way a child has of knowing when something is not true but being said to please them. Then, bending over the pool, she listened to Emma’s whisper.
‘Sea Princess Caroline, I know you are trapped by a wicked witch. Will I set you free?’
‘Oh, yes!’ Lost in the fantasy, Carrie had replied in a voice as hushed as her own. ‘Oh, yes, please.’
They had each found a stick then and scraped a shallow channel in the soft earth then stood watching the patch of water run back into the stream.
‘Goodbye, sea princess.’ Carrie had waved her small hand.‘Goodbye.’
Carrie had been their princess and like the mythical one had found herself trapped, not by any sea witch but by her own father. Emma held the long plait of her hair, self-recrimination dulling her eyes. She should have known something was wrong. Carrie changed so much as she grew older, that wonderful smile so rarely lighting her face. Had Emma bothered to find out why she could have ended it, freed the real Caroline. But she had not!
In her mind’s eye she watched the soft brown eyes stare sadly at her, the gentle mouth whisper goodbye.
‘Emma? Oh, Emma, I didn’t mean to make you cry!’ Daisy scrambled from the bed as a sob broke from Emma. ‘I’m such a fool, I never think before I speak.’
‘You did not make me cry, Daisy.’ She sniffed. ‘I . . . I was just remembering.’
That was all she would ever have now. Memories of her mother and Carrie . . . and of her father, Caleb Price, the preacher man.
Chapter Nineteen
A pottery jug held beneath her shawl Emma made her way along the Shambles. There was usually a lull at this time as women hurried home to prepare the midday meal. Samuel chose this time every day to eat his dinner and chat to fellow traders and she had got used to fetching him a pint of beer from the tavern.
He used to take his daily pint from the Turk’s Head but would not have her go there. Fearing what had happened in the alley that ran alongside the Turk’s, he chose instead to send her to the Grapes Inn which stood in Upper High Street.
Emma enjoyed this short daily walk, it gave her a break from handing out packages of meat to women mostly in too much of a hurry to do more than check their change.
But Jesse Newman always had a cheery word for her, and so did his wife. As one served her at the outdoor, the dark narrow corridor where ale to be taken off the premises was served through a small window, the other would come and pass the time of day.
Turning the corner at the end of the Shambles she walked to the crossroads, hesitating as a carriage swept past. Watching it stop at the George Hotel she felt her hands tremble.
Following behind a shorter, plumper man, a tall straight figure stepped easily down to the pavement. A figure with raven hair, sunlight glinting on the twin silver streaks that swept back from his forehead.
Carver Felton!
He was here in Wednesbury, just a few yards from her.
Emma’s senses swam, sickness rose in her throat and her legs began to tremble.
‘Eh, up!’ Dropping a package on to the wagon he was loading, a carter caught her as she swayed. ‘You all right, missis?’
‘’Course her ain’t all right.’ A woman bustled out of a nearby shop. ‘A wench don’t go fainting off her feet if her be all right!’
Taking Emma by the wrist she led her into the shop, sitting her on a chair beside the counter. Fetching a glass of water she held it out.
‘Get yourself a sip of that, wench. It ain’t brandy but it will help just the same. I reckon that babby you be carrying has turned. It be frightening first time but after you’ve had six like I have, you get used to it.’
Taking the water Emma forced a little of it down, feeling her stomach churn, resenting the intrusion.
‘Yes,’ the woman breezed on as she took the glass back. ‘Six of ’em I’ve had and like to have had six more if my old man hadn’t up and left. Enough be as good as a feast, I told him, I was keeping my half-penny well covered in future. So he buggered off, but between you and me I ain’t missed him, not once in ten years, and I reckon I won’t in the next ten.’
‘Thank you.’ Emma got to her feet. ‘I’m all right now.’
‘Arr, you might be.’ The woman’s yellowed teeth showed in an uneven line. ‘But that jug won’t be lessen you holds it tight.’
The carriage was gone. Emma forced her legs to carry her over the crossing, pulling her shawl well down over her face as she passed the hotel. Would he recognise her if he came out now, would he recognise the girl he had raped? If so would he drive her from Wednesbury as he had driven her from Doe Bank? Every nerve tingling, every inch of her body trembling, she hurried past the hotel, only breathing when she reached the inn.
Carver Felton had not seen her. He must never see her again.
‘I must say you got a move on. Last I heard Sir Anslow Lacy was still considering the scheme. Now here you are with Irish workmen already digging out the channel. Like I said, that be quick work even for Carver Felton. How on earth did you manage it?’
‘Forethought.’ Carver studied the gilt-embossed menu card a waiter presented with a deferential bow of his pomaded head. ‘My father taught me always to be one step ahead of the next man.’
‘Your father were a wily old fox.’ Rafe Langton laughed, his several chins moving concertina fashion beneath long sideburns.
‘But a wise one. His teaching proved sound.’
‘In more ways than just making money, eh, Felton!’
After ordering roast duck, Carver handed back the menu as Rafe nodded his agreement and called for a bumper of claret.
‘His teaching has proved useful in many ways.’
‘But especially so with women.’ Rafe waved an impatient hand as the wine waiter poured a little of the claret for his approval. ‘Fill it up, man, what do you expect a man to make of a toothful!’
Carver took half a glass.
‘I wish I had a little of your expertise. What wouldn’t I give for a night or two with a woman like Cara Holgate!’
‘I have plenty of notions as to what you would not, but what exactly would you be prepared to give?’
Swallowing a mouthful of wine, Carver watched the other man over the rim of the glass.
‘For a night with a woman like Cara?’
‘No.’ His movements slow and deliberate, Carver set the glass on the table but his eyes, black and calculating, stayed fixed on the other’s plump face. ‘For a night with Cara.’
Across the table Rafe Langton’s brow furrowed and his eyes receded into their sockets. ‘Ain’t no chance of that. I’ve tried afore but she ain’t interested in trinkets. No, Felton, I could never get Cara Holgate to play my game.’
Waiting as the meal was served, Carver shook open the brilliant white linen napkin, placing it across his knee.
‘Perhaps you did not offer the right sort of trinket?’
His mouth half full of duck, Rafe spluttered indignantly. ‘Not the bloody right sort! You don’t get no better sort than diamonds.’
Touching the napkin to his mouth, Carver reached for his glass, smiling into its ruby depths. ‘Maybe no better, but a trinket more . . . shall we say . . . to Cara’s taste.’
His mood deepening to truculence, Rafe stabbe
d his fork at his food. ‘If diamonds don’t be to her taste then what is? What do you give her to make her say yes?’
He might never have a better chance. Carver kept his glance fixed nonchalantly on his wine glass. Rafe Langton liked his mistresses, but he also liked a gamble.
‘We’re not discussing my method of payment, we are discussing yours. So, Rafe, what are you prepared to give?’
‘Pah!’ Rafe grabbed his glass, draining the claret at a single gulp. ‘Ain’t no use talking about it. I’ve tried, and I tell you that woman turned her pretty nose up every time. Necklaces . . . bracelets . . . she refused the lot. And you don’t offer money, not to a woman of her class.’
In fact, there was no better inducement to offer Cara Holgate. Carver kept his smile beneath the surface.
‘Not in sovereigns, perhaps.’
‘Eh!’ Gravy trickling down his chin, Langton swallowed noisily. ‘What other way is there to offer it?’
Pushing his plate aside, Carver refilled the other man’s glass; he would sow the seed, the wine would water it!
‘Cara likes to take chances, but the stakes have to be high before they interest her.’
‘Go on!’ Rafe took his glass.
‘Cara is not like most women. She prefers to be independent, that takes money . . .’
‘But . . .’
Carver raised a hand. ‘Hear me out. Cara Holgate likes her independence but in order to maintain it she must make money, and not the sort that comes from selling off her trinkets. Offer her that sort of money and she will warm your bed, not to mention your blood.’
Draining his glass and rubbing at the gravy on his chin as he watched it refilled, Rafe’s expression was confused.
‘How?’ He shook his head, jowls wobbling. ‘You said yourself she don’t take sovereigns, and I’ve tried jewellery, what else is a man to try?’
‘Paper,’ Carver answered flatly.
‘Paper?’ The word exploded scattering a myriad drops of claret over plate and table-cloth. ‘Stop arsing around, Felton. I ain’t in the market for jokes!’
‘And I am not peddling them.’ Black eyes glinting, Carver fixed them on the plump wine-splattered face opposite him.
‘But . . . you said . . .’
‘I know what I said, and it is what I meant, and if you desire the woman enough you will pay her price.’ Waving away dessert, he went on, ‘Cara must have a more regular income than can be depended upon by accepting trinkets if she is to maintain her life-style. I ask you again, Langton, how high are you prepared to pay for the lady’s favours?’
At a vision of Cara slowly releasing the buttons of her gown, superb green-gold eyes smiling into his, he murmured hoarsely, ‘As high as she likes.’
‘As high as your share in the canal venture?’
‘Eh?’ The glazed look leaving his eyes, Rafe Langton stared. ‘That be a high price to pay . . . for any woman!’
‘For any woman, agreed.’ Carver picked up his glass and before putting it to his lips allowed the smile he had stifled to play secretly about his mouth. ‘But, believe me, Langton, Cara Holgate is not just any woman.’
Fixing his gaze coolly on the other man’s face, watching the rush of heat rise to those fat cheeks, Carver sipped again from his glass. Before the month was out Rafe Langton would have a new mistress, and Cara Holgate would be a new shareholder in the Wednesbury Canal.
Rolling the wine around his tongue Carver sat back in his chair. A new shareholder. But the game was far from over.
Taking off her apron, one of three Mrs Hollington had given to Daisy, Emma folded it neatly before setting it in the drawer of the rickety dresser Samuel had helped carry in soon after their arrival.
‘That’s enough for today.’ Hands on hips, she stretched her back.
‘I told you the same thing two hours since!’ Daisy tossed the last of the potatoes she had peeled into the pot then set it on the stove. ‘But did you listen . . . no, you did not! You simply went on polishing that old dresser. I swear the furniture along of Buckingham Palace gets no more polishing than that thing, though I bet it be a deal grander and firmer on its feet.’
Turning, Emma caught the girl’s grin and responded immediately. ‘And who is it gives it another polish whenever my back is turned and thinks I don’t know it?’
‘Well, a girl has to have something to occupy her time.’ Daisy laughed again, taking up the bowl of potato peelings.
‘Perhaps I should tell Mrs Hollington that?’ Emma called as Daisy carried out the bowl to empty on the garden waste heap.
Rinsing the bowl beneath the pump stood in the centre of the cobbled yard, Daisy carried it back into the tiny room she and Emma had turned into a home.
‘I told her meself.’ The bowl beneath the sink, Daisy rubbed her hands on the scrap of towel she had scrubbed and boiled until it gleamed white. ‘I said I could do more in the house but she said I do more than my share already.’
Reaching down the salt from the dresser, Daisy measured an amount into the palm of her hand. Tipping it into the pot, she wiped the residue off on her apron.
‘If only the rest of the folk round here were like her then there’d be a lot more smiling faces in Wednesbury.’
And not only in Wednesbury. Emma turned away, afraid her thoughts might show on her face. There would be happier ones in Doe Bank and Plovers Croft then too.
‘I say we leave the potatoes for later. Sunday afternoon’s much too nice for giving over to cooking.’
‘I say that makes sense.’ Daisy whipped off her apron, shoving it hastily into the drawer with Emma’s.
‘I’m glad we came this way,’ Daisy said later. ‘I prefer walking on the heath to following the road. That ain’t never still, not even on a Sunday. Carts rattle up and down like they don’t have a minute to spare. Sunday’s supposed to be a day of rest, ain’t that right?’
There had never been much rest to be had in her father’s house. Meals were the only time spent sitting down, and even then his continual preaching precluded conversation. That was all Sundays had seemed to consist of. Three hours of Chapel in the morning, two hours of Sunday school in the afternoon and an hour in the evening. But the rest of the time had brought no respite from her father’s everlasting sermonising on the evils of life and the eternal damnation that awaited those who fell by the wayside. But it had not been so bad for her as it had for Carrie. From the time her sister had been about eight years old, their father had excused Emma from Sunday school. Now she knew why.
She stared ahead across the mauve-dressed heath. The evils of life! Her sister had not fallen into them, she had been pushed, and by the very man who’d preached against them.
‘Emma, ain’t that the man who spoke to us on the heath last Sunday?’
Glad of anything that would chase away the shadow of the past, Emma looked in the direction Daisy indicated. Cinnamon hair ruffled by the faint breeze glinted in the mellow autumn light as Liam Brogan’s tall lithe figure strode easily towards them.
‘Sure and wasn’t I hoping to see the two of you today?’ His Irish accent adding a lilt to his voice, his smile echoed deep within his eyes, Liam raised a hand in greeting.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Brogan,’ Emma returned his greeting. ‘We decided to take a walk on the heath before the remainder of the day is over.’
‘And a fine decision it was.’
‘Is that what you was doing, Mr Brogan, taking a walk?’ Daisy asked breezily.
Falling into step beside them, trimming his long strides to match theirs, he nodded. ‘Now then couldn’t you say that. I’ve been paying a visit to the timber yard in Camp Hill Lane. The owner there is willing to exchange logs for labour.’
‘But didn’t you say you were employed digging out a canal?’
‘I did so.’ He glanced at Daisy. ‘And it was the truth I told. And now you’re going to ask how it is I can work at the timber yard?’
‘I am not.’ Daisy’s face turned a bright pink.
‘Then that would have me asking why you didn’t!’ He laughed, the pleasant sound of it echoing over the empty heath.
Seeing embarrassment flood Daisy’s face, Emma said quickly, ‘We do not need to ask, Mr Brogan. We both understand the need for wood. Brushwood from the heath burns out quickly, it’s not as useful for cooking over as logs.’
Laughter settling to a quiet smile that hovered around his mouth, Liam Brogan looked at the older girl, the beauty in her face catching at the breath in his lungs, a beauty that had played in his mind every moment since their first meeting.
Forcing his glance away he stared ahead. ‘There you have it,’ he said quietly, ‘we need wood for the cooking.’
‘Emma’s a good cook.’ Irrepressible as ever, Daisy grinned. ‘I cook too but mine’s never as tasty as Emma’s. You should taste her pies, you would never want no other.’
Returning his glance to Emma, eyes holding hers, Liam Brogan’s voice became husky. ‘That I can believe,’ he murmured, ‘no sane man would ever want any other.’
Her hands wrapped inside her shawl, Emma pulled it closer about her as the heat of her own embarrassment began to climb her cheeks. Searching for a way to detract from it, she said sharply, ‘We should turn back here. It was pleasant meeting you again, Mr Brogan.’
‘Eh, Emma!’ Daisy’s face fell. ‘We don’t have to go back just yet. It’ll be a week afore we can walk out here again – longer than that if it be raining! Can’t we go on a while more?’
‘Really, Daisy, I think we ought . . .’
The huskiness gone from his voice, Liam broke in. ‘Seeing as you were headed that way and that you’re three parts there already, I was thinking to show you the new navigation. That is, if you would allow me, Miss Price?’
The new navigation. The canal Carver Felton was having cut, the one for which he had destroyed Plovers Croft. Why should she want to see that, what good would it do? Emma’s fingers tightened beneath the shawl. It would only serve to remind her of the people who had lived there, especially Jerusha; but it would also remind her of him, of the man who had ruined her life: Carver Felton. Her lips tight as her fingers, Emma stared across the silent heath.
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