Pit Bank Wench

by Meg Hutchinson

  ‘. . . house in darkness. Ain’t the wrong evening, is it?’

  ‘No, it is not the wrong evening.’ Carver steadied the other man as he swayed. ‘We are expected, never fear. Cara never has all the gasoliers lit when she wishes her entertaining to be a little more . . . intimate.’

  ‘Intimate?’ Langton gave a drunken hiccup. ‘I like the sound of that. It be a surprise, but a nice one. Yes, I like the sound of that!’

  ‘Then what say we give her a nice surprise? We’ll let ourselves in, not bother the maid. ‘What say you?’

  Leaning heavily on Carver’s arm, the drunken hiccup belched again. ‘I . . . I say that’sh a good idea.’

  Letting himself into the house, shushing the tipsy murmurings of the man clinging to him in the dim hall, Carver allowed a smile to return to his mouth.

  The evening Cara was no doubt enjoying had not been intended to include him or Langton. There had been no invitation to them and there would be no welcome.

  And if his theory proved wrong?

  Helping the other man up the heavily carpeted staircase that led to Cara’s private salon, Carver shrugged. If he was wrong, he was wrong! But somehow he did not think he was.

  ‘I shall have such a beautiful wedding! I shall choose the most expensive gown in London . . .’

  Melissa’s shrill tones reached the men standing outside the salon door.

  ‘. . . I will be the most beautiful bride this town has ever seen. I will, won’t I?’

  ‘Yes, Melissa, you will be the most beautiful bride ever.’

  Beyond the door Carver’s inner eye watched the smile of a beautiful girl, her lovely hyacinth eyes radiant with happiness, a wisp of wedding veil caught beneath a garland of flowers set on pale hair. The Doe Bank girl had a soft beauty neither of the women inside that room possessed; she would be the most beautiful of brides and could still be Paul’s. He had only to give his permission. But the very thought brought a double stab to Carver’s heart. He had never before refused his brother anything nor had he ever lied to him, but keeping him from that girl in order to safe-guard Paul’s future in society . . . that was a lie Carver had told himself.

  ‘And you will arrange the most delicious reception afterwards? The guests must have the very best.’

  Langton’s tipsy giggle driving the picture from his mind, Carver caught the other man’s arm, a warning finger touching his own lips. The surprise must not be spoiled.

  ‘The very best.’ The words reached them through the door.

  ‘You do love me? I mean, really love me.’

  ‘Haven’t I proved that already?’ The deeper voice, thickened with emotion, came clearly to their ears.

  ‘The gifts I have given you, do they not tell you how much I love you? How much I want you? You are everything to me, my darling, all I ever want is you. The taste of your lovely mouth, the feel of your body beneath my own . . .’

  One hand silently turning the handle of the salon door, Carver flung it wide.

  ‘Good evening. I trust we are intruding. Do come in, Langton, and wish our friends well!’

  He half turned to the man who had staggered in after him and now stood with mouth open, liquor soaked breath coming in a long, loud wheeze. But Rafe Langton did not wish his friends well, Rafe Langton did not say anything, he simply stared at the figures sprawled on the bed.

  ‘A pleasant sight, wouldn’t you say, Rafe?’

  Carver too looked at the two on the bed. Two bodies, each with skin the colour of alabaster, naked limbs twined together, chestnut hair mingling with raven black. They stared back at him, incomprehension in both pairs of eyes.

  ‘I had hoped you expected no callers.’ Carver’s cold eyes glared contempt at them. ‘That hope has been more than fulfilled.’

  Her long hair swinging in a silken veil, Cara Holgate leaped from the bed. ‘Get out!’ she hissed. ‘Get out, Felton.’

  Leaving Langton to stand and stare alone, Carver waved an admonishing finger. ‘Come, come now, Cara! Is that any way to treat a friend?’

  Behind her a startled Melissa whimpered as she rolled herself in the silk bed cover, but Cara met his contemptuous gaze with a fierce hatred.

  ‘Friend!’ she breathed. ‘You have never been a friend to anyone other than yourself. Your only thought is how to benefit Carver Felton!’

  ‘As I intend to continue. However I can be a friend of sorts to you and your pretty lover, or I can be an enemy: one with a loud tongue and the gift of eloquent description. Think of that, my dear Cara, while you are dressing, then we will discuss how best to benefit Carver Felton.’

  Half an hour later, elegant once more in pale lavender taffeta, hair neatly arranged in dark coils on her head, Cara Holgate entered her downstairs sitting room.

  ‘Forgive Langton’s deciding to forgo the delights of your charming company, my dear, but under the circumstances . . .’

  ‘What brought you here?’ Cara’s demand was as brusque as his shrug was nonchalant.

  ‘The promise of what I might find. Of what I did find.’

  ‘And him?’ Cara glanced at the heavily sleeping Langton.

  ‘Rafe? I wanted him to see you also. One man’s word . . . you know the form, Cara. I wanted it to be the word of two.’

  Drawing in a long breath she crossed to where decanter and glasses were set on a long rosewood sideboard and poured herself some brandy, taking a long gulp.

  ‘How?’ She turned, eyes gleaming like deadly weapons. ‘How long have you known . . . when did you find out?’

  ‘That you were more than it appeared on the surface, you were your cousin’s lover?’ It was meant as a barb and as she flinched he knew it had found its mark. ‘I guessed almost from the beginning. Your anger when I escorted Melissa to the Bilston enamel works; the way you reacted to my taking her to Beaufort House; the possessive way you touched her whenever a man made to approach her. It all spoke for itself. Jealousy of another woman is one thing, Cara, but what you felt for your pretty cousin was obviously more than that. It was obsession, and it was clear to any man who knew you as well as I do.’

  ‘And now you intend to destroy me?’

  Rising from his chair, Carver helped himself to a shot of brandy. Raising it, he looked at her over the rim of the faceted glass.

  ‘Yes, Cara, I do. Unless, of course, you agree to my terms.’

  ‘Those being?’

  Returning to his chair, he swirled the amber liquid, watching it circle the glass.

  ‘I think you know what they are.’

  Cara knew. She had realised long before the last button was done up on her fashionable gown, the last pin stabbed into her hair, yet still she searched for a way out.

  ‘Perhaps . . . perhaps not. But what of Langton’s terms, what are they?’

  I can see to it he makes none. Then again, I could see he made plenty, and all with my support.’

  Venomous eyes stared into his. ‘You would do that, wouldn’t you? You would destroy not only me but Melissa too.’

  ‘I don’t know which of you destroyed the other.’ He met her look evenly. ‘I only know it happened long before your cousin came to Wednesbury. But let us not dwell on proven fact. My offer remains. Take it and no one will hear of your . . . preferences. Refuse it and the whole town will know.’

  Smashing her glass to the floor, Cara ground her foot on the shattered remnants as though stepping on a distasteful insect.

  ‘You are a bastard, Felton,’ she grated, ‘a pure bastard!’

  Cold and vicious, Carver’s own smile spread. ‘My birth certificate would have it otherwise, Cara. And, unlike yourself, I am no pervert. Remember, my dear, before you make your decision: no class, rich or poor, easily tolerates a homosexual, and a lesbian not at all! There will be nowhere you can go where word of your pretty lover will not follow.’

  ‘If I agree, if I give you what you so obviously came for, what of him? How can I be sure of his silence?’

  As if hearing the questio
n Rafe Langton grunted and his eyes opened briefly before he settled once more to his rhythmic snores.

  ‘The threat of my telling Harriet that he has spent so many of his “club nights” with you, and of telling his colleagues the woman who was his mistress was herself making love to another woman, will, I guarantee, seal his lips forever. On the other hand . . .’

  ‘There need be no other hand!’ Taking a key from a chain between her breasts, Cara crossed to a bureau set in a corner of the room. Unlocking it she withdrew a document. Holding it to her chest she stared at him for several moments before walking over to him.

  ‘Your word, Carver?’

  Taking the paper she held out to him he unfolded it, scanning its wording and signature. Then, refolding it, he placed it in the inner pocket of his coat.

  Light from the gasolier glinting on the silver swathes brushed back from his forehead, he looked into her eyes.

  ‘No, Cara, you do not have my word. What you have handed to me was Langton’s share in the new navigation. You will only have my word when you give me the share which Arthur Payne deeded to Melissa.’

  It had all gone so smoothly, so exactly as he had planned. Carver stood up as Cara, her cousin and their solicitor left his study. Folding the newly signed documents he slipped them into the wall safe, locking the door with a smile.

  Cara Holgate had become a threat to his complete ownership of that canal; she had thought to take a percentage of his business with threats and scheming. Now she was gone, he was rid of her as he had rid himself of that other threat. Paul had thought to marry a pit bank wench, but Carver had put a stop to that.

  A man does not marry his mistress.

  The words he had spoken to Rafe Langton returned to him now. Nor did a man marry his brother’s mistress even though their one encounter had been unwilling on her part. The Doe Bank wench was gone and that was the way things would remain.

  He turned from the safe, but as he did so the vision of vivid blue eyes staring at him pleadingly from a beautiful heart-shaped face danced in the air before him.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  ‘Emma, do have a bit of sense. You can’t run that stall by yourself, you don’t know . . .’

  ‘I know enough to get by.’ Emma looped an elastic band over the button of her skirt to accommodate her expanding waistline. ‘Samuel’s customers usually ask for the same cuts of meat, they don’t chop and change. At least not very often. And he taught me how to cut a joint.’

  ‘Cutting and carrying be two different things,’ Daisy added to her protest. ‘You can’t go hauling great chunks of meat about, think of the baby!’

  One hand slipping into her pocket, Emma fingered the hard round disc sewn into its lining. She had touched that coin every day since it had been placed so contemptuously on her body; and every day and during the long night hours she’d remembered the man who put it there.

  ‘You be seven months gone. Standing on the market from morning ’til night will be too much.’

  Emma withdrew her hand but the feel of the coin seemed to linger on her fingers. ‘I’m going to do it, Daisy, I have to. I can’t see the Hollingtons go out of business without even trying to help. They have been kindness itself to us, where would we be without them?’

  Daisy’s last protest died. ‘Like as not the workhouse.’

  Emma reached for her shawl. ‘They saved us from that, now we must try to save Samuel’s business. I know more than you think . . .’ the confidence in her smile was far greater than that in her heart ‘. . . Samuel taught me a great deal about butchering. What to look for in a carcass, and what to avoid. I know his customers and they know me. I have to try. At least that way I shall feel I am doing something. Mrs Hollington trusts me enough to have given me money to buy supplies from the abbatoir. Won’t you trust me too, Daisy?’

  A cry breaking from her lips, Daisy threw herself across the room, her arms going about her friend. ‘Oh, Emma, you know I trust you, ain’t nobody on God’s earth I trusts more, it . . . it’s just I worry about you.’

  ‘Then don’t.’ But even as she returned the hug Emma realised their life here at the Hollingtons’ was now under threat. Daisy could still earn her keep with her work in the house but without Samuel’s meat stall there would be no job for Emma, and she would not stay without it. Emma Price had not been reared to impose upon anyone. To her parents, charity had been something to give, not to take. Work hard and honestly, had been her mother’s maxim; obey God’s law, that of her father. But the preacher man had applied that law only to others!

  Watching Emma push the hand cart out of the yard, Daisy waved after her but for the first time she did not smile.

  The cart bucked and grumbled as it moved over the roughly cobbled road, jarring Emma’s shoulders. She had been to the abattoir several times and found none of those visits pleasant, but today the smell of blood and animal droppings caused her stomach to turn. Pausing, she leaned heavily on the handles of the cart, trying desperately not to breathe, not to take in any more of the odour that drifted over to her from the high windowless building.

  ‘You Sam Hollington’s wench?’

  Sickness rising in her, Emma straightened to see a man in a long bloodstained apron that three parts covered trousers tied about his legs with string; a length of ragged cloth draped over one shoulder bore further stains of blood mixed with tiny pieces of flesh. Only his face was clean as he smiled at her.

  ‘I am Mr Hollington’s assistant.’

  ‘How be Sam?’ Pulling a rag from his pocket, the man wiped his hands. ‘That were a nasty accident he had.’

  Emma leaned against the cart as another wave of nausea swept her. All she wanted was to make her purchase and leave, but she could not snub the man. Swallowing the bile in her throat, she answered, ‘Yes, it was terrible, but we hope he will soon be well enough to take up business again.’

  ‘That won’t be none too easy, not with one hand.’ He stuffed the rag back inside his pocket. ‘Meantime you be carrying on for him?’

  Meeting his sympathetic smile, she recognised the honest friendliness behind his question and nodded. ‘I’m going to try, though to be honest I don’t know if I will be able to. I really know very little of this side of things; Mr Hollington was teaching me . . .’

  ‘Arr well, Sam Hollington knowed his trade, you couldn’t have no finer to teach you the meat. I’ve dealt with him here at the slaughter house since being a lad so I know the cuts he buys. If you like, I could deal the same way with you?’

  Emma felt the weight that had rested on her all the way to the abattoir lift away and the fluttering fade from her insides. ‘I would very much appreciate that, Mr . . .’

  ‘Todd, my name be David Todd, but if you wants to find me then ask for Davey Porkchop.’ He grinned. ‘That be what I’m known as hereabouts, seeing as how every day I cut a chop from the choicest loin and takes it home for my supper.’

  ‘I am Emma Price, Mr Porkchop.’ Emma could not resist a smile. ‘But folk hereabouts call me Emma.’

  ‘Then, Emma me wench, let’s get that cart of yours loaded up.’

  The man had obviously not been boasting. He knew Samuel’s requirements and had chosen her the very best. Now it remained for her to do the same for Sam’s customers.

  Laying the knives alongside the chopping board, she felt trepidation flicker again in her stomach. This was where it had happened. One minute Samuel Hollington had both hands and the next . . . Leaving the cleaver in the wicker basket, she covered it with the chequered cloth. That she could not face using!

  Almost numb with cold, every part of her aching from weariness, Emma wrapped a steak fillet, handing it to a woman who had spent an age prodding and sniffing at it before at last nodding her head.

  ‘It was fresh from the abattoir this morning.’ Emma took the ten-shilling note, sorting change from the tin box.

  ‘Arr, so you said!’ The woman grabbed the coins, meticulously counting each one. ‘And if it be a lie I�
��ll be back for my money afore you can blink, and wanting a free fillet in its place.’

  ‘Sure and am I not broken-hearted?’

  Emma looked up from closing the cash box to see Liam Brogan glance at the meat the woman was packing away. ‘Hadn’t I hoped to see you refuse to buy.’

  ‘Why?’ The woman’s eyes snapped.

  Raising one hand, Liam laid it over his heart. ‘Wasn’t it me own mother taught me always to be truthful? I hoped you would refuse it so I could have it for meself, for it’s the freshest meat I’ve seen in all the place.’

  The woman’s hand closed over her purchase, her mouth tight. ‘How would you know?’ she demanded.

  ‘How would I know?’ Dropping his hand, he laughed lightly. ‘Am I not the son of Patrick Brogan, and him the finest butcher in all of Ireland! Did not himself teach me the skills? He did so, and I tell you that fillet be the very best steak I’ve seen since leaving the old country, and so I wanted it for meself!’

  The woman rammed the package deep into her basket at the same time glaring at Liam. ‘Well, you ain’t getting it. Bloody cheek!’ Turning on her heel, she marched away.

  About to thank him, Emma was diverted by yet another customer. ‘I’m sorry,’ she answered. ‘But the sausages sold out this morning.’

  ‘I suppose it was to be expected.’ Lifting a corner of her shawl, the tired-looking young woman wiped the nose of the child she carried on her hip. ‘You wouldn’t have three pennorth of scrag would you?’

  Emma glanced at the few pieces of meat left on the stall. There was no scrag end of mutton. That, she knew, had sold out shortly after she’d set out the stall. About to shake her head, she looked at Liam.

  ‘’Tis fortunate the last bit of scrag was taken an hour since.’ He played his charming smile upon the young woman. ‘For that leaves you as tasty a couple of pork kidneys as ever was.’

  ‘Tasty they might be mister,’ she hitched the child higher, ‘but there ain’t enough there to feed a man and four kids. What I’d pay for them would buy a dozen sausages. I’ll just ’ave to try a bit further along, could be one of the other stalls will ’ave some.’