‘Hmm!’ Carver watched the men below, some feeding mounds of wet clay to others working along the bed of the canal. ‘Any other troubles?’
‘Them navvies work well enough. They have spats between themselves but they get sorted out, mostly by one called Brogan. He seems to keep the others in line without reference to me, though I did give a man his tin a while ago. On Brogan’s advice.’
‘And what’s that building over there, the wooden one set apart from the tents?’ Carver asked, not interested in whether or not a man had been dismissed.
Bringing his glance to follow where Carver indicated the manager shaded his eyes against the glare of the sun.
‘Part of it be a canteen. The navvies built it in their own time, and the one called Brogan paid for the wood out of his own pocket. I made sure he used none of the company’s materials.’
‘A canteen.’ Carver ran his eye over the low one-storey hut, another smaller one joined at right angles to it. ‘And which of them is the chef?’
The manager smiled dutifully at what he saw as his employer’s attempt at humour. ‘I don’t know about chef, but the cooking’s done by a couple of women. One of them was the cause of my sacking the man I told you of a minute since.’
‘You sacked him over a woman? A common prostitute?’
‘No, Mr Felton, sir, she be no prostitute. Or not as I knows of anyway. I don’t allow none of them sort on the site.’
‘Why else would a man risk getting himself dismissed?’ Carver turned his attention back to the excavation.
‘For smacking a woman in the mouth!’ the manager answered bluntly. ‘I don’t allow that neither. No matter what the woman’s trade, I won’t have no workman of mine knock her about.’
‘And the woman?’ He was not really interested. Carver’s question merely served to prolong the conversation.
‘Seems she was protecting a young lad that was being beaten, and for that she was knocked down. One of the men came running for me but by the time I got over there Brogan had already beaten the other fellow half senseless.’
‘This Brogan seems to take a lot on himself.’
‘The others respect him, sir, and he’s fair in his dealings with them.’
‘And why was the lad being beaten?’
‘He was homesick, so the men said. Not surprising seeing he could be no more than twelve or thirteen at most. His talk of his mother and being back in Ireland irritated Flynn and so he set about the lad.’
‘Then sacking the man was the right course of action.’ Carver turned the horse about.
‘The woman paid the lad’s passage back to Ireland, wouldn’t take no help from the navvies neither. Said they needed all they had to send to their families.’
‘Indeed.’ His reply indicating an end to the conversation, Carver set his horse to a walk.
‘Arr sir.’ The manager’s voice floated after him. ‘She be a good, kind woman that Emma Price.’
Jerking so hard on the reins that the horse whinnied in protest, Carver wheeled around to face his site manager. His mouth so tight the words would hardly come, he snapped: ‘What name did you say?’
‘Why, Price, sir. Emma Price.’
He had not misheard. The blood cold in his veins, Carver sat immobile. It could be coincidence, a maiden name and a married name the same, the name was common in the area, it need not be her . . .
He gripped the reins convulsively as thoughts rioted in his mind. But then again, it could be; Paul had found her, his letter had said so. It had also stated she was married.
The last word sounded like a bell in his brain.
Emma Price was married, it would do him no good to see her now. He should leave. Now.
Touching a heel to his mount he set it to a canter, his eyes fixed on the low canteen hut.
Having almost reached it, he heard a woman’s laughter, the happy sound accompanied by the delighted squeals of a child.
Reining to a halt he watched as they tumbled together in a heap. The hair was long and beautiful but it was the wrong colour, it was not the colour he saw in his dreams, that delicate gold-brushed silver falling softly about a lovely face . . .
‘I beg your pardon.’ He spoke quietly, not wishing to alarm the girl whose eyes were already widening as she stared up at him. ‘Can you tell me where I might find Emma Price?’
‘Who is it?’ The child struggled free of the skirts she had spread about it. ‘Who is it, Aunt Daisy?’
His glance falling on the child as the woman grasped its shoulders, Carver sat stunned. Eyes dark as midnight, hair black as a raven’s wing and marked with a narrow silver streak.
‘. . . the remainder of my estate, in its entirety, I leave to my brother’s son . . .’
Paul’s words hammered in Carver’s heart.
He was looking at his own child!
‘Come along, you two, it’s time . . .’
At the door of the hut Emma’s face drained of colour. Suddenly she was back in Felton Wood, staring terrified into ice cold eyes as a tall man slid from his horse.
‘. . . you will know me every bit as well as you know my brother, maybe even a little better . . .’
Words she heard in her every nightmare since rang deafeningly in her brain.
‘No!’ Emma’s hand flew to her mouth and the dread in her eyes was echoed in Carver’s heart as he glimpsed the golden ring on her finger. She was another man’s wife, though her name remained the same. Another man’s wife . . . but the child was his.
Holding the boy’s hand protectively, Daisy went to Emma’s side. ‘Will I fetch Liam?’
Forcing his mind to function clearly, his eyes still on Emma, Carver said quietly, ‘There will be no need for that, I mean you no harm. May I dismount?’
Voice locked in her throat, Emma nodded dumbly.
‘I wish to speak with you, Mrs Price.’
Daisy’s quick ears caught the title but not by a single flicker did her eyes tell him he was wrong. Still holding the boy’s hand, she looked at the man who was his image.
‘If you have anything to say, mister, then it be best said indoors, not out here where half the world can hear.’
‘A sensible idea, Miss . . . ?’
‘Tully,’ she snapped. ‘Daisy Tully.’
‘Perhaps you would lead the way, Miss Tully?’
‘Can we go outside again, Aunt Daisy?’
‘Later Paul,’ Daisy answered as the child pulled his hand free.
Carver’s glance flashed to the boy. Those eyes, the hair, the set of the features, they were a replica of his own, yet she had named him Paul. A sudden dart of pain shot through him as the silent questions formed. Had she and Paul been lovers? Could the child’s looks be merely a prank of nature?
Ignoring the ritual of offering tea, Daisy turned to Emma who had dropped, trembling, into a chair.
‘I’ll take Paul into the bedroom then I’ll be back.’
‘No. He would be better outside in the air. Would you go with him, please, Daisy?’
‘If you be sure.’ She glared at the dark man, his eyes still fixed on the boy. ‘But I won’t be far from the door.’
‘I can do it myself. Watch, Aunt Daisy.’
Excited at the prospect of another game the child moved forward, one hand extended in front of him, feeling each object as he made for the door.
A look of disbelief on his face, Carver watched him go then, turning back to Emma, his eyes asked the question.
‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘Paul is blind.’
‘You named him Paul.’ Carver spoke first. ‘But he is not Paul’s son, is he? He’s mine!’
Breathless, she made no reply.
‘He is my child, why was I not told?’
The tone of his voice chasing away the shock of seeing him, Emma drew in a sharp breath.
‘Why? Why tell you . . . so you could laugh? The Doe Bank wench who dared to love a Felton.’
‘It would not have been that way.’
Her courage returning, Emma stared at the man standing over her. He had stood over her in the same way in the woods as he’d prepared to take her virginity, but this time it was something infinitely more precious for which she must fight.
‘Wouldn’t it?’ Her trembling over, Emma’s voice was steady. ‘If one Felton could not be seen to have anything to do with a pit bank girl, why should the other be keen to acknowledge her child?’
‘Emma . . .’
‘Mrs Price . . . my name is Mrs Price!’
It was like a slap to his face and he winced at its sting. ‘I beg your pardon, but whatever your name, the boy’s is Felton.’
‘No!’ Emma felt the tingle of returning fear.
‘He is my son!’
‘He is not your son!’ She was on her feet. ‘You have no right to him. You sold that right in Felton Wood – sold it for a shilling!’
Carver’s face blanched and the light seemed to die from his eyes but his voice was firm.
‘What was done that night cannot be undone, but the boy shall not be made to suffer for it.’
‘Will he suffer? Does being with his mother cause a child to suffer?’
‘Being without a father does.’
Her fear increasing, Emma recognised the determined tone of that voice, the tight set of the mouth. Not yet three years old, her son displayed the same characteristics when he wanted something denied him. Some of her fear reflected in her voice, she answered, ‘Paul has a father.’
At his sides, Carver’s hands clenched.
‘He has a stepfather.’
‘That is all he needs.’
‘But it is not all I need . . .’
He said it softly but Emma sensed that beneath the softness an iron fist was prepared to strike.
‘. . . I need my son and I intend to have him.’
‘Why?’ Emma’s cry was bitter. ‘Where is the logic, the purpose in that? You can have other children.’
‘It is regrettable but virtually certain: you will never father a child.’
Sharp and clear the words returned to him. There would be no other son for Carver Felton.
‘So can you,’ he answered. ‘Why deny this one what is his by right? As for logic and purpose, it is logical for a man to want to pass his fortune to his son. That is my purpose for being here. I acknowledge my son and I will have him.’
‘It was him, wasn’t it?’ asked Daisy, perched beside Emma where she sat watching the sleeping child. ‘That was Paul’s father.’
‘Yes.’ It was no more than a whisper.
‘What did he want?’
‘Paul.’ Emma’s voice shook. ‘He wanted Paul.’
Daisy did not need to ask if Emma had agreed. The fact that she had not moved from the child’s side since the man had ridden away was answer enough.
‘He can’t prove that Paul be his.’
‘Look at him, Daisy. They’re the image of each other. What other proof is necessary?’
‘Looks ain’t everything!’
‘They leave little room for doubt and what they do leave could be made up for in money. Carver has that in plenty and equally as much influence. He would have no difficulty in claiming my child.’
‘But you be his mother, surely that gives you the right to keep him?’
‘No, it does not.’ Emma shook her head. ‘A child is like any other possession: the man has prior claim. The law would give Paul to him and there would be nothing I could do about it.’
‘We could leave.’ Catching Emma’s hands, Daisy gave them a shake. ‘We could leave now, tonight. Liam and Brady have both asked us to go with them to Ireland. The boy would be safe there.’
Seeing the look in her friend’s eyes, Emma tried to smile.
‘We would never get that far. Think of it, Daisy. Liam and Brady suddenly give up a job they travelled so far to get, you and I disappear overnight. Anyone would be a fool not to see the connection, and that man is no fool.’
‘Emma.’ Daisy’s hands tightened on hers. ‘Do you really think he wants the baby?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘But why?’ Anger whitening her lips, Daisy stood up and went to stand beside the cot Liam had made. ‘He ain’t no old man, he can have other children, so why come for Paul? And why now? It’s been almost three years. Why only now admit that he’s the father?’
Looking down at her hand, Emma twisted the plain gold band. ‘He didn’t know before today.’
Across the cot, Daisy’s eyes became soft with pity. ‘What you told the Hollingtons and me . . . about you being raped . . . it was true?’
‘Yes.’ She nodded. ‘It was true.’
‘Then you hadn’t never . . . you know what . . . you hadn’t never done that before, not with any man?’
‘Never before, not with any man, and never since.’ Then, the quiet breathing of her son the only other sound in the room, Emma told the whole of her story.
‘Jerusha said my child would bear his father’s name,’ she finished, ‘that was the reason I chose to call him Paul Price. I had never known a prediction of Jerusha’s not to come about but I thought that by giving him that name I’d avoided it, but it seems I was wrong.’
‘We have to do something!’ Daisy saw the tears that formed in Emma’s eyes. ‘We can’t just let him take Paul.’
They had to do something. Still sleepless as dawn rolled back the tides of night, Emma turned her head to look at her son. But what? There was nowhere she could go that Carver Felton could not reach her, could not snatch back the child he had so ruthlessly planted within her.
He wanted to pass the business to his son, but why take hers for that? Why take a blind child? A pit bank girl was not good enough to bear the Felton name, so why should her child be? He could marry any woman in the county and produce himself an heir. Why raise a bastard?
Over and over the questions tumbled in her mind but always Carver Felton’s departing words prevailed.
‘I acknowledge my son and I will have him.’
‘Why?’ Closing her eyes, she sobbed quietly, ‘Why?’
But the black eyes that stared back were cold and hard and the tight lips made no answer.
Chapter Twenty-Six
‘The navigation will soon be finished, and work here will be over.’
‘What will you do?’ Emma looked at the man sitting beside her on the gentle slope that rose from the side of the cutting that would be the new canal.
Plucking a blade of coarse grass, Liam twisted it between his fingers. ‘Some of the men are talking of being away back home, to Ireland.’
‘Daisy told me that Brady’s talked of the same thing.’
Liam nodded. ‘He has that.’
Daisy had looked so unhappy. Emma remembered the night a week ago when she and the girl had talked of that very thing. That she was in love with the handsome Irish man was written plain in her eyes, as was something else. She had not needed to explain either emotion, Emma could read them for herself. Daisy loved them both. Not to go with Brady would break her heart, yet to leave Emma would do the same.
‘Will he go back?’ She asked it softly, almost hoping Liam would not answer.
The flimsy stalk twirling between his fingers, Liam stared out across the heath. ‘Only the little people could be after saying. Brady Malone is caught among the rocks. He is in love with Daisy. To leave her behind will be a hard road to travel, but for him it will be no easier to leave the shores of Ireland for good. It is a hard choice he must be making.’
Was he trying to make the same choice? Glancing sideways at Liam’s strong profile she felt a pang of guilt. Was he trying to decide which would be the hardest thing, to leave her or abandon his home forever?
He loved her. He had not only told her so, he’d made it plain in a thousand little ways; and he loved Paul, her son would have a father.
‘He has a stepfather!’
The words leaped to her mind, throwing themselves into her consciousness with the same force Carve
r Felton had thrown them.
Carver Felton! Emma felt her blood quicken. He was the reason she’d refused to accept Liam’s love, it was he who’d deterred her from telling this caring, gentle man she would marry him and go with him to Ireland. But was it truly fear of Carver’s following after her, of trying to take her son that held her, or was it her own vow, was it her need for revenge?
‘Hard the choice will be.’ Liam flicked away the blade of grass, watching it twist and turn. ‘But it will need the making of it before many weeks be past. Come the autumn the joining will be made and that great cut in the earth will be filled with water. When that day comes, the men of Ireland must move on.’
Will you go too, go with Brady and the others? she wanted to ask, felt the words on the tip of her tongue, but there they stayed. She was afraid of what his answer would be. She enjoyed this man’s company, felt safe with him, and he had been so very good to her. But did she love him? The feelings Liam Brogan aroused in her were not the same as she had felt for Paul Felton. Those feelings had been . . . but that had been a lifetime ago. Her world had been so different then, so full of joy and promise. But that joy had long died, as her family had died, leaving her with only the sad prospect of vengeance.
‘Daisy must go with Brady.’ She pushed the gloomy thoughts away. ‘She loves him.’
‘Would you go, Emma?’ Liam did not look at her. ‘Could you leave someone you loved? The girl loves you, Emma. You are the rocks barring her path.’
‘That’s unfair, Liam! I would never hold Daisy back.’
‘Unfair it may sound, but it’s true just the same. The girl will give Brady no answer for fear of losing you.’ He turned to her, a quick, sharp movement, his eyes meeting hers. ‘What is the fear that will not let you give an answer? What is it holds you so firmly you cannot say the words?’
Taking her hands in his, he gave a half smile, one that masked the pain in his eyes but could not hide that in his heart.
‘I love you, Emma,’ he said gently. ‘Love you and want to marry you. Come with me to Ireland. You’ll be happy there, I promise you, no cloud will touch your life.’
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