‘Gave her money away?’ Liam stood up, his brown eyes filled with question. ‘But why? And to whom?’
‘Daisy!’ Emma glanced up quickly.
‘I know, I know!’ Daisy shrugged. ‘I said as I would keep it secret, but it be out now so you might as well tell him the all of it.’
Twisting a damp handkerchief between her fingers, Emma began falteringly. ‘I . . . we . . . Daisy and I went to see the priest of St Mary’s church, the one with the green spire . . .’
‘You went to see the father?’
Nodding, Emma went on. ‘We’d heard he was going to Ireland so we went to ask would he let the boy that was beaten travel with him.’
‘And he agreed?’
‘Ar!’ Daisy snorted. ‘After asking a thousand questions.’
‘Sure and that sounds familiar, he would have made Grand Inquisitor so he would.’
‘Well I don’t know what that be neither, but if it be one poked his nose where it shouldn’t be then that priest would take top prize! Anyway, he only agreed so long as the lad paid his own fare.’
Understanding spreading across his face, Liam looked at Emma. ‘But the lad did not have the kind of money would take him home to Ireland, so you gave him the rest.’
Tending bacon, Daisy waited for Emma to reply, then when the silence seemed set to last she looked over at her friend, her voice gentle with affection.
‘No, Emma did not give him the rest she gave him the lot, every penny. Said what the lad had earned should go to his mother.’
‘But why, Emma?’ Liam’s voice was as tender as Daisy’s had been. ‘Why did you not tell me? I would have seen the lad had his money.’
‘And deprive your mother of what would have been sent to her?’ Emma smiled through tears. ‘My own mother would have called that robbing Peter to pay Paul. I saw no reason for my needing the money, while that boy had every reason.’
‘And now you have reason and no money!’
‘You did it too, Daisy.’ Emma met the gentle admonition. ‘You gave him your money too.’
‘Yes, well,’ Daisy turned back to her cooking, ‘I had no call for it either.’
‘What’s done can’t be undone, but I have . . .’
‘No, Liam,’ Emma interrupted sharply. ‘I have enough guilt in my heart at leaving Paul. I could not bear the extra of knowing I had taken money that was meant for your family. Please Liam.’ She rose to her feet. ‘Try to understand. I recognise your desire to help and I appreciate it, but I will not take your money or any other man’s here when you have worked so hard for it.’
Taking her hands, he looked deep into her eyes, his voice no more than a whisper. ‘My money is yours, Emma, just as my life is yours. Their only value lies in helping you.’
It had been the hardest month of her life. Every day had been given over to the hope she might be reunited with her son, every night to praying for a miracle that did not come. Only once before in her life, the night her family had died, had she felt so utterly heartsick.
Emma dried her hands and face on the scrap of snow white huckaback placed beside the jug and bowl in her bedroom.
Daisy had been a tower of strength, holding her together when grief threatened to pull her apart. And Liam . . . how could she describe what he had been to her, his kindness, his gentleness and love? It was there in every look he gave her, in every touch of his hand, but it was a love he did not press upon her.
Pulling her calico nightgown over her head, she tied the narrow straps across her breasts. She should give Liam an answer, she would find no man more caring.
Looking down at her left hand, she twisted the ring Jerusha had given her. It had kept her free from unwanted attention, served the purpose it was meant to, but it should be exchanged for one of her own. She should give Liam an answer, but how could she? How could she hope for happiness without her child?
Crossing to the narrow wooden cot set opposite her own bed, she stroked her fingers across the pillow.
How had she lived? How had she survived this heartbreak? And how much longer could she go on?
‘Oh, Lord,’ she whispered into the silence. ‘Give me back my baby . . . give me back my son.’
‘Eh, thank goodness that be over.’ Daisy set the last dried plate in its place. ‘I’ll make us both a nice cup of tea afore I set that pork to roasting for the evening meals.’
Picking up the kettle, she carried it outside to the stand-pipe set up for the use of the camp. Holding it beneath the gush of water she glanced up at the sound of carriage wheels on the road behind the hut.
‘Does a Mrs Price live hereabouts?’
Daisy stared at the man calling to her. Smart in dark livery, he held the reins of two satin black horses harnessed to a well-polished carriage.
‘Does a Mrs Price live hereabouts?’
The repetition of the question driving away her initial surprise, Daisy straightened, one hand dripping water.
‘Ar!’ Her voice was hard and defensive. Dressed as he was he could only be from Felton Hall and that would bode no good. ‘Mrs Price do live here.’
Alighting from the carriage, the young man looped the reins over a nearby gorse bush.
‘Be you her?’
‘No,’ Daisy snapped, hostility cold and sharp in her answer.
Glancing towards the navvies, several of whom were looking in his direction, he reached into an inner pocket.
‘Then would you give her this, please? And tell her I have instructions to wait for an answer.’
Drawing out an envelope, he placed it in Daisy’s dry hand before stepping back to the carriage.
‘Some chap in a carriage and a fancy suit . . .’
Deep in her own thoughts, lost in a maze of misery, Emma did not hear.
Putting the kettle on the stove, Daisy placed the envelope between her teeth while she dried her hands on her apron.
‘He said to give you this.’ She touched Emma’s shoulder. ‘Didn’t say where he was from or who sent it, but he’s to wait for a reply.’
Eyes empty of interest looked up.
‘I can tell him to sod off if you don’t want to be moithered. Tell him to take his envelope back to the one who sent it.’
‘Envelope?’ Still half a world away, Emma glanced at the pristine paper.
‘I’ll tell him you ain’t to be bothered.’ Daisy turned for the door.
‘I . . . I’m sorry, Daisy.’ Emma’s glance followed the other woman. ‘I was not listening. What did you say?’
Daisy turned back. Time was having no effect on Emma, it was not having the healing folk were so fond of saying it would. In fact, she seemed more heartbroken with every passing day.
‘I said, some chap in a fancy suit brought this for you.’ She tried to keep the pity from her voice, tried to sound matter-of-fact. Emma needed no more added to her sorrow. Pity would only bring on the tears that dwelt just below the surface. ‘He be waiting of an answer and I can give him that all right!’
Still uncomprehending, Emma looked again at the envelope flapping up and down in Daisy’s hand.
‘That is for me?’
‘That’s what he said, but if you don’t want it . . .’
‘I don’t know anyone who would write to me.’
‘Don’t take no effort to find out who it be but judging by that man’s get up and the carriage he be driving, I’d say this letter could only have come from Felton Hall.’
It wasn’t such a long shot, but as light returned to her friend’s eyes Daisy felt a pang of fear. What if it were from Felton Hall, from him? What if the letter was to tell Emma she had no claim to her child, that she would never see him again? She had wanted only to help Emma, to bring her up from the pit that was slowly swallowing her, but if her sudden fears had substance then she would have driven her further down in it, perhaps too far ever to surface again.
The thought frightening her, Daisy held the envelope behind her back. ‘It be a mistake, the man must have brought
it to the wrong place. I’ll tell him to go.’
‘No.’ Emma reached out one hand, the gesture almost lifeless. ‘I should at least look at it.’
‘But it might not be for you, he didn’t seem none too sure.’ It was a lie but fear drove Daisy to say it.
‘Then we will return it.’
Taking the letter from a reluctant Daisy, Emma looked at it. Her name was written boldly in a strong, elegant copperplate hand. Slowly tearing open the envelope, she withdrew a single sheet of folded paper. The same confident hand, black lettering flowing over white paper, stared up at her.
Glancing once at Daisy, who stood with hands clasped over her apron, worry as to what the letter might hold clear in her eyes, Emma began to read.
My dear Mrs Price,
I must first assure you that the child is well. I realise the past weeks have caused you great suffering, and for that I apologise. However, if you will do me the kindness of coming to Beaufort House, I will give you the reason for my action in taking him away.
Carver Felton
The child! Emma stared at the words. Carver referred to him as the child. Not her son, not his, but the child. It was so cold, almost businesslike. He had dealt with her baby the way he had dealt with her. He had raped her then turned his back on her, one more hurdle to be cast from his path. Now the son of that rape was to be removed also; no hint of scandal must malign the name of Felton, no child born out of wedlock must become known to his associates. Emma Price and her bastard son must remain a shadow of the past.
‘Emma, be you all right?’ Daisy watched the pallor of weeks become even paler. ‘Be . . . be it bad news?’
‘It . . . it says . . .’ She held out the letter to Daisy.
‘I don’t be no hand at reading, ‘specially not fancy writing such as that.’
Hands shaking, voice breaking on a sob, Emma read the letter aloud.
‘But that be good news.’ Relief spreading a smile over her mouth, Daisy felt the tension drain from her. ‘It says Paul is well and that he will explain the taking of him.’
Desolation in her eyes, Emma looked up from the letter. ‘Yes, it says Paul is well and that Carver’s taking him will be explained. But it does not say my baby will be returned to me.’
‘You already be three parts along the way to meeting trouble!’ Daisy took the letter, returning it to its envelope. ‘’Less you go to this Beaufort House you won’t know what be the intention.’
Her face revealing the fear and pain that throbbed through her every vein, Emma looked at her friend.
‘What if Carver should have Paul shut away somewhere? I could not live with that, Daisy, I could not live . . .’
‘Why should he do that?’ Stepping to her side, Daisy closed her arms about Emma’s trembling shoulders. ‘Didn’t you tell me yourself the words he used. “I acknowledge my son.” Does that sound as if he wants Paul locked away?’
A month ago. Just four weeks. But to her it had been a thousand lifetimes. Her shawl pulled tight against tremors of fear and apprehension, Emma stared unseeing through the window of the carriage. She had suffered the torment of hell and saw no way open for her to end it. How much more a child snatched from his mother? A little blind boy surrounded by voices he did not recognise, hands whose touch he did not know. How many times had he called for her, how many times had he cried himself to sleep?
Pressing her knuckles against her mouth, she stifled the sobs she could not stop.
And Carver Felton? The haughty impassive features rose before her inner vision as they did so often in the dark reaches of the night. He would not have cuddled the child, held him in his arms, talked to him softly until the fear was gone. Paul was his son but Carver did not love him, did not care that a little boy might be terrified. Had he any feeling at all for Paul, he would never have taken him from her.
‘Beaufort House, Mrs Price.’
Bands of misery still tight about her mind, Emma looked blankly at the man who had delivered the letter and stood now beside the open carriage door.
‘What?’
‘Beaufort House.’ He smiled sympathetically, handing her down from the carriage.
‘Beaufort House?’ She glanced at the mellow red brick house quoined with limestone weather and time had yellowed. ‘But I thought . . . were we not going to Felton Hall?’
‘My instructions was to bring you here, after I had delivered the letter.’
‘Of course. I . . . I’m sorry. I was thinking of other things, forgive me.’
‘Not to worry, Mrs Price, I sometimes gets lost in a daydream meself. Helps to make a hard time light.’
‘Thank you.’ Emma walked slowly up the steps that fronted the large house. Daydreams! She would need all of hers in the future.
‘The job will be finished soon, a month at most, and I’ll have to be moving on. It’s a decision you have to be after making Daisy, do you come or do you stay?’
Daisy stared towards the shadowed tents. Already one or two had disappeared. Soon there would be none, and when the last was struck then Brady too would leave. Inside her chest her heart twisted painfully. She loved Brady and wanted to be his wife, to go with him wherever he went. But she loved Emma too. How could she choose? How could she give up either of the two people who mattered most in her world?
‘How can I?’ She turned to him, eyes moist with tears. ‘I can’t leave Emma, not now. It’s enough for her to lose her son . . .’
‘We all feel for Emma. Sure and wouldn’t we be the heartless ones not to?’ He caught her shoulders, turning her to him. ‘But you have a right to happiness too, Daisy.’
Leaning into him, feeling the warmth of him, she knew that she would never be truly happy without him, but at the same time what happiness would there be in leaving Emma behind to face her heartbreak alone?
‘Kilymoran is so pretty a place ’tis no wonder the little people themselves be after living there,’ he went on softly. ‘The valleys be like a mother’s arms, spread wide and welcoming, and the hills like her skirts, ready to protect her children. But they cannot protect against the famine, nor provide the work whereby a man can feed his family. Life will be hard should you come with me, Daisy, but I would love you like no other husband.’
‘Brady, I love you, I do, but . . .’
‘No, mavouneen.’ He touched her lips with his own. ‘The decision is to be made soon, but soon is not yet. Keep your words ’til you be sure of their saying.’
Returning his kiss, Daisy leaned her head against him. Liam loved Emma, that was plain to see, and had asked her the same question as Brady had just asked. But would her friend consent? Would she go to Ireland without her son?
Tears hot and quick squeezed beneath lids closed tight against the truth, tight against her own heartache.
Emma would never leave without her child, and she, Daisy, would never leave without Emma.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Emma glanced about the room into which she had been shown. High windows streamed sunlight on to a soft, thick carpet, its blues and creams blending delicately with tapestried chairs and sofas. It looked and felt more beautiful than anything she had ever seen and exuded an air of gentleness, as if it were smiling.
‘Mrs Price. How good of you to come.’
Surprised at hearing no one approach, she turned quickly. Carver Felton stood just inside the room.
Colour draining from her face, breath refusing to fill her lungs, she stared at the face that had so haunted her; dark sidewhiskers framed strong, well-cut features, black eyes gleamed in a face that was handsome but held a hint of cruelty. It was a face she knew well; one that was mirrored in the child he held by the hand.
‘Paul!’ Her voice broke on a sob as she looked at the small figure who made no move towards her. ‘Paul . . . oh, Paul!’
‘Mama!’ The high-pitched voice held a note of uncertainty, then he squealed: ‘Mama.’
‘Oh, my baby!’ Emma fell to her knees as the boy hurled himself at
her. Clutching him tightly to her breast, she sobbed, ‘My little boy, my little boy.’
‘I’ve been on a train, Mama.’ The child squirmed in her arms, anxious to share his excitement. ‘It went so fast, and it made a noise like this . . .’ he let out a snort ‘. . . and then it roared like a dragon. But I wasn’t afraid.’
‘I’m sure you were not, my darling.’ Emma pushed herself to her feet, instantly drawing him to her side.
‘No, I wasn’t at all afraid. Dragons don’t roar because they are angry, they roar when they are laughing. Father told me so.’
‘Father!’ The fear that had temporarily been forgotten flooded back.
‘Yes.’ Carver’s glance swept from her to the child. ‘It was a delight I could not deny myself, to hear my son call me Father. It was a word he might never use to me again, I had to hear it while I could.’
‘Look, Mama.’ A small hand tugged demandingly at her skirts. ‘I can draw a horse, Father taught me.’
Unnoticed in her joy, she looked now at the paper held in her son’s hand.
‘I did this.’ He held it out triumphantly. ‘I drawed a horse, all by myself.’
Taking the paper, a tiny frown forming across her brow, she glanced at the pencilled outline of a horse.
‘Do you like it, Mama? Do you like my horse?’
‘It is a beautiful horse, darling,’ Emma answered him but her eyes asked questions of the man.
How could Paul draw a horse? How could a child who was blind draw anything?
‘Look at him, Emma,’ Carver answered gently. ‘Look at your son.’
Sinking into a chair, she took the boy’s face between her hands. Tilting it slightly, she looked into eyes that gleamed brightly up at her. Gleamed with the brilliance of sight. Then, with a sob that tore her heart, she pressed her lips to each lid.
‘How?’ she asked when she could speak.
‘Mama, I want to see the horses. Father said I could visit the stables.’
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