Pit Bank Wench

by Meg Hutchinson

  ‘What do you mean? Liam knows I go only so Paul may see the horses.’

  ‘Does he, Emma? Does Liam really think that? Or does he feel the fear any man would? That the feelings which draw you to that house lie not with any horse, but with the owner of them!’

  ‘Daisy!’ Emma was aghast. ‘Liam would never think that. He knows it is not true.’

  Her eyes clouding with sudden sadness, Daisy regarded her closely.

  ‘Does he, Emma? Does Liam know the truth? What’s more important, do you?’

  Daisy was putting entirely the wrong connotation on things. Emma watched her child explore every bush of gorse, run after butterflies that fluttered away as his eager hand reached out for them. But her happiness in his delight of a world that had lain hidden from him for so long was marred by memories of that conversation. Of course Liam knew the truth about her meetings with Carver Felton, and of course she knew it too. She saw allowing him these few meetings with Paul as only fitting after he had done so much for the child. But today would be the last time they would be together, the last time she would bring Paul here.

  They were leaving at the weekend. Emma felt again the strange sharp pang she’d experienced when Liam had told her of his plans; the same emptiness that had followed.

  The work was finished, it was time to leave. They would travel with Daisy and Brady and be married in Ireland. It all sounded so simple, yet inside she had felt a sort of turmoil and when that had drained away there’d been nothing left in its wake; none of the joy or excitement that radiated from Daisy’s face, nothing but a cold empty void.

  Why? The question had come to her a hundred times but now as then the answer would not follow.

  ‘This is where we see the horses, isn’t it, Mama?’

  Emma pulled her shawl a little more firmly about her shoulders as she followed the small dancing figure through the high wrought-iron gates. The house was almost as beautiful outside as in. Red brick and cream stone gleaming in the sunlight of late afternoon seemed to smile a welcome, but today Emma felt none of its warmth.

  ‘Father!’ The delighted squeal breaking her reverie she stood still as the child ran towards the tall figure who waited with arms outstretched.

  How could he give up the child? How could Carver Felton part from the son he loved so much? Emma’s heart leaped as it always did on seeing the two of them together. Might he in the end renounce his promise and take the child from her? She watched as he scooped the laughing boy into his arms, whirling him round and round with a delight it was painful for her to witness.

  This must be the reason for her feeling of emptiness, the lack of joy in her own forthcoming marriage. This was her fear. That one day Carver Felton would reclaim his son.

  ‘I think we must let this young man go to the stables.’

  The deep chuckle pulling at her nerves Emma remained unsmiling as Carver set the child down. Walking with them around the back of the house to where the stables and carriage house formed an elongated ‘L’ shape.

  She would stay only a few minutes, just long enough for the groom to lead Paul on a pony once around the paddock. Accompanied by cries of delight, she watched Carver swing the child into the saddle. Just once around the paddock then she would leave. And before she went she would tell him that today was their final meeting.

  ‘It is so good of you to bring him.’ Carver turned to her, his dark eyes sweeping in every detail of her face. ‘But I would much rather you’d accept my offer of a carriage.’

  Emma turned her face to watch the boy and the groom disappearing around the far corner of the building. ‘I prefer to walk, and Paul enjoys the freedom of the heath; he so rarely gets to run far, my work means he’s mostly confined indoors.’

  ‘It need not be that way.’

  Carver’s answer was surprisingly gentle but perversely it grated on nerves already worn raw and her answer came out with a sharpness she had not intended.

  ‘It will not be from this weekend. I . . . my husband is taking us to his home in Ireland. Paul will have plenty of open space to run in safety there.’

  ‘Ireland!’

  Carver could not stop the outburst and as Emma turned her glance to him and saw the look of desolation sweep into his eyes, she felt an answering one sweep into her heart.

  He turned towards the house, face averted from her, but when he spoke his voice held a thread of anger.

  ‘I had not thought of your leaving this country. Please come into the house, there are matters we must discuss.’

  Blood freezing in her veins, Emma followed dumbly. She had lived with this fear for so long. He had taken her son from her once, was he about to do it again?

  Seated in the gracious room she had been shown into once before she sat staring at her hands, clasped together in her lap.

  Beneath the high window, his back turned to her, Carver Felton’s shoulders drooped as if carrying too heavy a load. When he eventually spoke it was with an anguish not completely concealed from her.

  ‘Mrs Price.’ He kept his back to her. ‘There is something you must know. Perhaps it was dishonest of me not to have told you before. It concerns the child.’

  Emma’s fingers twisted convulsively, driving her nails deep into her flesh.

  ‘When my brother died . . .’

  ‘Died!’ The cry that broke from her brought him round to face her.

  ‘You did not know?’

  Tears filling her throat, Emma could only shake her head.

  ‘I’m sorry. Had I known I would have been less abrupt. Paul returned ill from a business meeting two years ago . . .’

  Emma’s mind went back to the last time she had met Paul Felton. That was about two years ago. ‘I . . . I saw him. I did not know . . .’

  ‘None of us did. He had contracted typhoid. He collapsed on the heath and was taken to Doe Bank. He was nursed there by a woman named Jerusha Paget. It seems she had some skill with herbal medicines, but by the time the fool of a woman sent word to me, my brother was beyond help.’

  Feeling emotions war within her, Emma lifted her head. Carver Felton’s pain was as real as it was raw, but that did not excuse his maligning a woman he did not know.

  ‘I realise how you must have felt,’ she said calmly, ‘how you must still feel. But believe me, Mr Felton, Jerusha was no fool. She held no medical qualification but her skills were such that she had the trust and confidence of people from every village for miles around. She nursed many back to health when the parish doctor had written them off. If it had been possible to save your brother then she would have done so, but we all know typhoid to be deadly.’

  ‘Deadly enough to take the old woman and half of that village with her.’

  His words weighing on her like stones, Emma bit her lip. First her family, then Paul and Jerusha. The people she had loved most in the world all taken from her. There had been talk in the camp of illness at the Hall following Jerusha’s death. But she had thought Paul to be abroad.

  ‘But that is not what I have to discuss with you.’ Carver walked from the window, taking a chair opposite hers. ‘It is the matter of my brother’s will.’

  Confused, Emma looked at that strong face, marked now by something other than sorrow. Something she might have called guilt.

  ‘Paul’s will? I don’t understand. That can have nothing to do with me.’

  ‘Directly, no. But as the mother of his nephew . . .’

  ‘His nephew? But Paul never knew, I . . .’

  ‘You did not tell him.’ Carver’s tone softened. ‘You did not tell me either. Paul saw the child in your arms and needed no one to name his father, just as I needed none. He did not need to guess what I had done, that I forced myself upon you to prevent your marrying him; deliberately kept you apart. I did my brother a great wrong, one I can never redress or forget, just as I will never forget the suffering I have caused you.’

  ‘That is over and done with.’ Emma glanced away, unable to watch the remorse that clouded tho
se dark eyes.

  ‘For me it can never be over.’ He stood up, moving restlessly to stand staring into the empty fireplace. For long seconds he remained immobile, a gilt clock measuring the silence with a muted tick. At last, drawing himself up, he turned about. ‘Mrs Price, I said earlier I had not been entirely honest with you on our previous meetings. Forgive me but I had my reasons. I did not tell you before because I had no wish for you to bring the child to visit out of a sense of moral obligation. I have no desire for you or the child to feel that. Nor, I feel sure, would my brother. The fact is that under the terms of Paul’s will, this house, his share of the business and everything belonging to him, is now his nephew’s.’

  Beaufort House . . . and everything Paul Felton had once owned now her son’s! Emma sat in stunned silence. It wasn’t true, it couldn’t be true. It was a trick to keep her son here.

  ‘You had to know, Mrs Price,’ Carver said when she did not speak. ‘You had to be told before you took your son away.’

  ‘No!’ Eyes suddenly flashing life, Emma rose to her feet. ‘My son has no claim on your brother, he has no right to this house or to anything else. You can tear up any will that says otherwise, we want none of it!’

  ‘That would not be legal,’ Carver said firmly, though his eyes held a smile. ‘Nothing can be altered except by Paul himself, and that not until he reaches his majority.’

  ‘That does not mean he has to remain here.’

  ‘Only the merest twitch of his jaw betraying the blow dealt to him by her words, Carver answered.

  ‘That is correct. If you have no wish to live here then the property will be looked after until our son is of an age to decide for himself what is to be done both with it, and with the other properties he will inherit from me. Until that time I have made financial arrangements for him and for you.’

  If only he could say the words he wanted to say. To tell her he loved her, that it was love as well as pride and jealousy had caused him to keep Paul from marrying her . . . that for the rest of his life he would live with the guilt of raping her and with the hopeless love that had arisen from it. But he could not say those words for she was another man’s wife.

  Watching her now, eyes brilliant with anger and accusation, Carver felt his soul reach the very depths of despair.

  ‘I loved your brother.’ Emotion catching her tongue Emma looked at the man who had destroyed her life. ‘I loved him for his gentle ways, not for his position or his wealth. I did not want his money then and I do not want it now. As for you – I hated you when you raped me, hated you for knowing what you did was done coldly and deliberately, done to prevent my marrying Paul. As for your money . . . you have already paid me, remember!’

  Snatching the lining from the pocket of her skirt, she ripped the coin free.

  ‘One shilling!’ she went on through gritted teeth. ‘One shilling was all you deemed my honour worth. But I set a higher store by it than that, and all the money you possess is not enough to repay me. Keep your conscience money, Mr Felton, I want nothing from you and neither does my son!’

  Staring straight into those black eyes, Emma drew back her arm and flung the coin in his face.

  ‘We could go and still have everything ready to leave on Saturday. Ain’t neither of us got much to pack.’

  Daisy glanced at her friend who had hardly smiled in several days. She had not said what had taken place over at that house, but something had, it was plain to see.

  ‘The boy would enjoy it,’ Daisy went on. ‘His first party and probably the last for a long time. Let him enjoy it while he has the chance for we ain’t likely to have money to spend on parties, not for years. Like Brady and Liam have said, life will be no bed of roses.’

  ‘Daisy is right, Emma.’ Liam Brogan too watched the pale face shadowed with unhappiness. ‘The lad will enjoy the going and it will be a break for him before we set away for Ireland.’

  ‘Brady will come and Liam, won’t you Liam?’

  Emma had turned away too quickly, turned away even before Daisy’s question. Liam felt his heart quicken, but the worry that gnawed ever deeper with each passing day stayed hidden.

  ‘I will if that’s what Emma wants.’

  ‘There you are, Emma,’ Daisy smiled. ‘You ain’t got no more arguments.’

  No, she had no more arguments. Emma felt a sinking in her heart. She would take her son to the celebration that would mark the opening of the new canal and come once more face to face with Carver Felton.

  ‘You don’t have to go if you would rather not.’

  Outside the hut Liam turned to her, the fear in his eyes lost in the darkness.

  ‘And have Daisy go on at me forever more?’ Emma tried to laugh.

  ‘That’s not what I meant. I’m saying that there’s no need for you to come to Ireland. I would not hold you to a promise that would cause you grief. I love you and want to marry you, but not if your heart isn’t in it. It’s not too late for happiness, Emma, but you have to have the courage to reach out for it.’

  ‘I am happy. I will be happy with you, Liam.’

  Drawing her into his arms, holding her against his chest, Liam Brogan faced the truth, and it was not the one she would have him believe.

  ‘Can we see the horses now, Mama?’

  ‘Not today, darling.’ Emma glanced at the boy trotting by her side.

  ‘But we always see the horses.’

  ‘I know we do, but they will not be here today.’

  ‘Do horses not go to parties?’

  Looking into the serious little face, Liam laughed then swept the boy up into his arms. ‘Only people go to parties.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why?’ Liam threw him up into the air, catching him in strong arms. ‘Why, why, why! Your mother will be sick of that word.’

  ‘Let’s go and get some lemonade.’ Settling the delighted boy on his shoulders, Liam smiled at Emma. ‘Go and settle yourself under that tree, we’ll bring you a glass.’

  ‘If you don’t mind, Liam, I’d rather go back. I . . . I’m a little tired.’

  ‘We’ll all go,’ Daisy answered for them all.

  ‘No.’ Emma’s smile was weary. ‘I wouldn’t want that, you and Brady stay for the dancing.’

  ‘Yes, you two stay. Brady’s quite a turn at the jig, ’tis meself has the two left feet.’

  ‘But . . .’ Daisy looked at Emma.

  ‘No buts.’ Liam cut short her objection. ‘Sure and can’t a man be trusted to walk his fiancée back to her home?’

  Going to stand beneath the tree, listening to its spreading branches protest against the breeze ruffling its leaves, Emma stared in the direction of Doe Bank. She had told herself today she would go back there, to say the goodbyes she had never said. But she had not gone on to Doe Bank. What she had told herself had been merely an excuse, one invented to mask her true reason for coming to Felton Hall. Paul could not miss what he had never known, while she . . . She laughed, a soundless bitter laugh that tore at her soul. What had she gained but more heartbreak?

  ‘Mama, can we go and find the horses?’

  Emma sighed as the boy trotted back to her, his persistent question still ringing out.

  ‘I know where there might be one.’ Liam came up behind him, holding out a glass of lemonade. ‘In the field beside the flour mill.’

  ‘Felton Mill? That’s not on our way home.’

  ‘No.’ Liam drained his own glass. ‘But I don’t mind the detour if you don’t.’

  Watching him return the glasses to a table set out a little way from the tree, Emma felt a pang of guilt. Liam was so good to her, so gentle and loving. He deserved every ounce of her love in return, but how was she free to give it?

  They had all come, the people of Doe Bank who had survived the typhoid. They had talked to her of her parents, of Carrie and Jerusha. But all the time her eyes had sought a tall figure, his raven hair slashed with silver, all the time her heart had listened for that one voice. But it had not come.
Carver Felton had not made an appearance.

  ‘Let’s sit for a while.’ Liam broke the silence that had wrapped about them after leaving Daisy and Brady. ‘Give the boy a moment to chase butterflies.’

  Nodding agreement, Emma sank on to the soft heather. ‘And give yourself time: time to listen to your heart as well as to your mind. Be sure of what you do, Emma. A lifetime is too long to pay for any mistake.’

  ‘If you mean my marrying you, then I am making no mistake. I know what I am doing.’

  But the laugh she forced had no heart in it, its hollowness echoing inside him. Perhaps it was as she said, perhaps his was the mistake, the mistake of thinking her love for him was not the love he yearned for. Yes, his was the mistake. Plucking a sprig of heather he lay back, closing his eyes against the lowering sun. The mistake of shutting out the truth.

  It would be all right. On the edge of her thoughts Emma heard the soothing ripple of the mill stream. Once she was gone from Plovers Croft, once she was married and settled in Ireland, she would forget. Forget all that had happened and concentrate on loving her son, on loving Liam.

  ‘There he is, Mama, there’s the horse!’

  The delighted squeal floating back to her, she looked across to where her son had been chasing butterflies. But Paul was no longer there. Her eyes drawn by another squeal of excitement she saw his small figure. It was running straight toward the stream.

  ‘Paul!’

  It was a stricken whisper. Beside her Liam was on his feet. As if caught in some inextricable nightmare, Emma watched her son run with outstretched hands towards the horse on the opposite bank. Somewhere a thousand miles away a voice shouted his name but that would do no good, her son was only yards from the water. Then the horse was moving. One moment it was on the ground, the next it was in the air, its body rising in one great leap that carried it across the stream; and even before it landed its rider had thrown himself from the saddle, at the same time grabbing the child and flinging him in a sideways arc away from danger. Still caught in that world of nightmare, Emma watched the tall figure stumble then miss its footing on the damp moss and fall backwards into the tumbling waters.