Outcast

by Josephine Cox

  Having confided her most secret thoughts to Mrs Manfred, Emma now looked up and, seeing the still-wet tears on that much-loved face, she was deeply touched. ‘Oh, Manny,’ she murmured, bringing her fingers to brush against the older woman’s face, ‘don’t fret yourself. I can be strong, you know that. Papa told me how he felt about the river-folk . . . and why . He asked me to give him my word that they would find no place in my life, and I freely gave it.’ Emma’s firm, clear gaze met the sorry eyes that looked into hers, and in an unfaltering voice she went on, ‘Papa was a fine man, with a deep sense of justice. If he had not believed it to be for the best, he would never have asked it of me. I trust his judgment in all things and I must keep my word!’ In her heart, Emma prayed to God that he might help her.

  ‘Aw, child . . . much as I loved your papa, I have to say that he had no right to ask such a thing of you,’ said Mrs Manfred with a sigh.

  ‘He had every right!’ declared Emma, and, to all intents and purposes, she considered the discussion to be at an end. However, in spite of herself, somewhere deep inside her, Emma had much sympathy with Mrs Manfred’s sentiment. Furthermore, her curiosity concerning the past was now aroused; what had happened between her mama and the river-people? ‘Bad blood’ Caleb Crowther had said of her mama, and, though she had later been given an explanation for this by her papa, there was still a murmuring of unease in Emma’s soul. How had her mama really come to die? Why was Caleb Crowther so bitter towards Mary Grady? And why had she herself been kept in the dark, only to be told of it by her papa as he lay on his death bed? Emma despised herself for raising questions which, by their very nature, must cast doubt on her own papa’s word. Quickly, she pushed the entire matter to the darker recesses of her mind. But not before she was filled with the earnest hope that, one day at some time in the distant future, she might know the full truth of what had happened all those years ago.

  It was nearing dusk when Marlow Tanner accompanied the little man to the place where his faithful old cob-horse was tethered. Both men were silent, both deep in thought – one wondering whether he had been wise to pay a rare visit to these parts; the other, curiously considering a guarded remark made some time before by Gabe Drury, concerning Marlow’s own dah.

  ‘Gabe . . . you take care now,’ Marlow told the little man as he climbed on to the bare back of the cob. As Gabe Drury looked down, to find Marlow’s dark eyes intent upon him, there was a long heavy silence, interrupted only by the slapping of the canal water against the moored barges. It was Marlow who spoke first, and what he asked only served to agitate the little fellow, ‘Can you tell me anything . . . anything at all, about the fellow you saw making good his escape that day?’

  ‘No! . . . I’ve told you before, Marlow,’ already Gabe Drury was hurriedly spurring his horse on, ‘I saw nowt but a pair of legs just running, that’s all! I were sleeping off a boozy night . . . found mesel’ spread-eagled in the hedge, an’ when I heard all the commotion, I just looked up . . . saw nowt, except for a pair o’ legs. I can’t tell you more than that!’ With a wary look about him, he urged the horse on its way, but not before glancing over his shoulder to warn Marlow, ‘Leave the past be, lad. It’s done an’ there’s nowt to change it. Take good care of your sister, and God bless the pair of you.’

  As he went into the gathering darkness, Gabe Drury thought himself a fool. What in God’s name had ever made him mention seeing anybody on that terrible day when Sal and Marlow’s dah was murdered, together with his fancy piece? All these years he’d kept to the backwaters, out of harm’s way, but when Marlow had recently sought him out – the subject of his parents being his motive – the lad had somehow managed to persuade him to reveal how he’d seen a fellow running from that place. Now, Marlow wouldn’t let it be! All the same, Gabe Drury hoped that tonight he’d laid that particular ghost to rest once and for all.

  As he reflected on events, Gabe Drury thought what a pity it was that he had been brought back to this area by the news of Sal Tanner’s accident, for he was very fond of her and her brother. But, he wouldn’t be so bold as to make his way here again – not for any reason! Because, even though nigh on sixteen years had passed since the murders, Gabe Drury had suffered many a nightmare ever since. Try as he might, he couldn’t forget that fancy fellow who had rushed past him, with the dark crimson stain of blood on his hands. As he fled past, the man had turned to see him lying there. In that moment, Gabe Drury was horrified to recognize the gentleman as being one who was seen to be an upright and prominent member of the community; and who was well-known hereabouts; one who would never in a million years be thought capable of committing such a heinous crime as that which was later discovered. At the moment his frantic stare plucked out Gabe Drury’s half-hidden form, he seemed like a thing possessed! When those mad, savage eyes scoured his face, Gabe Drury found a strength he never knew he had. Like the wind he had fled from there – and he’d been running ever since, knowing in his heart that if a certain evil fellow ever caught him, he’d be dead for sure! Wild horses wouldn’t have dragged him back to these parts, only for the long-lasting friendship he had enjoyed for many years with Sal and Marlow’s dad, Bill Royston, and consequently his affection for the two young ’uns. Added to which was Gabe Drury’s shame at being such a fearful coward that he daren’t speak up when their mother, Eve Royston, was hanged for the murders. He had come to despise himself for being no better than that fancy fellow. After all, wasn’t the blood of Eve Royston on his hands . . . just as surely as if he’d hanged her himself?

  With a grim face, Marlow watched horse and rider out of sight. Gabe Drury knew more than he was letting on. He was frightened, Marlow was sure of it! Well, he would be patient, and for as long as it took; if he came to one dead-end, there’d be other roads he could take. But, for now, he was driven by an even greater tide of emotion – his abiding love for Emma Grady, and the burning desire to take her as his wife. It wouldn’t be easy, he knew that. But then, nothing really worthwhile ever was!

  Chapter Four

  ‘There’s a war brewing in America, I tell you!’ The portly fellow tipped the brandy glass to his lips and drained it dry. Then, taking a chunky cigar from his top pocket, he placed it between his teeth and began biting on it. ‘It won’t be long now before Lincoln’s elected to office, and, with the republicans so intent on this anti-slavery policy, there’ll be fur flying in no time. You mark my words, there’ll be war on the other side of the Atlantic!’

  ‘I hope to God you’re wrong, Harrison!’ declared a small, square-looking fellow seated in the deep, leather armchair by the fire, his weasel-features bathed by the heat from the flames, and his eyes most anxious as they swept the eight figures seated around the room. ‘Each of us here has all our money sunk in the Lancashire cotton industry. Should there be a war in America . . . and the issue is the slaves who pick the cotton which runs our mills . . . it could mean catastrophe for Lancashire. And for every one of us here!’ The thought appeared to horrify him because he was suddenly on his feet and pacing anxiously up and down.

  ‘You’re exaggerating!’ protested one man.

  ‘It’s a fact though,’ said another, ‘it was May when Lincoln was nominated for the presidency – six months ago! And just look how the southern states have put up every obstacle to keep him from coming to office. There is strong feeling. There bloody well is! If you ask me, it’s a situation which needs to be watched most carefully!’

  ‘You’re panicking, the lot of you!’ intervened a bald-headed man. ‘I’m telling you, there’ll be no war. The cotton will be shipped in just as regularly as it’s ever been and the mills of Lancashire will continue to thrive, just as they are now.’ With that said, he leaned back in his chair, embracing one and all with a smug expression.

  ‘Gentlemen.’ All eyes turned to look at Caleb Crowther. So far, he had made no contribution to the debate which, since the men’s departure from the dinner table to the sanctuary of the library, had become somewhat heated. Now,
however, he strode to the centre of the room where he tactfully waited to ensure that he held their absolute attention. When satisfied, he continued in a sombre tone, ‘The very reason you were all invited here tonight was to discuss this matter. Of late, there has been too much talk of what’s happening in America and it’s time to put an end to it!’ Here his vivid eyes pausing, he oppressively scrutinized each of his guests in turn, and each was visibly affected. 'Isn’t it enough that the Blackburn Standard puts out such articles that have our very mill-hands stopping their work to air their views and spread even more unrest? It’s up to us . . . the owners . . . to set an example! If we show ourselves to be affected by unfounded gossip and troublesome rumours, then how the devil are we to expect any different from the fools we employ?’ Though his expression was one of fury, his voice was remarkably calm. ‘I say there will be no war in America. The slaves will pick the cotton as they always have, and the people of Lancashire will go on processing it in our mills. There is no place here for scaremongers!’ Now, his accusing glare sought out the portly fellow who was chewing on his cigar in a nervous manner.

  For a long, silent moment, Caleb Crowther and the man called Harrison continued to glower at each other. Until, taking the cigar from his mouth and lowering his eyes, Harrison asked, ‘You’re saying we have nothing to worry about then . . . in your opinion?’

  When Caleb Crowther firmly replied, ‘Nothing. Nothing at all,’ a wave of sighs filled the air and at once the atmosphere became calmer.

  ‘Crowther runs more mills than any of us here,’ said one, ‘and if he’s not concerned, then I’m buggered if I don’t go along with him!’

  ‘Well, I tell you . . . I was seriously considering looking to India for my cotton supply . . . but I reckon Crowther’s right,’ agreed another. ‘The ships will keep fetching their cargoes from America, just as they always have. The North and South will have their domestic squabbles . . . as we all do. But I’m convinced it’ll come to nothing serious.’

  With this, they all agreed unanimously, and there followed another round of brandy and cigars, and an otherwise congenial evening. It was not until some time after midnight that the men joined the women in the drawing-room. Shortly afterwards, the guests departed from Breckleton House to make their homeward journeys – their various horses and carriages making an impressive sight as they slowly made their way down the lamplit drive.

  The next day was Saturday, and, much to Emma’s dismay, Caleb Crowther’s mood was little better than on the previous night. All through breakfast he could be heard muttering under his breath, ‘Damned fools!’, and occasionally he would lift his eyes from the food before him to glare at one and all who had the misfortune to be seated around the same table.

  Emma carefully kept her gaze averted. She had no wish for her day to be tainted by his thunderous mood since today was the one day she considered to be truly her own. She felt extremely anxious, because as a rule on a Saturday she was given permission to go off on her usual errand without being accompanied, but it would be just like her uncle to vent his spite on her by maliciously forbidding such a thing. Thus Emma was on her best behaviour, and, when breakfast was finished, she crossed her fingers behind her back before asking, ‘Uncle, please may I be excused . . . I don’t want to miss the tram.’ In that desperately long moment when he held her gaze, his mouth set tight and his manner unyielding, Emma was sure her request was about to be denied. But then, with a grunt and a dismissive wave of his hand, he told her, ‘Go, if you must.’ And she did, pausing only to excuse herself from Agnes Crowther, who seemed not to care whether Emma went or stayed. It had been like this ever since the disgraceful business of Martha, which had finally been resolved with her remaining at the school. All the same, Emma reasoned, the suspicions that Martha had stolen from herself in order to implicate an innocent person, had left a smear on her character which might never go away. It was a hard and bitter pill for the Crowthers to swallow, and their relationship was greatly strained because of it.

  It was a fine October day, made even warmer for Emma by the fact that in just one week’s time she would be sixteen years old. She was so excited! As she left the house, waved off by the ever-vigilant Mrs Manfred, Emma’s heart felt curiously light and her step was decidedly jaunty. How she loved her Saturdays! Oh, she didn’t mind her work in the company of Gregory Denton, for he was a nice enough fellow, and had readily accepted part of the blame for the nasty incident with Caleb Crowther regarding the river-people. To Emma’s surprise, there were even times when, not only did she find herself enjoying a good deal of laughter with him, but she also had come to be very fond of him. Indeed, on the odd occasion, he seemed almost like a brother to her.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Grady.’ The tram-conductor held out his hand to ensure that Emma was safely aboard. ‘Off to the churchyard, is it?’ he asked, glancing down at the small bunch of snow-white chrysanthemums in her hand. Like most people hereabouts, he knew of Emma and her circumstances. She was a grand lass, he thought, smiling at her, but immediately correcting himself, for she wasn’t a lass any more. Indeed she was a woman – a good-looking and most desirable woman. He’d noticed the change in her these past weeks when, every Saturday as regular as clockwork, she’d board this tram for the trip into Blackburn. She always got off at the church where her papa, Thadius Grady, lay. She always had a ready smile for folks, and never once made them feel that she was not exactly the same as them. Why, Emma Grady might be any one of the workers who filed into the mill every morning, so straightforward and natural was she. Her papa had been the very same, God rest his soul.

  As always, Emma asked after the conductor’s wife and three bairns whom she had come to know through his incessant and cheery chatter. All the way to the church gates she was told, in the greatest detail, of how well or how poorly they all were. As she alighted from the tram, Emma gave the fellow a friendly wave which he gladly returned, as did a number of elderly passengers.

  As Emma entered the churchyard the uniquely sharp, fresh after-smell of newly-cut grass filled the air. ‘This is a lovely place, Papa,’ Emma murmured, as she checked the water in the container and, seeing enough there, arranged the flowers inside. Then, dropping down to her knees, she began to absent-mindedly play with the coloured marble stones in the well beneath the black headpiece. This was simply inscribed with the words: Thadius Grady,

  1820-1860

  Rest in Peace

  It had taken Emma a long, heartbreaking time to come to terms with the fact that here, in the dark silent ground, lay that darling man who had been by her side for as long as she could remember. He had always been there, unceasingly reliable, and loving her, strong and true – like a mighty tree that could never be hewn, and which even time itself could make no impression on. Now, Emma had come to accept that no one was immortal. When God called you to his side, there was no use protesting. During his long illness, Thadius had answered Emma’s heartfelt question when she insisted on knowing why the Lord was taking her beloved papa. Emma could recall the moment as though it was only a heartbeat ago, when, cupping her small tearful face in his hands, he had told her, ‘I expect he’s short of angels.’ Emma had softly cried at his words. She cried now, but the tears were tempered with a smile, ‘I wonder if the good Lord made you an angel, after all,’ she said, fondly touching his name upon the headstone, her silent thoughts indulged in times long gone.

  Some moments later, Emma went into the Church of the Sacred Heart where she lit two candles – one for each of her parents. Afterwards, she knelt before the altar and gave up a heartfelt prayer. ‘Keep them both safe in Heaven, dear Lord,’ she asked, ‘and let them find again the love they have for each other. Tell them not to worry about me because, with your help, I’ll be just fine.’ She betrayed nothing of the ache in her heart and of her great need for the young bargee, who filled her every waking thought. All the same, Emma was convinced that the good Lord probably knew already; and she couldn’t help thinking that if this was
the case, then why had he brought her and Marlow together in the first place? Surely he must have seen the heartache that would follow? Then, she recalled how her papa would often tell her that if the Lord did anything, it was not without reason. ‘Forgive me, Lord,’ she murmured now, as she quietly closed the vast panelled doors, ‘but I hope you know what you’re doing!’

  The next stop was Corporation Park, a place of great beauty, with a myriad of narrow footpaths and secluded places where a person could sit and lose themselves for as long as they liked. Emma loved this park, for it took her back to the days of her childhood when she and her papa enjoyed many a happy time together exploring the meandering walkways and feeding the ducks in the lake. Every Saturday, Emma still always found a space in her drawstring purse to secrete a small bag of crumbs for that very purpose.

  But first of all, Emma felt the urge to visit what had always been her favourite place in the park. This was the very highest point, where the gun turrets from the Crimean War were on display. Emma took the route along the main broad walkway, which would lead her there, via the tall glass-domed conservatories which housed all manner of beautiful plants. As she hurried along the rhododendron-lined walkways, where every now and then the long swaying tentacles of the many weeping willows dipped and played in the breeze, a soothing sense of peace and love came into Emma’s heart. Now, rather than grieve for her losses, she gave thanks that at least she still had Manny – her very dear friend and confidante. And here she was, young and healthy, with her whole life ahead of her. Only once did a shadow cross Emma’s heart – when she let herself think how empty life might be without Marlow Tanner by her side.