The Wages of Sin

by Judith Cutler

  ‘We spoke about what might.’

  We exchanged a smile, the sort that like her calculations about Maggie’s pregnancy would not have been given in front of others.

  I made myself look at my watch. ‘I believe I have time to go and talk to Baines.’

  As I turned, I reflected. Beatrice Arden. The formality of our lives meant we never used each other’s Christian names, and it was almost shocking to hear Mrs Faulkner break the unwritten rule. Beatrice: I couldn’t imagine she knew anything of Dante. I couldn’t imagine Mrs Faulkner not having read his entire works, albeit in translation. And as for her – what might her name be? As I walked, swatting away encroaching bees, I tried and discarded various names. Suddenly discovering the true one became a matter of urgency.

  X

  Mamselle finds fault with everything I do, although Nurse, who has always been far stricter in the past, calls me a clever little duck.

  ‘And I say what I said before: you should be down in the main part of the house, where people can see how hard-working you are. No, no arguments. If you don’t move at my suggestion, chances are you’ll be thrown out altogether – and you wouldn’t want to go back to the workhouse, would you? Mrs Baird will know my feelings, and, you mark my words, you’ll be on your way up in the world before you can say “Thank you, Nurse!” and make your curtsy. Come on, give old Nurse a hug: we shan’t be seeing so much of each other soon, but I want you to promise me something. If you’re ever in trouble, whatever the reason, you come to old Nurse. Promise.’

  ‘I promise, Nurse. Thank you.’ And I cry all over her crisp white apron-bib.

  ELEVEN

  Estate business stopped me going down to the Royal Oak as I’d intended, but to my surprise early the following morning Mr Baines called on me before I left home and set off for the House. I had been hard at work in my study since seven dealing with paperwork, and was just about to go down to the kitchen in search of coffee when William, my servant of all indoor work, announced that I had a visitor. Marty Baines was one of the last people I’d have expected to come to me, being important enough in the village to expect me to go to him. Short and delicately built, he was as dapper as the owner of a gentlemen’s outfitters. He greeted me with a polite but by no means toadying bow. I responded in kind.

  ‘I was just about to take a cup of coffee, Mr Baines. William! Could you bring it to us in the morning room? The sun is very pleasant there at this time of day,’ I added.

  Baines looked around him as I led the way, with so much interest I suspected he’d never been in the place before. Instead of sitting down, he went to the window, as if checking that the estate gardeners were acquitting themselves well. He nodded his approval before taking the armchair I indicated.

  ‘I hear you’re interesting yourself in young Maggie Billings,’ he said, but then paused while William came in with a tray.

  ‘Thank you, William. I’ll pour. I don’t suppose we’ve got any of Mrs Arden’s biscuits left? Yes, a plate would be excellent.’

  The boy bowed himself out.

  Baines laughed. ‘He’s clearly got an eye on a career up at the House when Mr Bowman retires.’

  ‘He’ll have to grow a few more inches,’ I said ruefully. ‘Her ladyship prefers tall footmen. It’s a shame. He’s a bright boy, and deserves to do well.’ I waited while William served us with as much grace as if he were indeed Bowman. ‘Thank you. Now, Mr Baines, what can I do for you?’

  ‘It’s not so much you helping me as me helping you, Mr Rowsley. But before I tell you what I know, I want your word you mean well by her. Maggie. I think you understand me.’

  I met his eyes. ‘If I loved a maid enough to get her with child, I give you my word I would have married her before I put her in that situation.’ He nodded. I was to continue. ‘Mr Baines, neither of us is in our dotage. But I cannot imagine either of us … she is almost young enough to be my daughter.’

  ‘As if that stopped some men – indeed, I read of some who find youth a positive, indeed the only attraction, in a female. Imagine, it is still legal to have sexual congress with a girl as young as twelve! I marvel, Mr Rowsley, I marvel. My wife and I had a daughter of that age. They were both struck down by a cholera outbreak in Manchester.’ He paused to drink his coffee. When he put the cup down, he was calmer, though it rattled in its saucer. ‘That’s why I moved here. I couldn’t bear to stay in a place where so many I loved and respected died like animals.’ For a long time he looked not at me but into what I suspected was the past. ‘I ramble, Mr Rowsley. All I came to say was that I heard from a fellow Baptist, a minister who runs an Ebenezer chapel in a poor part of Wolverhampton. Mr Ianto Davies, a man with Welsh passion in his veins and his sermons.’ He gave a dry smile. ‘He found a girl sleeping in the chapel porch. He and his wife took her home, and cared for her as best they might. She slept a long time. When she was well enough to talk, she told them she was looking for an aunt, a respectable widow, to seek sanctuary. They escorted her there – it was a disappointing street, they say, but the widow’s house was clean enough, and she consented to give the girl a roof over her head. The child refused point-blank to say anything about her family, and implored her aunt not to reveal where she came from. But Ianto did catch a name. Maggie.’

  ‘This is news indeed!’ I said. ‘But I sense your friends do not believe that all is well.’

  ‘Mr Rowsley, I plan to go to Wolverhampton myself tomorrow: would you care to accompany me? The train journey doesn’t take long. Such a boon, these railways, though his late lordship fought tooth and nail against them …’

  I must make sure everyone had their instructions not just for today but also for tomorrow. First I headed to the Home Farm. Everyone was going about their business with a sense of purpose. Even the animals seemed to be on their best behaviour. Alf, however, let the side down with a truly disreputable hat. He was scratching the ears of a magnificent Welsh boar, sire to an apparently endless stream of piglets produced by our Shropshire sows, but broke off to tip the offending headgear. The boar objected. The scratching resumed. We discussed everyday husbandry leaning side by side on the gate.

  ‘Have you heard from young Luke?’ I asked at last.

  ‘I was hoping you might tell me when he’d be back,’ he countered. ‘I’m not much of a one for reading, gaffer, so it’s rare I gets a letter from him – maybe if his lordship chooses to stay away for months, not just weeks, at a time. And someone will read it to me,’ he told the pig, shame lowering his voice.

  ‘You must be very proud of him,’ I said before he could apologize for being unlettered.

  ‘Aye, he’s a good enough lad. Had to box his ears a bit when he was a youngster – I dare say Mr Bowman had to. But not now. Service suits him – wouldn’t have suited me, would it, Arthur?’

  The boar apparently agreed.

  ‘I’d have thought you’d be the one telling me what the lad’s doing,’ Alf observed reasonably.

  ‘His lordship’s too busy to write just now, I should imagine.’

  ‘Oh, ah.’

  The two simple syllables conveyed a wealth of meaning, very little of it appreciative of any pressures that might constrain his lordship.

  Unable to argue I turned the subject to the enjoyable prospect of the next cricket match before setting off to harangue and cajole the rest of the workers in pretty well equal measure. There was no sign today of Mrs Billings.

  ‘Indeed, Luke did have a temper when he was a lad,’ Bowman agreed later that afternoon, when I spoke to him in his pantry. ‘But – we speak in absolute confidence, do we not, Rowsley? – seeing his lordship in his rages did a great deal to reduce the frequency of Luke’s tantrums. It was as if his lordship held a mirror up to them, and the lad did not like what he saw. Between ourselves, he is wasted here. He would grace a gentleman in a … in a distinguished public role.’

  ‘You never had that ambition yourself?’

  The old man shrugged. ‘I had hopes of his late lordship,
I will confess, until he settled down here and closed his town house. Then I knew it was not to be. A man becomes set in his ways, does he not? You, for instance, will ensure all is in good heart on his lordship’s land and then seek to run one of the grand estates – I can imagine you at Chatsworth or Blenheim, if not for your next post then the one after that.’ He paused. ‘I have to confess I have not yet discussed my hopes for Mrs Arden with Mrs Faulkner yet. I wondered – I have to admit – if someone else might have engaged her heart.’

  My answer was almost truthful. ‘I have heard no rumour of that. In any case, should you not be approaching the lady yourself? However good a friend to her Mrs Faulkner may be, she might not have access to the deepest secrets of her heart.’ But had I seen joy in Mrs Arden’s eyes when I gave her that rose? I truly hoped it was only the happiness of having a friend.

  It was time to turn the subject. ‘Does his lordship never give any indication of his movements?’

  Bowman looked amazed. ‘Why should he? The House must always be in perfect readiness for its master. Likewise for her ladyship. It is a matter of pride to us indoor staff that whatever the whim of our employer we are always prepared to indulge it.’

  I acknowledged the implicit rebuke with a bow. ‘Of course. You are quite right.’

  ‘Do you care,’ he began, obviously accepting my apology, ‘for a glass of sherry?’

  At five in the afternoon? ‘Forgive me if I decline. I have work to organize for tomorrow. But will you excuse me if I don’t explain now? It’s news I should give to everyone together.’

  I chanced to return to Mrs Faulkner as I returned to my office, to which she gestured: might we speak in private?

  She declined to sit, asking, ‘Do you think the problem of Mr Bowman and Mrs Arden may have gone away? At least he has not spoken to me. I wonder why he has changed his mind? Perhaps he’s spoken to her already and we are to have a betrothal!’

  I shook my head. ‘I fear he fancies her affections are already engaged.’

  Absolutely still, she looked at me. ‘Are they? And are they requited?’ The message was clear.

  I said carefully, holding her gaze, ‘I value Mrs Arden as a dear friend and as a colleague. But that is all. And I truly hope that that reflects her feelings – if any – towards me.’

  In the ensuing silence a lot more was said.

  A tap at the door announced the arrival of a tenant farmer.

  XI

  The library! I am to dust the library! His lordship’s special domain, where no one is permitted to disturb him. I am to light the fire, and even as it catches, I am to start dusting, from the top of each high shelf to the bottom. Some of the books are behind grilles: I must not touch these unless the grilles are unlocked. If there are books on his desk, I must not touch them, but must whisk the feather duster around them. I must be finished by nine o’clock sharp. If his lordship appears early, I must curtsy and back out, even if I have not finished. Even if he speaks to me, even if he talks very kindly, I must curtsy and back out.

  And, adds Mrs Baird, with such a straight face I think that inside she is laughing at me, I am not even to think of borrowing any of the books. Not a single one. Ever. And then I do not think she is laughing any more.

  TWELVE

  With the blessing and good wishes of my colleagues, but no further private conversation with Mrs Faulkner, I set out betimes the following morning, collecting Mr Baines in my trap, which I left at the estate’s station, the horse in the tender care of the station-master’s middle daughter, a child with a gappy smile and intelligent eyes.

  ‘Thorncroft Station! Imagine,’ Baines said drily, ‘his lordship having his own station just for him and his guests. Oh, and his employees, I suppose.’

  ‘It is not an unusual arrangement. But it is not one that pleases me – though that must be between ourselves, Baines.’ I hoped he was not the sort of man to capitalize on my indiscretion.

  ‘Mum’s the word,’ he said obligingly. ‘You’re in an awkward position, aren’t you? An employee, but gaffer to the other employees. It could be a very lonely existence … You’re always welcome in my parlour, Rowsley, when you want a pint in private.’

  ‘Thank you. I’ll remember that. It’s all too easy to forget that there’s a world that’s not connected with the House and the estate. Some days, although the London papers arrive regularly, and Mr Bowman certainly irons them, I believe no one even looks at them. I do my best to read them before they are discarded unread, but to my shame I don’t always manage it.’

  We stopped at the next station, a public one, of course; a motley group got on, but none of them penetrated the first-class carriage we occupied. Nonetheless, conversation became desultory as we watched Shropshire passing before our eyes.

  ‘Dear God,’ I said, as the train left the sunny countryside and headed into Wolverhampton, ‘we go straight from heaven into hell! How can people endure such filth? Look, that line of washing will be blacker when it comes in than when it was hung out.’

  ‘But people still have pride,’ he said sharply. ‘Each day you will find women on their knees in the street, scrubbing at their doorsteps. They will black-lead their fireplaces. They will clean their windows.’

  As the train slowed to judder over points I could see he was right. But the women were as thin as Mrs Billings. Some were pregnant. A young child might have drawn their round bodies and stick arms.

  ‘What sort of life will Maggie have here?’ I breathed.

  ‘Who knows? She may even flourish.’ The train was slowing. ‘Ah! There is my friend, waiting to meet us.’

  Ianto Davies was short and stout, his face so cherubically round I could not imagine him so much as raising his voice, let alone producing a fiery sermon. But behind his pebble glasses his eyes were shrewd.

  ‘Mr Rowsley, to my mind two strange men, three, including me, presenting themselves on this woman’s doorstep – Mrs Batham, by the way – would be a mistake. May I go myself to prepare her for such a visitation: we don’t want her to imagine the Magi have put in a reappearance, do we?’

  ‘No. But one of them might bear another’s gift,’ I pointed out. I produced a purse. ‘You know better than I how much to give – too little it’s an insult, too much and perhaps that’s a worse insult.’

  He took the purse and looked inside. ‘I think you’ve erred on the side of generosity. What I might suggest, my friend, is this. If you are sure, absolutely sure, you want her to have all this, then may I offer to dole it out on – say – a weekly basis. That way I ensure that my wife or I can keep a regular eye on her well-being.’

  Mr Baines nodded. ‘It also ensures it won’t all be spent on the demon drink as soon as it gets into her hands. Not, I hasten to add, that I’ve ever heard drunkenness imputed to the young woman.’

  We waited while Mr Davies trotted off. I turned to my companion with an ironic smile. ‘It’s strange to hear such words come from the mouth of an innkeeper!’

  ‘Perhaps. But there’s a world of difference between having a companionable half of mild with your fellow men, and downing so much mother’s ruin you end up senseless in a gutter. If villagers didn’t come to the Royal Oak, they’d go somewhere else where the landlord might let them drink all their wages and let them go home empty-handed to their families. You must have seen enough of that in your time.’

  ‘I have indeed.’ My laugh turned to racking coughs.

  ‘Ah, you’re not used to the smoke. But I have to tell you that this is nothing compared with the real industrial areas. The good folk here would be enraged if you said Wolverhampton was part of – yes, let’s use Her Majesty’s name for it – the Black Country. But go to Oldbury, to Smethwick, to West Bromwich: that’s where you’ll see heavy industry and smell the coal dust, taste it, drink it, spend all your hours in it.’ He stopped, nodding up the road. ‘Here’s Ianto, and he’s not looking very happy.’

  Nor was he. The mouth that nature intended to turn up turned downwards, h
is face a comic mask of tragedy. ‘Maggie’s there, but Mrs Batham, her dragon of an aunt, says she won’t show herself. Too ashamed, she says. So I gave her just half a sovereign, and the information that Maggie must come to the manse this time next week for some more.’

  ‘Thank you. I hope she turns up.’

  ‘I just hope she gets the money, to be honest with you,’ the minister said. ‘Just because I’m a man of God, Mr Rowsley, doesn’t mean I don’t know what the Devil can get up to. Half a guinea is a lot to a woman in a two-up two-down back-to-back. A lot. We must pray she doesn’t get led into temptation, mustn’t we? Mrs Batham, I suppose I mean. And Maggie. Now, gentlemen, Ethel, my wife, has prepared a few refreshments, and will be terribly upset if you don’t partake of them …’

  Ianto Davies’ grace was one of the longest I’d ever heard, and his wife’s pastry some of the heaviest I’d ever tried to eat. I swear if one of us had dropped our slice of pork pie on the plate it would have shattered it. But it tasted good, as did the pickles, home-made and bought, she proudly declared, from the chapel sale-of-work. She was passionate about teaching poverty-stricken women skills that saved a few pennies; she encouraged them to donate one jar of every batch to the church, simply, she said, so they could feel pride in their work.

  ‘And I cadge ends of cloth from haberdashers in the town so they can dress their babies – sometimes themselves! – with a little dignity,’ she added.

  ‘I wish you could meet my mother,’ I said truthfully. ‘She carries on my grandmother’s tradition of helping the poor help themselves.’

  ‘Better by far than the workhouse!’ she declared, stopping to pour tea so strong I could have stood a spoon upright in the brew. She continued in the same crusading vein, her fervour and determination a joy – if a trifle exhausting – to hear.