Pit Bank Wench (10 page)

Laying the basket across her arm as Emma finished her drink, Jerusha turned towards the door. She would not return to this house, that too the silent voice had told her, but it held no sorrow for her. Glancing around at the cheap figurines beside the clock on the mantel, at the neatly made bed, the lamp burning at the window, she smiled softly. She would take nothing of those, all she wanted of Plovers Croft she carried in her heart. She stepped out into the blackness of the night but her soul was filled with light, the light of Jacob’s smile.

*

‘Welcome to Judgement, Caleb!’ Mary watched the figure swing slowly at the end of the rope. He had kicked and jerked for fully a minute before the gurgling in his throat had finally stopped, fully a minute in which her heart had laughed. ‘What of your sermons now, preacher man? Spout your quotations before the Judgement Seat and may you receive all you deserve!’

Going into the scullery she returned with an enamel basin and a candle stood in a chipped saucer. Setting them beside the body of her daughter, she fetched the kettle from the hob and filled the bowl with hot water. Lighting the candle with a spill from the jar inside the brass fender, she reached upward pulling a cloth from the line strung above the fireplace, her body brushing against that hanging from the beam, setting it swinging a little faster.

‘Dance, Caleb,’ she laughed, reaching up again for a nightgown set to air on the line. ‘Dance now with Him you have walked with all these years. Dance, Caleb, dance with the Devil!’

The creak of the rope her only answer, Mary knelt beside the body of her daughter. All emotion gone from her she grasped the knife, feeling no horror as she drew it from Carrie’s chest. Then, struggling with the stiffening limbs she stripped the clothing from her.

‘You shall go clean into your reckoning, my darling,’ she murmured as she washed the cooling body. ‘There will be no mark upon you as you stand before the face of the Lord, no stain of the filth of Caleb Price.’

Drawing the white cotton nightgown over the still head, adjusting the sleeves over each arm, the length of it over the feet, Mary fastened each linen-covered button, closing away the hole where the knife had entered the smooth flesh.

‘Don’t be frightened, my baby . . . my little girl.’ She stroked the soft hair, smiling as she saw the light from the candle flame flicker over its curls.

The smile still about her mouth she carried the basin back to the scullery, emptying the contents and rinsing the bowl with fresh water from a lidded bucket set beneath a window. Once more in the tiny living room she folded the cloth and set it back on the line, then taking the paraffin lamp she tipped the oil over the clipped rug, splashing some over the swinging body and spreading the last of it over herself.

‘Don’t be afraid, Carrie . . .’

Squatting beside her daughter, she gathered the body into her arms.

‘. . . You won’t be alone, my darling. Mother will be with you. Mother will hold you . . .’

Taking up the lighted candle Mary threw it on to the oil-soaked rug.

‘. . . yes, Mother will be with you.’

Pressing her lips to her daughter’s head she stared at the body of Caleb already half engulfed in rising flames.

‘Welcome to Judgement, Caleb,’ she murmured as the fire closed about her too. ‘Welcome to Judgement!’

Emma could not hurry the old woman, darkness on the heath was treacherous; well as you might think you knew it, danger always awaited the careless or unwary. Emma held the basket she had taken from Jerusha, her other hand supporting the woman’s elbow. Should she trip it could well mean broken bones. Yet every fibre of Emma cried out for her to run, to go on ahead of Jerusha. Every vessel in her blood screaming that Carrie was lying injured . . . that Carrie might die.

Walking beneath the great star-strewn canopy of night, Jerusha sensed the turmoil within the girl at her side. But even though she knew the strongest of legs and the fleetest of feet could not get them to Doe Bank in time to save the girl’s family it would be heaping cruelty upon cruelty to tell her so.

Beneath the wrapping of her shawl Jerusha sighed. There was so much evil in the world, so much unhappiness, and the girl who walked beside her would have more than her share of it.

‘I didn’t see what she held.’ Emma spoke suddenly, as if words trapped within her had at last found a way of escape. ‘Not until it was in her hand. And then . . .’ She swallowed a sob. ‘Carrie was always so quiet, so timid, but tonight . . . It was when Father raised his hand. She must have thought he was about to strike Mother. I never saw such a look on Carrie’s face before, it was so full of . . .’

‘Hush, child.’ Jerusha drew her shawl more firmly about her head. ‘Keep your mind on where Jerusha be placing her feet, old eyes are no match for darkness.’

Jerusha spoke out of sympathy. She would save the girl the pain of speaking, at least for tonight, for there was torment lying ahead across the heath. Old eyes were no match for the night but Jerusha Paget did not need the light of day to see what was happening at Doe Bank.

‘Mother will be so frightened,’ Emma went on, despite Jerusha’s words. ‘So worried for Carrie. She was so pale and there was so much blood. Oh, Jerusha, will . . . will she be all right? It would kill Mother if . . .’

‘Do you trust me, child?’ The question was simple, rising quietly out of the darkness.

‘Trust you . . . Jerusha, you must know that everyone at Doe Bank trusts you. Mother would have no one else to look at Carrie . . .’

‘I did not ask if everyone at Doe Bank gave me their trust, I asked you, Emma Price. Do you trust me?’

The potion! The potion that other woman had given her, Jerusha must know of it. But how? Beneath the cover of darkness Emma felt the flush of colour rise to her face. But Jerusha did not always need to see nor yet to be told to know of a happening, every woman on the pit bank said so, said that Jerusha Paget had the sight, that she could see that which was forbidden from others; and hadn’t she, Emma, already had proof of that when she’d asked Jerusha for a potion? She had not spoken Carver Felton’s name, but the old woman had known it, and now she was questioning Emma’s trust in her.

‘Yes,’ Emma replied, surprised at the relief that one word engendered in her. ‘Yes, I trust you.’

The heath receded from beneath her feet, all around the night sounds faded into silence, one that engulfed Jerusha, lifting her into herself, a vast light-filled silence of which she was the heart.

Coming to a halt she stood with her head slightly tilted and in the moonlight her face seemed to lose all signs of age, all marks of a life of hardship and worry, a look of such serene peace taking its place, such quiet beauty, that looking at her, Emma caught her breath.

‘Mary Price feels no fear.’ Jerusha’s lips barely moved, her words no more than a breath on the wind. ‘She knows no anguish. She is with her daughter, the child of her body, they are together. There is no pain. The sting of the knife is gone . . .’

The breath in Emma’s throat hardened like a stone. She had not spoken of the knife.

‘. . . the mother holds the child in her arms and they are comforted. But the eyes of Mary Price turn to the daughter who stands now on the heath, a daughter who will go on alone. She stretches out a hand to that child, a hand that will be felt whenever sorrow seems too heavy to bear. She will always be close, and though your eyes may not see, your heart will hear.’

Overhead a bank of cloud swallowed the moon and in its shadow Jerusha lowered her head. Ignoring the past moment she began to walk on. Emma, still lost in what she had said, had to skip to catch up.

Jerusha’s words on that other night had proved true. She
had
gone to someone else to seek a potion that would rid her of the child Carver Felton may have left within her, but it had not worked; there had been a great deal of pain but nothing else. The child was still there, just as Jerusha had predicted.

Emma walked on, forcing her steps to keep pace with Jerusha’s.

All had gone as she had said, so why should the words she’d spoken a moment ago be any less true? Carrie and her mother were comforted, Carrie was in no pain, everything would be all right. In the near distance the crimson glow of an opened furnace outlined the rise of Doe Bank. A few minutes more and she would be with her mother. Cresting the last of the rise Emma stood stock still.

Then, her mouth opening in an agonised scream, she ran towards her burning home.

Chapter Seven

Carver Felton adjusted the pearl-coloured silk cravat. His brother had gone to Birkenhead as he had been ordered. His little brother! Carver smiled at his own reflection. Trust Paul to do as he was told, he always did. He was in Birkenhead, and from there would be sent somewhere else, and from there to the next place, until he had got the Price girl out of his system. Not that his brother could be entirely blamed should that take some time. Carver thrust a gold tie pin into the silk. From what he could remember of that face swathed in shadow she was quite a pretty little thing, and the hair . . . His fingers fondled the silk. The hair had been the silver of moonlight. Had she been of their class, with the same breeding, she would have made an acceptable wife. Supposing, of course, she brought money. But she had neither of those things. All she had was her beauty. Slipping his arms into his coat, Carver smoothed it over his hips. But, by God, she had that, and for many a man it would have been enough. But it was not enough, not enough for her to become a Felton.

Turning from the mirror he glanced towards the door of his dressing room.

‘Excuse me, Mr Felton, sir, but Barlow is downstairs asking to see you. Will I tell him to call back tomorrow?’

Coming into the large well-furnished bedroom Carver drew his gold hunter from his waistcoat pocket, glancing at the time before replacing the watch.

‘I have a few minutes yet, I am not due at Miss Holgate’s until nine-thirty. Show him into the study and say I will be with him directly.’

‘Very good, sir.’

Carver continued to stare at the door as his manservant withdrew. Barlow. That meant the job was done, or at least it had better be if the manager wanted to hold on to his own.

‘Good evening, Mr Felton.’

John Barlow shuffled his feet nervously as Carver entered the room.

‘Is it done?’ He ignored the greeting.

‘I did as you instructed, sir.’

‘
And
?’ Carver demanded.

‘And . . . and nothing, Mr Felton,’ Barlow stammered, uncomfortable at being in Felton Hall, and wary of the man who stood glaring at him with eyes black as the coal his miners ripped from the earth. ‘What else could there be?’

‘The man Price, did he say anything?’ Carver grabbed a pen from the desk, twisting it irritably between his fingers. ‘Did he ask why?’

Barlow touched the palm of one hand to the edge of his jacket with a quick nervous movement. Why had he been told to report here to the house? Why didn’t Felton wait until his next visit to the mine . . . in fact, why ask for a report at all? He had given men their tins before and never asked how they reacted, so why this time? What was so special about Price?

‘Arr Mr Felton, he asked, but like I told him, the owner don’t ’ave to give no reason. You said as ’e was finished at the Topaz and that was all the reason necessary. I ‘ope I did right, sir?’

‘Of course you did right!’ Carver threw the pen on to the desk, watching it roll the width before dropping off the edge. He gave no man a reason for his actions, explained himself to nobody. Yet the feeling of guilt that had resolved itself into anger persisted as he asked, ‘The man . . . this Price . . . you are sure he was the right one?’

John Barlow swallowed, the Adam’s apple of his throat moving visibly. A man needed to take care in his dealings with the like of Carver Felton. One wrong word was all it would take, just one wrong word, and he would be in the same boat as Price was in now and the bugger would sink just as fast.

‘You said as the one I was to finish was the one living up along Doe Bank.’ Barlow hesitated, then when Carver made no answer went on, ‘Well, the preacher man lived there . . .’

‘Preacher man?’ Carver looked up from watching the pen.

‘That be the name folk have given him, though ’e were baptised Caleb . . . Caleb Price.’

‘So why the title? Is the man a priest?’

‘Caleb Price ain’t never been ordained, he be no true priest.’

Carver’s brows drew together and beneath the branched gasolier the twin streaks of silver shone among the darkness of his hair.

‘So where did the name come from?’

His throat still working, John Barlow studied the face of his employer. So many questions about a man he had never mentioned until yesterday, questions that did not come from an easy mind. But why the preacher man? What was it about him that so disturbed Carver Felton?

‘Caleb Price fancies himself as something of a lay preacher. He sometimes takes a service down at the Chapel and teaches a bit of Sunday school for the young ’uns, though I’ve not heard him myself, being a Church of England man. But I ’ave heard him spouting off to the men at the mine. A real Bible thumper is Price, I reckon he quotes the Scriptures more often than did any of the Disciples.’

‘The preacher man.’ Carver mulled over the name. ‘Interesting. Did he preach you a sermon when you gave him his tin?’

Barlow shook his head, though his glance as it rested on Carver was keen as before. ‘Not as such, sir, though ’e did say as how no man acted of his own accord. That all was done according to the will of God.’

The will of God. Carver smiled as the mine manager left. Or the will of Carver Felton.

‘I thought at first it was a furnace being opened.’ Emma sat in a neighbour’s house. It had taken two men to drag her there, to prevent her from racing into the burning house, and all the time she had screamed her mother’s name.