Pit Bank Wench (24 page)

‘How right you are.’ His reply held no trace of the feelings of a moment ago, of the lurch of his heart as he’d stared into those lovely phantom eyes. ‘I would follow after no woman, still less one of her station, but you are wrong to say I know where she is for I do not. The whereabouts of that girl bothers me not at all.’

Covering the room in swift strides, Paul swiped a downward blow at the newspaper, tearing it from his brother’s grasp. ‘Dammit, Carver!’ he breathed. ‘For once in your life tell me the truth. Where’s Emma?’

Bending forward to retrieve the fallen paper, Carver made an elaborate show of first smoothing then folding the crumpled sheets. Then, calmly looking into the furious young face, he slowly shook his head.

‘Tut-tut! Still very much the child, I see. Perhaps Father should have named me your guardian for several more years, give you more time to grow up.’

‘There was no need, Carver!’ His brown eyes gleaming, Paul stared at the man sitting before him. ‘I have done a deal of growing up these last weeks, enough to realise many things. Such as your reluctance to allow me any say in the way things are run here. But that will end soon, you will have no legal hold over me. And as for any other kind – don’t try, Carver. Don’t even try!’

Chapter Sixteen

Jerusha Paget drew the worn woollen shawl about her shoulders. The evening sun on her face showed every line and wrinkle but her eyes were clear and bright with a common sense that never faded despite her years.

‘Emma Price said naught to be of where she might be headed, nor to any in Doe Bank so far as I know.’

‘But you were with her that night?’ Paul Felton gazed into her time-worn face.

‘True.’ Jerusha nodded, settling herself on the stool it had become her habit to carry outside and sit on in the warm evenings. ‘I was with Emma, and it is true I spoke to her the morning after, but all she said was that she could no longer bide in Doe Bank.’

‘But why?’

Eyes squinting against the setting sun, Jerusha looked into his drawn face. She needed no golden silence, no silent voice to tell her of the pain this young man was suffering, nor the cause of it. He loved Emma Price but that love had been forbidden him and the price of its taking away had been the death of Emma’s family.

‘You can ask that,’ she answered quietly. ‘You can ask why, after all you have heard? Could you stay in a place where those you held most dear in life had burned to death?’

‘No.’ He shook his head, lowering it so as not to see the reproach in the old woman’s eyes. ‘No, of course, I understand. But not why she didn’t say where she intended going!’

Behind his tall figure Jerusha watched a spider scuttle over a web, its strands glinting pale gold in the last rays of the sun. Pale gold . . . pale and silken as Emma’s hair. She too had disappeared as the spider had now disappeared. But they might meet again, she and Emma. The silence would tell her if that time came. Until then she could say nothing.

‘I understand my brother caused Mr Price to be dismissed from his job at the mine. I am very sorry for that.’ Paul looked up, meeting eyes that held no blame. ‘I wish I could tell Emma so.’

‘There be no need to give any apology to me.’ Jerusha gave him a rare smile. ‘Though it be good to hear you speak those words. They be ones I know that brother of yours would never utter.’

No, Paul thought grimly. They were words Carver would never say. Doe Bank people were too far beneath him even to warrant an explanation, much less apology.

‘Then you cannot tell me where I might look to find Emma?’

She could ask. Jerusha lifted her face, eyes closing in appreciation of the sun’s last gift of warmth. She could ask that silent voice, ask to be enfolded in that wonderful golden peace, to be told what this man wanted to know. She could ask, but she would not. She would not cast aside the practice of a lifetime. The voice would come at its own appointed time. If she were to know any more of Emma Price it would tell her then. Until that time she must wait.

‘I could suggest many places.’ She opened her eyes. ‘But there be no telling whether or not you would find her in any one of them. Search if you must and the Lord guide your steps. Jerusha Paget cannot.’

Looking into his face she knew she could say much more. She could tell this tall young man with tumbling brown hair and eyes turned to brazen copper by the light of the dying sun to be wary of his brother. She could tell him to guard against a woman’s greed for power that would stop at nothing. But her lips clamped together and Jerusha let her tongue lie silent. She would not come between family, set brother against brother, though in her heart she felt there was already a gulf between the sons of Edward Felton. It was not for her to interfere. The fates would set the path both these men must tread, just as the fates would determine their fate.

Glancing once more, his eyes relaying the thanks his mouth could not smile, Paul swung himself into the saddle of the horse he had tethered to a nearby gorse bush. Holding the animal tight to the rein as it pranced, eager to be away, he looked again to Jerusha.

‘If Emma should return, or should you hear of her whereabouts, would you be kind enough to send me word, Mrs Paget?’

‘Arr, lad.’ Jerusha nodded, her answer holding none of the deference the villagers of Doe Bank habitually used when replying to one of the Feltons. ‘I’ll send you word, though whether that word will reach your ears be summat else again.’

A nod his only answer Paul turned the horse towards Felton Hall. He knew what lay beneath the woman’s final words, the intimation that word of Emma might be prevented from reaching him. He touched his heel to the glossy flanks, setting the animal to the gallop. This time he would take the necessary precautions. This time Carver would not find it so easy to dupe his brother.

Reaching the stables of the Hall, he jumped from the saddle as the under-groom, a man a few years older than himself, ran out to take the horse.

‘You eat in the servants’ hall?’

His brow creasing, the groom took the bridle in one hand, the other fondling the muzzle of the sweating animal. ‘Arr, Mr Paul. I takes my meals along of the others.’

Paul nodded. ‘Then you hear of all that goes on in the house?’

Concern deepening in his eyes the man felt for an answer. He needed to be cautious, there was no telling what lay behind this question. ‘I wouldn’t say all, Mr Paul.’

‘But there’s little that does not find its way to the servants’ hall?’

‘I . . . I suppose not, sir.’

‘Then you would no doubt learn if a messenger came to the Hall, asking to see my brother. You need have no fear for your place here,’ Paul added, seeing the look that flashed across the other man’s face, ‘I’m not questioning you on his account. Nothing that passes between us will be relayed to Carver. Not by me, that is.’

‘Nor by me, sir, you have my word on that.’

‘That is the strongest bond a man can offer.’ Paul’s glance followed as the horse tossed its head pulling the man’s arm upward. ‘And the one I value the most. That being so, I would ask you do me a service, but should you not wish to do so then no more will be said.’

‘If I can do anything for you, Mr Paul, you may consider it done. You have always been both fair and polite with me, ever since you was a little ’un, and anything I can do to show my respect . . . well, like I say, you just consider it done.’

‘Will you get word to me of any message my brother might receive that has any bearing, any at all, on the village of Doe Bank? That is all I ask.’

Shortening the bridle as the horse tossed its head yet again, the under-groom smiled. ‘You just let me know where to send word, Mr Paul, and I vow to get it to you.’

‘Thank you.’ Paul’s answering smile shone briefly. ‘There is one more thing,’ he said quietly. ‘In a few months’ time I shall be moving into my own home, Beaufort House. I will be needing a head groom there. Would you consider taking the post?’

‘Ain’t no need for you to go rewarding me with any promotion.’ The man’s reply was dignified. ‘I holds a respect for you that don’t go necessitating that. I will do what is asked of me for that reason and need no other.’

‘I beg your pardon, the offer was crudely put.’ Paul felt a sharp surge of regret. It had been seen as a bribe and the man’s feelings had been slighted. ‘But it was meant sincerely. I will need a head groom and I want the best. You are that man. I have seen the way you handle the horses, the feeling you show for them and their welfare. That is the care I will want taken in my stables. I ask again, will you consider the position? Whether or not you send me word of what I asked first has no bearing on my offer.’

‘Then I accept, Mr Paul, and rest assured your horses will have no finer care than what I’ll give them.’

Satisfied, he turned towards the house. Tomorrow he would begin his search for Emma.

‘I was on my way home to Doe Bank.’

Emma stared into the fire, its dancing flames teasing the shadows festooning the walls of the Hollington kitchen. Sat in chairs each side of it the butcher and his wife watched in silence as the girl they had befriended spoke quietly, telling the story she’d insisted they hear.

‘I had called on jerusha Paget with a pie my mother had baked. I should have gone home the usual way but it was getting dark so I decided to take a short cut through . . .’

She paused, unwilling even to say the name, to give any clue as to the identity of the man who had raped her. Beside her Daisy reached for her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.

Swallowing hard as the memory of that night brought a surge of bile to her throat, Emma went on.

‘. . . I took the shorter way through the woods. It was there I was accosted by a man. He seemed polite enough at first . . .’ she drew a long breath threaded with dry sobs ‘. . . then he attacked me.’

‘Did you know this man?’

Emma shook her head in reply to Sarah’s question, and in a way told the truth for until that night she had only heard of Carver Felton, had never met him.

‘Would you be able to point him out, should you see him again?’

‘’Twould do little good should her do so.’ Samuel ran a finger over his bushy whiskers. ‘’Twould be her word against his. Besides the fact it was already nightfall, her couldn’t have seen the blackguard all that clear.’

‘It was later . . .’ Emma forced herself to go on, fearing this couple’s questions might lead her into disclosing the identity of the father of the child in her womb. ‘It was later I feared I might be pregnant. My mother knew what had happened though my father did not.’

‘He wouldn’t have believed you were attacked!’ Sarah said, head moving from side to side in sympathy.

‘No, he would not have believed it. That was why I went back to Jerusha. I asked her for a potion that would take away any . . . any child I might be carrying.’

‘Oh, you poor girl!’ Fingers catching the corners of her snowy apron, Sarah pressed it against her mouth.

In the silence that followed Emma stared into the fire, watching the pictures that seemed to form in its brilliant heart. Jerusha, her old, lined face transformed as the silence took her; her mother’s face, almost as lined by the hardness of her life, but eyes melting with love and sympathy as she reached out her arms; then it was the face of Carrie, so young, so very afraid. Closing her eyes tightly, Emma shut away the pictures. Shut them away before they could show her the face of her father.

‘Jerusha refused,’ she continued, speaking on as Sarah’s relieved sigh sounded noisily in the small room. ‘She told me the child inside me would be born even though I would seek a potion from another woman.’

‘Oh, Emma, you shouldn’t ought to ’ave done that!’ Daisy glanced at her with anxious eyes. ‘You could ’ave done yourself a lot of hurt.’

‘Did this other woman give you anything?’ Sarah waited for an answer, swinging her head sorrowfully as Emma nodded.

‘She gave me something to drink, she did not say what it was.’

Daisy’s fingers tightened again on Emma’s. ‘Oh Emma, that was a daft thing to do!’

Dry sobs rattling up from her chest Emma concentrated once more on the glowing bed of the fire. What use would it be to tell Daisy and the others of her father, of the things he would have accused her of doing while he himself performed the same on his own daughter? Caleb Price, the preacher man! The man who preached the Lord and served the Devil.

‘I did not want to bring a fatherless child into the world.’ Her lips tightened. ‘A child who would face the finger of scorn all its life. No one has the right to do that, no one should cause another such pain!’

‘Just as no man should force himself on a woman. Any that does should be given a hundred strokes of the cat!’

‘Hmmph!’ Sarah’s disgusted snort overrode Samuel’s comment. ‘The lash be too good for a man of that sort. You wouldn’t catch me letting him off so light. Were I magistrate on the bench I would order they cut . . .’

‘Sarah!’

Samuel’s exclamation halting her outburst, Sarah fiddled with her apron then defiantly continued, ‘I would order him castrated. That way he would leave no other woman to raise his seed or abandon it at the door of the workhouse!’

‘I . . . I don’t think I could do that.’

‘No more you’ll have to. My Samuel and me will see to that, don’t you go having any worry to the contrary. I just hope the good Lord visits some suitable punishment on the vile creature who did this to you.’

‘Leave the Lord to work in His own way, Sarah.’ Samuel pulled at his whiskers. ‘I’m sure He needs no advice from us.’

‘Did you pay this other woman for the potion you drank?’ Daisy piped up, voice high with derision.

Emma nodded. ‘A shilling.’

Her answering snort every bit as disgusted as that of Sarah had been, Daisy snapped. ‘Well, it ain’t worked, has it? You and me will go and see the old fraud come Sunday. I’ll get your shilling back if I ’ave to stomp all over the old witch!’