Pit Bank Wench (41 page)

‘I did this.’ He held it out triumphantly. ‘I drawed a horse, all by myself.’

Taking the paper, a tiny frown forming across her brow, she glanced at the pencilled outline of a horse.

‘Do you like it, Mama? Do you like my horse?’

‘It is a beautiful horse, darling,’ Emma answered him but her eyes asked questions of the man.

How could Paul draw a horse? How could a child who was blind draw anything?

‘Look at him, Emma,’ Carver answered gently. ‘Look at your son.’

Sinking into a chair, she took the boy’s face between her hands. Tilting it slightly, she looked into eyes that gleamed brightly up at her. Gleamed with the brilliance of sight. Then, with a sob that tore her heart, she pressed her lips to each lid.

‘How?’ she asked when she could speak.

‘Mama, I want to see the horses. Father said I could visit the stables.’

‘And the rest?’ Carver glanced at the child.

Watching that haughty face relax into a smile, Emma caught herself wondering how it would feel to have Carver Felton smile at her. But that was the one thing he was never likely to do.

‘Tell all of it, Paul. Tell your mother exactly what I said.’

Clutching the drawing in his hand, the child looked at her, his smile catching at her heart. They were so alike in looks, her child and the man who had fathered him. She would never be able to think of one without remembering the other. In the lonely years that lay ahead the faces that peopled her dreams would be the faces of both of them.

‘I could visit the stables, supposing Mama said so. So can I, Mama, can I?’

‘Well?’ Carver’s eyes swept back to her.

‘I . . . yes.’ Emma’s glance fell before one she found unnerving. ‘Yes, of course.’

Giving the maid who answered his summons instructions to hand Paul into the charge of the head groom, Carver nodded when Emma refused the offer of tea and took a chair opposite hers.

‘My note said I would explain my reason for taking the child,’ he began at once. ‘I had not intended doing so without speaking to you first. But time, as they say, was of the essence. A day or two spent hesitating over the rights and wrongs would have made it too late.’ Seeing the questions in her eyes, he raised one hand. ‘Wait, hear me out before you ask me.’

Returning his hand to his knee, he went on, ‘After being told my son . . . Paul . . . was blind, I spoke to a doctor in London. He is a good friend and one whose word I trust implicitly. He said there was only one man who might be able to help but that it was a long shot. If I wanted, to take it I had to leave right away before that man left for America, and at the end of it all the child might be blind. But Paul was already blind, and seeing there was no threat to his physical well-being, I deemed the risk worth the taking.’

He
had deemed the risk worth taking.
He
could not wait to ask what she thought. Emma felt rage harden within her. He had taken her son.

‘I know what you must have felt, Mrs Price.’ Carver seemed to swallow hard, as if a lump had settled in his throat. ‘The same as I feel, knowing the time has come for me to give him back.’

‘Give him back?’ Her lips trembled.

There was no censure in Carver’s voice and his eyes were curiously bright as he looked at her. ‘Did you think I would not?’

‘I did not know what to think. You took him without a word.’

‘I have already given you my apologies for that, to do so again will avail us nothing. I have hurt you twice, but that is something I will never repeat. I will never hurt you again. When you leave this house, Paul will go with you. But be kind enough to listen first to the rest of my explanation.

‘I took the child to Switzerland. The ophthalmic surgeon recommended by my friend in London was optimistic, reiterating that there was nothing to be lost. He explained that the boy was suffering from something termed Glaucoma, a condition not yet widely understood in the medical world but one with which he had had some success. The operation meant creating a new channel that would drain the aqueous humour from the eyes, thus allowing them to return to normal. Thank God it was successful.’

‘
Paul will go with you
.’ The words sang in her mind. Her child had been given back his sight and she had been given back her son. The two miracles she had prayed so desperately for, the miracles she’d thought never to see, had both been granted.

Emma looked at the man who had made them possible. Tears blurring her vision, she murmured softly, ‘Thank you.’

Again that same clearing of his throat as he rose to his feet and went to a window to stand with his back to her.

‘Mrs Price.’ He hesitated momentarily. ‘Perhaps I should not ask this of you, and I will feel no surprise should your answer be no.’ Again a thread of silence hung between them before he went on. ‘Would you bring the child to visit me at Felton Hall, or allow me to visit him at Plovers Croft?’

Slowly Emma stood up. Slowly her hand went into the pocket of her skirt, her fingers closing over the coin sewn into its lining.

This was the moment she had long promised herself. The chance to take her revenge.

‘And did you tell him – tell him you wanted Paul to have no more to do with him?’

Daisy pulled the covers over the sleeping child.

Emma had meant to, but the look that had crossed Carver’s face when the boy was brought back into the room . . . That could not have been pretence. And as Emma had argued with herself later, Carver Felton had no need to pretend, not to love Paul or to return him to her. Carver Felton need not do anything he did not wish to.

‘No.’

Daisy’s head jerked. ‘You mean that after all that man has done to you, you have told him he can come see the boy?’

‘What he has done to me does not matter, it is what he has done for Paul. It is due to him that my son can see.’

‘But, Emma, you said he seems more than fond of Paul. What if that fondness deepens? What if he decides that Paul’s place is at Felton Hall?’

‘Ca— Mr Felton promised that he would not take him from me.’

‘Promises!’ Daisy answered scathingly. ‘What be promises to his kind? Nothing more than a bad taste in the mouth. Spit it out and forget it!’

Would Carver forget? She seemed to feel the hardness of that coin between her fingers. She had meant to fling it in his face then pour out her detestation of him, to keep the promise she had made to herself so long ago. But seeing the look of love as he had caught the child in his arms had wiped it all away and she had nodded her permission for him to call.

‘You saw his face when he said it. Do you really believe he meant it?’

‘Yes,’ Emma answered softly. ‘Yes, Daisy. I think he does.’

‘Well, let’s hope you be right.’ Her expression saying she did not for one moment believe it, Daisy led the way from the bedroom.

Adding coal to the stove, then brewing tea from the kettle quietly bubbling on the hob, Daisy watched a restless Emma move about the room that had to serve as dining room for the navvies, with a corner for their own use. Straightening dishes already neatly stacked, replacing benches that were perfectly in place. ‘Fidgeting’ was what the wardresses in the workhouse had called behaviour of that sort. Too little work their diagnosis. The cure was an extra scrubbing of the floors or a couple of hours spent pounding laundry with a heavy wooden maid and wash tub. That had cured many a case of the fidgets, women and children their arms almost too tired to lift the clothes from their backs, their legs almost refusing to carry them to their beds; but the hushed sobs that lasted far into the night had been clear testimony that the cure did not fit the malady.

And it was not curing Emma’s. God knew she worked ’til she was ready to drop. Walking to the abattoir for she would have Paul left with no one other than Daisy herself, making a daily journey for it was impossible to carry as much meat as two. Then she stood and cooked and baked, helping to serve the men’s meals, it was more than any woman should be called upon to do, yet all of it was not the real reason her friend was like a cat on hot bricks. There was something infinitely deeper and infinitely more painful troubling Emma Price.

‘I’ve poured you a cup of tea, come drink it afore it gets cold.’

‘What?’ Emma turned, the movement sharp, almost guilty, as if she had been caught at something she should not be doing. ‘Oh, yes, thank you, Daisy.’

She had lost weight. Daisy watched as her friend came to the table. But that was only to be expected after weeks of not knowing what had happened to her child. That too would account for her pallor. But where was the happiness that should accompany the child’s return, the deep, abiding all-encompassing joy that should be in her face? True, she had been in heaven when she had brought the lad home, but now it seemed as if heaven had closed its doors. Watching Emma’s fingers play along the rim of the saucer, Daisy set her lips determinedly.

‘What’s wrong, Emma?’

‘Wrong . . .’ She did not look up. ‘There’s nothing wrong.’

‘Oh, yes, there is. You be going round and round like a fart in a colander, and I’m asking the reason why. Paul be home, fit and healthy, and you say you be sure Felton won’t take him off again, so what be worrying you?’

Her last reserves of strength leaving her, Emma’s shoulders sagged and her hands fell to the table.

‘Oh, Daisy, I feel so badly!’

‘Why! What is there to feel badly about?’

A sigh welling from the depths of her, Emma’s words came hesitantly.

‘Paul. I . . . I don’t know if it is right for me to keep him.’

‘Emma!’ Daisy stared at her in disbelief. ‘You can’t mean that.’

‘I’ve thought about it night after night, Daisy, and the more I think, the more convinced I become that I am wrong in keeping him. The work here will be finished in a few weeks and I will have to look for another way of supporting myself and Paul. You know how difficult that can be. Is it fair to the child to drag him from place to place, with the chance of going hungry at the end of it? Would it not be better for him to be with . . . with his father? He would have everything at Felton Hall, a secure home, warmth and comfort . . .’

‘Everything except a mother,’ Daisy cut in quickly. ‘You can’t give him up, Emma, don’t even think about it. You love that child more than life!’

Eyes filled with sadness looked back at her. ‘Yes I love him, but his father loves him too.’

A tiny frown of anger settled on Daisy’s brow.

‘So what if he does? He’s got no right to the lad.’

‘It’s not Carver Felton’s rights I am thinking of.’ Emma smiled wanly. ‘It is my son’s. He has a right to a better life than I can give him.’

‘And he would have a better life!’ Daisy was sharp. ‘Liam Brogan has shown his love for both of you, he would care for you and be a good father to Paul.’

‘
. . . your son has a stepfather . . .
’

Again the words Carver Felton had thrown at her rose in Emma’s mind. Liam would be a good stepfather, but what would happen when Paul was of an age to understand, to choose for himself? Would he see being deprived of everything Carver Felton could have given him as being the best choice for him? Would he settle for a stepfather, or would he condemn his mother?

‘Liam loves you, Emma.’ Daisy’s voice softened. ‘He would marry you tomorrow if you said the word. And you have feeling for him. You could do worse than take him, you know that, so what be holding you back? You deserve a bit of happiness, why not take it with Liam?’

‘And what of your happiness, Daisy Tully, what of taking your own? When are you going to become Mrs Brady Malone?’ Emma forced her face to brighten, wanting suddenly to avoid the question of her own marriage. ‘Have you given the man his answer yet?’

‘No.’ Daisy’s glance fell. ‘But I don’t think I’ll be marrying with Brady.’

Surprise sweeping her mind clear of her own troubled thoughts, Emma reached for her friend’s hand. ‘But you love Brady. What has happened to change that?’

‘I ain’t changed. I still feels the same.’

‘Then Brady . . . why have his feelings changed?’

‘They ain’t changed neither.’

‘Then what?’ Emma was perplexed. ‘What has brought about this change of heart?’

‘I can’t marry him!’ As if released from some prison the words tumbled out. ‘I can’t go to Ireland and leave you behind.’

‘That is nonsense.’ Emma’s fingers tightened on the girl’s hand.

‘No! It ain’t nonsense!’ Daisy looked up, her brown eyes moist. ‘I couldn’t settle, not in Ireland, not anywhere, knowing you was on your own fending for that little ’un. There would be no peace in my mind, not for a minute.’

‘But you can’t give up your life with Brady, not for me!’

‘And I can’t take it without you, or at least without knowing you have the same.’

‘But you love him,’ Emma repeated.

Daisy squeezed the hand that held hers, her eyes bright behind the mist.

‘I love you too, Emma,’ she said gently. ‘Too much to turn my back on you. Don’t ask me to marry ‘less you be going to do the same.’

‘Then tell Brady you will marry him.’

‘Oh, Emma! You mean . . .’

‘Yes.’ Emma nodded. ‘I will marry Liam.’

Liam had been so happy! Emma walked slowly, her mind lost among the happenings of the previous evening. Liam and Brady had called at the long hut, Brady to take Daisy for a walk, and Liam to make his nightly check that all was well with Emma. Then, as if the whole thing had been arranged by someone other than themselves, Paul had cried out in his sleep. She had gone to him and on emerging from the bedroom found Liam standing just the other side of the door.

‘I love you, Emma.’

That was all he had said, and as he’d held out his arms she had moved into them.

Now she was promised.

She hitched the heavy basket of meat more comfortably on her hip.