Pit Bank Wench (44 page)

‘He could lie here.’ Emma glanced towards the bench.

‘Sure and he could,’ Liam agreed. ‘But should a train pass through before the one we will be taking the noise would wake him. ’Tis better for him to sleep as long as he is able.’

Her whole body weary beyond saying, Emma looked at Daisy.

Reading the question in her eyes, Daisy shook her head. ‘You go along in, I’ll stay here. Don’t worry, I’ll call you when our train arrives.’

Walking with her to a dingy brown-painted door, a metal plate marking it ‘Waiting Room, Third Class’, Liam opened it then stood aside for Emma to pass, closing it softly behind her.

Inside the same dull brown paint reached halfway up brick walls to be met by an uninviting green. Around them backless wooden benches were arranged around a cast iron fireplace, empty and lifeless without its flames.

Emma glanced fleetingly at it. It looked as desolate as she felt, and she should not feel this way. She had lain awake at nights telling herself that very thing. She had good friends in Daisy and Brady, and a man who loved her and was willing to care for her and her child. But every one of those nights, as sleep had finally claimed her, vivid black eyes had stared at her, silver streaks had glinted among sable hair as two strong hands reached out to her; and every morning she had wakened, her very soul crying inside her, crying for the man she had seen sucked beneath those dark waters.

A sob breaking from her, she laid the child on a bench. Slipping the shawl from her shoulders, she folded it, placing it gently beneath the small dark head.

‘I said the only thing I would see you carry would be our son . . .’

It was little more than a whisper but to Emma, her nerves raw, every syllable was like a blow. Breath catching in her throat, she whirled round, one hand pressed to her mouth as she caught sight of the tall figure standing in a shadowed corner.

‘Carver!’ The cry was more one of hope than recognition.

His voice still soft, he stepped forward. ‘From now on I will not even allow you to do that.’

Eyes wide with disbelief, each word caught on a breathless sob, she stared. ‘Carver . . . I thought . . . I saw . . .’

‘I know what you saw, and I know what I saw in your face moments before I was drawn beneath that mill wheel. I saw a miracle, Emma. I saw the truth.’

‘But I saw . . . I saw you drown!’

‘No, my love.’ He smiled. ‘You did not. How could I drown, after what your eyes had told me?’

The tears she had fought so long spilling down her cheeks, confusion and shock trembling in her limbs, she stared at him, broad shoulders outlined against the window, light glancing from the streaks of silver running back from his wide brow. How could it be him? He had died saving her son.

‘Liam told me . . . he said . . .’

‘Liam said what I asked him to say. I knew what I had seen mirrored in your eyes but still I could not be certain, it might just have been the last hope of a desperate man. Then, when I climbed from that stream and saw him holding you, saw the way he looked at you, I realised I could not come between you. That I had to live with my own mistakes, the ones my own selfishness had brought upon me. I asked him to let you believe I had died in that stream.’

‘But why?’ she murmured.

‘Don’t you know why?’ he asked gently, eyes holding hers. ‘Do you still not know? I love you, Emma Price, I have from the beginning but pride got in the way. My own stupid pride prevented me admitting that even to myself. It was that love drove me to send my brother away, to do all in my power to keep him from finding you: I could not stand the pain of seeing you married to someone else. It was that same love that told me I could not snatch away your happiness a second time. But I had to see you just once more, to prove to myself that what I saw in your eyes before going under that wheel was an illusion. But it was not, it is there now. I love you, Emma, and whether you know it or not, you love me.’

His words produced no blinding flash in her mind, no breathtaking realisation. Just a quiet feeling of peace, a coming to terms with a truth she had long kept hidden. She did love Carver Felton.

‘I can’t let you go.’ He reached for her then, drawing her into his arms, looking down into her tear-filled eyes. ‘I won’t let you go, not ever. I said I would never hurt you again, that never again would I take Paul from you, but I am too weak, Emma. I cannot live without you any longer. If taking Paul is the only way I can keep you then that is what I will do.’

‘No . . .’

‘Yes, Emma.’ His grip tightened as she tried to twist away. ‘I did not think to break my promise to you, to go back on my word, but I would break a promise to heaven itself if it meant keeping you. Marry me, Emma, marry me!’

Lowering his head, he pressed his mouth to hers and suddenly the feeling of quiet peace flared into vivid flame; senses that had been numb tingled and limbs trembled with a different shock: one that frightened yet at the same time filled her with a breathless, heady pleasure.

‘I love you, Emma . . .’

He touched his lips to her eyes and temples then back to her mouth.

‘Oh, God, how I love you! Marry me, my darling.’

How could she? The question pushed against the flood of exquisite feelings that held her captive, dragging her from the edge of acceptance.

She loved him. Her whole being had tried time and again to tell her that but she had refused to accept it, tried always to drive his face from her mind, wanting only to remember the harm he had done her. But all of that did not matter now. He loved her and she felt the same love, but to marry him was to turn her back on Liam, to part from Daisy. How could she do that? How could she turn from the two people who meant so much to her?

‘Marry me, Emma.’

His whisper was soft against her hair, bringing a searing pain with its gentleness. She had to do it now or she would never have the strength. Using the last of her resolution she pushed him away. Stepping back from his arms, she whispered, ‘No, I can’t.’

The light dying in his eyes, Carver looked at her. ‘But you love me, Emma, I know you do. Your whole body told me so.’

She could not deny it to herself but she would not admit it to him. She could not tell him her love for him would live with her forever.

Glancing at her fingers subconsciously twisting the gold band he smiled, and when he spoke there was no rancour in what he said, no reproof, only a quiet tenderness.

‘That ring you wear on your left hand is a lie, Emma. It was given you by no husband and there is no title of Mrs before your name.’

Emotion shaking her every limb, she dropped her glance as he caught her hand.

Drawing the ring from her finger, he went on gently, ‘I think Jerusha will forgive me for removing this and replacing it with my own.’

Fresh tears burning in her throat, her eyes misty as morning lakes, she lifted her head. ‘Yes, it was a lie,’ she whispered, ‘but it is no lie when I tell you I cannot marry you.’

‘Because of Liam Brogan?’ He made no move to touch her, but love was visible in the depths of his dark eyes. ‘He came to Felton Hall the evening before last. His words as I remember were, “I didn’t come to chew on the wind.” He told me everything, Emma. Of the deaths of your parents and your sister, of Eli Coombs and meeting Daisy at his farm. He told me of the Hollingtons and how our child came to be born in the workhouse, and how he brought you to Plovers Croft. Then he told me what he, and Daisy too, had suspected for some time. That although you may not know it yourself, you were in love with me.

‘It seems they discussed it for a long time before he made his decision, and it was one it took a stronger will than mine to make. Liam said I must be told of your feelings, and should I feel the same then he would step aside. He would not hold you to your promise to marry him. He told me you would be here at the station today, that he would ensure you came into this room, but should I not be here then he would feel free to take you with him to Ireland.’

Reaching out, he took both her hands in his, drawing her slowly to him. ‘But I am here, my darling.’ He touched his lips to her hair. ‘Here to tell you that I love you and ask you to forgive the wrongs I have done you. To ask you to be my wife.’

Liam had told him! Liam had been the means of bringing him here, was willing to forgo his happiness for hers! A great surge of gratitude and love rose like the waters of a fountain inside her, washing away the last of her doubts. She loved Liam Brogan and always would, but it could never be the sort of love that filled her for the man who held her in his arms, the father of her child.

‘Stay with me, my love.’ Tilting her face to his, Carver searched it with a look of deep longing. ‘Marry me and bring our son home.’

The love in those dark eyes almost too much for her to bear, Emma closed her eyes, a shiver of delight trembling through her.

Almost at once Carver dropped his hands, stepping quickly aside, his face closed and impassive.

‘Forgive me.’ He spoke curtly, his lips tight as though the effort of speaking was too much. ‘It seems I have not yet mastered my own selfishness. I presumed too much, I’m sorry. Of course you could not marry me after all I have done to you, but you are free of me now, Emma. You have my most sacred vow, I will not bother you or seek to take our . . . your son from you. Go with Liam. Whether he chooses Ireland or to stay and take the work I have offered him and Malone, I promise you you will not be troubled. The threat I made to take the child was made out of that same selfishness but it was an empty one, though the rest of my words were not.’

Turning to where the child lay sleeping, he crouched beside the bench, one hand tousling the mop of dark hair. ‘I love you, Emma, and I love my son. That will be with you both forever, no matter where you go.’

Pushing himself to his feet, his back to her, he swallowed hard. ‘I had hoped . . . but when I felt you tremble I knew it was in vain. I realised you did not return my feelings, could not accept my love. But accept my blessing, go with Liam, go with him and be happy Emma. Love where you can.’

Love where you can. Now she could do that. The burden she had dragged for so long was lifted, and with its going came a joy that soared, a feeling so sweet it seemed all the music of the earth sang within her.

‘But I do return those feelings,’ she whispered shyly. ‘I love you, Carver. I love you as you love me.’

With a cry that was almost a sob he turned to her. ‘Emma! Oh, Emma, my love . . . my love!’

‘
. . . the child will be born . . . it will bear its father’s name
 . . .’

The words Jerusha had spoken so long ago whispered from the shadows of memory.

Her eyes starry with tears of happiness, Emma lifted her mouth to his.

Meg Hutchinson lived for sixty years in Wednesbury, where her parents and grandparents spent all their lives. Her passion for storytelling reaped dividends, with her novels regularly appearing in bestseller lists. She was the undisputed queen of the clogs and shawls saga. Passionate about history, her meticulous research provided an authentic context to the action-packed narratives set in the Black Country. She died in February 2010.