Pit Bank Wench (6 page)

‘So how long will this proposed trip take?’

The expression on Carver’s face remained the same but inside he smiled. It had never taken him long to impose his will on Paul. His brother would leave Felton Hall tomorrow, and this time for much longer than a month.

Helping himself to another cup of coffee from an elegant Spode china pot, Carver added cream and sugar. ‘That will very much depend upon you. Your personality is one way of putting it. You must sell yourself if you wish to sell iron. Be pleasant and agreeable, show an interest in all the customer has to say, visit with him if that is what he wants. A quick, “How do you do, sir? I am leaving” will fill no order books.’

Displeasure still drawing his brows together, Paul answered, ‘You sound as though you expect it to take some time?’

Carver stirred his coffee, his eyes on the creamy swirls. ‘I expect you to do what is best for the business.’

‘The business!’ Paul kicked the leg of a dining chair. ‘Why always the bloody business?’

‘For God’s sake, Paul, grow up!’ Giving way to his anger, Carver threw the spoon he was holding across the table. ‘It is that “bloody business” that has kept you all those years. It is the business that put food in your stomach and fancy clothes on your back. What paid for your schooling? What keeps Felton Hall and Beaufort House if not the business? That is what you have lived on in the past and it is what will keep you in the future. But it did not build itself. Father left the foundry and the coal mine but it is me that made them what they are today.
My
time . . .
my
sweat . . . it was
my
preferences were put aside time and time again. And I tell you, brother, it is time you played your part. If you wish to go on living in the style to which you are accustomed then you will shoulder some responsibility for providing for it. You will go to Birkenhead and you will stay there for however long it takes!’

The spark of defiance dying in his brown eyes, the frown of annoyance turning to dull resignation, Paul glanced at his brother. ‘When?’ he asked dully. ‘When do you want me to leave?’

‘Tomorrow. There’s a train in the afternoon. It will leave the Great Western station at Wednesbury at two. I’ll take you there in the brougham.’

‘So soon?’ Paul’s glance lifted automatically to the mantel of the carved fireplace, looking for a clock. Finding none he drew a gold hunter from the pocket of his waistcoat.

‘I did request you go a week from now,’ Carver lied with consummate ease. ‘But Aston insisted it be tomorrow, and as I said a moment since . . .’

‘I know, I know!’ Paul’s answer was resigned. ‘Putting aside personal preferences is all part of business.’ Flicking open the front of the watch, he glanced at the dial before snapping it shut. ‘Can the business spare me for a few hours this afternoon or is that too much to ask?’

‘Of course. You may take the rest of the day to do with as you wish. If you would care to use the carriage, I’ll . . .’

‘No.’ Paul returned the watch to his pocket. ‘I will take my horse. The afternoon is mild, it will prove a pleasant ride to Doe Bank.’

Carver’s lips tightened imperceptibly. Doe Bank meant only one thing: the Price girl. She was the reason Paul was reluctant to go on business trips and the month away had made no difference to the feeling his brother had for her. Well, maybe it hadn’t. But the fact that she had lain with Carver and taken payment for doing so should put paid to any feeling of Paul’s . . . infatuation or otherwise!

‘You’re going to see . . .’ He paused, giving the impression he could not recall the name that had risen so easily to his mind.

‘Emma.’ Paul strode to the door. ‘Her name is Emma, and yes, I am going to Doe Bank to see her. I am going to ask her to become my wife.’

‘It is as well she has a year to prepare for the wedding.’

Carver took a sip from his cup and when he replaced it in the saucer the glance he lifted to his brother was one of icy cynicism. ‘She will need every moment of that time to earn enough to buy a decent nightgown much less a trousseau. Pit bank wenches make very little money picking over the colliery waste heaps. But then, there are always the taverns and beer houses.’ He raised one eyebrow, the movement at once disparaging and supercilious. ‘She can no doubt earn a shilling or two in those. There are always men not too fussy about where they buy a woman for the night, or as to how many times she has been bought before.’

‘Damn you, Carver!’ Paul whipped about, fists clenched. ‘I’ll push every one of those words down your bloody throat!’

His movements unhurried, Carver rose to his feet. ‘Before you get yourself hurt, little brother, I suggest you go see the wench. Ask your question then if you must. But remember to tell her there’ll be no marriage for a year. You’ll be given no consent by me.’

The slam of the door reverberating around the dining room, Carver smiled as he picked up his cup again.

Yes, a great deal could happen in a year.

*

Emma heard the hoof beats before the horse breasted the small rise in the ground that was Doe Bank.

Carver! The pain that had twisted her stomach for several hours lanced her again, sharp and griping, snatching the breath from her lungs. Only the Feltons rode in these parts and Paul had gone away, left a month ago with no word. It could only be that he had thought better of wanting to marry her; he must have realised he was not in love with her after all. But to leave without a word . . .

Then had come that terrible night, the night Carver Felton had raped her. He had done it quite deliberately. It had not been an act of passion or even of lust. It had been a cold, calculating move designed to bar any hope she might have had of becoming his brother’s wife.

And now he was here at Doe Bank! But for what reason? He had done his evil. Repeating it would serve no purpose, hold no logic.

Pain striking her again, Emma clutched at her abdomen, breath coming out in a short hard gasp.

Were purpose and logic part of Carver Felton’s make-up? She gasped again. She had only met him once but that meeting had shown her that they were. Logic and purpose were very much a part of the man . . . was his purpose in coming here to rape her again?

Emma glanced about her. The small group of houses stood silent, their occupants at work earning their living; except for the old who sat close to their fires, or the sick like her mother laid up in their beds.

Was that why he had chosen this time of day to pay his visit? Knowing that even the children of the village would be away with their mothers; all but the very youngest hands must work to live. Had he called at the pit bank and learned she had taken the half-hour break to run home to see to her mother, then followed her here?

Forcing herself to stand upright, Emma turned to face the rider breasting the hill. Thank God she had not allowed Carrie to come home in her place.

‘Emma!’ The rider swung himself to the ground, sunlight glinting on his rich brown hair.

‘Emma, it’s so good to see you.’

Another wave of pain twisting through her, Emma stared at the man approaching her with long easy strides. Paul . . . it was Paul Felton come to Doe Bank, not his brother.

‘Emma, I’ve missed you so.’ Catching both her hands in his, he smiled down into her face.

‘Why haven’t you been to see me? It has been almost a month.’ The question came out abruptly. If Paul had been missing her so much then why had he stayed away so long?

‘I have been away on business. Carver insisted I go, left me no time to come and see you first to tell you I would be gone for such a length of time.’

Carver had insisted? Emma felt her senses whirl. Had theirs been an accidental meeting that evening? Perhaps, but his rape of her must have been the outcome of long consideration. ‘
Ask my brother to marry you now!
’ Those were the words he had spoken. His violation of her had not only been deliberate, it had been planned. With his brother out of the way, Carver Felton could carry out his scheme at any time, their meeting had merely played into his hands.

And now Paul was back and here at Doe Bank. How much did he know of his brother’s attack on her? Had Carver told him or said nothing at all?

‘Did my brother send no word?’ Paul caught the shadowed expression in her eyes. ‘Did he not spare a moment to come and see you, to tell you the reason for my absence?’

Emma dropped her glance. It was obvious not only from Paul’s happy smile but also from his question: Carver had said nothing of what he had done. But there could be no doubt he would, should Paul introduce her as his future bride. That would be the obstacle he would raise and it would be insurmountable. How could Paul marry her, knowing what he would then?

Even should the fear she had carried since that night prove unfounded, should her monthly flow still come, even then she could not marry Paul. That terrible truth would always be there between them. Carver’s sentence upon her had taken only minutes to execute, but the serving of it would last a lifetime. Her lifetime! Never would she be free of the memory of it, never free of the shame.

‘Your brother sent no word,’ she said quietly, but could not bring herself to add that he had indeed seen her.

‘Damn him!’ Paul’s smile faded. ‘Too wrapped up in the business to think of anything or anyone else. Emma, I’m sorry you were not told, but this time you will know . . .’

‘This time?’ She looked up sharply.

‘Yes. It’s a bind, I know, but there is nothing I can do. Carver insists I go to Birkenhead tomorrow. He says that to have a proper understanding of the business I need to meet people on their home ground, and until I reach twenty-one I have to do whatever he decides.’

Whatever he decides . . . It was almost a malediction, a curse pronounced by Carver Felton on all who might dare to question him; a power he would wield over his brother as he had wielded it against her. But Paul would eventually be free from Carver’s hold, whereas she never would.

‘But once I am of age . . .’ Raising her hands to his lips Paul kissed each in turn ‘. . . we will be married, and then I will never have to leave you again. We will be together always.’

Together always. Emma felt coldness seep into her veins. Or until Carver should decide otherwise?

Tense with the pain in her stomach and the coldness in her veins, Emma struggled to keep her voice steady.

‘Paul, thank you for coming to explain. It was kind of you to take the time when you must have so many preparations to make before tomorrow . . .’

‘I had to come, Emma.’ He drew her close, his arms going about her. ‘I had to see you to tell you that I love you and want you for my wife. A year seems an eternity to wait before that dream can come true. But it will, my dear, it will.’

Letting herself rest against him, her head against his shoulder, Emma gave herself up to the one moment of joy left to her, the last time she would be in Paul’s arms. This was all she would have of the bright promise of a few weeks ago, all that was left of the dream Carver Felton had destroyed.

Pain rising like a tide, Emma watched him ride away. Carver Felton had imposed his will upon them both. Paul would not be allowed to marry a girl from Doe Bank, and his coming of age would have no bearing on that.

‘Eh, Emma! What have you done?’ Carrie stared at her elder sister, who was clutching her abdomen, her already pale face turning chalk white.

‘Only what . . . what had to be done,’ she gasped. She would not have believed it would give her so much pain. She had gone from Jerusha Paget’s house to another of which she had heard women on the waste heaps talk. A woman who for a shilling would give a potion that would rid another of an unwanted child, clear it from the womb without hurt. The house had been dark, but not dark enough to hide the dust and dirt within from Emma’s shrinking gaze.

‘How long?’ the woman had asked, already knowing in her mind the reason for Emma’s visit. ‘How long ’ave you gone?’

‘I’m not sure.’ Emma remembered the look the woman had squinted at her, a look that spoke the silent question: Have there been that many times . . . so many men?

‘How long since you’ve seen . . . how long since you last had a show of blood?’

The question was sharp, irate; the woman obviously thought her an idiot. ‘A little over a month,’ Emma answered, once more suffering the squinted appraisal.

‘How little?’

‘Two or three days.’

‘Tcha!’ The woman stood with her hands on her hips. ‘That don’t be long enough for you to be certain. Could be you be throwing your money away.’

‘Perhaps,’ Emma had answered quietly. ‘It could be that my monthly flow is late in coming, I know there can be many causes of that happening.’

‘But there be one cause you don’t be prepared to risk?’

Waiting for Emma’s nod, the woman had gone into her scullery, returning with an enamel mug.

‘Drink.’ She had shoved the chipped mug into Emma’s hand. ‘Get that down you, it will put an end to what be worrying you. There’ll be nowt for you to fret over by this time tomorrow. Not ’til the next time anyway.’

She had laughed as she added the last, a horrid cackling laugh that had set Emma’s nerves on edge.

‘Go on, wench, drink it. It will do no good you staring at it.’

In the shadowed gloom of the house, Emma could not see the colour of the liquid in the cup but the smell as she lifted it to her lips caused her to heave. She had drunk it. Drunk whatever it was the woman had given her, then paid her shilling.

‘You weren’t sure,’ Carrie protested, helping her to the bed they shared in the tiny back bedroom. ‘You could have waited a few more days.’

‘And if it didn’t come then how many more days should I wait? How many before it becomes too late?’ Emma whimpered as pain seized her again. ‘I couldn’t wait, Carrie. I can’t risk being pregnant, Father would never forgive me.’