The name slamming into his brain with the force of a barbed arrow Oswin glanced towards a glass screen, its surface etched with a frosted design obscuring a clear view of the people sitting on its other side. The view but not the voices. Carelessly pitched a little too loud for privacy they had caught his attention; now he strained his ears, intent on catching every last syllable.
‘Huh!’ The first voice went on. ‘I hears the same, seems Emma Ramsey be got notions of grandeur since taking up wi’ the Derrys, her fist be tighter than a duck’s arse swimmin’ on the Tame, but I seen the frock, blue silk it were an’ styled fit for a lady.’
‘And Sally Baker don’t be one o’ them!’
Oswin listened to the shout of laughter following the words.
‘Nor do that Derry woman be for all her’d have folk believe otherwise.’ The voice quickened irately. ‘Now had you ’ave said styled fit for the devil’s doxy I might ’ave agreed but then even that be too good for that one. Twice this year her’s put threepence on the rents, takin’ money off folk who don’t earn enough to keep theirselves. I’d be more inclined to listen should you be tellin’ me Somebody had done for that greedy bugger instead of some tale of Emma Ramsey givin’ away of a frock.’
‘There’d be many in Wednesbury wouldn’t join in the huntin’ of the one who done her in…’
The talk pausing, Oswin watched the hazy outline of an arm raising a glass.
‘But supposin’ it be true.’ The arm lowered. ‘Why would Ramsey give away a frock which as you tells it be worth a bob or two? The woman don’t be no believer in charity an’ it be certain her don’t be no saint!’
Pitched slightly lower the answer was clothed in a meaningful chuckle. ‘I d’ain’t say her given it for nothin’!’
Sat at the other side of the ornate screen Oswin felt his nerves tense. They couldn’t begin to whisper now… Christ, not now! This was a chance he’d long hoped for, a chance of finding something of use to him, something he could hold over the head of Edwin Derry.
‘So how much were paid… and more to the point where would money such as that come from? Sally Baker earns her’n the same way we earns our’n, by lyin’ on her back or standing against a wall while some bloke pumps away at her, and at no more’n a shilling a go it takes many a night and many a client to earn that kind o’ money.’
His own drink forgotten, Oswin watched the hazily outlined arms rise and lower.
‘Ar, you, me and a few others beside earns our coppers pleasurin’ men…’
The voice he recognised as belonging to the first speaker sounded again through the dividing screen. It was not as loud as before. Thinking to edge closer, his fingers gripped about his tankard, Oswin began to rise from his seat. But if they saw his movement as he had seen the lift of their arms… should they suspect they were being overheard then those women might leave off their talk. Carefully, as if laying a newborn into its cradle, he eased his body back into the seat. Fingers still about the tankard, he stared into its depths. To any onlooker he appeared oblivious to all around but every sinew of him strained towards that screen. There was something to be told, the cynicism in those voices hinted as much, and if it concerned the wife of the owner of Derry Coal Mines then he wanted to hear.
‘… ar, Sally gives a man what he pays for…’
The voice was speaking again. Breath held in his throat, Oswin listened.
‘But that ain’t all her does, Sally, her be different.’
‘’Ow do you mean, different? Her be a prostitute same as you and me does!’
‘Not altogether…’
There was a repugnance in the reply, a disgust which made the speaker spit her words as though they held a vileness on the tongue. Honed to every word, Oswin waited.
‘You and me along of the others, so far as I knows, bowls from only one end of the pitch while Sally Baker, her bowls from both ends alike.’
‘You mean…!’
Oswin heard the quiet gasp his own tension held in check. He must not give himself away now.
‘Ar.’ The voice resumed. ‘We pleasures one sort only while Sally, her be different and it be to my way o’ thinkin’ her paid for that frock by the pleasurin’ o’ Emma Ramsey.’
Christ, if that were true! Oswin’s fingers ached from gripping the pewter tankard but he did not feel the pain, only the surge of excitement that woman’s words had soaring along his veins. Emma Ramsey and a woman… Lord, what couldn’t he do armed with information like that and what if he could involve Derry’s wife! But gossip was not weapon enough… and gossip was not always based on fact.
‘That couldn’t be… a woman like her, the wife of one o’ the richest Wednesbury holds… there has to be a fault somewhere along the line; I reckons you been told wrong.’
Had the woman been told wrong… was the story a web of lies? Oswin forced his breathing to remain regular as he listened but at his throat a pulse beat wildly.
‘Oh ar!’ The first woman thickened her answer with cynicism. ‘There be a fault all right but it don’t be mine nor do I think it her’n as told me. ’Tain’t every woman comes to this tavern be on the game and it ain’t only prostitutes I numbers among my friends. I growed from childhood with her who be housekeeper to Emma Ramsey and there don’t be much goes on in that house as don’t get told to me; things such as nights Samuel Ramsey stays drinkin’ with his cronies ’til the small hours, them same nights as Sally Baker don’t show her face here at the Turk’s Head.’
‘That don’t go to say her be with Emma Ramsey, chances be Sally just likes to tek a night off.’
‘Night off, my arse…!’
Scepticism sharp as a blade sliced from the woman’s tongue, adding to the pounding rhythm in Oswin’s throat.
‘Sally Baker would no more turn down a night’s work than fly in the air, her knows the only thing money don’t buy be poverty and, like a good many more folk in Wednesbury, Sally Baker were reared in poverty but her don’t intend to die the same way. No, her don’t stay away from this place so her back be rested, reason being her don’t come here is ’cos her be at Acacia Villa; and while you be thinkin’ up reasons why it don’t be as I says then ask y’self this question… why is it Polly Burke be given a full afternoon and evenin’ away from ’er job as housekeeper when we all knows Emma wouldn’t give a blind man a light? Why is it that woman don’t want her nowheres near that house the times Sam’l don’t be comin’ home at a normal hour? But don’t go givin’ y’self a brain fever searchin’ for the answer ’cos I already told it to you. Emma Ramsey entertains a lover on them days, and that lover don’t be no man.’
A flurry of movement shadowing the glass screen heralded the departure of the two women but their leaving did not disappoint Oswin. He had heard enough, enough to make him a wealthy man. The only thing now was devising a plan of action; of deciding how this pearl of wisdom could earn him all that he wanted.
All that he wanted! Raising his tankard he drank deep before setting it down. He wanted a great deal, a very great deal. He would have every penny Samuel Ramsey possessed and with it all that Edwin Derry had. Maybe Sabine was not involved; but would the world at large believe that!
*
The man who had stepped from the darkness, the one who had accosted her in Paget’s Passage, he had made no attempt to… but that was unfair, she must not even think the word rape.
Her breathing laboured and painful from running, Callista allowed herself to slow to a walk.
Strong hands had caught her arms but they had not held on as she shook free; then he had stepped to one side, deliberately blocking her path, and moments later he had grabbed her again, his voice a mixture of mockery and teasing. He had snatched her close, holding her against a body firm and strong, held her against a heart beating powerfully above her own yet he had made no attempt to drag her deeper into the shadows or force her to the ground. Why? Why grab her and hold her if he had not intended to abuse her… why let her run from him when he might s
o easily have caught her?
Thoughts rapid as her pattering feet on the rough cobbles ranged endlessly in Callista’s mind as she hurried towards Portway Road.
But the strange event had not been the only occurrence now giving food for thought. One more had followed quickly on its heels, this time a man intervening, disrupting the flow of Oswin’s anger; not only that but actually retrieving and handing back to her the vegetables Oswin had knocked from her grasp and then almost insisting she take his carriage home.
Oswin had been so irate but there had been no trace of the same in his adversary. He had spoken as had the man in Paget’s Passage, the same cultured delivery, the same velvet tone. Two men, both educated to judge by the way they spoke, both expensively dressed, and though one had frightened her, thinking of that fear now she realised that beneath it had flickered something deeper… a feeling the man would not harm her. And he had not. In fact he could be said to have helped her by making her aware of the danger of walking alone in narrow deserted streets. Two men, both of whom had shown her a kindness, both well dressed, both seeming to possess a quality of civility and breeding which had showed in the first of them despite his brusque and slightly cynical questioning.
Two men – or one and the same?
Vegetables wrapped securely in her shawl, Callista turned into the heavily shadowed Trowes Court, familiarity guiding her steps past the one privy and on across the unpaved space separating it from the houses.
They had so much in common… or was that simply her own imagination? It would mean the man from Paget’s Passage had followed her to the market. He did know it was there she was going, she had told him so herself. But then if he had followed her there for whatever reason was it likely he would have allowed her the use of his carriage to take her home alone; would he not have insisted he travel with her? Perhaps that had been his idea but the presence of Oswin had thwarted it.
Oswin! Callista’s already laboured breathing snagged as the name entered her mind. He was not a man to forgive or forget. The anger she had known he felt, the displeasure he could not vent on the man who had admonished him, would still be there brewing inside him, growing in energy until it could be released on her. And she must endure it if she were to keep her mother alive. That was Oswin Slade’s hold over her and he knew it… knew it and would use it in any way that pleased him.
Why had life turned so against them? Hand on the door she stood a moment, darkness hiding the droop of her mouth. What had she and her mother done that fate should treat them so? Had it been so wrong, her father breaking an engagement and marrying the woman he really loved? Would it not have been a far more terrible wrong to have wed a fiancée he felt nothing for, to have ruined that woman’s life? Some might argue it was not; was fate one of those contenders, was that the reason for the life she and her mother shared now? She had dwelled on that reasoning so many times since her mother telling her of her father’s decision, let it play in that time before sleep, but always told herself the whole idea of fate was an excuse used by people who failed themselves. Each person was responsible for their own life, whatever they made of it, whether good or bad was of their own doing; and always in that last moment before the veil of sleep closed off all thought she had known her answer was no answer at all. Just as becoming Oswin Slade’s wife would be no answer. Swapping one misery for another was what she would be doing, a misery which would last long after her mother was taken from her. One life. She sighed, lifting the latch and stepping into the house. One life to hold so much unhappiness.
‘Thank you for coming in, I’m very grateful to you, Mrs Povey, and I know Mother enjoys your company.’ Placing the wilted vegetables on the table, Callista whipped off her shawl, hanging it on a peg set behind the door before turning to the fireplace. The remnants of fire burned low in the bed of the grate. Automatic in her movement she swung the bracket with the kettle over the glow; there would be sufficient heat in the embers to boil water, to make her mother a drink, and the few vegetables would cook in the remaining water.
‘I know I’m back late.’ She smiled at the woman stood by the foot of the stairs. ‘I… I was held up, people wanting to talk.’
It was a lie. Turning her back to the next-door neighbour, Callista blushed. But to tell Mrs Povey the truth of what had happened, especially seeing she had not arrived home in a carriage, would have meant long explanations and even then she might not believe it; but then who would? A young woman had been stopped by a man in an empty street, yet had not been assaulted in any way! Then another had come to her defence in the Market Square…! It was hardly believable to herself, so how could others be expected to think it so?
‘I have not forgotten our visit to the herb woman…’
Callista moved quickly about the small room collecting cup and jug which held a mere trace of milk. ‘I hope she will still see us, I would hate for you to walk with me all that way only to have her refuse. But it will be later than expected so she might…’
‘Eulalie Ulmar refuses no caller to her house no matter the time they comes.’
‘You said how kind she was,’ Callista answered, pouring bubbling water over the one spoonful of tea left in the house, ‘I would not like to return that kindness by disturbing her late at night, nor would I want to keep you from your family, Mrs Povey.’
Eyes following the movements of her busy hands, Callista did not see the look settling over the old woman’s face as she spoke on.
‘I could not find anything I thought suitable to offer in exchange for medicine, Mother and I have nothing of value but I thought perhaps some pretty covers for her herb pots…’
‘There be no need.’ Ada Povey took a step, closing the door at her back, shutting off the narrow stairs.
‘But I have to give something and covers would be quick and easy to sew. Mother has a small piece of silk left over from the dress she made…’
‘Callista, wench.’ Ada came to the table. ‘There be no need for covers nor aught other, it be too late.’
‘I’m sorry I kept you waiting, it truly wasn’t my intention; please, Mrs Povey, just give me a moment to take this to Mother and we will go… the soup will simmer until I get back, I’ll—’
‘No, wench!’ Ada’s hand closed over Callista’s, forcing the cup she held to the table. ‘We won’t be visitin’ of Eulalie Ulmar, there no longer be call for medicine.’
Her mother no longer needed the herb woman’s elixir, the cough which had troubled her was eased. A wave of relief sweeping through her, Callista smiled at her neighbour.
‘Oh, Mrs Povey, I’m so thankful Mother is better. I will just see if she is awake.’
‘Your mother don’t be awake. Her won’t be a needin’ o’ that tea… not no more, Callista.’ The firmness of the woman’s voice softened but the hold on Callista’s hand remained strong. ‘Your mother be passed on.’
8
Sitting in the drawing room his wife had furnished so exquisitely, Phineas Westley let the book he had been reading rest on his knee. They had once brought him so much pleasure, this house and its gardens, the paintings and antiques he had collected, delighting in the acquisition of each as he might have delighted in the birth of a child. But generous as life had been to himself and Rachel, it had not blessed them with a child. There had been no son to bear his name, no daughter to cherish. Wealth had brought him many things, wonderful Venetian glass, the finest Limoges porcelain, carpets from the far Orient, statuary carved by the great masters, but all of this was as nothing compared to having a child of one’s own. Consider the father of that girl who had bumped into him; judging by her appearance the man was as good as penniless yet in his daughter he possessed the greatest wealth. ‘My little wood nymph.’ Phineas whispered the words then fell back into the silence of thought. What were the treasures of this house compared to a daughter?
A blessing or a disadvantage? His glance rested on a statue in a glass panelled French walnut cabinet, the glow from the fire blushing the a
ncient marble to pink; he smiled ruefully. Had it been fortunate the Artemis had been undamaged by that mishap or had the blessing worn a disguise, one causing as much disappointment as the other might have given pleasure? Of course it was wonderful for those who in the future would view the undamaged masterpiece, but for Phineas Westley? Returning his glance to the fire he sighed… for him it was the relinquishing of the opportunity to meet again with that well mannered young woman, to meet with her father and talk with him, to enjoy conversation with a man who it seemed shared his own appreciation of the classics, of literature and art of the ancient world. But the Artemis was not damaged; he had no cause to write to the address that young woman had given. But only he knew that! He glanced again at the figurine, every line of its graceful form the essence of beauty. It could be worth chipping that beautiful creation, to take a small piece of marble from one of those elegant limbs, perhaps to break a little from the base. It would be an embarrassment to the girl and her father for despite her promise to reimburse the cost of the piece it was obvious they would never be able to meet that obligation.
But there were other ways of meeting an obligation! Phineas smiled at the lovely lifeless face. Not every debt needed to be paid with money!
*
Your mother be passed on.
Somewhere within the great sound of silence the words whispered.
… passed on.
Beneath the other woman’s hand Callista’s own trembled. There had to be a mistake, she had misheard.
‘Sit you down, wench.’ Ada Povey spoke quietly as she pressed the unresisting girl to a chair, releasing the cup from her hands. ‘It be ’ard for you to grasp at this moment but this be the Lord’s way of endin’ your mother’s sufferin’; her be at peace now along of him her loved and you must try to be grateful her will know no more pain.’
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