The girl deserved an explanation. To find a man standing behind her with an upraised cane ready to strike was enough to put the fear of God into her. Allowing himself a short cough, a moment to collect himself, Phineas explained why he had approached as he had.
‘You acted in everyone’s interest – except perhaps that of the thief.’
‘Thank you for being so understanding.’ Phineas acknowledged the words with a smile. ‘However, I might have employed a little more caution, waited until you were leaving, then I would have seen you were not the culprit. But I let anger get the better of me.’
‘Any man would have done as you did but I doubt any thief would bother to steal the flowers from my mother’s grave. You see they are not real; they are merely scraps of cloth sewn by the children of Trowes Court.’
An unmarked patch of earth… a posy of artificial flowers. Phineas glanced again at the tiny offering, its silken petals glistening still with the gleam of dew defiant against the breeze. A pauper’s grave! He had known from her shabby clothing, from the fact of her coming to the High Bullen to stand in the line of hopefuls seeking a day’s employment, that the girl’s family had little money… but a pauper’s burial! That would indicate they possessed nothing. But she had made no mention of an illness when they had talked that morning. Could it be the woman – her mother – had met with some accident?
‘The posy is no less pretty for being made of cloth.’ He spoke gently. ‘I am sure your mother would have thought the same.’
No, they were no less pretty. Callista’s own glance lifted to travel beyond the enclosing wall, resting on the spot where budding daffodils nodded tall among the grass. They would bloom every year but soon the little cloth gift would fade, the silk of petals and the velvet of leaves would fall to the onslaught of weather, they would disintegrate and leave no trace; her mother’s resting place would become unrecognisable among the covering grass; there would be no cluster of daffodils, no delicate narcissus to mark where she lay.
‘You have my deepest sympathy, my dear. Please be kind enough to extend it also to your father; perhaps in time I may be able to do so in person.’
Her gaze not moving from the tiny island of yellow, Callista answered quietly. ‘My father would have been grateful for your condolence and honoured, I know, to have spoken with you, but that will not be possible.’
Not possible. Did that mean the man was crippled, maybe bedridden? Phineas felt a momentary stab of disappointment. But that need not bar him from meeting the man, of fulfilling the hope he had held since encountering his daughter, of having the pleasure of talking with him on a subject he clearly loved.
‘Perhaps he might be prevailed upon to allow me to call…’
‘My father would not refuse, he would have taken great pleasure in speaking with you except… except he lies there beneath the patch of daffodils.’ Callista turned to face the man beside her; her lashes glittered with tears but her voice as she continued held a love which beat in every word. ‘Both my parents are buried here; my mother lies at our feet, my father there beyond the boundary of the church. My mother died a pauper while my father took his own life. They were not given the sacrament of church service, not assured of the love of heaven, but my heart will ever be filled with love for them.’
That was what she had been doing at the other side of the wall: she had been visiting her father’s grave.
‘The world can be very cruel, child,’ Phineas answered, watching the tears spill, ‘I know for my own loved ones lie here also. My parents,’ he pointed to a rectangular structure carved in the fashion of a small columned temple, ‘and next to them my wife. I come each day to speak with them to tell them, as you were doing, of my love.’
She had been too preoccupied with her own misery to see the sorrow of his. Shamed by her oversight Callista brushed a finger across her cheeks, wiping away the tears.
‘I am sorry if I sounded bitter…’
‘Don’t be. There is nothing more natural. Only by letting bitterness escape can the heart be truly healed.’
‘You sound so like my father; those words could well have been said by him.’
‘Then it may be we could have held more in common than simply a predilection for the classics and mythology.’
‘The Artemis!’ Appalled by her own forgetfulness, Callista apologised. ‘I had forgotten. Please forgive me, I should have asked about the damage, I… I cannot pay the cost of the statue now but if you will give me time…’
Looking into wide violet eyes, their lovely colour darkened with dismay, Phineas Westley felt the heart inside him quicken. Give her time! At this moment there was nothing he would not give her.
‘There is nothing to forgive.’ He smiled. ‘The beauty of our lovely goddess is unmarred.’
Walking beside her as she turned to leave, Phineas wished as he had on several occasions that the figurine had been damaged; that way he would have had an excuse to meet with this young woman again, to talk, if only of the cost of repair. The beautiful artefact was genuine, its rarity adding greatly to its value, but he would willingly have sacrificed it to have Callista Sanford… to have her what? Beholden to him? To be in his debt for a sum she could never hope to pay? No, no, he did not want that, he wanted the girl as… but he must not let his own aspiration show. Not yet.
‘It is a great relief to hear the statue is not broken; I could never have forgiven myself had it been.’
‘Would it have been so dire?’
Reaching the body of the church Callista looked back to where the graves of her parents lay. ‘To rob the world of beauty no matter what its form is always dire, especially when it can never be given back.’
‘What we lose to death cannot be given back, my dear, but it can sometimes be replaced.’
Sharp and edged with bitterness, Callista’s reply echoed on the still morning air. ‘How! How can parents be replaced?’
His own gaze travelling back over upraised stones to rest on the tomb of his family, Phineas answered quietly. ‘Of course, those dearest to us can never be replaced nor would we wish them to be; their place in our heart is unique but the love they gave need not be totally ended, it can be, in some measure, passed on, shared with another, for love is as valuable to life in this world as is beauty.’
A hand lifting to touch the bruise dark about her mouth, Callista thought again how like her own father’s words were those. He had always looked for the best in everything; said that despite the bad there was always a little good. But what was good about her father taking his own life? Where was the good in her mother never having enough to eat or working every minute she could force herself to stay awake? No, sometimes there was no best!
Their steps accompanied by the tap of the cane on the pathway they walked in silence, then having passed beneath the lych-gate Callista turned, the question which was bothering her finding its way from her tongue.
‘Mr Westley, the… the statue… I would rather you did not hide anything from me, not allow kindness of heart to keep secret any harm done to it. Please, tell me honestly…’
‘You think I lie, Miss Sanford?’
Dismay stark and real flooded through Callista, shining from the depths of her eyes. She had offended him, insulted his integrity, but she had not intended that. Embarrassed and regretful she tried to answer but Phineas halted the stumbling words with a smile.
‘I do not lie when I say that, unlike yourself, the Artemis is unharmed. May I ask what it was caused your face to be so bruised?’
‘I… it was my own carelessness. I… I tripped.’ Now who was not telling the truth? Watching the colour deepen further in that wan face Phineas felt a sharp surge of anger. Had someone beaten the girl – a member of her family – the man at the market place, the one Michael had spoken of? Lord, should that prove so then the man would regret it!
She had already wished him good day. She was turning away, leaving… he might not see her again. Phineas Westley’s thoughts raced along
a fresh path. With her father no longer alive he had no plausible reason for calling at Trowes Court. Maybe she might decide she could not stay in that place. If he were to speak of what he hoped it must be now.
‘Miss Sanford.’ He spoke quickly. ‘Please stay a moment; I have something I wish to say to you.’
*
They both thought they had got the better of him. Callista Sanford had refused to marry him; true, she had made no spoken promise, but there had been no need, marriage to Oswin Slade… what need was there of a promise, it was an honour! He, lowering himself to marry a destitute. She had refused, thrown the honour back at him, but he’d had his revenge, he’d seen her turned into the streets and that was where she would stay. Callista Sanford would starve, die a pauper as her mother had done, and Oswin Slade would laugh at her grave. Sabine Derry was no destitute, neither was she a young girl to be frightened and bullied. But she too, had slighted him, treated him with scorn, and that could not be overlooked; like Callista Sanford, that woman had crossed the line. Two women had taken him for a fool; one had paid. Oswin smiled. The other would get her reckoning soon. Sabine Derry would find her insults to be costly… very costly.
Standing among shadows wrapping a narrow entry which ran alongside the Turk’s Head, Oswin pondered upon his next step. He needed facts, not the gossip of jealous women. He needed to hear from the horse’s mouth the facts of Emma Ramsey’s immoral carryings on and, more to the point, whether or not Sabine Derry might be playing a part in them. Not that it mattered. He smiled again. By the time he was finished not a soul who could read or hear would believe the Derry bitch innocent.
From the direction of the Shambles a woman’s coarse laugh answered a remark called to her by a street sweeper clearing the refuse from the day’s market, refuse already sifted and sifted again by vagrants and beggars, by women with no other way of filling children’s stomachs. A second remark was called to follow sharp tapping footsteps; Oswin tensed. Sally Baker would pass in a moment.
But she had not passed. Oswin smiled in the darkness, holding the struggling body close against him. He had not intended meeting Sally Baker this way, he had thought to meet her inside, ask for her services as did so many other men buying their night’s pleasure in what, not so many years before, had been the smart hotel such as the George was now… the elegant establishment of whose wealthy clientele Oswin Slade would soon be part.
A heel kicking sharply against his shin dispelled the dream and smile; he swore deep in his throat as he slammed the squirming figure face forward against the wall.
‘Listen to me, you no good tuppenny trollop, you’re going to give me—’
‘You’ll get what it is you wants, you don’t need to go knockin’ a girl about!’
A girl! Oswin stifled a snigger. Sally Baker was no more a girl than he was an angel.
‘You let go o’ me, let me turn around and I’ll show you a good time… unless o’ course you likes to tek your jollies from the back. Either way Sally Baker can mek a man’s toes curl up to ’is chin.’
Wedged between his body and the wall, the woman pushed her bottom into his groin, moving provocatively against him. Maybe later; Oswin grabbed a handful of hair, snatching the head back, smiling at the gasp of pain in the woman’s throat. Maybe he might avail himself later, but first he would relish the pleasure of hearing what this trollop had to tell.
13
It looked so still, so peaceful. It would take away the pain, end all sorrow. Callista stared into the green waters of Lea Brook. Just a few minutes and it would be over, she would be with her beloved parents again… just a few minutes. Eyes fixed on the dark ribbon she stepped forwards, her feet sinking slightly in the damp sedge of the bank… just a few minutes…
‘Ain’t yoh got no more sense than to go plodgin’ in that there brook!’
A voice, sharp and accusing, rang over the still afternoon.
‘A wench yohr age should ought to know better, that don’t be no kids’ paddlin’ pool yoh be steppin’ into, set yohr feet too close an’ yoh’ll like to wish yoh ’adn’t for that there brook ’as a undertow as would ’ave yoh sucked down afore yoh could blink…’
As if the voice had woken her from a deep sleep Callista looked with dazed eyes at a woman clad in dark skirts and shawl, a bulging sack balanced on her head, a small girl clutching her black apron.
‘That brook be dangerous!’ One hand steadying her burden the woman continued her reprimand. ‘’Ow do it be little ’uns is expected to learn when they sees others yohr age actin’ like it don’t be? Huh, I ’ave no knowin’ what yohr mother learned ya but I thinks her wouldn’t be ’appy seein’ what yoh be doin’ now! Yohr time be better spent pickin’ coal.’
Balancing her own sack of coals salvaged from pit heaps rising like black hills in the distance the woman turned on her way irate mutterings fluttering behind like startled birds.
… I thinks ’er wouldn’t be ’appy seein’ what yoh be doin’ now… the words repeated loud in her brain.
But her mother would be happy were they together. Callista looked down at the water rippling at her feet. The hunger would be gone; the misery would be ended; just a few minutes…
… I ’ave no knowin’ what yohr mother learned ya…
It was not this… it was not this! Callista tore her gaze free of the hypnotic spell of the brook, the enticing peace offered by its soft velvet waters. Clambering free of the muddy sedge she stood breathing deeply. Her mother had taught her never to give in, taught the easiest way often proved the harder but always the more worthy. She would never have seen suicide as an answer; it had broken her heart when her husband had chosen that path. How much more so should her daughter choose the same?
But your mother is dead. How is she to know… how is anyone to know?
A few yards from her the brook seemed to whisper, to call softly its promise of peace. Glancing at the malachite ribbon, its jewel like colour stretching a ribbon between dark banks, Callista’s heart answered.
I will know… I will know.
*
He had asked her to come live in this house! Michael Farron’s fingers tightened about the fragile William IV baluster wineglass. Phineas had asked that girl to make her home here at The Limes!
‘… she pointed out the burial place of her father…’
Above the rim of his own exquisitely engraved glass Phineas Westley observed his nephew with a steady gaze. Michael had listened, displaying none of the scepticism he had shown while hearing of that first meeting with Callista Sanford at the High Bullen, and none of the faint mockery which had coloured his conversation when relating his own meeting with the girl in Paget’s Passage. Sipping the excellent Tuscan Vernaccia, savouring the dry crisp taste on his palate, Phineas was not misled in his judgement of wine or man. Both were without equivocation, both bore a candour he found trustworthy, but beneath the sophistication was a sharp cutting edge. The fact of not allowing his inner thoughts to show did not mean his nephew entertained none.
Swallowing the wine, the taste a shimmer of perfection in his throat, Phineas lowered his glass but though his glance left the face so painfully like that of his beloved sister, his perception of the moment was crystal clear as the wine.
‘It was covered with daffodils and narcissi,’ he went on quietly, ‘a golden carpet laid out just beyond the boundary wall.’
Beyond the boundary wall! Michael forked a mouthful of Veal Apricote, the piquant bouquet of ginger, coriander and cumin as delectable to his nostrils as the flavour of the meat to his tongue. Beyond the wall, that meant the man had been a suicide, he had taken his own life!
‘They made a beautiful picture.’
And the girl? Michael chewed slowly, making no reply. Had she been clever enough to cover what no doubt lay beneath her heart-rending account of her life, had she presented an equally beautiful picture. A tearful child alone in the world? Maybe alone; definitely appealing; but no child. A picture of a small heart shaped face
, angry eyes blazing back at him, flashed into Michael’s mind. No, Callista Sanford was no child.
‘I had hoped to meet with her father.’ Receiving no response Phineas was speaking again. ‘From the little she told of him he was well versed in the literature and mythology of the ancient world; one does not often meet with a man of such erudition in this town. To learn he was no longer alive was quite a disappointment to me.’
But not the girl! Taking a sip of wine Michael met the penetrating gaze, giving no indication he knew the discerning capabilities contained in it. Was the fact her father no longer lived a drawback to her aspirations or was it a bonus?
‘But the girl herself seems well educated…’
She does indeed! Michael’s sardonic thoughts ran unchecked. But in which school? Madame Falsehood’s Academy of Deception… Deceitful’s School of Trickery… and was her favourite subject fraud, was her education that of how to delude an old man?
‘She spoke of the Artemis as though it were an old friend.’
Here was the crux of the matter. Phineas Westley had friends, he was well liked and respected within Wednesbury and outside of it, but of all his associates none held his own passion for the world of yesterday; they were businessmen and their interests reflected that world. Laying aside knife and fork Michael looked across the smaller two pillar Regency table his uncle favoured whenever they dined together. Though not elaborately laid it sparkled with silver and crystal; Crown Derby plates and dishes gleamed their beautiful colours in the soft light of candlelit chandeliers. Everything in the house was an object of grace and beauty, many lovingly chosen by Phineas and Rachel. His Aunt Rachel! The deep sorrow he had felt at her death, the anger of a young boy robbed twice of loved ones, echoed in the deepest reaches of his heart. Since her passing his uncle had turned even more to the past, to a world which brought him solace from a pain that had been and sometimes even now was unbearable. There, among the ancient long gone people, in a society today known only in books and ruined architecture, lay Phineas Westley’s joy… was the joy about to be snatched by some charlatan, a girl pretending an interest when her true interest lay only in securing for herself a husband who in doting on her would not see his wealth slipping away?
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