Smiling, he stared into the heart of the fire. A wig! The smile widened. A wig placed on that table!
They had not heard his soft exultant laugh above the moans of their lovemaking. The same laugh repeating in his throat, he watched flames leap into the chimney. The woman on top had moved, slid off that pale spread-eagled form, but had not seen the figure at the door, seen who it was standing watching, who was now party to her disgusting little game… who could smash her world. Cold ice-glazed eyes would spit their venom. They could spit all they liked; it would make not one penny difference to the sum he would demand.
Emma, silly woman, she would beg him not to tell. The laugh rattled again, low and triumphant. Beg was no word to use to Oswin Slade. The other woman too, would make the same entreaty, she too, would know the price would have to be paid. What they both did not know was just how often his bill would be presented.
*
Phineas had not admitted to asking that girl to be his wife. Michael Farron watched the unloading of a narrow boat but his mind played over a different scene. Phineas had talked of seeing her in that churchyard, of talking with her, and his voice had held a warmth and interest not heard in a long time.
Too long a time, and that was the problem! Phineas Westley was no longer in the prime of life and with each passing year the loneliness showed a little more clearly. Michael tried to fill that emptiness, to spend time with his uncle whenever he could, but his days were busy, a business could not run itself. But even were they to have more time together their deeper interests lay in opposite directions. His own interest here at the wharf directing the imports and exports which kept his fleet of narrow boats in operation whereas that of his uncle lay firmly rooted in an altogether different world, one which gave no mind to the mundane business of making a living: a gentler, more peaceful world? Michael smiled to himself. Not if the stories told to him in childhood were anything to judge by.
‘That be the lot I reckons, Mr Farron, sir, twenty-eight tons ’as ’er sittin’ low; ’er shouldn’t ought to ’ave no more in ’er belly… not to my mind.’
His attention jerked back to the present, Michael ran a glance over the seventy foot long narrow boat, its deck criss-crossed with iron girders.
‘Your mind tells you right, Moses, the Ariadne is carrying as much as she should.’
‘Then if you’ll set your mark to the paper I’ll ’ave ’er boatman tek ’er out.’
Signing his name to the document handed to him, Michael watched the flat capped figure give last minute instructions to a man stood at the tiller of the laden boat. Ariadne. The name bestowed by his uncle on the water hoss – as narrow boats were commonly called – had raised many smiles among the men who earned their living from working the canals, as had Thetis, Dido, Europa, Semele and the rest of the fleet so named by Phineas for his beloved heroines. He had doubted his own common sense, allowing his uncle to choose a name when each vessel was built, thought the men of the cut would resent a title which did not figure in their knowledge, but he had been wrong. Moses had told him of the interest they had shown in learning from Phineas’s visits to the wharf the origin of the name painted on their boat, of how they and their families had listened, children with open mouths, wives with smiles of pleasure on their work-worn faces, to the stories he had related and of how those same stories were passed along by the women, spread from one boat to another each time they moored for the night.
‘D’you want the iron ore seen to next? The Europa be tied up a ways down toward Lea Brook Bridge. I sent word for Jos Gibbons to keep ’er there against you wantin’ for ’im to be offloaded sooner rather than later, for the foundry sent one o’ their ’ands to enquire after it.’
Giving consent, Michael turned away towards a section of a warehouse he had turned into an office. Moses Turley was a competent wharf gaffer whose experience had come from a lifetime of living on the cut; gleaned from the father he had helped as a boy, later as a boatman in his own right carrying all manner of cargo to any part of the country it was required, a knowledge added to by each journey until he knew every aspect of the job as well as he knew his own name. He could be trusted to be left to get on with it.
As that girl could be trusted? Entering the office he sat heavily in a leather bound chair, his stare following dust motes dancing in the rays of sunlight. She had refused Phineas’ offer of a home, refused the comfort and security which went with it. Why? Why would she do that? A girl so poor she picked half decayed vegetables from the street, a girl whose patched clothes were held together by a force he could only term magic, why turn her nose up at such a windfall? But more to the point what precisely was Phineas about, what had he hoped to gain from bringing her to The Limes?
Beyond the walls of the small room the shouts of workmen unloading and reloading narrow boats, the calls of boatmen steering flat bottomed vessels expertly past others pulling into the crowded basin while others jockeyed for moorings at the wharf, went unheard as Michael’s thoughts returned to the subject of his uncle and Callista Sanford.
The girl was charming, Phineas had said that night at dinner, she was intelligent, pleasant and talking with her was a delight.
Charming, intelligent, pleasant and a pleasure to be with. All desirable traits in a companion. But was it simply a companion Phineas wanted or was it more? He had not said he had asked Callista Sanford to share his home as his wife… but was that simply a delay in the proceedings, was proposing marriage to that girl his true objective?
And what of her negative attitude? Was that a ploy on her part designed to make the grass on the other side appear even greener? Did she see a refusal having the effect of making her more desirable? Playing an old man for a fool was as ancient a story as any of those contained in the literature of bygone worlds. Was that what the girl was about, playing Phineas Westley for a fool?
He had wanted to give words to that fear, to voice his idea to his uncle, but thought of hurting the man who had given him so much love had deterred him. Phineas Westley might not be young but the pride of the man had in no way diminished with the years and to insult him – it would be seen to be an insult to his uncle’s intelligence by virtually accusing him of behaving in a foolish way – was out of the question. So he had said nothing of the doubt niggling at his mind but that did not mean he would take the same stand with Callista Sanford!
‘She will most surely return to the churchyard, visit again the graves of her parents.’
Phineas’s voice had held a wistful note when saying that but his eyes had gleamed with determination when adding, ‘When she does I will be there to meet her.’
Picking up a pencil from the desk in front of him Michael twisted it between his fingers. There was little room for doubt; Phineas was infatuated with the girl. She had told her hard luck story, her pretty tear stained face demurely downcast, and his uncle had responded as she had intended he should.
‘… what we lose to death cannot be given back… but it can sometimes be replaced.’
Was that a marker, a foreword of what was to follow? Was Phineas saying it was his intent to replace what he had lost by taking Callista Sanford as his wife?
A suicide father… a pauper mother. The girl had played her game well. Adept and skilful as any spider she had spun her web and almost willingly Phineas had become the fly at its centre.
It was not the fact of his uncle’s wealth being given to another that made him so strongly against such a union; the inheritance that should be his going instead to someone else. That fact he had analysed over and over again, rejecting it as inconsequential. So what was it? Phineas Westley would not be the first elderly man to take a young bride; maybe the marriage would be a happy one, fulfilling the closing years of his uncle’s life. Winter and spring… so different, so far apart. Would Callista Sanford truly love Phineas as a woman should love a husband?
Love! Michael Farron’s lips thinned over clenched teeth, the pencil snapping in his fingers.
16
>
Breath held behind quivering lips, hands trembling against the possibility of sound, the small girl placed several lumps of coal into the cast iron stove.
‘Do you delight in stupidity or is it you, like him, have no care for what other people say, like him you place no value upon any feelings but your own… well, maybe this will help change that…’
The hand slicing down caught the pale frightened face, the sound of its slap echoing in the quiet room.
‘Did I not say no more than four pieces of coal?’
Weight of the heavy half full coal bucket causing the slight figure to lean to one side, the child stammered its fear.
‘I… I put only three pieces…’
‘Three!’ Glittering with hate, cold eyes stared from a sharp boned face. ‘Is three the same as four?’
Her own eyes watching the hand, its fingers curling against the palm, the child shivered her answer. ‘N… no…’
Above her bent head the tightly held mouth of a woman gave way to a momentary smile, a smile holding all the poison of a cobra.
‘Did I not say four?’
The metal handle of the bucket cut into her fingers but, afraid to set it to the ground, the child whispered, ‘You… you said no more than four…’
‘Did I say less than four?’
It would make no difference what answer she gave. Head lowered, the child remained silent.
‘Insolent as well as sly…’ Hard and vicious the hand struck, sending the child falling to the ground, coal from the spilled bucket falling over her legs. ‘Sly like him but I found him out… found him and found you… you… you…’ The hand fastened like a claw about her thin arm as the child cried out.
‘You… wench, wake up… it be all right, I don’t be going to harm you.’
Eyes blinking dazedly against the morning, Callista let out a sob. It had been that same nightmare. Herself alone in that classroom, alone with that woman’s spite.
‘There be no need of you cryin’ out, you stands in no danger from me, wench.’
Still half lost in the fear that dream had reawakened, Callista brushed her hands across her knees, sweeping away imaginary coals.
‘No need of askin’ ’ave you been ’ere all night for I sees you ’ave.’
The voice was wrong; it was deeper, not so high-pitched, so scratchy.
‘Please, Miss Montroy… I… I’ll put another piece on.’
‘There be no Miss Montroy ’ere and I don’t be knowin’ what it is you’ll be puttin’ on what, I only knows you’ll be catching your death sat there on damp ground so if you allows I’ll give you a hand to you standin’.’
The hand closing on her arm, it was not a claw, not the long fingered hand of that schoolmistress. Another sob, this time of relief, catching in her throat Callista blinked the wraiths of nightmare from her brain only to flinch as something solid fell at her feet.
‘Pay no mind to that,’ the deep voice said as she stepped instinctively back, ‘it be no more than the threepennorth o’ clay you bought last evenin’.’
Threepennyworth of clay! Memory rushing in on her, Callista bent to retrieve her purchase.
‘Be no use to you the way it is. Whatever you was wantin’ to mek from it you won’t, least not unless you sets it to rest in water for a week or so. Do that, then set it to drain for a while an’ it’ll be workable; it be that or buy a new lump altogether.’
A new lump! She could not buy more clay, those three pence were the only money she had, her one last chance… disappointment adding to hunger and cold, Callista could not stem the tears.
‘’Ere, there be no need o’ crying over a lump o’ clay.’ The deep voice took on a note of concern. ‘There be plenty more where that come from.’
Warm and rapid tears slid unchecked, Callista beyond caring her grief be public. Plenty more clay but not for free, nothing was ever free.
*
‘I should ’ave knowed, I seen from the ’alf-starved look of ’er, from the clothes…’
‘Don’t do no good to go blamin’ yourself, I reckons the wench would ’ave refused any hand were offered.’
‘But I med no offer.’ Daniel Roberts looked at his wife busily setting bowl and spoon onto a gaudily enamelled tray. ‘I should ’ave done but I d’ain’t. It were obvious to a blind man ’er had no place to go…’
‘And it be obvious to a blind man I be busy enough without ’aving to pick my way about a man sat in my kitchen, so you be off back to your work and leave me to mine.’
‘But the wench…’
‘Won’t be going nowhere for a while yet so there be naught you can do as ain’t already been done.’
‘I should ’ave offered but I let ’er go, same as I let them go.’
Seeing the slump of those once fine shoulders, the droop of the head once held high with pride, Abigail Roberts felt the heart twist in her chest. He was still paying for those few hasty words, the pain of their consequence deep inside.
‘You were both headstrong.’ Going to his side she touched a hand to his face, a gentle tender touch which spoke the heartache of years. ‘He as much as you.’
Grasping the hand touching his whiskered cheek Daniel Roberts pressed it to his mouth, whispering against the fingers. ‘You’ve bin my strength, Abbie, my stay. Without you I couldn’t ’ave gone on, forgive me… forgive me.’
A sheen glinting over soft brown eyes, Abigail smiled into the blue ones lifting to her. He must not see her tears, they must stay locked away until he was gone, to be shed as they had been shed for so many years: in secret.
‘I’ve never judged there be any need of forgivin’ you, Daniel, and I’ve never stopped loving you,’ she answered softly. ‘We are each other’s strength and while it is in me to give, mine will always be yours.’
‘Abbie…’ Pressing his wife’s hand once more to his kiss Daniel left the kitchen.
He was a proud man and that pride had been hurt. Abigail watched the man she had married thirty years ago, a figure slightly stooped from years of bending over a potter’s wheel. But pride had exacted a terrible price, one Daniel Roberts would never cease to pay, one like to be taken with him into the grave.
Turning once more to the business of setting a meal onto the garish tin tray she stroked a finger over its too brightly painted surface.
‘… it be a bird…’ Words returned from the silence of memory sounded clear in Abbie’s brain. ‘The pedlar said it were a feenix, he said it be burned but rises from its own ashes, be that true. Mother… be it true?’
A phoenix. The Reverend Allis had smiled at the child asking that same question after the Sunday service at St James’s. It is what we call a myth, he had said, a kind of fairy story, no more than that.
‘Well, I believes it!’ Mary’s defiant answer had waited only until they were clear of the church gate. Mary, her pretty wide eyed daughter. She had carried her father’s spirit.
Ladling chicken broth into the bowl she had set on the tray, Abbie felt the tears she had withheld slide slowly over her cheeks.
Mary had carried that same spirit until the day she had whispered of something else she had carried: the child in her womb. She was barely sixteen and the man? The man who had placed a child in her belly had gone without trace.
Daniel had flown into a rage. Abbie’s eyes followed the knife slicing through the loaf fresh drawn from the oven beside the fire. How could she have done so wicked a thing, how could she cast such a slur on his name?
That had been the moment Adam had spoken. Twenty-one years old and every inch of his six foot frame shouting its strength, he had faced his father across this very table. Unflinching and unafraid he had stared with the same fire which burned in his father’s eyes.
‘Mary be little more than a child.’
The voice of her son had been so firm. Setting the knife aside, Abbie stared through blurred eyes at the picture so real in her mind. Straight as a young oak, brown hair touching his forehead, blue eyes clear as
spring water, he had faced Daniel.
‘Her knows naught of the ways of the world.’
‘Her knows now!’
His father’s fist had struck the table and, clutched in her own arms, Mary had whimpered but Adam had shown no fear.
‘Yes, her knows now,’ he had answered, ‘and I know what you and Mother must be feeling, but it be Mary’s feelings we should all be considering.’
‘Her feelings!’ Daniel’s angry response had echoed through the house. ‘And who was her considerin’ when her were lying with some no good? A babby be her dowry, a child with no name, what man will take her as wife!’
Adam’s mouth had thinned at that, the blaze that swept his father hardened to blue crystal, but his reply had been more pitying than angry.
‘Perhaps no man will want her for wife, Father, but one man will always want her as a sister.’
They had exchanged no more. Adam had stridden away to the kiln and Daniel to the potting workshop while she had put a distraught Mary to bed.
The end of the day had seen Daniel full of remorse for his anger. Adam had been right in standing by his sister; tomorrow he would tell him so, tomorrow he would take his daughter in his arms and whisper of a love unchanged, a love which would take care of her and her child.
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