Two painful weeks elapsed before the last purple bruises faded and Bristol could walk erect without wincing. At last the utter futility of escape sank home, and with it came a deep despair.
Night after night she tossed on her pallet, sleepless, listening to Kitty’s thin chest rattle and remembering how close, how close she’d been to escape. Her fingers still felt the forbidden latch; she had actually tasted the free air outside. And it all had come to nothing.
Turning her drawn face into the hollow of her arm, Bristol forced her thoughts to the baby, attempting to lift her spirits. And as always, a flame of joy lit the tiny room, filling it with needed warmth. Jean Pierre’s child! She nourished Jean Pierre’s baby beneath her heart. When Bristol allowed herself to experience the soaring glory of her pregnancy, an outpouring of emotion nearly strangled her. She could believe her love sped to Hathaway House and touched the spirit of Jean Pierre. Surely he sensed her calling; he would come for her. This was her only hope.
But shifting in the darkness, her wooden bat tensed in her fingers, sometimes a tiny voice crept past Bristol’s carefully guarded defenses. What if Jean Pierre did not come? A black chill enfolded her heart. If he hasn’t found me after all this time... will he ever? The floodgates of her mind opened to despair, and there followed grim days when she wondered if she’d ever regain her shaky confidence.
Somehow she always did.
However, as Bristol’s stomach slowly grew beneath her marveling fingers, she found it more and more difficult to banish the doubts. She’d fed on hope for months, and might have continued to do so indefinitely. But time was passing, and it was no longer enough to simply bide her time; there was more than her own future at stake.
Unless she wanted her baby born into this dismal tenement, this life where hope killed, she had to find a way out. Soon. Even if it meant risking another beating. Cutter Rumm was a drunk, not a fool. Already she’d had more time than she had any right to hope for. When he noticed Bristol’s blossoming stomach, Cutter would realize she had been at the Royal Rumm for a long time. He’d know she and Kitty had tricked him, had cost him the coins Bristol might have earned in the back room.
“Bristol, he won’t let you keep it. Cutter will kill that baby the minute it’s born,” Kitty whispered, setting a flip iron in the fire to reheat. “There’s no money for a baby.” They discussed this endlessly. And found no solution.
Bristol’s hands tightened on the trencher she scrubbed. Had the platter been of china, it would have splintered into fragments. Her mouth clamped in a determined line. “He’ll have to kill me first.”
Kitty’s laugh was harsh. “Do you think he won’t?” Her sad dark eyes rested on Bristol’s face. “Then there’d be one less mouth to feed instead of two more.”
“If he tries to hurt my baby, I’ll kill him, Kitty, I swear it!”
Kitty shook her head, limp tendrils of hair falling from the bun at her neck. Killing Cutter was too ridiculous to merit comment. “Suppose,” Kitty whispered after a quick glance toward the door, “just suppose Cutter lets the baby live. Then what?”
Bristol’s mouth relaxed, and her eyes turned inward, looking where Kitty could not see. The child would have Jean Pierre’s gray eyes and strong features. Maybe the Adams red hair. “I’ll raise him, Kitty, and I’ll love him,” she whispered fiercely. “And Jean Pierre will find us.”
Kitty’s eyes turned sorrowful, and she smothered a sound with her fingers. “Hope...” she began, but the expression on Bristol’s face stopped the words on Kitty’s lips. Instead she patted Bristol’s chapped red hands. No good would come of this baby. There could only be heartache ahead. All Kitty could do was prepare Bristol for the worst; sometimes that helped when the worst came—as it always did. “Bristol. You know you can’t raise a healthy child down here. Have you...?” Kitty faced away from the pain she knew would convulse Bristol’s expression. “Have you thought about maiming the child? What you’ll choose and how you’ll do it?”
Bristol’s face pinched and her flashing eyes fixed on Kitty. “Don’t you ever say that again!” she hissed. “My baby will never be maimed! Never!” Her body shook with the horror of it, and the Pudden children paraded through her mind, crippled, blinded, deformed, addle-minded. “Never!”
Placidly Kitty watched her. “You may not have any choice,” she murmured sadly. She pained and hurt along with Bristol. “Cutter will do it for you. He might let the baby live if he sees it’s able to earn.”
Shaking, Bristol ran a wet hand over her eyes. She was wrong to be angry with Kitty; none of this was Kitty’s fault. Maiming was the way of life down here, all Kitty knew. Returning to the tub of dirty trenchers, Bristol whispered, “I can’t. I’d rather see my baby dead than tortured.”
Death was not out of the question. Kitty presented this possibility for Bristol’s consideration. They discussed it through the wall with the ever-pregnant Mrs. Pudden. “Ye can visit the witch in Hector Street,” Mrs. Pudden suggested. “Sometimes it works and sometimes it don’t. How far along do ye be?”
“Three months, I think, maybe more.” Bristol’s stomach wrenched. She felt nauseous even discussing this.
“Would it hurt?” Kitty asked the wall, her dark eyes on Bristol.
Mrs. Pudden’s rough laugh exploded. “Well, of course it hurts! I nearly bled to death last time.” Her voice soared triumphant. “But I got rid of the brat.”
“Isn’t... isn’t that murder?” Bristol inquired faintly. She asked herself why she continued this conversation. She could never rid herself of Jean Pierre’s baby. Already she adored it.
Kitty’s eyes widened across the space between their pallets, and Bristol heard Mrs. Pudden’s astonished pause. Finally Mrs. Pudden found her tongue, and her voice was unpleasant. “Ain’t it murder to push a brat out in the streets to starve or freeze? They hung Mrs. Tepeck’s eleven-year-old boy for stealing a heel of week-old bread! Now, that’s murder. Best be rid from the womb than bring ‘em out to be killed.” And that was that, in Mrs. Pudden’s mind. She refused further discussion; Bristol was clearly as mad as any of the lunatics in Bedlam if she endured a pregnancy without at least one honest attempt to rid herself of it.
Bristol and Kitty lay sleepless in the darkness. “Oh, Kitty, I’m so scared sometimes,” Bristol admitted. “I want this baby so much, but I don’t want it born here. I want it safe!” She blinked at the ceiling. “I want to go home!” Touching her stomach, she swallowed hard and fought the scalding tears behind her lids. “I want to go home!”
Reaching across the darkness, Kitty squeezed Bristol’s hand and held on. “Just do the best you can; it’s all any of us can do.”
And Bristol took one day at a time, fighting not to worry too far beyond the concerns of the moment. Sometimes her fingers lingered at her stomach, and her heart gladdened with a happiness that lifted her above her surroundings. Other days, she felt a desolation of crippling dimension. She buried herself in the routine of daily life, taking comfort in a dull sameness that allowed her to daydream the best possible futures.
And she felt the changes in her body with a mixture of fear and joy. Fear of Cutter’s reaction; joy in the knowledge she carried Jean Pierre’s child. This growing link to Jean Pierre was living evidence of their love, a cherished proof of the joy and tenderness they had found in each other.
Watching Bristol’s expressive face glow in the firelight, Kitty lowered her sewing to her lap and sighed. “I know what you’re thinking,” she said “Jean Pierre.” By now Kitty knew the full tale. She fixed her sad eyes on Bristol. Bristol had worn that inward look from the moment they finished the day’s tasks and took their stools before the fire.
Smiling, Bristol kept her thoughts to herself. But she felt his name on her lips, his image behind her eyes. Jean Pierre would come. Every day she sensed this more strongly. Hope had jelled into conviction. She could not have explained the difference, but it was there. Jean Pierre was coming. All Bristol had to do was wait.
“Aye.” Bristol’s gaze swung from the flames and settled on the gray gown in Kitty’s lap. “I can do that, Kitty, you don’t have to.” Jean Pierre’s eyes were nearly the color of the gown. Bristol stared at the fabric, mesmerized by it.
Kitty turned the material in her fingers, letting out the waist. Smiling, she looked up and bit off a thread. “I want to do something,” Kitty answered. “Besides, I like the feel of the cloth.”
Bristol returned the smile and nodded. The gray gown had stood her well. She worked, lived, and slept in it. A cloth of lesser quality would long ago have shredded to ruin. As it was, the gown had been patched in many places, and was soiled and stained beyond repute. Anywhere else, a gown in such tatters would have been consigned to the rag bin. Here, it still was grand enough to wear and hold one’s head high.
However, it wasn’t long after Kitty’s ministrations that the gown once again felt tight at Bristol’s waist. She paused in her chores, floury hands plunged in bread dough, and glanced down at her thickening stomach. She’d need to let out the gown again. Her brows met in a frown of careful thought. If she snipped a length from the curtains they’d made out of her cloak, perhaps she and Kitty could design a panel that could be loosened from time to time without having to take the entire waist apart. She decided to ask Kitty’s opinion the first chance she had.
“I wonder...” she began when next Kitty dashed into the kitchen.
Kitty paid no attention; her face was pale and sober. “Bristol!” she whispered breathlessly. Kitty’s elbow swept the lump of dough to the floor; she paid it no heed.
Bristol’s eyes widened in surprise. She glanced from the floor to Kitty’s flushed face and hot eyes. “What...?” She couldn’t recall Kitty ever showing a disregard for food. Bending, Bristol reached for the dough, but Kitty’s thin fingers clamped onto her arm, gripping painfully.
“Shhh.” Kitty hissed, “Listen!” She hauled Bristol across the kitchen and paused beside the pub door. Men’s voices rose from inside.
“What?” Baffled, Bristol stared at Kitty, but Kitty shook her head furiously and pressed a finger across Bristol’s lips.
“I tell ye, Cutter, it’s uncanny, it is. Just like that ‘hypothetical’ story ye spun us some months back.” Bristol glanced at Kitty, and her green eyes flared. It was Billy Tuffin speaking; she recognized the rasp of cheap whiskey grating his voice.
Kitty waved a hand, tense and anxious. “Just listen!” she begged in a nervous whisper.
Cutter’s voice wheezed over Billy’s. “I don’t remember no story!” He spit toward the stove, still glowing hot, although a warm April breeze fluttered the green curtains at the window.
The men laughed. “Ye wouldn’t recall yer own name, Cutter Rumm, if’n it weren’t painted on the sign outside yer door!”
Cutter growled, and someone laughed and told him to put away his knife.
“Yessir,” Billy Tuffin continued, “they’s all in an uproar about it over to Stoneridge Lane. Big reward, me cousin said. Men stopping house to house offering a bag of coins for information about a grand red-haired lady lost some months now.”
“A grand lady? Down here?” The voice of Cod Meeker dismissed the possibility. “Only grand lady ever stopped in Almsbury Lane was the one in Rumm’s sotted imagination.”
Billy Tuffin’s rasping voice took on a calculating edge. “Well, the lady they’s offering the reward for disappeared in a snowstorm about the time of Cutter’s tale.” He drank noisily. “Sorta makes ye think, don’t it?”
Voices erupted, shouting to be heard, asking about the reward.
In the kitchen, Bristol went limp against the wall, a rush of breath escaping her lips. When she opened her eyes, they blazed like green jewels. She stared at Kitty without seeing. “I knew he wouldn’t give up,” she whispered hoarsely. “I knew it!”
In the front room, the shouts and arguments quieted to hear Cutter’s explanation. “There ain’t no grand lady here!” he insisted. The watching faces hooted in doubt.
Cod Meeker voiced the suspicions of all. “Maybe aye and maybe no. We all know you got somebody hid in that back room. It ain’t Kitty baking these loaves! That slut ain’t never baked a loaf what be this light and tasty in her whole miserable life!”
Voices agreed. “Maybe them men that be asking would pay dear to know about Cutter’s tale and his hidden woman.”
“Aye,” the regulars chorused. One voice rose above the others. “And maybe them what asks will wonder why a certain Cutter Rumm ain’t come forward on his own. Maybe them men will shove Cutter’s knife up his arse!”
The men roared with appreciative laughter.
Bristol’s eyes swam with relief. She was saved! Her baby was safe! One of the regulars would tell the story to claim the reward. She threw her arms around Kitty, tears of happiness sparkling like diamonds in her lashes. She didn’t see Kitty bite her lip in worry.
Cutter’s snarling wheeze lifted above the laughter. “I tell ye my woman ain’t been here more than three weeks at most! And she ain’t no grand lady! Ain’t no one going to pay a farthing to hear about no common trollop. And that’s all she be!”
“Then why the mystery?” a voice demanded. Others agreed. “Show her to us!” they shouted, and banged their mugs on the table.
Undecided, Cutter sucked on a rotted tooth and scowled. Then he staggered up from his seat on the bench and yelled toward the kitchen. “Queenie! Move your arse in here. Now!”
Bristol wiped floury hands on her apron, her heart hammering against her ribs. Yes, yes, yes! Luck was with her. Let the regulars see, let them remember! And please God, let them tell the men who searched for her! With a confident smile for Kitty, Bristol hastened into the pub room.
Cutter snatched her arm and dragged her to the front near the stove. “There!” he shouted. “Do this be a grand lady?”
The regulars stared. They examined the long red curls tied in a tangle at her neck, and the floury streak across her cheek. Their eyes slowly traveled past her soiled apron to the patched and stained gown and the clogs on her bare feet. Their thoughtful stares missed nothing; Bristol felt like a cow offered for auction. They saw the bruises of Cutter’s slaps and her rough callused hands and broken nails. They studied the violet shadows beneath her eyes and the rows of bug bites flaming her neck and arms.
“Ye’re right.” Billy Tuffin sighed. “That don’t be no grand lady.”
Bristol’s head jerked up, and her eyes rounded in sick dismay. Waves of heat flowed from the stove, and a trickle of sweat rolled down the neck of her gown. She battled a leap of panic and a fainting sensation of heat and disbelieving eyes. “I... Listen...” Cutter Rumm’s fingers crushed into her arm, and his bleary eyes flickered dangerously.
Bristol’s eyes silently pleaded with the regulars. She wet her lips. If they didn’t believe she was the lost lady of the snowstorm, they would say nothing, would not tell the searching men.
Sick, Bristol swayed on her feet and battled a scream of desperation welling in her throat. Surely God wouldn’t be so cruel as to extend this thread of hope, then snatch it away. She blinked at Cutter, a frantic appeal in her eyes, all the while knowing the futility of begging. She read what he was thinking, and her heart dropped.
Cutter stood in deep foggy thought. Gradually his belligerent snarl relaxed. The full import of his momentous good fortune slowly penetrated a sluggish mind. Greed had frozen his ambitions; which path to take had confused him beyond action. Now, however, the decision had been made for him, and his mushy brain need struggle no longer. If the regulars didn’t believe this was the lady being sought, then neither
did Cutter Rumm. She had lied. He was no man’s fool. The men searched for someone else; anyone could see she wasn’t any grand lady. Knowing this finally freed Cutter Rumm to begin amassing his fortune. His little red eyes glittered. A man with two women to sell and a pub in front—that man need bow to no one. Realizing this, Cutter felt almost as fine as when he’d swung a coal pick and done honest work. He’d been a man of labor then, respected, a man to reckon with. Cutter thought furiously. They’d all seen her now; why wait?
“I been saving her for a special offering, and this here looks to be it,” he wheezed happily. Behind his veined cheeks and broken nose, his mind already heard the clink of coins. Red eyes shrewdly totaled the room; Cutter would make more today than in a week of selling watered ale and gin. “Who’ll have her first? I guarantee she’s worth every coin ye can beg or steal!” He winked lewdly, hinting that Cutter Rumm didn’t offer what he hadn’t first sampled himself.
Deep silence greeted his words. Puzzled, Cutter frowned and swayed on his feet. He read disgust and rebellion in the eyes of his regulars. Sucking his bad tooth, he returned their stares. Then he gripped Bristol’s chin, his fingers digging against her cheeks, and he peered into her suffering face.
“What be the matter with ye, men? This here is a passable wench! Are ye too gin-soaked to see it?” Baffled, he glared from one hard face to another.
Finally Cod Meeker spit at the stove and rose to leave. “I’ll not be sitting in the company of a degenerate, Cutter Rumm. And I’ll not suffer more insult.” His stony eyes settled on Cutter’s knife. “If ye leave yer knife and want to step outside, I’ll show ye what I think of this business.”
Cutter’s blank red eyes moved over the other faces in growing bafflement. Two more customers stood to depart. “Never thought I’d see the day,” Billy Tuffin rasped. “We ain’t, much, Cutter, but we ain’t animals. Like some I could name.” He spit on the floor. “We still got a shred of dignity.” He followed Cod Meeker to the door. “We don’t dig in a hole what’s already planted. We ain’t sunk so low as to defile motherhood. And you ain’t never going to see one of us offering the likes for sale.” The door slammed behind them. Others nodded agreement and followed.
Salem's Daughter Page 39
