‘I don’t know, do I, but I’m sure it could. I allus say that to meself when I’m in trouble. I mean, you could have been standing here in your flannel drawers with not even a skirt on, then the whole world would have known what underwear you wore.’
Both girls fell into a sudden fit of giggles. Even Mercy couldn’t help herself, Prue was so funny.
‘That’s better, now eat up your bread and dripping and live to fight another day.’
And with tears of laughter as well as sadness in her eyes, Mercy did just that.
Chapter Fourteen
Livia felt a deep unease, a creeping fear that chilled her. Had the girl really managed to gain access to her father’s presence? And if so, what had gone on, and what had happened to her? She experienced a dreadful sense of foreboding. Surely he wouldn’t actually harm the girl?
‘It would be a waste of time to ask Father; he’d never tell me,’ she said, speaking her thoughts out loud.
‘Then ask someone else, do a bit of snooping,’ Jack suggested. ‘There are always ways and means. I’m hoping we can rely on your assistance to find her. Mercy is an innocent in all of this, remember, just as you are.’
Livia had the grace to see that was the case.
Yet still she clung to the hope that her father wouldn’t do the girl any real mischief. She might be all too aware that he was a brute and a bully, but there was surely a limit to how far even he would go?
‘What exactly are you suggesting he did? He would never do anything really terrible, anything…against the law.’ She couldn’t bring herself to use the words kill or murder, yet she could see this thought reflected in Jack’s dark gaze, and Jessie’s clenched, fretting hands.
Jack scowled, impatient with her resistance, her denial. ‘I don’t know, do I? That’s why we need you. He might’ve spirited her away some place.’
‘But where, and for what purpose?’
‘Out of shame perhaps, or fear of losing his good reputation and high standing in society. It wasn’t Mercy’s fault she was illegitimate, and she had every right to expect some support from her natural father following the death of her mother. She must be somewhere,’ Jack said, for the umpteenth time. ‘A person doesn’t just vanish into thin air.’
‘All I’m saying is that we should keep an open mind on the subject. I’m not making excuses for my father, why would I? And I’m certainly agreeable to speaking to one or two people at the store, discreetly of course, in case anyone has seen her. But I have to say that I don’t hold out much hope. We can’t be certain my father is involved until we’ve investigated further. He should be considered innocent until proven guilty.’
They met her pleading gaze with silence and Livia ploughed on with her somewhat over-optimistic defence, desperately clutching at straws. ‘He might not be involved with her disappearance at all; the girl could have come to grief in the streets and alleys of Fellside.’
Jack instantly rebuffed the idea, insisting that wasn’t possible. ‘We’ve asked around, searched every nook and cranny, and everyone hereabouts knows who Mercy is. She belongs in this neck of the woods, has lived on Fellside ever since she was a bairn. Besides, no one would dare touch a friend of Jack Flint.’
Livia gave a wry smile. ‘I dare say they wouldn’t.’
‘My lad isn’t some ne’er-do-well villain what bullies and frightens people, so don’t suggest that he is,’ Jessie heatedly interposed. ‘He’s done a lot for folk round here, unlike some I know. And he’s still battling with that father of yours, trying to get our rents reduced afore we all die of starvation trying to survive on a pittance.’
‘Yes, I do realise that,’ Livia soberly agreed. ‘I’m sure what you say is true, but my father has to make a living too, I suppose. Perhaps he doesn’t appreciate quite how bad things are for you.’
‘He knows right enough,’ Jack snapped. ‘He’s just a greedy selfish cove,’ and turning from her in disgust, he began to pace the room like a tiger locked in a cage, his anger barely contained, as if he held her personally responsible for their difficulties.
‘My father was a drunk who died in the gutter after a bar room brawl. That isn’t going to happen to me. I like a glass of beer same as the next man, but nothing is more important to me than my family, and no one, not Josiah Angel, nor that Henry Hodson with his crippling commission charges on the weaving we do for him, will break us. No matter what the cost, I’ll fight till my last breath for me and mine. Without my family, and I include Mercy among their number, what do I have worth living for?’
Livia said nothing in response to this passionate outburst, but quietly and respectfully absorbed the powerful emotion behind the unexpected confession. Besides, it was true what he said. Her father was greedy, and selfish, thinking only of himself. She really should stop defending him. Jack Flint might be rebellious and assertive, the kind of man who revelled in danger, or even courted it. He certainly wouldn’t be troubled by the normal rules of convention. Yet he also appeared to be deeply caring, supportive and protective, so far as those he loved were concerned.
It crossed her mind to wonder how it would feel to be loved by Jack Flint.
‘I know that you think I’ve had things easy, but that’s not strictly true. I do understand what you’re up against with my father, really I do.’
And as both Jack and Jessie considered her with an expression of total disbelief, Livia let out a heavy sigh. ‘All right, I promise that I’ll do my best to discover the truth. I’d really rather like to meet this girl myself, since we must be half-sisters,’ Livia mused. ‘How very strange life is.’
Jessie and Jack together devised a plan. The idea was for Livia to go back home and apologise to her father for upsetting him, then at the first opportunity start asking questions at the store.
‘How do you feel about going back home, lass, after what he did to you this morning, and to your mam all them years ago?’ Jessie quietly asked, as she helped the younger woman on with her coat.
Livia managed a wry smile. ‘Resigned. I’ve no choice but to go home. I couldn’t possibly abandon Maggie. My sister needs me. As for what he did to my mother, I need to think about that.’
She kissed the old woman’s soft cheek, thanking her for the care she’d taken of her. Livia couldn’t pretend not to be shocked by their living conditions, or the evidence of poverty all around her, but these were good, kind people. Despite what her father had drummed into her day after day about the poor being feckless and lazy, Livia couldn’t believe this woman was entirely responsible for her own misfortune.
‘I’ll see you safely home,’ Jack offered.
‘I’m sure I can manage to find my own way up the hill and across town. I’ll go along Low Fellside and up Beast Banks.’
‘I’d rather you didn’t try doing anything of the sort on your own, not in this locality. We’ve lost one girl, let’s not risk losing another. In any case, I think we should go down rather than up. We’ll head for Stricklandgate, then you can wait for me by the Town Hall while I run back to the shop and fetch your bicycle. How would that be?’
‘Excellent, then I can cycle home as if nothing at all had happened. Father would no doubt prefer it if the matter was forgotten.’
They walked down Stony Brow and round by Grandy Nook without speaking. Livia was shaken by the evidence of need she saw all around her, by gaunt-eyed women standing at their doors, many working their knitting sticks, half-naked children rolling in the muck, dogs scavenging in gutters that ran with effluent. Hands tugged at her skirts, desperate voices begged for a penny. Livia began to search in her pockets but Jack stopped her.
‘They’ll rip you apart if they think you ’as a bit of brass on you.’
‘Oh, but…’
‘No, buts. A penny won’t make much difference anyroad. It’s decent homes they need, and honest employment.’
Livia walked on in silence, subdued by the day’s events. Yet she was acutely aware of Jack swinging along beside her, pacing hi
s stride to hers. She found it hard to resist the urge to link her arm into his. Jack Flint, she rather thought, could become quite a good friend, but would that be such a good idea?
As they took a short cut through Woolpack Yard into Stricklandgate, she felt a strange reluctance to part. Watching him as he strode off to fetch her bicycle, she couldn’t help thinking what a fine figure of a man he was. A real man, not one who had to rely on money or status to make an impression. There would never be any question of Jack Flint being ignored in a crowd. He was tall and commanding, possessed high levels of energy, and was evidently a bold, dominant, leader. The kind of man who thrived on a challenge and in living on the edge. Yet she had been given evidence of a gentler side to his nature, and it moved her.
It surprised her that she even liked the man, let alone trusted him sufficiently to believe this convoluted tale he’d told her. What if it was all a trick, some ploy to discredit her father in order to win this battle he was waging over the rents?
But how could she think such a thing? How could she resist him? He was undoubtedly good-looking in his own idiosyncratic way, even if he was in need of a haircut, and quite the sexiest man she’d ever met.
He was back within minutes wheeling her bicycle, and as she took it from him their fingers briefly touched. It was as if an electric charge shot up her arm. Startled, Livia looked Jack square in the face, feeling a blush warming her own. He returned her gaze unblinking, his dark mahogany eyes unreadable.
‘I can manage now, thank you.’
There was a tremor in her voice as she took the hand Jack stretched out towards her. It was large and square, with spatula-shaped fingers and surprisingly clean nails. His grip was firm and warm, powerful but really quite comforting, and she felt oddly reluctant to let it go. Livia smiled up into his eyes, and some fierce emotion squeezed her heart.
She took a steadying breath, struggling to focus, and in an over-bright voice said, ‘Right, off I go then, and thanks again for all your help. I’m still reeling over what you’ve just told me, but I’ll do my best, Jack, I promise. Although how am I ever going to find the excuse to ask questions about this girl?’
‘You’ll think of something,’ Jack said, and his smile sent her on her way, wobbling dangerously on her bicycle in a dizzying spin of confused emotions.
* * *
The children made it very clear by their stubborn silence, and by the dark resentment in their eyes, that they would pay heed to their sister Mary, but not to Ella. Each weekend progressed as miserably as the one before, with the older girl making it plain she was the only one allowed to do anything for her siblings. Ella was strictly forbidden to so much as touch them. Should she reach for a towel to rub Tilda’s hair dry after her Saturday bath, Mary would snatch it from her hands with that fierce anger in her eyes.
‘I can do it!’ she’d snarl, pulling her small sister out of Ella’s reach.
They made it very plain that they’d no intention of ever accepting her as a stepmother. Not that Ella had the first idea what was required of her in that role. What did she know about children? Nothing. But she longed to help, if only because they looked so sad and unhappy, and so much older than their tender years.
The boy, Emmett, in his short grey trousers that fell from armpit to knee, presumably to allow room for growth, appeared locked in some private world of his own. Ella would often see him talking to himself, his small face a picture of misery. The younger girl, in a faded cotton print dress that had obviously already been well worn by her older sister, never uttered a word so far as Ella could see. And Mary herself, in a dress that stretched tightly across her budding young breasts and should have been dumped in the rag bag months ago, bore an expression taut with anger on her young-old face.
She did her best, even took them for a walk one afternoon, and what happened? The little monkeys led her right into a bog and left her wallowing almost up to her knees in mud while they ran home giggling. The more she struggled, the deeper in the mud she sank, and of course fell full length in the end.
By the time she reached home, in dire need of a bath, Mrs Rackett claimed the hot water would take an hour to boil up, and the children could barely speak for laughing. Even Amos looked as if he were struggling to remain sober-faced. How she hated them all.
Yet once she was clean and warm again, she forgave them. They were only children after all, and really she felt quite sorry for them. They were not permitted to play with toys or games. She’d never seen them draw or paint, do a jigsaw, or read a book other than the Bible. Even though they were home only at weekends, their father made no effort to allow them a little fun. Instead, they were expected to get on with their chores without complaint.
No work or chores of any kind were allowed on the Sabbath, of course, not even knitting or sewing. Then Ella really was truly bored, and so were the children. During one particularly long, dull, wet Sunday afternoon she could bear the silence no longer and, clapping her hands together, brightly announced, ‘I know, why don’t we play at making soap bubbles?’
Her suggestion was met with a glum silence.
‘It’s such fun,’ Ella assured them, doing her best to sound enthusiastic. ‘I used to love blowing bubbles with a clay pipe when I was a girl.’
‘We have no clay pipes here,’ Amos tartly informed her, ‘since we don’t hold with smoking. It’s a filthy habit.’
‘I only wanted to amuse them with a game,’ Ella said, sounding defensive, despite her best intentions not to. ‘They’ve worked hard all week. Children need some time to play.’
‘“It is good for a man that he bear the yoke in his youth,”’ quoted Amos.
She realised it was useless to argue further as the children had already been led away by the over-protective Mary, insisting it was time for their afternoon nap. Sighing, Ella gave up, thinking perhaps a nap might be a good idea for herself too, and retired to her room for the rest of the afternoon to lie on her bed with her book. It felt such a relief to be away from the children’s critical gaze, and their visible resentment at her presence in place of their beloved mother.
After supper, which comprised the usual cold meats and bread and butter, Amos took out his Bible and read to them. Lamentations of Jeremiah was his choice of text tonight, from which he’d quoted earlier. By the time the clock struck seven and it was their bedtime, the children were very nearly asleep. Bored out of their mind, she shouldn’t wonder. But they needed a good night’s sleep as they’d all be up at five the next morning. The moment milking was finished at six, Amos would drive them back to their aunt’s house in Staveley, ready for another week of school.
Mary always took the children up to bed, but tonight Ella offered to tuck them in. ‘I could tell them a fairy story.’
‘Tha’ll not feed lies to my childer,’ Amos sternly informed her.
Ella looked at her husband, outraged. ‘Fairy stories aren’t lies, they’re lovely, imaginative, magical tales with happy endings.’
‘I don’t hold with magic, nor other devil practices.’
‘There’s no harm in a little magic, and Cinderella is my favourite.’ She turned to Tilda, at just five she was a small, round-cheeked child with large brown eyes. Really quite adorable. Surely she must be interested in fairy stories. ‘Wouldn’t you like me to tell you a story of a beautiful princess who fell in love with her Prince Charming?’
‘No, she wouldn’t,’ her father answered for her, before the little girl had time to even nod.
Ella was cross, and for once allowed her feelings to show. ‘Oh, for goodness sake, Amos, don’t be such a spoilsport. Is it so wrong to believe in love and happiness?’
There was a telling silence and she could see at once that she’d said the wrong thing. It went on for quite some time, broken only by a loud snore from Mrs Rackett, who was pretending to be dozing by the fire.
‘You’ve made it clear what your views are of love, that it should be freely given.’
‘Amos, please…’ g
lancing anxiously at the children, ‘…this isn’t the moment. And don’t change the subject.’
‘“Who can find a virtuous woman? For her price is far above rubies.”’
Ella flushed with embarrassment and caught a glimpse of Tilda’s little face as she turned to slowly climb the steep stairs. She looked so sad and disappointed, revealing that the child would indeed have loved a tale of magical nonsense with a happy ending. Perhaps she was as tired of dry biblical quotations as herself. Ella longed to protest further, but bit her lip and said nothing more, afraid Amos might twist that too. She did, however, manage to offer the little girl a smile as Tilda made her way upstairs, as if secretly promising to return to the subject another day.
Why was the man so cold, so cruel? What was his problem? Had she merely exchanged one tyrant for another?
Chapter Fifteen
Breakfast, like every other meal at Angel House, was filled with tensions. The breakfast room itself, with its panoramic views of the distant fells and mountains beyond, was scented with the lavender wax polish applied by a diligent housemaid who rose at five to clean out fire grates and beat the dust from cushions and rugs. The table might look a picture of respectability with its pristine starched linen, sparkle of glass and pretty vase of violets, but the air positively bristled with undercurrents of emotion. Beneath the superficial gloss of good taste and civility, resentment and hostility simmered.
This particular Monday morning, Kitty, the parlour maid, entered in something of a flurry and set a dish of smoked kippers on the sideboard. She was late, having been held up by cook scolding her for not having warmed the butter, which meant it was too hard for the family to spread on the soft fresh rolls.
Mr Angel demanded long hours and high standards from his servants, but he loved his kippers, insisting upon them for breakfast every Monday morning. Yet another task for Kitty: finding time to scurry over to the fishmonger by seven sharp to buy them. She checked that everything was as it should be, bobbed a curtsey, and fled before he could give her another telling-off.
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