Friendship's Bond

by Meg Hutchinson

  Thorpe had realised she could not but consent to Ezekial’s request; but his eyes had told her there would be another time.

  And there would. Only by leaving this town could she be truly free of Thomas Thorpe. And then what of Alec? Should he elect to stay then, if only out of revenge, Thomas Thorpe would do as he had threatened. Somehow or other he would harm Alec. Ann bowed to the truth of her heart. Freedom demanded a high price; one she could not pay.

  ‘Miss Spencer.’

  Thorpe! Ann’s heart missed a beat. He had not waited long.

  ‘Miss Spencer, I was hoping to meet you.’

  Ann forced herself to look to where the call came from, then stared as Edward Langley went on.

  ‘An accident . . . Leah . . .’

  ‘An accident . . . Leah . . .’

  She had not waited to ask what or how, she had not thought of horse or cart with its empty trays and milk churns nor had the dreadful memory of being waylaid by Thomas Thorpe remained any longer as her mind suddenly filled with new anxiety. Had Leah suffered a fall? Was it the queedling, had the handling of that heavy plank caused her an injury? Could it be one of the cows had pushed against her, the weight of it knocking her to the ground? One after another the questions had raced while she had run breathlessly all the way to the house.

  Leah had not been in the living room, the chair she favoured close to the hearth had been empty. At that moment Ann had frozen with dread.

  ‘. . . an accident . . .’

  It had clanged like a bell.

  An accident which had taken the life of one woman who had proved a friend?

  Looking at the figure lying in its narrow iron-framed bed Ann could not lock out the memories.

  She had stared at the chair numb to all but the terrible feeling of emptiness; the silence of the tiny room drawing her deep into itself and closing her from everything, letting her drift away on a soft cloud of comfort.

  ‘Is everything all right?’

  There had been words coming from a distant place, from a world she did not know.

  ‘Miss Spencer . . . Miss Spencer . . .’

  Floating in that gentle calm, wanting only to be left to its peace, she had let it carry her away from all disturbance.

  ‘Miss Spencer . . . Ann . . .’

  The tone was sharp and demanding; a sudden force grabbed her arms holding, shaking, snatching her from that benign serenity until finally the voice of Edward Langley again calling her name had returned her to her senses.

  ‘Ann, what’s wrong, what is it?’

  It had tumbled from her. ‘Leah . . . an accident, she . . . she is dead.’

  ‘Dead!’ His grip had softened but not relinquished its hold. ‘Leah is not dead.’

  ‘But you said . . .’

  ‘What I would have said if you had waited long enough to listen was it is Alec who has met with an accident, not Leah, and before you go careering off again let me tell you he is also not dead.’

  His hands had remained a few moments on her arms then she had turned from him, the clatter of her boots on the well-scrubbed tread of the narrow stairs matching the drumming of her racing heartbeats.

  As she sat beside the sleeping figure Ann heard again in her mind those questions which had come in the quiet hours at Alec’s bedside. Had it been her imagination that Edward Langley’s hold on her had been more than the touch of reassurance? That the look vanishing from his eyes almost at the moment she noticed it had held more than sympathy? Had she wanted it to be more? In those same quiet hours had come acknowledgement of her wish that she had not simply imagined it.

  Embarrassment made her blush slightly as she shifted self-consciously in her seat.

  Catching the sound, Leah turned from the tiny washstand tucked into a corner of the room.

  ‘The lad be restin’ an’ so should you be; best y’be away to your bed, ain’t no sense in sittin’ the night in that chair.’

  Ann shook her head. ‘Just a little longer, if Alec should need anything.’

  ‘So he calls, ain’t neither o’ we so far away we wouldn’t ’ear ’im.’

  Leah had not seen him on that other occasion. The colour which thoughts of Edward Langley had brought to her cheeks drained away as Ann reached an involuntary hand to the boy. Leah had not seen Alec in those days after they had been turned away from that ship.

  ‘I was so afraid.’

  ‘I ’ave to be admittin’ to fearin’ meself,’ Leah answered. ‘When I seen the lad in Edward’s arms I feared of there bein’ more than broken bones but Edward said as there couldn’t be no such cos of the lad a movin’ around normal like after fallin’ from that cart; said he done naught but bump against the wheel but then after an hour or so Alec were limpin’, that were when Edward insisted he be allowed to look for hisself what ’urt had been done; said the lad’s leg showed sign o’ bruisin’ as were to be expected but when the limpin’ got worse he thought it better the lad be fetched ’ome. It were Edward put him to bed then called of the doctor. He agreed no bones were broke, said bruises be natural after a knock, they be unsightly but that be due to a slight bleedin’ ’neath the skin, certainly naught to worry on.’

  ‘Naught to worry on’. Ann caught at the words. If only she could be sure.

  Leah placed a fresh cloth beside the jug and bowl on the washstand as she went on.

  ‘Lads be always tumblin’; I raised two o’ my own and bruisin’ of a limb were a daily ’appenin’ but they does no real hurt. So like I says you be away to bed an’ no more worryin’ for it be all over, the lad be all right.’

  Ann glanced again at Alex, seeing the angry flush rising over the pale face, hearing the soft moan mingle with short rapid breaths, and her whole body tensed.

  ‘No Leah, Alec is not all right. It is not all over . . . it is only just beginning.’

  Chapter 10

  Ezekial Turley, the old fool, had robbed him of a pleasure already too long anticipated! Entering the chapel Thomas Thorpe breathed hard against a searing flush of anger, the same which had burned since that meeting.

  Turley might have known what had been in store for Ann Spencer and that knowledge might have caused him to ask what he had on purpose, knowing full well any refusal on Thomas Thorpe’s part would have flown about the town on wings an eagle might envy.

  Irritated further by the thought, he flung it away. Turley didn’t have second sight, he couldn’t know and neither could anybody else.

  He collected a pile of hymn books from a table placed near the door. A few more minutes were all he had needed, a few minutes would have seen them inside Chapel House and Ann Spencer would have been right where he had wanted her . . . and exactly how he wanted her, naked and spread-eagled on the bed, tied there if need be. But Thomas Thorpe had not been given satisfaction, all due to Ezekial Turley wanting a word.

  But why had the man insisted they talk right then, why had he used the excuse of ‘old bones’ when those same old bones carried him about the town with little apparent difficulty? Why, unless he knew?

  Exasperation added to his irritation. He slammed the books hard on to narrow ledges of pews kept cleaned and polished by women who, despite the combined pressures of long hours of factory war work and the care of homes and families, still found time to keep the chapel spick and span.

  Retrieving a book which had slipped to the floor, he stared at it.

  Hadn’t he taken great care to keep all activities which had taken place in Chapel House entirely secret?

  He breathed more easily. The old man hadn’t known or their conversation would no doubt have followed a different path.

  ‘Mark what I says . . .’

  Turley had waited until the girl had been out of earshot.

  ‘. . . there be a fomentin’ along o’ some folk, a brewin’ o’ trouble that less’n it be checked could lead to more’n the throwin’ o’ words.’

  He had concealed his impatience, had controlled his urge to push Turley aside, telling him gossi
p and its ‘fomentin’’ was the only amusement open to many in Wednesbury, an enjoyment which rapidly lost all appeal once the next item reared its juicy head.

  But the allure of being lay preacher at the chapel had proved too strong. It was his firm intention to continue in that position, one which had afforded many past pleasures taken in the house at the rear of the building and which would allow many more of the same. To tell the man he was a fool then walk away and leave him standing would not go down well with other parishioners. It might even mar that ultimate aim of becoming the permanent preacher.

  ‘I been a ’earing talk . . . talk among some o’ the women wi’ regard to that there wench . . .’

  Talk! It had stopped the breath in his lungs. Was this the reason Ezekial Turley had asked for a word? Did the gossip he referred to involve Thomas Thorpe? Had knowledge of what had passed between him and Ann Spencer reached other ears? He had remained tensely unmoving while the old man had gone on.

  ‘. . . seems they no longer be partial to the ’avin’ o’ butter’n cheese teken ’em along of ’er . . .’

  Butter and cheese! Turley was talking of butter and cheese!

  ‘But why?’ He had masked his relief with a half laugh.

  ‘I asked o’ that reason, turns out they don’t be a wantin’ o’ no truck wi’ somebody who be ’arbourin’ of a spy.’

  With both hands resting firmly on his walking stick Ezekial Turley had looked him straight in the eyes, saying quietly:

  ‘I ’as no cause to be askin’ where it be that idea were mooted for we both knows where, same as I be thinkin’ to know who be wieldin’ of the spoon that be stirrin’ o’ that particular pot so I be sayin’ to you what I answered o’ them women: think long an’ hard afore layin’ trouble to Leah Marshall’s door for though her meks a sturdy friend ’er meks a stronger enemy.’

  Turley had left it at that; with a brief nod he had turned back along the passageway leading to his home. But what he had said had lingered in Thorpe’s mind.

  He walked slowly along the aisle to the pulpit where he mounted the three shallow steps to stand within it.

  ‘. . . think long an’ hard afore layin’ trouble to Leah Marshall’s door . . . ’er meks a stronger enemy.’

  Perhaps he might follow that advice. Leah Marshall was already no friend of Thomas Thorpe and would not hesitate to demonstrate the fact should she be given reason to think he threatened Ann Spencer.

  He laid the hymn book on the pulpit, hands spread one each side of it as he cast a long look about the room. Leah Marshall’s leaving the congregation so abruptly had, though they had not said so, left some asking themselves why. And to have that woman voice any accusation could have them ask that same question again, this time openly.

  Deborah Marshall! Hair more gold than brown glistened in the light of candles, eyes starlit with tears gleamed in a face pretty as could be wished, and the body . . .

  He breathed deeply to suppress the fierce pull at the base of his stomach.

  Breasts high and firm, a tiny waist above gently rounded hips, her body held the very essence of desire, desire which had throbbed in him that evening she had been alone in the chapel.

  ‘I’m so afraid . . .’

  She had turned to him, her eyes gleaming blue crystal.

  ‘I’m afraid Edward will die, that he will be killed the same as Joshua and Daniel have been killed.’

  He had drawn her to him, holding her gently as a father might, but the feeling which pounded in his loins had not been that of a father.

  ‘I fear each morning I wake that a telegram will come, that it will say Edward is dead.’

  She had sobbed against his shoulder, the trembling of that delightful body adding to the throb of his own.

  ‘We will pray together . . .’ he had murmured, fighting the urge to fondle the breasts he could feel against his chest.

  ‘. . . we will pray the Lord protect Edward and comfort us with His mercy.’

  Anxiety or the tenderness of years? Either way, Deborah Marshall had been easily duped. She had complied without question with the suggestion they go to Chapel House, where she might feel more comfortable free from the possible embarrassment of explaining the reason for her tears to anyone taking a moment after work to ask the Lord’s protection for loved ones away at war.

  They had gone to the house not just on that evening but several more, the sympathetic touch of his hand on her shoulder when she left being gradually replaced with the touch of lips first to her forehead and later her cheek. He had played his hand carefully and she had not suspected.

  Then had come the dreaded telegram. Edward Langley was ‘missing, presumed killed in action’.

  She had come to the chapel as had become her practice, to seek consolation and support, and he, as had become his practice, had taken her to the house there to pray together, to seek the comfort of the Lord.

  And comfort had been given . . . to Thomas Thorpe.

  Wrapped up in her grief she had not been aware of the buttons of her dress being loosed, of the hand he slipped inside to caress her breast. She had stayed unaware that he was pressing her backwards on the couch, lifting her skirts, pulling away the cotton bloomers; only the touch of his fingers brushing the cleft between her legs alerted her to what was happening. By that time it had been too late; with a hand over her mouth to deaden her scream he had snatched open his own clothing and thrust his pulsing flesh deep into her.

  ‘It would be unwise to speak to anyone of this.’ He had caught her wrist, holding her as she made to run from the house. ‘Think of what people will say not only of you but of your mother? What will they say of a woman who allows a sixteen-year-old daughter to visit a man alone and at night? They will say that she encouraged you to come here, to seduce with pretended tears.’

  ‘Folk would never say that, they know my mother.’

  ‘Better than they know their preacher?’ His reply had cut away her words. ‘I don’t deny that, but they also understand the limits of a man, a man enticed beyond endurance, teased and tormented by a girl, the flaunting of her naked body finally snapping the power of his will.’

  In the silence of the empty chapel Thomas Thorpe felt again the exultant rise of the laugh with which he had greeted her denial.

  ‘Go then,’ he had released her, ‘go tell your side of the story. I’m sure folk will listen with interest same as they’ll listen to a man broken in spirit by the wickedness of a girl and a mother set upon trapping him into marriage; and one thing more I can be sure of, they will believe the word of their preacher, the man who has helped and served the community in every way he could. That belief will destroy the reputation of your mother and of you, Deborah, you will be ignored by any you called friend, forced by their disgust to leave Wednesbury. Think of it . . .’

  He had snatched her hard against him, revelling in the gasp of fear as she had felt the hard rise of flesh against her thigh.

  ‘Think of your mother already desolated by the loss of two sons, think what the shock of another ordeal will do to her.’

  It had been enough; he had seen the flame of defiance die in her eyes. Deborah Marshall had crumpled before that argument. But she had not come alone again to the chapel, not until the arrival of a letter to say Edward Langley had been found, that he was recovering from a wound and would shortly be repatriated. She loved Edward, she loved him and wanted to be his wife.

  ‘Please,’ she had pleaded, ‘please promise he will never learn of . . .’

  ‘Of you being a whore, that you lay willingly with me.’

  With his hands pressing hard against the smooth surface of the pulpit he smiled inwardly at the girl staring back with horrified eyes; felt the elation of mastery and side by side with it another equally satisfying sensation: the prospect of pleasures his promise could demand.

  ‘There will be no need of Edward Langley learning anything . . .’

  He had paused, allowing Deborah Marshall a moment of relief, before co
ntinuing, ‘That is of course so long as you agree to resume our relationship, shall we say once a week.’

  He had sneered openly at her gasp of abhorrence.

  ‘Why should marriage make any difference? Lying with one man need not prevent you lying with another.’

  But she had not seen it that way. Sobbing that she would rather both her mother and the rest of the town know what he had done, what he further demanded, she had turned away.

  The threat of exposure flashed like a lightning bolt in his mind. Grabbing the heavy metal cross from the table which served as an altar, he had followed her and brought the object smashing down on her head as she reached the door. She had dropped to lie without a sound yet he feared she might not be dead.

  His glance travelled to the spot where she had fallen as he breathed again the fear of that moment.

  It seemed he had stared an age at the crumpled figure, its turquoise-coloured coat rapidly staining with the crimson of blood seeping from a second blow, staring until the clang of metal striking stone as the cross dropped from his hand had recalled him to what he had done and to what must yet be done.

  He could not take her to Chapel House; the woman cleaning there would not yet have left and it was too light to risk leaving a body among the bushes bordering the building where anyone passing along the street might spot it.

  Panic was beginning to race in a new flood along his veins when his eye had rested on a cupboard set in an alcove near the door. It was used only to store bucket and mop, utensils which would not be needed for several days to come. It had proved an adequate hiding place. He had left the body there, locked the chapel on the last parishioner then taken the short walk to Foster Street. Enoch Phillips had worked as a wheelwright and in his younger days had built himself a small trap which along with the horse kept in his back yard he would generously lend for chapel business, namely that of the ‘minister’ paying visits to sick members living on the outskirts of the town.