The wench had said no more of the matter, which Leah felt certain would prove to be her intention of leaving both the farm and the town.
Crossing the market square, dark and empty of stalls, the shops lining each side closed as was usual on the Lord’s Day, Leah walked quickly. Although she no longer took part in the services held at the chapel in Queen’s Place, she had not turned her back on the Lord. Prayer said in her bedroom would she knew be heard as readily by her Maker as those said in any building yet tonight she would speak to God in His own house.
Having turned left to enter the equally darkened street of Spring Head she paused before the imposing edifice of the much larger chapel there, beams of candlelight playing across its tall arched windows to flicker on the steps of an ancient horse mount block positioned against its front wall.
She would ask no blessing. What she planned to do later this same night would deserve none. Lifting the shawl to completely cover her head Leah walked into the building; she would pay the Lord the respect of admitting to the sin of revenge.
She had chosen to sit at the very back of the wide semicircular room. Like the chapel in Queen’s Place this was unadorned by the plaster effigies and carved stone statues contained in churches of other denominations, but held just a plain golden cross placed in the centre of an equally plain altar. But unlike its sister chapel this boasted a balcony which skirted both sides of a strikingly majestic organ.
What would Thomas Thorpe give to be minister of this place?
Immediately she crushed the thought and followed the familiar service. As it neared the end she had slipped quietly away, retracing her steps across a deserted market square, going now not home but to Queen’s Place.
Thomas Thorpe was never one to miss an opportunity to spout forth. The last amen was barely said before he was up the steps of that pulpit like lightning, sermonising, moralising, playing the preacher for all it was worth. Leah snorted contempt. Where was the morality behind the talk of a young lad being a spy for the Germans? She need not look far for the answer. Thomas Thorpe’s ‘guidance’, all his talk of serving the community, was no more than a way of planting ever more deeply the idea of him as minister. But he didn’t fool Leah Marshall nor would he be fooling the Lord and where one could mebbe never call Thorpe to book the other most surely would.
But tonight she was grateful for the self-importance which would have the man delay the congregation those minutes longer, treating them to the benefit of his ‘wisdom’, minutes which had allowed her to arrive in time.
At the door of the familiar chapel Leah lowered the shawl covering her bonnet, then with a deep indrawn breath to bolster her resolve flung the doors wide.
Chapter 16
Alone in Leah’s tiny living room, a muslin cheesecloth she was sewing lying forgotten in her lap, Ann’s mind replayed events following the older woman’s departure on her visit to Spring Head.
She had not meant to sit with Alec. Although he was recovering well from his accident rest and sleep were beneficial. Knowing this she intended to chat while he drank the nightly cup of cocoa Leah ensured was always there for him but then as she reached to take the emptied cup his hand had caught her own.
‘Ann.’ Blue-grey eyes had looked up at her, concern bright in their depth. ‘Ann, what is wrong? Why are you unhappy?’
She had laughed a short brief sound, denial already on her lips, but before she could speak Alec had shaken his head.
‘No Ann.’ He had not released her hand. ‘Do not tell me I am mistaken, I see in your eyes that there is something troubling you. Ann . . . is that something me?’
She had been so caught up in her own problems she had not seen what was happening with Alec, had been blind to the look on that young face which silently asked again that same question: Is it me? She had shaken her head, saying quickly:
‘Alec, how could you . . . ?’
‘Think such?’ He had smiled but there had been no laughter in those wide eyes. ‘Ann, I am not of your family, yet I have allowed myself to depend upon you too long. I fear that is the source of the unhappiness I have seen on your face these past days.’
‘Then you fear wrong!’ Her retort had come sharply yet even as she made it she had recognised its implicit indignation was really directed at herself, for being so preoccupied she had not seen what must have been there.
At her reply he had released her hand then as she had turned to leave he had spoken again, a quiet determination ringing in every word.
‘Ann, I am not a man but I ask you do not treat me as so young a child, do not shield me when doing so causes ill feeling between yourself and other people.’
‘There is no ill feeling.’ She had tried to sound light but her lowered glance betrayed the falsity of tone. Alec had seen it too and suddenly in that benevolent smile she had felt as if she was the child and he the gentle understanding adult.
‘That is not the truth, Ann. Nor I think was the reason you gave for us vacating Chapel House. Had it been as you claimed, that you wished to move on to a different town, you would not so readily have accepted the offer to come here.’
On the instant she was back in the living room of Chapel House. The room was in darkness, the one candle she had left scarcely challenging the deepening shadows while the fire of a few almost burned-out sticks made no impression on the chill of approaching night. She and Alec had walked the town all day asking at every likely house for employment for herself but nothing had been offered. Now Alec was in bed and she sat alone staring at the last of her money, coins glinting in the flickering candle flame.
Had there been a tap at the door which she, locked in despair, had not heard? Or had Thomas Thorpe simply walked into the house uninvited?
Ann watched the lean figure write an entry in the rent book, saw the lift of sly vulpine eyes, the thin lips drawn back. Then the book skimmed away and in the same moment a swift darting movement caught her into his imprisoning arms, that mean tight mouth crushing hard on hers, while the hand – she shuddered – the hand was on her breast squeezing, kneading and then . . . Oh God! It was clawing at her clothes!
‘Ann.’
It had seemed to call from some faraway place she could not reach.
‘Ann!’
Someone was calling her name. It had to be Thomas Thorpe. Nausea foamed like a tide in her veins, every atom of her wanting to be free of the threatened horror. She had pulled away, movement making the cup tumble from her hands.
‘Ann, I’m sorry, what I said was wrong. I have no right to speak that way.’
Alec! It had been Alec calling her name. With a sob of relief she had pushed at the last lingering tendrils of fear though her reply as she retrieved the fallen cup had held echoes of its presence.
‘That was clumsy of me.’ She had tried to smile. ‘Thank goodness it was empty. Leah would have wondered what was going on if her sheets were stained with cocoa.’
‘Ann,’ Alec had called quietly as she turned to leave the room, ‘why did we leave that house, was it truly a matter of money or was it the man who called to collect it? I know failing to find employment was a cause for worry but on the days he was due to call that worry became fright. Why, Ann? Was it that he threatened you in some way? Could it be he threatens you still?’
That last word had halted her in mid step. Alec had said ‘still’! Did that mean he had heard, might he know what Thorpe had said to her in Chapel House . . . even worse, had he perhaps seen the man paw at her body? Shame had flooded her as she had turned to meet his penetrating look.
Seeming to stand outside of herself, Ann watched the figure at the foot of the narrow iron-framed bed, saw the glance drop to the fragments of pottery, the finger position and reposition the pieces, saw the boy propped against the pillows, his own gaze steady.
‘Mr Thorpe threatening me!’
The figure she knew to be her own yet strangely felt to be no part of her had at last answered. ‘That is absurd, Alec, why on earth would he! Of c
ourse being unable to find work was stressful, I was anxious there would not be money enough for future payment of rent which was why I was eager to accept Leah’s offer. It meant both a home and employment, that is the only reason we came to live here.’
A wisdom beyond his years shone in the boy’s clear eyes, the reply he gave attesting to it.
‘In Russia also we have words for stress and for horror. I understand the meaning of both as I understand the difference. It was not simply unease I saw in you the days Thomas Thorpe called at the house, it was fear; it could only have been fear of him.’
Had the look in her own eyes betrayed her? The pictures faded back into the vault of memory as Ann stared at the needlework in her lap.
Alec was young and not without courage. Like all boys he could act without thinking. Were he to find how accurate had been his assessment of Thomas Thorpe he might well confront the man.
‘. . . should I fail to get what is owed from one then I simply take it from the other; male or female, woman or boy, either is acceptable.’
Thomas Thorpe had not spoken these menacing words merely to frighten, he had meant every one. He would vent his spite on Alec and that spite would take only one form. Rape! Nothing less would slake his desire for revenge.
Ann, shuddering, did not feel the needle prick into her thumb.
She had seen the way Alec had looked at her. He doubted the truth of her response that Thomas Thorpe posed no threat to her; in all probability he might ask Thorpe the same question directly to his face.
That could be disastrous. She could not stand by and let Alec walk headlong into the danger that was Thomas Thorpe.
As she stared into flames dancing beneath a quietly bubbling kettle Ann confronted one more difficulty. How, if Alec chose to remain behind in this house, was a meeting with Thomas Thorpe to be avoided?
The whole room had fallen silent, the entire congregation turning as one to stare at the figure in the open doorway. Leah’s glance, though, rested only on the man in the raised pulpit.
Why was she here? Thomas Thorpe’s pulse quickened. Ann Spencer! Had she told Leah Marshall that he molested her while she lived in the house behind this chapel? Had she spoken of the threat he had made against herself and the boy? Was that the reason Leah Marshall now stood at the door? It would not be unlike her to face him with it, to challenge him as to the truth in front of the whole congregation. Question, reason, cause, effect: like a maelstrom in his mind thoughts circled, each adding to the drumbeat pounding along every nerve. Should he speak, or would it serve him better to have the woman break the silence? Should he leave the pulpit, go to meet her? No, from here he could look down on the unwelcome visitor. She must come to him.
From the well of the room murmurs began to rise, increasing in volume as people voiced their own speculation, accompanied by enquiring glances in his direction. To say nothing would likely lead them into thinking as he had, that Leah Marshall was here to question what had happened in Chapel House.
Concealed behind the pulpit he drew a handkerchief surreptitiously from his jacket pocket, wiping palms moist with nervous apprehension.
Any mention of what he had said to Ann Spencer, any claim that he had tried to force himself on her, could be denied, dismissed as no more than malicious lies.
But most people in this room had known Leah Marshall all of their lives and those who had known her less long were all acquainted with her reputation: forthright, outspoken but honest for all that.
Mud sticks to the cleanest of clothes! Though accusation may not be believed the stain of it remains! He wiped his hands a second time. The slightest whiff of doubt could very soon become the pungent stink of gossip, tittle-tattle enjoyed regardless of its victim, and if Leah Marshall had come to denounce him he would be that victim.
A cold bead of perspiration trickled along his spine. He locked glances with the woman, who as yet had not spoken. Leah Marshall could destroy him, could have him replaced as lay preacher, and with that would go any chance of his becoming permanent replacement for the hoped-for minister. She had to be forestalled. She had to be prevented from damning him. But how?
‘Come you in Leah, y’be welcome to a seat.’
‘I thanks you kindly Ezekial, but my word stands now as when it were spoke, I’ll set no foot across this threshold so long as Thomas Thorpe be among the congregation. But it don’t be him has the bringin’ of me here tonight.’
She was not here to speak of him! Relieved, Thorpe returned the handkerchief to his pocket.
He breathed thankfully watching Leah’s glance move from him to sweep the seated assembly.
‘It don’t be just one will ’ave the hearin’ of Leah Marshall’s words.’ Shawl held across her breasts, Leah continued loudly. ‘They’ll be listened to by all they hold meanin’ for and though there be some among you for who they’ll mean nothin’ I meks no apology; this way, everybody hearin’ the same leaves no room for addin’s on and no tekin’ away when it be talked of among y’selves. There be women here tonight who reckon to tek no more from Leah Marshall’s dairy lessen it be delivered along of ’erself.’
Waiting for the buzz of whispers to die completely, she continued.
‘I’ll be namin’ of no names though them who be responsible be well known to me. Mekin’ conditions be their privilege, I owns to that; but it don’t be theirs alone. Now they be goin’ to hear what be the rights of Leah Marshall. There’ll be not one ounce of cheese goes to them from my dairy though the keepin’ sees it turn green wi’ mould . . . not a single pat of butter nor a gill of milk will go from my house to theirs . . . what don’t be fed to the pigs will be thrown along of the drain though the doin’ of it brings the wrath of heaven down on my head.’
‘Hey, ’old up Leah wench, y’ can’t go a doin’ the like o’ that.’
Ezekial’s exclamation was immediately followed by a chorus of the same.
‘Ezekial be right, Leah, y’ can’t refuse . . .’
‘ ’Er can’t do such . . .’
‘That be naught short o’ wickedness . . .’
Then a woman was on her feet, her voice carrying over the rest.
‘What Ezekial Turley says, what be said by all o’ we, be Leah Marshall don’t ’ave cause to threaten nor do her ’ave the right to deny folk, to refuse the sellin’ of butter an’ cheese; tell her, Mr Thorpe, tell her that don’t be no proper thing to go a doin’.’
‘Ar preacher, you tells her, you tells Leah Marshall her can’t go doin’ what her said, tell her it don’t be proper.’ A second woman championed the plea then dropped away as Leah turned a glance to the man standing in the pulpit.
‘Well!’ Leah met the silence. ‘Don’t you be goin’ to do what be asked, don’t you be goin’ to tell Leah Marshall what be right? After all with you bein’ a paragon of all that be proper who better to do it?’
She had afforded him no courtesy of title, had not addressed him as Mister nor referred to him as a representative of clergy. Beneath the veneer of calm an icy anger swept through Thorpe’s entire body. Those words, ‘a paragon of all that be proper’, were a taunt, a deliberate attempt to draw him into a discussion, in which she doubtless intended to accuse him of abusing Ann Spencer. That was a trap he must avoid yet not to answer when the whole room was turned to him would very well bring its own accusation.
Caught in the crossfire of indecision Thomas Thorpe glared at the woman who was as much a source of fear as she was of irritation.
Chapter 17
Leah Marshall had chosen her moment well. Timing her visit to coincide with the end of Sunday evening service, when every member of the congregation would be in the chapel, was well thought out; the perfect opportunity for her to place the facts of Ann Spencer’s departure from Chapel House before them.
Facts! Facts were something she could not prove, but proved or otherwise, any accusation would be of no advantage to him.
‘Answer ’er, preacher.’
The call of a ma
n anxious for his supper-time ale was followed by another from someone equally eager to be gone.
‘Ar, goo on Mr Thorpe, give Leah answer.’
He had to speak. A breath helped to allay the anger inside, the barest hint of a smile flicking his mouth. Thomas Thorpe looked across the room. ‘I’m sure,’ he paused, the bile of anger burning his throat, ‘I’m sure Mrs Marshall cannot really intend withholding the produce of her dairy, I think—’
‘Oh I intends all right!’
Thorpe’s clenched hands relaxed. Intentional or otherwise the woman’s sharp intervention had drawn attention away from himself, the call for him to answer forgotten by the people now watching Leah Marshall. That was how he would let it remain.
‘Leah wench.’ Ezekial Turley tapped his stick on the stone floor. ‘I don’t be knowin’ what bee you ’ave a buzzin’ ’neath that bonnet o’ your’n but surely you be tekin’ the catchin’ of it a mite too far.’
‘A mite too far you says Ezekial,’ Leah answered immediately. ‘And what of demandin’ a wench leave the only place her can call home, demandin’ her leave this town altogether and to tek a young lad along of her; threatenin’ should that wench refuse the doin’ then Leah Marshall’s livelihood will pay the price: tell me now Ezekial, is that bee you talks of still tekin’ too much catchin’?’
From his chair at the far side of the room Ezekial Turley answered, several shakes of his grey head lending emphasis to his quietly spoken words. ‘Think Leah wench, goin’ on as you say won’t be of no benefit to you, the refusin’ to sell what be med alone of that dairy’ll gain you naught but ’ardship.’
Silent for a moment in which her glance played over the entire meeting before coming to rest on the woman as yet on her feet, whom she knew to be one of several responsible for the threat made against Ann Spencer, Leah replied with quiet determination.
‘Then I must suffer it.’ She stared hard at the eyes meeting her own. ‘But the loss won’t be all my own. I tells folk who knows my words be for them, try buyin’ your butter and your cheese from William Rowbothom or John Craven or maybe Melia’s grocery shops along of the market place, you might even try the Home and Colonial, but I thinks you’ll find their answer to be, “sorry . . . we only have enough for our regular customers.” Then there be milk an’ cream . . . be it you visits Robert Hastilow’s place in Oakeswell Street, Jeredik Slate in Upper High Street or mebbe Charles Babb across the way in Holyhead Road they all be dairymen though I’ll wager you’ll get no more than was got from them grocers; so then ask along of Samuel Spittle, he deals in butter an’ eggs but were I you, I wouldn’t be tekin’ of no basket. But then it don’t only be dairy food you be like to find your families havin’ to do without, there be the question of meat. Y’ see there’ll be none of Betsy’s litter of ten will go to Hollingsworth’s slaughterhouse so it follows there’ll be less pork, less bacon, less sausages an’ less of all the rest that be got from a pig going to their shop in the town, and I don’t have to go a tellin’ you how many meals that be. Of course Hollingsworth butcher shop don’t be the only one in Wednesbury. You can go along to Charles Hinton or John Field and if not them, then Thomas Mason, they all be close in the market place, but y’be like to find their answer also will be “Sorry, nothing to spare.” What you seemed to forget when mekin’ of your demands be the fact war has foodstuff less easy come by since so many men be called to the front . . .’
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