A Sovereign for a Song
Page 9
‘How much money do we get?’
‘Bright eyes and brighter smiles. You’re a typical woman, Ginny. Money makes your eyes sparkle, and your little heart beat faster.’ Her back still to him he pulled her in close, placed a hand under her left breast and held it there.
‘There, I can feel it, pounding away faster than Fiery Jack’s hooves. It excites you, doesn’t it?’
She removed his hand. ‘What, the race or your paw?’
‘Both. Both would excite you, given the chance.’
‘Neither excites me half as much as the thought of collecting all that money.’
‘Oh you women! Disgustingly mercenary creatures you are.’
‘Aye, and I’m going to get mesel’ a disgustingly nice pair of new boots. I suppose you’re going to tell me you don’t care about money, Charlie?’
‘No, I like money too, but not for itself. For the things I can buy with it. Things like you, Ginny.’
‘I’m not a thing. I’m a person. You can’t buy people.’
‘You’d be surprised.’
She took him by the hand, not wanting to prolong the conversation.
‘Come on, come on. Let’s get to the man and get me tin. I’ll say one thing for you, Charlie; you’re a lucky man. I don’t care what else anybody says about you, you’re a lucky, lucky man.’
They joined the crowds milling towards the bookmakers, but when Ginny caught sight of Tom and Jimmy Hood waiting in one of the queues she shrank behind Charlie, unwilling to be seen.
‘Look, I’ll go and wait in the carriage. There’s somebody I don’t want to see.’
He grinned. ‘As you like. Sly puss. Do you think being seen with me might damage your reputation? You like the game, but you won’t have the name. You’re a girl after my own heart, Ginny.’
It was getting dark and a light snow had begun when he joined her.
‘I haven’t got your tin, Ginny, but you can hold your hand out for your gold.’
A pile of gold sovereigns chinked into her palm whilst she looked on, too overcome to speak.
‘Of course,’ he continued, ‘you still owe me your ten and six stake money, and you mustn’t forget that. One should always pay one’s gambling debts. It’s a point of honour.’
‘How much did you win, Charlie?’
‘A good deal more than you, my hinny, but that’s between me and the bookmaker. Tuck your sovereigns in your pocket, where they’ll be safe.’
Ginny obeyed, and kept her hand in her pocket around them to be doubly sure. Charlie softly brushed at the shoulders of her coat with his handkerchief, then lightly, gently, over the mounds of her breasts.
She grasped his wrist with her free hand to restrain him. He looked at her with an expression of injured innocence.
‘You don’t mind my brushing the snow off? I want to protect you from the damp. You might catch a chill. Sit close to me on the ride back and I’ll keep you warm. There’s going to be a frost tonight.’
‘I’ll be all right. I don’t feel the cold.’
‘But I do, very much. And I almost forgot, I have your Christmas box. See what I brought from London for my little hinny.’
She checked the impulse to tell him to stop calling her hinny. The sovereigns cutting into her palm made it seem churlish to protest about such a little thing, so she watched in silence as he opened the box.
‘They’re jet. They’ll match your eyes. It’s very light, it won’t hurt at all,’ he said softly, running his finger lightly round her ear. ‘Such pretty ears you’ve got, and they’re already pierced. How convenient. Here, let me take these sleepers out, and put mine in. There’s just enough light to see by, but I’ll do it mainly by touch. I’m something of an expert.’
A hot, deep thrill in the pit of her belly surprised her as his hands caressed her ear. He handed her the sleeper and turned again to his task. She held still for him, and winced in pain as he jabbed at the lobe whilst trying to insert the long jet-and-gold drops.
‘I’m sorry, little hinny, did I hurt you?’ he murmured. ‘Such a tiny little hole you have, but never mind, I will get it in. Ah, there. And very well it looks, I assure you.’
‘That’s enough of that, Mr Parkinson,’ said Ginny, not really catching the innuendo, but beginning to feel out of her depth.
He drove them at a leisurely trot through the chill, clear air. As the road passed through a stretch of woodland a couple of miles distant from Annsdale Colliery, Charlie pulled the horses to a halt. The moon hung in a sky full of stars as he put an arm round Ginny’s waist. His cheek almost touched hers as he pointed skyward.
‘It’s getting awfully cold, isn’t it? See up there, the constellations? That cluster’s called Orion, after the hunter in Greek mythology.’
‘Is that right?’ said Ginny. It was certainly getting cold, and had she been sitting next to almost anyone else she knew she would gladly have huddled in close for warmth. As it was, she removed Charlie’s arm from her waist and moved away.
He gave a mocking sigh. ‘Probably not, but it was a good excuse to get nearer. Oh, Ginny, after a day with you I have to go pay court to Manor Farm. It’s like swapping a racer for a carthorse.’
‘You can’t swap what doesn’t belong to you. And you don’t have to go to Manor Farm if you’ve a mind not to.’
He shrugged. ‘Perhaps I won’t. You’re the filly I fancy most. I think it very bad of you to have a hewer for a father instead of a landowner. What do you think of your winnings? Would you say I’d done well for you?’
‘Aye, I would,’ she said guardedly, her fingers tightening round the coins.
‘Well, I don’t ask anything for myself,’ he seemed hesitant, ‘but if you’d care to return the favour, I’ve a friend who has a deep respect for you. He sometimes stands to attention at the mere thought of you. Shall I introduce you?’
‘If you like,’ she said, completely taken in and consumed by curiosity.
He took her free hand and kissed it, then placed it on his trousers and closed her fingers around something very hard.
She was out of the carriage in a flash. ‘I’ve changed my mind about your friend, Mr Parkinson. I don’t want to know him after all.’
She walked briskly off the road and into the familiar woods. It was cold and hard underfoot, making clean walking, with the moon casting enough light to speed her on her way. She heard Charlie jump down after her.
‘Come back, little hinny, there’s no need for that. Your virtue’s safe, honour bright.’ He laughed, adding, ‘My friend would never press himself. Perish the thought.’
She made no answer, but picked her way quickly along through trees and undergrowth. She heard him follow her for a few steps before giving up and returning to the carriage. He must have realized he had no hope of catching her, and little chance of finding his way through the woods without her. Besides, she thought, there were valuable horses and a carriage to think of, and valuable livestock at Manor Farm needing attention. She heard the click-click of his tongue as he urged the horses forward, and the rattle of hooves and wheels as he slowly drove on. After a few paces, he halted.
‘Goodnight, little hinny. Dream of me, and I’ll dream of you.’ His voice was low and cajoling, but clear. There was a pause, then the horses trotted on at a brisker pace and were soon out of earshot.
Certain now that she couldn’t be caught, the flutterings in her stomach bubbled up in her throat and escaped in laughter. She laughed until the tears ran down her cheeks, then, calmer, she wondered what she’d been afraid of. She’d outwitted Charlie. She was more than a match for him, any day.
‘I know this much, though,’ she promised herself as she removed the jet earrings and slipped them into her pocket, ‘next time he calls me hinny, I’ll flatten him, money or no money.’
She stepped into the kitchen with cheeks flushed and eyes bright and a smile still playing at the corners of her mouth.
‘By, you’re looking bonny the day.’ Her father was unexp
ectedly jovial considering his mood of the previous day, but there had never been any accounting for his tempers. He’s either all sugar or all shite, Ginny thought, and if they were set fair for an all-sugar spell, so much the better. Her mother was diplomatically cheerful.
‘Yes, a walk in the fresh air’s put roses in your cheeks, but I thought they might have let you off a bit earlier today,’ she said.
‘Well, I’ve got a bit extra money instead, like,’ said Ginny, hanging her coat up on the back of the door, with her fist still clenched around her sovereigns. ‘That’ll be more use, I suppose.’
‘Aye, it will that,’ agreed her father. ‘Don’t stop the workers, that’s my motto. What with my bit of good luck at the cavilling, and Ginny’s bit extra, you’ll be all right with the housekeeping next for a while, Nance.’ His use of his pet name for her mother was further proof of his good humour.
‘She’s always been a good little worker, Arthur.’
‘Not so little now, but she’s a chip off the old block all right. And we breed ’em bonny, Nance. You can’t deny that.’
Ginny’s eyebrows shot up in surprise at this unexpected approval. Although being compared to her father was no particular compliment, the atmosphere was so pleasant that for one mad instant she was tempted to blurt out her good luck and invite them to share it. The moment passed and she ran upstairs. Her fingers trembled as she groped in the dark for the matches on the chest of drawers. Where to hide the hoard? She struck a match and lit the candle, then with sensations of wickedness she had never felt before, she tied the sovereigns securely inside an old sock, her heart in her mouth until she had them hidden, hanging on a protruding nail under the washstand. Not the earrings though, the coins would scratch them. She’d shove them under her pillow for now.
Martin’s words of defeat sprang into her mind: ‘You can’t beat the bookies, bonny lass.’ She knew now that one person could. Charlie Parkinson could beat the bookies – he must have bankrupted one. Whatever else he was, he was the luckiest man she had ever heard of, and she’d shared his luck today. Her ten and six hadn’t galloped away, but all this money had galloped towards her, thanks to Charlie. Remembering she still owed him the stake money, she took one sovereign out of the sock before secreting it away again. The last sovereign she hid in her pillowcase. She’d take that to Charlie the following day, and be out of his debt for good. Then she could start 1903 with money in her pocket, and no problems except what to spend it on.
Chapter 9
The manager smiled at Ginny when she took in his breakfast, and asked her why she was so cheerful.
‘We got a letter from John this morning, Mr Vine, so everything in the garden’s lovely, as the song says.’
‘Yes, I dare say that would cheer you up as well.’
Charlie had obviously told him about their excursion to the races. They must have a lovely time together gossiping like old fishwives, she thought, remembering another conversation of theirs that she’d overheard. She wondered whether the manager still had a fancy to let the uppishness out of her, but her face betrayed nothing.
‘Aye, it’s good to know he’s safe, Mr Vine,’ she said.
‘Well, he was the best little putter in the north, and he took good care of the ponies. There’s always a job here for him if he gets tired of life at sea.’
‘I’ll tell him that, Mr Vine. Thank you.’
His bleary eyes searched her face as she looked at him as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. If he wanted to ask her about the races he would have to come straight out with it, Ginny would give him no openings. She only hoped that Charlie hadn’t told Helen as well. She would have a hard taskmistress for a few weeks to come if he had.
The manager obviously had more pressing matters to deal with. He wiped his mouth on his damask napkin, and was out of the door with hardly another word.
It was another hour before Helen and Charlie came down to breakfast. Ginny waited on them, feeling more and more certain that Helen knew nothing about the races. Charlie was his usual provoking self, pulling at her apron strings as she passed and making teasing comments at every opportunity. With Helen doing everything she could to deflect his attention from her, Ginny went about her work apparently oblivious to it all so that finally he gave up, and turned to his sister. It was then that their conversation became interesting.
‘I think it’s in the bag, Charlie,’ said Helen, and Ginny was on the alert to know what.
He kept his voice low. ‘I think so too, but you never know, Helen, a better prospect might turn up. I don’t want to move too quickly.’
‘There are no better prospects for you, and if you don’t move, you might miss the chance. You’re not the only suitor, you know.’
‘But I flatter myself I’m the only suitor Clarice wants. That gives me a bit of breathing space. I’ll mull it over for a while. Think of it – I’ll be tied to her for the rest of my life once the step’s taken. At least with Robert you’ve got somebody half intelligent, half presentable. Clarice doesn’t pass the test either as a beauty or as a wit. I couldn’t inflict her on my friends.’
‘That’s just it, Charlie, Clarice would be your passport to better friends, in a better class. Some of the people you knock about with are hardly fit to be seen. It’s time you gave them up, Charlie. It was all fun while it lasted, but you need at least a toe in decent society.’
‘I’ll have you know I’m well acquainted with half of the nobility, and it’s not so very long ago you were pleased enough to be among those friends of mine who’re hardly fit to be seen,’ he murmured with a sly smile, ‘which is how you caught Robert. And you must admit, our London connections are a damned sight more entertaining.’
‘But the ones who are worth cultivating will never accept you as an equal,’ she frowned, and with a slight shake of her head and a quick glance in Ginny’s direction, silenced him. Ginny lifted the tray of dirty dishes and headed for the kitchen. When she returned with the tea and toast, brother and sister were laughing and whispering together like a pair of conspirators.
‘It’s going to take a lot of thinking over, Helen. She’s so attached to the mother, I shouldn’t wonder if she’ll want her in bed with us. It’s a daunting prospect. I’ve always been in favour of long engagements, and I think a long one will be best in this case.’ He winked appreciatively at Ginny as she set the tray down, and murmured, ‘A very long engagement.’
Ginny left the room, determined to get that sovereign out of her coat pocket and be clear of her debt to Charlie once and for all, but when she felt in her pocket, it wasn’t there. She searched frantically, both pockets and the whole lining of the coat, to no avail. She went over her actions before leaving the house, and concluded that she’d thought so hard about putting the sovereign in her pocket she’d imagined she’d actually done it. The letter from John had distracted her. The sovereign must still be in her pillowcase. She calmed herself with the thought that it would be safe enough there.
When she got home her worst fear was realized. Her sovereign lay on the tea table, awaiting explanation. Her father stood beside it, bathed, clean-shaven and in his best suit, gold watch chain decorating his waistcoat. His eyes travelled from the sovereign and fixed on Ginny.
‘I earned it.’
‘How?’
‘I got it at the manager’s house, for singing.’
‘Singing? Who the hell gives anybody a guinea for singing?’
‘Mr Parkinson.’
‘Are you sure you didn’t get it at the races?’
He must have heard it at the pit, probably from Tom or Jimmy Hood. She daren’t risk the first-class hiding that was sure to follow being caught in a lie, so she admitted, ‘Well, I did have a bit of a win at the races, as well as what I got for singing.’
‘While me and your mother thought you were at work,’ he said, sending her reeling with a blow to the left side of her head, ‘you were showing us up having fun and games with that bloody whoremaster.’
‘Well, you go and find the rest of that bit of a win you had at the races and fetch it to me. It’s going back where it came from before this day’s out, lady. I’ll make you sing before I’ve finished with you.’
Half dazed by the blow, Ginny staggered upstairs, closely followed by her father. She groped her way towards the washstand, then under it to unhook her hoard. With her back to her father, she was not too stupefied to extract a couple of coins before handing him the precious sock. He took it roughly from her and went downstairs, into the light. Ginny followed, pushing the salvaged money into her corset as she went. Back in the kitchen, he emptied the contents of the sock on to the table.
The sight of the little pile of gleaming gold in the middle of the white tablecloth made eyes pop and jaws drop.
‘My God,’ breathed Emma, ‘that lot could make me a teacher a dozen times over.’
‘Arthur, we could pay every debt we owe and keep ourselves comfortable for a year,’ said their mother.
Sally took a coin and looked reverently at the king’s profile. ‘Doesn’t it look nice? See how it shines.’
‘It’s not going to make you a teacher, and it’s not going to pay any debts of mine,’ said their father, ‘and you, don’t tell me you won all that on the horses. So what else have you been doing for Mr Parkinson?’
Her cheeks burned at the affront. ‘Nothing,’ she said, anger overcoming fear. ‘I haven’t been up to anything with him or anybody else. That money belongs to me. I earned the first sovereign, and I won all the rest at the races. I backed what he told me to back, and they all won. He’s lucky, that’s all. Really lucky. He’s the luckiest man I’ve ever known.’