Down Weaver's Lane

by Anna Jacobs

  Jack should be thankful, really, that things had turned out so well, considering what Jem had done. Count his blessings. Not feel so angry.

  But it had cheered him up to look at Emmy sometimes and dream a little. Or even to stop and speak to her. Just occasionally. And now she was gone.

  He sighed. A young man could not help dreaming, even if he knew those dreams could never come true.

  Once it was fully dark George returned to the alehouse. This time he did gag Emmy, laughing at her struggles to spit out the wad of material as he tied it in place. Then he wrapped her in a blanket, picked her up and carried her out as easily as a bundle of firewood.

  Looking back she saw her mother sitting staring into a glass of gin, not even glancing up. Mother, look at me! Emmy pleaded inside her head, but Madge didn’t stir.

  George had a small handcart waiting outside. He laid Emmy down carefully in it on a featherbed, whispering, ‘We don’t want you covered in bruises, do we? Or catching cold?’ He covered her with sacking and she lay in stifling darkness, bumping helplessly around as the cart rattled over the cobble stones. The noise stopped abruptly as they began travelling over softer ground. Emmy wondered where they were going, but her head was covered up and she could gain no idea of their direction.

  Where was George taking her? Would Marcus Armistead be waiting for them? Would he really force himself on her? Her forehead felt clammy, her stomach queasy, as if she was going to vomit, and she could not help shuddering and moaning softly in her throat.

  All she could hold on to was the determination that whatever happened tonight, she would never willingly follow her mother’s path. Never. And even George would not be able to watch her every minute of the day and night. There would be an opportunity to get away later even if she didn’t succeed now. There had to be.

  But what then? She could not flee to Mrs Tibby, because her former mistress was an Armistead and lived in the same house as that man. The ladies in Manchester, then. She’d flee to them. They’d help her, she was sure. That thought steadied her, but only a little.

  The cart stopped and she stiffened in apprehension. As the sacking was removed she saw a sky full of stars. They looked so clean and bright above her they brought her a sudden feeling of comfort. They would still be there tomorrow - and so would she. She would survive whatever this night brought.

  And she would not be a willing participant. Never that.

  In the big house next to the mill at the very top of Weavers Lane Jane Rishmore heard her father come home early and go with her mother into the room they all called the library, though it had but one bookcase in it and only she ever read the books that contained. Or she had done until her father found out what she was doing and forbade her to touch ‘his books’ again, because they were unsuitable for a woman and why was she pretending to understand them? She had understood them, though. She was not stupid.

  When her parents shut the door behind them, she knew they must be discussing something important because there were no servants in that part of the house at this hour. Thanks to some judicious eavesdropping, she guessed it was her future. Her mother had been talking about marriage lately, saying it was a woman’s duty to marry well and the parents’ to choose a suitable husband.

  Jane closed her eyes for a moment to control her frustration, then went to sit on the window seat and stare out across the moors as dusk stained the lower land with shadows. Each patch of darkness crept outwards to join the next, gently laying a veil over the countryside. In the other direction she could see the lights of the town, street lamps and the bright glow from windows, so that every evening Northby seemed to be defying nature and holding back the darkness for a few hours.

  Not for the first time she wished she could go out and stride across the moors, stride until she could walk no further - and never come back to Northby again. Her father had picked out her husband without consulting her, a little pudding of a man with shifty eyes and faded beige-brown hair that was already thinning. He’d been chosen because of his family connections, not for himself - as had she. She was inches taller than Marcus Armistead already and at eighteen was still growing. And it was obvious he hated that even more than she did.

  The first time he’d come to visit them with his parents, his disappointment had shown clearly when he was introduced to Jane. Now he hardly bothered to talk to her, though they often placed him next to her on a sofa. Mostly he sat silent, unless he was agreeing with everything their parents said. He always looked sulky - no, more than sulky, cruel even, behind those careful smiles and nods. It was strange how sure she was that he was a cruel man, or would be if given the chance. She doubted his parents gave him much chance to do anything but obey them, though. As her parents gave her little choice about anything. In that way the Rishmores and the Armisteads were very much alike.

  She had been so lost in her thoughts that she jumped in shock when her mother walked into the bedroom.

  ‘Jane, my dear, straighten your hair and come downstairs. How can you have got it into such a mess already? Your father wishes to have a little chat with you before dinner.’

  Jane closed her eyes for a moment.

  ‘Are you all right, dear?’

  ‘Yes, Mama.’ She went to the dressing table and tried to straighten her hair, but her hands were trembling, so her mother tutted and took the comb from her. When her mother did her hair it obeyed, even hair as straight as Jane’s. Her mother couldn’t add a column of figures to the same amount twice, though.

  In the end Jane couldn’t keep the question back any longer. ‘Mama, is it Mr Armistead?’

  Her mother smiled at her. ‘Yes, dear. Had you guessed? You must be feeling very excited.’

  ‘Excited? I hate him. I told you that months ago.’

  The smile vanished and the hairbrush came down to rap Jane’s knuckles sharply. ‘I thought we’d agreed that you would do as your father wished in this? He knows what’s best for you.’

  ‘But you said you’d try to persuade him to find another man. You promised me you would.’

  Her mother stilled then let out her breath in a long slow stream. ‘I did try. But his heart is set on this match, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I can’t agree to it.’

  ‘You have no choice.’

  Her mother’s eyes met Jane’s in the mirror. ‘We women can do nothing but obey our fathers, and later our husbands. It’s what we promise in church: to love, honour and obey.’

  ‘I haven’t promised to obey anyone,’ Jane muttered.

  ‘The Bible says: “Honour thy father and thy mother, that thy days may be long upon the land which the Lord thy God giveth thee”.’

  Her mother always took refuge in biblical quotations when she could summon up no reasoned arguments. Jane should have known better than to expect any help from her.

  When they got downstairs, her father was standing in front of the fire, warming himself and looking smug. ‘Ah, my dear, come and sit down. We have some good news for you.’

  She sat. Listened. Fought to contain her anger. Failed. ‘How can you ask me to marry that horrible little man?’ she burst out suddenly.

  Samuel stopped speaking to gape at her.

  ‘We shall be a laughing stock as a couple - and he dislikes me as much as I dislike him. He’s horrible.’ With a sob Jane closed her mouth on further angry words, knowing how much her father hated hysteria.

  He swelled visibly with outrage. ‘Are you daring to question my decision?’

  ‘When it comes to the man with whom I shall be spending the rest of my life, yes. I won’t marry Marcus Armisteads, Father.’

  ‘You will do as you’re told, young lady!’

  ‘No, not in this.’

  ‘Jane, dear,’ her mother remonstrated.

  She swung round. ‘Why can you never stand up to my father? You know I’d be unhappy with that man. He’s—’

  ‘Silence!’ her father roared suddenly. ‘He’s an Armistead and a suitable match for you a
nd that’s all you need to know. You will obey me in this as in everything else.’

  Jane shook her head stubbornly. ‘No. Not him. Anyone but him.’

  He stared at her for a long, fraught moment, before making an angry sound in his throat and saying, ‘Then you will be confined to your room on bread and water until you come to your senses. No, not to your room. To the smallest bedroom in the house, with no books save the Bible.’ He turned to his wife. ‘See to it.’

  ‘Samuel, dear, perhaps—’

  ‘Take her out of my sight this minute!’

  Jane debated refusing to go, then shrugged and walked upstairs.

  ‘Why are you doing this?’ her mother whispered.

  ‘Please, Jane. Come down and apologise. Your father has your best interests at heart.’

  ‘No, he doesn’t. He has his own interests at heart.’

  She was too proud to make any further protest as her mother escorted her to the small rear bedroom that was never used because it was too small for guests. It looked out on to the moors and was furnished only with a narrow bed and chest of drawers.

  It took a week for her to realise that her father meant what he said, a week of stifling boredom and gnawing hunger. In the end she decided she might as well obey him. She was merely a pawn to be used in his business agreements. If she’d had any money at all, she’d have run away, but her father kept her jewellery in his big safe and when she went out with her mother it was to shops at which they had accounts, so she had only a few coins of her own.

  Jane was trapped, and furiously angry about that.

  Smiling in anticipation Marcus rode through the moonlit darkness to Northby, which was not far away from Moor Grange if you took the track across the moors. His grandfather had bought the house from its impoverished aristocratic owners thirty years previously and his parents behaved as if they had been born and bred as lords of the manor in Padstall. The other county families did not deal much with them, however. They knew everyone’s pedigree and, as far as they were concerned, the Armisteads had none.

  Marcus was wearing an old brown cloak and as he approached Northby he pulled his hat down to hide his face. He left his horse at the livery stables and went straight to the back door of the alehouse, taking great care not to show his face. He didn’t want word getting back to the Rishmores that he’d been in Northby for purposes other than courting their daughter.

  A maid gave him a message from George and summoned the lad who had been waiting to guide him to where the girl was waiting. Eagerness throbbed through Marcus as he strode along. He was looking forward very much to mastering Emmy Carter and satisfying his needs with her. If she learned to please him, he would set her up as his mistress - until he tired of her, as one always did.

  He was taken to a cottage on the outskirts of town, a small building standing on its own. There was a lamp hanging on a hook outside the door.

  ‘This is it,’ said the lad, accepting a sixpenny piece with a grin that showed crooked teeth which even the moonlight could not whiten. He strolled off, whistling tunelessly.

  Marcus rapped on the door. ‘Is she here?’ he asked when George opened it, unable to contain his eagerness.

  ‘Aye. But there’s a bit of a problem.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘She’s not willing. I had to tie her up to get her here.’

  Marcus found that thought piquant. Very. ‘But no one knows? She didn’t make a public fuss?’

  ‘Nay, I soon shut her up. No one knows but us and her mother.’

  ‘That’s even better. I prefer the unwilling ones, actually. They’re so much more satisfying to subdue.’

  George frowned at him. He’d heard that tone before and distrusted it. ‘We’d better get summat straight, then. If you harm her in any way, you’ll have me to answer to.’

  Marcus scowled at him. ‘What concern is that of yours, fellow?’

  ‘It’s very much my concern. That lass is one of my girls now an’ I look after my own. I mean it. If you mark or damage her in any way, I’ll not only make you sorry you were born, I’ll do to you exactly what you’ve done to her. Exactly.’ He watched with satisfaction as Marcus shivered. ‘And think on! You may be rich, but you can’t watch your back every minute of the day and night.’

  There was a moment’s complete silence. Marcus was furious that a low fellow like this should speak to him in such an impudent manner, but he was also intimidated by George, who was a very large man with big fists and a battered face that said he’d been in a lot of fights. ‘Why should I want to damage her?’ he asked lightly. ‘If I’m to take her under my protection I want her to keep her looks.’

  Relieved, George clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Well, if you want her in your keeping, you’ll have to deal with me. I’m her protector now. I’ve got ambitions for my girls. A fancy whorehouse in Manchester, mebbe.’

  Marcus was disappointed by the restrictions, but decided it was probably for the best. In the past he’d been a bit careless and lucky to get away with it. It had cost him quite a bit to pay off the last girl’s relatives for her injuries.

  George jerked his head upwards. ‘She’s waiting for you in the front bedroom. I left her tied up. Thought you’d like to untie her yourself. Or not.’

  With a smile Marcus moved towards the narrow stairs only to be halted by a large hand clamping down on his shoulder.

  ‘Just a minute, Armistead. I’ll have the money first.’

  ‘You’ll have it when I’m satisfied.’

  George dragged him back to the door. ‘Now! Ten guineas I was promised for first go at her and you don’t lay a finger on her without paying me. I know she’s a virgin and you’re not going to claim owt else after you’ve had your fun.’

  ‘Oh, very well.’ Marcus fumbled in his pocket and counted out the coins impatiently.

  ‘Right then. I’ll be back in a couple of hours to check everything’s all right.’

  In the lane George paused for a moment, wondering whether he should stay around to make sure things went to plan. He’d didn’t really like forcing a lass, but he was sure Emmy would change her mind in the morning when he gave her a guinea - no, two - for her trouble. As he hesitated it started to drizzle so he moved on, shrugging. Let Armistead have his privacy. He had, after all, paid handsomely for the privilege. A few bruises never did anyone any harm. It was the way lessons were usually learned in this life.

  Tied to the bed, Emmy heard voices below her but could not make out the words, only the rumble of George’s deep voice and the thin, drawling sound of Marcus Armistead’s lighter tones. She could not hold back a moan of terror when footsteps sounded on the stairs. Until now she had clung to the hope that there might be a chance to escape, or even that something might prevent Marcus from coming. But the last hope died in her as he reached the top of the stairs and stopped in the doorway to study her.

  He smiled, a narrow, cat-like smile which looked strange on a man’s face. ‘That’s how I like to see a woman: helpless and ready for me to please myself with.’

  She summoned up all her courage. She had to persuade him to loosen her bonds. Allowing her voice to tremble as he started to walk towards the bed, Emmy begged, ‘Oh, please, sir, don’t hurt me! I’ll do as you want if only you won’t hurt me.’

  Not even attempting to reply, he continued to smile as he shed his coat, then began to unfasten his waistcoat.

  She knew what men looked like only too well, because few of them troubled to hide their need from a child, so the sight of him did not shock her. But the thought of him touching her made her want to be sick.

  Breathing heavily, he leaned over her. ‘Have you ever had a man before? I warn you, I shall find out. There’s no hiding such a thing.’

  She shook her head and tried to look as helpless and frightened as possible, but anger was simmering behind the fear. That someone should do this - and enjoy it! ‘No, sir,’ she whispered. ‘My mother was saving me for someone special.’


  ‘Then why did you fight me?’

  ‘I’m afraid, sir. Some of the men - they hurt my mother.’

  When he smiled she knew he meant to hurt her, too, and tried to hide an involuntary shudder.

  He took off everything except his shirt, then ran his hands over her body.

  She tried to twist away from him.

  ‘I’m going to untie your legs, Emmy. Don’t try to resist me because that’ll make me angry. If you even try, I’ll hurt you.’

  She let out a long shuddering sigh and closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them and stared straight at him. ‘If I do as you wish - in everything - will you pay me well?’

  He gave a scornful snort as he realised she was no different from the others. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Will you set me up in my own rooms? Not let other men come near me?’

  ‘If you please me, yes.’ A heady sense of power filled him. This was the way to treat them. Keep them submissive, make them tremble. He hadn’t set up a woman as his mistress before, but the thought of having one who depended on him for everything, whom no other man had ever touched or ever would touch, pleased him so much he felt a renewed surge of passion. ‘If you really are a virgin,’ he warned.

  ‘Oh, I am, sir, I am.’ Emmy swallowed and said, ‘All right. I’ll be good, sir.’ She kept still as his hands roamed over her body because she could do nothing unless he untied her hands. She hadn’t counted on how free he’d make with her, or that he would actually tear off her shift. She could not help whimpering once or twice, but strangely he seemed to like that. Lying still beneath his loathsome touch was the hardest thing she’d ever done in a life where hardship was a frequent bedfellow. To her surprise it took a long time for him to be ready, far longer than was usual with her mother’s customers.

  ‘That’s a good girl,’ he said softly, touching and tweaking at her body, smiling as she cried out involuntarily at a particularly sharp pain. ‘Very well. I’ll untie your arms now and see how you keep your promise to behave yourself.’