Down Weaver's Lane

by Anna Jacobs

  As he untied her, she cried out as if her limbs would not work, though George had given her time to move them a bit before tying her to the bed head. She pretended to rub her arms. ‘Pins and needles, sir. Sorry. Ow!’ Lowering her eyes, she estimated distances and then grabbed the pewter candlestick she’d decided on from the chest of drawers beside the bed and smashed it against the side of his head. As he cried out, she brought it down again, twice more. It was heavy and after the third blow he did not move but lay sprawled across her on the bed with blood flowing copiously from the wounds she had made on his scalp.

  Knowing she had no time to waste, she shoved his plump white body away, not dressing herself until she had tied him up with the same strips of cloth that had bound her. ‘See how you like it for a change,’ she muttered.

  By the time she had finished he was groaning and his eyelids were fluttering, so she snatched her clothes from the floor and flung on her skirt and torn bodice hastily, clutching the other things to her chest as she moved to leave.

  Just as she got to the door his voice rang out, sharp and high with anger. ‘You little bitch! You’ll pay for that.’ He began to struggle.

  She turned to shout, ‘You’re wicked, you are! Wicked!’ Then ran down the stairs, praying that George was not waiting outside.

  No one stopped her as she half fell through the door and began to stumble down the lane. Once she fell over and winded herself, but dragged herself to her feet and carried on, desperate to get as far away from here as she could.

  Suddenly she sobbed in relief. She was at her own end of the town, just a little beyond the bottom of Weavers Lane. She wondered if she dare risk getting some of her possessions from the cottage, then realised she’d have to, because her money was there, still hidden in the lining of the frayed travelling bag Mrs Tibby had given her. Without that she’d have little chance of escaping.

  When she bumped into a warm body at the dark corner where the track opened into Weavers Lane, she screamed in shock and terror, thinking that George had caught her.

  8

  In the darkness at the corner of Weavers Lane a voice exclaimed, ‘Emmy? It is Emmy Carter, isn’t it? I thought you’d left Northby.’

  With a sob of relief she clutched Jack Staley. ‘I got away from him. Oh, Jack, can you help me? Please. I have to hide somewhere. They’ll be looking for me.’

  It was so wonderful to have her in his arms that for a moment Jack could not speak. For once, just this once, he dared to lay his cheek against her hair. Then her words sank in and he became aware that she was only lightly clad on this frosty night and was trembling uncontrollably. ‘What’s happened? Has someone hurt you?’ If so, he would find them and punish them.

  Emmy forced herself to move away from him, though she longed to stay in his arms. ‘I’ll tell you later. I have to hurry, they’ll be after me. I need to get my things from the cottage and then find somewhere to hide.’

  ‘I’ll help you in any way I can, of course I will.’ He fell into step beside her, not pressing for an explanation but determined not to leave her until he was sure she was safe. It galled him that he daren’t take her home but he could guess what his mother would say if he did.

  At the cottage Emmy stopped for a moment to get her breath, feeling upset to see it looking so dark and abandoned. Then, as someone walked briskly down Weavers Lane towards them, she gasped and clutched Jack. ‘They mustn’t recognise me.’

  ‘They’ll think it strange if we run into an empty cottage. Pretend we’re kissing. If we look like a courting couple, I can keep most of you hidden.’ He took her in his arms and bent over her. He didn’t mean it to happen but somehow the pretence became reality. As his lips met hers, cool with the night air, he groaned in his throat and wrapped his arms more closely around her, kissing her tenderly, showing her how much he loved her.

  Emmy nestled instinctively against him. The touch of this man seemed so clean and normal, it was as if his gentle kiss began to wipe away the dirty feeling of Marcus Armistead on her skin and that other equally dreadful feeling that, like her mother, she was soiled now for Marcus had touched her in places only a husband should see.

  The man strolled past, laughing softly and calling out, ‘Eh, you young lovers!’

  Once his footsteps had faded they drew apart, staring at one another shyly in the light of the street lamp, then she took his hand and led the way round to the back of the cottage without a word. Even his hand felt good in hers, warm and strong but not holding on too tightly, so that she could remove hers any time she wished. Only she didn’t wish to do that. What she really wanted was to stay beside him for ever.

  For a moment joy flared through her as she realised how much she loved him. Despair swiftly followed. She couldn’t stay with him. She understood his situation and knew only too well how any mother would regard the daughter of Madge Carter.

  But it was hard to let go of Jack. Very hard.

  Bending, she retrieved the back door key from under a stone. She couldn’t turn it in the lock because her hands had begun to tremble so stood there, teeth chattering, and let him take the key from her.

  When he had opened the door, he waited for her to lead the way in, but she could not move as reaction hit her. While she had been escaping she had pushed it aside. While Jack had been holding her she had felt safe. Now the memories of what had happened flooded through her in a dark wave of shame and misery.

  Scooping her up, Jack carried her inside. ‘Emmy, tell me. Let me help you.’

  There was no furniture so he took her to sit on the stairs that ran up between the kitchen and the front room and there, cradled against him, her shamed blushes hidden by the darkness, she told him how her mother had helped George Duckworth to capture her - and sobbed as she did so. A mother should protect her child, not give her to a man to ravish, even a mother like hers. In a voice that faded and wobbled as she gulped back the tears, she told how George had taken her to the little cottage and left her tied up there for Marcus Armistead’s use.

  Jack held his anger back, saying nothing, just making low, soothing noises as she stumbled through the explanation. Only when she had faltered to a halt did he growl, ‘Armistead deserves to be hanged! Nay, it’d be too good for him. And I’d not have thought even George Duckworth would force a lass like that. We should go and report this to the constable.’

  Emmy gave a snort of what was meant to be scornful laughter but it turned into a sob. ‘I daren’t tell anyone. Marcus Armistead is rich. No one’s going to take the word of Madge Carter’s daughter against his, are they? Anyway, if I go to see Mr Makepeace, George will know where I am and he’ll be waiting for me. I need to get away from Northby, and quickly.’

  Jack let a little of his anger escape in another low rumble of sound. ‘You’re right. I wish you weren’t but you are. Armistead has been a regular visitor at the Rishmores’ recently an’ folk at the mill say he’s going to marry their daughter.’

  ‘I pity her, then!’

  ‘Aye. I feel sorry for her, too. I deliver messages to the house sometimes an’ she allus looks unhappy, but that doesn’t stop her being polite to me.’ You noticed things like that when you were delivering messages to rich people’s houses and places of work. There were some who treated you like dirt.

  They sat on in silence, bodies warm against one another, but Emmy knew she couldn’t stay much longer and tried desperately to pull herself together. ‘I’ve got to leave town, Jack. If either of them catches me ...’ They might finish what they had started and that would destroy her, she knew it would.

  ‘I’ve been trying to think how best to help you,’ he said slowly. ‘What you really need is protection. If you set off for Manchester alone and on foot they could easily find you on the road tomorrow and there’s nowhere much to hide on that track over the moors.’ He snapped his fingers suddenly as the solution came to him. ‘Parson Bradley! I’ll take you to him.’

  ‘But he’s a friend of Mr Rishmore’s.’

>   ‘Aye, but he’s also a decent chap who really cares about ordinary folk like us and doesn’t look down his nose at anyone. If we tell him only that you have to escape from George Duckworth, who is trying to drag you into your mother’s trade, I’m sure he’ll help you - and get Mr Rishmore’s support if necessary. Parson and his wife have helped several lasses to find decent jobs in service and they’ve done a lot for lads like me, too, teaching us to read and to think for ourselves. They might even know those ladies of yours in Manchester.’

  ‘Are you sure - quite sure - that he and his wife would help me?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  Emmy hesitated, very conscious of time passing. This cottage would be the first place George would come and look for her when he found Armistead. Since she couldn’t think of an alternative, she let Jack’s certainty about the Parson guide her. ‘Very well. We’ll go and see Mr Bradley. But I’ll wait outside and if he doesn’t want to help, you can signal to me. I can still get a long way from Northby before morning and I’ll make sure to hide somewhere during the daytime.’

  In silence they left the little house, locking the door carefully behind them. Jack carried her bag of possessions and insisted she take his arm, for she was still shaken by occasional fits of shuddering.

  By the time they got to Parson Bradley’s house Emmy was feeling dizzy with reaction and lack of food, but was trying to hide her weakness from Jack. She might have known he’d notice.

  ‘You all right?’

  ‘Yes. Of course I am.’

  ‘No, you’re not, lass, but if you can just keep going as far as the churchyard, I’ll leave you in the porch of the church hall. It’ll keep the wind off you a bit and you’ll be out of sight there.’

  When he had left her Emmy tried to find a sheltered corner of the porch but the wind was blowing strongly and seemed to be trying to scour out every crevice. In the end she sagged against the wall with her bag clutched to her chest, ready to run at the slightest sign that anything was wrong.

  A figure appeared at the gate of the Parsonage and she tensed before realising it was Jack. She would have recognised his sturdy outline anywhere, even before he called out to her.

  ‘Parson wants you to come in so he can talk to you himself.’

  ‘What did you tell him?’

  ‘That you’re Mrs Oswald’s former maid, escaping from George Duckworth who wants you to follow your mother’s trade now you no longer have a job. That you’re a good girl and don’t want that. Parson has seen you attending church with your mistress and he’s surprised she didn’t take you with her. We’ll have to tell him about Marcus Armistead, I’m afraid.’ He picked up her bag and put his arm round her shoulders to guide her towards the house. ‘Come on, love. You can trust Parson.’

  But he felt bitter that he had to seek another man’s aid for the young woman he loved. His footsteps faltered for a moment as he admitted to himself that he did love Emmy. Always had done, it seemed, from the first day he’d seen her. Had no right to, but couldn’t help it.

  At the kitchen door she hesitated. It looked so cosy inside, with oil lamps burning brightly and a glowing coal fire in the huge modern kitchen range. Would someone who lived in such luxury understand enough about her sort of life to believe her story?

  A buxom woman in a big white pinafore glanced at her curiously, but said nothing.

  Mr Bradley was standing in the doorway at the other side of the room, looking at her with a steady, questioning gaze. He was not as tall as he seemed in the church pulpit, and looked plump, well-fed and a little rumpled. Why should a gentleman like him help someone like her? But as she hung back, Jack put his arm round her again and drew her forward, closing the door behind them with his foot.

  The room they took her to was lined with books and Mrs Bradley was waiting there. Like her husband she did not seem as grand a lady tonight as she did in church. Wisps of hair were escaping from her lace cap and her skirts were a little creased.

  She moved forward at once. ‘Come over to the fire, child. You must be chilled through. Goodness, how you’re shivering! It’s a bitter night.’ She unwrapped the soft grey shawl from her own shoulders and cast it around the girl.

  That simple gesture brought tears into Emmy’s eyes. ‘Thank you, ma’am,’ she said, her voice husky with suppressed tears, clutching it round her neck. She felt as if she’d never get properly warm again.

  ‘Sit down near the fire and tell us what happened, Emmy,’ Mr Bradley said gently. ‘Jack says someone has been trying to force you into immorality?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Seventeen, sir.’

  ‘You look younger.’

  ‘My mother has always told people I’m younger, so that,’ she took a deep breath, ‘her protector wouldn’t try to force me to ...’ she broke off, not knowing how to continue in front of a lady, then finished lamely‘... follow my mother’s trade. I told them I’d never do that but he captured me and - and tied me up for a client to use.’ Suddenly she was sobbing. ‘I pretended to do as the man wanted, but there was a candlestick next to the bed and when he untied me, I hit him with it.’

  ‘Did he - have his way with you?’ Mrs Bradley asked.

  ‘No, ma’am. But he touched me. It was horrible!’ Sobs had punctuated her words. Now she broke down completely, sobbing hysterically, hiding her face in her hands.

  ‘I think it would be best if I took her upstairs, my dear,’ Mrs Bradley said to her husband. ‘She’s far too overwrought to question further tonight.’

  Emmy shot her a terrified glance. ‘No, I have to get away! Jack said you’d help me get away!’

  Mrs Bradley’s voice was firm. ‘No one will harm you here, I promise you, or take you away from us.’ She pulled Emmy up from the seat by the fire. ‘Let’s get you out of those torn clothes and find some hot milk for you.’

  When the two women had gone, Parson looked at Jack. ‘She’s telling the truth?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I’d stake my life on it.’

  ‘Did she say who the man was?’

  He hesitated. ‘A gentleman, sir. He’d paid Duckworth to get the girl for him.’

  ‘I can’t understand why Mrs Oswald didn’t take her maid with her.’

  Jack could see no way of avoiding the truth. ‘She couldn’t. The man who wanted Emmy was Marcus Armistead. She doesn’t think anyone will believe her word against his, so won’t even try to lay a complaint.’ He watched the Parson’s face to see how he took this and as he’d expected, Mr Bradley immediately saw the implications.

  ‘Ah. She’s probably right, I’m sorry to say.’ Gerald Bradley gave a muffled snort of irritation. ‘Mr Rishmore is very eager for young Armistead to marry his daughter and that makes it - difficult.’

  ‘But you believe Emmy, sir?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve heard rumours about young Armistead’s behaviour towards women. I dismissed them as exaggerations, but now ...’ He sighed. Rich men could get away with some terrible things. ‘We’d best leave the girl in my wife’s hands for tonight. She’s very good with young women in trouble. Then we’ll see if we can find her another place. We both saw for ourselves how well she cared for her former mistress.’ He paused then asked with a frown, ‘Why did Emmy come to you tonight?’

  ‘She didn’t. I was out for a stroll because my sister’s baby was crying and I bumped into Emmy by sheer accident. I could see she was terrified and - well, I couldn’t just leave her there alone and in trouble, so I brought her to you.’

  Gerald stood up. ‘You did the right thing. You’d better go home now, though. There’s nothing more you can do. The girl will be quite safe with us, safe from everyone who wishes her harm. That I promise.’

  As he walked home, Jack’s arm felt wrong without Emmy clinging to it. She had been warm and soft and had made him feel as a man should.

  Yet he had to leave it to others to help her. That made him feel so useless. And the thought of her going away - eh, it w
as too much to bear. He was glad of the rain hiding his tears. Men weren’t supposed to cry, but how could you help it when what you wanted most in life was being taken away from you?

  It took Marcus nearly an hour to free himself from the pieces of cloth that vicious little bitch had tied him up with. He was furious with himself for believing her to be submissive, furious that George Duckworth had not warned him how deceitful the wretch could be.

  The room was dark except for a small fire in the grate. He found the candle that had fallen out of the metal holder when she’d hit him and lit it in the fire, setting it back in the holder with an unsteady hand.

  What was he going to do about this?

  His first thought was to call in the constable and lodge a complaint against the girl for attacking and robbing him. They hung people for that. He’d like to see her hang!

  But after a while, as his mind grew clearer, he abandoned that idea. If he made a complaint, he’d not only have to explain what he was doing consorting with a whore, but explain to his future father-in-law who was the local magistrate. No, he’d have to spin some other tale to account for his injuries tonight and find a way to pay back that cheating jade himself.

  He walked through the town unsteadily, thumping on the back door of the alehouse. Covering his face with his muffler, he asked to see George. Used to gentlemen trying to hide their presence, the tapster who’d opened the door took him into a little room nearby and brought George to him.

  ‘How can I help you, sir?’

  Marcus uncovered his face. ‘You can find that bitch and hand her over to me!’

  George gaped at him. ‘What the hell happened?’ ‘She hit me over the head with a candlestick and escaped. I’ll have my money back from you, for a start.’

  ‘I’d never have believed it... she’s such a little thing.’