Down Weaver's Lane

by Anna Jacobs

  ‘She’s a sneaking, lying shrew and she’s not going to get away with this!’ Marcus indicated the wound on his head and winced.

  ‘I’ll find her for you - and punish her, too,’ George said confidently. ‘She can’t get far on foot. Do you want another lass for tonight?’

  ‘No, I bloody don’t. I’m going home now. I’ll expect to hear from you - and soon.’

  By now it was so late he had to knock them up at the livery stables. Since the moon was nearly full he took the quickest route home, the track across the moors. He had to knock up the grooms and then the servants at home, groaning and pretending to be more badly injured than he was. The sight of his bloodied face sent them running to fetch his parents.

  ‘What happened?’ his father demanded.

  ‘Robbed. On the moors. Two men set on me, pulled me off my horse and took my money.’ Marcus put one hand to his forehead which was swollen and painful. ‘They knocked me unconscious, but when I woke up my horse hadn’t wandered far, so I dragged myself up on it and came home.’

  ‘What were you doing on the moors at that hour?’ his mother asked.

  Marcus scowled. Trust her to ask the awkward questions! ‘Coming home from visiting a friend.’

  If she asked what friend, he’d pretend to faint. But she didn’t. She just gave him one of her measuring looks as if she had a fair idea what he’d really been doing and let the matter drop.

  When Emmy woke the next morning she couldn’t think where she was and sat up with a gasp, ready to flee. Then she realised she was in Parson’s house next to the church and sagged back against the pillow in relief. From the sloping ceiling she guessed this to be an attic bedroom. Getting out of bed, she tiptoed across the wooden floor to the window. The back garden of the Parsonage lay beneath and to one side of it the church hall in whose porch she had sheltered the night before. Beyond that were the church and churchyard. Everything looked fresh and sparkling in the feeble winter sunshine and a line of washing was flapping in the breeze. Even the sky looked newly washed.

  Mrs Bradley had been very kind to her last night, promising to find her a new position and saying they could use an extra pair of hands here in the meantime. But would they be able to protect her from both George and Marcus?

  ‘I thought I heard you moving about,’ said a cheerful voice behind Emmy. ‘You certainly slept a long time. It’s nearly ten o’clock.’

  She turned to see a young woman a bit older than herself with dark hair and a rosy face, standing smiling in the doorway.

  Emmy could only stare at her, feeling stupid and heavy-headed.

  ‘I’m Cass, the general dogsbody here.’ She smiled as she said that. ‘I’ll bring up some warm water and you can have a wash, then Cook’ll get you something to eat. We’ve got your clothes dry and I’ve given them a bit of a press and mended the tears. I’ll bring them up as well.’

  Emmy slipped under the blankets to keep warm. When she heard footsteps again, she sighed, wishing she need not face the world yet.

  Cass came in and deposited a ewer of hot water on the scuffed little table that had a blue and white wash basin on it, then laid Emmy’s clothes carefully across the foot of the bed. ‘There y’are. Just follow the stairs down two flights when you’re ready. They lead straight into the kitchen. Well, mustn’t stay chatting. There’s allus a lot to do here.’ She clattered off, humming as she went.

  Emmy washed every inch of herself, trying in vain to rub the dirty feel of Marcus Armistead’s hands off her skin. She could not understand why he’d spent so long just playing with her body. From what she’d seen and heard with her mother, men liked to get on with it and gain their release. But perhaps he wasn’t like other men. She shivered and tried not to think about him, getting ready as quickly as she could, anxious not to seem lazy.

  As she went downstairs she heard a piano tinkling somewhere, the front door knocker sounding and voices coming from several parts of the house. How lucky people were to live like this! It must be wonderful to have company all the time. You’d feel so safe. She wondered if she would ever feel safe again and hoped Mrs Bradley would find her another position as far away from Northby as possible.

  A plump, grey-haired older woman, whom she vaguely remembered from the night before, turned from stirring something on the range, pushing her mob cap higher up her flushed forehead. Massive and comforting, she put an arm round Emmy’s shoulders and guided her across to one end of the big wooden table. ‘Sit there, love. Cass’ll get you something to eat.’

  So Emmy sat and watched what was happening in wonder. A pot of soup was bubbling at one side of a large range whose fire was glowing cheerfully in the centre. Cook began dismembering a plucked chicken while Cass brought Emmy a cup of tea and then went to toast a piece of bread for her on the fire.

  ‘And give her a bit of that ham,’ Cook ordered. ‘Keep up her strength.’

  Good as the food was, Emmy had to force herself to eat because she was still so worried about what was going to happen to her.

  Mrs Bradley came bustling into the kitchen just as she was finishing her food and smiled at her. ‘You look better this morning, dear. I’ve been talking to my husband and we think it’d be sensible for you to stay with us for a while. We can always use another pair of hands. Five shillings a week all found. Will that suit?’

  Emmy hesitated. ‘I don’t want to sound ungrateful, ma’am, but hadn’t I better get away from Northby as soon as possible?’

  ‘Parson is having a word with Mr Rishmore about what happened. This Duckworth man will be told in no uncertain terms to leave you alone. You have nothing further to fear from him.’ As long as her story is true, which I think it is, Prudence Bradley added mentally, but I’m certain I shall be able to tell if she’s a decent girl after she’s been with us a few days.

  Emmy gulped. ‘Are you sure?’ There was still Marcus Armistead, only she didn’t dare mention him.

  ‘Of course I am.’ She saw the anxiety in the girl’s eyes and added in a low voice, ‘And the other one won’t dare come after you while you’re with us. Now, if you’ve finished your breakfast, perhaps you could help Cass. Only light work today, Cass, till we’re sure Emmy has recovered from her nasty experience.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  So began a blissful few days during which Emmy helped when and where she could, learning a few new skills as she went because what happened in a household where money was not in short supply was very different from what happened in a cottage whose mistress had to watch every farthing.

  ‘She’s a good little worker,’ Cook told Mrs Bradley two days later.

  ‘She’s a nice, decent lass if ever I saw one,’ Cass reported to her mistress the next day when questioned.

  ‘I’d keep Emmy on here myself,’ Prudence said to her husband that same evening, ‘but I think she’ll do better in a place where no one knows her background, which will take a little longer to find.’

  He nodded absent-mindedly and she left him to his sermon, smiling to herself. Although she always made a point of appearing to consult him, he never overruled her ‘suggestions’ and in practice left running the household and dispensing acts of charity towards female members of his parish entirely in her hands.

  Samuel Rishmore listened to what his Parson had to tell him, nodding thoughtfully. ‘I know Duckworth. But we have only the girl’s word against him and he keeps a very orderly house, so I am inclined to give him a severe warning to leave her alone from now on and then let the matter drop. The men must have somewhere to drink, after all.’

  Gerald stared at him, feeling disappointed. He ventured a mild protest. ‘But this was a grossly immoral act, and what about the gentleman to whom Duckworth sold her? What if he snatches other young women and exposes them to such attacks?’

  Samuel’s voice grew sharper. ‘As I said, we have only her word for it and with such a mother we cannot place too much trust in what she says.’

  ‘My wife considers her a decent, w
illing girl and a good worker,’ Gerald said stiffly, refusing to back down.

  ‘Then let your wife find the girl another place, which will solve the problem of what to do with her. I will have a word with Duckworth and I assure you he will not dare go near her again. Now, about the monument on my father’s grave ...’

  Gerald Bradley knew when to draw back, even though he was sure Prudence was going to be angry at this lack of response, as indeed he was himself. Like many gentlemen in positions of power, Samuel Rishmore believed what was convenient and no one dared gainsay him. Life could be very unfair to the poor.

  George Duckworth scowled at the rent collector who was explaining very emphatically that he would lose his alehouse and licence if he went near Emmy Carter again.

  ‘You understand? Mr Rishmore himself told me to speak to you about this.’

  ‘Aye, I understand. But she’s a liar. I’ve had nowt to do with her.’

  ‘That’s as may be, but if Parson believes her lies, who are we to argue? Besides, I’ve seen you myself, watching her in the street. She’s a bonny’un, but you’d better forget about her, George, my lad, and get on with running your alehouse. There’s other fish in the pond. Mr Rishmore is pleased you’ve heeded his last warning and stopped the fighting. You heed him in this as well and he’ll let you be in your other activities, so long as you keep your girls off the main street. And I wouldn’t say no to a glass of your best if there’s any going. Thirsty work, collecting rents.’

  George went to draw him a glass and managed to chat amiably enough, but when the rent collector had left he went stamping up the stairs, furious that his plans for bettering himself had received this setback. He threw open the door of Madge’s room. ‘Get out, you!’ he roared.

  She looked at him in puzzlement. ‘George?’

  ‘Get out of my alehouse and out of Northby, too. Within the hour.’

  ‘George, no!’ She flung herself at him and when he shook her off, clung to his legs. ‘George, what have I done? I don’t know what I’ve done.’

  He scowled down at her and gave in to the temptation to kick her away from him. ‘Brought up your daughter to defy me, that’s what you’ve done. I’ve just nearly lost this place because of her. And without her you’re no use to me. Look at you! Drunk all day now, you are, and don’t even keep yourself clean any more. Just bloody look at you!’ He dragged her across the room and thrust her face in front of the fly-specked mirror which cruelly exposed her bloodshot eyes, bedraggled hair and pallid skin.

  She whimpered and tried to cling to him. ‘George, don’t send me away. Please. I’ll do anything.’

  ‘There’s nothing you can do now. She ran off bleating to Parson about last night, the bitch. Well, I’ve had a bellyful of both you and your bloody daughter. Just make sure you’re out of Northby by nightfall or you’ll be sorry.’

  He shoved her away from him violently, sending her tumbling to the floor, then stormed out, still seething with anger. Damn all interfering, sanctimonious bastards!

  After a while he grew thoughtful. He’d had enough of this place now and although he hadn’t enough money saved to do what he wanted it occurred to him suddenly that Marcus Armistead might be interested in a joint investment. It was worth a try anyway. Give that randy bugger the chance of girls easily available at any time and he might just be tempted into doing something a bit ungentlemanly. George grinned. Though the sod didn’t always follow through, the girls told him - had trouble finishing off, as some men did.

  Madge lay sobbing for a few minutes then heaved herself to her feet, muttering, ‘It’s not fair. It isn’t my fault Emmy’s like that. She takes after her father’s side. Always has done. If they’d only treated us properly, there’d be no need for any of this.’ She sneaked downstairs and stole a bottle of gin from behind the bar. In between sips she packed her things, sobbing sometimes and muttering to herself.

  An hour later a voice roared up the stairs, ‘Are you still there?’

  She yelled back, ‘I have to pack my things, don’t I? Aw, Georgie, please—’

  ‘Get the hell out of here, you cheating trollop!’

  She left the inn by the back door just as Marcus Armistead was slipping inside, standing back to let him pass and scowling at him.

  He watched her go indifferently, then went to see George and ask whether the girl had been traced. But it seemed the stupid bitch had found herself protectors of another sort in the Parson and his wife who had the ear of Samuel Rishmore. ‘Damnation!’ Marcus picked up a glass and sent it shattering against the wall. ‘I was looking forward to teaching her a lesson. Well, if you can’t supply her, I want my money back.’

  ‘Haven’t got it. I had expenses getting her and hiring the cottage. I can only return five guineas, take it or leave it.’ George turned to the slattern wiping over the tables. ‘Has Madge Carter left yet?’

  ‘Yes. But I feel sorry for the poor bitch,’ she muttered, secure in her own position as highest-earning whore in this establishment. ‘She can’t help it if her daughter won’t do as you want. You shouldn’t have chucked her out like that.’

  “That old woman leaving the inn was Emmy’s mother?’ Marcus exclaimed. ‘Hell, she looks more like her grandmother!’

  George cleared his throat. ‘I was wondering if you’d be interested in a little business proposition? It’d give you access to a lot of other girls.’ He watched Marcus’s face carefully and grinned as he saw his companion’s expression change. Aha! Caught you!

  In the privacy of his own room, George explained what he wanted to do.

  Marcus nodded thoughtfully, asked one or two questions, then said, ‘We’ll talk about it again next week. In the meantime I’ll look into the situation in Manchester.’ Now he had to go and do the pretty to Jane Rishmore, the mere sight of whom made his gorge rise.

  He went outside and mounted his horse, still seething with fury every time he thought of the girl who’d escaped him. He hadn’t been able to get her out of his mind, her and her pretty unmarked body. One day he’d make her sorry for what she’d done. Very sorry indeed.

  Marcus would have thought no more of the old woman, but as he was riding across the tops on his way home he saw her by the side of the road, sobbing and wailing, clearly drunk. He reined in his horse to look down at her, smiling to see her brought so low.

  ‘Give us a shilling, sir,’ Madge begged, trying to smile at him enticingly. When he stayed where he was, she staggered across to clutch his stirrup and say, ‘I can pleasure you, if you like, sir. I know how to make a gentleman happy.’

  The thought of that sickened him. Who would want to touch an old hag like this? In a sudden spurt of anger he kicked her away as hard as he could.

  Screeching in fury, too drunk to think what she was doing, Madge snatched up a stone and hurled it at him, catching the horse on its rump. ‘You rotten devil! No wonder my Emmy didn’t want anything to do with you.’

  How the hell did she know that? Had she helped her daughter to escape?

  The animal began to sidle nervously and when Marcus tried to hit it with his riding crop, he hit the old woman instead. It filled him with such savage satisfaction to hear that girl’s mother scream in pain that he leaned sideways to swipe another blow at her. As the red rage he usually managed to control rose in him he gave in to it for once, kicking his feet out of the stirrups and jumping down from his horse the better to get at her. He cracked his riding crop down on her again and again.

  At first she screeched and tried to fight back, but in a very short time she stopped doing anything but try to protect herself. Power filled Marcus. He felt strong and masculine. You didn’t need to be tall to prove you were a man. You just needed to show women who was the master.

  As she fell and lay moaning feebly, he abandoned the riding crop to kick and beat her till she stopped making any noise at all. He continued even after she lay motionless.

  Eventually the rage died down and he stepped back, panting as he wiped one arm a
cross his forehead. It was a while before he realised how still the whore was. There was no sound but the chill wind whining softly across the moors and lifting his hair off his forehead-and no sign of movement at all from her. His horse was some distance away now, blowing uneasily through its nostrils.

  He yelled, ‘Away with you, you old hag!’ That should have made her at least crawl away from him. What was she trying to do now, pretend he’d really hurt her? Well, she wasn’t going to get any money out of him.

  As he bent to roll her over on to her back he saw in shock that her eyes were open, staring blindly up at the grey sky. Her chest was still. She wasn’t breathing. She was dead! ‘No,’ he whispered. ‘No, she’s faking. She must be.’ So he shook her. But her body flopped around like a broken doll and in a sudden fit of disgust he hurled her away from him, watching her head bounce on the ground.

  He backed away, horrified. ‘No! Damn you, get up!’

  But she didn’t move.

  At first he thought only of getting away, but even before he’d caught his horse, he realised that would not be wise. What if someone found out he’d done it?

  Shuddering, he looked down at himself but there was no sign of blood, no sign that he had just beaten and kicked a woman to death.

  He looked around, trying to work out whether there was anything to give him away. And of course he saw the hoof marks and footprints in the muddy ground around her body.

  Muttering in annoyance, he led the horse on to stony ground quite a bit further up the track, tethering it to a gatepost and keeping a careful eye out for whatever farmer the land belonged to. But there was no one in sight. ‘Thank God!’ he muttered.

  As he made his way back he tried to keep to rocky ground and leave no distinguishable footprints. After staring at the still figure, he stripped off his cloak and frock coat, even sacrificing his new waistcoat. He didn’t want to touch her again. Couldn’t. But he used the waistcoat to wipe the ground around her clear of hoofprints and footprints, walking backwards and smoothing the muddy patches as he went. It took him a long time and it was bloody hard work.