The Wages of Sin

by Judith Cutler

  I thought of the expression I had seen in Mrs Billings’ eyes when I had questioned her. ‘Fear,’ I said. ‘Fear of someone with power.’

  XIX

  ‘I will not ask,’ the man with the tiny spectacles is saying, ‘how you did it, but I would say that there is no pregnancy.’ It is not the new apothecary. I do believe it is Dr Hughes, who treats the family. He feels my belly through my shift, a nice clean one Nurse has found for me. ‘But there must be no more treatment. The child is young and her constitution still delicate. Any further remedies and she might not be able to have children of her own. And that would not do, would it, Missy?’ he asks, touching my cheek with the back of a finger, the way Mrs Baird fusses the kitchen cat that sleeps with her, not Cook, at night. But that is our secret.

  What happened in the library was our secret, he said, and already people know about it.

  What will become of me now?

  TWENTY

  A terse note awaited me on my desk, informing me that the Reverend Mr Pounceman was not At Home – like Elias I wondered if that was in the social or literal sense – and that the meeting must be postponed. Neither alternative date nor apology was offered.

  I was furious. But outside the sun was still shining, so I did the obvious thing: I vented my spleen in the fields, helping with the last of the hay-making. Who could have provided those intimate souvenirs? Could they have done it voluntarily? And were they willing volunteers in the coupling we all assumed had gone before? Trophies, Harriet had called them – and with such bitterness. If I had thought she would welcome it, I would have run back to her, laying down my rake on the spot. Rake! Even the innocent word made me catch my breath in horror because of its other meaning! Men in an earlier age had used the term with something approaching envious approval, not the profound distaste for such sexual adventure my friends and colleagues felt. And yet at university and since I had become aware of the double-standards of my contempor-aries. They might cherish the pure women they dreamed of marrying, as I now dreamed of marrying Harriet, but they thought nothing of consorting with women selling their bodies: fallen women. My father always considered them not ‘fallen’ but ‘brought low’ by the terrible circumstances of their lives: he had outraged many of his circle by insisting on giving gainful employment to several in our family home, which hosted many an ecclesiastical gathering.

  My body falling into the rhythm needful for the job, I could let my brain work. It would have been cruel to ask Harriet earlier: it had been brave of her to speak of such matters at all, especially in mixed company. But I believed I must ask her whether any dates attached to the trophies – anything at all that might point to women I could only ever think of as victims. If indeed they had been willing participants, that was one thing; if coercion, even by the fact that one party was powerful, the other entirely powerless, then somehow … should recompense be involved? If the result of the union was pregnancy, how might that be dealt with?

  Soon I found myself working alongside Silas Kenton. I had enough breath to ask him how his wife and my soon-to-be godson were progressing: he gave as detailed report as I could wish; the gist was that both were doing well, and that my namesake was already sleeping through the night. This seemed to a mere bachelor to be a lowly enough achievement, but it occasioned great pride in his father.

  ‘When will the christening take place?’ I asked.

  ‘Soon as we can talk to Rector.’

  ‘You’ll let me know the date?’

  The question seemed to floor him. ‘You wouldn’t be coming – not coming to church along of us – would you?’

  ‘Of course, Silas. Godparents make solemn vows on the baby’s behalf. I can’t not be there. And – if you are to have any celebration with your family and friends afterwards – I will fulfil another duty: I will provide the ale and cider for it. I should imagine Mrs Faulkner will provide some refreshments, too.’

  He gave something like a snigger. ‘Maybe you could ask her, gaffer?’ Somehow the question contrived to nudge me playfully in the ribs.

  ‘If you wish, I will.’ I kept my voice as neutral as possible. It was one thing to be the predictable subject of gossip, another to be teased by someone to whom I had to give orders. But perhaps I should simply turn the subject. ‘Will you be at cricket practice tonight, Silas? And what about that brother-in-law of yours? Harry?’

  ‘Ah, you won’t have heard, maybe. They reckon he broke some bone in his hand. Like a great ham, it came up. Says he can bat with one hand – he always was pig-headed. So he’ll be there, but mostly watching, I dare say.’

  ‘I hope the hand heals soon. We can’t spare fielders like him. That last catch he took off my bowling was miraculous … Any other news I’ve missed?’ I asked idly. ‘What the newspapers call hatches, matches and despatches?’

  He snorted. ‘We’re running bets on when Billy Portman’s new wife will pop. Supposed to be as pure as the driven snow when they got wed; but she’s mighty big for a wench only five months gone.’

  Dr Page had joked about brides’ fertility being tested before the wedding vows. I risked my own.

  ‘Anyone else, of course it’d be likely!’ Silas agreed. ‘But he’s strict Chapel. Seems he made some sort of promise when he signed the pledge. Anyway, let’s hope that all’s well that ends well. As for despatches, old man Burton’s not long for this life they say. And what was the other one? Matches? Isn’t that for you to say? Beg pardon, gaffer, but the whole village knows you’re walking out with Mrs Faulkner, and they wish you well, too.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. But not Harry, I imagine: he and Mrs Faulkner …?’ I made a little rocking gesture. ‘Or is all that history?’

  ‘You saying he’s forgotten about her and Maggie? Because I can tell you straight he hasn’t, not ever will. He’d marry her tomorrow, someone else’s babe and all, if he could find her.’

  My heart leapt. Could that be the solution to all our theorising? ‘Everyone knows, I should imagine, that I have done my best to find her. Yes? Well, I know roughly where she might be, and there is money to care for her and her baby. If you think he would like to send her a message, I can’t take it myself, because she says she won’t see anyone. But I know someone – a good woman – who could.’

  He looked me straight in the eye. ‘You mean that, don’t you, gaffer?’

  ‘Absolutely. I can’t guarantee he gets a reply, of course. But I’ll ask … the good woman … to pass it on.’

  ‘And would this “good woman” be Mrs Faulkner?’

  ‘No. She knows as little as I do. But I tell you this, Silas, man to man: if Harry still bears a grudge against her, still threatens her, then I will not help him at all. Not one jot. And before you object, remember that a man who wants to raise a hand against one woman may hit the next – his wife. And for all Harry says, having another man’s child foisted on any young man often provokes him to violence against mother or child – am I right?’

  ‘You are indeed, gaffer. Look’ee – could you get a message to her without him knowing? Then if she turns him down flat, he can’t blame anyone, can he?’ Again he looked me in the eye. ‘No cause for him to use those fists on anyone then.’

  I clapped him on the shoulder. ‘I take your point. Thanks, Silas. And remember to let me know when that christening will be.’

  He nodded, then looked at me impishly. ‘You’ve not heard what they’ve been saying in the village then? That Rector’s got’ – he dropped his voice to a whisper – ‘a dose of the clap.’ He threw his head back and laughed. ‘Not that I believe it, gaffer. That man lie with a woman? Never in a thousand years!’

  The cricketers slipped away early from the hay-making; with me at their head, the foreman could hardly object. Since he’d once been a formidable bowler himself, he even took me on one side to give me some tips. Since they included a pint of cider and a pipeful of shag before every game, I didn’t think I’d be taking his advice, but was grateful for it anyway.

  I
was in time to intercept Elias before anyone else spotted him, picking up a ball and leading him away from the others. ‘We’ll give the impression we’re talking about where I want you to stand when I’m bowling – and yes, why couldn’t you tell me how to improve? We’re a good partnership but could be better.’

  ‘You didn’t take me on one side to talk about tactics, did you, Mr Rowsley? You want to know how our investigation is proceeding.’

  ‘Of course.’ I tossed the ball from one hand to the other. ‘I know there will be things you mustn’t tell me, but there may come a time when we need to co-operate in our jobs as well as on the field.’

  ‘There may indeed.’ Without the vividly-bearded Sergeant Burrows, Elias seemed much more confident. ‘If I was you, I’d spread your fingers a bit wider, like.’ He moved my digits. ‘See how that feels. Thing is, I can’t say her ladyship was much help yesterday. But I thought – though Sergeant Burrows didn’t – that she was taken aback, you might say, when we said there was no sign of him at all. And eventually she did condescend to give us a list of the great houses where he’d been planning to stay. We have village constables from all over the county checking each one – remarkable things, these telegraphs, aren’t they? Now, if you straighten that wrist … Between ourselves, I reckon he’s gone off with some wench or other.’

  ‘Surely a young man with a title and with his wealth could have his pick of society ladies without having to do anything havey-cavey. And breaking up your own vehicle!’

  ‘As to the first, I know ladies are supposed to be the weaker sex, but I reckon they’ve got a lot more sense than they’re credited with – can pick a wrong ’un half a mile off. My sister – sorry, forget I said that.’

  I held up the ball a tad awkwardly. ‘Your sister was – shall I say propositioned – by him?’

  ‘Yes. And reminded him her sweetheart was a butcher by profession, with a sideline in beating the boxers at country fairs.’ He smiled grimly. ‘But I guess – no, I really must not tell ’ee more, though I will say that with your hand like that and your fingers like that you might be a yard quicker.’

  ‘We’d best go and see,’ I said, patting him on the shoulder. ‘Thank you.’

  It took four or five attempts to get used to my new action, but after that I was certainly not so much quicker as more accurate.

  Eventually the captain called time. ‘But only if you can show me how well you can catch, lads.’

  Harry should have been in his element, of course, as if he had glue on his fingers. I expected him to lurk, watching sullenly as the others proved how inept they could be. Instead to my amazement he joined in, plucking balls out of the air as if they were ripe plums, only using his left hand. As the team headed in the direction of the Royal Oak I fell into step with him, commiserating with him but remarking on his amazing talent.

  ‘’Tain’t nothing but keeping your eyes on the ball, gaffer. You don’t do so bad yourself, do you?’

  I managed a laugh. I suspected we’d never like each other, even if he knew I was about to try to do him a favour, but I wanted peace amongst the estate workers and above all I wanted a safe future for Harriet.

  ‘I saw you talking to Elias,’ he said, a touch truculently. But then, I reminded myself, he always spoke as if he was angry.

  ‘You did indeed. He was trying to adjust my grip on the ball.’ One hand over the other, I demonstrated. ‘It seemed to work. And your fielding’s as brilliant as ever. If only we could persuade a few more lads to come along on evenings like this – to learn the ropes and take over as older men drop out.’ We continued in silence for a few yards. ‘Would you tell me something? Between ourselves? Sometime ago you said that the House wasn’t a safe place – for young women? Was this because you knew something or just suspected it?’

  ‘What is it to you? Going to have me sacked for slandering them, are you?’

  ‘Not at all. I’m genuinely interested.’

  ‘So you didn’t sack young Hortense and send her off with a flea in her ear?’

  ‘Why on earth would you think that?’

  ‘Stands to reason.’

  ‘Come off it.’ We were standing facing each other. ‘Why on earth would I want to sack a woman I never employed? Hortense was her ladyship’s maid, not a housemaid. And I have nothing to do with the hiring or firing of anyone in the House, as I suspect you know full well. Nor, directly, can I dismiss the outdoor staff, before you accuse me of that. Now, a straight answer, if you please. Why was the House not safe?’

  ‘Ask Luke Hargreaves.’

  ‘He is travelling with his lordship so I can’t. I’m asking you. Very well, I’ll ask you another question: are you telling me that it was Hargreaves who made the House a dangerous place for women or that he knows who did?’

  He balled his fists and squared his jaw. I braced myself. Finally he dropped his eyes. ‘I’m not supposed to talk. Not to anyone, though it comes hard. I just can’t put folk in harm’s way, can I? So if it’s all the same to you I’ll just button my lip.’ He looked half the man he was before.

  I dropped my voice. ‘You are telling me it will put people’s lives at risk if you betray information? Very well, I think that has answered my question without, I swear, endangering you. If you should change your mind, you know where to find me. Or you might get your sister to pass on a name. That’s all I ask. A name. Because I shall believe you and no one will have an inkling who gave me that name. No one. Ever. Now, let us speak no more of this. We are just two weary men needing our ale.’

  I paid for the first round, as was proper, and then drifted to the back of the group as they drank. What I wanted was a word with Marty – and it seemed as if he wanted one with me. While my teammates chattered amongst themselves, he drew me into his private parlour. After enquiries about my health and, with a twinkle in his eye, that of Mrs Faulkner, he gestured me to a seat. He sat opposite me.

  ‘I’ve just had a letter from my old friend Ianto,’ he said.

  ‘From your face it’s not good news.’

  ‘I don’t think it is. But he assures me there’s no immediate cause for concern. He tells me that little Maggie is ill – the vile town air, according to her aunt. So only the aunt turns up to the manse for the money. In effect, he’s asking our opinion – yours, really – about whether he should keep paying her.’

  ‘What is your instinct?’ I asked, suspicion flooding my veins.

  ‘Same as yours, to judge by your face. No Maggie, no money. But what if she is ill, genuinely ill?’

  ‘I’d say there is no reason why Mrs Davies, who struck me as a most redoubtable woman, shouldn’t visit her. It’s what vicars’ wives, parsons’ wives, do, and God bless them for it.’

  ‘My own sentiments entirely. I’ll write back tomorrow. But I’m going to call time, now, Matthew: the hay-making and the cricket seem to have produced a thirst in some of those lads that I’d rather not have them slake here.’

  XX

  Nurse tells me that she and Mrs Baird are looking for another situation for me: I will not have to wait till the next mop fair to look for one.

  ‘It’s just not safe for her here,’ Nurse says, as if I can’t hear. ‘And after … all this … I can’t see her ever getting married, can you? What about that place where your sister works? Are they kind to children there?’

  Mrs Baird says, ‘I have another idea. But I won’t say anything yet in case it raises her hopes.’

  TWENTY-ONE

  I hardly expected to see my friends so late, but, taking my summer suit, I headed to the House in hopes. As before I found a hip bath awaiting me, and, though supper was obviously over, Tim appeared with a covered tray as soon as I entered the Room. I was to have a cold collation while the others took their dessert. Samuel Bowman was just returning from serving her ladyship hers.

  Between mouthfuls of one of Beatrice’s wonderful pies and a miniature salmagundi, I recounted the various conversations I had had, trying to edit out any referenc
es to the relationship between Harriet and me, as perceived by the estate workers and villagers.

  Beatrice picked up on the element of fear I mentioned. ‘“Fear of someone with power” were the words you used at luncheon. That must point the finger at his lordship – or, given her behaviour, at her ladyship.’

  Samuel in particular looked outraged. ‘Do you realize what you are saying?’

  But Beatrice continued quietly, ‘I think we’ve all realized that this might be a possibility. But you mentioned Luke, too – and we all know he has a hasty temper. Could he be … no, surely his lordship would not protect him.’

  ‘I worry about this speculation,’ Harriet said. ‘Surely we should wait to hear what Elias can tell us as he and the sergeant pursue their enquiries.’ She looked around the table with a pleasing authority. ‘Now, I am troubled by the news from Wolverhampton, and I have a proposition on which I would welcome your views. I can understand that Maggie does not want to be seen by Matthew or by Mr Davies. But I wonder if a visit from a woman would create the same sense of shame – from Mrs Davies, of course, and from Beatrice or me.’

  ‘I would be happy to go, Harriet, but as a housemaid she answered to you.’

  ‘Neither lady can go unaccompanied, of course,’ Samuel said. ‘And I am not sure that the landlord of the Royal Oak would be the right sort of chaperone.’

  I could have shaken his hand there and then. ‘Marty is one of the finest men I’ve ever met, in his own quiet way. But if it would make you more comfortable, Harriet, of course I would be more than happy to offer my services – and if you would prefer Marty’s too I’m sure he would oblige.’

  She nodded. ‘What do you think, Samuel? Beatrice?’

  Beatrice simply offered an impish smile. Samuel spread his hands. ‘Sadly, for the sake of utmost propriety, I do believe Mr Baines ought to be one of the party.’ As if aware he was casting a shadow over the company, he added, ‘And did you learn anything else, Matthew?’