She should have kept the girl here, let the child be born at Butcroft House, she herself handling the delivery. It would have been so easy, a hand over the mouth and the child would never have taken a breath. It would not have been thought strange, so many infants died at birth. If only she had thought – Clara’s fingers tightened angrily – if only she had held her temper there would be one less, one less to claim what she intended to be Quenton’s. But it would still be his; one or two, no number of lives would stand in the way of that, nor any business either!
She too had been careful of what she said but her meaning had been clear. Clara’s mind switched to the office of Regency Leather works. It had been strewn with papers. But she was not duped by the seeming carelessness, no such carried over into the work of Laban Hurley, he was acknowledged as the finest saddler in all of the Black Country if not all of England; even royalty came to Laban Hurley for saddles and bridles… but Laban Hurley came to her, to the Glebe Works for his lorinery! She had reminded him of the fact that, important as the leather working was, it needed the addition of metal pieces, not simply those of decoration such as the horse brasses so beloved of firms delivering any manner of goods and wishing their teams to be seen as the best, but bridle bits, stirrups, frames for courier and Gladstone bags and the thousand and one other things the loriner supplied… supplies which she might, unfortunately, be forced to discontinue.
She had thought her veiled threat to have brought results, for Laban Hurley to own to having her niece in his house. She could have gone on from there to openly threaten, to tell him the girl must go or his living would go. She would make no more pieces for Regency Leather and Laban Hurley would be forced from business. That had been her one weapon but Hurley had countered its strike before she had hurled it.
‘It does a man good to hear another’s trade be flourishing.’ He had smiled at her when saying it. ‘As for your being perturbed by being unable to accept my own orders for the lorinery then rest your mind easy for it causes no problem. You be the only foundry of that sort in Darlaston and I be the only saddler, but in Walsall town there be several, every one of which knows the name of Laban Hurley and the quality of his work. I thinks there’ll be none not proud to link their trade to his.’ He had opened the door of the office and the sounds of tools against leather had rushed in but they had not drowned the last of his words, or the warning contained in them.
‘Ar, Walsall has many a loriner a man can buy from, and each saddler his supplier… I hopes you finds your business continues to flourish.’
They had not been empty words nor had their meaning gone unrecognised. He could buy anywhere, but where outside of Darlaston could she sell? No, what she had thought a threat to Regency Leather had been a threat against herself. But where one door closed another opened. She had failed in that venture but there would be no failing in the next. Her niece must be gotten rid of once and for all… and so must her bastard child!
*
‘I have been a burden on you long enough, I – I just wish there was a way of repaying your kindness other than returning to Butcroft House and claiming my father’s property.’
‘There be no need of you thinking of repayment, the good Lord seen fit to entrust us with the caring of you and your little lad, it don’t be our way to seek to throw that trust back in His face.’ Unity did not glance up from stitching a bridle. ‘Would do no good to go and see Clara Mather, she were left in charge ’til her brother returned and that will be her stand; she will release the reins only when Jacob Corby hisself stands afore ’er.’
‘Then she will never release them,’ Anne answered quietly. ‘Jacob Corby is dead… we buried him in a Russian cemetery.’
With the first words spoken, the rest followed. Like waters breaking free of a dam they poured in an unrelenting stream until the whole story was told of their endless trekking, of the hostile glares and often physical blows followed by threats to their lives driving them from country to country, from the continent and deserts of Africa to the cold plains of Russia. Perhaps it was there in that country her father’s proselytising had been most resented. The people had their religion and their churches, their belief in the one true God had been as strong as Jacob’s, only the form of their services were different But for her father those services had held the overtones of idol worship, they needed to be cleansed of the rituals he saw as belonging to the worship of Baal and Ashtoreth, to the stone idols of heathenism.
‘It grew worse as we went from village to village, my father ever condemning the people, telling them heaven closed its eyes to their worship, that the mother of God wept at their failure to follow the true path. But a path which varied from his only in its use of icons and incense, one in which every heart loved and revered its saviour as did his own could not be disowned of heaven. My mother saw that clearly but as clear to her eyes was her duty, she was Jacob Corby’s wife and as such it was her duty to follow wherever he led. I think that even in their anger those people saw that and it was their reason for not letting us starve.’
Unity had not spoken. Listening in silence, her hands manipulating two needles, one threaded at each end of the same length of twine, she stitched with the surety the years of working with her husband had given her. Now she said quietly, ‘God rest his soul. He were wrong in what he done but the good Lord has a knowing heart and ever open arms, may the soul of Jacob Corby find peace in them.’
Anne watched the dexterity of the other woman’s hands, the left pushing its needle through the small hole the diamond shaped blade of the awl had made in the leather, her right hand sending its needle through the same hole then both pulling the thread tight.
‘So Jacob Corby died following his star.’ Unity’s hands moved rhythmically. ‘That must have been hard for your mother to bear, but a grandchild will help ease the burden of sorrow. Will her be following after you or do you go to her?’
In the short silence which followed the question Anne fought to retain the nausea spilling up into her throat. Sat close to the light of the window, Unity felt the tension. The wench had other sorrows yet to bring from the dark regions, other wounds which would not begin to heal until they were laid bare.
‘My – my mother will not be following after me and – and I cannot go to her. I wanted to stay with her… I wanted—’
Sobs took the place of words, thickening and choking in Anne’s throat and though Unity’s heart twisted, though she ached to comfort, to say no more needed to be told, she stayed firmly on her stool, her eyes on her stitching. Comfort of that sort was the wrong balm, whatever the stuff of Anne Corby’s nightmare, as with a boil, it needed to be drawn, to have the poison extracted from it, only then would it begin to fade and allow the wench peace.
‘I tried to fight them off.’ Her voice almost a whisper, each syllable trembling like breeze caught leaves, it seemed Anne watched a scene within herself. ‘I tried to keep them away but it was no use… they were so many… they were so cruel!’
6
‘I – I watched the trousers… saw them lower to the man’s feet… I thought… I thought—’ The tortured whispers emptied into the silence of Unity’s kitchen.
‘But he did not move. Then I saw, spreading from the base of his throat, covering his jacket in bright glistening red, a glitter which matched that in his eyes. I thought then he would come at me, finish the evil he was intent upon, but the seconds passed and still he did not move.’
Breathing tight and shallow as she must have breathed then Anne talked on, a commentator describing some invisible picture.
‘Then I saw it, in the centre of the scarlet circle, saw the iron spike protruding from his throat. I knew no one would believe the truth; I was a foreigner… he was one of their own. But I had to get my mother to some place where she would be looked after. I harnessed the horse and all the time those eyes were fixed on me.’
In its cot the infant stirred but neither of the women moved. ‘I put my mother in the sleigh, making sure
the blanket covered the rifle I had found in the stable. Mother knew the owner had said to drive myself and he would collect the sleigh later from the station. The sky was leaden and the weather showed every sign of deterioration but I knew we had to leave before the man I had killed was discovered. We had not been driving long before darkness almost as deep as night settled over the land and flurries of snow whipped our faces. I had no idea how far it was to the station or even which direction it lay and I sensed the horse was tiring. The snow flurries became more regular and a biting wind screeched across the sweep of desolately empty land, partnering the huge flakes as if in some dance which circled around us, blinding in its movement. It was then I heard a new sound, one the horse also heard. It came from the timber line away to the left, a long high pitched howl like a soul in torment.’
Words dying away, Unity stole a quick glance at the young woman sat opposite. The small face was white with remembered terror, the fingers twisting in and out of each other in horror at what it was played in her mind.
‘Wolves!’ The word was pushed between clenched teeth. ‘The horse had scented them, its fear causing it to stumble. I looked round at my mother. Her head was lying forward on her chest and I thanked God she was asleep, that she was spared more worry. Through the swirling flakes I could see the expanse of snow unmarked by the lines of any sleigh and no hoof print marred its smoothness. The world was new and empty, devoid of any living thing other than us and the moving, indistinct blur of grey shapes keeping pace along the tree line. I had heard the talk in villages we passed through, talk of wolves driven by hunger stalking sledges and knew the danger we were in. I plied the whip but the horse could go no faster; even when the howl came again and was answered by short snapping barks it could only stumble on. We were being stalked!’
It was said quiet as a breath of summer air, the essence of fear flavouring every word. Lost now in the nightmare Anne Corby spoke only to Anne Corby. Needles plying the leather, Unity steeled herself to remain silent. Sharing the horror was the only medicine likely to heal the wounds in this girl’s heart.
‘Another howl sliced the silence, answered again by short snapping barks. As if acting upon a given signal the shapes separated, positioning themselves in the pattern of a hunting pack. I’m afraid… I am so afraid!’ The words became silent in Anne’s mind. ‘The whip cracks, the sound smashing across the stillness like a pistol shot. The sleigh has become a competitor in a race, a race that means life for the winners.
‘The snow is deepening, it sucks at the horse’s hooves with every step, slowing its headlong flight, giving an added advantage to the highly skilled killers beginning to close in. The whip… lay it across the horse’s flank. Crystals of ice are spreading like diamonds in a setting of jet lacing its mane, flecks of foam spinning back from nostrils flared wide with terror the tired animal plunges forward. “Pull!” Anne screamed aloud into the lacerating wind. “Pull… pull!” Then she reeled as though a terrific gust snatched at her, ripping at her clothes, wanting to tear away her head as a tribute to its strength.’
Remaining silent Unity worked on. She could only guess at the trauma in the girl’s mind.
‘Afraid to loose the rein… I have to blink rapidly to clear the blinding flakes from my eyes. To the front of the pack the lead wolf lifts its head to howl like a minion of hell… it has made its move! Swift and silent as a shadow it has darted forward, snapping at the horse’s front legs. “The rifle, Mother!”’ Anne’s head turned to look across her shoulder, her wild shout causing the baby to whimper but Unity made no move. ‘A few shots might cause the wolves to drop back, give the horse enough leeway to outrun them into the town.
“The rifle,” I shout again, “for God’s sake, Mother, use the rifle.” The wind laughs, snatching the words, tossing them into infinity.
‘Hair threaded with crystals of ice whip across my face cutting into my skin like claws while fresh flakes of snow drive blindingly. “The rifle!”’ Part sobbing and part screaming she called to the phantoms in her mind. “‘Use the rifle!”’
*
But there had been no answering shots, only the screaming of the wind as it snatched the cries, whisking them into the obscurity of a white hell. Anne’s one hope lay with the horse but she knew the pathetically thin creature was waging a lost battle. The effort of lifting itself clear of deep snow was rapidly draining its strength and, almost as if it knew this, the lead wolf repeatedly darted forward, causing the horse to falter and scream in fear, snapping jaws grazing its fetlocks.
As if the memories governed the move Anne touched her left wrist. The reins looped about her hand strained into her flesh as she fought to hold the sleigh steady, while with her right hand she raised the whip, snaking it along the grey back, and momentarily the wolf gave ground.
Using the moment she slewed in her seat, half turning to call again to her mother to use the rifle. But the wolf seized the same moment. Changing tactics, its weight jolting the speeding sleigh, it leapt, bared yellow fangs snapping at her mother’s face. Too terrified to shout Anne slashed with the whip.
Snarling and slavering, venom filled eyes closing with hers, the wolf slid from the sleigh and rolled into the soft snow.
Again she laid the whip along the horse’s quivering flanks. The animal, half crazed with fear, was near to breaking but she had to drive it on, they had to reach Plivna, the alternative… but there was no alternative!
‘Our Father—’ The whispered prayer began then stopped, Unity shivering against the bitterness of Anne’s next words. ‘What use is there in prayer? There is no God… no caring Almighty! How could there be, how could a God of love take and take and give nothing but fear and pain in return? You were wrong, Jacob Corby!’
Laughing and sobbing at the same time she seemed to lift a glance to leaden skies.
‘You were wrong! There is no God, you wasted your life, you took your miserable little existence and laid it on the altar of Mammon, it wasn’t any God you worshipped, Jacob Corby, it was yourself!’ Drawn so deeply into the past Anne did not realise she spoke the words aloud, only that she cracked the whip, the wind filling her mouth and driving down into lungs aching and burning from breathing ice packed air. Beside the sleigh the grey terror shadowed the struggling horse, grabbing at its legs, snarling and snapping at the snaking whip.
Again and again the offensive was launched, the pack acting in organised concert to besiege the flagging horse on both sides.
Flicking the whip at the nearest of them she did not shout. She needed to conserve every breath, every ounce of energy. If her mother would only shoot, she must be awake now, must know the danger they were in.
In the closed world that was her mind, Anne saw herself half turn, saw her mother, the thin figure leaning far over the edge of the sleigh, one gloved hand trailing the ground; saw the several lean grey bodies loping an easy guard on both sides and her own mouth open; but the cry was lost in the searing howl which rose above the wind. As if in obedience to it a wolf darted inward, grabbing the trailing hand while a second sank yellowed fangs into her mother’s arm, tipping the sledge sideways in a combined pull. At the exact same moment two wolves attacked the horse from each side and sank teeth into its hind quarters, bringing a frenzied scream ripping from the terrified animal. Nostrils quivering, glazed eyes rolling, it reared, its front legs kicking at the icy air, its paralysing fear snatching its balance and leaving it to fall. As it did, the rest of the pack closed to the kill.
Absorbed in the shadows of memory, Anne did not hear herself call for the rifle, sensed only the crack of the whip and the wind driving against her face.
*
Watching the drama of it play across drawn features, Unity’ Hurley felt her own heart quicken. What hell had this wench lived through, what black pit did she stare into now?
Tentacles of memory binding her to itself, holding her fast in that white world of terror, it seemed to Anne the nightmare lived again. Skirts wrapped about her legs, the w
ind screamed its mockery as she clambered over the driving seat into the body of the sleigh, trying to drag her mother from those snarling, slavering jaws. Why had she not fired the rifle? Then, the thin figure a weight in her arms, she knew why… her mother was dead!
Close to her skirts powerful jaws snapped. She whipped away the rugs which had covered her mother, throwing them on the snow where they fell like small brown oases on the pristine whiteness. The death screams of the horse had died into silence when Anne began to laugh; the sound reaching back from that far yesterday, filling her brain with wild hysterical peals reaching to the horizon, bouncing back in rippling crazy waves. Among the wolf pack feeding in the crimson snow one tapering head lifted and turned, its blood soaked muzzle drawing back in a low snarl.
‘You are wrong, Father!’
It seemed to Anne she still laughed down into those slavering jaws.
‘You were wrong about your God.’
*
‘Hush, wench, it be all over now.’
Dropping her needles, Unity moved quickly, folding the trembling girl in her arms.
‘You be safe now, it be all over.’
But as the shaking figure sobbed against her breast, Unity Hurley knew the trauma of Anne Corby’s past was not yet all told. And that of her future was just beginning.
*
His wife’s retelling of what had been told that afternoon now finished, Laban Hurley took the clay pipe from his mouth, gently tapping the small white bowl into his palm to clear the remnants of tobacco. ‘So Jacob Corby and his wife are both dead. Do you reckon her over at Butcroft House has the knowing of it?’
‘They’ll have the guessing of it, her and that son of hers!’ Unity sorted the leather strips Laban had brought home for stitching into “Sam Browne’s”. It seemed she stitched more and more of these cross belts for army officers.
Heritage of Shame Page 6
