Heritage of Shame

by Meg Hutchinson

  ‘Ar.’ Laban nodded, shaving paper thin slices from a stick of Shag tobacco. ‘That lad’ll have guessed, they be two for a pair, what one knows t’other knows.’

  ‘Don’t take a power of guessing… when the wench showed up at the house, neither of her folk with her… well, it don’t need no hammer to drive that nail in. Clara Mather p’raps hadn’t had the telling of how that brother and his wife died, God rest them, but Clara will have no fears they do be dead and that’ll be a part answer to her prayers.’

  Pressing the shavings into the pipe, Laban lit a spill at the fire, holding the flame to the bowl. ‘Part answer… what…’ he spoke and sucked alternately, ‘… what mean you by that?’

  ‘Mean!’ Leaving leather belts to fall across the kitchen table Unity crossed to the door giving on to the stairs, listening for fully thirty seconds before closing it firmly, then, keeping her voice low, she turned to her husband. ‘You know nicely what I mean, Laban Hurley, it’s been Clara Mather’s dream that Jacob and each of his family be dead, that way the Glebe Works along of all ’er brother owned would go lock, stock an’ barrel to her. That be the prayer that woman wanted granting!’

  ‘Now you can’t be speaking of what you don’t know.’

  A remonstrative frown backing the sentence had no effect upon Unity. Quick as summer lightning her reply flashed back.

  ‘I know one thing, that being you wouldn’t lay a year’s takings to my being wrong! You might not be as free with your tongue as I am but your mind carries the same thoughts… now you tell me that don’t be so!’

  Returning the spill to its pot in the hearth, Laban knew himself defeated. He would not lie, not that it would have served any purpose, after so many years of marriage Unity knew the inside of him as well as she knew the outside.

  Back at the table Unity selected a strip of leather and threaded a length of twine each end through a separate needle. ‘They don’t all be dead though do they?’

  Through a haze of lavender grey tobacco smoke Laban watched the deft movements. Placing the leather strip into the jaws of a metal clamp he himself had made to hold the material firmly, Unity set her left foot into a stirrup, the pressure of it pulling down on a leather strap to close the jaws.

  ‘The daughter is still alive, and now there is another, a grandchild to stand in the way.’

  ‘Then that be an end to Clara Mather’s dream.’ Laban’s eyes followed the quick in and out of the stitching needles.

  Unity pulled sharply at the thread, double locking each stitch. ‘I think not. Jacob’s daughter might not want what her father left but one day the child lying in that drawer will be grown and who is to say he will follow his mother’s choosing, who is to say he won’t claim that inheritance? Clara Mather be shrewd enough to know that and so does her son… and ain’t neither of them will go handing it over quiet.’

  Chewing the slender stem of the pipe, Laban stared into the fire, his wife’s words rattling like pebbles in his mind. Clara Mather had become used to being the main voice at Glebe metal works… very used! Unity was not misled in her thinking nor was she mistaken in her words; Jacob Corby’s sister would not relinquish what she held, not happily or otherwise, nor would her world lie peaceful so long as the girl and her child lived.

  So long as the girl and her child lived!

  The words echoed, stunning his mind with their implication. Clara Mather had always been a vindictive woman, heartless in her dealings with those employed in the metal foundry, ruthless with any buyer who crossed her, and she would be no different with her niece. As his gaze locked on flames darting like blood tipped spears, Laban admitted what his thoughts had been leading to: Darlaston was no safe place for Anne Corby and her son. Given what Unity had told him of the girl’s past, given it was true – and there was no reason for believing otherwise – then that girl had already trodden the paths of hell, but here she must walk an even more dangerous road, one which the devil’s own advocate walked. And that particular disciple would not hesitate to push her off.

  7

  ‘Why do you have to go? At least give yourself a few days more of rest. It drains the strength birthing a child and you hadn’t much of that to begin with.’

  Glancing at Unity’s lined face creased now with a frown, Anne shook her head. ‘I promised I would do as I had been asked as soon as I reached England.’

  ‘Well, it were no fault of yours that you couldn’t, a babby don’t wait on nothing nor nobody to be born; when the apple be ripe it falls from the tree and ain’t nothing can go a stopping of it, but nature makes sure the tree be rested after fruiting and you should do the same.’

  They had followed this line before. Each time she spoke of leaving. Unity had found some reason why she should not. The last one had been the matter of churching, a service whereby she had to ask forgiveness of God for her sin of conceiving a child… her sin! She had wanted to scream at that, scream it was she had been sinned against, that rape was a crime not a choice, a torment not a pleasure. But she had not voiced her protest, she had gone to the church of St Lawrence and asked that forgiveness as a gesture to Unity and her husband; the only recognition of their kindness she was able to pay. But this time she could not concede.

  ‘Please.’ She tried a smile but tears welling in her eyes washed it away. ‘Please understand, I have to go—’

  ‘You have to go to that house, that I understands!’ Unity’s reply was sharp. ‘But what happens after that? Your breasts have no milk so how do you feed that little ’un when he cries with hunger… where do you leave him if you find work? You need to give thought to all of them things and more, like what if either of you takes sick or has a fall… what if it be that happens crossing of a heath where no soul walks from one week’s end to another, what of the child then, who will be there to care for him?’

  Her lips trembling, Anne lifted the child from the drawer which served as a crib and held the tiny body close against her own. She had thought of all of those reasons and a thousand more besides, each one telling her the baby would be better cared for in a home for foundlings, the workhouse would see he was placed there. But each time her mind reached that conclusion her heart had withered, curling and crumpling like a dead leaf. But was it fair to set her own feelings above the welfare of her son? Her son… Anne felt the whole of her being sink beneath a deluge of love and pain. That was the very crux of the matter, the child she held was her son, in the weeks since his birth he had become the breath in her lungs, the blood in her veins, he was the beat of her heart, the substance of her soul; to part with him, to tear all of that from her would leave her a hollow shell.

  ‘I have thought of little else.’ She looked at Unity. ‘That is why I must take my baby and give him to the care of the Parish.’

  *

  She had known it would be difficult, the pain of parting would go deep, but she had not reckoned on this. Teeth clenched against a searing emptiness, Anne forced herself to walk on. Her son would be cared for, it was better for him he be left behind. Better for him, yes, but for her…? The shawl Unity had lent her was pulled low over her head, hiding the worn patches of a coat which had been shabby when her mother gave some of their last few kopecks for it in the market place in Zovskoye.

  Anne fought tears rising from a bitterness she covered but could not bury. Her mother had been ill for months, each day seeing her grow a little weaker, and what had Jacob done? He had prayed! ‘The Lord will provide,’ he had said. ‘He will not abandon His children.’ And the Lord had provided, He had provided a meal for timber wolves by allowing them to snatch her mother from that sleigh. Breath locked in her throat as the vision of those grey snarling shapes, yellow fangs sinking into her mother’s body, flashed into her mind. That had been the provision heaven had made for Viola Corby; and for Viola Corby’s daughter it had provided rape and abuse.

  She had trusted the man when he had said she was welcome to water from his well, no thought of the evil lurking in his mind had entered
her own; it had been so easy for him… so easy! He had laughed as his wife had thrown the contents of a wooden bucket, soaking her to the skin, then kicked her with heavy clog like boots as she chased her from the yard. That was her son’s father. That loutish, grease stained pig of a man was the father of her child. How could she tell a child that? How could she tell him he was the result of rape, the memory of which even now terrified her? And if he ever found out would he see it as rape or would he judge her a willing partner, a whore happy to give herself to any with the means to pay? She had faced many terrors, known a thousand heartbreaks but that would be one she could not face… nor would she have to: her child would be left where no one knew the facts of his conception, no one knew he was a bastard, no one save Unity and Laban Hurley and they had given their word.

  Trust! It rang like a bell in her brain. She had trusted before, trusted her father to do what was best for his family, trusted until it had dried in the arid deserts of the Sahara, withered in the savage heat of Arabia and in the vast frozen plains of the Russian Steppes before dying completely beside that well… trust! It was so easy to give and so easily broken, but this time… this time her heart told her, Unity Hurley would not break that trust nor would she herself go back on the word she had given Mikhail Yusupov.

  Suddenly she was back in Russia. Flashes, each more vivid than the last, showed a crazed horse running for its life… snarling wolves snapping at its fetlocks… a thin figure dragged from a sleigh by yellow fangs red with blood… a girl laughing hysterically – then something those phantoms had not disclosed before: the crack of a single shot, the noise reverberating across the wastes of snow, drumming fingers of sound along the tree line, smashing deafeningly against her ears and folding the laughter back into her throat… then the figure standing on the sleigh jerking spasmodically before falling backwards across the wolf ravaged body.

  The coach had come upon them too late to save her mother and too soon for Anne, for she had wanted to die too, to end a life that was nothing but misery. But heaven had denied that also. They had taken her with them, she had been told later, taken to their home at Krymsk near to the sea of Azov. She remembered little of the days and nights of that long journey, only that she was as unwelcome among the servants into whose care she had been given as her family had been elsewhere in that country.

  Deaf to the sounds of the road she walked, blind to the people around her, Anne heard only one voice, a voice which spoke softly behind her.

  ‘I would not tell her your secrets.’

  In her mind she watched as her hand dropped from the muzzle of the horse she visited whenever she could escape the watchful eye of the cook; she turned, all the fears from that other stable rushing chokingly into her throat. Tall enough to fill the doorway, broad shoulders tapering to slim hips, riding breeches tucked into black knee length boots and held at the waist by a broad leather belt, a man stood, one hand raised to the lintel, the other grasping a short handled riding crop.

  ‘Who are you?’

  The voice had been quiet and well modulated with no trace of the coarse tongue of the kitchens, but it was the belt held her attention. Staring at it she was instantly back in the inn at Radiyeska facing the threatening figure of its landlord.

  ‘Answer me, girl. Who are you?’

  Among the shadows of her mind, the man dropped his hand from the lintel.

  ‘Have you no tongue.’

  He had taken several steps before a smothered scream escaped clenched lips, bringing an instant frown with the next question.

  ‘Why are you so afraid? You will come to no harm from me.’

  Seeing the conflict in her face the man had come no closer. His tone had remained level but in the shadowed stable Anne had caught the whiff of irritation as he spoke.

  ‘If you will not tell me who you are then maybe you will tell me what you are doing here in the stables?’

  The memory of that inn alive in her mind, Anne had struggled to answer.

  ‘I – I came to see Lady.’

  ‘Ah yes.’ The irritation faded as he glanced towards the horse. ‘You were telling her your secrets, but that is not wise. She is fickle, that one; is that not so, Lady?’

  The horse snickered softly and the man’s eyes asked Anne if he might step closer, and when she did not cry out he stretched a hand to stroke the animal’s nose.

  ‘Do not lie to me, my beautiful one,’ he stroked gently, ‘you would be any man’s mistress for a carrot… but for an apple—’ he had glanced at the fruit in Anne’s hand and sighed ‘—oh Lady, you would break my heart for an apple.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I will leave.’ Anne saw the shadow that was herself step towards the doorway of the stable and the man’s quick smile.

  ‘And deprive my fickle love of her apple! You would not be so cruel.’

  ‘It is not allowed for me to visit the stables.’

  ‘Who told you it is not allowed?’

  The question was sharp but the hand fondling the horse remained gentle.

  ‘I was told so when I was brought to this house.’ She answered, not realising her fear had vanished. ‘The cook said every part of the house and grounds except for the scullery is barred to me because I am a foreigner.’

  Time and memory had not faded the look which had marred that handsome face, a look of anger she had glimpsed before it was hidden.

  ‘I see.’ Strong fingers had stroked the velvet muzzle. ‘Unfortunately many of my countrymen still have a mistrust of those not born in Russia, but, God willing, they will one day learn that beyond our borders all is not governed by the devil.’

  ‘My parents were English.’ She had volunteered the information, evading the need to speak of the attitude of people she had met while tramping through this man’s country. ‘I don’t remember very much of it, we left when I was still very young.’

  ‘So you are English, then that is the language in which we will converse, but it would feel more friendly if you told me your name.’

  Anne’s eyes travelled past him to the groom who had entered the stables and now stood staring at them. Following the gaze he spoke rapidly to the man who turned back towards the cobbled yard but not before Anne had seen the look of contempt in his eyes. He would tell the cook where she had been and that would bring the thin cane stinging across her shoulders.

  ‘I beg your pardon for being here,’ she made to move past him, ‘I must go, I shall be needed in the kitchen.’

  ‘You may go presently.’ He moved just one foot but it was enough to effectively bar her way. ‘But first, your name.’

  Wanting to be away she answered abruptly, ‘My name is Anne Corby.’

  ‘Anne.’ The smile returned to his mouth, lifting the corners slightly. ‘To me it carries the sound of England.’

  ‘Do you know England?’ Momentarily forgetting the threat of another beating she had looked eagerly at the tall man, his dark hair falling loosely to his brow. ‘Have you been there?’

  ‘So, our new servant has not forgotten her homeland.’

  Lifting her head she had stared, her fear of the cook’s impending punishment forgotten as she answered with cold pride, ‘I am not a servant. I was brought to this house by Mikhail Yusupov but that does not make me one of his servants.’

  ‘Neither does it.’ He inclined his head, his smile leaving his mouth. ‘My apologies, I was wrong to call you that. So, you were brought here by Mikhail Yusupov.’

  There had been no sense of awe in his voice, awe which coloured the servants’ tone whenever they spoke of that man.

  ‘But why did he leave you here?’

  ‘I do not know, unless it was because I was ill.’ She turned a nervous glance towards the stables’ entrance. ‘Excuse me, I must go, the servants will have finished their meal and I will be needed to wash the dishes.’

  ‘You were ill, you say?’

  He either had not heard what she said or did not care.

  ‘Are you the girl rescued from the wolves?
’

  Anne remembered her surprise. ‘Yes,’ she had answered, again looking towards the entrance to the stables.

  ‘Who set you to washing dishes?’ This time there was no gentleness in his voice, only a crisp anger.

  She did not want to answer. The longer she stayed there talking the more trouble there would be when she returned to the scullery; whoever this man might be it was best their conversation ended now.

  ‘I asked who set you to washing dishes?’ He had caught at her or she would have moved, his hand fastening on her arm, dark, angered eyes looking into hers.

  ‘That is what I was supposed to do, I have to earn my keep while I am in this house.’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  It was turning into an interrogation. Anne watched herself pull her arm free. Who was this man asking so many questions and why was he suddenly so angry?

  ‘You have no need to answer,’ he said as her glance again shot towards the doorway, ‘you have told me already.’

  Allowing her to pass he followed as she left the stables, his brows falling sharply together as the strong light fell on Anne’s face showing the blood congealing around the fresh cut on her temple.

  ‘And did the same one do that to you?’ His eyes touched the wound, his mouth taut with anger.

  Her hand going to the cut she felt suddenly self-conscious. Why should a man she had never met before be so angry on her behalf?

  ‘It does not matter,’ she had answered.

  ‘Do not tell me what matters!’ Taking her chin in his hand he turned her head, examining the bruises on her cheek. ‘From the look of these it would seem you have been struck before, many times.’

  ‘Please, I must go, when she finds out I was here—’

  ‘The same thing will happen again!’

  Even in her reverie, Anne heard the snap in that voice, the razor edge of anger.

  She had looked at him with a new worry clouding her eyes. She was dependent on the cook, it rested with her whether or not help was requested of the man who had brought her here, the help which would get her home to England; if the cook were alienated by questions concerning those bruises then she would refuse to give any kind of assistance.