Warm and nicely drowsy, Arnold sat near the stove. Stretching his legs and crossing his ankles, he watched Will’s widow, intent on her needlework, unaware of his scrutiny. He’d been truly sorry about Will’s accident. The man had been a fair employer and he wouldn’t have wished him such an end. Having come to appreciate the comforts of working and living at the Budds’, he now felt a need to strengthen his position in the household.
Seven weeks had passed since Will’s funeral. On the surface Mrs Budd appeared to be coping with the loss of her husband, but several times he’d come across her weeping when she’d thought herself alone, and that had got him thinking. She was a well-off widow now, what with the mill and the cabinet-making, not forgetting the cottage as well. And any fool could see it was all too much for the boy to manage on his own. She needed a husband.
He wriggled his toes, snugly warm inside the socks she’d darned so neatly. He was well set up here. Meals supplied, his washing and mending done before he could turn around, and money in his pocket. Up until he’d come to the Budds’, he’d never done an honest day’s work in his life, and hadn’t intended to make a habit of it, but he was finding life oddly agreeable with Will gone.
If he could convince the grieving widow to marry him, he’d have even more money in his pocket. She wasn’t easy on the eye like that barmaid at the Golden Age, but she was a snotty bitch anyway. No, Mrs Budd was a bit long in the tooth and far from a beauty, with her plain features and a nose greedy for space, but who could see that in the dark? He reckoned she’d bounce well enough between the sheets once she got a hankering for his prick.
It would mean courting the woman, something he’d never done before, and the thought didn’t sit well. The whole courting business was a waste of time, he reckoned. In the past he’d always taken what he’d wanted whenever he’d had the chance. But then, in the past, he’d never had a woman of means within his grasp. Mrs Budd was his key to an easy life, and he’d need to be patient with her if he wanted to make the most of such a rare opportunity.
The next day, bent on beginning his courting, he left the mill early. ‘I’m not feeling the best, Jack. I’ll make for home while I can still walk. My back’s acting up something fearful,’ he lied, hobbling out of the workshop. He intended catching Mrs Budd — or Sylvia, as he was beginning to think of her now he’d made up his mind to marry her — on her own. Or as good as on her own. Libby would be hanging around somewhere but, being soft in the head, she didn’t count. He’d have a chat to Sylvia, flatter her a bit, pave the way for more serious wooing. He knew she was lonely, missing Will like the devil. Like as not, she’d be putty in his hands if he played her right.
The cottage was so quiet when he arrived, he thought Sylvia must have taken the trap and gone to Stafford, but then he heard muffled weeping coming from her bedroom. Quietly, he peered around the door. Sylvia sat on the bed, a handkerchief clutched in her hands. Her eyes were red and swollen. She hadn’t noticed him, so he withdrew and gave a soft rap on the open door.
‘What are you doing back so early? What’s happened? Where’s Jack?’ she asked with a startled gasp, rising to her feet.
‘Nothing’s happened, nothing at all, and you’ve no need to worry about Jack. He was working hard at the workshop when I left him,’ Arnold hastened to assure her. He’d meant to send the woman into a tizz, but of a different nature.
‘It’s my back; it’s not the best. I tell you, Mrs Budd, I try to forget the pain, but sometimes, like today, it will not be ignored.’
Sylvia dabbed her eyes. ‘I shall make you a cup of tea. Doubtless it will not ease your pain, but it’s always a comfort if nothing else, I find.’
‘No, you will not,’ Arnold said firmly, following her into the kitchen. ‘You’ll sit down while I make the tea. You’ve no need to put on a brave front around me. You’ve lost a good man, Mrs Budd, and you should feel no shame at grieving for him.’
‘I try to be brave, Arnold, but it isn’t easy. I miss Will more with every passing day. He was always so good and patient with Libby. I know she cannot help her fits, but her tempers and tantrums drive me to distraction, and now Will’s gone, she’s even worse, as well you know.’
‘Where is she?’ asked Arnold, realising Libby’s absence was the reason for the quiet in the cottage.
‘Who knows? She’s taken to disappearing every day once she’s finished helping me around the house.’ Sylvia sniffed, and blew her nose loudly.
Arnold’s pulse raced — not with passion, but with cunning. He edged closer to Sylvia. ‘Ah, Mrs Budd, you’ve a burden on your hands as surely as I sit beside you now. I’m surprised you’ve borne up so well, considering the sorry lot fate’s chosen to drop upon you.’
Fresh tears streamed down Sylvia’s cheeks.
Tentatively, Arnold took her hand in his own, ready to release it should she object, but she seemed content to let it stay. He moved closer, placing an arm around her shoulders. The sobs quietened. Turning, he held her to his chest, so her head rested under his chin. They stayed that way for a moment, only the occasional shuddering sob breaking the silence. Encouraged, his prick springing to life, Arnold was about to press a hand over Sylvia’s breast when he looked up to see Libby standing in the doorway. Her eyes flashed. Fearing another crazed attack, he released Sylvia immediately.
‘I shall make the tea,’ he said, thankful that fate, in the form of Libby, had stepped in and stopped him from making his move too early. When he glanced at the doorway again, she had disappeared.
Jack arrived home well before tea time, Libby in tow. ‘I’ve no idea what’s ailing her this time,’ he said, an edge to his voice. ‘She turned up at the mill, all agitated like. I had to leave early — there was no calming her. I was scared she’d go off into one of her fits. It’s not good enough, Mother. We’re behind as it is.’
The words were hardly out of his mouth when Libby launched at Arnold, scratching his face, then biting his hand as he tried to fend her off.
‘Get her off me, she’s gone mad!’ he shrieked, feeling the burn of Libby’s fingernails raking across his nose.
Jack grasped Libby, managing to haul her from Arnold, but it took the three of them to wrestle the manically struggling girl into the bedroom. Sylvia sat at the kitchen table long after Jack and Arnold had gone to bed, the only sound in the still night air the soft slurping of Nipper’s tongue as she licked her pups. The bitch had whelped three days before. Two live ones, two dead. The mongrel had moped constantly for Will, following Jack to the mill every day, sniffing and looking around the workshop. Every now and then she had stared at Sylvia with piteous eyes as if waiting for her to lead her to him, but, thankfully, the pups’ arrival had put a stop to that.
Will was gone; nothing could bring him back. But knowing that didn’t stop her feeling guilty that she had thought of nothing but Arnold all evening. She knew full well he’d only thought to comfort her that afternoon, but an unpleasant heat washed over her at the way she’d suddenly wanted to lean into his arms, as if it might magically lighten her grief. She would never have done so, of course, but she was shamed the thought had even crossed her mind, and with Will less than two months in his grave.
Lord, but she missed him, and not just his physical presence. She stared at the monthly accounts spread across the table, the grocer’s and butcher’s the only ones paid since Will’s death — the only ones that made any sense. The rest — the ironmonger’s, saddler’s, farrier’s and blacksmith’s — were a worrying puzzle with their unfamiliar goods and labour charges. Adding to her confusion was a payment from R. & T. Haworth, the timber merchants in Hokitika, and several more from furniture customers. She was completely bewildered, having no idea who owed them what. Will had kept so much of his business dealings in his head. Jack, while skilled at cabinet-making and milling, had even less knowledge of the accounts.
Sylvia shuddered, thinking how much worse it would have been if her husband had done as he’d intended and altered his will to leave the mill and cottage to Jack, with provision for Sylvia and Libby to stay there, their living provided from profits. She’d not thought much of it when he’d mentioned it, assuming she would be elderly by then, or perhaps even dead before Will.
Jack would, in time, find himself a wife. Only one woman could be head of the household, and that woman would not have been her if Jack had inherited all.
She put all the accounts into a neat pile. There was no way around it, she realised. She would have to seek Arnold’s help.
Libby’s frenzied attack on him that afternoon was another worry. Unwarranted and totally unexpected, it had sickened Sylvia. Robbed of Will’s quiet and soothing manner, the girl’s peculiar ways were racing out of control.