Sixpenny Girl

His shoulder still caught in Gideon’s grip, Luke had asked the question several times but the man who literally frogmarched him along had made no answer. Gideon Newell was going to show him what a fool he’d been. Luke’s anger sat chokingly in his throat. Yes, he’d been a fool, a fool to go knockin’ on Newell’s door instead of going to speak with the constable. He’d given the man the opportunity he needed, the chance to get shot of the only one who could point the finger, the chance to get rid of him as he’d gotten rid of Saran.

Leaving Oakeswell End and making their way to Wood Green, speaking not a word, they had strode through what could have been an empty world. Fields Luke knew were filled with waving corn hid their faces beneath a veil of deep shadow. Stretching away into blackness it seemed they shrank from a road devoid now of the carts and wagons of daytime; afraid of the silence of night.

Wood Green had been where they were headed. Recognising a large house set between dark stretches of ground, windows winking like great yellow stars, Luke tried to twist free but the grip which held him was strong as the iron it worked. Surely this was not where Saran had been brought . . . whatever Newell had done with her he wouldn’t dare ’ide it here, Wood Green was home to the richest folk in Wednesbury; the men at the tube works had said that even John Adams lived along here!

But Gideon had turned between tall pillared gates, marching not to the rear but to the front entrance of the imposing three-storeyed building.

‘Tell John Adams it be Gideon Newell asks to speak with him.’

Luke remembered the indignant splutter of the black-coated butler who opened the door; as he looked down his nose the rebuke had died on his lips when Gideon had repeated the request in a cutting ‘don’t play with me!’ tone of voice.

They had waited only moments in that high square entrance hall, but Luke knew that the gleam of polished wood beneath the glitter of a chandelier, whose crystal droppers sparkled like gigantic raindrops, the graceful curve of a staircase winding upward towards a landing which separated into two diverging corridors from whose walls painted portraits stared down at them, would never be forgotten. It had been as if he had entered heaven, but a heaven that improved as they were shown into what the long-nosed butler described as the small sitting room. Entering that room, fitted with sofas and chairs with long elegant legs, pretty tables with prettier ornaments, tall pointed windows with drapes that fell in sweeps to a floor almost lost beneath a carpet wide as a small field, he had held his breath. Were this room small then what paradise constituted a big one?

‘Gideon!’ John Adams had risen as they were shown in. ‘Is something amiss at the works?’

‘No, there be naught amiss there.’

‘Then what?’ The man had frowned.

‘You have my apology for disturbing you in your home, sir.’

John Adams had waved away the apology. ‘There is no need for that, Gideon, I well know you wouldn’t do it were it not important; but would it have to do with the lad you have by the scruff of the neck?’

Releasing his hold of Luke’s shoulder, Gideon had nodded.

John Adams had stared hard at Luke, but behind it had lurked a half smile. ‘So, the young lion has found its roar, and what particular flea do you have in your mane?’

Luke had opened his mouth to reply but Gideon was quicker. ‘If you have no objection, sir, I would ask you answer a question of mine afore being given answer to your own.’

The smile fading, John Adams had transferred his gaze. ‘Very well, Gideon, ask your question, though I must first ask why come here tonight when questions can be asked just as well tomorrow at the works?’

‘I realise that, Mr Adams,’ Gideon had replied with a short glance at Luke, whose saucer eyes were staring at everything in sight. ‘I also realised it could be thought I’d had a word with you before that, a word the lad here had not been privy to, so with your leave I ask it now. Would you please tell where it was I went when leaving the works not only today but earlier in the week?’

‘That be nobody’s business . . . much less that of a boy. What on earth are you thinking of, asking a question like that!’

It was sharp, anger raising dull red to the man’s cheeks and Luke had felt like taking to his heels, but the thought of Saran hurt and possibly dead held him fast.

His fascination with the room suddenly disappearing, taking with it the tingle of fear, Luke’s head had lifted and the look he gave his employer held none of its previous awe.

‘It be my business!’ he had said calmly. ‘It be my business when Saran be knocked ’alf dead one day and gone completely the next, and Gideon Newell being the only one with reason to do it.’

Had John Adams seen the pain Luke could not keep from entering his eyes or heard the slight quiver that trembled on the last words? Thinking of it now, as he walked in silence beside Gideon, he could not be sure but the man had glanced once at Gideon before saying, ‘On both occasions I had Gideon go to Monway Field, there to inspect a piece of land I am thinking to purchase; I know the making of tubes, but a man born to Wednesbury knows better the attributes of the land. I trusted Gideon Newell to inspect and tell me truthfully of its worth or otherwise in the use I envisage for it. Should he have had business elsewhere then it cannot have been carried out during either of those absences for I also make it my business to know how long it takes a man to walk from the High Bullen to Monway Field and, given a half-hour to walk the ground I wish to purchase, he took no longer than that. Does my explanation take the bone from the young lion’s throat or is he still choking?’

It had been logical. The night of finding Saran in that carter’s wagon, he and Gideon had left the works together; time would not allow Gideon to have gone halfway to Bilston, found Saran somewhere in the darkness and beaten her senseless . . . But then if not Gideon . . . who?

He had apologised to John Adams but the man had not left it there, he had demanded to be told the reason Gideon had been the source of suspicion, and when given the all of it had immediately offered the help of his staff to search for the missing girl. But Gideon had suggested that they return to enquire for her at the Turk’s Head before mounting a full-scale search.

But Saran had not returned to the tavern. Luke felt the despair which had settled on him then weighing even more heavily now. If not Gideon, then who? The same thought plagued him as he strove to keep pace with the wider stride of the man who had brushed aside all apology. They would walk the length of the Bilston Road, Gideon had said, they could have that done in the time it would take to organise men with lanterns and dogs, and if they did not find her then he would accept John Adams’s offer and begin again with the dawn.

He could so easily have agreed to the proposal of the owner of the tube works, that Luke be dismissed from his job, so easily have turned his back, leaving further searching for Saran to Luke himself, but Gideon had done neither. He had taken things into his own hands and, walking beside him now with the silence and the blackness of fields all around him, Luke had to admit the relief of it. Gideon had refused to listen to any contrition on his part, saying only he would have thought the same were he in Luke Hipton’s shoes, but that did not lift the guilt from his heart. He had practically accused the man of murder.

‘Gideon, about what I said—’

The words were hardly out when a sharp hiss had the rest silent on his tongue, the hackles on the back of his neck stiff and hard.

‘Listen!’ The whisper barely loud enough to hear, steel-like fingers fastened on his shoulder warning him not to move.

What was it . . . what had Gideon heard coming from the surrounding darkness? Straining his ears but hearing nothing, he turned his head to speak but the fingers pressed harder, repeating their own unspoken warning. It was then he heard it, softly at first it came on the silence, a tap . . . a crunch on the hard ground. His breath held in his throat, blood freezing in his veins, Luke listened. Footsteps . . . footsteps coming towards them out of the night . . . someone else was walking the Bilston Road!

She had excused herself from the company of Jairus Ensell as quickly as good manners allowed. He had walked with her to the edge of the market place and for a moment she had thought he would insist upon accompanying her further but he had smiled at her refusal and turned away. Why had she refused? The thought had risen more than once and each time she had no answer, just as she could have no real answer for breaking her word to Luke; no answer other than a heart breaking for the Elwells, for the children sent into the workhouse, the driving guilt of not helping them when she had the chance. That had been her reason, her only reason, for doing what she had.

She had known she ought to have taken the time to return to the tavern, ought to have told Ben and his wife of her intention, to have left word for Luke, but instead she had taken the road to Bilston. There had been no carter’s wagon to give her a ride and her legs already ached as she had reached the small octagonal toll-house that stood at the boundary of Moxley.

‘Darlaston, you says.’ The toll-keeper had smiled kindly. ‘Well, I reckons if you takes the track through them there cornfields you’ll save yourself a lot o’ walkin’ for it’ll tek you direct to that town, though you needs ’ave a care when them fields end for there be a mess o’ gin pits, they pocks the ground an’ some of ’em grown over with grass so a body don’t know they be there, so keep you to the track. You’ll come to the Lodge Holes colliery along near the top, folk there will be able to direct you should you need ’elp with finding the rest o’ your way.’

But she hadn’t known the rest of her way, hadn’t known which direction to ask for or even the name of the woman she hoped to find. All she had was the desire to be rid of that brooch.

Ahead, the sound of footsteps echoed in the darkness, sounding and fading, returning to tease her ears like moon-touched shadows. Whoever was there would let her walk with them, surely they would not refuse. Forcing her tired limbs to hurry she paused as a figure emerged from the gloom, a tall figure whose hands reached for her.

‘Please!’ she gasped, pain lancing fresh along bruised arms as the hands gripped her. ‘Please not again . . . Gideon!’

‘No need to go on about it, I just be glad it were Gideon an’ me come across you on that road, it could so easy ’ave been . . .’

The rest too awful even to contemplate, Luke let it fade. By what John Adams had said, it was not Gideon Newell who had attacked Saran, but the name that had come from her in the darkness had been his. Why . . . why that name if he had not been the culprit?

‘Was Mr Newell very angry hearing you say all those things?’

‘Well, he weren’t pleased. I thought when he shoved me out of the ’ouse that I were in for a lathering.’

‘He would have been judged within his rights if he had given you a hiding.’ Saran glanced at the boy walking beside her. ‘I must thank him for not doing so.’

‘I thanked him already,’ Luke grinned, ‘said I was grateful he ’adn’t left me in pieces.’

Many a man would have done just that having been accused of assault. Walking on in silence Saran went over Luke’s story in her mind. He had thought that Gideon Newell had beaten her then left her on the edge of a cornfield . . . that the man had wished to rob her of the brooch . . . and yet he had insisted on accompanying Luke in his search for her. Did anyone who wished you harm do such a thing? That question had stayed in her mind, for she had known Luke’s sharp brain would have come up with a dozen reasons for just such an action. But it had remained unasked, not simply because of that . . . With a faint hint of pink rising to her cheeks Saran felt the real reason beat hard in her chest. She did not wish to hear anything that would place a shadow of guilt against a man who had shown them both kindness.

‘You be ready for a rest.’ Luke had spotted the faint blush of colour and was concerned. ‘I said it were too soon yet for you to be walking any distance.’ Taking off the jacket whose sleeves hung well clear of his wrists, he laid it on the rough grass, hovering over her and insisting she sat on it. He was so thoughtful of her and she . . . she had acted without a thought for him, of the worry she would put him through. If hearts could sigh Saran knew hers did then, knew that even though Luke had forgiven her she could never fully forgive herself.

Stretched out beside her on the wide empty heath, his eyes closed against the bright afternoon sky, Luke chewed on a blade of grass as he spoke.

‘It took courage doin’ what you did, I ain’t sure I could ’ave done the same thing. Tekin’ that brooch and givin’ it back after being offered ten pound . . . I ain’t sure I could ’ave done that at all.’

The one doubt she had had made itself felt again. Half of that ten pounds would have belonged to Luke, but she had given him no opportunity of accepting or refusing money that would have helped him make a start in life; she had robbed him as surely as that attacker along the Bilston Road had wanted to rob her.

‘Luke.’ She glanced at the lad. ‘Luke, it’s not too late . . . I could go back, ask to be given—’

‘You ain’t going back nowhere.’ With his eyes springing open, Luke sat up. ‘I knows what be eating you, though you ain’t said it. You thinks you took my dues from me when you refused to take that ten pound; well, they was dues I wanted none of; I’d told you to do as you would wi’ that trinket and if you had throwed it in the brook then that would ’ave been all right wi’ me. I tell you one more time, you be all that matters, you, Saran, and not some brooch whatever it be worth; money buys a lot of things but it don’t buy a quiet heart and it don’t buy happiness. I’ve got both in our friendship.’

Smiling against the tears the words brought to her throat Saran watched as he settled once more on the springy turf. Luke could be happy with so little but she could never be really happy until she had her mother and sister with her again. She had asked in that town, in Darlaston. Some of the women she had spoken to had frowned and hurried on their way, too taken with their own troubles to be bothered with hers; some had stood and listened, but none had known of a woman and young girl having been bought. ‘It would ’ave been the talk of the town,’ they had said, ‘we would ’ave heard. No, wench, ain’t nothing like that happened in these parts.’ But it had happened and only a few miles away; somebody somewhere must know of it.

There had been no such problem tracing the couple she and Luke had found that night lying injured on the heath. It seemed all of Darlaston knew of the birth of the child, of the injury to the father, all of them speaking of the miracle of their being found, and if any of them wondered why a stranger spoke of it they did not question, they simply enjoyed the relating of a tale, the like of which seemed to have been a miracle of heaven.

Darlaston House had stood a short distance from the nucleus of tiny shops and several taverns that was the heart of the smoke-laden town. Set in wide flower-bordered grounds, the red-brick building rose square and imposing, windows glinting like crystal, tall chimneys lifting to the sky; it had been so grand she had almost turned away, run back to the more familiar background of workshops and hammers beating out iron on a hundred anvils. Only the touch of that stone against her fingers had kept courage from deserting her, but the thought of climbing the wide curved steps which reached up to a heavy door had been too much; her nerve failing, she had gone quickly to the rear whose beautifully kept lawns and rose beds complemented the house in the same way as the front.

‘You should speak wi’ Mrs Clews,’ a stable hand had told her, ‘her be the housekeeper and will answer to you.’

The woman had come to the kitchen. The spring sun warm on her face, Saran stared into the distance to where the black spire of Wednesbury parish church pierced the blue like a dark needle. The master could not possibly be disturbed, he was not yet fully recovered from his accident . . . and no, she would not bother the mistress with some passing beggar!

It had not been embarrassment she had felt when the kitchen maid had sniggered, nor anger at the woman’s tart snub, but almost a sympathy, a regret for manners so lacking as to permit a reply of blatant rudeness to a simple enquiry; but then had she not met with that at other houses . . . been answered in like fashion by those who felt little charity for folk placed less well than themselves?

‘Passing, yes, ma’am, but a beggar, no. I came here not to ask anything of your mistress but to return this. If I cannot be allowed to do so myself then, ma’am, perhaps you would do so in my stead.’

The quiet dignity with which she had spoken had carried the effects of a thunderbolt. It had spread a wave about the large kitchen swallowing in its wake the smirks of maid and cook alike, leaving the housekeeper gasping at sight of the brooch gleaming like green fire in the palm of Saran’s hand.

The woman had been gone only a few moments then she had returned, her tone chastened as she had invited Saran to follow her to the mistress’s sitting room.

Across the open heath a tree pipit in love with spring clung to a clump of gorse, its canary-like song serenading the afternoon while beside her Luke sighed, for a time at least in a heaven of his own.

Dressed in the palest of lemon voile, raven hair caught high on her head, the woman whose face she remembered so well had welcomed her into the elegant room, her smile one of genuine pleasure. But the smile had faded when Saran had refused to accept back the brooch.

‘But it was a gift!’ Ann Salisbury had insisted. ‘A mark of my gratitude. William, will you not tell her?’

His left leg heavily bandaged between two slats of wood, William Salisbury smiled at his wife as he was brought into the room, his wheelchair drawn close beside the couch on which she sat.

‘My housekeeper tells me you were our angel of the night, Miss . . .’

‘Chandler, sir.’ Saran had blushed as she bobbed a curtsy but her glance had not strayed from the man’s face, ‘My name is Saran Chandler.’

‘Well, Miss Chandler, before I agree to my wife’s request to say what it is she would have me tell you, allow me to voice my own most heartfelt thanks for your assistance that night. The men who carried us home tell me that had it not been for your intervention, my wife and my son may well not have survived, for that part of the heath is not well travelled by miners, the coal once worked there being as good as exhausted. But am I not correct in thinking you had a young man, a brother perhaps, with you, one who fastened bits of my broken coach to my leg?’

‘Luke was not to blame for ripping up the seats of your carriage nor for the burning of parts of it, that was my doing and I will take the blame for it.’

‘Blame!’ William Salisbury had laughed, but there had been an open admiration on his face. ‘There can be no blame except it be mine for attempting to drive across that heath at night . . . but we need have no discussion of that, my lesson is well and truly learned.’

‘We tried to find where you lived,’ Ann Salisbury had said then, ‘we made so many enquiries but it appeared no one in Darlaston knew of you. My husband and I wished so much to thank you for all you did but our efforts at tracing you came to naught, my only consolation was your accepting that worthless trinket.’

‘The trinket is not worthless, ma’am, it is worth ten pounds and that is why I cannot accept it!’

William Salisbury’s smile had died at the quick outburst, his eyes showing a trace of disappointment. ‘You have had the trinket valued and obviously do not hold it worthy of the assistance you and your brother gave my wife and myself. In that case, Miss Chandler, be good enough to state your own price, just what is the reward you came here to claim!’