A Song Twice Over (35 page)

‘Come, Cara,' Christie Goldsborough had said to her once or twice lately. ‘You must know better than to disappoint me. You told me you wanted Miss Ernestine Baker's shop. Well then – since my amazing goodness has put your feet on the right path, when are you going to take it? I am waiting for the show to begin.'

One day, perhaps. Not that she had any designs on Miss Baker's dismal, dark-brown shop. Simply her customers. And, in the meantime, there was the shop next door, rented – from Christie, of course – by a dingy grocer upon whose lease, when it expired, she had already set her mind. She needed space to display fabrics in the piece and finished goods as they ought to be displayed, space for new fitting-rooms and new showrooms, separate departments for millinery and trimmings and a pleasant, almost drawing-room area in which to serve tea in flowered china and temptation in the shape of fashion magazines, making shopping at Adeane's into a social event.

So much to do. So many plans. So many risks to be taken, so many pitfalls opening constantly beneath her feet. And who knew how much, or how little,
time
? Never so much that one could afford to waste it.

And now all she seemed able to do was lie in her armchair, facing that damned, overfed dog, and think about Daniel Carey.

Very well, then. Think hard. And get it over with. Was she still in love with him? More than likely. But, if so, what good could it do her? What had she to hope for, or to gain, or to give? And since the answer had always been ‘nothing'then could she really afford to grieve? Could she deliberately cloud her mind and weaken her resolution
now
? Or ever?

And what the devil was he doing mixed up with the Chartists – although it did not in the least surprise her – who kept on getting life sentences of hard labour and transportation instead of their vote and their secret ballot and their salaried MPs? And kept on dying in prison too, like that poor man at Northallerton a year or two ago, just before the riots, who had had a special hymn written for him and read at his graveside. ‘Great God, is this the patriot's doom?' Fine words, but small consolation to any woman who had loved him.
She
would not be in any way consoled by such things should she ever find herself standing, in rags, at Daniel's graveside. Or at the foot of the gallows.

She shuddered and got to her feet. Great God, indeed. She would have to occupy herself now, and quickly – at once – if she hoped to stop herself from slipping into the abysmal frame of mind, which occasionally overcame her, where none of the things she had worked so hard for seemed worthwhile.

And if they lost their value, then what value had she? If they began to crumble then how could she hold herself together?

She could not.

Realizing, with some annoyance, that she was trembling she went back to her desk and sat for a moment with her head in her hands, almost wishing that Christie would send for her since that, at least, would concentrate her mind. But no. The Chartist candidate would not go away tomorrow. He would be here at least until the poll, three weeks hence; very present, very visible, at all the shouting and parading and tomfoolery which had ended, last election, with every window at the Dog and Gun and the Rose and Crown, and half the windows in Market Square, being put out. She would be better advised now to think of that, and the state of her shutters, than of the candidate.

She picked up her pencil and with a hand she refused to recognize as unsteady began to draw the Colclough bridesmaids, eight of them, one after the other, in various sizes and shapes and concepts so that when the dog, with a marked air of condescension, struggled to his feet to warn her someone was at her door, she was taken sadly unawares.

At this hour? Half past ten by the rather handsome clock on her mantelpiece. Not Christie, certainly, who never came here and would not have troubled to knock if he had. Not Odette who would not leave Liam alone so late and who, in an emergency, would have sent Luke. Not Luke either, who would have whistled to identify himself and calm her fears.

Daniel?

She had turned so cold that her fingers were clumsy at the lock and she had to lean against the door a moment, her forehead clammy with the moisture of shock, until a low voice, muffled by woodwork and discretion, restored as much of her composure as she expected to need.

‘I beg your pardon, Miss Adeane, for calling so late but I saw your lamp. And you know how it is. I've just come from the shop. And you know what she's like.'

A neat, shabby woman stood there, forty years old by her appearance although Cara knew her to be less than thirty. Thin and slightly crooked from twisting her spine over work-tables that were too low, red-eyed from peering at fine needlework in the dark. Exhausted. But, for the first time since Cara had known her, not entirely resigned. Madge Percy. The most experienced journeywoman Miss Ernestine Baker had left in her dingy workroom. The most talented embroideress in Frizingley, estimated Cara, after Odette, if one handled her properly. As Miss Baker, clearly, had not.

‘You said I should talk things over with you, Miss Adeane, if I ever felt like making a change …?'

What would it cost? Not a great deal. And it would be cheap at any price. She was no longer weary. No longer trembling. No longer entertained the slightest doubt as to her value. ‘Come in,

my dear. Let's talk it over,' she said.

When Luke Thackray called to see her the next morning at the convenient hour of eight o'clock – her shop being empty of customers so early, his mill being shut down for breakfast time – she was entirely restored to her chosen self, rustling to meet him in the black taffeta with touches of scarlet ribbon at the waist and neck which she had made her trade-mark, the weighty coils of her hair secured by jet pins.

She wore swinging drops of jet in her ears too, a strand of it around her throat, her manner conveying an impression that the artfully concealed pockets of her wide skirt would contain a number of significant things; a costly wisp of cambric handkerchief; the perfume bottle of vanity alongside the keys of absolute authority; a little velvet-bound appointments book and a gold pencil with which to write down their times and locations snuggling in perfect compatibility beside a book of ‘Spanish papers' with which to enhance the bloom of her discreetly painted face.

A woman who, no matter how greatly business might be pressing, could not conceal her delight either in her visitor nor in her little office-parlour where she made him welcome. Her
own
room where the plush covered armchairs drawn up to the fire
matched
each other, where the black fur rug and plum-coloured carpet could only be called second-hand if one took into account that they had previously belonged to Christie Goldsborough, where the grate was heaped recklessly, open-handedly, with coal all day and the lamp had a base of real china. A wonderful room. The first she had ever lived in alone, her pleasure both in its magnificence and in seeing Luke so comfortably installed within it only giving way when, in his straightforward, no-nonsense manner, he asked her if she would take on Anna Rattrie as an apprentice.

Had he lost his reason? With any other man she would have assumed so and given a sharp reply. But this was Luke, the sanest and steadiest man she knew. The
only
man she knew whose judgement she would be prepared to trust if it disagreed with her own. The man of whom she could
almost
have declared ‘If Luke says it will be all right, then it will be.'

Therefore, trying hard to take the edge from her voice and make it reasonable, she said, ‘I don't take apprentices. Not yet. When I'm better established then I expect it will be worth my while. But just now I can't afford the time to train young girls. Or the bother. I only take experienced women.'

And here they all were – her experienced women – hard at work in the room above her head. The two best seamstresses in Frizingley, Madge Percy and Odette, and three others who were reliable and competent if not precisely talented. A workroom of which anyone might be proud. Her best asset.
Her
women from whom she would squeeze the very best they had to give in full measure but of whom she would also take good care. Surely Luke must see that a
Rattrie
– and which one was Anna? – could have no part in her immaculate scheme of things?

‘I wouldn't expect you to pay her,' he said.

‘Pay her?'
She heard the sharpness in her own voice, the rasp of offended financial acumen, but could not soften it. ‘I should think not. If I were willing to take her she'd have to pay me. Or somebody would. At least £30 a year for the training and her food and lodging. That's what my apprenticeship cost, ten years ago, so I suppose nowadays I could get £35.'

‘If that's what you want, Cara, then I reckon I can manage it.'

‘Luke.'
She was shocked and something more. Grieved, it seemed. Did he think all she cared for was money? In most cases he would have been quite right. She freely admitted that. But not with him. Never with him. She had always wanted Luke to think well of her, and wanted it now with a force which both confused and weakened her.

‘I wouldn't be taking a penny of your money, Luke Thackray, and you know it. I'd rather give …'

‘Then give, Cara. That's what I'm asking.'

Her generosity? But not for himself. Not to start up some enterprise or some course of study that would do
him
some good. Not to lift himself out of the trap of St Jude's and the thankless grind of Braithwaite's mill to the decent, dignified future she could so easily envisage for him. She would give him the money for that all right. Would scrape it together one way or another and consider it a privilege and a pleasure no matter what Christie Goldsborough or Sairellen Thackray or anybody else had to say about it.

‘Won't you give her a chance, Cara?'

It was not what she wanted to do for him. But, if it was what
he
wanted …?

‘Why?' she said sullenly.

‘Perhaps because no one else will.'

Yes. That would be Luke's reason. Yet – although perhaps only for form's sake – she still resisted.

‘I somehow don't think of
work
and the Rattries as going much together.'

‘Anna wants to work. I think she'll be reliable.'

‘Then why don't you take her to Braithwaite's. You're an overlooker, aren't you. It's up to you, surely, who you employ in your shed?'

‘Cara,' he said quietly, his voice and his smile telling her she must know better than that. ‘There are women at Braithwaite's whose husbands and sons have gone to prison because of Oliver Rattrie. I'm not saying they wouldn't work with Anna because they can't afford to lose their jobs. But I couldn't ask it of them. And how long do you think she'd last with them in any case?'

‘Why should she do better here?'

‘Because Oliver Rattrie's treason harmed no one in your workshop while your customers would be more likely to applaud it than grumble. And Anna needs to get away from home, Cara. She's seventeen …'

‘Seventeen.'
That settled it. ‘Good Heavens, Luke, that's too old for an apprenticeship. You must know that. Of course you know it.'

‘I do. But she looks like a child of twelve and feels like one, at that, I shouldn't wonder. Although that didn't stop her father from trying to rape her the other night when he was a shade drunker than usual …'

‘Oh. So that's it.' She was neither shocked nor surprised, having heard of such things far too many times before. But, thinking of Mr Rattrie, she was disgusted.

‘Yes. That's it.' Luke, shrugging his wide, thin shoulders was not shocked either although she thought he sounded tired. ‘It's six months since Mrs Rattrie died. Anna's the eldest girl. She keeps the house, such as it is, and carries the baby about on her hip like her mother used to do. When her father's drunk enough he can't tell the difference. Or so he said. To give the man his due – well, I think I believed him. Not that it makes things any easier for Anna.'

‘So you separated them, I suppose, and threw him in the horse trough again?'

He grinned, ruefully, without much pleasure. ‘Aye. So I did. Not that he came out much cleaner. Not that it's likely to stop him from trying again, either – if she stays there.'

‘I suppose not.' Her voice was still sullen. ‘I expect its cheaper than paying a whore.'

‘I expect so. But I think Anna might just die of it. And then, of course, there's brother Oliver. No girl in St Jude's will touch him now of her own free will, particularly since he lost his Judas money in the canal. Between the two of them what chance has she? And she's a
girl
.'

He did not say ‘Like you, Cara', but she heard his thought distinctly enough. And, far more than that, she knew how dark the night could be in a house like the Rattries'; knew, with her own senses, the fear of any female animal as it is hunted and trapped. As Luke had known she would.

‘Is she
clean
?' she muttered, still furious with him for asking this tedious, paltry service for a stranger – when she yearned to do something quite splendid for
him
.

‘Oh yes. My mother has seen to that. She's been sleeping by our kitchen fire this last night or two.'

As she had once taken refuge herself.

‘All right.' She acknowledged it. ‘But if she comes here she'll have to sleep under the counter or on a mattress in the workroom. There's nowhere else.'

‘She'll be very content with that.'

‘I dare say. I used to be content with it myself – once. Although it won't suit me at all if her father comes looking for her, drunk or sober.'

‘He won't do that, Cara. You have my word for it.'

No more than his word had ever been necessary to her; for anything.