A Song Twice Over (82 page)

To which the said government replied by sending for trial a further three hundred men, most of them on that convenient charge of seditious speeches which, in the opinion of Bradford and Halifax, Leeds and Frizingley, meant no more and no less than speaking one's mind.

And then, late one summer afternoon, an Irish beggar child somehow ‘got in' through Cara's front door, causing as much consternation among the pale blue and gold chairs where Magda Braithwaite and Maria Colclough and Linnet Gage were taking tea as if a whole family of mice had suddenly run loose around their feet.

‘Good Heavens – Miss
Adeane
,' Magda Braithwaite, who did not like children since she had proved unable to have any of her own, raised a wisp of scented cambric to her nose, thinking quite visibly of things she could certainly never bring herself to mention, like fleas, and scabies, and the plague.

‘That child,' declared Mrs Colclough accusingly, obviously holding ‘the child'entirely to blame for it, ‘is not wearing shoes, and her skirt is so short and in such rags and tatters that – well – she is showing her knees.'

‘How shocking,' said Linnet Gage in her amused treble. ‘What can she want, I wonder?'

‘Miss Adeane, do give her some money,' moaned Magda Braithwaite feebly, her nerves not having quite recovered from the spectre of that Chartist guillotine, ‘and send her away. Ought she to be allowed in the centre of town in any case? I must speak to my husband about it.'

‘Oh
do
,' murmured Linnet. ‘Mr Braithwaite is so – Resourceful?'

‘Well, of course he is,' said Magda huffily, provoked beyond measure, as she often was nowadays, by Linnet's smugness, her habit of using a word – like resourceful – to which no one could possibly object but pronouncing it in such a way that one actually objected very strongly. A way, in fact, which forced Magda Braithwaite to wonder about the exact nature of her husband's friendship with Linnet. Had she, in fact, become his mistress? His wife believed she had and, in her absolute determination never to admit it, rather lost interest in the beggar child.

Not so Linnet.

‘Miss Adeane – what
is
the girl saying? That is not English, surely?'

Cara, whose knowledge of the Irish language as spoken in the mud cabins of Kerry and County Clare, was rusty and had never been perfect, was not entirely sure herself. Nor was she able to make her own enquiries, in that same lovely, lilting tongue, in any other way but haltingly.

‘What is it?'

‘He says he's up on the moor at the inn they call the Gamecock. He said not to speak his name in case somebody heard.'

‘Are they after him, then?'

‘That they are.'

She gave the child a coin, took her by the ear, and led her to the door.

‘All right. This is for you. Tell him I'll come after dark.'

‘My word,' she said, coming back into the shop, wrinkling her nose and smiling her apologies, ‘what a menace. That child
stank
.'

‘Was it wise,' asked Linnet, ‘to give her money?'

‘Oh – probably not. But what
is
one to do, Miss Gage? She would not have gone so quietly otherwise.'

‘Is that what she was saying to you, Miss Adeane?'

‘Yes it was. And it is not the first time I have been troubled, either. But please don't let it trouble
you
, Miss Gage. If Mr Braithwaite could manage to stop these tinker families coming into town I should be very much obliged to him.'

Linnet smiled very sweetly. ‘I am sure he will do all he can. He is most – Effective? But I had really no idea that you spoke that very ancient language – Gaelic is it not? – so fluently.'

Cara smiled too. ‘By no means fluently, Miss Gage. I only know enough to understand when I am being asked for sixpence.'

She had betrayed nothing by her manner, she was quite sure of that. Nor did she betray anything during the rest of that suddenly tedious afternoon, showing herself perfectly ready to linger an extra half hour over samples of striped foulard with Mrs Colclough, standing almost as long at the step of Mrs Braithwaite's carriage discussing lace peignoirs and a suitably flamboyant costume for the Tannenbaum Christmas Ball, only six months away.

‘Something which will be
noticed
, Miss Adeane.
Do
put your mind to it.'

‘Oh – better than that, Mrs Braithwaite. I shall start on some sketches.'

Would Linnet Gage be present at the Tannenbaum dance, dressed in white tulle? Or perhaps pale grey or lavender would now suit her better. Still pale pure elegance in the candlelight, perhaps, but growing a little too sharp for comfort around her edges. What would Magda Braithwaite do, Cara wondered, if she were to tell her just who it was who paid Linnet's millinery bills nowadays? As Mr Adolphus Moon used to do.

But secrets of that kind were perfectly safe with her. She smiled, wished Magda Braithwaite a ‘good night', although she did not think there was much chance of it, and went back into the shop, making the rounds of inspection she always made, balancing the day's takings, spending the length of time she usually spent – no more, no less – in the workroom, saying the kind of things she usually said. She ate the supper her housekeeper had made her and, having been in service herself, was far more skilful than Gemma Gage had ever been in avoiding the tell-tale signs of haste or nerves or dawdling which might arouse suspicion.

A normal, peaceful, possibly rather dull evening, so cleverly portrayed that both housekeeper and housemaid would have been astonished, once they were out of the way, at the speed with which she moved the by no means obliging dog out of his basket and prised the loose floorboard up.

She did not know how closely Christie watched her, or rather employed someone else to do it. She did not, as it happened,
think
he had bribed or otherwise persuaded one of her staff but, just the same, it had become a habit to tread warily. And, in this matter of Daniel, she left nothing to chance.

Since the Revolutionary Tenth she had kept enough money in her cash box to get him to America twice over and keep him there for at least a comfortable month. She had already alerted her father to the possible arrival of someone to whom every assistance must be given. She had kept herself informed as to what ships were sailing and prepared a list of addresses in Liverpool where, at a price, fugitives might find help.

All it would take – like most things in her experience – was money. For who knew the face of Daniel Carey – and who cared – in Liverpool? All he needed was the money to buy a passage to New York, to buy silence and a little temporary loyalty along the way, and he would be free. Only here, in the neighbourhood of Frizingley, did he run real danger of being recognized. Yet where else could he come for help? Except to her, or to Gemma Gage.

And she did not think it opportune to dwell too closely, just yet, on why she, and not Gemma, had been chosen.

Darkness fell and very carefully she turned down the lamps in her sitting room and lit them in her bedroom as she did every evening, so that to anyone watching in the street it would seem she was preparing for bed. She put on old boots which had seen rougher service than any she thought likely to be in the possession of Mrs Gage, a black wool dress without petticoats to weigh her down, a black cloak with a deep concealing hood and, going downstairs without a candle, let herself out of the back door and set off in the direction of St Jude's.

A dangerous walk, she knew that, the streets being full not only of the tinkers and beggars and ne'er-do-wells of a dozen varieties who might easily accost her but a crop of brand-new, self-important special constables, patrolling night and day since the troubles, who would no doubt be interested to know her purpose and her destination. But she had learned, in a hard and dangerous school, how to fend off the attentions of prowling, predatory men, as Gemma Gage had not. She knew how to keep herself afloat – none better – in these murky waters. She knew too that once she left the town behind anything could come out at her from the dark.

But she knew her own strength, as Daniel must surely know it. Which was why, she supposed, he had sent to her instead of Gemma. A compliment of sorts, perhaps. Perhaps not. Although it had not once occurred to her to refuse it. He had called, she was ready, and what happened afterwards would just have to happen, and she would just have to do the best she could with it.

At the top of St Jude's she left the road, plunging into the dark like a swimmer, refusing even to think about what she might encounter now or how afraid she was. After all, she had been wandering alone in dark and difficult places for most of her life, and these few easier years had not weakened her. What mattered was keeping her sense of direction and her balance on this rough and pock-marked ground, not turning her ankle on a stone or stumbling over a rabbit hole and breaking her neck. What mattered was getting there. For if she were now to turn aside, to lose courage or fail in some other way to reach him, she knew there would be no living with herself hereafter.

There had been no decision to make, no weighing of profit or loss. This was something she had to do. And in that case she felt she had better get on and do it, as quickly and competently as she could.

The Gamecock. A sinister place indeed, a rough stone shack in the middle of the dry and empty moor, a meeting place once for Luddite hammermen, all of them dead now, she supposed, some of them hanged, their places on the ale-benches taken by the Chartist drill-master and his pike-men who went through their military exercises nearby – the whole town knew it – every moonlit night.

There was an uncertain moon now, palely appearing and disappearing behind a veil of cloud, but she could see nothing around the inn except bare black land and sky, the building itself showing no light, appearing deserted and desolate, haunted, until she pushed open the door and saw, with shock, that the ruined hulk of a man behind the bar was Ned O'Mara.

She said nothing. Nor he. And why – she reasoned – should she be surprised to find him here. Where else could he get employment, now that Christie had dismissed him? And since only the Chartist pikemen and fugitives would be likely to drink his ale she supposed Ned had become as good a Chartist – in his own opinion – as any. Why not? She nodded in his direction and smiled. He nodded back and made a gesture which showed her Daniel leaning in the doorway of an inner room where, without any conscious memory of how she crossed the uneven, sawdust-covered floor, she joined him.

They did not touch one another.

‘You look terrible,' she said, ‘– disgraceful!'

‘I expect I do.' He did not sound particularly ashamed of it. ‘I've been walking for days. And sleeping rough.'

‘You haven't shaved either.'

‘No. I thought a beard might help.'

‘No you didn't. You just couldn't be bothered.'

‘That's right, Cara. It didn't seem important.'

She supposed not, now that his terrible flame was gone. Would
she
have cared about such trivialities if they had taken away her livelihood, her skill, her final opportunity? Yes. She thought it very likely that she would.

‘How bad is it, Daniel?'

‘Ah well – bad enough.' And without that cold, pure flame it was just a shadow of his carefree, footloose self who spoke to her, a sketch in thin and hasty charcoal. ‘I have been arrested once already and got away …'

‘For what?'

‘A dastardly thing. For standing up on a rock in the middle of a field and telling half a dozen extremely tired men – all of them feeling understandably a bit let down – about justice and freedom and that we ought to have it sooner rather than later – You know.'

Of course she did.

‘We were on our way home from London, walking back to Manchester and Leeds and such places, since Feargus O'Connor had lost interest, or nerve, or whatever – had chosen discretion instead of valour. If that's what he did. Because while he was trundling across Westminster Bridge in a cab, feeling foolish, no doubt, but not getting his feet wet, it didn't seem to strike him just how many men he was leaving stranded. They'd come to be conquering heroes, you see, and I doubt if more than one in ten had the train fare home.'

‘You must have had your return ticket, Daniel. I suppose you gave it away?'

He shrugged. ‘I suppose so. But there I was, just cheering the lads up. Justice and Freedom and not just for them, either, in my ideal world, but for everybody. Ben Braithwaite and the Duke of Wellington included. But before we can share with them they'll have to share with us. And until they do we shouldn't knuckle under. That's more or less what I said. The officer who arrested me reckoned I'd get two years for it.'

‘So you escaped and dashed off to another field to say it all over again?'

He smiled at her. ‘No, Cara. No more. I seem to be – well – a bit on the tired side just at the moment. To tell you the truth, I think it's over.'

‘The Charter? They'll bring it out again.'

‘I dare say.' His eyes seemed to be looking through her into the distance. ‘But what I learned – you see – the other day in London, is that it probably wouldn't work. Human nature being what it is. So why bother?'

Why indeed? She had always known that. Always. But what mattered now was that he should ‘bother'to save himself and get away. Quickly she began to tell him what she had planned, to give him money and names, dates and times and ‘safe'addresses.

‘And when you land in New York my father will look after you. And my mother. You know her.'

‘Yes. I do.'

‘It's a new life, Daniel. Freedom, at any rate. A new opportunity.'

Was that what he wanted?

Standing only inches away from her he seemed, for a moment, hardly there at all, almost as if he had passed over a threshold of time to wear, once again, the skin of the young man who had known Odette; or forward to become somebody else. A stranger to them both.