Down Weaver's Lane (33 page)

His sister Meg never attended church, but Emmy saw her now and then in the street with a frail-looking little girl toddling beside her. Meg nodded as they passed one another, not stopping to talk but not looking in the least scornful either. Emmy never saw her linger to gossip with anyone. She was about a year older than Emmy, but looked older, and her expression was always tinged with bitterness except when she was talking to her child. Then sometimes her face would light up and she would look almost beautiful.

‘What a pleasant outing it makes and didn’t the choir sing well today?’ Mrs Tibby would say as Emmy escorted her slowly back from church. ‘And we have several things to read this afternoon, thanks to dear Eleanor. Isn’t it kind of her to send us their old newspapers and ladies’ journals?’

Once a week they read the
Manchester Guardian,
which was becoming very popular in the north. It didn’t matter to them if the news was a week old, or even a month, because Manchester seemed very remote from Northby. The city the newspapers described was not the same world as the one Emmy had grown up in. The slum streets and that ragged, hungry child now seemed very distant and strange to her.

Mrs Tibby settled down after luncheon with
The World of Fashion.
‘Oh, look, Emmy. Just see what the ladies in London society are wearing. I shouldn’t want to wear such a ridiculously large bonnet, I’m sure it’d give me a headache.’ And a little later, she clicked her tongue in a comfortable way. ‘Turbans, indeed! You wouldn’t need an umbrella if you wore this one because it’s wide enough to keep the rain off.’ She chuckled and held the magazine out.

Emmy obediently studied the illustrations, agreeing that it would be difficult to walk with so many layers of petticoats and that one couldn’t do any housework in the huge sleeves currently in vogue. She thought them ridiculous but had developed a habit of agreeing with whatever her mistress said.

When Mrs Tibby’s head began to nod, Emmy took the magazine gently from her and tiptoed into the kitchen where she sat idle for once, spinning her own dreams. Then she realised where this was leading and picked up the magazine. But she simply couldn’t get interested in what the gentry were wearing.

King George died on June 26th, a month after they had set up house together, and the news took only two days to reach Northby. Mrs Tibby immediately insisted they draw the parlour curtains as a sign of respect. ‘He was not always a good man,’ she told Emmy, ‘but he was our monarch.’ Then she brightened. ‘But King William is a married man, which is much more respectable, and I’m sure Queen Adelaide will be an example to us all, though how sad it is that she has not been able to rear any children.’

 

In September of that same year the Liverpool and Manchester Railway was to open and it was much discussed in the town. Mr Bradley was in favour of progress and had told his congregation about locomotives and railways during one of his rather unorthodox sermons, ascribing such inventions to God’s loving care for his people.

He insisted on going to see the opening himself and took Jack with him. For this he had to win Isaac Butterfield’s permission, but the head clerk was a more lenient man nowadays and gave it gladly, saying a young man should be a part of such a momentous occasion and he would enjoy hearing about it all when they returned.

The two men hired a trap and set off very early on the morning of the fifteenth to be there for the start at twenty to eleven. However, they came back in rather more sombre mood and Parson’s wife, who would talk to a maid just as easily as to a mistress, told Emmy the following day when they met outside the draper’s shop that a gentleman had been killed during the opening ceremonies. A Mr Huskisson had been knocked down by the train.

‘Could he not see it coming and move out of the way?’ Emmy marvelled. She had seen sketches of trains in the newspapers and knew they were much larger than stage coaches. Jack had explained that there was a front part called a locomotive where a coal fire burned to heat water in a boiler and provide steam - though how that could drive a huge vehicle full of people was beyond her understanding. The locomotive apparently pulled several carriages, only they weren’t really carriages. They looked as if someone had glued two or three stage coaches together. So how could you possibly miss seeing something that big coming towards you?

‘It seems he didn’t see it coming - or misjudged the speed, my husband thinks. Trains sound very dangerous to me for they can travel at a speed of twenty-four miles per hour, perhaps more. Can you imagine that? How it must bump you around!’ Prudence shook her head disapprovingly. ‘But my husband insists railways are the way of the future and says we shall all be riding on them within a few years, travelling more easily than we ever have before. And he is intending to travel to Liverpool one day by rail, just for the experience. I don’t contradict him, but I have no intention of ever entrusting myself to such a monster. Why, I’ve heard the sparks from the engines set crops alight and terrify the poor animals in the fields.’

‘I can’t imagine why I should ever need to ride on a train,’ Emmy agreed. ‘Where would I want to go anyway, when I’m so happy where I am?’

Mrs Bradley’s expression softened into a smile. ‘And so is Mrs Tibby. You’re looking after her very well, my dear. But you do realise that she’s - well, getting very frail?’

As if Emmy didn’t know that! ‘Yes. But I try to enjoy each day as it comes. And Mrs Tibby looks after me, too, you know. I could barely read and write when I first went to work for her.’ She saw with relief that this had distracted her companion from sad thoughts because education was one of Prudence Bradley’s pet enthusiasms.

‘The day will come when everyone will learn to read and write, girls as well as boys. That’s far more important than travelling at breakneck speed. We are to have a proper school in Northby soon, you know. The Church is to build it and the Government will pay money towards the schooling of every child in town, no matter how poor. Now that is what I call progress!’

 

One Sunday after church Jack made his way across to Emmy as she was waiting for her mistress to finish chatting to a friend. ‘Did you know that George Duckworth has left Northby?’

She stared at him in surprise. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Oh, yes. He’s sold his alehouse to his cousin, Gus Norris, and taken two of his regular girls with him.’

‘He’s probably going to set himself up somewhere more profitable, then,’ Emmy said lightly. ‘He used to talk to my mother about “moving up” and “serving the gentry”.’ Only to Jack could she have said this. There was nothing they could not tell each other about. ‘But thank you for letting me know. I shall sleep sounder knowing he’s not in town.’ Though he had not tried again to speak to her in the street, George always nodded in a familiar way whenever they passed one another. She ignored him completely, of course. She was not afraid of Gus, the carter who had brought them to Northby. He was large but not devious and did not make her feel nervous as George did, even now.

She only wished Marcus Armistead would suddenly move elsewhere as well for she still saw him watching her from a carriage sometimes, a rather shabby vehicle for a rich man to use. But she confided her fears about him to no one. At least he had not come to visit his aunt. He could stare as much as he wanted so long as he didn’t come near her.

As he often did, Jack seemed to read her mind. ‘Are you still worried about Armistead?’

She looked up at him, so tall and sturdy, and the rest of the world seemed to fall away as if there were only the two of them. ‘Yes,’ she said simply. ‘I always shall be. Until I can go to live somewhere he can’t find me. If anything happens to Mrs Tibby, that’s what I shall do.’

‘Don’t—’ Jack broke off, hesitating, then said in a rush, ‘Don’t leave without saying goodbye.’

But she couldn’t even promise him that. She knew she might have to flee suddenly when her mistress died and didn’t intend to involve Jack in any more of her troubles. ‘I shan’t leave as long as my mistress needs me,’ she said, stepping back. They had talked for long enough. She didn’t want tongues wagging about them.

He raised his hat and half turned, then looked back at her and what he could not put into words was in the look he gave her. She hoped her feelings had not shown as clearly in her own face.

When they got home Mrs Tibby said thoughtfully, ‘That young man cares about you, you know, Emmy.’

She did not need to ask which young man. ‘There can be nothing between us.’

‘Why not?’

‘He has his mother and family to look after, and besides, I could never marry.’

‘You can’t let that stop you. I ran away with James, my dear, because I loved him so, and I’m not afraid of dying because I’m sure I’ll be reunited with him.’ She sighed reminiscently, then reached out to take Emmy’s hand and say earnestly, ‘Don’t throw away the chance to encourage a good man, my dear.’

 

The following week a carriage drove past Emmy and stopped. She thought nothing of it but continued walking along the lane, thinking about the things she must purchase at market. Then she drew level with the vehicle and realised with a shock that it contained Marcus Armistead. The window was open and she was closer to him than she had been since that dreadful night. For a moment she froze, terror shivering through her as he stared out at her, then she hurried on.

Behind her he called out, ‘One day!’ and Emmy broke into a stumbling run.

She never went out alone at night after that, not even at dusk, and if she saw the shabby carriage in the distance she tried to keep out of sight until it had passed. But there were few turnings off Weavers Lane, and if she couldn’t get out of the way she would stare straight ahead as she walked past the carriage and try to hide her fear.

She said nothing about these encounters to her mistress or about the fear of him which had returned to sit like a stone in her belly. She didn’t want to spoil Mrs Tibby’s quiet happiness in any way.

Jane went into labour in February 1831. Things progressed so rapidly and easily that her son was born a mere three hours later, long before his father came back from Manchester where he had spent a number of nights recently, to his wife’s relief.

The baby so resembled Marcus that Jane could not take to the infant as she knew she ought to. She claimed more exhaustion than she felt and asked them to take the child to the wet nurse she had insisted on hiring.

When they had gone she blew out the candle and huddled down in bed, enjoying the feel of her now slender body. She stared at a narrow shaft of moonlight which had penetrated one side of the heavy velvet curtains and admitted to herself that the moment had come to act on the plans she had made. But for the first time she wondered if she’d have the courage to carry them through.

She took a deep breath. She
had
to leave him.

As a first step she insisted on getting out of bed the very next day, scandalising the entire household by this action.

Marcus came into her room to protest as she stood by the window, struggling to open it. ‘Why are you out of bed? You’re jeopardising the health of our future children by your foolish behaviour!’

‘Poor women continue working and I can see why. I feel very well, but if I have to lie in bed any longer I shall start imagining myself ill out of sheer boredom.’

‘And they tell me you haven’t wanted the babe brought to you,’ he went on.

‘It’s the wet nurse he needs at the moment, not me.’

‘You may not be feeding him, but surely you want to hold him?’

She did not wish to antagonise Marcus at the moment, so smiled brightly and said, ‘Of course I do.’ It worried her that he continued to stare at her across the room. When he gave one of his almost-smiles, the smile of someone with mischief in mind, she tensed.

‘Since you are feeling so well, understand this, my dear wife. I shall not tolerate any more unwomanly independence or disobedience.’ He paused, his smile broadening. ‘And we shall be sharing a bedroom every night once you have recovered fully. If I have to hire a strong man to help me control you.’

She was horrified at this threat and could not hold back a sharp response. ‘Then you’ll definitely have to force me to your bed screaming every night. The only time I shall willingly share a bedroom with you again, Marcus, is when you’re dead and I’m keeping a final watch - as a dutiful widow should.’

His face contorted suddenly in rage. ‘Or perhaps it’s I who will be keeping watch over your dead body.’ One more child and he would seriously consider getting rid of the bitch. He had no intention whatsoever of spending his life shackled to such an ugly and unmanageable female. Afraid of saying it to her, so deep had the hatred grown, he spun on his heel and walked out.

Jane did not move for quite some time. This conversation had made her utterly certain she must leave. She could tell what he intended as clearly as if he had spoken it aloud. If she stayed, he would one day kill her. And you couldn’t guard yourself every minute, not even if you were bigger than your husband. Poison could be put into anything you were eating.