A Song Twice Over (13 page)

A life. So that when Daniel Carey had suddenly reappeared in Frizingley, rising up from the pavement before her, as lean and angry and beautiful as she remembered, she had been able to toss her head at him and tell him tales of triumph about her sweet little new house, her wonderful situation with dear Miss Baker who treated her like a daughter, covering up her employment at the Fleece with bright chatter of ‘friends to visit', ‘friends coming to call', ‘life is such a merry whirl in the evenings in this friendly little town.'

But he had watched her, made his enquiries, and had stepped out of the shadows again, blocking her path, demanding explanations, laying a furious hand on her arm which she had just as furiously shaken off, telling him he had no right – none – go away; his answering snarl of accusation, which had branded her a liar, a cheat, far worse than that, causing her to strike out at him, wanting to hurt him, and badly; his violence answering hers until somehow what was burning inside them had assumed a different identity and they had found themselves pressed close together against the wall of Miss Baker's infinitely discreet shop, shaking in each other's arms, hurting each other now with love and, at the same time, presenting to Miss Baker the very spectacle of Cara's debauchery she had been waiting for.

Like father like daughter. Very well. Now – since the father had eluded her with such villainous cunning – let the daughter be punished. For she had offered money to Kieron Adeane and, even in the dire predicament in which he had been struggling, he had refused it. Not even his fear of Christie Goldsborough had been able to bind him to her. Therefore
somebody
would have to pay for her humiliation.

‘You are a slattern,' she had declared joyfully the next morning, having assembled her entire workroom to witness Cara's dismissal and disgrace. ‘And, as such, I am – naturally – unable to give you a recommendation. Which means – Adeane – that you will find no further employment in Frizingley.'

‘Ah well, Miss Baker.' And Cara, having nothing more to lose, had grown flippant and hard. ‘Sure and at least I won't die a virgin.'

And the next morning she had painted the brave slogan ‘Cara Adeane. Dressmaker and Milliner'on Odette's old hat-box and, the paint barely dry, begun the patient, persuasive, often mortifying business of knocking on doors.

Her personal treasures, her earrings and silver bracelets had gone to the pawnshop forever, her best skirt and bodice reposing there for usually a day or two each week until some generous or drunken reveller at the Fleece gave her a tip large enough to get them out. Luke had offered to lend her money which she had gladly accepted. She had thrown in Daniel's face the few coins he had managed to scrape together and told him to take them – and himself – to the devil. She put in more hours at the Fleece and stole rather more pies.

She suffered such exhaustion, and such fear, that she became brittle and light-headed sometimes, could hear her own voice chattering like a demented starling about ‘Madam would look exquisite in blue satin – a marvel in lavender – just a touch of blonde lace at the throat' – while her own throat grew tight with panic, her skin crawled, every hair on the back of her neck rising in disgust and horror whenever she passed the new workhouse they were building on the hill beyond the top of St Jude's Street.

All that would be needed – she was constantly and fully aware of it – was for her to slip on these wet cobbles and break a leg, catch a chill or a fever, become pregnant with another child, be unable, for the few weeks it took to heal from her malady, to pay her rent, and those workhouse doors would open wide. And although the Poor Law commissioners insisted that the workhouse was not a prison,
how
once her furniture and her clothes and Odette's clothes had been sold by the Poor Law officer to pay for her accommodation by the state; once her son had been whisked away from her into the children's ward to be glimpsed, perhaps, but not spoken to, only in the distance; once she and her mother had been dressed and degraded in that coarse workhouse clothing, kept weak and obedient by that thin workhouse gruel; caught syphilis or typhoid or madness from the other paupers whose beds would only be inches away from theirs – once all that had happened how did one find the strength to walk out and face the world again? Or, at least, how could she persuade a Board of Workhouse Guardians to release, into
her
custody, Liam and Odette.

Thinking of it – and she thought of it far too often – she shuddered. As she shuddered whenever the woman with the long, damp red hair, lounging in the doorway of her shuttered house at the end of St Jude's Passage, her plump body wrapped in a fringed green shawl, called out, ‘Good day to you, Cara Adeane.'

It was no surprise to her that the brothel keeper should know her name. Nor had that other woman, well-dressed, almost genteel, who had come gliding up to her in Market Square surprised her. ‘My dear, I just had to come and say how very charming you are looking today. And that I have a friend – among many – who is simply burning for love of you. Oh yes – five guineas he will pay to quench his thirst. Just fancy.'

Such offers had been coming her way since she had turned thirteen. But surely the trousseau of Miss Gemma Dallam, if it led to all the things she intended, might put a stop to that. She could not stay at the Fleece much longer if she wished to guard so much as a shred of her reputation, especially since Ned O'Mara could not be kept forever at bay. And if she succeeded in pleasing Miss Gemma Dallam – who had probably never suffered much from the unwelcome attentions of men, never really suffered at all – then, if she spoke to her friends and they to theirs, then surely …?
Surely
there was room in Frizingley for another milliner? A younger, more fashionable woman with style enough to suit these rich, pampered, impossibly innocent girls who had so much money, so little experience in the arts of self-defence, who could be so easily persuaded – by her – to buy whatever she told them was in fashion? Why not? Luck changed. Kieron Adeane's daughter had every reason to know it. And today – well, look at it – the rain had stopped and she had not, as she had feared, ruined her best – her only boots – and the hem of the one good dress out of pawn. The sun was shining. She had been served tea at Goldsborough Manor, won an order for four dozen of ‘everything'from Miss Dallam who could easily afford four dozen more. She had even managed to persuade Miss Dallam's mother, considerably against the judgement of that handsome but tricky Miss Gage, to allow her to do part of the work in her own ‘workroom'rather than in the Dallams' back parlour. Forgetting to mention, of course, that the airy, businesslike premises she had led Mrs Dallam to imagine were situated in the evil heart of St Jude's. Absolutely giving no inkling that it was because the fancy embroidery was rather beyond her and she needed Odette. Later, of course, if things went well, she'd produce her mother with a flourish as the best embroideress from the most famous establishment in the rue Saint Honoré. Odette would know the name. But, to begin with, it was essential that her customers should have full confidence in Miss Cara Adeane herself. Yes. Luck changed. If things could get worse then they could get better too. Much better.

The sun was still shining as she hurried down to the Fleece, the memory of the flowered china she had drunk from at the Manor still pleasing her, although the tea itself had been too weak for her liking. But never mind that. She could forgive them their poor tea if they would be willing to make her, not rich she supposed, but no longer obliged to worry so much, no longer forced to put up with things which, quite simply, didn't suit her. Being touched by men, for instance, tonight in the bar parlour, who evidently believed in their right to touch her; although she did not. Being at the beck and call of anybody who had a few coppers more in his pocket than she had in hers; which seemed to be just about everybody she knew.

Was it too much to ask? Very likely. But, as she entered St Jude's Square and crossed over from the Rose and Crown to the Fleece she had decided to ask it anyway. And moreover – having been too busy all day for frivolities – she realized why the day had seemed so propitious. It was her twentieth birthday.

Reaching the Fleece, famished as always, she went in through the kitchen door, her mind full of pies and tarts and then, even through the tantalizing odour of roast chicken – a leg for Liam, a wing for Odette if she could manage it – became conscious of something taut and tricky and vaguely unpleasant in the air.

Nor, considering the keenness of her appetite and the frank dishonesty of her intentions, was she pleased to see Ned O'Mara standing by the ovens looking gloomy and giving orders for somebody's dinner.

‘Hello, Ned. It's my birthday.' She flashed him a saucy, barmaid's smile and a glint of her sea-blue eyes, hoping he might give her a glass of wine or a shilling, hoping he wouldn't want her to kiss him in exchange. But his pummelled, prizefighter's face looked out of sorts and out of humour, a man coming down with a cold or a fever, until she realized his ailment was quite simply the condition – unusual with him – of being cold sober.

Had he been mildly, merrily drunk then for the past three months? She supposed so. Had that been the cause of the easy atmosphere, the food and drink so readily to hand, the mattress and the barrels and the copper saucepan he had given her?

She bit her lip.

‘The captain's back,' he said.

‘Oh.' She had feared as much. ‘Does he want to see me?'

‘Christ no. Not until he remembers. He's in the bar parlour drinkin'brandy. Him and his doxy and his doxy's husband. You'd best be stayin'in the taproom out of his way.'

But it was a Thursday night when the mill hands had been paid, the end of the month too with the navvies from the railway line they were slowly cutting between Frizingley and Leeds, erupting into town with four weeks'wages in their pockets. And no great certainty of even being alive next pay day, considering the explosives they were always tossing about. There was to be a dog-fight too, she heard, at midnight, with bets already flying, tempers rising, as somebody began to extol, somebody else to belittle, the fighting spirit of the brown bull dog – more bull than dog they were saying – belonging to the landlord of the Rose and Crown. Cara wrinkled her nose. Hopefully she would miss that. But the taproom, already in ferment, needed Ned, ex-champion of the bareknuckle ring and the other, coarser-grained barmaid, to keep order, especially when Cara was wearing her last good dress which must be kept as fresh as possible to pass Dallam scrutiny tomorrow. And since she could hardly avoid Captain Goldsborough forever, she went through to the bar-parlour, the gentlemen's bar, and took her accustomed place behind the counter, her palms sweating and her hands shaking a little, but her head very high.

The low, smoke-blackened, age-blackened room was quiet, only a dozen or so men, all familiar to her, drinking spirits in pairs at separate tables, and a trio of strangers in the best chairs by the hearth, a bottle of brandy and three ornate glasses – Captain Goldsborough's private store, she supposed – set out before them. A plump, pink-cheeked gentleman, very crimped and curled, very drunk, who – according to the other barmaid – must be Mr Adolphus Moon, the sugar millionaire, come home from the West Indies to buy up the whole village of Far Flatley, eight miles away, where he was planning to live in style. A woman with an alabaster skin and pale gold hair who must be his French wife, Mrs Marie Moon, a well-known actress in her day, the other barmaid had said, and more besides. Much more, in fact. A woman of sin and scandal and subtle sophistications, who had known other men before, and evidently since, her husband; and who would be certain to set the dovecotes of Far Flatley – and of Frizingley if it came to that – sadly aflutter.

Two expensive, faintly exotic strangers travelling from London, she supposed, or even all the way from Antigua or Martinique in the company of Captain Goldsborough, enjoying his hospitality, Mr Adolphus Moon considerably too well if his drunken torpor was anything to go by, his wife, the glorious, scandalous Marie, ignoring her husband entirely as she leaned forward intently, rapturously it seemed, her whole beautiful, expertly alluring body flowing towards the man sitting far back in the chimney corner. Captain Goldsborough himself, although Cara could see nothing of him but a dark, broad shape, long legs booted and spurred, stretched out at their ease on the fourth chair to which a dog was fastened by a short chain.

And for a moment it was the dog which held her attention, a squat, heavy-jowled, black and white animal, ugly as the devil, its body shaved smooth and its ears docked in what she knew to be the proper ‘sporting trim'. A fighting dog with no ear-flaps and no tufts of hair for its opponent to seize hold of, a brute fed on raw butcher's meat to sharpen its appetite for blood, with malice in its heart and a jaw like a man-trap which had been trained – by Captain Goldsborough, she supposed – to bite deep and never to let go once it did.

When a dog like that took hold they would have to clog its nostrils with flour and half choke it before it would unclench those murderous teeth. She shivered, remembering the havoc those curs could create when, their fighting days over, they were turned loose more often than not, to scavenge in the street. And feeling her eyes on him the animal stirred and snorted a brief warning, so that she turned away, pity making her unkind. Damned dog. She hoped that his opponent, when he came, would be big as a house and lion-savage. And then – for all she cared – they could go outside to the boarded dog-pen behind the stables and get it over, tearing each other to pieces while the men yelled and took bets and lost the money for which some of them had worked all week; and the dogs lost an eye, a leg, a life. It was Thursday, after all, when most men had money. It happened everywhere. And she found this type of combat easier to bear than the screaming of the cocks she could sometimes hear from the Beehive or the ratting-matches they were forever holding at the Dog and Gun, ratting dogs being such tiny, frail-boned terriers, with such pretty faces, that it never failed to turn her stomach whenever she saw the hampers of sewer-rats and barn-rats arriving, to be killed in the ratting-arena, for sport.