Down Weaver's Lane (18 page)

Emmy said nothing more. Closing her eyes, she tried to think what to do. There was no one to know she was missing, even, so she had to escape on her own. Even if she didn’t - her thoughts faltered for a moment as she contemplated the horror of that - she would not stop struggling against these men who wanted to use her, no, not as long as there was breath in her body.

She wriggled carefully, testing her bonds, but the pieces of cloth were tied too tightly for her to get away. And her mother was still watching her, sipping the gin delicately as if it was the only thing that really mattered to her. Its faint almost perfumed smell sickened Emmy.

She glanced towards the window. It was getting dark quickly now. He would be on his way.

 

Jack heard that Mrs Oswald had moved away and gone back to her family. It caused much discussion in the town to think that the old lady could be so closely connected to the Armisteads and no one know. As dusk settled gently on the narrow streets, he told his mother he needed a breath of fresh air and strolled down the Lane to look at the house where Emmy had lived.

No lights in the windows, no smoke coming from the chimney - and no Emmy inside.

He went to peer through one of the windows and saw only an empty room, so wandered off again, kicking at pebbles and feeling angry with both himself and his father. With nothing to offer her he had no right to care that she’d gone, but he did.

Meg seemed to be permanently angry since her return. She’d said little about her life with Ben, especially when their mother was around, but her eyes grew wistful on the rare occasions she did mention him. Only with the baby did she relax, cuddling little Nelly whenever she could, utterly devoted to her.

Their mother looked after the baby during the day so that Meg could bring in some money, but she wasn’t best pleased by the situation, especially as Nelly was sickly and needed a lot of attention. Meg complained about how Mam treated the child and Jack often had to play peacemaker and intercede in their quarrels, for the sake of the other children.

Meg had got herself a job with Mr Roper of all people, acting partly as housekeeper and partly assistant in the pawnshop. With her new hard attitude to the world, she had no trouble dealing with the folk who came in to raise money. And when Jack worried that Roper would try to seduce her, she laughed harshly. ‘Just let him try! Just let anyone try!’

Jack couldn’t bear to go back home to more quarrels yet, so called in for a glass of ale, drank half of it then wandered out again, unable to settle. Cold as it was, with frost crackling on the edges of the puddles and his breath clouding the air, he still did not go home. At one point he found himself standing outside the mill and frowned at its dark bulk. This was his daytime prison, though Mr Butterfield sent him out regularly on errands and those outings kept him from going mad.

His home was his night-time prison, but who else was there to look after his brothers and sisters except him? Why, Joey was still only six. Imagine that gentle little lad shut up in the grim workhouse Northby shared with three other parishes! It didn’t bear thinking of. And his sister Ginny was still at school. Now that they weren’t scratching for every penny, Jack had insisted she stay on for another year or so. Let her be a little lass, play and make friends. She was only nine, after all. And, please God, let her never have to face whatever had turned Meg into such a harsh, unhappy creature. He smiled as his thoughts moved to Shad who was still at the dye works. He was a bright, cheerful lad, growing up fast and promising to be as large as his father and brothers.

Jack should be thankful, really, that things had turned out so well, considering what Jem had done. Count his blessings. Not feel so angry.

But it had cheered him up to look at Emmy sometimes and dream a little. Or even to stop and speak to her. Just occasionally. And now she was gone.

He sighed. A young man could not help dreaming, even if he knew those dreams could never come true.

 

Once it was fully dark George returned to the alehouse. This time he did gag Emmy, laughing at her struggles to spit out the wad of material as he tied it in place. Then he wrapped her in a blanket, picked her up and carried her out as easily as a bundle of firewood.

Looking back she saw her mother sitting staring into a glass of gin, not even glancing up.
Mother, look at
me! Emmy pleaded inside her head, but Madge didn’t stir.

George had a small handcart waiting outside. He laid Emmy down carefully in it on a featherbed, whispering, ‘We don’t want you covered in bruises, do we? Or catching cold?’ He covered her with sacking and she lay in stifling darkness, bumping helplessly around as the cart rattled over the cobble stones. The noise stopped abruptly as they began travelling over softer ground. Emmy wondered where they were going, but her head was covered up and she could gain no idea of their direction.

Where was George taking her? Would Marcus Armistead be waiting for them? Would he really force himself on her? Her forehead felt clammy, her stomach queasy, as if she was going to vomit, and she could not help shuddering and moaning softly in her throat.

All she could hold on to was the determination that whatever happened tonight, she would never willingly follow her mother’s path. Never. And even George would not be able to watch her every minute of the day and night. There would be an opportunity to get away later even if she didn’t succeed now. There had to be.

But what then? She could not flee to Mrs Tibby, because her former mistress was an Armistead and lived in the same house as
that man
. The ladies in Manchester, then. She’d flee to them. They’d help her, she was sure. That thought steadied her, but only a little.

The cart stopped and she stiffened in apprehension. As the sacking was removed she saw a sky full of stars. They looked so clean and bright above her they brought her a sudden feeling of comfort. They would still be there tomorrow - and so would she. She would survive whatever this night brought.

And she would not be a willing participant. Never that.

 

In the big house next to the mill at the very top of Weavers Lane Jane Rishmore heard her father come home early and go with her mother into the room they all called the library, though it had but one bookcase in it and only she ever read the books that contained. Or she had done until her father found out what she was doing and forbade her to touch ‘his books’ again, because they were unsuitable for a woman and why was she pretending to understand them? She had understood them, though. She was not stupid.

When her parents shut the door behind them, she knew they must be discussing something important because there were no servants in that part of the house at this hour. Thanks to some judicious eavesdropping, she guessed it was her future. Her mother had been talking about marriage lately, saying it was a woman’s duty to marry well and the parents’ to choose a suitable husband.

Jane closed her eyes for a moment to control her frustration, then went to sit on the window seat and stare out across the moors as dusk stained the lower land with shadows. Each patch of darkness crept outwards to join the next, gently laying a veil over the countryside. In the other direction she could see the lights of the town, street lamps and the bright glow from windows, so that every evening Northby seemed to be defying nature and holding back the darkness for a few hours.

Not for the first time she wished she could go out and stride across the moors, stride until she could walk no further - and never come back to Northby again. Her father had picked out her husband without consulting her, a little pudding of a man with shifty eyes and faded beige-brown hair that was already thinning. He’d been chosen because of his family connections, not for himself - as had she. She was inches taller than Marcus Armistead already and at eighteen was still growing. And it was obvious he hated that even more than she did.

The first time he’d come to visit them with his parents, his disappointment had shown clearly when he was introduced to Jane. Now he hardly bothered to talk to her, though they often placed him next to her on a sofa. Mostly he sat silent, unless he was agreeing with everything their parents said. He always looked sulky - no, more than sulky, cruel even, behind those careful smiles and nods. It was strange how sure she was that he was a cruel man, or would be if given the chance. She doubted his parents gave him much chance to do anything but obey them, though. As her parents gave her little choice about anything. In that way the Rishmores and the Armisteads were very much alike.

She had been so lost in her thoughts that she jumped in shock when her mother walked into the bedroom.

‘Jane, my dear, straighten your hair and come downstairs. How can you have got it into such a mess already? Your father wishes to have a little chat with you before dinner.’

Jane closed her eyes for a moment.

‘Are you all right, dear?’

‘Yes, Mama.’ She went to the dressing table and tried to straighten her hair, but her hands were trembling, so her mother tutted and took the comb from her. When her mother did her hair it obeyed, even hair as straight as Jane’s. Her mother couldn’t add a column of figures to the same amount twice, though.

In the end Jane couldn’t keep the question back any longer. ‘Mama, is it Mr Armistead?’

Her mother smiled at her. ‘Yes, dear. Had you guessed? You must be feeling very excited.’

‘Excited? I hate him. I told you that months ago.’

The smile vanished and the hairbrush came down to rap Jane’s knuckles sharply. ‘I thought we’d agreed that you would do as your father wished in this? He knows what’s best for you.’

‘But you said you’d try to persuade him to find another man. You promised me you would.’

Her mother stilled then let out her breath in a long slow stream. ‘I did try. But his heart is set on this match, I’m afraid.’

‘I can’t agree to it.’

‘You have no choice.’

Her mother’s eyes met Jane’s in the mirror. ‘We women can do nothing but obey our fathers, and later our husbands. It’s what we promise in church: to love, honour and obey.’

‘I haven’t promised to obey anyone,’ Jane muttered.

‘The Bible says: “Honour thy father and thy mother, that thy days may be long upon the land which the Lord thy God giveth thee”.’

Her mother always took refuge in biblical quotations when she could summon up no reasoned arguments. Jane should have known better than to expect any help from her.

When they got downstairs, her father was standing in front of the fire, warming himself and looking smug. ‘Ah, my dear, come and sit down. We have some good news for you.’

She sat. Listened. Fought to contain her anger. Failed. ‘How can you ask me to marry that horrible little man?’ she burst out suddenly.

Samuel stopped speaking to gape at her.

‘We shall be a laughing stock as a couple - and he dislikes me as much as I dislike him. He’s horrible.’ With a sob Jane closed her mouth on further angry words, knowing how much her father hated hysteria.

He swelled visibly with outrage. ‘Are you daring to question my decision?’

‘When it comes to the man with whom I shall be spending the rest of my life, yes. I won’t marry Marcus Armisteads, Father.’

‘You will do as you’re told, young lady!’

‘No, not in this.’

‘Jane, dear,’ her mother remonstrated.

She swung round. ‘Why can you never stand up to my father? You know I’d be unhappy with that man. He’s—’

‘Silence!’ her father roared suddenly. ‘He’s an Armistead and a suitable match for you and that’s all you need to know. You will obey me in this as in everything else.’

Jane shook her head stubbornly. ‘No. Not him. Anyone but him.’

He stared at her for a long, fraught moment, before making an angry sound in his throat and saying, ‘Then you will be confined to your room on bread and water until you come to your senses. No, not to your room. To the smallest bedroom in the house, with no books save the Bible.’ He turned to his wife. ‘See to it.’

‘Samuel, dear, perhaps—’

Jane debated refusing to go, then shrugged and walked upstairs.

‘Why are you doing this?’ her mother whispered.

‘Please, Jane. Come down and apologise. Your father has your best interests at heart.’

‘No, he doesn’t. He has his own interests at heart.’

She was too proud to make any further protest as her mother escorted her to the small rear bedroom that was never used because it was too small for guests. It looked out on to the moors and was furnished only with a narrow bed and chest of drawers.

It took a week for her to realise that her father meant what he said, a week of stifling boredom and gnawing hunger. In the end she decided she might as well obey him. She was merely a pawn to be used in his business agreements. If she’d had any money at all, she’d have run away, but her father kept her jewellery in his big safe and when she went out with her mother it was to shops at which they had accounts, so she had only a few coins of her own.

Jane was trapped, and furiously angry about that.

 

Smiling in anticipation Marcus rode through the moonlit darkness to Northby, which was not far away from Moor Grange if you took the track across the moors. His grandfather had bought the house from its impoverished aristocratic owners thirty years previously and his parents behaved as if they had been born and bred as lords of the manor in Padstall. The other county families did not deal much with them, however. They knew everyone’s pedigree and, as far as they were concerned, the Armisteads had none.

Marcus was wearing an old brown cloak and as he approached Northby he pulled his hat down to hide his face. He left his horse at the livery stables and went straight to the back door of the alehouse, taking great care not to show his face. He didn’t want word getting back to the Rishmores that he’d been in Northby for purposes other than courting their daughter.