Down Weaver's Lane (52 page)

Watching the two of them, Jack thought that the dog’s simple joy was doing her more good than anything.

But after a moment she turned back to him and whispered, ‘I need you to hold me, love. I feel cold and lost. I need to know that you don’t think I’m,’ she sobbed, ‘too dirty to touch now.’

So he took her in his arms, making shushing noises as he stroked her hair from her eyes. There was enough moonlight for him to see the bruise on her left cheek and the rope marks on her wrists. He wished Armistead had suffered before he died, as he had made others suffer.

While the carriage rumbled along the main road to Northby, the dog stretched out at their feet and Emmy said in a thread of a voice, ‘I shouldn’t feel glad that someone’s dead, should I? But I do. I feel as if a burden has been lifted from me. We’re safe now.’

After a while she dozed a little, only to wake with a gasp as the carriage began to make its way up the badly rutted lower end of Weavers Lane. When she saw it was Jack holding her she relaxed again.

‘Nearly home now,’ he said softly.

‘Mmm.’ She nestled against him.

He left her for a moment to open the cottage door, with Hercules bounding inside after him. When he came back to the carriage Jack found Emmy sitting up staring out at their future home. In the moonlight it looked calm and pretty with its little garden and neat windows.

He looked up at Mr Rishmore’s coachman. ‘Can you wait?’

‘Aye.’

‘Home,’ Emmy said as Jack carried her inside the cottage. She began to weep again.

Hercules pressed against her and she cuddled the dog to her, still sobbing.

‘Will you be all right for a moment?’ Jack asked.

She nodded.

He went out and asked the coachman to let them know at the Parsonage that he had Emmy safe in the cottage and would explain everything in the morning. Then he went back to shut out the world.

As if he knew his mistress was safe with Jack, Hercules vanished on a journey of exploration, nose down and tail wagging vigorously as he explored the house.

Scooping Emmy up into his arms Jack carried her upstairs to the bedroom they were to share - he hoped for the rest of their lives - and held her until she fell asleep again.

After a while Hercules returned to lie on the floor nearby.

Jack didn’t sleep for a long time. Couldn’t. Images of the night he’d just spent were still searing his brain. If only he could have got there sooner! How close he’d come to falling off that ladder on the way up to the roof! How high it had felt up there!

He realised at one point that he’d groaned aloud. Emmy didn’t stir but the dog came to lick his hand and press its head against him, as if to reassure him that everything was all right.

Eventually Jack’s eyes began to feel heavy and weariness weighed him down.

 

Waking suddenly, Jack realised it was morning and that Emmy was lying beside him staring at him.

‘He really is dead, isn’t he?’ she asked in hushed tones. ‘I didn’t dream it.’

‘He’s definitely dead. I saw it myself.’

She let out a long half-groan, half-sigh. ‘Then I can start to live properly again.’ She looked at him very solemnly. ‘I love you, Jack Staley.’

‘And I love you, lass.’

‘I can’t wait for us to get married, to know that we really belong to one another.’

He nodded. ‘There’s nothing I want more than to make you my wife, my darling girl. And even then, I shan’t touch you until you’re ready. I’m not like him, and when we do love one another, it won’t be anything like it was with him. But I shall wait until you tell me I can show my love for you. And if you can never face it, then I’ll accept that too.’

She wept a little, softly, at his simple, loving generosity.

Then, as Hercules leaped up on the bed and tried to lick her face, she dashed away the tears, cuddled the furry body that was pressed against her and gave her intended a watery smile. ‘You’re the most wonderful man in the whole world, Jack Staley.’

A tail thumped against the bedcovers.

‘And you’re the best dog in the world,’ she added. But her eyes were still on Jack, rumpled, dirty from the roof still, but hers now. There was no more glorious sight in the whole world.

When Jane saw the letter she cried out in shock then paid the postage and tore it open with shaking fingers. Her mother’s handwriting! How had she known where they were?

Aggie came running from the kitchen to find her reading it again, her whole being concentrated on what it said.

‘What’s up, lassie?’

Jane looked at her and took a deep shuddering breath. ‘He’s dead! My husband’s dead.’

‘The Lord be thanked,’ Aggie muttered. Then she too stared at the letter. ‘How—’

‘Your cousin gave my mother your address.’

Aggie stared at her aghast. ‘I told her not to tell anyone!’

‘It doesn’t matter.’ Jane looked at her in wonderment. ‘Mama kept it from my father. Isn’t that amazing? And she won’t tell him if I want to stay here. But, oh, Aggie, she begs me to go home and she doesn’t care what people say about me.’ Jane broke down, sobbing, and when the other woman gathered her in her arms, gave way to a prolonged burst of weeping.

When she had calmed down, she sniffed and said, ‘I need to go home as quickly as I can. Will you come with me?’

‘Och, lassie, is that wise?’

‘Very wise. I promised Marcus once that the only time I’d share a bedroom with him again was when I kept watch over his dead body.’ Jane looked at her maid. ‘I need to do that, Aggie, to see it all end properly, to
watch
them lay him in the ground and know he can never hurt me again.’

After another pause, she said, ‘We’ll hire a chaise, the fastest one we can find. I’ll go down to the inn and order it now.’

Aggie nodded and went upstairs to start packing.

 

Samuel Rishmore sent Isaac to tell Eleanor Armistead of her son’s death and bring her back for the funeral. He attended the Coroner’s inquest in Manchester and stood silently while Jack gave evidence to corroborate what George Duckworth said about the fall down the stairs. He strongly suspected that Duckworth had killed Armistead, or pushed him, or something similar, but did not intend to pursue the matter. His son-in-law would have only been hanged if he had survived and that would have meant raking up a lot of dirt about his past, including Samuel’s own daughter’s flight from her husband’s house.

When a verdict of death by misadventure was recorded, Samuel had a quiet word with George Duckworth, warning him never to return to Northby, then went outside and waited for Makepeace and Jack to join him in the carriage. He sat mostly in silence as they were driven back to Northby. The other two men seemed similarly lost in thought. As they were approaching the town, however, he looked at Jack. ‘Still getting married on Sunday?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I wish you both happy.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ It might take some time, but Jack was determined to make Emmy happy.

 

When Samuel got home, his wife came rushing out into the hall. ‘She’s home! Jane’s home!’ she declared. ‘And I won’t
let
you send her away.’

He paused. ‘I’ll not do that. Now we know what Marcus was like, I’ll even beg Jane’s pardon.’

‘Oh, Samuel!’

‘Don’t start crying all over me.’ But he patted her shoulder kindly, then went with her to find his daughter.

He found a thin, elegant woman waiting for him, one who looked much older than Jane should. She stood up, hands clasped tightly at her breast, and waited for him to say something. Instead he moved across the room and folded her in his arms. ‘Can you ever forgive me, daughter?’ he asked, his voice husky with guilt.

Jane simply laid her head against his shoulder and sighed. ‘Oh, yes, Father! No one could have known how bad he was.’

So they stood like that for a while until he pulled away. ‘You’ve heard, then?’

She nodded.

‘Shall you attend the funeral?’

‘If they’ll let me. What I really want, what I need to do, is to sit watch on his body. I once promised him I’d do that and somehow I shan’t feel free of him till I’ve kept that promise.’

He frowned. ‘Are you sure?’

‘I need to. Is his mother here? Will she let me do that, do you think?’

‘I’m sure she will.’ He’d make sure Eleanor Armistead did allow it. He didn’t understand why Jane wanted to do this, but he knew death sometimes affected people strangely. ‘Do you want to see your son?’

Jane shook her head. ‘No.’

‘Charles is a lovely child, not at all like his father.’

Still she shook her head.

 

The following morning Samuel drove across with her to Moor Grange and went inside first to see Eleanor, who knew some of the details of what her son had been up to. She made no difficulties about Jane’s request, though like Samuel she found it hard to understand.

So Jane entered the house she had never thought to see again on the arm of her father, spoke a few platitudes to her mother-in-law, then asked to be taken to the room where Marcus’s body was laid.

‘The coffin’s nailed down,’ Eleanor said, concerned at the strange look in Jane’s eyes.

‘That’s all right. I just need to see it, to keep my final promise to Marcus.’

They left her with her husband’s body, but when she was still there an hour later, Eleanor looked at Samuel with a determined expression on her face. ‘I’m not going to let this continue.’

‘She can be very stubborn.’

‘So can I.’ She went upstairs to the nursery, picked up her grandson and carried him down to the room where his father lay. At the door she stopped. Jane was sitting like a statue, her face devoid of expression. ‘Jane!’

The figure by the bed showed no sign of having heard her.

‘Jane!’ Eleanor said more loudly and walked across to her. ‘I’ve brought you your son.’

Then Jane looked up, refusal on her face.

But Charles was rosy with sleep and gurgled at her, waving his arms. He bore no resemblance whatsoever to his father. His smile was entirely his own and his hair was exactly like hers.

Slowly, still moving like a sleepwalker, Jane stood up and came across the room.

As Charles crowed with delight and reached out to grab the thin gold chain around her neck, Eleanor thrust him into his mother’s arms and stepped quickly back.

For a moment they were like a
tableau vivant
of the Virgin and Child, the normally lively little boy staying very still as he stared at the stranger. Then he gurgled again and tugged at the chain. As his soft little hand brushed against Jane’s chin, she sobbed and buried her face in his neck, smelling the soapy warm smell of a child, smelling a wholesome future instead of the painful past.

Eleanor guided her sobbing daughter-in-law out of the room into another bedroom, then left her alone with her son.

When she rejoined Samuel downstairs she said quietly, ‘I think Jane has taken to the child. He’s a most engaging little fellow and needs more attention and affection than I can spare him at my age. Give them a few minutes together then we can go and see how they’re getting on.’

‘No, let me go,’ he said gruffly. He found his daughter standing by the window cradling her son in her arms. Her cheeks were streaked with tears, but that dreadful chilly look had vanished from her eyes, thank goodness.

‘How could a man like that father a child as beautiful as this one?’ she asked.

‘Only the Lord knows. Jane - will you come home again? You and your son?’

She smiled through her tears. ‘I’ll come and live near you in Northby, Father, but I think I’ve grown too independent in my ways to live in anyone else’s house.’

Thankfully he went to put his arm round her shoulders. It was more than he’d hoped for, more than he deserved.

As she rested her head against him, she sighed, ‘I’ve missed it all, you know. The moors, the northern people.’

‘And we’ve missed you.’

Charles crowed at them and they both smiled involuntarily, then Samuel led them out to the carriage, taking his daughter and grandson home.