House of Angels (13 page)

‘I know who he bloody is! He’s the man who’s been squeezing the life out of his tenants on Fellside.’

But Jack Flint did ease his grip fractionally, long enough for Josiah to drag himself to his feet, push his attacker away and fling a punch or two of his own,
landing squarely on the young man’s hard belly. They made little impact, being more like hitting a stone wall. Sweat was pouring down his face and Josiah could feel his energy fast slipping away, his chest tightening. He was not the man he used to be. He preferred more subtle ways of control these days, but he’d be damned if he’d let some flea-bitten youth get the better of him.

The final punch came out of nowhere. Livia was aware of a great roar of fury then the young assailant charged the older man. Fist met jowly chin with a crack and Josiah went down like a tree felled.

‘My God, you’ve killed him.’

Livia came round to find herself lying in a narrow bed covered with a plaid blanket. A large woman with a mop of white hair, dark eyes, and precious few teeth was seated by her side, smiling kindly down at her. A small child was asleep on her ample lap.

‘By heck, it’s good to see you back in the land of the living.’ The woman half turned and called to someone behind her. ‘She’s come round, lad, tha can stop fretting.’

‘Where am I?’

‘You’re safe, lass. Whoever did this won’t think to come looking for you here. You’re with friends now. Do you fancy a bit of broth, love, to warm yer?’

Livia struggled to sit up and the woman handed the sleeping child to a girl of about fourteen or fifteen so that she could assist Livia, plumping up a flock pillow behind her head. The mattress was nothing more than a
straw-filled
sack, but it was the room she found herself in that appalled Livia the most.

It was small and bare, and other than the bed she occupied, the woman’s chair and the odd wooden crate, which obviously served as both table or stool according to need, the only other item of furniture was a large handloom, operated by a boy, which seemed to fill half the available space. In one corner stood what must be a slop pail, as for all it was covered with a wooden lid the stink coming from it was nauseating. No doubt it saved them from many trips down the endless flights of stairs to the privy out the back, the state of which she didn’t dare to even consider. Here and there were heaps of sacks, some filled with straw, which must serve as beds, and a strip of pegged rug that someone had troubled to make, perhaps to give the room a brighter, more homely feel. It hadn’t worked.

While going about her charity work, Livia had frequently visited the homes of those less fortunate than herself, but she had never seen anything as bad as this. This was the most miserable room she had ever seen in her entire life. She could hear scratching behind the wainscot and guessed the whole place was verminous. There might even be bugs in the very bed in which she was lying. Yet try as she might, she could not move a muscle. She felt disorientated, giddy with pain.

And all around her were countless pairs of eyes, which Livia viewed through a mist of floating lint, which seemed to fill the air. Her scrambled brain eventually identified these as belonging to children, clearly curious to meet their guest. ‘Where am I?’ she asked again. ‘How did I get here? Who brought me?’

‘Our Jack carried you, lass.’

Livia looked shocked. ‘Carried me?’

‘Claimed you was light as a feather, but then he allus was a bit of a show-off where ladies are concerned.’ The woman, who introduced herself as Jessie, chuckled; a deep joyous sound that rumbled up from the heart of her, and one that brought a smile even to Livia’s mouth, sore as it was. ‘He certainly couldn’t leave you where you were, happen to be knocked about again. No, don’t explain, love. None of our business how you come by them knocks, but I’ve cleaned yer cuts and bruises, and tended them with herbs, now we must leave it to time and the Good Lord to help them heal. So, come on, sup up, lass. A drop of broth will help set you on your feet.’

Livia’s mouth felt as if it were twice its normal size and she tentatively ran her tongue over her teeth to check none were missing. Father had certainly socked her hard enough to loosen a few, but fortunately all seemed to be well. The last thing Livia wanted right at that moment was to eat but the woman was so kind that Livia felt it would be churlish to refuse. And after a sip or two of the broth, which was filled with vegetables and absolutely delicious, Livia discovered to her surprise that she was hungry after all. When the bowl was empty Jessie took it away, urging her to get some rest.

‘Afore you nods off again though, our Jack would like a word, if you feel up to it.’

Livia was vaguely aware of a man stepping out of the gloom. She could hardly see him in the poor light from
a piteously small window but the familiar husky male voice brought her head up sharply, too sharp, and she winced against the pain.

‘Whoa, no sudden movements. I reckon you’ll need to take things easy for a day or two.’

Livia cleared her throat. ‘How dare you attack my father?’

‘I believed I was defending you.’

She fell silent, deeply ashamed that this man should witness her humiliation, almost wishing he’d walked on instead of so arrogantly taking control. And why had he brought her here, to this room, for goodness sake? Livia struggled to find the right words to explain her predicament. ‘It was an unfortunate incident, a family squabble, nothing more. I could have managed perfectly well on my own, I do assure you.’

‘I doubt it, and there’s really no need to thank me,’ he dryly remarked, since she’d made no attempt to do any such thing.

‘Wouldn’t it have been far more sensible not to resort to—’

‘Fisticuffs? I didn’t see any alternative. You’d have been mincemeat by the time any other help came.’

Livia shot him a furious glare, wishing she didn’t feel duty bound to defend her father, yet it was a habit she’d followed all her life. ‘And why did you bring me here to…to this place…wherever it is?’

She was aware this sounded ungrateful, even curt, but Livia was privately appalled at finding herself in this predicament, and shuddered as a rat ran over the feet of
a sleeping child where he lay curled up on a sack.

Jack took his time answering, then quietly leant forward in the chair, elbows on knees. ‘I saw what he did to you, your father, Josiah Angel. I saw him throw you out the door then start to beat the sh…the living daylights out of you. The marks of his fist are still plain to see on your face. You don’t really imagine I could stand by and do nothing?’

Livia was humbled into silence, her cheeks colouring with embarrassment. ‘I’m sorry, that was ungracious of me. My father, he…well, he isn’t an easy man. He can be impulsive and quick to anger at times. I’m sure he’ll regret it tomorrow, he generally does.’

‘Until the next time?’

She didn’t answer this, since it was of course unanswerable.

‘What did you do to offend him?’

‘I refused to do as he asked.’

‘I see.’ Jack saw rather more than she appreciated. In fact, he thought he might know a good deal more about dear papa than this girl did herself. He returned to her earlier comment. ‘He’s quick to anger, you say. So if a young girl were to come to his store seeking work, perhaps claiming she was his
illegitimate
daughter – what do you reckon he would do about that? Because so far as I can tell,’ Jack blithely continued, ‘when my friend Mercy did exactly that, she vanished off the face of the earth.’

Livia listened in shocked silence as Jack explained, very succinctly, about Mercy being the child of Josiah’s
mistress. Her first instinct was to shout a denial, but the sincerity and pity on his face held her mute.

It was difficult to take in all that he was telling her. Livia knew her father to be a tyrant and a bully, the kind of man who liked to control his women, yet not for a moment had she guessed that he’d actually fathered a love child. But why would he not? He was a cruel, unfeeling man who cared nothing about heaping misery on his own family, in beating them into submission in order to make them do his bidding. His rule was law. Livia thought of her poor mother, and her heart bled. What pain this mistress must have brought her. He’d bullied and hurt her fragile mother, reduced her to an unhappy invalid, and now she could see why.

In that moment, Livia marvelled that winning his approval and approbation had ever mattered to her. She felt nothing but hatred for him now, even if he was her own father. How could she not, after what she had just learnt?

And who was this girl, this child who was, she supposed, her half-sister? More importantly,
where
was she?

‘I know my parents’ m-marriage was not a good one,’ she stammered, still in shock. ‘More one of convenience than love, I believe. But I wasn’t aware that Father had actually betrayed her in such a disgraceful manner. He’s a bully, yes, but still I thought him a man of honour.’

Jack gave a cynical snort. ‘Why would you think such a thing?’

Livia looked him steadily in the eye. ‘Because I am his
daughter and despite everything he has done, I love him. At least, I suppose I do. I’ve spent my entire life wanting him to love me, to be proud of me, as I am proud of him. Or was, until now.’ Again she paused, thoughts and emotions she’d always taken for granted growing confused and muddled. ‘He came up from nothing to be one of the wealthiest businessmen in Kendal, in all of Westmorland, why would I not be proud?’

Jack and Jessie exchanged a speaking glance, but made no comment to this. Jack continued with his tale. ‘It’s possible, and I’m not saying this is the case as I have no proof, but it’s possible that he’s had more than one mistress over the years. I’ve heard of at least two more.’ Was this the moment to tell her that some didn’t even justify that nefarious title, being nothing more than ladies of the night, as they were more politely named? Perhaps not.

Livia put her face in her hands, as if to shut out the pain of this new knowledge, and Jack quietly told her the entire story. All about how Josiah had abandoned Florrie to her own devices when her child, Mercy, was still only an infant. How the pair might both have starved had his own mother not taken them in and taught the poor girl the age-old skills of weaving and knitting.

‘Evidently Florrie Simpson had become an embarrassment to him, and, as Josiah Angel rose in stature in the town, I dare say he decided to protect his own reputation, rather than hers. When Mercy’s mam died of consumption back in the spring, she left the girl a letter of introduction in the hope Josiah might still
hold some regard for her. She fondly imagined that his cold heart might soften sufficiently to grant her precious daughter a job at Angel’s Department Store and salvage what looked like a bleak future.’

Livia had become so engrossed by the tale she’d quite forgotten her own ills, and had pushed herself up into a sitting position to hear all the better. ‘So what happened? Did she get the job?’

Jack took a breath. ‘I thought you might be able to tell me that, since you’re his daughter. I wondered if he might have mentioned her visit.’

Livia shook her head, a frown creasing her brow.

Jack went on, his tone caustic, his expression dark with anger. ‘That’s what I was coming to ask him today, as I did once before if you remember, at your sister’s wedding.’

Livia gasped. ‘You never mentioned any of this then.’

‘It didn’t seem an appropriate moment, as I believe you yourself pointed out. Nor has your father agreed to see me since, despite my calling on numerous occasions to request an interview.’

Jessie intervened at this point. ‘Aye, and if the lass had been given a job, and the accommodation to go with it, she would have come to see us to tell us her good fortune. She has no one, d’you see, but us? Me and my kids worship the lass, and we’re everything to her. Them shop assistants surely gets a day off now and then, in this fancy store your father owns?’

‘Of course, every Thursday, and Sundays too, of course.’

‘So why hasn’t she come to see us, her family, or as good as? Where is she, our little Mercy? We’ve seen neither hide nor hair of her since that day.’

Livia thought this was a fair question, but one she hadn’t the first idea how to answer.

George, or Georgina as he preferred to be called, was given six cuts of the birch for obscene behaviour. This didn’t greatly trouble him (or her) and he endured his punishment with stoic goodwill, although it upset Mercy greatly.

She did her best to save him by explaining to the woman in charge that the patients, many of them merely boys, had acted out of simple curiosity, or else it was a joke that had got out of hand. Mercy assured her that she hadn’t felt in the least bit threatened, which wasn’t strictly true but she really couldn’t see how punishing them would help. It had been harmless fun in their eyes.

The woman did not agree, and made it very plain that she was letting Georgina off lightly.

‘I could have given him a dozen, not six lashes, or set him stone-breaking for a week. I will not have such lewd behaviour on my ward. He deserved every stroke.’

The birch resembled brooms used for sweeping up leaves, the twigs bound together to form a long stick or rod. There were differing weights, Mercy discovered, for different ages. The older the boy suffering the punishment, the bigger the rod. Mercy was appalled by the very idea of such a vicious punishment for such a slight offence, but apparently the birch could be given for something as
simple as not wearing bootlaces, or talking to a girl.

‘And for it to be really painful,’ her friend Prue explained, ‘it might be soaked in water first. It’s all carried out in the privacy of the office so no one can be sure that the set number of strokes, usually six, are adhered to, and the poor victim is not in any position to argue.’

‘But that’s dreadful!’ Mercy was horrified. Where had she come to, and how on earth was she ever to get out of this place?

But worse was to come.

Her own punishment was to stand outside in the yard, naked from the waist up, with the words ‘
I like men to do shameful things to me
’, painted in red chalk across her breasts. Mercy had never known such shameful humiliation in all her life. It was a relief when the rain started and the chalk letters began to run into each other, forming rivers of red streaked across her bare breasts, although the change in weather did nothing to protect her nakedness. She still wasn’t allowed to move, or cover herself, until the end of the morning. Six solid hours of utter shame and degradation.

Mercy was mortified at having to stand exposed in the yard with half the inmates gawping and giggling at her, making lewd remarks as if she were stone deaf and couldn’t hear what they said.

How had she come to this? Poor as they were, she and Mam had been perfectly content on Fellside with their bit of weaving and knitting, and their good friends close
by. Mercy’s world had been turned upside down the day her beloved mother had died, made worse when she’d called on her so-called father for help.