Forever Yours Read online

  He was still holding her arms and she hated herself for the pleading note to her voice when she said, ‘No, no, I told you. I swear it.’ Her breath caught in a sob. She didn’t understand this. He didn’t know her, so why was he behaving like this?

  ‘You swear it? On your grandmother’s life? He hasn’t touched you? He hasn’t done anything he shouldn’t?’

  She shook her head and his eyes moved from her mouth to her hair and then back to her mouth. ‘I can find out if you’re telling me the truth. And I don’t like being lied to.’

  ‘He hasn’t touched me, he hasn’t done anything. No one has.’

  His hands tightened on her arms again but not roughly now. Thickly, he said, ‘I’m the first?’

  Help me, please help me, God. He was going to hurt her, she knew he was going to hurt her. Her lips trembling, she whispered, ‘I have to get home, they’ll be worried.’

  ‘Your mother played me for a fool.’ He straightened away from her but still didn’t let her go. ‘You wouldn’t do that, would you? I can offer you more than any man in the village and it would all be above board, legal and proper, once you’re old enough. You’d want for nothing.’

  Dumbly she stared at him, barely able to take in what he was saying. He was the weighman and to her eyes he was old, as old as the fathers of the girls she’d gone to school with, and even before this night something about him had made her flesh recoil.

  ‘Do you understand what I’m saying?’ His hands dropped to his sides but she knew if she tried to run he would grab her. ‘I want you and I’m prepared to wait but I won’t be messed about, be very sure about that. You’re mine.’

  Again his voice had that funny little quiver in it that made her skin crawl, but instinct told her to say anything he wanted to hear. ‘I – I understand.’ She didn’t dare move a muscle in case it inflamed him again.

  ‘And you’re willing? You’re willing to be my lass?’

  ‘When – when I’m old enough,’ she said faintly, repeating his own words back to him.

  He rubbed his hand hard across his mouth, his eyes unblinking as they searched her face. She knew he was weighing her up, wondering if he could trust her. She didn’t know what he was going to do next but her legs felt so weak she didn’t think she could walk, let alone run. He had to believe her. Something outside of herself guided her tongue: ‘You’d have to come and see my granda though, he’s a stickler for doing things proper.’ She forced a note of pertness into her voice. ‘You’d have to ask him when it’s time, but until then it’s best it’s a secret.’

  He stared at her a moment more, then his jaw relaxed. ‘Young as you are, you’ve got it all worked out, haven’t you? But aye, it’ll be a secret. Our secret. Till you’re old enough.’

  ‘You live in the big cottage at Fulforth Wood, don’t you?’

  ‘You know where I live?’

  She nodded. ‘Everyone knows where you live.’

  The flattery worked. ‘Is that so?’ He seemed to swell a little. ‘And you’d like to live in that fine house, would you? Be mistress of it? It’s even bonnier inside, I promise you.’

  Again she nodded before saying, ‘My grandma, she’ll be worried. I have to go or else she’ll come looking for me.’

  The snow was lying thick on her bare head and as his hand came out to brush it off she cautioned herself to remain perfectly still. When his fingers moved down to her cheek she couldn’t stand it though, stepping back a pace as she pulled the shawl over her hair again. ‘I’m late, I have to go.’

  To her amazement he didn’t protest, merely taking her arm and leading her out of the alley into Front Street once again. She wanted to break free of him and run, but warning herself that would be foolish she steeled herself to walk with him. They passed one woman with two little bairns a minute or so later but Constance kept her head down.

  He didn’t speak until they came to where she had to turn off the main road. Then he stopped, his grip on her arm forcing her to look at him. She expected him to reiterate his warning about other lads, or worse, try to kiss her again, but he surprised her once more by mumbling, ‘I’ll be good to you, I promise. You’ll want for nowt. I’ve got plenty put by and you can live like a lady: fine clothes, anything you want.’

  Now she was so close to home the urge to take to her heels was almost overwhelming. Trying to stop her lips trembling, she stepped away from him and he let her go without protest. ‘I must go.’ She turned, waiting for his hands to grab at her but as she stumbled away they didn’t come. Then she was flying down the street despite the treacherous snow and ice underfoot and she didn’t look back to the tall dark figure watching her go.

  When she burst into the kitchen her face was streaming with tears and she was calling her grandma’s name in a voice which caused Mabel to drop the humpty-backed rabbit pie she’d just taken out of the oven. It was almost five minutes later before Constance could speak clearly enough for Mabel to understand what had happened, and then only after Constance had insisted the back door was locked and bolted.

  As Mabel held her child in her arms – and this was the way she’d always thought of her precious Hannah’s daughter, as her own bairn, different from her other grandchildren, loved as they were – her shock and revulsion had an element of relief running through it. He hadn’t forced her, she hadn’t been taken down. When Constance had arrived home late and in such a state she had thought the very worst.

  Now she pressed Constance down into Art’s armchair after one last hug, saying, ‘I’ll make us a sup tea, hinny, and then I want you to tell me everything again and slowly. Exactly what he said from the minute you saw him – and don’t miss anything, especially that bit about your mam. I remember Vincent McKenzie from when he was a little lad and he followed your mam about like a puppy – she couldn’t turn round but he was there. But this . . .’

  With the second, more detailed telling, Mabel’s fear for her granddaughter increased. Vincent had been a strange little boy and a troubled youth; she remembered the times she’d warned Hannah about him but her lass had just smiled and said he was lonely. Hannah had been kind, too kind maybe, but Mabel knew for a fact that her lass hadn’t led Vincent up the garden path as he’d claimed. And now here he was attacking Constance and frightening her half to death whilst saying he wanted her as his wife once she was old enough. Art would go barmy when he was told – and with Vincent being the weighman . . .

  She mashed another pot of tea after salvaging what she could of the rabbit pie, and all the time her mind was ticking over. Vincent had a housekeeper but the lass kept herself to herself. She flitted in and out of the shops in town like a shadow and didn’t say a word to anyone. There were those in the village who thought the girl was more than his housekeeper, but this was just supposition. Nevertheless, the lass looked scared to death and that wasn’t healthy, and this thing with Constance . . . It was unnatural, depraved, wanting the daughter because she looked like the mother. Dear gussy, Art would go for him, she knew he would, and then there’d be hell to pay. They could lose everything. But the man had to be warned off, there was no doubt about that. But would he take any notice? That was the thing.

  Constance was looking more like herself now although her eyes were red and puffy, but it was when she rolled up the sleeves of her calico dress and said, ‘Look, Gran, what he did,’ and Mabel saw the livid bruises staining the white flesh that the idea came to her. She balked against it at first, painfully conscious of the sacrifice it would demand from her, but the more she fought against it the more she realised it was the only possible answer. It would serve to protect Constance but also guard them against Art losing his job and thereby their home.

  Her mind made up, she wasted no time. ‘Hinny, I want us to have a talk before your granda comes in.’ She sat down at the kitchen table, patting the hardbacked chair beside her. ‘Come here, lass. And stop trembling – you’re safe now.’

  Constance left the armchair by the range and when she was sitting
so close to her grandmother their knees were touching, Mabel said quietly, ‘It’s best your granda doesn’t know about this. He’ll go and see Mr McKenzie and who knows what might happen. He’s a devil, McKenzie. Everyone says so.’

  Constance nodded her agreement. She didn’t need to be told this. Vincent McKenzie was the weighman and that said it all.

  ‘But we can’t have you troubled by him again, and if you stay here he’ll be after you. Now me sister Ivy who lives down in Durham, her eldest lass Florence took herself off further afield twenty-odd years ago and has done right well for herself. She’s cook in a great big house where there’s umpteen servants inside and out and all sorts. I can ask Ivy to write her lass and ask if she knows of anything going. There might be a vacancy somewhere she’s privy to.’

  Constance stared at her grandmother. ‘Leave the village?’

  ‘I don’t see anything else for it, lass. If it’d been anyone but McKenzie, your granda could have given him a good hiding and put the fear of God in him, but McKenzie’s got the ear of the manager and the owners. No, we have to get you away.’

  ‘But what’ll you tell Granda?’

  ‘I’ll bide me time till I’ve heard from our Ivy, and then if her lass can help I’ll say Ivy’s written with news of a good job and you’d be daft to miss it. In the meantime I’ll tell Miss Newton you’re down with a chill and won’t be in for a while. If Ivy can’t help there’ll be other places somewhere wanting a servant, but I’d rather you be placed in a house her lass recommends and where you’ll be treated fairly. It’ll put me mind at rest.’

  She was going to leave Sacriston. She wouldn’t have to endure seeing Matt get wed or Tilly preening herself every time they met. For a moment even Vincent McKenzie was blotted from her mind.

  But there were her grandparents. Ashamed of her selfishness, she said quickly, ‘There must be some other way, Gran.’

  ‘There’s not, me bairn. I wish there was but there’s not.’

  Constance had never seen this much sadness in her grandmother’s eyes. It aroused such a depth of remorse in her that she burst into tears, and her grandma only made it worse when she put her arms round her shoulders, murmuring, ‘You’ll be all right, hinny, never fear. The only thing that matters is getting you away from that man’s clutches, you see that, don’t you? There, there, don’t cry like that. It’ll all work out for the best somehow.’

  Florence Banks, Ivy’s daughter, wrote directly to her aunt twelve days later. One of the scullerymaids in the establishment where she was cook had been sent packing, along with the footman who’d got the girl into trouble, which meant she was short-handed. Her mother had highly recommended Constance – here Mabel had silently blessed her sister who hadn’t set eyes on Constance since she was a babe-in-arms – and for that reason she had obtained an interview for her with the butler, Mr Rowan. Constance was to present herself at Grange Hall on 1 April at three in the afternoon. If she suited she could stay on and begin her duties immediately.

  It was a short letter, but one which caused sheer panic in its recipient. Grange Hall was situated near Harrogate in Yorkshire which could be the other side of the world as far as Mabel was concerned, for she had never ventured further than the outskirts of Sacriston.And the next day was the last one in March. However would Constance make the journey? Should she go with her? What would happen if the butler didn’t give Constance the position, and how would she get home again? And – now the moment had come upon them – what would Art say to all this? What if he refused to let Constance go?

  In the event, just before Art got in from the pit, Mabel had a surprise visitor who settled most of her anxieties in one fell swoop. She and Constance hadn’t been long returned from seeing Miss Newton, or at least Constance had spoken to the teacher and Mabel had waited outside the classroom at her grand-daughter’s request. When the knock had come at the back door Constance had turned as white as a sheet, and Mabel had to admit her stomach had turned over as she’d gone to see who was there.

  ‘Ivy!’ Her startled face had transformed into one of relief as she’d drawn her sister into the house. ‘Well, I never. Come in, lass, come in. Whatever’s brought you here?’

  ‘Our Florence wrote and told me she’d written you about the job at her place and I knew you’d be in a two-an’-eight.’ Ivy smiled at Constance over Mabel’s shoulder as she hugged her sister. Ivy was a good few years younger than Mabel and had scandalised her family by running off with a travelling farrier who’d passed through the village when she was fifteen years old. In spite of dire predictions of shame and ruin, the man had married her and they’d settled in Durham where he’d gradually built up a thriving business. Ivy considered herself far removed from the country bumpkin she’d once been and which she still felt her sister was, but she was a kind soul, and on receiving her daughter’s letter had made post haste to Sacriston to see if she could help.

  Once Ivy had become acquainted with Constance and the three of them were settled at the kitchen table over a pot of tea, she explained the reason for her visit. ‘I can take Constance to Grange Hall and see she’s all right. I’ve been once or twice to see our Florence over the years and stayed the night in her room, so it won’t be a problem.’

  Mabel was staring at her sister in awe.

  ‘I’ve come in our horse and trap,’ Ivy said casually, thoroughly enjoying herself. ‘If we leave tomorrow after a bite Constance can stay at our place overnight and then we’ll make an early start in the morning once it’s light. Now . . .’ She bent closer to them both. ‘What’s this all about then? Why the need to get her out of the village and why isn’t Art in on it?’

  Mabel told her everything, finishing with, ‘I always knew he was sweet on my Hannah but the lass wouldn’t have it. Said they were just friends. But he wanted her all right, and now . . .’ She waved her hand expressively at Constance.

  ‘The dirty devil.’ Ivy was all agog. This was better than the stories she read in The People’s Friend each week. ‘Well, you’ll be safe with our Florence, hinny,’ she said, turning to Constance and patting her arm. ‘Don’t you fret.’

  Constance smiled at her great-aunt, but said nothing. In truth Ivy had overwhelmed her with her fine clothes and air of prosperity. And fancy her having her own horse and trap like the gentry. She bet news of her great-aunt’s arrival had been all round the village before they’d so much as opened the door to her. It was the first time in living memory a horse and trap had been tied up in their back lane, that was for sure. When Miss Newton’s brother and his wife had visited last year in a carriage and pair it had been talked about for weeks.

  The thought of Miss Newton straightened her mouth. She hadn’t told her grandmother what Miss Newton had proposed the night Vincent McKenzie had manhandled her. The news had been lost in the furore of that first evening and when she had thought of it later she’d decided it would do no good to bring it up. It couldn’t happen now, so what was the point? She refused to acknowledge, even to herself, that it was the fear her grandmother might change her mind about her leaving Sacriston if she knew which had kept her silent. And so she had insisted on seeing Miss Newton alone today. It hadn’t been a pleasant meeting. Miss Newton couldn’t understand why she was leaving to work in service – ‘throwing away any chance to better herself’ was the way she’d put it – and she couldn’t explain to the teacher why she had to leave. But Vincent McKenzie apart, she needed to leave the village.

  She had seen Matt once since she’d come down with her ‘severe chill’ and been confined to the house. This had been two days ago. When Mabel had arrived at the Heaths’ for the second Saturday afternoon running without her, Matt had left the others and popped round to see her. Her granda had gone with his pals to watch a football match and so she had been alone in the house when he’d called. She had forgotten to lock the back door once her grandfather had left and when Matt had walked in after a perfunctory tap, she’d gasped with fear before she saw who it was.

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sp; ‘Hey, it’s only me.’ He’d grinned at her, pulling out a chair and sitting down at the kitchen table where she was kneading dough. ‘Who were you expecting?’

  ‘No one. You made me jump, that’s all.’

  ‘Your grandma says you’re still under the weather.’ His brown eyes surveyed her thoughtfully. ‘You certainly look different, but . . .’ His voice trailed away, then he said, ‘I know what it is. Your hair.’

  She continued kneading the dough although she knew her cheeks had turned scarlet. ‘I’ve put it up, that’s all.’ She and her grandma had decided that if Florence turned up trumps and found her a position somewhere, the older she looked, the better. Anyway – as her grandma had said – she’d left school now. So there was no reason to continue to wear her hair down like a bairn. And certainly the thick golden coils at the back of her head had put two or three years on her instantly. She felt different too. She had always been taller than her friends and in the past this had caused her to feel awkward and gangly. Now, with her hair piled up and her long neck exposed, it was as though she had found herself within her own skin. She felt nice, womanly.

  Matt was still looking at her and he wasn’t smiling any more. ‘It suits you. You look . . . older.’

  ‘Thank you.’There was a note in his voice she couldn’t fathom but it made her feel terribly shy. Clearing her throat, she mumbled, ‘I’ll get you a cup of tea but I must finish this first. It’s had one proving already.’

  ‘I’m in no rush.’ He stretched his long legs, taking off his cap and hooking it over the back of his chair before raking a hand through his thick brown hair.

  Constance was aware of his gaze but she concentrated on dividing the dough into her grandma’s greased loaf tins. Placing them on the fender with a piece of clean muslin over each tin, she scraped her hands free of the dough, saying, ‘They can warm there,’ through the silence which had fallen.