‘I love you,’ she said softly. ‘I would go to the ends of the earth for you, Lord Goodfellow. To bear your child would be a joy and a privilege.’
He ran a hand through his thick brown hair. ‘Think about it,’ he begged.
She shook her head, the movement slowed by pillows. ‘I have nothing to think about. It’s yourself who must go away and consider the problem.’
She was so clever, so astute, obviously well-read, too. All the instincts of womankind were honed to painful perfection within this one female. Maureen knew what she wanted, had the strength and control to deny herself, the honesty not to pretend agreement. Her easiest path would have been to accept the proposal and to create an ‘accidental’ pregnancy. ‘I’m sorry,’ he muttered. ‘It’s impossible. I am the product of a bad lot. I gave no thought to my brother, preferred to rescue a mere acquaintance—’
‘A casualty,’ she said. ‘Just as I was a casualty a few days ago. Would you have chosen to save the man with the fuel and the matches? No. You would have collected me first and—’
‘I didn’t go back for him. Once Lady Sarah was revived, I stayed with her.’
‘You can’t swim.’
‘I swam to her.’
Maureen shrugged. ‘Stalemate.’
‘I should never have taught you the rudiments of chess.’
She tried a smile, failed. ‘Has it not occurred to you that your mother has played a part in your existence? Why must you look to the Goodfellows for your character? Perhaps there is more of your mother in you. We noticed this with horses and cows at home. Some were like their sire, others favoured the dam.’
‘Maureen—’
‘Go home. Go and rescue poor Rosie from the clutches of Ollie’s confusion.’
‘What will you do?’ he asked, his tone crippled by disappointment.
‘Back to Ireland, I suppose.’
He rose, picked up his hat. ‘Get well,’ he whispered.
‘I shall.’
Mrs Mason cried for so long after her visitor’s exit that the bandages were left alone for a while. Sister gave her a mild sedative, brought a cup of tea with a straw. ‘They’re not worth it,’ announced the large, starched female.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Men. All the same, not one to mend another.’
Maureen sipped the tepid tea. ‘Some are different,’ she said finally. ‘And he is one of them.’
Tom Goodfellow stood in the grounds of the hospital for half an hour. He wanted to run back in, to tell the staff to bugger off with their rules about visiting hours. He wanted to pluck Maureen Mason from her bed and run away to a far country.
But he couldn’t. So many people depended on him. There were the Crumpsalls and the Blunts, tenant farmers, servants at Goodfellow Hall. So he walked away from Maureen and towards other responsibilities. Yet his heart remained beside a hospital bed where an Irish widow keened for the rest of the day.
Cora Miles sank into a kitchen chair. ‘Why are you telling me this, madam?’ It was as if Prudence Worthington needed to find a shoulder to lean on and a listening ear. Mrs Miles was not quite ready for this. She thought a lot of the mistress, had wondered for years how the good woman had tolerated that brute of a husband. But now, the servant was being dragged into waters whose depths were murky and dangerous.
‘Because there is no-one else.’ Visitors were a rarity. The sad and gloomy house made no caller welcome. ‘I have to go out. I have to look at that shop and talk to Mr Heilberg.’
Mrs Miles, who knew very well that the name ‘Heilberg’ was a red rag to a certain bully in this house, swallowed audibly. ‘You’ve not been out for a while, madam.’ She wanted to help the mistress, had decided weeks ago to do all she could for this poor woman, yet the fear of Worthington had renewed itself since . . . since that fire in Heilberg’s on Wigan Road.
Prudence inclined her head. ‘Gert offered to take me. I like Gert, but she is married to that dreadful little man. I know what I heard, Mrs Miles. They were planning something. I think I know now what that something was.’
‘You’ve no proof.’
‘Then I shall make an effort to get it and you will help me . . . Cora.’
The housekeeper twisted a dish towel in her hands. ‘I’m scared of him.’
‘So am I.’
‘But . . .’ But Cora could not think of one word to say.
‘I’ll look after you,’ said Prudence.
Could Mrs Worthington look after herself? the servant wondered. ‘He’ll stop at nowt, missus,’ she muttered. ‘We both know that. Mr Heilberg knows it, the mill folk know it, the pawnshops’ customers, the—’
‘He must be stopped.’ Prudence’s voice was soft, ordinary. ‘Only I can stop him. I and a woman called Crumpsall. Gert mentioned her some days ago.’
‘Ivy Crumpsall?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘She’s gone, done a bunk. Mind, she’s not flitted, as far as I’ve heard. Gone for a rest, like. She’s took Mr Worthington on lately, yelled at him in the mill yard about her son’s funeral. Ivy’s feared of no man.’
Ivy would suit Prudence perfectly, then. The lady of the house placed herself in a chair next to her servant. ‘Cora, you and I will be leaving here very soon. Of course, I shall have to explain to Victor first. He is my son and he deserves some respect. But I cannot tolerate life here for much longer. You will come with me. I have money, Cora. We shall buy a small house and I shall leave it to you in my will. There are some very pretty places on Crompton Way, not too cramped, pleasant gardens and three bedrooms. But first, I must . . . first, there are things to do.’
Cora Miles almost shook with fear. There was a new set to Prudence’s jaw, and a look in her eyes that seemed to shout at anyone who looked closely, ‘I’ve had enough and I am about to ruin him.’ There were depths to this pleasant, quiet and frightened woman that had never before been plumbed. An old saying popped its head into Cora’s thoughts, something about a worm turning. A worm turning was one thing, but causing earthquakes was another matter altogether. ‘Mrs Worthington, I don’t want no trouble.’
Prudence studied her nails for a moment. ‘I must send to the chemist for some more of that lanolin cream,’ she said absently before focusing her attention on the nerve-racked housekeeper. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, her tone almost cheerful. ‘Get my coat, Cora. We shall go out for a walk.’
‘But—’
‘I need to start right away.’ She kept her tone even, worked to disguise the dread she experienced when contemplating the outside world. There had been times when even the garden had been out of bounds. It was as if the world were too big, too full of air and space. Everything would rush into her, filling her lungs, her ears, her mind. No, no, she intended to go carefully, slowly. ‘Help me, Cora.’
The woman’s heart was awash with pity for her employer. ‘Course I will. You know I’ll always help you.’
Ten minutes later, Prudence stepped through the front doorway of Worthington House, her breath held against sudden bursts of wind. But the day was still and quiet, so she took a few infant steps down the drive, pointed out the hollyhocks, said how well they were doing.
‘Lupins, too,’ added Cora Miles. ‘And your roses are better this year. Have you never thought of a climber round the door? Honeysuckle’s nice.’
‘I’ll remember that.’ The words forced themselves past a barrier formed by gritted teeth. Once she could get away from here, once she was settled in another place, she would buy a sweet-smelling climber and train it round the front door. Round her own front door.
They reached the gate. ‘Shall we stop a minute?’ asked Cora.
Prudence inhaled through her nose, allowed the air to escape slowly from her mouth. ‘Cora, we open this gate as wide as it will go. Then we turn right and walk.’
The housekeeper followed orders, followed her mistress along Wigan Road. ‘Tell me when you’ve had enough,’ she said.
‘I’m fine,’ snapped Prudence. ‘Just keep up with me.’ A fire had lit itself in the proximity of her chest, a terrifying heat whose base was anger and hatred. There was no space for terror. While the fuel lasted, she would use it and carry on to . . . To where? She slowed her pace while her brain homed in on the ‘where’. She was going to hell; she was heading for Paradise.
Cora Miles was of the opinion that a man starved of food and drink should not overindulge when sustenance finally appeared. Similarly, a woman who had stayed inside a house for months on end should not set out to walk the Great Wall of China on her first outing. But with at least two miles under her belt, Prudence showed no intention of giving up the struggle. ‘Happen we should go back now,’ Cora said several times. Her own legs were aching, so the pain in Mrs Worthington’s muscles was bound to be acute.
But Prudence ploughed ahead until she stood outside the charred remains of Joseph Heilberg’s Wigan Road shop. She raked her eyes over the shell, breathed in fumes produced by heat and damp. Pools created by firemen had settled among scattered relics that used to be furniture, clothing, books and jewellery. ‘My God,’ she mumbled softly. ‘Something has to be done.’
‘Police won’t want to know, madam.’
Prudence nodded just once. ‘Some crimes, Cora, are too bad to require evidence. My husband – the man I married – will do all in his power to ruin Joseph Heilberg. He wants that Recreation Ground, you see, wants to extend his little paradise. Mr Heilberg has other shops. His son lives above one, and Mr and Mrs Heilberg have rooms above the Derby Road shop. If all the businesses are destroyed, then Andrew may get his hands on Mr Heilberg’s land.’
‘Murder?’ breathed Cora Miles.
‘Exactly that. Come along. We shall walk up Spencer Street to the shop on Derby Road. I cannot sit back and watch while people are killed and maimed. Already, one Irishwoman is in hospital with burns to her hands and hair – it was all over the newspapers. Fortunately, her injuries are minor, but I could not live with myself if I allowed that – and worse – to happen again.’
Grimly, Cora Miles struggled to keep up with the newborn Mrs Worthington. As if her heels were winged, Prudence was skipping along the flags while Cora lagged behind wondering when the agony in her feet was going to stop. The mistress seemed to be on a suicide mission, because nobody in this town had ever ‘bested’ Andrew Worthington.
‘Come along,’ chided Prudence. ‘Nearly there.’ Her lip twisted again when she thought about the naming of this street. Andrew’s father had been a hard man, but the whimsical side of his nature had dictated that the joining of the Worthington and Spencer dynasties should be marked for prosperity. So the parallel streets had been joined by a short lane called Paradise. Prudence carried on, pushed the unsavoury reminiscences from her mind. At least the Paradise Lane houses belonged to someone else. By the time Andrew had shifted himself to make a bid, the dwellings had been sold to an immigrant from Austria.
They reached the top of Spencer Street and turned left into Derby Road. Prudence turned to her housekeeper. ‘Now, you may go home if you wish. Go to Worthington House or return to your own. There is no need for you to be a witness. As for myself – well – I’ve come a long way, so I can surely get home on a tram.’
Cora stared straight ahead. She was the wrong side of sixty and she was tired. What had she to lose at this point? There would be no place for her with Mr Worthington once the mistress had left for good. And if she left Mrs W here, would the woman be able to get herself back up to the top of Wigan Road? ‘I’ll stop with you,’ she announced. There was no alternative. Someone needed to supervise these strange goings-on.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Positive. And it’s not just so’s you’ll leave me a house on Crompton Way, ’cos I’ll be dead long before you. Any road, my kin will see to me. I’m staying because . . . well . . . you need somebody. I mean, Master Victor’s too busy to help you with all this, and he can’t be expected to pick and choose between his parents.’ She closed her lips tight against the suspicion that Victor was his dad all over again. Prudence was blinded by motherhood and, anyway, the idea that Victor Worthington might turn out to be another nasty piece of work was best left undiscussed for now.
‘As long as you are sure.’
Cora nodded, followed Prudence into Heilberg’s.
Joseph looked up from a ledger, closed his sagging jaw with a snap. The shock he felt at seeing this reclusive woman must not show. ‘Mrs Worthington?’ he said. ‘Good day to you.’
Prudence nodded curtly. ‘Will you close the shop, please?’
Joseph studied the face of the unexpected visitor. ‘Ruth will come down and—’
‘No. I need both of you.’
The pawnbroker knew that this was not going to be a simple matter of pledging an item for money. With his heart pounding in his ears, he walked round the counter, locked the door, turned the sign so that it displayed
closed
. ‘Follow me,’ he said.
Prudence went through the door marked
private
, motioned Cora to follow. Upstairs, they found Ruth Heilberg busy with some needlework. ‘Very pretty,’ said Prudence. ‘Will it be a cushion?’
Ruth, silenced by shock, nodded.
Everyone sat down after Joseph’s invitation. The married couple stayed side by side on a sofa beneath the window. Cora placed herself at the dining table, her experienced eye recognizing good polish and plenty of elbow grease in the shine.
‘Shall I make tea?’ asked Ruth, her gaze fastened to the elegant woman who occupied an armchair.
‘Later,’ replied Prudence. ‘I shall come straight to the point. Mr Heilberg, I have been to see your shop on Wigan Road.’
The man nodded. ‘Very sad. But I have insurance and my friend, Mrs Mason, is making a good recovery. For this reason, Ruth and I are counting blessings.’
‘Your premiums will increase,’ said Prudence. ‘And if anything of that nature were to happen again, you would be entered in the register of bad risks.’ She inclined her head for a moment, seemed to be studying her hands. ‘You must be careful.’
Joseph, wondering whether this might be some form of blackmail, bridled. But no, this good woman would not hurt him – surely? ‘A Jew who comes out of Austria does not need to be reminded about taking care, Mrs Worthington,’ he replied softly. ‘Ruth and I lost many among our families, so we are already warned.’