The Penny Heart
Authors: Martine Bailey
First published in Great Britain in 2015 by Hodder & Stoughton
An Hachette UK company
Copyright © Martine Bailey 2015
The right of Martine Bailey to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
ISBN 978 1 444 76987 6
Hodder & Stoughton Ltd
Carmelite House
50 Victoria Embankment
London EC4Y 0DZ
To Chris, Lucy and Leo,
Who made our Antipodean adventure a reality.
Contents
1
Manchester, England
Winter 1787
~ Sassafras Tea ~
Take a large spoonful of sassafras root ground to a powder and put into a pint of boiling water, stirring until it is like a fine jelly; then put wine and sugar to it and lemon, if it will agree. A most refreshing drink sold liberally about the streets and said to lift the spirits and ease the mind of suspicion, all for a halfpenny piece.
Mother Eve’s Secrets
Dusk shrouded Manchester’s damp streets, disguising familiar landmarks and giving a lurid cast to buildings lit by oil lamp and candle. Michael Croxon dragged his brother past half-built skeletons of factories and mills, the lofty temples to the new religion of commerce. He marvelled at serried rows of golden windows shining against the mauve sky, announcing the new machines’ inexhaustible industry. The rhythmic hum and clatter of the looms filled the air like music, a striding overture to a prosperous future. He had learned so much of the modern world on this visit; how damp air kept the cotton from breaking, where the wondrous looms might be purchased, and for what small cost the workers could be housed – and how easily replaced should they not prove satisfactory. At last he had found the grand venture that would prove his worth – and make him prodigiously rich, besides. In his excitement, his boot slipped on the frosty stones and he clutched at Peter to maintain his balance. An oil-black chasm opened up before him; the canal stank of drowned vegetation and blocked privies. He was glad of Peter’s arm, but felt a flash of resentment at his gentle, ‘Take it steady.’
They left the clamour of the mills and came to older streets. He recognised the gables of the ancient college at Chetham’s, and took a side street, passing floridly tiled public houses that exuded bursts of hubbub and sudden wafts of beer and fried fish. At one corner a huddle of men smoked, one of their number whistling a slow Irish melody that never faltered as the tunesmith followed them with his eyes. The Manchester mills were luring in multitudes of the poor, as a poultice draws in filth: with every visit he saw greater degradation and lawlessness. The coming of night increased his anxiety. The coach to Greaves would wait for no one.
Then there it was at last, the pillared frontage of the Cross Keys inn. Passing through the gate, he found the inn yard crowded with a noisy rabble. Hawkers thrust unwanted items in their faces: a tray of knives, stinking fish. They shoved their way towards a group of fellow travellers, all of them smothered in cloaks and greatcoats, warily keeping watch over their boxes and baggage. A space was instantly made for the two gentlemen; both of them so fair and agreeably modish that a few onlookers, most especially women, cast covert glances towards them.
‘Look. For all your harrying, we still have fifteen whole minutes.’ Peter pointed towards the inn clock, his boyish voice reproachful. But if they were on time, it was only because he had spent all day chivvying Peter; cutting short his supper, insisting he broke off his goodbyes to that alderman’s daughter, conscious all the time of the hands on his gold pocket watch, marching steadily forward to the moment at which he would announce his plans to his father. Though at twenty-five he was only two years older than Peter, the contrast between his own ambitions and his brother’s indolence would be triumphant. Next, he must raise capital, find suitable land, and machines. He felt himself unstoppable, on the road to a glorious future.
The bill of charges for their journey confronted them, pasted on the wall. He turned to Peter. ‘Did you keep back the right change for the journey? Look. Nine shillings and sixpence from Manchester to Greaves.’
Peter half-heartedly rummaged in his pockets. ‘Damn it. My last few bob went to the barber. The coachman must change my pound note.’
‘Will you never learn? I told you the coachman may choose not to change such a large sum. And if the coach is full and another passenger offers the correct fare, then what will you do? What shall I tell Father when I arrive home without you, all because of your negligence?’
Peter attempted a face of contrition, but Michael fancied his lips twitched in amusement. ‘I am sorry. No, truly I am. But it cannot be helped. Shall I see if the landlord has change?’ He looked vaguely about; but the press of people at the inn’s entrance did not bode well.
‘Well, I cannot lend it you.’
Peter’s flippancy brought out the worst side of Michael’s character; the bombastic older brother who must always be right.
At that moment a woman standing by them pulled at his sleeve – afterwards, he wondered that he hadn’t noticed her at his elbow. She stepped forward into the lamplight.
‘Sir, perhaps I can help you. I’ve a right lot of coin I can exchange for you.’ Her voice was as clear as a bell, though marred by the accent of Manchester’s lower orders.
Peter glanced at him triumphantly. ‘You see. Providence provides.’ He looked at the girl, a fine strong-looking piece, with a wooden tray hanging from her neck on which a jug and wooden cups were laid out. She looked handsome in a shabby, housemaid’s sort of way. Wide feline eyes smiled at him from a pleasing heart-shaped face.
‘It is a whole pound he needs change for,’ he said gruffly.
‘It’s just as well I’ve had a good day, sirs.’ She tested the fat leather bag in her hand. ‘Now if you was to take this heavy coin it would be doing me a favour. Save me hauling it all the way to my mother’s at Strangeways.’
She smiled modestly, clearly aware that he was the senior of the two brothers. ‘Go on, help yourself to a cup, won’t you? No, not a penny. I’ll have less to carry.’ She offered each of them the remains of her fare, a sweet and pungent tea. As she passed him the cup, her fingertips brushed his own for a pulsating moment. Drinking the tea, he wondered why he had never discovered this delight before; it was refreshing in the manner of spirits, setting off little thrills in his veins. After replacing the tea things with the money bag on her tray, she said gravely, ‘This is a whole twenty shilling in coin. I should rather one of you counted it with me.’
Peter rushed forwards, of course, forever springing to help a lady. Though this was no lady, in spite of her lace cap trimmed with green ribbon. He hoped his brother could distinguish that much, for he was already murmuring, ‘A pleasure. And most kind of you, dear girl.’
She glanced up at Peter’s fawning expression with that sweet smile. ‘Why, thank ’ee, sir.’ Then she lowered her eyes as if she were quite unused to the civility of gentlemen. Michael pictured her in the very different exchanges of the lower orders: scenes of cursing, scolding, degradation. She had a remarkably well formed body, and her face was as fair as that of a duchess. As for her eyes, they were bright and probing when they met his, seeming to seek entry to some hidden chamber within himself. Then there it was in her bold stare; a stinging jolt; an invisible connection. Discomfited, he rapidly turned away.