Virginia Henley (15 page)

“It’s only a wax doll,” she whispered.

After she washed the blood-stained linen and cleaned up, the kids were home from school for the day.

“You’re staying at Big Florrie’s tonight,” Kitty told them, so they trooped across the street.

“Kitty, will you go over and give Big Florrie some help? Jack will move me upstairs when he comes in from work.”

Kitty not only put Ada’s kids to bed, but also looked after Big Florrie’s brood. When it began to go dark Kitty said, “I’d better go back now. It’s getting late and Jack will be home.”

She walked slowly back across the street. Jack Blakely met her at the door and handed her a parcel done up with newspaper and string.

“Take this to old Tommy Ferguson, the night watchman at the mill down the street. For two shillings he’ll pop this in the furnace. Tell him it’s a dead dog.” Kitty took the package and started off down the street. She saw the string and felt the newspaper, but her thoughts would not penetrate the wrapping. She turned her mind instead to Christmas, which was only a week away. Old Tommy was just inside the mill-yard. She looked up at him, held out the bundle in one hand
and the money in the other, but no words would come. Old Tommy relieved her of her burdens. “Another dead dog, eh?” he said with a broad wink and ambled off inside.

The week passed quickly and great excitement filled the children’s hearts on December 25. Kitty and Doris washed eight grubby hands and four little faces. Kitty ran a dinner fork through the girls’ hair and they were off to the Queen’s Street Mission for the charity Christmas dinner. Each child was given a meat pie, a toasted raisin cake and a mug of tea. Then Mr. Poppawell, the revered benefactor, came in to hand out the presents.

“Did everyone get a meat pie?” he asked, beaming.

“Yes, Mr. Poppawell,” they answered in unison.

“Did everyone pull a Christmas cracker?”

“Yes, Mr. Poppawell.”

“Did everyone fill a brown paper bag under the table to take home?”

“Yes, Mr. Poppawell,” they chorused innocently.

“Well, you can all empty them out, that’s not what you’re here for!”

All the children lined up and Mr. Poppawell and his helpers started to hand out the presents.

“Do you see that pretty girl over there?” he asked his assistant and indicated Kitty. “She’s spent all morning looking after five of them. Save that big box for her. She looks like a good girl, and I bet she never gets much.” Kitty was handed the large box. With shining eyes she lifted the lid and looked into the face of a wax doll. Her throat constricted, and a bluish tinge appeared around her mouth. She shook her head woodenly and tried to hand it back, but they pressed it upon her with fond insistence.

After she had taken the kids home, she walked three miles until she came to a field. She scratched out a shallow grave with a stone and buried the baby in its cardboard coffin.

There were no flowers to gather, so she broke off two low branches and placed them in the form of a cross on top of the little mound.

By spring Kitty drooped and yearned incessantly for a bit of green Ireland. The long, hard winter had made her frail. The roses were gone from her cheeks, leaving a ghostly pale shadow of herself behind. Her grandad was worried. “Terry, on Sunday I want you to take your sister up on the moors. Get you both out in the fresh air and sunshine to blow the cobwebs off you.”

So they took some bread and cheese and a bottle of water and went up on Belmont Moors.

“What do you want to do?” asked Terry, eyeing a pretty stretch of water known as the Blue Lagoon.

“I want to run along the top of the stone walls,” said Kitty eagerly.

“Well, that’s pretty daft. Dangerous, too!” said Terry, laughing.

“I know, but these stone walls remind me of Ireland. If it gives me pleasure, why should I not do it?”

He lifted her atop a stone wall and she ran like the wind, never missing a step where the stones had tumbled and left treacherous gaps. She came to a hawthorn tree in blossom and stood inhaling the heady fragrance as if she never would have enough. She looked down from the tree and was surprised to see a young couple lying in the tall grass. When she realized they were making love with passionate abandon, she ran back to Terry as fast as she could.

“We’d better go back that way. There’s a couple in the grass up there.”

“Oh, what were they doing?” Terry asked.

“What do you think they were doing?” she asked flatly.

“Oh, that?”

“It’s disgusting! She actually looked like she was enjoying it, too.”

“Well, you know. Kitty, there’s not much privacy in these little houses. What is a young couple to do when they’re in love and have nowhere to go?”

Her eyes slid sideways to him. “Have you ever forced a girl to do that?”

“Most of ’em don’t need forcing. There’s a lot of girls like it, you know. In fact, they say there’s something wrong with the ones who don’t.”

This was a novel idea to Kitty, and she turned it over and over in her mind. Perhaps the girl had been doing it for money, but she quickly rejected that idea. When a man offered a woman money he wanted it then and there; only lovers would have taken the time to find a beautiful setting for their mating.

As summer wore on, Kitty was given some more machines to mind in the spinning room. At first she thought she would never be able to keep up with the voracious machines, but she was bright and quick, and soon it seemed she’d been doing it for a lifetime.

Kitty’s life was not pleasant, but she was determinedly cheerful, looking forward to her Sundays as a chance to rest and play, doggedly getting through the rest of the week, doing her job as best she could.

By the time her seventeenth birthday had passed she realized that the notion of the mating of men and women had become less traumatic for her. For nearly two years she had lived in an atmosphere where sexual relations were open and natural and accepted by all. It was hard even to think of such a thing as romance.

Another winter passed, but not without taking its toll. Kitty was far too thin, with eyes almost too large for her face.
Her figure, which at one time had been very nicely rounded, almost disappeared. Her breasts became so small she considered padding her bodice, and her bottom became narrow and flat. The long hours and poor diet not only had taken the glow from her skin and the sheen from her hair, but also had robbed her of that sparkling vitality she always had in abundance. Her wit was honed and her tongue sharpened, but she became so physically weakened that often she was dizzy.

Patrick had a strong desire to find Kitty after his father’s death. He questioned Mrs. Thomson and the other servants, but they could not or would not furnish him with any details that might lead to her whereabouts. As Patrick had no idea that Kitty and Terrance had relatives in Bolton, the pair seemed to have vanished into thin air. Perhaps they had gone to another town, or back to London, or even returned to Ireland. At last he began to realize that if she cared for him at all she would not have left him without a trace. He didn’t blame her; he blamed himself. What he had done to her was unpardonable. Eventually he stopped searching every crowd for a glimpse of her beautiful face. He felt that if she wanted to be free of him, the least he could do was leave her in peace. Her image still lingered in his memory, and if he did not keep himself busy every hour of the day, she came back again and again to haunt him. Sometimes in bed, the dark room would be filled with that unique fragrance that always lingered about her hair—a mixture of wild roses and peat smoke; then he would curse himself for a fool. If only he hadn’t ravished her, but taken her gently, awakening her desire and giving her pleasure and rapture with his touch.

He put the mills up for sale, as he definitely had decided to sail for America on his merchant vessel’s next voyage. He sold the Egyptian for a very large sum, but offers on the other two mills didn’t meet his expectations, so he decided to keep them until he got his price. Patrick had noted that the best cotton they received from the Carolinas had been marked “Bagatelle Plantation,” and he intended to journey
there and buy up the whole crop if possible. He threw himself into arranging the cargo and was impatient at the amount of time this consumed. At length he was free to depart for Liverpool to see the various goods loaded and make final arrangements before departure.

Patrick found that he loved the sea. He welcomed the needed change. The air was invigorating and the male-oriented environment of the ship was rough and ready and made possible an easy camaraderie that he fell in with comfortably. When they made harbor in Charleston, Patrick discovered that vessels from England were eagerly awaited, and the goods he had brought were snapped up quickly for fantastic prices.

He had written to Monsieur LeCoq at Bagatelle Plantation, telling him of his proposed visit, and he carried an invitation in his pocket that the LeCoqs had extended to him. He bought a carriage and horses to convey him. When he arrived at Bagatelle he was amazed at its size and opulence. This was not the “trifle” that its name indicated. The plantation must have covered ten thousand acres. There were endless rows of slave cabins and hundreds of slaves. The magnificent Georgian mansion set in vast formal gardens took his breath away. He drove his carriage up the long, circular driveway; half a dozen slaves waited to take care of his horses when he stopped. The house was white with an upstairs gallery that swept across the whole front of the building. The lawns were like jade velvet, with each shrub trimmed to perfection. Patrick counted over a dozen gardeners plying their trade. A liveried majordomo complete with powdered wig opened the door to Patrick. Patrick handed his calling card to the servant, who placed it on a silver salver and disappeared up a magnificent wide staircase. The female house servants were dressed in striped cotton dresses with bright cotton tignons covering their hair. Quite a number appeared in the short
space of time Patrick was kept waiting, and he realized it was out of curiosity to get a good look at him. Suddenly a female appeared at the top of the staircase. She was the most striking woman Patrick had ever beheld. She was a Juno, statuesque, almost as tall as himself. A Titian-haired beauty with a slightly hooked nose, Patrick thought she bore a striking resemblance to Elizabeth I. Their eyes met in mutual amusement as each acknowledged the other’s critical inspection. He stared at her magnificent breasts, well displayed in the low-necked black gown, and her sensual mouth. She stared at the thick saddle muscles of his thighs, unconcealed by the tight trousers, and her glance lingered on the bulge of his crotch, which was satisfyingly large even in his unaroused state. She spoke up then; her voice was low, with an attractive French accent.

“Jacquine LeCoq, Monsieur O’Reilly.”

“I’ve been looking forward to meeting you,
madame
, and your husband, Monsieur LeCoq, who extended me such a gracious invitation.”

“My husband, Monsieur O’Reilly, was laid to rest two months ago.” She paused dramatically.

The knowledge somehow didn’t surprise him, perhaps because she had given the immediate impression of being in command. He murmured his condolences, but he had known as soon as she imparted the news of the death that she was not sorry. He wondered why. Freedom? Money? Power? Yes, definitely power! he thought.

“You must call me Jacquine,
monsieur.
Let us move to a sitting room on the shady side of the house and let me offer you a cool drink.”

The tall glass of Bourbon filled with crushed ice was delicious to Patrick’s parched throat.

“Your home is very beautiful, Jacquine, but I must admit I am having difficulty adjusting to the climate.”

“It is a trifle humid, Patrick. At this hour of the afternoon any sensible man or woman would be between cool sheets for a rest, no?”

Somehow he was not surprised that she had brought up the subject of sex before they had even finished their first drink.

“I find it more than a trifle humid, my dear; it’s more like a steam bath.”

“That’s why our gentlemen wear white suits in the tropics. Have you nothing lighter you could change into?” she suggested.

“Alas,
madame
, where I come from, men’s fashion is black, and I’m afraid I would feel foolish in a white suit.”

“The English are said to be very set in their ways; however, I must confess I enjoy doing things in the French way,” she said as she directed her eyes to his lap. She licked her lips to add emphasis to her words. He stirred and began to enlarge and the corners of her lips lifted in triumph with the knowledge of her power.

He said pointedly, “I’m not averse to experimenting. Are you, Jacquine?”

She smiled and said, “I’ll wager you ride well, Patrick.”

“I have stamina. I don’t tire easily,” he promised.

“In that case, I shall enjoy mounting you.” She paused again for effect. “Tomorrow we will inspect the plantation. We should ride in the morning while some coolness lingers, then we can rest in the afternoon … perhaps?”

He bowed. “I am at your service, my dear lady.”