Pit Bank Wench

First published in Great Britain in 2000 by Hodder and Stoughton

An Hachette UK Company

Copyright © 2000 by Meg Hutchinson

The right of Meg Hutchinson 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 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

Epub ISBN: 9781444718645

Book ISBN: 9780340696903

Hodder and Stoughton Ltd

338 Euston Road

London NW 1 3BH

CONTENTS

For Judith Murdoch and Sue Fletcher, who both took a chance on an absolute beginner, and whose words of encouragement picked me up on the many times I stumbled.

Thank you both.

Chapter One

‘Are you mad?’

Carver Felton stared at his brother.

‘If you’re thinking to marry that wench then you
are
mad. Stark, staring, raving, bloody mad!’

‘No, Carver, I am not mad, but I am going to marry her.’

Steps long and easy, carrying his lithe frame with an almost feline grace, Carver crossed to one book-lined wall of the octagonal-shaped library. Selecting a book he flipped it open, dark eyes following words that failed to register on his mind.

Seventeen years older than his brother, he had been appointed his guardian by their father’s will, but that guardianship might well be ending sooner than Carver had anticipated. He had been given guardianship:

The age of twenty-one years or that wedding day
 . . . Carver continued to stare blindly at the book.

‘So!’ Snapping it shut he tossed it casually aside, glance lifting to his brother. ‘You are going to marry this Price wench. By whose say so? I am your legal guardian for twelve months yet, you cannot marry without my consent and I am not about to give it.’

‘But why?’

Paul frowned, bringing finely arched brows together over a well-shaped nose, his brown eyes questioning.

‘Why? You ask why?’ Carver met question with question, a tactic he’d used often before with his brother. ‘Can you really be so naïve? The wench is a nothing, a nobody. She lives along Doe Bank. That alone should tell you why I refuse to allow you to marry her.’

‘She can’t help where she was born!’

Carver’s smile at this defence was harsh with contempt.

‘Neither can I. But I can prevent her from thinking to better herself by marrying above her. She’ll not be moving to Beaufort House and her bridegroom will not be you. She’s not of your class, Paul. Take her to bed if you want to, ride her as often as the mood strikes you. But as for marrying her, forget it!’

A frown deepening across his brow, Paul Felton looked hard at his stepbrother. Born of different mothers, not only was their physical appearance different but their whole temperament too. Seventeen years was a wide enough gap to cause distance between two brothers; they had not grown together as children, never seemed to form the bond of brotherhood, never developed similarities in thought and action that marked them as family. Carver was harsh in his dealings with other men, especially if those dealings threatened the business of which he had held sole charge for nine years. But he, Paul, was not just another man, he was Carver’s brother. Though since when had that made any difference? To Carver he must always be a child, shown no indulgence to choose his own way. Well, in this he would.

‘That is what you would do, is it, Carver?’ His stare brown ice he held his brother’s gaze. ‘Take what you want from a woman then forget her!’

Carver’s mouth was a cold contemptuous curve, one dark brow raised. ‘You can always leave her a shilling for her services. You can be sure it is more than she will be paid by any man in Doe Bank or any place else in Wednesbury.’

‘Those other men including yourself, no doubt?’

The smile remaining, Carver gave a half nod. ‘Should I stoop so low as to acquaint myself with a woman from that end of the social scale then I would deem a shilling to be a high price to pay.’

‘So social scale has a bearing on morality?’ Paul asked, allowing his feelings to freeze his words.

‘On mine, no.’ Carver’s smile widened. ‘But on my immorality, then definitely yes. I take a little more care in the choosing of those with whom I share my bed.’

‘Making no preference as to whether or not they be another man’s wife.’

‘You have been most observant, brother. It would have been churlish of me to refuse . . . but there, I must not name the lady.’

‘Lady!’ The word burst furiously from Paul as he watched his brother sink easily into a leather armchair. ‘You call Cara Holgate a lady? I think a better term would be whore. The only difference between her and the lowest woman of the streets is the clothes she wears.’

Leaning back in his chair, Carver watched the anger play over his brother’s face. Paul did not often cross verbal swords with him. That wench must have a stronger hold than he’d thought!

‘That is a distinction I cannot make.’ He crossed one leg over the other, the languorous deception of it hiding deep irritation. ‘You see, I have not indulged myself with a woman of the streets. But it appears you have. How else could you make the comparison? I know the woman at the lower end of the scale but who I wonder was . . . is . . . the counter balance?’

‘There is no counter balance!’ Paul felt the blood drive furiously through his veins.

‘No.’ Carver ran a finger along the immaculate crease of his grey cashmere trousers. ‘There is only Emma. The daughter of a coal miner. Tut-tut, dear brother, I hardly call that experience enough on which to base a judgement.’

‘I don’t need the experience of the likes of Cara Holgate to make my judgement or my choice.’

‘Maybe not!’ Carver’s smile disappeared, his brows pulling together as his foot found the floor, ‘and you don’t need a slut of a miner’s daughter for a wife. I have told you, forget Emma Price.’

‘
You
have told me!’

Eyes burning, his whole body tense, Paul glared at the figure still seated in the comfortable chair.

‘And that is supposed to be an end to it, is it? Master Paul must be a good boy, Master Paul must not ask for things his brother has said he cannot have. That is how it has been for nine years Carver, my whole life dictated by you, my very thoughts ruled by your decree. But not any more. You will not tell me what I can or cannot do. From now on I am my own man, Carver. I will make my own decisions and one of them is to marry Emma!’

Holding tight to the anger that strained the leash of patience, Carver chose instead to smile, the same infuriatingly mocking smile that proved such an efficient weapon against his brother whenever he tried to assert himself.

Looking at him now, eyes cold as black ice held none of the smile but all of the mockery. ‘As always, Paul, you do not have things quite right. I only hope the next twelve months will see a change for the better, that by the time you take your place in the Felton business you will have learned to think things through more clearly. But . . .’ Carver lifted his shoulders in an eloquent shrug ‘. . . until that change takes place, I will just have to continue to set you straight. You are not yet a man, regardless of the antics you may have performed with your Wednesbury trollop. Until you are of legal age you will continue to do as I say, you will abide by my decisions, and it is my decision you have no more to do with that wench. You will not see her, speak to her, or in any way communicate with her.’

‘You can’t forbid . . .’

‘Oh, but I can.’ Cutting quietly across Paul’s furious interruption, Carver rose from his chair, the two inches of his superior height seeming more dominant as he moved towards the door. ‘I can forbid it and I do. And you, dear brother, would be well advised to do exactly as I say.’

The door half open he turned, glance wandering over his brother’s face. This time no smile touched his mouth.

‘Remember, Paul, for the next year I am your legal guardian. Your life is mine to do with as I think best. And if I think it best . . . for your own good, of course . . . to have you confined to an institution, then that I will do. Think it over, brother, and this time think it through. All the way through!’

‘
Twelve months will pass, Carver. It will pass and then you will have no more jurisdiction over me. I will marry Emma, she will be mistress of Beaufort House. That you can do nothing about for the house is mine under Father’s will.
’

Carver watched his own fingers move dextrously over a grey silk cravat as he fastened it about his neck.

Paul had flung those words at him this morning after yet one more altercation over that damned wench.

The cravat fastened, he slipped into a matching figured silk waistcoat then reached for a deep plum-coloured jacket.

His brother had found himself more than a trollop, he had found his own feet. From now on it would become increasingly more difficult to impose restrictions upon him. But it was no empty threat he himself had made a week since. Money could be made to do anything, including committing a sane man to an asylum; and Carver had money enough to pay for anything.

He glanced at himself in the long dressing mirror. Paul could marry, that was of no real concern to him, but marriage to the Price wench was out of the question. Even had she been the richest of the rich there would still have been no marriage.

Reaching for the calfskin gloves laid ready for him, Carver’s mouth tightened as familiar thoughts pushed into his mind bringing the same old resentment.

He was the first-born. Felton’s was rightfully his, in its entirety. Not a half, not a shared portion, but all of it. That was his birthright.