gave me does not work, what will happen? Father will not believe I was . . . was raped.’
No, Caleb would not believe that. Mary rested her head against her daughter’s. Caleb . . . the preacher man . . . would see only a temptress, a Jezebel, for in his eyes it would be Emma who was to blame.
‘We can only wait and see,’ she murmured. ‘We can only hope.’
Chapter Five
Emma watched her mother leave the bedroom, her wasted body seeming to wince with every step. Carrie had been right, their mother did suffer too many pregnancies, each more painful to end than the last. Surely their father knew why his wife always looked so tired? Why she was regularly confined to her bed with gripe of the stomach? Yes, Caleb Price knew, but it seemed his rantings against the sins of the flesh applied only to women.
If he should discover her sin . . . Emma felt her blood turn cold. There would be no pity in him, no forgiveness.
But perhaps he need never know? The pain of the last few hours had seemed to tear her apart. Surely the potion must have done its work?
Even though she was alone in the room, Emma crossed to the corner farthest from the door. Keeping her back discreetly towards the bed, instinctively seeking the only privacy the room afforded whenever her sister was present, she took the folded cloth from between her legs.
It was unmarked! Emma felt despair sweep over her. There was no stain upon it, no trace of blood. Whatever the mixture she had drunk, it had had no effect other than to put fire in her belly.
She stared at the rag. So much pain, so much fear. And all for nothing! If Carver Felton had left her with child, then the child was still inside her.
‘ There is a child within you . . . ’
Emma heard the words in her mind, the words Jerusha Paget had spoken.
‘. . . a child that will be born into the world . . .’
That then was how it would be! A sense of acceptance wrapping about her like a cloak, Emma took a piece of paper from the chest of drawers she shared with Carrie. Wrapping the cloth, she pushed it into the pocket of her skirt. Carver Felton’s child would be born into the world but the Feltons would never know.
Downstairs she took the paper-wrapped cloth, thrusting it deep into the fire. Behind her Mary Price’s face twisted with sympathy. Her daughter was condemned to a life of sorrow. She would bear her burden alone, with every hand but her mother’s and her sister’s turned against her, with no hope of a father for the child other than the man who had . . .
Mary turned away, the bitterness of the rest of that thought stinging her heart like acid. But who was that man? Why would Emma not say his name? Had it been someone she knew, someone who knew her? Suddenly Mary felt a new coldness. Was it a man who already had a wife and children . . . a man from Doe Bank?
‘Serve the meal.’
Mary glanced up as Caleb strode into the house. Usually he washed away the dirt of the mine before taking his food.
‘Serve the meal!’ Caleb’s narrow features were drawn together with the anger that rang in his voice. ‘Serve the meal and then gather your belongings. We be leaving this house afore morning.’
‘Leaving?’ Mary’s startled glance changed to a frown that creased her brow. ‘Caleb, I don’t understand?’
‘Neither do I.’ He crossed to the fireplace, staring into the crimson flames. ‘He gave no reason, said no cause.’
‘Who, Caleb?’
‘Who? John Barlow. He be manager of the Topaz. Who else but him tells a man he be finished?’
Who else! Emma felt the blood surge along her veins. The Topaz coal mine belonged to the Feltons. Was this the work of Carver Felton? Not satisfied with raping her, had he raised his hand against her family?
‘Finished?’ The plates she had taken from the dresser clattering in her shaking hands, Mary stared at her husband. ‘You mean, you’ve been given your tin?’
Turning slowly, Caleb thrust a hand into the
No, Caleb would not believe that. Mary rested her head against her daughter’s. Caleb . . . the preacher man . . . would see only a temptress, a Jezebel, for in his eyes it would be Emma who was to blame.
‘We can only wait and see,’ she murmured. ‘We can only hope.’
Chapter Five
Emma watched her mother leave the bedroom, her wasted body seeming to wince with every step. Carrie had been right, their mother did suffer too many pregnancies, each more painful to end than the last. Surely their father knew why his wife always looked so tired? Why she was regularly confined to her bed with gripe of the stomach? Yes, Caleb Price knew, but it seemed his rantings against the sins of the flesh applied only to women.
If he should discover her sin . . . Emma felt her blood turn cold. There would be no pity in him, no forgiveness.
But perhaps he need never know? The pain of the last few hours had seemed to tear her apart. Surely the potion must have done its work?
Even though she was alone in the room, Emma crossed to the corner farthest from the door. Keeping her back discreetly towards the bed, instinctively seeking the only privacy the room afforded whenever her sister was present, she took the folded cloth from between her legs.
It was unmarked! Emma felt despair sweep over her. There was no stain upon it, no trace of blood. Whatever the mixture she had drunk, it had had no effect other than to put fire in her belly.
She stared at the rag. So much pain, so much fear. And all for nothing! If Carver Felton had left her with child, then the child was still inside her.
‘ There is a child within you . . . ’
Emma heard the words in her mind, the words Jerusha Paget had spoken.
‘. . . a child that will be born into the world . . .’
That then was how it would be! A sense of acceptance wrapping about her like a cloak, Emma took a piece of paper from the chest of drawers she shared with Carrie. Wrapping the cloth, she pushed it into the pocket of her skirt. Carver Felton’s child would be born into the world but the Feltons would never know.
Downstairs she took the paper-wrapped cloth, thrusting it deep into the fire. Behind her Mary Price’s face twisted with sympathy. Her daughter was condemned to a life of sorrow. She would bear her burden alone, with every hand but her mother’s and her sister’s turned against her, with no hope of a father for the child other than the man who had . . .
Mary turned away, the bitterness of the rest of that thought stinging her heart like acid. But who was that man? Why would Emma not say his name? Had it been someone she knew, someone who knew her? Suddenly Mary felt a new coldness. Was it a man who already had a wife and children . . . a man from Doe Bank?
‘Serve the meal.’
Mary glanced up as Caleb strode into the house. Usually he washed away the dirt of the mine before taking his food.
‘Serve the meal!’ Caleb’s narrow features were drawn together with the anger that rang in his voice. ‘Serve the meal and then gather your belongings. We be leaving this house afore morning.’
‘Leaving?’ Mary’s startled glance changed to a frown that creased her brow. ‘Caleb, I don’t understand?’
‘Neither do I.’ He crossed to the fireplace, staring into the crimson flames. ‘He gave no reason, said no cause.’
‘Who, Caleb?’
‘Who? John Barlow. He be manager of the Topaz. Who else but him tells a man he be finished?’
Who else! Emma felt the blood surge along her veins. The Topaz coal mine belonged to the Feltons. Was this the work of Carver Felton? Not satisfied with raping her, had he raised his hand against her family?
‘Finished?’ The plates she had taken from the dresser clattering in her shaking hands, Mary stared at her husband. ‘You mean, you’ve been given your tin?’
Turning slowly, Caleb thrust a hand into the
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