Pit Bank Wench Read Free Page A

my bitter harvest. But you, Emma, you must never go the way I trod, you must give yourself to none but the man who weds you, and then not until after the marriage lines be signed. Remember that when next a man smiles into your eyes and takes your hand in his.’
    Half an hour later, her hands washed and a cup of tea made for her mother, Emma returned to her baking.
    She would not forget what Mary had told her, but she need have no fear that the same pain would be hers. Paul was not of that breed. He would not ask her to give herself before marriage and certainly would not leave her should she expect his child. Paul Felton loved her, and tonight when they met he would tell her so again. It would shine in his eyes, ring in his voice as he asked her father’s permission to marry her.
    Rolling pastry on a floured board, Emma glanced at her mother, thin shoulders hunched as she stared into the fire. Caleb Price had married her knowing she had borne a child by another man, but what had motivated him to do so? Had it been pity for a young girl reviled by others? Was it charity?
    Lining an enamelled dish with pastry, Emma filled it with chopped mutton and potato.
    Watching her mother rise, steps slow as she walked into the scullery, Emma guessed it was neither of those things. Caleb Price had brought no happiness and precious little comfort to the girl he had married, his continued fault finding and demanding ways making her old before her time. No, he had not married to comfort her but to satisfy his own desires, the greatest of which was to be seen as a pious, godly man.
    Placing a pastry lid over the dish, Emma crimped the edges with a vengeful thumb. The only one he cared for was himself, the only religion he followed was his own. Caleb Price was god in his own kingdom.
    But her own marriage would not be like that. Paul Felton loved her. There would be no unhappiness for her, no stigma in the eyes of the world. Hers would be no dowry of shame.

Chapter Two
    Emma picked up the empty basket with one hand, the other lifting her shawl over her head.
    ‘It be a kindly thing you do, bringing me a pie every week.’
    Jerusha Paget followed Emma to the door of the tiny back-to-back house, its rear joined to an identical house. They were two in a block of eight, each damper, colder and more rat-infested than its neighbour.
    ‘I only wish it could be more.’ Emma’s answering smile was filled with sympathy.
    ‘Nay, wench, your family has precious little as it is. We as serves the Feltons all be in the same boat. Work a man ’til he drops and then to buggery with him, that be their way. They have love for nobody ’cepting themselves.’
    Emma felt the sting of those words but even so could not deny them. But Paul had told her of his plans to alter the living conditions of the miners’ families; told her of all he intended to do once he reached his majority. Once he was twenty-one he would have a full say in the Felton business and that included how its workers were housed and treated. But until that time, he had said, she should say nothing to any of them.
    But why? Emma tucked the corners of the shawl tighter beneath her small breasts. Was it because of his brother? She knew from odd snatches of conversation that Paul had a brother. He never discussed him, not even saying his name, but she knew it. Carver Felton. That name was all too familiar, she’d heard it often enough, spat out by the men of Doe Bank. But she had never seen him. What was he like, the brother of Paul’s, and why had she not been taken to meet him?
    ‘I will call again next week.’ Emma glanced over the woman’s shoulder to the iron-framed bed that occupied most of the poky room. ‘I hope Mr Paget will be better by then.’
    ‘That be a hope we will both be denied,’ Jerusha answered quietly. ‘But there be more will be denied you yet.’ Drawing the plain gold band from the third finger of her left hand she held it towards Emma. ‘This be all I have