twenty-three. You’ll find Lucy there.’
On seeing the question in his eyes, she quickly assured him, ‘No, she’s not one of Bridget’s girls. Lucy Baker is a stray lamb. She met up with a no-good fella who promised her the world then cleared off to sea, and then she had nowhere to go when her mam and dad split up, so Bridget took her in. Y’see, as I told you … Bridget’s gorra soft heart and likes to help such folks.’
As he hurried away, she called after him. ‘Hey! There’s summat I forgot to tell you!’
Edward was not in the mood for listening, however. ‘Silly old fool!’ he muttered, and ignoring her, he walked on.
Seeing him march away all the quicker, the woman shrugged her fat little shoulders. ‘Don’t listen then,’ she told his back. ‘It won’t matter to me. Anyway, I expect you’ll find out soon enough.’ The thought of him being caught unawares made her smile – until she recalled how he had nearly banged her door down and then stared at her so threateningly. Her hackles were up.
Shaking her fist after him, she yelled, ‘And don’t come bothering me again, Sonny Jim! I were busy at the wash-tub when you came pounding on my door with your damned questions. It’s no fun washing blankets, but you wouldn’t know about that, would you, eh? Oh no! You men with your damned questions. Go on! Bugger off and don’t come back!’
When he turned to scowl at her, she slammed shut the door and scampered back to her wash-tub, grumbling as she went. ‘If Lucy Baker gives that fella so much as the time o’ day, she wants her head examining!’ she muttered to herself.
When Edward Trent reached Bridget’s house, he knocked on the door with the same force that he had used in Kitchener Street. ‘You don’t need to knock.’ The woman who opened the door was in her late twenties, tall and slender, with a shock of dark hair and over-painted features. ‘We don’t stand on ceremony here.’ She ushered him inside. ‘It’s down the passage and first left.’
He went first and she followed at a quickening pace. It wasn’t often the younger men came to visit, and this one was handsome into the bargain, if a bit surly.
As she came into the room she quietly closed the door behind her. ‘The other girls are out,’ she confided. ‘Mandy’s having her hair done and Sandra’s got a day off. So I’m afraid you’ll have to make do with me. I’m Lynette.’
His frown became a smile. ‘You think I’m a client, is that it?’
The young woman shrugged. ‘I hope you are,’ she replied. Giving him a knowing wink, she went on in silken tones, ‘You make a nice change. We normally get the older men here – the blokes who don’t get treated right by their own women … at least, that’s what they tell us.’ She chuckled. ‘So, what’s your reason for being here? Wifey kicked you out, has she?’
Thinking that here was too good a chance to miss, he led her on. ‘And what if she has?’
‘Well, I dare say I’d have to cheer you up then, wouldn’t I?’ As she spoke, she walked over to him and slowly, tantalisingly, began to undo the flies on his trousers.
‘Did I say you could do that?’ He was enjoying every minute.
‘I’m sorry. Was I supposed to ask?’
‘Not now.’ Taking her blouse by the shoulders he ripped it clean off her back. ‘It’s too late to turn back now.’ Leaning forward he kissed her neck, then wiped his tongue along her throat. ‘If you’re game, then so am I.’
For the next fifteen minutes they played and touched and he took her without feeling or shame, with an insatiable hunger, and in the same aggressive manner that he might sink his teeth into a fat lamb chop or swill back a tankard of ale.
Afterwards, while she was dressing, he threw a few coins on the bed. ‘That’s for your trouble.’ He threw down another. ‘And that’s for what you’re about to do.’
‘And what might that be?’ This time, Lynette was not so sure of herself. He had been unexpectedly rough and slightly cruel, and she was right to be wary.
‘Fetch Lucy Baker to me.’ He wagged a finger in warning. ‘One word to her about what we’ve just done, though, and your pretty face won’t be so pretty any more.’
Astonished that Lucy would know such a man, she told him, ‘Lucy isn’t here.’
She had hardly finished when he caught her by the throat. ‘You’d best not be lying to me!’ he hissed.
‘I’m not lying.’ Fearful, she began to struggle. ‘She skivvies at the squire’s house, Haskell Hall – all the way over in Comberton village. She’s there now. Let me go, please. I’m telling you the truth.’
Throwing her on to the bed, he stood over her. ‘What time will she be back?’
‘I’m not sure. Five, maybe six o’clock. She likes to work long hours. She needs the money for—’
‘Shut your mouth!’ Taking hold of her he yanked her up and held her close, kissing her mouth, her hair, her eyelids. ‘How do I get there?’ His voice resembled the soft, deadly hiss of a snake.
Cringing at his touch, she told him, ‘Across the fields at the end of this road towards the water-tower.’
‘How far?’
‘Take the bridle-path, alongside the brook, towards the village of Comberton-by-Weir. It’s signposted. Head for the hilltop, and you won’t go wrong. Once past Overhill Farm, go down the other side and you’ll find the squire’s house half a mile on. It’s called Haskell Hall. You can’t miss it – a big old house with great trees lining the way up to the entrance. It’s about a mile and a half in all.’
Throwing her aside he scowled. ‘Ah, well. I suppose I’ve come this far, another mile or two will seem like nothing.’
Before he left he warned her again. ‘We had our fun and that’s an end to it. But one word to anybody, especially to Lucy, and you’ll rue the day. D’you understand me?’
Fearing for her life, Lynette nodded. ‘I won’t say anything.’
‘Good girl.’ For an unbearable moment he stared her out. ‘I expect I’ll see you when we get back.’ Grabbing her hair in a bunch between his thick strong fingers, he drew her head back and kissed her throat. ‘Oh look, you’re starting to bruise.’ With a devious grin, he screwed a straightened finger into her forehead until she winced. ‘Not a word!’ he whispered. Then he went on his way, whistling merrily as he strode briskly down the pavement.
So far it had been a good day, he thought smugly.
Seeing Lucy would be the icing on the cake.
Back at Bridget’s house, the woman herself had arrived; large-boned, with her mass of fiery hair and eyes green as a cat’s in the dark, she was as Irish as the Blarney Stone, filling the front parlour with her presence. She was astonished to find one of her young people in tears. ‘Hey now!’ She dropped her bag into the nearest chair.
‘Aw, will ye look at that!’ she exclaimed. ‘You’ll have eyes like split walnuts if you don’t stop the bawling, so ye will.’ Sensing a man was involved, she demanded
