At the base of the hill Nottingham took Mary’s hand, feeling her grip tighten as the slope steepened. He slowed his pace, relishing the fresh air and the small, cool breeze blowing from the west.
By the time they reached the crown Mary was ready to stop and catch her breath. She sat in the long grass while he stood and gazed down at Leeds. By the river, looking so close he could almost reach out his hand to touch them, stood the dye houses, the smoke from their chimneys hazing in the clear sky. Closer, in a meadow, a group of men were beating a fleece pulled over some wood, the rhythmic sound of their work the only noise on the air.
He could easily pick out the landmarks — St Peter’s, the New Church, the spire of St John’s, the bright brick of the Red Hall. Across the valley on the far hills lay Armley and Farnley Wood, with Holbeck nestling south of the Aire.
Every year the city was growing, pushing out in every direction. The merchants were building their grand houses past Town End, and on the other side of the river dwellings were crowding into the secret places where he’d played as a young boy.
But it was all Leeds and he loved every inch of it. For his first eight years he’d lived a privileged life here, the child of a rich man, until his father had discovered his wife had a lover and thrown her and his son from the house. After that he’d grown up quickly, surviving, stealing, learning to live from one day to the next, his mother whoring and starving until there was nothing left of her.
Then the old Constable had taken him on. He’d seen something different, something good, in the feral boy that Nottingham had been then. And now he was the Constable of the city himself. He’d never lived anywhere else and never would.
Slowly he settled next to Mary. ‘We used to come up here when we were courting,’ she recalled. ‘Do you remember that?’
‘We did a lot of things when we were courting.’ He grinned, eyes flashing, and she tapped him playfully on the arm.
‘Sunday afternoons,’ she continued. ‘You’d call for me and if the weather was good we’d go for a walk.’
‘Once your father trusted us to be alone together,’ he reminded her.
‘Well, he was right about that.’ She blushed. ‘He’d have beaten us both if he knew what we got up to. Sometimes I think it was a miracle that Rose wasn’t conceived before we were wed.’
At the mention of the name the spell broke. Rose, whose death was still a large shadow on the horizon. He squeezed her hand lightly and she gave a brief, tight smile in return.
Names, he thought. What a strange, awful power they had. The nerve was still raw and painful to the touch.
They lingered for another half-hour, conversation muted and neutral, then ambled home. The sun was lower, still pleasantly warm on his face. The workmen had gone and the fields were quiet save for an occasional bleat. As they emerged on to the road he glanced ahead.
‘Isn’t that someone at our door?’ he wondered.
‘Emily,’ Mary shouted. She gathered up her skirts and began to run.
Nine
By the time he reached them Mary had folded her daughter into a tight embrace. Emily was sobbing on to her mother’s shoulders, the tears pouring. Her bag, bulging with all she owned, sat on the ground outside the house.
With a tiny shake of her head Mary indicated he should leave them. He unlocked the door, took in the bag and poured himself a mug of ale in the kitchen. Whatever had happened, it couldn’t be good, that much was obvious. And just the day before the girl had seemed so happy. .
His attention shifted as Mary led Emily in and sat her in the chair.
‘Richard, can you bring her something to drink?’
He poured another mug of ale and took it in. Emily reached for it, her hand shaking slightly, eyes red and cheeks blotched as she looked up.
‘Here you go, love.’ He forced a smile. ‘Long walk on a hot day.’
She drained the cup quickly and he took it from her. There was dust from the roads all over her dress, and hair spilled untidily from the bonnet. Mary knelt by her, a gentle hand on her shoulder, and asked, ‘Now, what’s this all about?’
Emily glanced from one parent to another, looking desperate and hunted.
‘Mr Hartington’s dismissed me for insolence,’ she announced.
‘Oh, pet,’ Mary began, but Emily cut her off.
‘It’s not like that, mama,’ she protested, tears spilling from her eyes again. ‘This morning Mrs Hartington took the girls out. Mr Hartington came to my room and he. .’ She shook her head rather than say it. ‘When I said no he told me to go, that I was insolent.’
Mary pulled her daughter close again, stroking her back as she cried, just the way she’d done when Emily was little. Over the girl’s shoulder she looked up at her husband, raising her eyebrows.
Nottingham didn’t move. Instead he breathed deeply, going over the words once more in his mind. The father in him was ready to dash up to Headingley and beat Hartington senseless, but he’d been part of the law for too long to do that. He had to cap the rage that was building inside him.
Tonight he’d talk to Emily, comfort her, and hear the full tale. Then he’d decide what to do. He knew it happened often enough, masters taking advantage of the female servants. If they wanted to keep their posts they had no choice but to agree.
He was proud of Emily for refusing. The girl snuffled and gazed up at him. ‘You do believe me, papa?’
‘Of course I do, love.’ He smiled and took hold of her hand, cradling the thin fingers. ‘You just get yourself settled. We’ll look after you, you know that.’
She didn’t want to eat, didn’t want much of anything except to curl into herself. That was simply the way she was, and he knew it was better to let her be for now. He’d talk to her once she was in bed. For the moment she needed to feel safe.
Neither of them fussed around her; they treated her normally, as if nothing had happened, as if she’d never gone away. Finally, as the sky grew fully dark, Emily went off to her room.
He followed a few minutes later, a candle in his hand. At the door he looked in, seeing her under the cover and unable to forget that Rose had once shared the bed with her.
He placed the light on the table and eased himself down on to the old wooden chair.
‘I’m sorry,’ he told her.
Emily rolled over to face him. ‘Why are you sorry, papa?’
‘I’m sorry all this happened to you.’
She was silent for a long time. Then, ‘Does it happen a lot? With men like that?’
‘Sometimes.’ He sighed. ‘It always has, I suppose. Give some men money or power and they get to thinking they have rights just because a girl works for them.’
‘He told me exactly what he wanted me to do.’
‘Did he try and force you?’
‘No,’ she said.
‘That’s something,’ Nottingham conceded softly. ‘Many men don’t take no for an answer.’
‘But what am I going to do?’ Her eyes were moist again. ‘I loved the girls. And Mr Hartington said he’d never give me a reference. He was going to tell his wife I’d been insolent and he’d had to dismiss me.’
‘You leave that to me, love.’
‘I’m sorry, papa.’
‘Don’t be,’ he said, reaching over and stroking her cheek. ‘You’ve nothing to be sorry for. You go to sleep, it’s been a long day.’
‘What are you going to do?’ Mary asked later, lying against him in the bed, her head on his chest.
‘I’m going to talk to Hartington tomorrow.’
‘Richard. .’ There was a quiet warning in her voice. He stroked her hair lightly.
‘Don’t worry. Everything will be fine, I promise.’
She kissed him.
The Constable was at the jail soon after dawn, hoping that Lister would be as good as his word and that his enthusiasm hadn’t been a sham. He heard the clock at the Parish Church chime quarter to the hour and began to pace.