Our Lizzie (24 page)

“We'll have to think about it,” Blanche replied. “It doesn't do to rush into things.”

“Yes, have a think. But don't take too long. Them houses are goin' to be snapped up once they're offered.” In fact, Sam was thinking of buying one himself. If you didn't have to pay rent, you'd feel very secure indeed. They were very nice houses, quite large, with three bedrooms and good attics as well, and even an indoor toilet and bathroom built on to the back upstairs over a scullery-cum-washroom. One weekend not long ago he'd been to have a look round them, unfinished as they were, and had liked what he saw. Cardwell was a good builder.

When he was leaving, he saw Lizzie sitting in her bedroom and beckoned her out, not wanting to enrage the old sod by being caught inside her daughter's room. “Feel like a breath of fresh air, lass? It's a lovely evening.”

Lizzie hesitated, then the thought of sitting up here for hours made her say, “Yes. Why not?”

It was while they were walking along that Sam swung her round against a wall and kissed her for the first time. Lizzie wasn't sure she liked this and it was hard to breathe with his mouth covering hers, but all couples who were walking out kissed one another, so she'd been a bit curious about it.

He felt vaguely disappointed that she hadn't responded to his kiss, but on the other hand, she hadn't protested or pushed him away. When they were wed, he'd make sure she responded properly, he would that. And when she nestled against him afterwards with a sigh, he found himself smiling down protectively at her slight form.

“Are you my girl?” he breathed throatily in her ear.

“I suppose so.”

“Good, 'cos I don't want no one else but you, Lizzie, and never have done.”

She looked up at him doubtfully in the soft light of dusk. “Don't you, Sam?”

“No, of course not.”

“Do you—love me?”

He didn't believe in that sort of nonsense. A man had his needs and women were there to fill them, and it took two of you to make children—but, on the other hand, there was no one like Lizzie so far as he was concerned, so he supposed it must be love. “I've fancied you ever since you frit us all by walking along that bloody wall,” he offered. “You're the only one for me, lass.”

She sighed and nestled against him again. “It's nice when you cuddle me, Sam,” she whispered. She liked it much better than that wet kissing stuff.

“Aye, I like it mysen.” But he wanted a lot more than cuddling. Still, this was progress, it definitely was.

“Well,” he said after a minute, getting tired of just standing there and worried that if Lizzie felt the hardness he couldn't control pressing against her, she'd take fright, “I suppose I'd better get you home, or your Percy will be having a word with me about keeping you out too late.”

She chuckled. “Percy wouldn't worry if you kept me out all night. He trusts you, Sam.”

He chuckled too, but for another reason. Anyone who trusted other people as completely as Percy Kershaw did was a fool. But in this case, the lass was quite safe with him. Because Sam wanted to do things properly and marry a virgin. The idea pleased him for some reason, perhaps because it proved Lizzie was so very different from his mother.

He'd better go and see Cardwell about one of those houses for himself before they were all taken. It didn't occur to him to take Lizzie into his confidence about that. Or to ask her along with him to see what she thought of them.

Chapter Thirteen

The next day, Emma waited until past her usual time for leaving the office, knowing that James always came back here before he went home, wherever he was working, to make sure that the place was locked up properly.

When he saw her, he stopped whistling and raised his eyebrows. “No home to go to, Emma Harper?”

“I wanted to see you—if you can spare me a minute or two?”

“Of course.” He yawned, stretched, then looked at his pocket watch.

“If you're too tired today, I could—”

He looked at her sharply, wondering why she sounded so nervous. “I'm not tired, and of course I can spare you a minute or two. And since I'll already be in trouble for getting home late, another few minutes won't make any difference.” Edith never could understand that work didn't necessarily finish at the same time every day, that sometimes emergencies cropped up or jobs took longer than you expected. Anyway, he wouldn't mind a bit of a sit-down before he went home to the usual evening of complaints and carping. Though it'd mean his children would be in bed and no chance of a romp with them.

“Look, you go and make us a cuppa, eh? My throat's as dry as a ditch in summer. That house I've been doing estimates for is full of dust and cobwebs. I'll just nip out to the back and then we'll lock the front door and sit here like Lord and Lady Muck, supping tea together. You wouldn't happen to have a biscuit or two tucked away as well, would you?”

Emma smiled. “I might have.” He always seemed hungry, so she made a point of keeping a supply of his favourite biscuits, buying them from the petty cash, keeping meticulous accounts he never even glanced at before initialling them each month.

When they had settled down on the comfortable armchairs in the waiting area, she fiddled with her cup, trying to think how best to broach the matter.

He looked at her and frowned. “Good grief! I never thought but—you're not going to give notice on me, are you, Emma Harper?” Let alone she was a most efficient employee, he enjoyed her company around the place, liked teasing her, seeing the delicate colour stain her cheeks sometimes. Most of all, he liked making her laugh, something she didn't do often enough in his opinion.

“What? Goodness, no! That's the last thing I'd want to do, Mr. Cardwell.” Emma looked away, afraid of revealing her feelings, for she found him all too attractive, her untidy, warm-hearted boss. “No, I'm perfectly happy here, especially with my recent rise.”

“What is it, then? You might as well come straight out with it.”

She took a deep breath. “It's—well, it's those new houses on Maidham Street. I was wondering about—” She took a deep breath before putting her fragile dream into words. “That is, my sister and I were wondering about—well, buying one.”

He leaned back and looked at her thoughtfully. “And can you afford one of my houses?”

“I think so. My sister and I are very careful with our money. Blanche has a small income of her own, and we have some jewellery of my mother's left we could sell. Just a few pieces but one or two of them are really nice. We're fond of them, but—well, quite frankly we need a house more than we need gold brooches and bangles.”

“I thought your father's things were all sold up?”

Vivid colour flared in her cheeks. “Mother's jewellery was left to us. It wasn't part of Father's estate. You don't think we should have used it to pay off his debts?” The thought had preyed on both their minds for years, which was one of the reasons why they hadn't tried to sell the jewellery before.

“No, of course not. It was yours, not his.”

Emma let out a long sigh of relief. “I'm glad you think so. Anyway, we feel the time has come to sell it—if it's going to be enough to help us buy a house, that is.”

“How are you going to do the selling?”

“I expect we'll give it to Sam to sell for us.”

“Sam?”

“Sam Thoxby. He sold some other stuff for us—mostly bits and pieces of furniture, but a few small pieces of jewellery as well. He's been very helpful since our—problems. He was the one who found us our present lodgings. And we've been very happy there, on the whole.”

James sat frowning. He knew who Thoxby was and found he didn't like the idea of letting him handle a valuable sale for two naïve spinsters. James heard things on the building sites and there had been one or two caustic remarks about Sam's sharpness and the fact that he always had stuff to sell. “I can probably get you more than Thoxby can.” He gave a scornful laugh. “It comes in useful sometimes, having connections, and my wife's got a cousin who's a goldsmith in Manchester.”

“Are you sure? I wouldn't want to—to trouble you. And, of course, we have to see how much we get for it, to make sure we can afford a house.”

“If you don't have enough, you can pay the rest off at so much per week. It'll be no different from paying rent.” He found he liked the idea of Emma having one of his houses. He was proud of the places he'd built and she was a plucky lass and a bloody good employee, too. Clients liked dealing with her.

“That's very kind of you.”

“Aye, well, that's me, heart of gold. Which house were you thinking of buying?”

She stared down at her hands. “Any of them. They're lovely houses. Let's just see if we can afford it first.”

He hated to see her like this, so worried. He wished—oh, hell, he didn't know what he wished, and even if he did, there was nothing he could do about it—except help her get a house. He pushed himself to his feet. “You bring that jewellery in to show me tomorrow—me, not that Thoxby chap, mind—if you give it to him to sell, I won't let you have a house.”

She looked at him in surprise, unsure whether he was joking or not. But his face said he was perfectly serious. “Thank you,” she said simply. “I don't know how we'll ever repay you.”

“You've done that already. You're a damn' good worker.”

Emma smiled then, one of those glorious smiles that lit up her face and made her look years younger. “I really like working here, Mr. Cardwell.”

“I do wish you'd call me James. I keep telling you that.”

She shook her head. “And I keep telling you that it wouldn't be right.”

“Not even when we're alone?”

“No. Not even then.” Especially not then. But it was what she called him inside her head. James. A nice, honest name. She'd always liked it.

*   *   *

The next Sunday was Polly's day off. Lizzie was dying to tell her all the news and decided to go and meet her from work.

“See you tomorrow, love?” Sam asked after the cinema on the Saturday night.

“Not tomorrow, Sam. It's Polly's day off.”

“Well, you can see her in the morning, can't you?”

Lizzie tried to wriggle from his grasp, but could not move an inch. “Sam, you're hurting me.”

He breathed deeply and let her go. “See Polly in the morning. I want to take you out and show you something in the afternoon. It's important.” He hadn't meant to show her the houses Cardwell was building yet, but he was determined to break the close link she shared with her sister.

“Another time, eh, Sam?” She watched him warily.

“No. Not another time. I want to see you tomorrow. You're my girl and I like to spend the weekends with you.”

She stopped walking to stare at him. “Polly only has one Sunday off a month.”

“Well, that's one Sunday too many for me. But if you're so stuck on seeing her, bring her along.”

Lizzie shook her head. “No. I've got a few things to tell her. I need to see her on my own.”

He felt anger surge through him and for a moment wanted to thump her. When they were wed, he'd not have her paying attention to anyone except him. When they were wed … He forced himself to smile. “Aw, Lizzie, you know how much I look forward to seeing you.”

“Sam, I don't—”

He pulled her to him and kissed her abruptly, right in the middle of the street, not caring who saw them. “I'm getting impatient,” he growled in her ear. “I want you, Lizzie.”

She felt something—not fear, but something curiously like it—shiver in her belly. This was what she was afraid of: Sam's appetites. She didn't really know what to call them, but she'd heard tales of men and what they wanted of women. And the tales frightened her. It wasn't just kisses. And it hurt sometimes. Especially at first. And he was so big. “Sam,” she quavered. “Oh, Sam, you frighten me sometimes. I don't think we should—”

He realised he was pushing her too hard and folded her in his arms. “Shh, now,” he whispered into her hair. “Shh, now. Just let me hold you, lass.”

He felt her relax against him, saw a couple of old biddies staring at them disapprovingly and hid a smile of triumph in her hair. Not long now, he told himself. He was nearly bursting for relief. He should have gone and bought some quick satisfaction, but he couldn't somehow. It was only Lizzie he wanted, though he hated this need she had put upon him. Surely, surely it would get better once they were wed? Once he had her in his power, he could take her whenever he wished. A wife had to obey her husband and he'd make bloody sure Lizzie did that. Though he'd look after her too. She'd never want. Not his wife.

“Say you'll see me Sunday evening, then?” he whispered in her ear.

“Oh, Sam, all right.”

He let her go. And when he'd taken her home, he got out the bottle of rum and took a few good pulls. Bloody courting! It was designed to drive a man crazy.

*   *   *

Polly came out of the side gate of Redley House and beamed at the sight of Lizzie waiting for her. “Hello, love.”

The two sisters embraced, then, arm in arm, began to stroll down the hill towards Bobbin Lane.

“How are things going?”

“All right.”

“And Sam?”

Lizzie shrugged.

Polly stopped walking. “Look, if you're not sure of your feelings, you shouldn't let everyone push you into going out with him.”

Lizzie sighed and frowned. “No one's pushing me. Well, not exactly. It's Sam—he's just—he's so impatient to wed, Polly.”

“No one can force you to marry him.”

“No. But circumstances can give you a push, can't they?”

“Is she still treating you badly?” No need to say who “she” was.