The Unseen(48)

‘Aye, that was what the man I met called it. He’s up in Bath and Bradford, and once he was a carrier just like Charlie Wheeler. Now he makes a good living – a better living than he did – taking people for rides along the canal.’

‘And you would leave to go and work for him?’ Cat asks, her face falling. She knows, in an instant, that she could not stand life in Cold Ash Holt if it weren’t for George.

‘No! No, not at all – I would buy my own boat and do the same as he! It would have to be an old boat, for my purse to stretch, but I could repair and make good on it myself. I would moor it in Hungerford, for there are no such pleasure boats there yet. The boat could be home and business in one, and I’d be free to make my own way, for once,’ George says, his voice steady and resolute.

‘That would be glorious. To be free!’ Cat stares into the distance, caught up in the thought of it. She can hardly imagine what it might be like, to live as she pleased; but for a minute the idea scatters sparkles of excitement down her spine. Then she sighs. ‘I doubt I shall ever be.’

‘Anybody may be free. It’s only a matter of finding a way.’

‘And how long will it take you to save up your money, to buy your boat?’

‘Not much longer. Four months, perhaps. Sooner if I can get more fights fixed up … and win them of course.’

‘Of course you would win them! Nobody could beat you – I’ve seen you fight. You’re like Hector, or Achilles.’

‘Like who?’ George frowns.

‘Demi-gods of the ancient world.’

‘Oh, indeed? And how on earth did you come to learn about them, then?’

‘My father taught me to read at a young age. He lent me books that a working-class child would never have read, otherwise. I think it amused him,’ Cat says, grimly.

‘Why should it have?’

‘He knew I would have no other station in life than the one I was dealt. Why did he bother to broaden my mind? To educate me? I’ve often wondered.’

‘Perhaps he just wanted to give you a good start. Perhaps he thought you might rise above your station in life, with this knowledge he gave you?’

‘He could have given me that start easily, and yet he made me a servant. It was a cruel gift; and an empty one.’ She shakes her head.

‘But a gift nonetheless, and perhaps well meant. My father gave me nothing but cuts and beatings.’

‘Perhaps he gave you a gift without realising it – perhaps he taught you to fight, and now with the money you make from it, you will be your own man.’ Cat puts out one hand, runs it the length of George’s knotted arm, curls it behind his neck.

‘Most girls would be put off to see me fight, to know what I do. It breaks the law, after all; and is hardly genteel,’ George says softly, leaning towards her. She tips her head, and their foreheads touch.

‘What need have I for gentility? It’s nothing but a mask that allows men to be cruel and dishonest,’ Cat murmurs. She kisses him and for one startled second he freezes, as if unsure; but then he puts his arms around her, lifts her effortlessly from the stair onto his lap and holds her tight. Cat lets herself be held against him, aware of the heat blooming between their skins, and the taste of his mouth, and the race of her heartbeat, so loud in her ears. She reaches an arm behind her to shut the cabin door as George pulls her backwards onto the narrow bed, and she does not care at all that the cabin is small, and the ceiling near. She does not even notice.


On Sunday, Hester stands beside Albert outside church after the service, politely greeting each parishioner. The sun is fiery bright in a clear blue sky; the light so crisp it seems to outline every blade of grass in the churchyard, every sparkling fleck of mineral in the granite headstones. It glances brightly from Robin Durrant’s tousled mop of hair, revealing gold and auburn strands Hester hadn’t noticed before. A hand on her arm catches her attention.

‘Is that your house guest?’ Claire Higgins asks, in a low voice that the vicar won’t hear. The sun isn’t kind to Claire’s face, showing up little hairs on her top lip, and a scattering of blackheads over her normally pretty nose. Hester suddenly worries how many of her own flaws are on such bold display.

‘Yes. Mr Robin Durrant, the theosophist. He and Albert are engaged in a study of the spiritual side of our meadows,’ Hester whispers back to her. Claire’s gaze sweeps up from Robin’s feet to his face. Her expression is one of languid appreciation, and it makes Hester slightly nervous.

‘Is he married?’ Claire asks, not taking her eyes from him; slowly, she strokes the silky end of the green ribbon holding her hat in place.