‘If I knew who it was that threw it, aye, I would. And you hardly strike me as the defenceless type, I must say. Luckily, Mrs Hever has spoken up for you, and told us you were only trying to protect her from the crowd’s … hostility. And George Hobson here has … vouched for you. So you can go.’ He scratches absently at his moustache with one hand. Sweat glazes his face and is staining the stiff collar of his shirt. ‘This heat,’ he mutters. ‘It’s turning people frenzied, I do believe. Go on and begone with you, and I don’t want to see your face again. Things might not go so smoothly if I do.’ He dismisses them. George marches Cat from the room before she can speak again.
They walk in silence for a minute or two. The Broadway is all but deserted now; the sun dipping in the west, growing fat and glowing, honey-coloured. At the south end of the street a scattering of debris is all that remains of the trash that was hurled at the WSPU speaker. Cat can smell her own sweat, sharp and rank. She stinks of the fear that gripped her inside the cell, rather than from the heat. George walks with his eyes down and his shoulders tense. Cat peers up at him, tries to read him.
‘You vouched for me? What does that mean? What did you say?’ she asks him, hesitantly.
George shrugs, puts one hand in his pocket and then takes it out. ‘I said you were my woman,’ he says, gruffly. ‘I said I would keep you out of trouble.’
At this, Cat can’t help but smile. ‘Oh, really?’ She knocks him playfully with her elbow. ‘I’d like to see you try.’
But George does not smile back at her. His eyes are troubled.
‘Please, Cat. I can’t afford to bail you another time,’ he says, then pulls himself up short, and clamps his lips tight together.
‘You can’t afford to? What do you mean?’
‘Nothing. Forget I said it.’
‘George – did you have to pay that man, to let me go?’ she whispers. George aims a kick at a pebble in the road, sends it bumping into the verge.
‘Perhaps he would have let you go anyway. Later today or tomorrow. Or perhaps not.’
‘How much?’
‘Never mind it.’
‘How much, George? Tell me,’ she demands.
‘I won’t. Enough,’ is all he says. Cat stops walking and hangs her head in shame, tears blurring the image of her feet in their dusty shoes.
‘But … your boat, George! You shouldn’t have done it!’ she says, the words sticking in her throat.
‘I had to, Cat. You were locked up! I knew … I knew how you would be feeling. I didn’t know if you could manage it … and I couldn’t bear the thought of it.’
‘But you shouldn’t have! I can’t repay it! We can’t get it back!’
‘I’ll make it back. It’ll just take more time,’ he says, grimly. ‘Perhaps I’ll sell that ring, as you suggested. If you’ll not wear it. A small sum, indeed, but a start, I suppose.’
‘George …’ she whispers, turning to face him. She puts her arms around his middle, not caring who might see; lays her face against his chest and feels the mass of him through his shirt, the deep, steady beat of his heart. ‘I’ll not be your wife, but I am your woman. Just as you said. If you still want me.’ The words muffled and sad.
George grips her shoulders, gives her a little shake. ‘Of course I still want you! I’ll always want you! I’ve never known anyone like you. But we must wed, Cat! I want you as my wife. And it’s sinful not to—’
‘Sinful? I don’t believe in it.’
‘Well, I do. And so does God. Marry me, Cat!’ he says, taking her face in his hands, not letting her look away. But he can read the refusal in her eyes, and she sees it, so she does not need to answer him. She is adamant.
‘I will find the money to give back to you, George – no, I will!’ she insists, when he shakes his head. ‘I will find it. And I am yours, whether you would have me or not,’ she adds; and finds, to her shock, that it’s the possibility he might say no that causes panic to flutter inside her.
Hester hears Mrs Bell’s voice, loud and sharp, coming up the cellar steps, so she knows that Cat has made it back to The Rectory at long last. It has been five hours since she was sent for meat, and to the post. Steeling herself, Hester goes down the steps and into earshot of the tirade.
‘… and after all of it, you come back with no beef! What am I supposed to make for dinner, with no beef? Answer me that, little miss good-for-nothing!’
‘I said I was sorry … I got held up! I couldn’t help it, and then the butcher had shut up shop—’