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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018
Sent to the workhouse as a child, all Ella Hathaway can remember is a voice whispering, 'Dearie, promise me you will never forget what you saw. Your Ma was killed deliberate . and someone oughter pay for it.' When young, wealthy spinster Letitia Fairchild witnesses Ella being ill-treated, she takes her in as a scullery maid. But as Ella grows up, she is determined to find the truth about her mother's tragic death and appeals to Letitia for help, revealing the contents of her only personal possession, a black silk purse. Intrigued, Letitia agrees to begin a quest to solve the mystery of Ella's past. But neither could have imagined the astonishing and dramatic consequences. From the miseries of life in a London workhouse, to the splendour of a beautiful mansion, will Ella find the love and security she longs for?
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Seitenzahl: 507
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The Black Silk Purse
MARGARET KAINE
For all my loyal readers
‘And take a bond of fate’
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
MACBETH: ACT 4, SCENE 1
Contents
Chapter One
1903
Ella withdrew into the shadows, the workhouse uniform thin through years of laundering, offering little protection against the March wind. During the past six years she had become accustomed to cold and even hunger, but no amount of deprivation could take away her dreams. Hazy and only on the fringes of her mind it still lingered, that other world, one of colour and beauty, and these rare visits of Miss Fairchild with her glossy black hair, jewels and furs had become beacons in a life that contained only greyness. Ella glanced over to the waiting carriage with its patient chestnut horses, waiting to step forward to receive the reward of a smile. It might be swift, but with it would come the three words spoken in a refined voice, ‘Goodbye, my dear.’ The endearment was like a balm bringing alive the vague remembrance of another voice, loving and gentle. Ella had been six years old when brought to the workhouse, and she had clung to that precious memory at first with despair and later with ferocity. It was her proof, her security. Because of it, she knew the truth: that, despite the taunts and name-calling, she was not a bastard nor was she a foundling.
After catching a glimpse of the well-dressed woman and asking endless questions, Ella had discovered via one of the senior inmates not only the name she sought but also the regular timing of her visits. And since then she had, not without difficulty, contrived to be outside the workhouse in order to wait for her to leave.
Today, she was a bit later than usual, and then the door was opened and with a swish of her skirt she came out, her breath misting the chilly air. Ella moved forward to be seen, rewarded and warmed by the familiar swift smile and the words, ‘Goodbye, my dear.’
Ella watched as the footman assisted her into the carriage and looked longingly at her lovely clothes; a dark-green coat trimmed with rich fur, a paler green hat with crimson feathers. Then, all too soon, the coachman was urging the horses and Ella hurried to a door at the side of the tall building and gingerly opened it.
All seemed safe, so she sidled inside. Talon-like fingers dug into her right shoulder. ‘And where, girl, have you been sneaking off to? Aren’t you supposed to be doing a stint in the laundry?’
Ella twisted round in horror. Miss Grint, one of the officers, had the habit of appearing from nowhere. ‘Yes miss, sorry miss!’
‘Sorry doesn’t answer my question.’
She looked up with defiance into the harsh narrow face. ‘I felt sick, needed a breath of fresh air.’
‘What, in this freezing cold? Who gave you permission?’
Ella bit her lip.
‘I see.’ The blow knocked her sideways, the palm hard and stinging across her right ear. ‘You idle brat, get back to your work.’
Directed by a violent push, Ella staggered along the corridor in the direction of the steaming noisy laundry. She hated Miss Grint so much it was like a fire in her belly. But she’d show her, just as soon as she was old enough she’d get out of this place, and when she did, she was going to become rich and she’d come back and she’d … The stone steps down to the laundry were steep and awkward in her ill-fitting shoes; she picked up her skirt and concentrated.
‘Oi! Where do you think you’ve bin? Get hold of some tongs and lift those sheets out of that boiler.’ The woman shouting was in her fifties, her grey hair hanging in wisps around her perspiring forehead.
Ella hurried past her to haul the dripping white linen out of the boiling water and, dodging the splashes, lowered it into one of the long wooden rinsing troughs. All the girls had to learn household tasks to prepare them for work outside, but it was heavy labour for young thin arms. Glancing at the girl whose fainting act had caused the distraction that enabled Ella to slip away, she gave her a grateful grin. It would mean giving away her meagre supper tonight, but it had been worth it.
As the carriage drew away, Letitia Fairchild relaxed into its padded seat, relieved as always that her stultifying visit, decreed in her father’s will, was once again over. Despite herself, she still resented how even from beyond the grave he managed to control aspects of her life. Although she had to accept that it wasn’t his fault that some ancient relative had once fallen on hard times and spent a few years incarcerated in that gloomy place. He had never forgotten the unfortunates left behind and her father, having benefited by the man’s later wealth, had bequeathed to his daughter the duty of visiting the workhouse four times a year. Letitia was generous but also had a keen head for figures and knew that her questions caused not a little consternation, but she was assured from photographs she had seen that this workhouse was little different to any other – after all, the number of poor and homeless in London was vast. And no matter how large the amount of charitable donations to swell the public coffers, more money was always needed to house, clothe and feed the inmates decently.
Enjoying the sound of the horses’ hooves on the road, she gazed at the tall houses in the tree-lined roads leading into the city, feeling relieved as they neared her comfortable home in Hampstead. Not the smartest address in London but, as her father had proclaimed, one that spoke of solid respectability and yet might disguise a gentleman’s true wealth.
She was entering the hall, her hand already raised to remove her hatpin, when the butler came forward. ‘Miss Featherstone is waiting in the drawing room, madam. I told her that I expected you back shortly.’
‘Thank you, Forbes. Please serve tea.’ She unbuttoned her coat and, passing it over to a waiting maid, swept into the large handsome room. ‘Grace, what a welcome surprise.’
The woman seated on the deep-cushioned sofa raised a hand to pat her hair into place. ‘I didn’t expect to find you out.’
‘My duty visit to the workhouse. I’ve ordered tea but I can’t possibly take it until I’ve washed my hands. You’ll have to excuse me a moment.’
‘Of course,’ Grace frowned. ‘You didn’t touch any of the inmates, did you?’
Letitia turned at the door. ‘No,’ she said with an indulgent smile at the woman she regarded as her best friend, ‘I didn’t touch any of the inmates.’
A few minutes later, as they indulged in tea and scones, Grace was brimming with a snippet of gossip. ‘Did you know that Lord and Lady Allaway have gone to Madeira for two months?’
Letitia shook her head.
‘I did hear a whisper. Of course, one can never believe all one hears but, apparently, all is not as it should be in that household.’
‘In what way exactly?’
‘Shall we say that it involves a certain French governess?’
Letitia paused, her cup halfway to her mouth. ‘You can’t mean it, not Lord Allaway. He must be sixty if he is a day. The old goat!’
‘Letitia!’
‘Oh, come on Grace. We may be unmarried but we’re old enough not to be ignorant of the world.’ She glanced at her friend who, at twenty-six, was a year younger than her. She had both a fair prettiness and a good cleavage, and it was widely accepted that most men preferred an ‘English rose’. Letitia put a hand up to her black hair, dressed in a chignon. Not only were her own breasts small, but ‘handsome’ was perhaps the best word that could be ascribed to herself. She had to admit that her assertion had been a trifle exaggerated as their knowledge of men had been confined to one suitor only each. And neither had led to matrimony.
Almost as if Grace had read her mind, she mused, ‘Marriage is a subject we never discuss. Don’t you think that a little strange among two close women friends?’
‘We did discuss Victoria’s marriage after she died, agreeing that her excessive mourning for Prince Albert had been the height of self-indulgence.’
‘That was over two years ago.’ Grace gave a sigh of resignation. ‘I wasn’t thinking of general conversation, Letitia, but never mind.’ She dabbed at her mouth with her napkin. ‘I really should get back to Mama. She’s not at all well at the moment.’
It was after her friend had left that Letitia went to stand before the glowing coal fire surrounded by the solid mahogany furniture so familiar to her. A feeling of sadness swept over her as she wondered whether her life would have been different if her own mama had lived. Would she herself have been different? Letitia had always believed that her father had blamed her for the loss of his wife in childbirth. Certainly, he had been a stern parent and there had been little warmth in this mausoleum of a house. There was only one man from whom she had ever received affection and she would always wonder whether his invitation to dine that evening at Eversleigh had been timed to coincide with her expected absence. Certainly, when her social engagement was cancelled and she had joined the two men in the drawing room for cocktails, Cedric Fairchild had been unable to conceal his anger and dismay. She walked slowly across the room feeling a familiar ache in her heart as she thought of Miles Maitland, that idealistic young man with whom she had felt an instant bond. Sensing her father would disapprove, they had felt it advisable to be circumspect about their affection for each other, contriving during those summer months to attend the same social events even, at times, to stroll out into a garden where, in secluded corners, they could find some privacy. Letitia stared blindly ahead, remembering how Miles had hated the secrecy, insisting that he should explain their relationship to her father. But, long ago, she had learnt the futility of dwelling on that fateful night. With an effort she brought her mind back to the present, and as she drew out the chair to sit before her satinwood desk, she reminded herself that unmarried and childless she may be but, unlike countless other women in the same position, her father had at least left her financially secure.
Letitia picked up her silver fountain pen and, unscrewing the top, began to leaf through her diary to enter the date of her next visit to the workhouse. She paused, reflecting that it seemed a little odd that the same girl should be loitering outside again when she left. What was she – about eleven or twelve? All the inmates had their hair cropped to prevent lice but a few brown strands had escaped her cap; her pale face always looked pinched. Could the poor child possibly be half-witted, for why else would she stand out there in the freezing cold?
Later that evening at the workhouse, Ella trailed upstairs to the long cold dormitory, not only hungry but exhausted. However, she found it impossible to sleep. Not because of the sound of rats and mice rustling and scampering among the eaves – that was a familiar noise, as were the snores and muffled sobs in the room – it was her thoughts that were keeping her awake. Huddled on her straw mattress, she couldn’t help thinking about the afternoon’s visit. Miss Fairchild had spoken to her again, and Ella had long accepted that never again would she hear the warmth of her own mother’s voice, but still her underlying loneliness never seemed to leave her.
And what of that other voice that haunted her, that of a servant woman? Ella couldn’t remember her face or her name, but she had never forgotten those terrible words delivered in a hoarse whisper. ‘Dearie, promise me you will never forget what you saw. Your ma was killed deliberate, them horses were driven straight at her, and someone oughter pay for it.’
Chapter Two
It was three months later when, in a Camden tenement with dusty brown linoleum, scratched furniture and cheap fabric curtains, Rory Adare sat by the makeshift bed in the cramped sitting room. His father lay in silence, his once strong and handsome face gaunt and Rory leant over to pull the thin grey blanket higher around his shoulders. But he knew that Seamus, like himself, was waiting for the dreaded thud on the door. When it came, sixteen-year-old Rory went to face the burly man more than twice his age and, grim-faced, held out the coins.
‘What do you call this?’
‘It’s all we’ve got.’
Grabbing the money, and with a scowl on his pockmarked face, the debt collector pushed past him into the shabby room and strode over to the mantelpiece.
Rory flung himself at him, but even though tall for his age, he was no match for the other man’s bulk. Shouldered aside, he watched in horror as their last possession, a French ormolu clock that had belonged to Rory’s mother, was tucked inside the thug’s muffler and jacket. Seconds later, he was gone, with Rory slamming the door in fury behind him.
He turned to face his father. ‘Da, we can’t go on like this.’
‘I know, son.’ But Seamus’s voice was weak, and despite his long struggle, it was obvious that he was weakening with every hour that passed.
With desperation Rory knew that there was now no alternative. ‘You could go in Da, you would at least be looked after.’
Seamus shook his head. ‘The moneylenders never forget a debt, they’d only hound you, even rough you up. You’d be safer with me in the workhouse. Besides, your mother would have wanted us to stay together.’ His voice became a hoarse whisper. ‘True to God, I never thought it would come to this.’
Rory could only stare at him in despair. When two years after his wife’s death Seamus had been diagnosed with cancer, its swift onset caused his once successful career as a Dublin journalist to falter. As his health continued to fail so did the quality of his writing, and eventually with little income they were forced to sell even their furniture. At first Seamus fought against taking Rory from his studies and their dream of his going to Trinity College, but as their situation became desperate and his mind befuddled by whisky to dull his pain, he disregarded his son’s protests and began to insist they should go to London.
‘There will be places where I can submit previously published articles. Sure, we’ll be grand, you’ll see.’ But it was his last statement uttered with defiance that revealed the truth. ‘Besides, I have no wish to become an object of pity.’
Despite Rory’s plea, that same fierce pride had prevented him from accepting any offers of help, and with Rory’s misgivings they had come ‘over the water’ to an unwelcoming London and continued rejections. As the months passed, Seamus’s health worsened to such a worrying degree that Rory hardly dared to leave his side.
‘Ye’ll do no such thing,’ he raged when, with their savings gone, a frightened Rory wanted to write to Dublin for help.
‘Just for a loan to get you some medical help, Da.’
But even in his weakened state Seamus’s temper flared. ‘If we had family it’d be different, but no Adare goes begging from friends.’ He struggled to raise himself from his pillow. ‘I’d never forgive you, lad, never.’
And so there had been no alternative to making the dreaded application, and they were waiting for the visit of the Relieving Officer. There would be no problem with Seamus being admitted to the workhouse, but Rory feared that his own case might be dismissed with contempt. He glanced over at the bed, at his father’s grey complexion, at the lines of pain now etched on his face. How could he not accompany him, be on hand to see him, to offer him a son’s comfort and love? But would this man they were expecting have the humanity to understand that?
And then the tap came on the door, and on going to open it, Rory saw a small, portly man, red-faced behind his dark moustache and beard.
‘Adare?’ His voice was sharp.
‘Yes, sir.’ He stood aside.
The man entered the room with only a cursory glance at Rory. Instead he went over to the bed by the wall. ‘Seamus Adare?’
He received a weak nod, and after staring down at him for a few minutes, he wrote in a small black notebook. Then he turned to Rory. ‘And you are?’
‘Rory Adare.’
‘Your age is?’
‘Sixteen, sir.’
‘Occupation?’
Rory hesitated.
‘Speak up boy!’
‘He is a scholar.’ The strength in Seamus’s voice surprised them both.
The statement was written in the notebook.
The man, who hadn’t offered his name, began to prowl around the two rooms, looking inside the cupboards and drawers. Apparently satisfied, he said, ‘No source of income, then?’
Rory shook his head. ‘I was employed as a pot boy, but …’ His throat dried at the thought of revealing what had happened.
‘I suppose it’s the usual, sacked without a reference?’ His tone was sarcastic.
Rory could only nod, avoiding the man’s eyes, but there were no more questions, and later that night, his head on a grubby flock pillow, Rory lay staring into the darkness. To be forced to enter a workhouse was degrading for anyone, but for a man like his father, well-educated and who had mixed with the cream of Dublin literary society to spend the last days of his life in there … Rory could hardly bear to think of it. He had little thought for himself, he was young and strong, while nothing on earth would persuade him to remain in such a place, not after … he could only close his eyes in misery at the inevitable prospect.
After Ella’s stint in the laundry ended, she began to learn needlework, an occupation she found far more to her liking. It was not that she had any special aptitude for the work, but the large room was quieter and the older women talked freely among themselves. Then, on one particular afternoon, knowing that it was time for another visit, she found it hard to concentrate. But she did try to listen to old Agnes, who was helping her with the intricacies of blind hemming. It seemed that her late husband had fought for his queen and country.
‘Out in South Africa, he was, fighting them Zulus,’ she said, ‘and a spear got ’im in the shoulder at Rorke’s Drift, so it was a pension after that.’ She sucked on a length of cotton before threading a needle. ‘But he didn’t last long, and the army don’t care about widows. Then our Janey went down with consumption and the doctor’s bills took what bit we’d got saved.’
Ella dared to ask, ‘What happened to her?’
‘She couldn’t fight it, love. And she wasn’t ’aving no pauper’s funeral; my Jim wouldn’t ’ave wanted that. I got behind with the rent and the blasted landlord sent the bailiffs in. Next thing I know, I was carted off to this place.’
‘That’s awful.’
‘I’ve ’eard of worse.’
‘Agnes, how do some girls manage to get out of here?’
‘If they’re lucky they get taken on as apprentices, usually to dressmakers or milliners.’
‘Not into service, then, you know in one of them posh houses?’ The inmate who showed Ella how to sew buttons on, had once worked as a housemaid before falling on hard times.
Agnes shook her head. ‘They wouldn’t look twice at yer, not coming from this place. Mind you, some go out as servants – or should I say skivvies – in alehouses or to tradesmen’s wives or suchlike, but most end up sent back.’
Ella stared at her. ‘Why?’
‘Thievin’, lazy, or up the spout. This place doesn’t spawn angels. ’Ow old are yer?’
‘I think about twelve or thirteen. I’m not sure when my birthday is. I know I was six when I came in.’
‘What, with yer ma?’
Ella shook her head. ‘She was killed in an accident.’
‘And yer dad?’
‘She never told me. I think he must be dead.’
Agnes tightened her lips. ‘Then ’ow come you didn’t get sent to the orphanage?’
‘I was supposed to go but they’d just had a big fire, so I ended up here.’
Agnes thought back. ‘Six years ago, you say. Oh yes, I remember, arson was rumoured. Still, this place isn’t that bad, it’s big enough for the kids to be taught ’ere and not to ’ave to go to school outside. Those who do are looked down on as if they were freaks, poor little blighters.’
‘That’s not fair.’
‘Life ain’t fair, you’ll learn that. Now, yer seem a decent girl, so work hard and keep yer nose clean. And mind yer don’t get on the wrong side of that Miss Grint. If ever a woman was suckled on a sour lemon …’
But Ella was glancing up at the clock on the wall, which said ten minutes to four. ‘Agnes, if I nip out for a few minutes, will you cover for me? Say I’ve got a bellyache or something.’
‘Why, what you up to?’
‘Nothing bad, I promise.’ She put aside the skirt she was hemming, and as soon as the officer further along the line bent over another trainee, Ella eased herself out of the room. She met nobody as she hurried along the winding corridors, and on emerging into the blinding sunshine she turned the corner to find Miss Fairchild’s carriage close by, drawn into the shade of the building. Feeling daring, Ella walked slowly towards it, drawn in fascination to the chestnut horses. The one nearest to her turned his head and, with a thump of her heart, she gazed into soft brown eyes. This horse would never trample anyone to death, she was sure of it.
‘His name’s Rusty – go on, stroke him, he won’t hurt you.’
She glanced up to see the coachman grinning at her and, with a flutter of fear that was almost enjoyable, moved to place her hand on the horse’s long neck. Its coat felt soft, velvety and very warm. She liked it. ‘He’s hot.’
‘He’s all right. It’s a hot day. What’s yer name?’
‘Ella.’ She glanced over her shoulder, fearful that someone might come out and see her talking.
‘What are yer scared of?’
‘I shouldn’t be out here.’
‘Playing truant, eh? I used to do that as a lad.’
‘Me too!’ The footman came round the carriage and winked at her. He was much younger than the coachman, with curly fair hair. ‘Me dad used to take the strap to me, but it didn’t make any difference.’
Although the church clock a little distance away struck four, there was still no sign of the visitor and Ella’s palms began to grow clammy as she moved back to wait by the wall. She didn’t dare to be out here for much longer. What if somebody noticed she was missing and reported it to Miss Grint? Her heart gave a leap of fear at even the prospect.
Chapter Three
Earlier that same morning, Letitia hadn’t felt at all inclined to make her duty visit to the workhouse when her maid drew back the blue brocade curtains to let in a stream of sunlight. The Master’s office was never a pleasant place to be as the air was always tainted with the staleness of tobacco smoke. She doubted the small window was ever opened. But after a delicious luncheon of salmon, buttered new potatoes, peas, and salad from her kitchen garden, she went upstairs to change. Letitia had for some time been conscious that only once had she obeyed her father’s wish that she should, on occasion, inspect some part of the workhouse unannounced. Then, escorted to a cold and cheerless dining hall, she had stood on a platform and looked down on row upon row of women seated on backless wooden forms before long tables. They were of all ages and dressed in the same grey striped uniform and white starched caps, the only sound had been of wooden spoons against bowls, the slurping of watery soup and the heavy footsteps of patrolling officers. Letitia had found the scene one of such abject misery that she hadn’t been able to get the image out of her head for days.
Arriving at the workhouse, Letitia descended the steps of her carriage wearing a dark-blue linen skirt and matching coat, with an elaborate cartwheel hat trimmed with crimson silk dog roses. One lace glove carried carelessly, she greeted the female officer waiting at the main entrance to escort her along the winding corridors that led to the Master’s office.
William Peaton, a portly man with bushy sideburns and a well-trimmed beard rose from his chair as she swept in. ‘May I bid you a good afternoon, Miss Fairchild. I trust I find you well?’
‘Perfectly, thank you. And yourself and Mrs Peaton?’
‘In good health too, praise the Lord.’
‘I trust I shall have the pleasure of seeing her later?’
‘But, of course. She will be joining us once our business has been completed. Please.’ He came round the desk to fuss over her chair and, once satisfied that she was comfortable, returned to open the large brown ledger before him. Turning it round, he passed it over for her inspection.
Letitia removed her other glove and, placing them both on the desk, scrutinised the neat entries. The man opposite remained silent. Eventually, and only when she was satisfied with the figures, Letitia said, ‘Again, I must congratulate you, Mr Peaton, on such orderly accounts. Being appointed by the Board of Guardians only after his death, you would not have known my father, but he would have been gratified to see how well the family bequest is being utilised.’
‘Thank you, Miss Fairchild.’ He held his hand out for the ledger. ‘May I relieve you …?’
Letitia smiled and passed it over. Behind her, the door opened to a cloud of eau de cologne and Mrs Peaton, a narrow-shouldered woman with prominent blue eyes and greying hair scraped into an apology of a chignon, came in. ‘Miss Fairchild, how delightful.’
Letitia wondered whether in her wardrobe she possessed any other colour but black, although this time she was at least wearing a cameo brooch at her neck. A stony-faced woman of about forty, obviously a superior sort of inmate, followed her in and sullenly placed a tray on the desk. Letitia glanced at the earthenware cups and accepted a cup of tea but declined to take a biscuit. After the usual pleasantries, she made her request.
‘I am not certain of your exact meaning, Miss Fairchild?’
She explained about the previous occasion and smiled at them both. ‘So, you can see that as a dutiful daughter, I find myself …’
William Peaton frowned. ‘What exactly did you have in mind?’
‘Oh, nothing extensive; perhaps as I have seen where the inmates eat, I might see where they sleep?’
Mrs Peaton answered for him. ‘Could I suggest Miss Fairchild, that you inspect our infirmary? You could then also see the care they receive when ill.’
‘That would be most satisfactory.’
‘Then perhaps if you would like to accompany me?’ Mrs Peaton rose and held open the door.
‘Certainly, and as I have no doubt that all will be in order, I shall bid you good day, Mr Peaton, until our next meeting.’
Letitia was wary, not at all sure what she was facing. The building was like a warren, the corridors narrow and twisting, but eventually Mrs Peaton opened a door into a cavernous medical ward. The ceiling was high, the windows grimy, but the bedding on the iron beds, if coarse, did at least appear to be clean. Letitia walked at the side of the Master’s wife between the rows of beds, conscious of women’s weary eyes watching her, filled with pity at the sight of gaunt and wasted faces, by the ugliness of old age. Several patients lay supine, either asleep or exhausted by pain.
‘You have doctors in attendance?’ she asked.
‘We have two medical officers appointed by the Board, who visit on a regular basis. Most of our inmates receive a higher standard of care here than they would where they lived before.’
A couple of nurses gave her curious glances, and Letitia fumbled to find a scented handkerchief to cover her mouth when, to her horror, a crone retched, then leant over the bed to vomit into a pail. A few minutes later, she felt her own bile rise at the stench emanating from a bed further down the room. ‘A bad case of diarrhoea, I’m afraid,’ Mrs Peaton said.
Letitia swallowed. She had intended to speak to one of the patients in person but horrified at feeling nauseous, was thankful to see another door only a few yards away and began to quicken her pace. ‘Thank you, it has been most interesting.’
‘Is there anything further I can show you? Our isolation ward, perhaps?’
Still struggling against her nausea Letitia managed to say, ‘I don’t think I need to take any more of your valuable time, thank you Mrs Peaton.’
When at last the door of the main entrance opened, Ella’s feet were feeling hot and heavy in her black boots. She’d been feeling brave after having spoken to the coachman and footman but now … Plucking up her courage, she moved out of the shade. Miss Fairchild had paused and seemed to be taking deep breaths.
‘Hello, miss.’
The long skirt swished. ‘Hello. You always seem to be out here when I come. Tell me, are you waiting for someone?’
‘Only you, miss.’
Ella saw her frown. ‘Are you saying that when I visit the workhouse you loiter outside in the hope of seeing me? Now, why on earth would you do that, child?’
Taken aback by the direct question, hot colour flooded Ella’s cheeks. She floundered, ‘I don’t know, miss.’
‘I see. Well, it’s very flattering but …’ Letitia realised that she had left her gloves on the desk in the Master’s office. She paused, perhaps the girl would like to earn a penny or two. ‘I’ve left my gloves on Mr Peaton’s desk. Would you like to fetch them for me?’
The girl’s eyes filled with panic. ‘Oh no, I’m sorry, I couldn’t, miss. I’ll have to go now.’
Letitia watched in bewilderment as she ran towards a side door and disappeared. She hesitated, then decided that she would return herself, and went back through the main entrance.
‘You young varmint, I’ve caught you before, sneaking off!’ The voice was a woman’s and it came from around a bend in the corridor. ‘And what was it this time?’
‘I got the stomach cramps.’ Letitia recognised the girl’s voice.
‘And you needed to go outside?’
‘I felt sick.’
‘You’re a lying toad.’
Letitia heard the sound of a hard slap, followed by another, and quickening her pace, saw the girl holding her hand against her ear, one side of her face reddening. She was glaring up at one of the workhouse officers, an angular woman with a narrow, harsh face. ‘Now, get back to work, and there’ll be a black mark on your record. A troublemaker, that’s what you are.’
‘That’s not true!’
‘Don’t answer back …’ Still holding the girl by the shoulder, the woman once more raised her hand, but Letitia’s commanding voice stopped her.
‘That is enough!’
The officer instead gave the girl a push and she, after a grateful glance at Letitia, ran away.
‘Is such treatment necessary?’
‘I am afraid so, madam, otherwise we would have mayhem.’
‘And your name is?’
‘Miss Grint, I am a day officer.’
Letitia inclined her head and gave what she hoped would be interpreted as a smile of acceptance. So deep in thought was she, that when she reached the Master’s office it was to give only the lightest tap on the door before entering. Mr Peaton was bending before a safe in the corner of the room, where he was transferring the ledger he had presented earlier to her. He straightened up.
‘Miss Fairchild. Is there perhaps something wrong, some query about the infirmary? My wife seemed under the impression …’
She smiled. ‘Not at all, Mr Peaton, it is just that I think I left my gloves on your desk.’
‘Oh, I see.’ He leant over and lifted a sheet of paper. ‘Ah, there they are.’
‘Thank you, and may I bid you good afternoon once again.’
‘She caught me,’ Ella muttered to Agnes.
‘Who did?’
‘Miss Grint, she gave me what for as well! And she said she’d put a black mark on my record.’
Agnes put down the sock she was darning. ‘That’s bad, love, really bad. Don’t say I didn’t warn yer.’
Ella went up to the dormitory that night full of mixed emotions. She had better stop this waiting outside. After all, she wasn’t a child any more. Agnes had told her that she was now able to have babies.
‘And in a few years, when a man does come near you, keep yer legs crossed until you’ve got a wedding ring on yer finger. Cos you’ve got nobody but me ter put yer right, except the parson on Sunday, and he only spouts about sin and hellfire. You take notice of what I say, and you’ll save yourself a lot of grief.’
Ella had heard enough ‘dirty’ talk to know what she was talking about, and the results of it; she wasn’t going to be stupid enough to let that happen to her.
And then she thought of how wonderful the afternoon had been, what with the coachman and the young footman joking with her, and that lovely horse. And hadn’t the visitor stopped Miss Grint from belting her again? But remembering what Agnes had said, Ella began to panic in case the black mark meant that she could never get out of this hateful place.
It was when Letitia was travelling home in the carriage, and the horses turned into the road leading to Eversleigh that she saw the fair-haired man outside its tall iron gates. He was motionless and she leant forward thinking that there was something familiar about the set of his shoulders. Her breath caught in her throat – no, it couldn’t be … She clutched for support at the velvet-clad padding by her side. Her cheeks hot, her pulse racing, Letitia fought the impulse to open the carriage window and peer out. But he must have heard the clop of the horses’ hooves as they approached because after a swift glance over his shoulder he was striding away. But she had known him in an instant. Hadn’t his image haunted her for the past seven years? And to her consternation her heart had leapt on seeing him. But that, she told herself, was only because it had been a shock. She wouldn’t countenance it being for any romantic reason, not after the despicable way he had treated her. But why Miles Maitland would come back to Hampstead, where he had scandalised local society by his hasty departure, she couldn’t imagine.
By the time the carriage had drawn to a halt for Jack to open the gates, the distantly retreating figure was no longer visible. But Letitia was sure of one thing, if Miles intended to visit Eversleigh, to call on her, he would find that she was not the naive young woman she’d been when she was twenty. Even to the Featherstones, Letitia had never admitted that in those dark months after his desertion she had formed two base suspicions. Either her father had threatened to disinherit her, or he had offered Miles a bribe to disappear from her life. Why else would the young man who had professed to love her emerge from her father’s study ashen-faced and refusing to speak to her. Not only that, but he never contacted her again and, without giving any reason, fled abroad.
Chapter Four
With Seamus taken immediately to the male infirmary, Rory found himself subjected to not only a public bath, but also the humiliation of being deloused and having his head shaved. His scalp felt cold and exposed and he felt sickened at the sight of his reddish-brown hair lying in tufts on the floor, even though he knew it would grow again. What he hated most, though, was the knowledge that he had lost not only his independence, but also his dignity. He was now reduced to only a number.
‘Hurry up, lad, I haven’t got all day.’
The officer was impatient, and hurriedly Rory put on the drab blue and grey uniform.
‘Follow me.’
The sour smell from the dormitory emanated as soon as the door was opened, and Rory gazed in dismay at the grim long room with iron beds crowded together.
‘There’s one at the far end you can have.’ The officer indicated a notice nailed to the back of the door. ‘Can you read?’
With compressed lips, Rory nodded.
‘Those are the rules – make sure you stick to them.’
But the sight of the dormitory paled into insignificance when Rory first saw the dining hall. He didn’t think he had ever seen a more depressing sight, but taking his place at the end of one of the long tables, found himself grateful for the bowl of greasy stew and a hunk of bread.
Together with the other inmates, he spent that afternoon and every following day, with the exception of the Sabbath, toiling in the oakum room, where he shredded old ropes into fibres, holding them by an iron hook held between his knees. He was told that the fibres, once mixed with tar or grease, became caulking, filling the gaps between wooden planks on ships to keep them watertight. It was this knowledge that Rory clung to as consolation that his labours would, in the future, keep seamen safe. But that didn’t disguise the fact that the work was unpleasant nor, as time went on, prevent the calluses on his hands becoming ingrained with grime.
He was allowed to visit Seamus in the infirmary once a week, only to see his father’s once tall strong body becoming little more than a skeleton. But he would rouse a little on seeing Rory who, in the short time allotted to him, would murmur of the old days in Dublin. And while he would always miss his beloved mother, he was almost thankful that Mary hadn’t lived to see her once proud family brought to such degradation.
When Grace next came for tea at Eversleigh, Letitia was sorely tempted to tell her that she had seen Miles again. But she still rationalised that it would be best to keep her own counsel, at least for now. If he had returned to the area with the intention of staying, the news would soon spread. And if he had merely been passing through, then she had no desire to begin a topic that would inevitably bring back shameful, painful memories.
Grace glanced at her, raising an eyebrow as she looked at the last scone, and Letitia laughed. ‘You have it – I’ll ring for some more.’
‘I shouldn’t really, but they are quite small.’
‘Heavens, you’ve a figure to envy.’ Coming back from the bell pull Letitia said, ‘I think I shall call you Jiminy in future. You remember – Pinocchio’s conscience.’ She was startled to see distress in her friend’s eyes.
‘I’d rather you didn’t, that’s what Peter used to call me.’
‘Grace, I had no idea, otherwise …’
‘How could you possibly have known?’
A silence fell and as she poured herself another cup of tea, Letitia remembered her friend’s heartbreak when, several years ago, the man she loved and hoped to marry had instead chosen the Catholic Church. It was Letitia’s hope that he would remain there and that Grace would eventually find happiness with a man more deserving of her. ‘Well, I have something rather interesting to tell you about my visit to the workhouse last week.’
‘I remember you saying that you intended to make a surprise inspection this time.’
Letitia pulled a face. ‘And so I did. I visited the infirmary and although all was satisfactory, it was a far from pleasant experience. No, this is something completely different.’ She went on to describe how a young girl had come forward to speak to her and then later she had witnessed her being ill-used.
‘You must do something!’ Grace exclaimed. ‘All she did was to go outside without permission.’
‘Yes, but why, Grace?’ Into Letitia’s mind came the memory of a clear young voice, ‘To see you, miss,’ and her surprise that the vowels, while not pure, had only had a hint of the Cockney ones that she would have expected. ‘I ask you, why would she wait outside especially to see me? I have noticed her before.’
Grace was silent for a moment, then said, ‘You and I have talked sometimes of whether we believe that everything in life happens for a reason, that everyone we meet touches our life in some way. What if this is such an instance?’
Letitia stared at her. ‘Are you trying to say that she could be meant to be part of my life?’
‘Or perhaps you could be meant to be part of hers.’
‘Do you know, Grace, there was something about her that intrigued me and I’ve been toying with an idea. What you have just said, fanciful though it may be, persuades me to go ahead. Why don’t I …’ She continued to explain, the tap on the door so slight that she paused only when she noticed Mabel hovering. ‘May we have more scones and jam, strawberry if possible?’
It was fortunate that the size of the kitchen at Eversleigh compensated for its lack of light, because the architect who had designed the substantial red-brick house had given scant thought to its servants. The butler, a tall balding man with rimless spectacles, deplored the frequent lighting of the gas burners necessitated by its small windows. ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘the upstairs rooms are blessed with God’s light even on a dull day, are they not, Jack?’
The young footman grinned and winked at the plump under-housemaid, who was folding napkins at a dresser. ‘They certainly are.’
Henry Forbes frowned at him. ‘Have you brushed the jacket I put out? And checked the others in my wardrobe?’
‘All is in order, Mr Forbes.’ He glanced up at the sound of hurrying steps on the stairs.
‘You’ll never guess what I just heard the mistress say!’
The butler turned from his task of counting the silver cutlery. ‘Mabel, how many times have I told you – what a maid hears in the drawing room, remains there.’
‘Yes, but—’
He held up a gloved hand.
Her lips met in a mutinous line. ‘More scones and jam please, Cook.’
‘Glory, they’ve got an appetite on them today. A good job I made extra. What about cream?’
‘Just jam. Miss Fairchild asked if you have any strawberry.’
‘It always was her favourite. Go and fetch some.’ She turned to the butler. ‘You mustn’t be too hard on her, Mr Forbes.’
‘A good servant should be like that proverb, Mrs Perkins – “see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil”.’
‘You mean like those ivory monkeys I saw in that antique shop? Right ugly things, they gave me the creeps.’
Mabel was already handing her the jam. ‘I was never going to speak any evil. You should know, Mr Forbes, cos you won’t like it.’
He sighed. ‘All right, just this once.’
‘Miss Fairchild is only going to bring a girl from the workhouse here, to work in the kitchen!’
Cook let out a squawk. ‘Over my dead body, she is!’
The butler stiffened. ‘You must have misheard her, girl.’
‘The very idea,’ Cook bristled. ‘I’ll have no disease-ridden brat handling my victuals.’
‘Well, I heard her, clear as a bell.’
‘Mabel?’
‘Yes, Mr Forbes?’ She picked up the tray.
‘You have my permission – just this once – to come back and report anything further you hear on the subject.’
Cook was now sitting on a kitchen chair, her legs apart beneath her long white apron. She leant forward. ‘I’m perplexed, that’s what I am, perplexed. Whatever is the mistress thinking of?’
‘I wonder if she means the kid who was hanging about outside,’ Jack said. ‘Seemed all right to me, scared stiff of something or someone, though, cos she was playing truant.’
‘This gets worse by the minute, I can feel it in me waters.’ Cook heaved herself up. ‘You put your foot down, Mr Forbes, or we’ll all come to regret it.’
‘She was a right scrawny little thing, mind, if it is the same one I saw. Needs a bit of feeding up, Cook, if you ask me.’
‘Well, I didn’t.’ She turned to glare at the under-housemaid who had started to giggle. ‘And you’d better go and begin the linen room, lady.’
Cook watched her go, and said, ‘I swear that girl puts a pound on every time she eats a bun.’ Her broad face creased in a frown. ‘You know, Mr Forbes, we’re a happy ship here, I do hope that isn’t going to change.’
To Letitia’s dismay, her news in the morning room the following day was met with a lukewarm reception. ‘I can sense your apprehension, Forbes, but surely it is an act of Christian charity to help an unfortunate child? And it does so happen that the scullery maid has given notice.’
He nodded. ‘That is true, there is sickness at home and she is needed there. But forgive me, madam, the highest references have always been required when employing staff at Eversleigh. I take it that you have looked into this girl’s character?’
Without the slightest hesitation, Letitia said, ‘Naturally.’ However, it was with a sense of uneasiness that a few minutes later she watched him leave. Although he would never say so, she knew that he disapproved of her plan and this was not only disconcerting; it confirmed her growing realisation that her decision had been emotive rather than sensible. Letitia thought for some time and eventually decided that she would write a note to Grace, stating her intention to call. It was not her friend’s advice she sought but that of her mama. Charlotte Featherstone might have a delicate constitution, but Letitia was not only fond of her, she considered her to be the most intelligent woman she had ever met.
Chapter Five
The Featherstones lived in a handsome stone-built house three miles distant from Eversleigh, in a leafy avenue. Grace’s father, who had died from a heart attack at the age of fifty, had been a business colleague of Cedric Fairchild, and their two daughters, introduced to each other at an early age, had remained friends ever since they were young.
Letitia entered the drawing room, where long windows overlooked the garden with its colourful herbaceous borders. Grace and her mother, sitting opposite across a rosewood coffee table, looked up with welcoming smiles. Letitia thought yet again how much they resembled each other. There was the same fairness, the prettiness of complexion; although whereas Charlotte’s expression wore a keen intelligence, Grace’s blue eyes revealed her more gentle nature.
After being greeted with delight, the first half-hour passed in pleasant conversation and then, once they had enjoyed their cucumber sandwiches and coconut macaroons, Charlotte turned and said with a slight frown, ‘Grace has spoken of your interest in a workhouse girl, and I have to confess to feeling both intrigued and a little anxious.’
‘It’s just that …’
Ten minutes later, Charlotte gazed at her. ‘My dear headstrong Letitia! Let us, just for a moment, return to the crux of the matter: your decision to become involved with this girl. I detect my daughter’s hand in this.’ She glanced at Grace. ‘Am I correct? Did the initial idea come from you?’
‘Not exactly …’
‘It was my suggestion to bring her to Eversleigh,’ Letitia said swiftly.
‘I see. Don’t mistake me, I can see the appeal of the situation, it intrigues me too, but that doesn’t change the fact that Letitia has now placed herself in an invidious position.’
‘What do you mean, Mama?’
‘I mean, Grace, that she now has no choice but to go ahead with this foolhardy scheme. To do otherwise would convey the impression to her staff that she is indecisive, and that would never do.’
‘But what if the duty officer was correct and she is a troublemaker?’ Letitia said.
Charlotte considered. ‘Tell me, when she approached you, when she spoke to you, was she impertinent?’
Letitia shook her head.
‘Was there insolence in her eyes?’
‘No, in fact she seemed shy.’
‘Then you can only make further enquiries as to her background and hope there are no reports of immorality.’
Grace gave a gasp, and Charlotte looked amused. ‘All types of people end up in the workhouse, my dear, although I’m the first to admit that one can never generalise.’
‘Don’t forget, Mama, that one of Letitia’s own relatives, through no fault of his own, spent a period of his life in one of those places. How do we know that this child wasn’t a victim of a similar circumstance?’
‘You are determined to see life through rose-tinted glasses, Grace. As far as you are concerned, Letitia, I can only advise you that when the girl does arrive in your household, any involvement on your part should be kept to a minimum.’
‘But …’
‘Think about, it my dear. Resentment or jealousy among the rest of the staff will only sit ill on the child.’
Letitia knew that what she said was true, but did that mean that she was going to bring this girl to Eversleigh only for her to remain hidden out of sight in the basement? Because if she and Grace were right in their imaginings, that this girl was meant to be in Letitia’s life, or she in hers, then how in the name of heaven was she going to discover why?
Ella was bored. Agnes had told her the law said children had to be educated up ’til the age of ten, and she and a few of the other girls who were good at their lessons were expected to help out with the little ones. On this particular morning, seven-year-old Violet was more interested in picking at the boil on her neck than writing a sum on her slate.
‘Press it with your hankie,’ Ella hissed as yellow pus spurted out, but Violet had forgotten it.
Ella fished up her sleeve and handed over her own. ‘Here, keep it, I don’t want the dirty thing back. Give me your clean one later.’
When the doorknob squeaked and Miss Grint marched in, everyone swiftly lowered their heads and Ella felt her stomach lurch when she heard her number called out. She swallowed and slid from the bench while the other children nudged each other, one tweaking the back of her skirt in sympathy as she walked down the narrow aisle between the rows of desks.
‘Come with me.’ Miss Grint swept out of the open door and, red-faced, Ella hurried behind her.
‘Where are we going, miss?’
‘You’ll soon find out.’
‘What have I done?’
‘You’ll find that out too.’
Ella, whose feet were outgrowing her boots, found it difficult to keep up with the long strides of the figure before her. She felt sick with fear, especially when she saw that they were heading for the Master’s office. She wiped her now clammy hands on her apron as Miss Grint knocked on the door. Opening it, she put her hand in the small of Ella’s back and pushed her inside. ‘Number 85, sir.’
‘Ah yes. Thank you, Miss Grint.’
Ella heard her leave and stood before the large desk in the hot stuffy room. Mr Peaton, with his wife seated beside him, was looking down at a brown folder.
‘Your full name is …?’
‘Ella, sir. Ella Hathaway.’
‘And I see you have been with us for several years.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Have you any complaints as to your treatment here?’
She shook her head.
‘Speak up, girl.’
‘No, sir.’
‘Good. Now then, Ella, tell me the truth. Have you been in the habit of waiting outside to see a certain visitor, a Miss Fairchild?’
Ella floundered. What should she do? She could lie, but the Master would believe Miss Grint over her, that was for sure. But if she admitted it, she’d likely get another black mark.
‘There’s no need to be afraid.’ It was Mrs Peaton speaking. Ella didn’t trust Mrs Peaton, she’d once seen her pinch a three-year-old girl so sharp that she’d cried. ‘Answer the Master. Do you wait outside to see Miss Fairchild?’
Mutely, Ella nodded.
‘And why would you do that?’
There was that question again. ‘I like to look at her nice clothes.’ She saw them exchange glances.
Mr Peaton turned to his wife. ‘So, at least we have ascertained that she is indeed the girl in question.’
Mrs Peaton lowered her voice. ‘But we have been asked about her background.’
‘In her record, there is merely the one transgression, otherwise nothing untoward.’
At the word ‘record’ Ella became full of panic. This was about that black mark! Perhaps if she said she was sorry, that she wouldn’t wait outside any more …
But Mr Peaton was talking to her. ‘Ella, the rules in this workhouse are there to be obeyed, I will not countenance disobedience. Do you understand?’
‘I’m sorry, sir, I won’t do it again.’
‘Yes, well, you are a very lucky girl. I have received a letter from Miss Fairchild, and she is prepared to offer you domestic work in her household.’ He glanced sharply at her. ‘However, she is relying on my judgement as to whether you can be trusted. What do you have to say for yourself?’
Ella felt rooted to the ground with joy. Then she stared at the impatient bearded face of the man opposite, at the cold face of his wife and panicked. Could they stop her going? She gabbled, ‘I’ve never done anything wrong before, sir. I say my prayers every night and I’m a hard worker, I did well in the classroom, and the laundry, and I’m learning sewing now. I wouldn’t let you down, honest.’
Mr Peaton gazed at her for a few moments, then glanced at his wife. When she nodded he said, ‘All right, I shall inform Miss Fairchild of my approval and arrange for your release. You will be told when you can leave and then brought to see me again.’ He waved a hand to dismiss her.
Ella bobbed a curtsey and, turning, almost stumbled from the room to hurry back along the corridors, the soreness of her feet forgotten. That night when she went up to the long dormitory, too excited to sleep, she watched the tired inmates climbing into their beds. Into her mind came an image of little freckle-faced Teresa, who used to sleep in the one next to her own and when she was frightened in the dark or had bad dreams, Ella would reach out and hold her hand. She had loved Teresa like a sister; a quiet child who had believed that everyone had a guardian angel and never once missed praying every night to her own. When one night, several months ago, she had screamed out in agony and later died of a burst appendix, Ella’s grief had stopped her believing in angels, but tonight she began to wonder whether they did exist after all.
Chapter Six
After a whole week had gone by, when the supervisor in the sewing room summoned Ella to be measured, her anxiety changed into increasing dread. Yes, she’d outgrown her uniform, but wasn’t she supposed to be leaving? Agnes kept advising her to be patient, but Ella was growing more worried with every day that passed.
Then after another week when the passing days seemed endless, Ella was leaving the dining hall after breakfast when Miss Grint seized her arm and, without any explanation, pulled her along a corridor and down stone steps to an unfamiliar part of the workhouse. Lifting a key from a bunch hanging at her belt, she unlocked the door of a large fusty room with rails of clothes and a brown curtain hanging across one corner.
She began to search along the hangers, taking out first one skirt, then another to hold against Ella. ‘This one will do,’ she said, putting it over her arm, then lifted down a blouse. ‘Go on, put these on, quick as you can.’
Ella scuttled behind the curtain and took off her uniform and apron, then, with excitement, tried on the faded brown blouse and black skirt. Her wrists were longer than the sleeves and the waist of the skirt sagged, but at least it reached to the top of her boots. Before she was able to look in the cloudy mirror, the curtain was yanked open.
‘You can leave the uniform there.’ She thrust out a hat. ‘This should fit.’
Ella put it on, relieved to see that on its brown straw there was a crumpled cream rosebud, at least. The mirror was behind her, but she didn’t dare to turn around because Miss Grint was already at the door, key in hand and holding out a grey shawl. ‘Hurry up, girl, I’ve got work to do.’
