The Daughters of Ironbridge

by Mollie Walton

  Hannah Beddoes sniffed, and one look showed she did not approve of the comment.

  ‘Oh, I am sorry, I did not mean . . . I mean . . .’ Margaret stuttered, mortified.

  ‘Think naught on it, my dear. She is a curious chicken, in her looks, indeed she is. And the babby did come from off, but not so very far away. She had a tragic story, you see. But it was God’s will that my husband should be the one to find the babby and keep her safe.’

  Margaret touched the little girl’s face, who shrank from her and tottered back to Hannah. ‘I cannot think of a luckier child, I really cannot,’ said Margaret, looking about her at the ramshackle line of cottages and their disrepair, the poverty ingrained in the muddy boots and grimy faces of all who lived there. Yet she knew she’d trade her life with this green-eyed child in a moment.

  ‘Time to go, Mary Brown!’ called Anny as she approached.

  Margaret wished the Quaker woman a good day and hurried to join Anny.

  On their walk back to the fairy tree, Anny fell quiet. It seemed that her mind was heavy with something. Margaret suddenly recalled what Anny had said in her letter, that she had something to discuss with her. In all this excitement, she had forgotten it.

  ‘You said in your letter that you wanted to talk to me about a private matter?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Anny and stopped walking. ‘I do need to talk to you about summat.’

  ‘Anything,’ said Margaret, and meant it.

  ‘It’s about Cyril.’

  ‘Cyril? What about him?’

  ‘He’s been bothering me at work.’

  ‘Bothering? How?’ A churning began in Margaret’s stomach.

  ‘He wants to talk with me, or sit with me, or go arm-in-crook with me. Mr B is very good and heads him off, distracting him and such, while I slip away. But I canna keep it up forever, and one day he will find me alone and . . .’

  A flash of imagery jumped into Margaret’s mind – Cyril pushing Lucy against a tree. Oh, the thought of it, the very idea of it for Anny.

  ‘But Anny, didn’t you know? He’s going away.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Yes, Father is sending him away to boarding school. He’s always had a tutor, but I overheard Father say he was lazy and needed taking in hand, that going out into the world would be good for him. He’s starting in the new year, when he turns fifteen. I’ve seen his uniform and kit, so I know it will surely happen. It was decided only recently and we have not written this week, seeing as we were about to meet up again. And I was so excited with the visit, it went completely out of my mind today to tell you.’

  Anny fell to her knees. Margaret, shocked, crouched beside her friend, whose face was in her hands and she was sobbing, really sobbing.

  ‘Oh Anny, oh Anny, my dear, dear friend. You should’ve told me. I wish you’d have told me sooner.’

  Anny rested her head on her friend’s shoulder as they hugged.

  ‘Well, I am telling you now. And you dunna know how happy your news has made me. I could skip and dance and sing!’

  The girls stood up and Anny wiped away her tears on her shawl.

  ‘I do know how happy, as I am the same! It’s as if a great stone were lifted from my chest. No more slaps for me, no more bullying. Until he returns in the holidays, that is.’

  Anny’s expression clouded. ‘When will that be?’

  ‘Well, not as often as all that. I heard Father and Queenie discussing it and they said that they were sending him away to make a man out of him and that meant no mollycoddling, and that he must not come home at weekends or half-terms. So he must stay until Christmas and thereafter only be allowed home three times a year, in April, August and December. And he’s going there for three years, at least!’

  ‘All my Christmases have come at once!’ squealed Anny and, hitching her skirt up from her boots, did that little skip and dance of which she’d spoken. Then she stopped suddenly and said, ‘Let us hope he inna expelled for bad behaviour.’

  ‘Oh yes, let’s pray to God to keep him good! He’s a terrible coward though, Anny, so I think it’s more likely that, never having been a regular schoolboy, he is the one who will be bullied and kept in line. I would like to see that happen with my own eyes. I would take great pleasure in it!’

  ‘Me too,’ said Anny. ‘Though I’d rather never lay eyes on him again. No offence.’

  ‘None taken!’ laughed Margaret.

  The friends linked arms and went on merrily to the fairy tree, gossiping about the locals Margaret had just met.

  ‘You’re so lucky to have so many friends, Anny. I do envy you.’

  Anny sighed and said, ‘I used to have lots of friends. Too many. All bothering me and making noise when I wanted to be peaceful. But now, since I started working at the office, they don’t come to me so much anymore. I’ve changed, I suppose, and they can see it. Now they mostly just tease me about it. They dunna understand me.’

  ‘I do,’ said Margaret, squeezing her friend’s arm. ‘You are simply trying to make a better life for yourself. There is nothing wrong in that.’

  ‘Exactly!’ said Anny. ‘You see that. But they only think I’m getting above myself. Especially that Peter Malone. He’s always on at me about it. Laughing at me. Well, I dunna find it funny anymore.’

  ‘Is Peter Malone in love with you?’ Margaret asked.

  ‘Oh, I dunna know and I dunna care! I’m not interested in him or any boys. I’m far too busy.’

  ‘He seemed to like you very much.’

  Seeming embarrassed at the turn of conversation, Anny became dismissive. ‘He’s nothing and nobody. Dunna waste any more of your thoughts on the likes of him.’

  They walked on in silence, Margaret wondering what it was like to be wanted like the Malone boy obviously wanted Anny. It must be the most marvellous feeling. She envied Anny that. She envied Peter Malone, his easy way of talking. She envied Anny’s neighbours, their simple, happy lives, as she pictured it.

  ‘I have a question about your neighbours,’ she said, as they reached the tree and she began to shed her working clothes. ‘The Quaker baby. Where did it come from? Does anybody know?’

  ‘Nobody really knows,’ said Anny nonchalantly. ‘But I heard my mother say they found the baby on the iron bridge.’

  As Margaret changed back into her rich girl’s clothes, a phrase echoed over and over in her mind. The baby on the bridge, the baby on the bridge. It must be the same one her grandmother mentioned, mustn’t it? But what could Queenie have to do with this green-eyed foundling? Then she knew where she’d seen those eyes before. Her grandfather had those same large, bright green eyes.

  *

  Once home, Margaret sought out Queenie in bed, surrounded by the clutter of illness: used handkerchiefs and hot compresses gone cold scattered amongst the sheets.

  ‘How are you, Grandmother? Are you improving?’

  ‘So, you’ve deigned to see me, child,’ said Queenie testily. Then, more softly, seeming to recall that she was meant to be at death’s door, ‘Where can you have been all afternoon?’

  ‘By the river, walking. That’s all.’

  ‘It does look a pleasant day, from what I can see from my sickbed.’

  ‘It is. Quite warm. Grandmother, I wanted to ask you about something.’

  ‘What is it now?’

  Margaret had to frame it carefully. She must ensure it sounded casual, something overheard.

  ‘Out walking, there were some local children playing in the woods. They were gossiping and one of them said about a baby that had been found on the bridge.’

  Queenie looked at Margaret sharply, then turned away and closed her eyes.

  ‘Leave me now, child.’

  ‘But Grandmother, why is it that you talk of this baby, of it escaping the King family?’ Margaret wanted to say it had green eyes, but she realised that would give her away, that she had seen the child itself. Questions would come thick and fast from Queenie about where she had really been t
hat afternoon.

  ‘I told you to leave. Your prattling on about nothing has exhausted me.’

  ‘But it is not nothing, is it, Grandmother? Please tell me.’

  ‘There is nothing to tell! Ridiculous child.’

  ‘I will keep it secret. I am good at keeping secrets.’

  ‘Oh, I am sure you are. Butter wouldn’t melt. Those huge, innocent blue eyes of yours.’

  ‘The baby on the bridge—’

  Queenie pushed herself upright in bed and fixed her granddaughter with a harsh eye. ‘Never ask me about that again. Never even mention it again in my hearing. Never, do you hear me?’

  ‘But why?’ cried Margaret.

  ‘How dare you quiz me! You, a mere child. A mere girl! The King men act however they please. There was nothing I could ever do about it and nothing you can either. The men of this family are cruel.’

  ‘I know this to be true,’ said Margaret. She struggled to form the words, unaccustomed as she was to having anything other than small talk with her family. But she knew this was an important moment, that something crucial was hovering just beyond her reach. ‘But I admire you, Grandmother, for the way you stand up to them and speak the truth.’

  ‘Well, that is all very well, but it is sound and fury, signifying nothing. A woman can say what she likes, but the fact of her life remains. We can fashion a life from the scraps our men leave us, but that is all a woman’s life is made of. The leavings of cruel men. You would do well to learn that now, before you are courted and wed. Now, where is Jenkins? I am ill and you have upset me. Fetch Jenkins this instant. And then, do go away.’

  Chapter 8

  Three years passed slowly for Cyril. The daily torture of boarding school: running and fighting, shouting and crying, writing and arithmetic, kings and queens, Latin and Greek, cricket and rowing, beatings and fear – the brutal camaraderie and casual violence of boys cooped up together in an upmarket prison paid for handsomely by their willing parents. Whatever little pockets of softness he had in him were gone by the age of eighteen. He had made some friends for life – fierce friendships forged in combat – and enemies, mostly amongst the masters for whom he dreamt up elaborate revenge fantasies he planned to carry out when he was older, a free man and out from under their dictatorship. The school had done its job admirably. The boy he had once been was gone; the man he was becoming had been hacked out of stone and stood proudly at the edge of adulthood, sturdy and jagged. His hunger to dominate females had matured into a cleverer, sneakier power play of sweet talk and mind games. He knew that some girls would not put up with violence, but wanted to hear and believe certain falsehoods in order to spread their legs. There were no girls in his environment to practise upon, but he made sure that trips into the local town were peppered with flirtations with local shop girls and other passing riff-raff of a certain class, higher than maids and lower than ladies. He sometimes found himself behind a bush in a park for a bout of sexual fumbling with one or other of these hussies. But all of them were simply passing through his affections, waiting for the day when he’d leave this cursed gaol of a school and go back home, ready to take up his position on his father’s estate and declare his love to Anny. He loved her, or believed he did. What did he want from her? To bed her, every night and every morning too if possible, but also to be improved by her; he admired her. Mostly, he looked forward to the day when he would gloriously take her, the thought of her thick red hair flung across his face making him stiff with eager sexual anticipation.

  Three years passed peacefully for Margaret, who had found her portion of contentment after a miserable childhood. Her daily round began with practising the piano, from which she derived huge pleasure, as she had a natural ability for it, a good ear and quick fingers. She played from the heart and found new pieces a welcome challenge that gave her the feeling of meeting new friends. She read many books from her father’s largely untouched and undusted library. Her favourites were historical romances and any French literature. She spent much of her small allowance on ordering books written in French and tore open the deliveries when each arrived. How she loved to read aloud in French, in her bedroom, of course, as her father was as anti-French as the next roast beef Englishman. She wrote long letters to Anny. She spent her afternoons taking walks, sometimes ‘happening by chance’ on Anny at lunchtime to gossip on the path down from the office. The two houses knew that the girls were acquainted by now, though they acted in a restrained and civil manner to each other when others were about, and in private like the close, bosom friends they really were. At teatime every day, Margaret spent an hour with Queenie, not talking much, but playing Old Maid, their new obsession. They would gamble with dried peas, or seeds, or conkers, whatever the season provided. The only blot on her landscape were the thrice-yearly home visits from Cyril, where she mostly made herself very scarce or posted herself at the library window, which had a view across the courtyard to Mr Brotherton’s office; if she saw Cyril heading in that direction, she would call to him and try to distract him – Queenie wanted him, Father wanted him, Cook wanted him – to give Anny time to escape from the office temporarily. Her only other problem was her father and his child-wife’s continued efforts to match her up with the sons of landed gentry. She found she could not speak to any of them of anything that actually mattered to her. Indeed, she cultivated her reputation for shyness by appearing deliberately boring. Her friendship with Anny had taught her how to speak her true feelings, but with these ill-chosen suitors she clammed up, on purpose. Awkward walks were characterised by long silences, that these young men might have found appealing at first in the demure, pretty blonde, but soon became tiresome for a young man eager to make his way in the world. What a blessed release it was for her when each one fell by the wayside and stopped calling, and she could go back to her books and music. She secretly delighted in thwarting her parents’ plans for her future. She was proud of her lovely hair and large eyes, her pale face and long limbs; she dreamt of a dashing romantic hero with flashing, French eyes that would come to her room at night, unannounced and undone by passion for her and her alone. She woke up damp and restless, yearning for something she did not understand yet could not resist. She wanted a different life than the one her father had planned for her.

  Three years passed feverishly for Anny, a whirlwind of ambition and optimism. Her father was doing well and there was talk of promotion for him. For years he had been a furnace filler, tipping the charge relentlessly into the furnace mouth. Now he had a chance of becoming a founder, descending from the mouth of hell into the cast-house, where the molten metal ran into sand-sculpted troughs. The founders would guide the surge of iron into the channels and sub-channels, called the sow and pigs, as they resembled piglets feeding at their mother’s belly. It was work that required more skill, and Pritchard had put her father’s name forward. She was forming a deep conviction that hard work and belief in oneself led to success. All one needed was to do it and then good things would happen. Her work at the office went from strength to strength, learning side by side with the Brothertons, who grew as fond of her as kin. Her language changed, improved as far as she was concerned, as she moved further away from the local words and sayings of her family, friends and neighbours and grew more alike with her betters, as she saw them. It pleased her more and more to listen to herself talk. She excelled at problem-solving, her mind quick-thinking and logical. Her handwriting continued to develop beautifully, yet she tired of clerical work. She joined Mr B more in his office, discussing labour troubles and matters of commerce with him, learning from him always yet surprising him often with her insight into how to get the best out of people, whether workers or merchants; how to make them feel appreciated yet also get their best deal for the estate. Everyone winning was always her goal. She, too, wrote long letters to her friend, Peggy. She, too, did all she could to avoid Cyril when he visited three times a year. Sometimes she was not able to give him the slip and was forced to engage in conversation. He wa
s not as arrogant, impatient and utterly objectionable as he had been in his earlier youth, but she did not like him or trust him. The hint of cruelty remained in his eyes and she did not like to look at them, as they made her insides twist and jerk, a most unpleasant and confusing sensation. Romance was a stranger to her, as the inept attempts of local lads to steal a kiss or more were always spurned forthrightly. They had no ambition, no get-up-and-go, no prospects. She stared at herself in the looking glass and hated her freckles, cursed her red hair. She had creamy skin and elegant narrow feet, which she admired, but wondered if anyone would ever notice such things, strapped up in her boots, or stuck in a dim, wood-panelled office. She longed for a young man like her, a good man, a moral man, with a burning ambition to change the world. Hand in hand, they would stride forward into the future. They would be masters of their own destinies. They would brush aside with ease any obstacles, which would disperse like wispy dandelion seeds on a warm breeze. She believed in this future utterly and saw no earthly reason why it would not all come to pass one day soon. All she needed was to find him.

  *

  Anny was writing when she first saw Jake Ashford. People came in and out of the office all day, and with Cyril still away at school she did not flinch when the office door opened. Mr B was in his room with the door closed, in conference with Pritchard. Mrs B was poorly and taking the day in bed. Anny was going to pop over to the cottage to see her and make her a little broth. She just wanted to get this letter finished. The door opened and she did not want to interrupt her work, so finished the sentence she was on, then looked up impatiently.

  ‘Good morning,’ said the young man standing before her. ‘Or is it afternoon?’

  Anny stared at him. He was an outsider to these parts. She had lived near Ironbridge all her life and worked at that office day in, day out for three years, and she knew everyone who was likely to come in. This one was new. He was far too well dressed for an ironworker, too fashionable for a merchant or salesman and not well dressed enough for a friend of the Kings. He fitted into no category she had experience of and was therefore a mystery. His enigmatic air was complemented by dark eyes and a tall, broad-shouldered frame curving into a narrow waist, clothed in a smart frock coat and he was holding a large leather wallet secured with a strap. He removed a tall hat to reveal a luxuriant mop of black hair, parted at the side and curly about the ears. Who could this magnificent stranger be?