The Daughters of Ironbridge

by Mollie Walton

  ‘I come from a middling sort of background that has recently moved up in the world. My father was a wine merchant in Birmingham, who then expanded into coffee houses, and thereby has made a pretty penny. I was given a good education and even a special tutor in art, which has always been my passion. My father kindly paid for me to take a trip to the near continent – a kind of truncated version of the grand tour – visiting Florence, Rome and Paris to see the great artworks there.’

  ‘I would dearly love to visit Paris,’ said Margaret.

  ‘Ah, Paris. Such beauty all around you, everywhere one looks in that city. So unlike London. And certainly Birmingham. Yet there is beauty here in Ironbridge, true beauty, sometimes in the most unexpected of places.’

  He smiled at her knowingly and she flushed hopelessly, unable to control her blushes. She changed the subject. ‘Which was your favourite city that you visited?’

  ‘Paris, indeed. The architecture and gardens are marvellous. I visited the Palace of Versailles. Have you heard of it?’

  ‘Oh, yes! I have read of it.’

  ‘Picture it. You walk into the central courtyard and you are surrounded by stone the colour of sun-baked sand, punctuated by row upon row of windows gazing glassily down upon you. The slate roof is topped with golden decoration. Indeed, there is gold everywhere to be seen. Particularly in the long gallery – they call it La Galerie des Glaces – the Hall of Mirrors – oh, but of course, you would know that, being a French speaker.’

  As he spoke, the images he painted with his words flowered in her mind. ‘Yes, the Hall of Mirrors. I cannot imagine anything so beautiful.’

  ‘It is a stunning sight. The sun streams through the windows and is dazzled in return by its reflection in the mirrors that line the wall, surrounded by a profusion of fleur-de-lis and chubby, golden babies. One cannot help but be overwhelmed by such richness. But outside is where I felt most delight, in the formal gardens. I imagine that you might feel more at home there too, Miss King, with your knowledge of botany?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ she uttered. She loved to listen to him. She had never travelled further than Shrewsbury, and felt how provincial she was. She dearly wished she had something to say that would interest him but could think of nothing but more questions. ‘How were the gardens?’

  ‘They are extraordinary, constructed like a painting or even, one could say, like the finest, hand-painted wallpaper. Great swathes of patterned grass and path combine to produce a design best seen from the air, I’d imagine. Only the birds could truly appreciate the gardens at Versailles!’

  ‘It sounds . . . wonderful,’ she gasped.

  ‘Oh, Miss King, you would be in heaven there, I am certain.’

  A vision came to her for a second time, of Parisian walks with Jake. Just the thought of it made her blush again. She watched him as he walked, carefully, out of the corner of her eye. Then, he stopped.

  ‘Miss King, may I speak freely?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, alive with anticipation.

  ‘I do hope I am not boring you. I worry that I am.’

  ‘Oh, no, indeed. Quite the opposite, I assure you!’

  ‘Ah, thank you, Miss King. I feel I am talking and talking away and you must be quite sick of me, because I have noticed that you do not speak very much.’

  There came her blushes again, but this time, they signalled a flush of humiliation. Her old anxiety, her social awkwardness, was here again. And now it threatened to ruin this new delight, her relationship with this extraordinary young man.

  ‘Mr Ashford,’ she began, but faltered. She did not know how to explain herself to him. She felt that she had failed him, that it was in fact she who bored him. She was about to make her excuses and leave, when he stopped walking. She looked up at him.

  ‘Miss King, I am afraid that I have insulted you, and that was strictly not my intention. It is so unusual in our class to find someone who does not prattle on in incessant and tedious small talk. It revolts me, this obsession the upper classes have with chattering about nothing, spending hours and days and weeks of their pointless lives on such mediocrity! That is one reason, of the many reasons, why I value talking to our mutual friend Miss Woodvine so much, as she seems to have no capacity for small talk whatsoever and always straightway cuts to the chase in all our conversations. Don’t you find this is true of Anny Woodvine, Miss King? So easy to converse with, she is quite a joy.’

  This sudden mention of Anny caught Margaret wholly by surprise. Of course, she knew they had met, but did not know they were on such good terms. Quite a joy . . . She looked down at her feet as they walked. She suddenly felt quite floored and had no idea what to say. But he was going on, filling the void for her.

  ‘But also, how refreshing it is to find a person from the more refined classes such as yourself, who is careful and considered in her speech, who speaks only of those things that truly matter. It is like an oasis after a desert of trivialities. Please forgive me if you felt I was criticising your quietude. It is quite the opposite, I assure you. I admire it hugely.’

  Now she found she could not speak, because she was quite overcome. But she wanted to speak, she wanted to say so much to him. She managed only a muffled ‘thank you’.

  ‘You are sure I have not upset you in any way?’

  ‘Oh no, indeed. As you say, quite the opposite. Quite the opposite.’

  ‘I am relieved. So, could I ask that, each time I come to paint your stepmother, we could walk like this and converse?’

  ‘I would like that very much.’ Margaret felt a sharp breathlessness building in her chest.

  ‘To think that I have that time with you to look forward to . . . Well, it has cheered me so. My visits to you will be the high point of my week!’

  ‘And mine! I will live for it!’ she replied, before she had a chance to be shy. She was so unaccustomed to speaking her feelings to a man – indeed, she had never done so in her life.

  Yet he smiled so kindly at her, that she relaxed and found herself smiling too. A little chuckle escaped his lips and she laughed too. How natural it was to be with him, how much easier than anyone in her family, those people who she was supposed to feel at ease with.

  They fell silent for a while and walked on, past the vegetables growing lustily in the walled garden, strung round with twine and labels; past the beehive buzzing with life yet contained in their white, wooden home, their honey stolen at intervals; past the fuchsias and chrysanthemums beaming brilliantly in the afternoon sun, yet penned in by canes and perfect alignment in fixed patterns.

  Jake broke their comfortable silence. ‘It is a beautiful garden you have here. But so restrained, so trussed up and ordered. Nature is tamed here, I see,’ he said and she looked at him. There was a look in his eye, something she could not place, but it made her feel weak at the knees. He went on, ‘Wouldn’t it be satisfying to see it run wild?’

  She felt out of her depth and yet ready to dive deeper into a sea of impulsiveness. A wave of tingles ran over her whole body as she looked into his eyes. It was something she associated with certain passages in certain French novels she had read. It was something that alarmed her, and yet she wanted it more than anything. She could not put a name to it but it was the most powerful thing she had ever felt and it seemed to emanate from Jake Ashford’s eyes.

  Overcome by her feelings, she mumbled something about feeling unwell, unable to say a proper goodbye, mortified at her inability to speak. She rushed across the gardens, around the corner of the house, nearly colliding with Cyril, who was marching from the direction of the woods, a look of thunder on his face.

  ‘Watch out, you bloody fool!’ he spat at her, as he pushed her aside and leapt up the steps to the front door, taking them two at a time. She did not have time to wonder what had angered him in particular that day, as she was intent on her own escape from public view. She ran up to her room and shut the door. She curled up on her bed, closed her eyes and breathed deeply to calm herself. It was h
er first true experience of lust. It frightened her and it thrilled her. It was more exciting than any of her novels.

  *

  That evening, Anny left the office after work with a head full of daydreams. She walked down the woodland path towards home with slow, languorous steps. Lately, she had been distracted at work and this was unlike her. Work was everything, closely followed by her family and her friendship with Peggy. But now there was Jake. She found herself often wanting to arrange time alone specifically to think about him. She looked for opportunities to be on her own so that she could devote the proper thinking time to the exclusive contemplation of Jake Ashford.

  She marvelled how her life had been proceeding very nicely in one direction, more than a girl like her could have hoped for, with all its promise. And then this new element had suddenly dropped into her path, this young man, this artist. How strange life was, with its surprises and chance encounters, always when one least expected it! One could pray for things and they would never come, but then one day, when you were looking the other way, life served you up something delicious. Oh, and he was delicious! No, she mustn’t characterise him that way. He was a serious person, a creative person, not a fancy piece of baggage. And his ambition, his artistic aims, all of this about him was so admirable. But those eyes. The way he looked at her, in a manner no local boy had ever done. When her eyes met with Jake’s, there was a deep connection she had never experienced, like a series of small explosions happening in her mind. Surely the only name that she could give it was love.

  But there was a stone in her path to true love. She tried not to think of it that way, but there it was, all the same: Peggy. Anny wondered if Peggy was sweet on Jake too. At first, it had been fun to share their impressions of the new arrival. After that, neither had mentioned Jake again; it became the elephant in the room. Anny did not tell her best friend of the meetings she’d had with him, of their long discussions, of her burgeoning feelings. And she did not ask Peggy if she had seen him either. The truth was that Anny did not want to hear about Jake from Peggy’s mouth. She wanted to block out the wider world when it came to Jake; she wanted to pretend that he only spoke with her and that, along with his art, these were his only preoccupations.

  Anny put it out of mind. She only wanted happy thoughts this day. Her dear friend Peggy, her true love Jake, her work with the Brothertons, her dear parents happy to see her so settled – and who knows what else the bright future held? She saw a simple white bindweed flower on its vine encircling a tree and plucked it, to feel the soft petals in her hand, to hold it to her breast and sigh with languid pleasure at her thoughts. The warm summer breeze whispered through the woods and teased her hair, free from the bonnet she carried, too hot for this glorious July day, brimming with birdsong and the buzzing of bees and the scent of earth and bracken.

  ‘Anny! Ahoy there, Anny!’

  The voice assaulted her. It shattered her thoughts as surely as a brick through a hothouse roof. She whipped round, hoping against hope she had mistaken its owner. She had not.

  ‘Why, fancy coming across you here. Are you not late leaving work?’

  Cyril’s face was red and puffed, as he lumbered up the incline beneath her. A quick survey of her surroundings showed her they were out of sight of both the road and the office, and she was still far from her home. She turned and quickened her step onwards, tying her bonnet back on as if for protection.

  ‘Indeed not,’ she said, avoiding looking at him.

  ‘Ah, then,’ he said, out of breath and reaching her side, struggling to keep pace with her now. ‘You will have a little time to speak with me then.’

  ‘I fear not. I must be getting on, as I have so much to do at home.’

  ‘Ah, but I must insist, Anny. I simply must speak with you on a matter of great importance.’

  Anny strode onwards, her breaths short and ragged. ‘Perhaps in the office another day, sir,’ she managed to say, despite the panic rising in her throat now. His hand was on her arm and she stiffened and stopped dead.

  ‘How can you call me that, Anny? How can you call me “sir”, after all these years?’

  Anny would not look at him. She stared ahead, her eyes fixed on the path home, its safety well out of reach. ‘It is the correct name for your position, sir. And my own, as your father’s employee. Now if . . .’

  His voice came closer. ‘But I would like that to change. I would like us to form an alternative kind of relationship.’

  ‘That will not be possible. Our stations in life are too different.’

  ‘But you are friends with my sister. You have overcome the difference in your stations to become close friends, I see.’

  She stared at the ground now, at her feet. Her mind raced; how to escape this, how to run without seeming to run. But it was impossible. The only thing to do was block his every verbal attempt and thereby shut down the conversation, as a handful of sand on a flame.

  ‘We are not close friends, only acquaintances.’

  Cyril laughed gently, a knowing laugh. ‘But that is not true, is it, Anny? You are speaking falsehoods to me now. I know about the letters and the secret meetings. I’m not a fool, you know. But don’t worry, I will keep your secret.’

  She looked at him now. His expression was a sneer but it softened when their eyes met. ‘Oh Anny,’ he sighed, his hand still on her arm, squeezing it joltingly, no softness or rhythm in his touch. ‘Let us not worry about such things, about who your father is, or my father. None of this matters, when two people are . . . when they could be . . . when we should be . . .’

  He does not know how to speak of love, she thought, he doesn’t have it in him. ‘Oh Anny,’ he said again. ‘Such a lovely face, such red, red hair.’ Without releasing his grip, his other hand reached up to touch her head and she jerked back suddenly, causing him to stumble.

  ‘Now then!’ he said, his face changing, annoyance and hurt pride in his eyes.

  ‘I am promised to another,’ she blurted out.

  His eyes narrowed. ‘What other?’

  ‘Never you mind. That is my business.’ Her fear made her bold.

  ‘That blasted artist fellow?’

  What did Cyril know of Jake? She instantly regretted her confession. It was not true, not by any understanding with Jake. But it was true in her heart and it was the only thing she could think of to fend him off.

  Cyril’s hands were on her again, grasping her upper arms. His face was transfiguring into anger. ‘Is it? That Ashford? I saw you with him in town. I was watching you, the way you stare at him. It is not seemly.’

  The thought of Cyril spying on them made bile rise in her throat. But her immediate danger was at hand and she must think straight.

  ‘Release me,’ she said steadily and looked directly at him. ‘This is not seemly.’

  His face altered again, as changeable as spring weather. Now he implored her, still gripping her arms. ‘Will you not satisfy me, Anny? A kiss? I have waited so long for a kiss from those rosy lips,’ and he lurched towards her. With a great effort, she wrenched herself away from him and began to walk hurriedly away. He caught up with her and took hold of her again, saying her name over and over, trying to put his mouth to her neck. His embrace was incredibly strong, iron and solid against her resolve to escape.

  Her mouth was close to his ear, so she used her voice, the only weapon she had left: ‘Are you gunna shove yer hand up my skirts, like you do with the other servants? Is that what this is, eh? You gunna rape and ravish me, you forsaken bastard?’

  It stopped him. It worked. He still held her tightly but he had stopped. He held her before him, so he could look in her eyes. Now his face was all hearts and flowers. ‘How can you say such words to me, Anny? Don’t you know how I adore you? How I’ve always, always adored you?’

  She changed tack too. ‘Well then, this is not the action of a man who adores me. Unhand me and give me my dignity again, if you truly do adore me.’

  He did so. S
he thought briefly of running but he was too fast and too strong for her. She had the advantage now, and must build upon it.

  ‘This is not the way to woo a girl,’ she said gently. But it was the wrong thing to say. It angered him.

  ‘And I suppose that silver-tongued counterfeit fop knows how to woo you, eh, with his ridiculous bowing and stupid drawings. Don’t you see, he’s not good enough for you. He will never earn enough money from his scribblings to provide for you.’

  ‘We will save our money. We will earn it by honest labour and save it until we have enough. That’s what our kind do. We don’t have things handed to us on a silver platter. We earn our way through life, with dignity.’ She was ranting now and had no idea why. Why argue with this monster? Why pretend that she and Jake had a plan? But perhaps saying it aloud would make it so.

  ‘You are right. You do have dignity, Anny. It is in you. You were born for better things. And I can give you those things. Marry me, Anny. Become the lady of Southover, take your rightful place above your natural station. I don’t care where you come from, how poor you are, who your family is. It is no matter to me that Woodvine is your father, that he is a low employee of my father’s, that your mother takes in dirty clothes. You are not like them, Anny. You are a queen amongst them. Take my hand, and you can rise above all this mean ignorance. Oh, the fine things I could give you! You would be in heaven! Don’t you want that? Don’t you want to leave all that filthy squalor behind?’

  Anny listened, incredulous. Her body was still primed for flight but a rage had risen in her now. ‘We are not filthy. We do not live in squalor. We are not mean or ignorant. We are proud and hard-working people. Jake Ashford understands that, even your sister understands that. But you will never know it, because you are the one who is ignorant and mean. You strut and preen and stamp on small things beneath your feet. You pass through your pointless life blind to anything but getting what you want, when you want it. You will never be half the man my father is, if you laboured all your days, you would never. It is not in your nature. You are cruel and selfish, in love with yourself and your kind. You disgust me. I would not marry you if my freedom depended on it, if my very life depended on it. I would rather die!’