The Daughters of Ironbridge

by Mollie Walton

  At the mention of her daughter’s name, Mrs Woodvine sobbed loudly and hid her face. Mr Woodvine turned his towards Margaret – he was not able to look at her directly – and said, ‘It might be best if you go now, miss.’

  Margaret stood up quickly, the speed of it and the heat in there making her unsteady. There was so much more she wanted to say but she knew she was no longer welcome. Yesterday, she had been a friend. Now she was just another King. She made it to the door without speaking and out into the day, the heavy air cooler out here and most welcome. She breathed deeply and was about to flee the scene when Mr Woodvine appeared beside her.

  ‘I ought to say . . .’ he began, wiping a hand over his eyes, ‘I mean . . . I mean to say that I am grateful . . . that we are grateful to you, miss. For trying. For visiting Anny. There’s many that wouldna done that, that would’ve done naught for her, for our kind. It was good of you.’

  Now Margaret wanted to sob. But she was so impressed by Mr Woodvine’s dignity, she forced herself to keep her emotions at bay. ‘I wish I could do more. I do have one last attempt, and that is to speak with my brother. He is a . . . difficult person. But I am determined to confront him at least. I will be doing this upon my return to the house. I will be honest and say that I doubt anything will come of it. But I must try. For Anny.’

  Mr Woodvine listened to her speak with such intensity, she almost looked away. Then she saw he was looking at the side of her face where she had been struck. Even in this moment of desolation, his expression showed he still reserved some pity for her. She put her hand up without thinking, to shield it. She had forgotten the bruise since arriving. There were more important things to consider.

  ‘I’d better . . .’ Woodvine trailed off, a gesture towards the cottage sufficed.

  ‘Yes, of course. Thank you. And, I’m sorry.’

  He shook his head and looked about, as if searching for the right words. But there were no right words.

  Margaret turned and started the trudge homewards. She saw the Quaker cottage and out in front of it were the old couple and the child. She had not seen them for years. The child must now be – how old? Four or five? – and was more lovely than ever. The girl had such a healthful bloom about her cheeks, she seemed formed from milk and red roses, like an enchanted child from a fairy tale. Margaret watched her as she slowly passed by. The baby on the bridge. She thought of Queenie’s mysterious words, that this was a lucky child to have escaped the King family. She recalled how the child had the same green eyes as her dead grandfather. It all pointed to the old story, the rich master and the poor maid. But Margaret could not prove it. And she didn’t care to. Queenie had been right: for all their wealth, it was still the lucky child that escaped the King family. Her dear friend’s life was about to be ruined by the very same family, her family. It sickened her. Her own family was like poison in her veins.

  At the very least, she would confront Cyril and attempt to force him to admit his guilt. When she arrived home, she went to look for him. She knocked on his door to no answer, but this was not unusual. Cyril rarely followed convention when it came to basic manners. She could hear him moving around in there, though, so she opened the door and stepped inside.

  ‘What the devil do you want?’ he scowled at her. He was standing at his wardrobe, choosing cravats, several draped over his arm already. Behind him stood a trunk, the lid open to show it had been fully packed by his manservant already, and Cyril was finishing off with his own crucial choices of which neckwear he most desired.

  ‘Where are you going?’ said Margaret.

  ‘To Germany, if you must know.’

  ‘What for?’

  He finished with the cravats and threw them onto the trunk, knowing his servant would sort them out later.

  ‘Cyril, what for? Why are you going to Germany?’

  ‘To an ironworks there. To learn the business, from the continental perspective.’

  Margaret recognised her father’s words in Cyril’s mocking tone. To spirit him away, she realised. Across the sea and out of reach. He would have no part in the trial and no case to answer. She had always thought of her father as a bit dim. Now she saw he could be rather clever, when it served him, or was it Queenie’s hand in this? Cyril was getting away with it, scot-free and out of harm’s way, while Anny would languish in prison. The world protected men like that, she realised. The world was unfair.

  ‘I must speak with you before you go.’

  ‘I am about to leave, so there is no time,’ he said with finality.

  ‘This is important, Cyril. It is about Anny.’

  He shot a glance at her, his eyes widened with – what was it? Worry? Concern? Guilt? Then he looked away to hide it and went to stand at the window, looking out. ‘I have nothing to say on that matter. Some office girl caught thieving is far beneath my notice.’

  ‘But I know differently.’ Margaret never knew what tack to take with her brother, but she decided that a bullying approach would never work on him, as he could out-bully just about anyone, except their father. But perhaps she could appeal to something else in him. ‘I know you had feelings for Anny.’

  For once, Cyril did not speak. Margaret used the moment to go on.

  ‘She is in a terrible place. A terrible state.’

  ‘What has that to do with us?’ he said, strangely quiet for him. Was she getting through to him?

  ‘Could we not help her, Cyril?’

  ‘She has made her own bed.’

  She knew this utterance was fraught with meaning. She could hear Cyril’s jealousy in it. He must have found out something about Anny’s feelings for Jake. Margaret had tasted that bitter disappointment, as much as she hated herself for it. The thought of Anny and Jake was torture to her. Perhaps she and her brother had something in common, at long last.

  ‘This is true,’ she said, choosing her words with the utmost care. ‘It is hard to see others make choices that . . . we do not like, that hurt us.’

  Cyril made a scoffing sound and turned to her. ‘What do you know about such things?’

  She almost told him. She heard the words in her mind: I am in love with Jake Ashford. But she could not speak it, not to this viper – she did not trust him an inch with that precious cargo – but also these were words she did not wish to reveal to anyone. Anyone but Jake. It shamed her that she still hoped for a future with Jake when it was becoming clear to her that Anny still hoped for the same.

  She must do whatever it took to help Anny. That was her role now, to save her friend. ‘All I know is that Anny Woodvine is innocent. She did not steal that money. She does not deserve this fate.’

  ‘You know nothing of the sort,’ Cyril spat and strode back to his trunk, fiddling with the cravats, looking busy.

  ‘I do and so do you. Because you are the one who took the money, Cyril.’

  He glared at her. ‘Say that again,’ he said in a low, threatening voice. ‘I dare you.’

  ‘I am not afraid of you, Cyril King. Not anymore.’

  ‘You should be.’ She saw his right fist clench slowly, deliberately.

  ‘But I have the truth on my side. I know you loved Anny once. I think you still do. Come with me to Father and tell him what happened, explain about Jake Ashford. Father might even understand. He has loved and lost our mother, after all. All it would take is a word from you and Father could withdraw the charges and Anny would be free.’

  ‘Lies! Lies, all of it. I had nothing to do with it!’ Cyril’s voice broke, his face contorted.

  ‘And who knows,’ she went on, fired up with momentum now. ‘If Anny knew you had set her free, perhaps she might forgive you. Perhaps she would come to you to thank you. Perhaps . . .’ A horrible thought came to her and her mind was racing so fast she had no time to stop and look at it closely, so she blurted it aloud: ‘Perhaps she would drop Jake Ashford in favour of you, and he would be . . .’

  Cyril’s face changed. His eyes lit with a cruel sne
er. ‘He would be what? What would he be, sister? Yours?’

  ‘No, I meant he would be spurned and you . . . that you . . . you could turn Anny to love you.’

  Cyril laughed and stared at her, nodding. ‘Dear sister. We are more alike than I ever thought possible. So, you want the artist?’

  ‘I never . . .’

  ‘Oh no, it is too late for that. You have revealed yourself. It does you credit that you fight for your friend when it would suit you far better if she rotted in prison forever or was sent across the world never to be seen again. Yet if she is to be free, you argue that she might come to me, that she would be grateful, that she would forsake her jumped-up little scribbler for me. How convenient that would be for you!’

  ‘No, you have twisted everything! This is not . . .’

  Cyril was shaking his head and smiling smugly. ‘The fact is that you have nothing to taint me. There is no evidence against me, no proof I had anything to do with it. I will go to Germany today and think no more on this trifling little drama. You, I suspect, will go to your room and twist your sheets about you in passionate contemplation of Jake Ashford and his lead-smudged fingers . . .’

  Margaret clenched and unclenched her own fists, furious at herself yet also wanting very much to smash that smug look from Cyril’s face. How could she have let this conversation veer so far off track? It was all her fault.

  ‘I am busy now, preparing for my journey. Leave me. And if you ever find proof of my crime, be sure to march straight to Father with it, won’t you?’

  And he lifted his hands and gestured her away, as if shooing a fly. She knew she was beaten. But she had found her voice. She would not go silently.

  ‘You think you have won. But you are the one who will be alone for all of your days and nights. For you do not have the capacity to love. And so you are cursed, Cyril King, to live alone and die alone.’

  With that, she turned and left. He did not shout after her. She heard the door slam behind her. She felt some satisfaction at this, at least. But beneath it was the dull ache of having failed, again.

  How could she help Anny now? She thought she might offer to testify in court to Anny’s good character, even tell them of her suspicions of her brother, but Cyril was quite right – she had no evidence, no proof. Who would believe her? It all seemed hopeless. Nobody would support her in this endeavour and her father would send her away to a fate worse than death. Suddenly, she felt utterly alone in the world. Her family were against her and she had lost her only friend. She had no one, not a soul that cared for her, no one she could talk to.

  But there was someone. Jake. Oh, Jake! Of course – she must take Anny’s message to him. This comforting thought was spiked with conflicted feelings as she found she was jealous of the message, which appalled her. She would deliver the message. At the very least, it meant it was some small thing she could do for Anny and now she had a reason to see him, to talk to him alone. Another feeling assaulted her: remorse. How could she feel excitement at seeing him, at this time of all times? What a terrible person she was. But she reminded herself that she had no one, and that the small grain of hope at seeing someone who seemed to like her was not so unforgivable, was it?

  An idea rose in her mind, as innocently as thistledown on a breeze. She would go to his lodgings and see him. She might be seen; there might be a scandal. She realised that she did not give a damn. She had kept on her boots and cloak and took up her purse from the bed. She quietly descended the stairs, keeping a lookout for her father bustling about, and managed to get to the front door without being seen.

  Jake had mentioned once where he was lodging, or at least, the house he was in, to the left of the Tontine Hotel, immediately opposite the iron bridge. She wasn’t used to walking the streets without a chaperone. But now, here she was. Alone, walking along the road to town. No family, no restraints. There was a marvellous kind of freedom in it, walking along a path on your own. The air around her body and head gave her a giddiness. Imagine it, to walk away from this family and never go back. This thought gave her a jolt.

  She was coming down Lincoln Hill, past the rows of low, neat brick houses with cellar windows peeping out below street level. She glanced back up the hill and could see the King house from here, her family home. It was perched above the town, looking down upon it, literally and figuratively. The people surrounding her, busy in their own lives, all believed themselves to be the masters of their own existences, the protagonists of their own stories. None of them cared a hoot about the Kings, about her father or her brother or herself. Quite rightly. What was it about class that set one above another? The thought of never returning to that house felt like the longest, coolest draught of water after a hot day. As she rounded the bottom of the hill and turned into the High Street, where the Tontine Hotel was situated, it occurred to her that, more than anything she had ever wanted, she would sell her soul to escape from her own story and walk right out of it.

  She thought of the baby on the bridge she had seen that morning, frolicking in front of its humble home. She felt inspired by the baby’s example: how happy its life was, how simple and sweet. Of course, there would be hardships, living the life they did, down there amongst the struggling poor. Look what happened to a family like the Woodvines, when the forces of the rich were drawn against them. But the Quaker child was raised by kind and loving people and no amount of money can buy you that kind of comfort and love. Margaret knew that more than most.

  As she passed the Tontine and looked for the building beside it, she thought of Jake Ashford. Whatever her mission was that day, whatever her love for Anny, her need to support her friend, she knew that underneath all of this beat her heart and it beat for him alone. She loved him. And amidst the ruin of her family life, her love rose like a phoenix and gave her a burning strength within her. Everything in her life had been thrown into question, and now she felt sure that Jake Ashford was the answer.

  The house had only one door. She knocked upon it and waited. The door opened and there stood a middle-aged woman with a pinched face bordered by greasy ringlets. Margaret was given a quick look up and down and then the woman put on a simpering smile.

  ‘How may I help you, miss?’ said the woman.

  ‘I am Miss King, from the big house.’

  ‘Of course y’are, of course y’are!’ said the woman delightedly. ‘What assistance or service can I be of to you, Miss King?’

  ‘I have a message for a Mr Ashford. He has been painting a portrait up at the house and I need to convey a message to him from my father.’ The woman was starting to frown a little. ‘Would it be at all possible to discover if Mr Ashford were at home? So that I could deliver the message to him? In person?’

  She knew it was unorthodox. Why had the family not sent a messenger? But she braved it out and smiled at the woman, who seemed eager to please. Perhaps a coin would be in order, if she was veering towards being unhelpful.

  ‘I can deliver the message for you, miss, unless . . .’

  The woman eyed the purse that Margaret was clutching.

  ‘Is Mr Ashford at home?’

  ‘He is, miss. I believe he is sleeping.’

  ‘At lunchtime?’ queried Margaret.

  ‘Oh yes, miss. He often does that. He’s been home late every night this week. Out . . . painting, I should think. Such a dedicated artist.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Margaret, uncertainly. She looked down at her purse, snapped it open and reached inside. One coin, two . . . how many would it take? She wanted to glance behind her, to see who was looking at the King girl bargaining with a landlady of a gentleman’s residence, in full view of the whole town. The scandal was unthinkable. But she felt as if the ropes that had tethered her to the ground had been freed and she was floating up, up above her class, her reputation and all the weights and restrictions it brought with it. She was beyond the pale and she did not care one jot for it anymore. Even pretence seemed pointless.

  ‘
I will give you this, if you will take me to him,’ she said, looking the woman straight in the eye.

  ‘Come in then,’ said the woman throatily and shut the door. She pocketed the money swiftly and pointed up the stairs. ‘Top floor. The attic room.’ And with that, she went off down the corridor to her own rooms, not giving Miss King a second look. Their business was concluded.

  Margaret looked up the stairs and felt light-headed. They seemed incredibly steep and her head was swimming. Her stomach lurched. She began to climb, her breath quickening. The top room had a tiny landing and she stood on it, before the door, the only thing that stood between her and him. She listened at it, to see if she could hear him inside. She felt dizzy and steadied herself with a hand upon his door. She gathered her courage and made a fist, then knocked. No reply, no movement. She knocked again. Had the woman lied, to get her money for nothing? But then there was a shuffling inside. She held her breath. Footsteps. The door opened.

  There he stood, black glossy hair on end, squinting at her through his sleep-addled eyes, which soon snapped open when he saw who it was. He was dressed, that is, he had on his trousers and a shirt, untucked. No waistcoat or socks, she noticed, glancing at his naked feet with a shock.

  ‘My dear Miss King!’ he cried. ‘Is there an emergency?’

  ‘No, Mr Ashford. I am sorry . . . to awaken you from your slumber.’

  ‘Not at all,’ he said, running his fingers through his hair in a vain attempt to control it. It delighted her to see him so ruffled, so normal, so unprepared. His real self, beyond all pretence and manners. ‘Please tell me how I can assist you. I am worried for you, Miss King.’

  ‘I came to bring you a message of the utmost importance and I could not wait upon . . . the more . . . accustomed channels. I simply had to come. Can you forgive me?’

  Jake listened to this with a serious face, but now he smiled. ‘There is nothing to forgive. I am only apologetic to receive you in a state of such dishevelment. But please, I am unforgivable, allowing you to stand there and not invite you in. It is very humble, if you will forgive me.’ He began hurriedly tucking in his shirt and stepping back.