by Unknown
But Luke was not like this, nor his friend – what was her name? Minna? She remembered the girl’s wicked, laughing face, bright with mischief. The women and children working the packing lines seemed to have had all spirit crushed out of them, leaving just the shell of their bodies working, working, working endlessly.
‘They work from six in the morning until six at night,’ Sebastian shouted in her ear, ‘and would work longer if we let them; they need the money.’
Rosa saw a child dart until the conveyor belt to retrieve a fallen box of matches and she had to shut her eyes for a moment at the sight of the girl’s plait so close to the roaring machinery. All it would take would be one slip . . . Her fingers clenched involuntarily on Sebastian’s arm.
Sebastian saw her face and shook his head.
‘I told you you would be shocked.’
‘I wanted to come,’ she managed. So this was where Sebastian’s family made their money. The graceful beauty of Southing was sucked from the bodies of these men, women and children. The thought made her feel ill and she loathed herself for the weakness. Was this what Luke had gone back to? Was this what she had sent Minna to? She scanned the faces of the women on the packing line, but none of them had Minna’s thin, sharp face and laughing eyes.
‘Where next?’ she asked, and she was proud that her voice remained steady. ‘This is where the matches are packed – you said they are dipped here too?’
‘Yes, but I won’t take you there,’ Sebastian said. ‘The dipping room is no place for a lady. The fumes are very unpleasant.’
‘I want to see everything.’
‘No.’
‘Sebastian!’
‘You know nothing about it and you will accept my authority on this.’
His voice was calm, but his blue eyes were colder and harder than she had ever seen. Rosa knew that she had lost.
‘Let us have tea instead,’ Sebastian said. It was a statement, not a question, and Rosa nodded: better to pretend to acquiesce than admit the fact that she had no choice in the matter at all.
He led her through more passages, an office crammed with clerks scratching figures into ledgers, and then opened the door into another world, a room panelled in walnut and lit with a softly fringed lamp. The door closed behind them and she might have been at Southing, or a gentlemen’s club, or some other place where comfort and luxury reigned supreme.
‘Please have a seat, my darling.’ Sebastian showed her a silk-upholstered chair and she sank into it, her head still spinning with the faces and fumes. He moved to the fire and rang a bell; almost instantly a messenger appeared.
‘Tea, please. For two.’
The boy hurried away and Sebastian came and sat next to her.
‘It’s shocking, I know. Even I was horrified the first time I came here – and I was a child at the time, with a child’s acceptance of the brutal realities of life. There is much that I would like to improve, but at least we provide honest employment – these are men and women who would otherwise be without means of sustaining themselves and would turn to crime or, in the case of the women . . .’ He hesitated.
‘Prostitution?’ Rosa said bluntly. ‘Is that what you mean?’
‘Yes, though I don’t like to hear the word on your lips.’
‘But, Sebastian, would it be so hard to pay them a shilling more here or there? Or work them a little less hard?’
‘What you see is not the effect of the work, Rosa. It’s their upbringing. It is the fact that they have grown up in these poisoned, stifling streets without light or morality.’
‘But that’s not true!’ She clenched her fists. ‘I—’
‘Yes?’ Sebastian said. There was something dangerous, watchful in his eyes. Rosa held her breath. She had almost made the mistake of mentioning Luke’s name. As if by agreement they had both avoided any mention of that terrible night at Southing, when she had kissed Luke. It was as if by pretending he did not exist, the whole horror could be wiped out of existence too.
‘Nothing,’ Rosa said miserably. ‘But would it be so impossible to pay them a little more? Enough to move out of poverty, to somewhere with a little light and clean air?’
‘They would take their filth with them,’ Sebastian said softly. ‘If you gave them a bath, they would not wash in it, for they have never been taught how. It is the people who live here who create these neighbourhoods, not the other way around. Besides, what do you think would happen if I paid ten per cent more than our nearest rival? Our matches would cost ten per cent more, people would cease to buy them and the factory would end up having to close. Ten per cent of no wage is nothing.’
‘But if you explained that the cost was in order to give a humane wage . . .’ she tried despairingly. Sebastian only shook his head.
There was a rap at the door and Sebastian stood up.
‘That will be the tea. Come in!’
But it was not the tea. It was a small messenger boy, stunted and anxious. He shook his head as Sebastian asked him for his message and beckoned him outside with a look at Rosa. Sebastian sighed, but followed him into the corridor and closed the door. When he came back inside, he was holding a tray.
‘Rosa, there is a matter that requires my attention in the dipping room. I’m sorry to leave you, but it’s urgent. Here is the tea . . .’ He poured her a cup and added milk and a lump of sugar with silver tongs. ‘When I come back I’ll escort you down to the carriage.’
After he left, Rosa sank back in the chair. She felt numb. She knew she should drink the tea, that Sebastian would be angry if he came back and found she had not touched it, but she could not bear to think of consuming anything in this dark, poisoned place. He had not even asked her if she took sugar. Was this what her life would be like from now on, dictated to not by Mama’s whims and Alexis’ moods, but by Sebastian’s instead?
She took a forced sip of tea. It was sickly sweet and she pushed the cup away.
Today should not have changed anything – everything she had found out about Sebastian’s nature she had known already. She already knew that he was cold, that he was dictatorial, that there was a streak of brutality that frightened her.
But it had. It had changed everything.
She had been prepared to sacrifice herself. But she saw, clearly now, that it was not only her sacrifice. This factory had paid for Southing, its pastures wrung out of the suffering of men, women and children. Their happiness and health had paid for the bricks and stones and glass and paddocks. Every horse in the stable, warm and shining and well fed – how many matches did it represent? A thousand? A million? Each one whittled and dipped and packed by those desperate, grey-faced, blank-eyed workers.
She could not let them pay for Matchenham too.
She ripped off her glove and pulled at the ruby on her finger, yanking at the ring with all her strength. It was no use. The band dug cruelly into her finger and the more she pulled, the harder it bit. She spat on her knuckle and tried again, whispering spells under her breath to try to force it free, but the ring stayed firm, and when she stopped her finger was red and swelling, with blood beading scratches where the ornate setting had cut her skin.
Rosa let her hand drop. What was she planning to do – run away, leaving only the ring as the sign of her change of heart? No. That would be the coward’s way out.
She would find Sebastian and tell him herself.
She stood, her heart beating suddenly hard and fast. She was more afraid that she had ever been in her life, more afraid than when the girth broke and she was dragged through the grit. More afraid than when Cherry had plunged to her death in the river.
In private she would be at Sebastian’s mercy. She had to tell him now, in public, at the factory.
Outside the office she stood for a moment looking up and down the long, grey corridor. There was no one in
sight, so she set off back the way they had come earlier, hoping to luck. As she turned a corner she bumped into a listless girl hurrying in the opposite direction.
‘Excuse me,’ she said. The girl didn’t stop and Rosa put out a hand, grabbing her wrist and forcing her to halt. ‘Excuse me!’
‘Don’t stop me, miss.’ The girl’s face was grey with fear. ‘I daren’t be late. I’ll lose my post.’
‘Then tell me quick, which way to the dipping room?’
‘Visitors ain’t allowed,’ the girl said automatically. She tugged at her wrist, but Rosa held fast.
‘Tell me and I’ll let you go! No one will know it was you, but if you’re late—’
‘Straight ahead,’ the girl said with a look of fear and fury. ‘Take the third passage on the left and keep going past the packing room. It’s the last door on your right, marked “no entry”. Now, let me go!’
‘Thank you,’ Rosa said as the girl tugged herself free. She watched her hurry away and then turned, her heart beating hard, the girl’s directions ringing in her ears.
Straight ahead . . . third passage on the left . . . She passed one opening to her left, a dark room stacked with the packed-up matches. Someone had left a coat on the topmost pile. To Rosa’s horror, it glowed in the dimness. She hurried on.
At last she came to the last door on her right and, sure enough, it was marked ‘no entry’. She raised her hand, about to knock, and then something told her this would not be a good idea. Instead she grabbed the handle. It was locked and she whispered a charm, looking over her shoulder as she did.
The door gave way suddenly and she stumbled into the room.
The fumes hit her first, as physical and painful as a slap in the face. They were eye-watering, stinging not just her eyes, but her skin and the inside of her nose as she struggled for breath.
In the centre of the room were great boiling vats filled with chemicals, men and girls bending over them, working the dipping machines to coat the tips of the matches just so. The floor was covered with powdery residue and Rosa could see that it glowed in the dark corners.
But none of this was what made her stand in the doorway, gasping and struggling not to flee. It was the faces of the men and women.
Almost all were horribly swollen and deformed – with missing teeth, missing jaws even. Their skin was mottled from yellow, to red, to greenish black. She had never seen anything like it – it was as close to Hell as she could imagine, these walking, working zombies of death.
‘Please . . .’ she managed. She put her hand to the sleeve of the girl closest to her. ‘What in God’s name is wrong with your faces?’
The girl did not answer, she just continued to work, like a golem. Her eyes were dead and blank.
‘What is wrong with you all?’ Rosa shouted. ‘Why won’t you answer me? Why don’t you stop work?’
They did not respond – and suddenly she understood. They were under an enchantment, all of them – like the men, women and children in the rest of the factory. Why else would they keep going, keep returning to this living Hell for the few shillings a week, while their faces and bodies slowly rotted away?
If she had stopped to look she would have seen it earlier; the air was thick with magic, putrid with it. But it was not directed at her and so she had not noticed. She had never looked.
‘Ætberstan!’ she sobbed, trying to feel her way through the thick web of spells wound around the machinery and the silent men and women. But it was far too strong. She did not have the strength to snap the enchantments. ‘Ætberstan!’
Who had created such an enormous machine of evil? Who would have had the strength? She remembered the Ealdwitan edicts that she had recited as a small child on her father’s knee: I shall let the outwith be, and so no harm will come to me, I shall not seek to bend his mind, but keep my spells to my own kind.
Who would dare to go against that, the very first law that their kind were taught?
She knew. Even before she raised her eyes to the portrait of Aloysius Knyvet, Sebastian’s father, hanging high above the doorway. He was seated in a carved mahogany chair and in his hand was his cane with the ebony shaft and the snake’s head. The cane that was now Sebastian’s.
Rosa dropped her eyes unseeingly to the vat in front of her, racing through possibilities. She could not free these men and women. She was not strong enough. Could she persuade Sebastian to do so? If only the outwith would trust her – if she could rouse them from their stupor long enough to fight against the enchantment, she might have a chance. But to them she would be just another witch.
Footsteps sounded in the corridor and she jumped. If Sebastian found her here . . .
She ran to the far end of the room and crouched down, close to where the great stove bubbled away, heating the chemicals to make the dipping mixture. Back here, in the shadows, she would be hidden . . .
The door opened and she saw Sebastian’s face look in sharply. He glanced up and down the row of dippers and Rosa held her breath. The heat from the stove was almost unendurable and she longed to cast a spell to shield herself from the worst of it, but did not dare in case Sebastian caught the flare of magic. She felt the heat of the gas against her cheek and the stench of chemicals made her eyes water. She put her face in her skirts and prayed . . .
Then the door swung shut and she let out a great breath and stood up. The sudden movement made her head spin and she stumbled and almost fell, clutching at the girl next to her to save herself.
‘Oi, watch yourself,’ the girl said dully, but didn’t break from the work. Something about her voice was familiar.
‘Minna?’ Rosa touched the girl’s shoulder. ‘Minna? Is that you?’
She would hardly have recognized her. In just a few short weeks she had become thin almost to the point of being skeletal and beneath her cap Rosa could see her hair was thinning.
‘What of it?’ the girl said huskily. With a shudder, Rosa saw that two of her teeth were missing.
‘Minna, it’s me – Rosa, Miss Greenwood. I gave you my card.’
‘What of it?’ Minna repeated dully. Her face looked almost stupefied, but her hands never faltered, moving swiftly, automatically, as unchangeable as the machinery of the factory itself.
‘Please, come away with me,’ Rosa begged. ‘I was wrong to send you here.’ She strained to snap the spells – if she could not save all the workers, perhaps she could at least save Minna. If only Minna would help her, trust her . . .
‘I’m Luke’s friend,’ she said desperately. ‘He sent me, with a message. He wants you to come away.’
‘Luke Lexton?’ Minna said, and something in her eyes seemed to flicker, a moment of recognition, like the moon breaking through the clouds. Then the haze closed over again and she shook her head. ‘No, I can’t stop. I must keep going.’
‘Please, trust me!’ Rosa begged, but Minna didn’t even reply.
Frustration rose within her like a great sob. What had she done? What had she condemned Minna to?
Luke. It came to her like a breath of air in the foulness of the room. If Minna would not trust her, she would trust Luke.
‘Minna, where can I find Luke?’ she demanded, but Minna seemed to have sunk back into that terrible torpor and she did not answer, but only shook her head.
‘I’ve to go and see a man about a set of gates,’ William said, wiping his chin and putting down his fork. ‘Can you manage?’
‘Yes,’ Luke said with a touch of irritation. He was growing weary of his uncle’s anxiety. There might be a hole in his memories, but he wasn’t ill and he was sick of being treated like an invalid.
‘There shouldn’t be anything too much, couple a horseshoes maybe, and there’s that fireguard Mr Maddocks wants mending, if you have time. I shouldn’t be more than an hour.’
‘I’ll mana
ge,’ Luke said shortly. Then he felt bad. ‘I’ll be all right, Uncle. Go. We need the work.’
It was true. In the weeks Luke had been missing, and since his return, William had let the forge slip and the work had dried up. No one wanted to bring a limping horse to the forge only to find the farrier busy or gone. Now with Luke up and about they desperately needed new work and William was taking on anything he could find – blacksmith work and tinkers’ stuff that he would usually have refused.
‘All right.’ William pulled on his cap and coat and went to the door. ‘Remember, if you’re feeling tired, there’s no shame in stopping—’
‘Go!’ Luke said, more roughly than he meant. William sighed and shut the door behind him. Luke sighed too and put his head in his hands wishing, wishing that he could remember what lay in that great gulf in his mind. Once he had dreamt and there had been the smell of burning rosemary and a gold-red swirl, like forge-flames in the darkness. He had woken with a word on his lips, rose – but whatever it meant sank far away as he rose to consciousness and the memory, whatever it had been, had gone. The more he scrabbled for it, the further it retreated.
Now he got up slowly from the table and went out to the forge to blow the fire into life again.
‘Luke Welling?’ Rosa said again, desperately. There was a catch in her throat. The evening was drawing in and the streets of Spitalfields felt very dark and narrow. In her new silk dress, part of Mama’s trousseau shopping, she stuck out like candle flame in a darkened room, all eyes turning to her as she picked her way through the filth-strewn streets.
Now she stood at a street corner, trying to ignore the gales of ribald laughter coming from the public house in front of her, and asked the girl again, ‘Are you sure you’ve never heard of him? His father’s a drayman. He’s about nineteen, twenty perhaps – he’s lived here all his life.’
‘I’m sorry, darlin’,’ said the girl. She eyed Rosa speculatively through her lashes and Rosa saw, to her shock, that the girl’s lips and eyelids were painted. ‘Someone’s bin telling you porkies.’