by Hazel Aitken
“There is at least one person it fails to cheer,” Hannah responded noticing Miss Phipps standing a few feet away, her sharp eyes taking in every detail of Hannah’s attire. The woman herself was dressed in purple and it occurred to Hannah that she might be coming out of mourning which would account for the sombre colours she wore. Perhaps one should make allowances.
“Problems there, Miss Morley?” It was tempting to confide some of the difficulties but now was neither the place nor time. Besides, she knew next to nothing about the medical officer and he may be better acquainted with the unfortunate Miss Phipps than she realised.
“Nothing I cannot handle. Let us say she has her own ideas about teaching and the work we do here.”
“Discreet as well as attractive.” He moved a step closer and Hannah, still with the unsavoury Miss Phipps in mind, stifled the desire to laugh as she pictured herself applying lemon juice to her armpits that very morning. “Have I said something amusing?” He looked quite anxious.
“Of course not. Oh, look, Mr Williams the tailor is going to accompany the children on his violin. I heard his wife is very ill and Mr Gidley has permitted the younger daughter to stay here for a week or so whilst the poor woman recovers. The older girl runs their home.”
“And I heard that the carter may be off work for a while. Badly ulcerated legs which I have examined for myself, but Mr Gidley is not recording it because the man would lose his pay should it come to the attention of the guardians.”
“But you are one of them and you have just told me!”
“Ah, but I am a reformer and you are discreet. I hear the little ones are going to sing Silent Night; I believe the English translation was published within the past year or so.”
The mellow notes of the violin rose and fell and the sweet voices of the youngest children overseen by their nursery nurse sang the first verse. Other onlookers hummed the tune until the hall buzzed with the sound.
“My girls are singing The Holly and The Ivy just to annoy Miss Phipps!” she added, unable to resist the temptation. Marcus Lisle let out a loud laugh and the subject of his mirth glared disapprovingly.
“You have a bad influence on me,” he told her and she suppressed the inclination to tease and reply that she certainly hoped so! After all, he might mistake her meaning and in any event, Mama would say that even to imagine such a reply was bold and forward. Instead she asked if he was attending the festive meal along with other guardians. No, he was not. He felt it patronising in the extreme.
Mr Gidley was in his element, pretending he was conducting Mr Williams and encouraging the singers and audience alike. “Oh dear,” remarked her companion, “someone is not amused. I think it highly likely her sense of humour has been surgically removed.”
“I have wondered whether Miss Phipps has been bereaved,” Hannah said seriously. “If so, we should be more sympathetic.”
“How right you are, kind-hearted Hannah Morley. Now, I will slip away and hope I may enjoy your company on another occasion.”
After the singing of half a dozen more carols, her own pupils acquitting themselves well, the inmates filed out of the hall to the accompaniment of Mr William’s competent playing.
Later, in the dining hall which was decked with evergreens and where candles gleamed, Hannah’s pupils tucked into roast beef, potatoes both boiled and baked, and thick gravy. She attended to them and rejoiced in the scene. She had expected more chatter but the youngsters were almost as subdued as usual and bearing in mind that Miss Phipps may have her own sorrows and concerns, she attempted to draw her into conversation. “What a festive transformation in here.”
There was no reply, merely a toss of the head. Then a group of people were being led into the dining hall by Mr Gidley who appeared less than happy. Well attired men with their ladies, the women wrapped in furs and wearing the most fashionable of dresses with wide hooped skirts that swept the floor. They stood watching the children eat, occasionally standing behind one or other of them to observe more closely, as if the poor young things were specimens in a zoological garden, thought Hannah indignantly.
Mr Jasper Meredith was present, accompanied by a fair-haired woman who was almost certainly his wife and two young daughters who resembled their mother. Exquisitely dressed in flounces and a flurry of petticoats, the girls sniggered behind their hands and whispered as they pointed to one or other of the young inmates. Hannah was aghast at such a breach of good manners and wished she could slap their silly faces or pull them around the room by their crimped golden hair.
She was sure others must be thinking the same and looked across at staff members, just in time to catch an exchanged glance between Miss Phipps and Mr Meredith.
Of course, there was nothing flirtatious or improper about it, she considered, but something, some understanding had passed between them, she was sure of it. Then she remembered. Mrs Stannard saying that Mr Jasper Meredith was acquainted with Miss Phipps’ one-time employers and it was he who had recommended her to the board of guardians.
“May I help you, Miss Morley?” The Reverend James Christie was at her side, his brown hair in need of a barber, his eyes merry as he offered more slices of meat to children who seemed bewildered by such plenty. “Isn’t it good to see such largesse? Public subscription has paid for the feast but I hear a few of the guardians have dug deeply too.”
“I hope the children are enjoying it but they are very subdued.”
“That is how they are trained to be. Most will go into service or apprenticeships and will be taking orders for years if not until the end of their days. My hope is that with the New Broom, our good Mr Gidley, there may be changes, but he cannot change a whole system. Are you staying for the short service and then to hear the brass band?”
“Who is Miss Popular, then?” sneered Miss Phipps when she seated herself beside Hannah, the service just beginning. More carols, a vibrant illustration of the true meaning of Christmas when the Reverend told the assembled inmates of his visit to an orphanage where the children had movingly shared the donated items he had taken with him, and then the room was being prepared for a twelve-piece brass ensemble. Miss Phipps rose. “I fail to see what men blowing into brass has to do with Christmas. I have other things to attend to.”
At the end of a splendid and very noisy recital, Hannah was free to leave and clutching a bag containing cold roast beef and plum cake which Mrs Stannard had pressed upon her she stepped outside to find icy puddles and a biting frost. For a moment she thought of Sal’s lifeless body lying in the bleak churchyard and trembling, she pulled her cloak more closely around her shoulders and pulled on mittens, then set off determinedly. She could do nothing for Sal but Rosa was waiting.
The main streets were bright, the lamplighters having done their rounds. A few carriages of one sort and another conveyed occupants to private celebrations, and oil lights and candles burned in rooms that would be hidden when thick curtains were drawn, but for now Hannah glimpsed the inner life within some of the properties. When she came to the shops, the street gaslights illumined the front windows. Mr Lawson’s apothecary shop was in darkness and she imagined Sam enjoying Christmas cheer at home.
It never ceased to surprise her that modest affluence should flourish so close to poverty; she had no sooner turned off the main street than most of the houses were so poorly lighted they were almost in darkness. Properties that a century ago would have housed businessmen and their families, professional people who kept several servants, were now divided or let to as many people as might be crammed into them. It was quiet at present, apart from the odd drunk, but later there would be scuffles and fights that erupted into the street. At number fourteen Hannah saw no glimmer of light through the glass-panelled front door.
Lifting the small brass knocker, she tapped, the sharp noise loud in the frigid air of the late afternoon. There was no response and although she knew it was futile, she turned the door handle. To her enormous surprise the door opened into a hall that was dark and
cold.
“Rosa…! Rosa!” She stepped inside, dropped the bag of food and leaving the door ajar called again. “Where are you?” Her voice had risen a notch or two as alarm flooded her. Was the girl within or had she fled because something or someone had frightened her? Why was the door unlocked? More light was needed. If she could light the oil wick and get the lamp burning or find the striking matches and light candles…but it was so difficult in the suffocating velvety darkness. Nervous and chilled, her fingers shook as they felt and fumbled on the table top, and then her full bell-shaped sleeve knocked the oil lamp to the floor where the glass shattered on the tiles.
“Rosa!” Now her voice was a high-pitched squeak and she listened for any answering sound within the house. Did the girl lie injured? Hannah’s mind churned with possibilities, each more dreadful than the last. And then, and it was a moment of terror she would never forget causing the fine hairs on the back of her neck to stand to attention even as her scalp crawled, she heard within a few feet of where she stood, quiet breathing.
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Chapter Thirteen
Think, she told herself, but it was impossible. The overwhelming impulse was to flee as Rosa must have done and darkness was her friend as she turned and crept towards the front door. Quickly, quietly, she slipped outside just as she heard a sound in the hall and knew she was being followed, her follower making no effort to be silent. There came the crunch of glass, sounds of the door being thrown back and then footsteps on the weedy gravel path.
Swiftly Hannah slid past the old gate, tiptoed a few steps along next door’s path and pushed herself into the prickly depths of the holly hedge and held her breath. There was silence, and she knew someone waited for a sound that would alert them to her whereabouts. Scratched and torn, she remained silent and motionless.
She supposed five minutes, maybe more, elapsed before she heard what must be footsteps returning to shut the front door of number fourteen because the door closed quietly, but whether someone had entered or not she had no way of knowing. It was several more minutes before stealthy footsteps crunched across the gravel and passed the gate close to where she hid. Eventually the sound of them faded. But what if it was a ruse? What if someone crept back?
Allowing herself to breathe more naturally, Hannah waited and heard the sound of a horse-drawn vehicle as it turned into the street. She knew with inner certainly that it would halt close to where she hid and afraid of discovery, she fought her way through the hedge and entered number fourteen. There was no key in the lock but there was a bolt, she recalled, and this she shot home longing only to reach the comparative safety of the attic room.
Rosa must have fled, and she prayed the child had found a hiding place. Her breath was ragged as she climbed to the first floor and then negotiated the narrow attic stairs.
Although she was almost certain she was alone in the house, she had lighted no candles, then she pushed Belle’s chair against the door and crossed to the trunk. That too could be used as a barricade and if Mrs Wilson returned and found herself unable to enter her own house, frankly she did not care.
Exhausted and torn, bleeding and panicky, she pulled at the trunk and heaved it across the floor. The iron bands that strengthened it scraped on the old floorboards and at the same time as a scream of pain echoed through thin attic walls, a shriek of terror issued from the trunk. She knew then the meaning of ice in the blood. Hers seemed to freeze. With trembling hands Hannah opened the lid.
From beneath linens and clothing, Rosa’s terrified face appeared. Without a cap to control it, black hair framed features frozen with fear. Her mouth opened and closed but no audible words escaped. Gently, and wincing with the discomfort of deep scratches caused by the prickly holly, Hannah lifted the child to her feet and helped her out of the trunk. Sitting on the end of the bed she held her close, whispering soft words of comfort until Rosa calmed and began a halting explanation. “He…he came. You know, that man.”
“But darling, why did you let him in? You should not have opened the door.”
“I didn’t. He got in.”
“How, if the door was locked? Tell me exactly what happened.”
“Someone came for Mrs Wilson. I didn’t see her go but she must have done because…because soon after that she wasn’t here. I made sure the front door was locked and hung the key on that hook in the hall like she said.” She gave a deep sob as she began the next part of her story. “Because I was alone, I did something I shouldn’t have. I took a nosey look at Mrs Wilson’s sitting room, at all ’er things, and that’s when I heard something…the front door being unlocked. I thought she must have another key but…” Rosa buried her face in Hannah’s shoulder.
“You saw the man, is that it? Where did you see him?”
“He went ever so quietly down the hall to the kitchen. I didn’t know what to do but I thought of you so I came up ’ere.” She gave a shuddering sigh. “It’s been hours.”
Hannah’s tired brain tried to assimilate the facts. Mrs Wilson had conveniently been called away. She had given the unusual instruction that the front door key be hung on a hook which meant that man, that abominable creature, had been able to insert a key and enter. And who would have provided the duplicate key? Mrs Wilson, of course.
“Rosa darling, listen to me. We are in great danger and have to be very clever. Don’t ask me any questions, just do as I say. We have to get away and I think I know where we can go, but Mrs Wilson may return at any time or that dreadful man may send someone. The house may be watched. For a start, cover yourself with this.” She snatched a black shawl from the back of Belle’s chair which she now pulled away from the door and blowing out the candle pushed the child onto a tiny landing. “Quiet now, not a sound.” Incongruously, a loud wail, followed by a scream, sounded through the wall.
In enveloping gloom, Hannah pulled back the front door bolt and as she did so heard the sound of a horse neighing. How much time had elapsed since she had re-entered the house? Half an hour, maybe. A carriage waited outside.
Lifting her skirt, she whispered to Rosa who disappeared beneath them. Thank God she had worn this dress for the workhouse celebrations.
With her heart fluttering rather than beating, she opened the door and leaving it ajar the pair shuffled awkwardly across the gravel. Yes, there was a small carriage waiting outside but not directly so, it was across next door’s entrance. A man, the driver no doubt, was visible in the moonlight of this frosty evening, but he was slumped in his seat and huddled against the cold.
Somewhat reassured, Hannah crossed the street and although she longed to walk briskly, slowed, as Rosa, bent double beneath her skirts, threatened to cause them both to tumble. In the haste of their departure, she had brought no money and had only the clothes she wore, dress and cloak, both ripped and grubby.
They had reached the end of Blackfriar’s Lane when, hearing a disturbance behind them, Hannah glanced back and saw in the moonlight the carriage turning neatly in the middle of the street and within minutes it would be level with them.
Somehow, they reached the lights of the main street at the same time as a small horse-drawn coach drew alongside. The driver, alert now, glanced at her but almost without halting turned onto the thoroughfare and whipped up his horse. Looking around Hannah was thankful to see a few other hurrying figures; then she noticed where gaslight merged with darkness a silhouetted male outline. Someone stared in their direction. She had heard so much about the man who terrified Rosa that the figure seemed almost familiar. They might not make it safely to Chandler’s Court where Sam lived and that had been her intention.
It seemed a miracle that the apothecary’s shop was lighted by an oil lamp on its counter and that the lean figure of Sam was bent over it. Banging on the glass door she pressed against it until he opened it. “Help me.” She stumbled into the shop and he grabbed her arm.
“Sit down, Miss Morley. Whatever has happened? Has there been an accident?”
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“Sam, let me come ’round the other side of the counter. I have someone with me and she must not be seen. As far as any onlooker is concerned, I entered this place alone.” He looked bemused, uncomprehending, but her distress was genuine and to humour her, he stood aside and let her pass. “Now, Sam, stand beside me as if we are conversing, as if you were telling me what you are doing. Make it seem natural to anyone who might look in.”
To his credit he did as she requested and whilst he told her that his father had been taken ill with a fever, stomach cramps and vomiting, and he feared he had contracted influenza for which he required medicinal powders, Rosa crept from beneath Hannah’s skirts and was told to roll under counter and keep out of sight.
“I will explain, but later. I am sure we are being watched and Rosa must stay hidden whilst I leave the premises with you. I know, darling,” she bent to soothe the girl. “But my friend Sam has to return home and if I stay here, it might prove dangerous for us both. I will return, I promise.”
“I shall take what’s needed for Father and take you with me, Miss Morley. Then I shall return for your young friend,” Sam said stoutly.
“Please drop the Miss Morley, Sam. I am Hannah.”
He took her arm and as they hurried along, she explained their situation. “I know it seems unbelievable but I think Mrs Wilson is involved in a scheme that exploits young girls. There isn’t another explanation; and then there was Sal…” She told him briefly, finishing: “Mama and I think girls…you know, unmarried girls, go next door to have their babies. I suppose the babies are farmed out. There was a woman in Longwell who took in unwanted infants. She was kind but my father knew of a tragic case where babies were neglected and starved to death, and the woman concerned did not report it but went on receiving money for their keep.”
“Not fostered out by a union, I imagine. They’re supposed to keep some sort of check. A private arrangement, maybe.”