The Pretty Girls

by Hazel Aitken

  “Why?” she asked croakily, fear making her faint, “Why are you doing this and where are we going?”

  “Don’t play the innocent. You know why. The girl, Leary, where is she? And think before you lie to me. Remember Sal. She knew too much too.”

  Poor little Sal lay in the freezing churchyard, but Rosa sat in a warm kitchen and was experiencing kindness at last. It should not be taken from her.

  “I…I don’t know.” He lashed out, hitting her across the face and knocking her temple, so that her head felt as if it might snap off when she was jerked back. She flailed, her fingers catching in what felt like a watch chain. He grabbed her hand and thrust it from him angrily.

  “You know damned well what I am talking about. Somehow that child got away and I warn you, lie to me and you’ll fare very badly.”

  Although shaking with fright and her thoughts jumbled, Hannah knew that an outright lie would be foolish. Whoever this man was, he knew too much about her: of her involvement and her connection with Sam for a start. Someone must have watched the apothecary shop, and as a result of it she or Sam had been followed. Maybe Rosa had been seen with him. Tonight this man had come after her, possibly trailing her from the workhouse. An outright lie would be foolish and useless.

  “I know where she was but not where she is now. She was going to friends in the country.”

  “She has no friends.” There was a slight hesitation. “Where in the country?” Hannah heard the doubt creep into his cultured voice, educated and clipped.

  “Someone…I don’t know their names.” She was inarticulate, unsure of what to say in case her words became a net that trapped her in an inescapable mesh.

  “Where?” he whispered angrily against her ear and she cursed herself for a reply that might spell more trouble.

  “Longwell.” The word popped out of her mouth, it being the only place she knew well and one that was often in mind.

  “I hope for your sake you are speaking the truth but you realise I cannot let you go, not yet anyway, Hannah Morley.”

  He knew her name. Well, of course, but it seemed a further intrusion into her life, a breach of privacy. How much more was known? How stupid to have mentioned Longwell. Was her mother in danger now? Would the nightmarish chain of events never end?

  It was impossible to see the face of the man at her side but she did not recognise his voice and was certain that he was unknown to her. She raised a hand and stroked her painful face. At the same moment the carriage rocked to standstill and her captor made a small movement before binding a cloth over her eyes. “Where am I?”

  “I am hardly likely to inform you or there’d be no need for a blindfold. Use your intelligence.”

  Minutes later she was handed down onto snow, a firm grip on her elbow, and the driver told to wait. Hannah strove to hear sounds other than the horse’s rough breaths and a jingling harness but there were none. She calculated that they had travelled a mile or a little more, but in her fear and in darkness she had no sense of direction.

  Then she was being armed across what must be pavement and through a narrow gateway, and when prickly leaves scraped her damaged face, she knew. She was being taken to the house next to number fourteen. To Next-Door-Nellie. Relief surged through her, but it was momentary because the picture of Sal’s death filled her mind.

  She kept silent as the door opened and she was both pushed from behind and pulled by rough hands over the threshold. A coarse voice hissed, “Right you are, sir,” and she was being propelled along the hallway as the front door closed.

  “Right, Miss Busybody, you’ll learn to keep your nose out of what don’t concern you. Up we go.” She was pushed towards stairs that must be similar if not identical to those in the house next door but stumbled as her feet caught in her skirts. “Get a move on, why don’t you?”

  The common voice jarred and fleetingly Hannah wondered how the path of her obviously well-educated captor had crossed with that of this woman. Was she the same who had berated Sal some weeks ago? Probably, but she could not be sure.

  “In here, then.” A brutal shove almost sent her sprawling and then her blindfold was whipped away and Hannah surveyed her surroundings. A low iron-framed bed, a wooden chair and bare floor viewed in the light of a smoking tallow candle appeared unspeakably drab and gloomy. The intense cold made her gasp and so did the malevolence in the woman’s eyes.

  “We’re busy in this ’ouse. You’re not wanted but what was to be done with you? I ’ad no choice. I’m told to see you stay here and that’s what I’ll do.” She turned and seconds later Hannah heard a key grating in the lock.

  Almost falling onto the bed, she sat on the hard mattress and tried to still her panic. Surely, had they planned to kill her, she would have been bundled into the river. Almost certainly she was not the focus of their intentions but little black-haired Rosa, but if they discovered she had lied…what then?

  Thoughts agitated. How long until she was missed? It might be days, certainly a day or two. The Websters would think she was staying at the workhouse; her mother would not expect a letter or visit while the snow lasted…only Mr Gidley might send a messenger to enquire about her absence…no, no, impossible. He did not know that she had lodged with the Websters. Dr Lisle knew but not of her current whereabouts. Mentally and physically worn, she threw herself down and curled herself into a tight ball. To her surprise, she dozed fitfully.

  Whether it was the low moaning that came through the dividing wall or squeals of pain that seemed to fill the house and were to become intermittent, Hannah was unsure, but the harrowing sounds of both swelled in her aching head until it felt like bursting. Then came running footsteps and mutterings and a sense of panic about both.

  The harsh voice of the woman who had admitted her accompanied the footsteps. “Nellie, we need Pol. Big trouble. We’re gonna lose this one if we’re not quick off the mark.”

  ****************************************

  Chapter Sixteen

  Pol? Might that be Polly? Hannah strained her ears. The desperate moaning sounds now seemed hushed but the screams and cries were as strong as ever. More footsteps and whisperings, but she could catch very little of what was being said. Something about, “not long now," and”getting rid of it." The horror of this house and the events taking place made Hannah nauseous. Get rid of what? A body? Was someone dying? The one who moaned or the one who screeched in agony.

  Just when she thought she would open her mouth and scream too, the candle flickered, spluttered and went out, the smell of rancid fat drifting around the room, and at the same time there came a thin wail, the cry of a new-born which grew lustier until it stopped abruptly. The moans had subsided into whimpers interspersed by frantic whisperings and then more running footsteps, this time along the passage outside. “Pol, we can’t stop it.”

  Whoever Pol might be, she seemed to restore some calm, and Hannah overheard a few of her instructions, an isolated word or two here and there. “Cloths, sheets…hot water…cold water…think…yes, before it’s light.”

  Her tired brain and throbbing head made her dizzy and disorientated, the absence of light adding to the sense of detachment. She wondered whether she might doze again if she lay down. Then came the sharp sound of rapping at the front door and someone cursed.

  “Lord Almighty! Who the hell’s that?”

  Again muffled whispers followed by the loud raucous tones. “If it’s that girl from Chorlton, she’s started early. Put her in one of the small rooms, Nellie.”

  Footsteps coming upstairs, a frightened voice and then the key being turned in the lock and in the light of an oil lamp from somewhere outside the room, Hannah saw the outline of a young woman who was being hustled through the doorway. “No time now. Got a houseful. Have you started?”

  There was a despairing sob and whoever had entered was left in the dark unaware of Hannah’s presence whilst she was aware of one over-riding fact: the door had been left unlocked.

  “I don’t k
now who you are but my name’s Hannah,” she whispered. “I’ll try and fetch help. Don’t ask questions. I was locked in but will try to escape.” Another sob and cautious footsteps but the girl bumped into the end of the bed and her cries grew louder. “Try not to make a noise. Are you in pain?”

  “Yes, oh yes…oowh…It’s the baby. It’s coming.” Hannah felt her heart plummet as she guided the girl to the bed and felt her sink down. How could she leave her in travail when no other help was at hand? On the other hand, what could she do in complete darkness?

  “How often are the pains coming?”

  “I’m not sure. Quite often.”

  “Not all the time, though? Would you say every fifteen minutes or so?”

  “Perhaps…no…Oh, I don’t know.”

  More sobbing and Hannah made a decision. “I am going to get out of here. You are going to be brave. I expect arrangements were made for you to come here. I don’t know how it works but you’ve been sent here to have your baby; I am not having one…”

  The girl interrupted. “Did you have an…you know, have they got rid of it? I was too late for that.”

  “How old are you? You sound very young.”

  “Sixteen.”

  The next twenty minutes were timeless for Hannah as the pair sat side by side on the bed, the younger girl pouring out confidences. There were too many voices and footsteps from within the house to make safe an escape. She felt almost hysterical with frustration and fear. At any moment someone might discover or recall the unlocked door and remember her presence behind it, on the other hand she dare not risk opening it until all was quiet.

  At last sounds subsided. “Now, remember, be brave and don’t make a sound when I open the door.”

  The lamp standing on a small table gave enough light for her to see the head of the stairs leading down to the tiled hall. Audible now were whispers coming from the room next door and groans from the attics above. Treading softly and with the utmost care, her head a constant ball of pain and her thoughts unclear, Hannah stood for a moment peering below. A movement in the shadows caught her attention and she drew back, her heart jumping in her chest. Then came the sound of a key turning softly and she was sure the front door was opened. A draught of glacial air confirmed it. Someone was leaving the house.

  Waiting until she heard it closing, she crept down the stairs and ran on tiptoe to the door, afraid now that she and everyone else might be locked inside. No, the door opened onto a scene of perfect stillness, the moonlight and the snow at the same time revealing the dreary street but masking its dinginess.

  Footprints showed in fresh snow. Two sets, one small and narrow, leading to the house from the street where, judging by the churned snow a small horse-drawn vehicle had turned, and the other away from it. The small narrow set must belong to the girl in labour and the other larger ones to whoever had just left the building. Hannah waited for what she reckoned was a full two minutes then placing her boots in the most recently made prints walked into the street, brushing against the holly hedge. Her head seemed to clear in the cold air, pain remained from the blow received earlier, but her thoughts were sharp edged and possessed clarity.

  A dumpy figure holding a large bag reminiscent of one seen weeks ago, had almost reached the end of the street and keeping to the shadows Hannah followed. Her instinct was to put a distance between herself and Blackfriar’s Lane or to hide until merciful daylight made it safer to make her way to the apothecary shop which was a few streets away, but after hours spent as a prisoner compelled to listen to screams, moans and sinister whispers, she had to know what the woman was doing. She would inform Dr Lisle who had seemed ready, even eager, to be involved.

  Glancing constantly backwards to be sure she was not being followed, she stayed a good one hundred yards behind the sturdy figure who reached the main street, empty except for a few huddled vagrants resembling heaps of rags as they sheltered in doorways. With quickened steps the woman crossed the main thoroughfare and disappeared down a sloping alley, a stinking ginnel where dirty snow lay thinly, lying between shops and leading towards the polluted waters of the Irwell where industrial and human waste created a noxious stew.

  The ginnel opened onto a wide steeply sloping bank and by the time Hannah reached it, the woman was standing a foot or two from the slow-moving sludge. Keeping well back in shadow she watched as the bulky bag was opened and gasped involuntarily as the woman turned it over and let the contents fall with a soft splash into the filth below.

  It might have been a doll, a naked white doll, pale in the moonlight, but it wasn’t. Oh, God, it wasn’t. Vomit rose in Hannah’s throat and turning she put a hand to her mouth and blundered back along the alley, aware that the woman, her grim task completed, would be hurrying from the scene and closing the gap between them.

  Her boots slipped on snow and muck, and she was panting and sobbing with a mixture of revulsion and terror when she reached the main street. To cross it might bring her to the attention of the solid figure whose dull footsteps could be heard and instinctively she hurled herself into a shop doorway where she lay, her cloak over her face, her hands wet with fear and a pulse throbbing in her temple.

  The footsteps came closer and for one horrifying moment Hannah thought they had halted nearby, but risking a quick glance above folds of dark woollen material, she saw the woman crossing the street again, presumably retracing her steps. But safety was elusive. By now she may well have been missed and someone, maybe her abductor, could be scouring the streets and if he found her…her thoughts shied from a terrifying prospect. Might she too become a corpse sinking beneath murky waters?

  She lay and considered and heard a distant clock striking four times. Too early for the factory workers to swarm along the street, and shops would not open for hours. Alone she was vulnerable, an easy target if she walked the streets. Keeping to shadows is becoming a habit. Keeping company, even with some poor malodorous creature who sleeps in a doorway might offer a modicum of safety. So ran her thoughts as she rose and pulled her cloak over her head before walking close to the walls and shop fronts seeking a strange kind of sanctuary.

  A bundle of rags in the doorway of a drapery store stirred and Hannah caught a glimpse of a haggard female face whilst the smell of stale alcohol and unwashed flesh caught in her throat. She did not hesitate but stepped over the restless figure and slid in close beside her, willing herself to fight the overwhelming sickness that threatened. The vagrant moved restlessly, pushing Hannah who, lying against the shop door, cowered behind her and waited for the hours to pass.

  The sound of horses’ hooves echoed in the pre-dawn stillness and the noise of wheels heavier than those of a brougham drew closer. A brewer’s dray? Whatever the heavy vehicle might be, more than one horse pulled it. Proceeding at a slow, almost leisurely pace, it came along the main street and risking a glance over the alcohol-soaked figure beside her, Hannah saw a carriage with lanterns and seated at the front were two men, one the driver with whip in hand. There was no way of knowing if the other was her abductor because she had not previously seen his face, but this man sought for someone, for some movement, his head turning from side to side as his gaze raked the shop fronts and the shadows that lurked between the gaslights. Despite the size of the carriage it moved with slow deliberation and she buried her face in the stinking rags beside her and held her breath.

  It was gone, swallowed into the gloom, but still she lay until the factory sirens sounded and the street was alive with people and clatter, coughing, mutterings, the odd raised voice, a tide of weary down-trodden people; parents carrying tired children to their ten-hour shifts in the cotton mills, boots slithering on wet snow. Then she stepped over the motionless inebriate and fled along the main street, aware of places on her body that stung and itched – flea bitten, she guessed.

  Old Mr Lawson stood behind the long counter in his shop and Hannah hammered on the door to attract his attention. He was early today; Sam usually opened the premises and got do
wn to work, fulfilling orders, mixing and pounding, measuring and filling small blue, green and white bottles. She knew that those with ridges held poison but recalled her father telling her that many medicines contained what he believed were very dangerous substances, adding that even nature’s own remedies might kill if taken in excess. Foxglove, aconite and belladonna for a start. How strange that she should think of it now, but perhaps not, when danger lurked on every side.

  “Miss Morley! My dear young lady! Whatever…?” She pushed past him and crawled behind the counter.

  “Sam? Where’s Sam?” she heard her voice, weak and wavering.

  “Young Samuel is detained at home. His father has taken a turn for the worse. This year’s influenza is fickle. Tell me, what has happened? Something quite appalling, I fear.”

  “Mr Lawson, help me. I have to get word to Dr Marcus Lisle, and hide me, please.” She got no further but sunk into unconsciousness.

  *****

  It seemed that she rose from gloomy depths and for a terrifying moment Hannah believed she was rising from the waters of the Irwell, but when she was fully awake discovered she was in a neat room containing two iron-framed beds heaped with blankets. A wicker chair and chest of drawers completed the furnishings and on the latter stood an oil lamp, unlit because clear bright light flooded into a room she did not recognise. Not Eliza Webster’s, but whose?

  Her exploring hands felt the roughness of the sheets but they smelled fresh and beneath them her bare legs and feet stretched. Her dress and stockings had been removed but she still had on her drawers and chemise.

  The door opened and relief coursed through her as she recognised Mrs Stannard. So, she was in the workhouse. She attempted a smile but her face was painfully stiff and her head ached dully.

  “My dear, whatever happened? No, I mustn’t ask. You need rest because you have suffered some dreadful ordeal. I shall bring you a warm drink. Tea, hot chocolate, maybe? I have some in my room.”