by Hazel Aitken
Seated at the scrubbed table, Hannah too luxuriated in the cosiness of the Websters’ kitchen as she sipped hot chocolate and ate fruitcake Rosa claimed to have baked. “She did too,” said Eliza when the girl went to check on old Mr Webster. “She is a fast learner.”
Quickly Hannah explained that Rosa was almost certainly older than she believed and brought her up to date with events in Longwell and in the workhouse. “It’s just possible we have a record of her entry into the system and if so, she is twelve and her real name isn’t Leary at all, but Leah Rae.”
“Rae?” Eliza considered the name. “I think that’s the surname of the man who is helping at the ragged school. Rae something, or something Rae. You remember, the journalist I told you about.”
“Do you think he is a journalist? I’ve begun to doubt everybody and anything they tell me.”
“Well, you can trust the Webster family,” smiled Eliza, “but in answer to your question, I don’t know. He asks about everything; he says he is writing about the poor and dispossessed, as he calls them – workhouse children, apprentices, factory workers, child labourers and so on. He asked about my circumstances so I told him I wasn’t one of them! I didn’t mention Rosa, you can be sure of that.”
“You’re a fine person, Eliza. One of the best. Are you willing to keep Rosa for a while?”
“Indeed I am. As I said, she is invaluable, but I am uneasy because someone is seeking her and determined to find her.” Changing the subject, she mentioned that Sam would be sorry to have missed the visit. “He likes you, Hannah. He likes you very much.”
“I like Sam too.” Hannah hesitated feeling she should say more. “…I just hope he doesn’t mistake my friendship for more than that, Eliza. I can’t tell you how much I value him as a friend and appreciate all he has done but…”
“You don’t need to explain. I know exactly how it is, believe me. I mean, one knows when it is more than that.” She coloured. At that point Rosa came into the kitchen reminding Eliza that it was time for the patient’s dinner.
“Time for me to go.” Hannah rose and dropped a kiss on Rosa’s dark head. “Thank you with all my heart, Eliza. For…everything.”
“Would you like to accompany me to the nearby ragged school this evening?” Eliza asked quietly. “You’ve enough on your plate so not to help regularly, but to see what we do.”
“I’d love to,” Hannah told her truthfully. “Till tonight then.”
*****
Her mother’s letter was waiting for her when she arrived back at the workhouse. A special delivery she was informed. It was less than twenty-four hours since she had seen Mama but the meeting had reminded her of their closeness, thought Hannah indulgently.
Seated on the end of her bed, she opened the envelope and withdrew a flimsy piece of paper, her heart beating fast as she read and re-read her mother’s neat script.
"…of course, my dear, we should not have left him alone. His frailty was obvious. To think he must have fallen and hit his poor head, almost certainly soon after our departure. One can only hope and pray his demise was quick and that he did not suffer. Believe me, the village is in a state of deep shock…
What a dreadful thing to happen. The Reverend Horatio Lovatt-Browne must have fallen, collapsed possibly, and died as a result of a head injury. Or…? With shaking hands Hannah pushed the letter back into the envelope as if she would hide from herself the knowledge of the gentle old man’s death. Clearly she saw again, the church still decked with Christmas greenery, the innocent tableau of the manger scene, the fine altar cloths, and felt again the spiteful current of air whilst hearing the quiet closing of a door. Had an intruder left by the side chapel door and re-entered to accost the Reverend? Had the old gentleman taken a step backwards and fallen? Worse, had he been bullied and pushed?
Why, oh why, had she not remained for a while? She and Mama could have seated themselves quietly, unobtrusively, and waited.
The truth was she had been in a hurry to leave and not only because Elias Williams might appear with the pony and trap. She had fled from possible danger. True, she had not believed anyone but her mother and herself might be threatened at that moment, but even so…
Hannah sat with bowed head and the tears coursed down her cheeks. The Reverend Lovatt-Browne had been a good man, a part of her childhood, careful of his people, quiet and kind. The thoughts raced through her mind and one was predominant. It was because of Rosa – Leary – Leah Rae, whatever the child’s real name might be, that this had happened.
Crossing to the washstand, she poured ice-cold water from the ewer into a small basin and dipping a cloth into it she wiped her face, then washed her hands before drying them on a rough towel.
Somehow she had to get through the rest of the day.
The relieving ward was busier than usual. Wintry weather brought in more accident cases, broken bones chiefly, then there were those with congestion of the lungs and two old men, rough-sleepers practically frozen to death. There was a girl, surely no more than seven or eight years old, whose crushed finger hung by a sliver of skin, injured as she crept beneath a spinning machine picking up the cotton fluff.
“The law forbids any as young as that to work in the factories but the owners turn a blind eye and so do the parents, desperate as they are for the pittance paid.” Mrs Stannard examined the injury. “She’ll lose the finger, and she’s in shock which is dangerous. A blanket, Hannah, some laudanum… If only Dr Lisle was here but he is away for two or three days.”
She had guessed it was he who had spoken to the now deceased Reverend Lovatt-Browne but he had not mentioned that he was visiting Longwell nor that he would be absent for a while. Absurdly she felt ruffled by the omission which showed he did not entirely trust her whilst she had trusted him entirely.
“Hannah, Miss Morley! Pay attention. A blanket, and be quick about it. The child is shivering. The children’s hospital is woefully inadequate and so this poor child ends up here. Let’s be sure it is not in vain.” She hurried to and fro, her dark skirts rustling; examining, bandaging, dosing and calling instructions to Hannah and two women attendants whose assistance left much to be desired, and all the time a tide of pitiful humanity continued to sweep in.
Hannah was drained of energy by the end of a long afternoon but revived after a meal of barley broth and hunks of bread and cheese washed down by sweetened tea. Even so, she had overestimated her ability to recover quickly from recent events and had it been possible, she would have sent word to Eliza that she was unable to visit the ragged school. As it was, she felt compelled to keep to their arrangement and buffeted by a cruel wind, and with keen awareness lest she was followed, she walked on frozen pavements to the warehouse where the school was held.
Situated close to the banks of the river, the stink of the polluted water caught at the back of her throat and the noise of raised voices reached her long before she entered the chilly building to find crowds of young boys stuffing food into their mouths. Although the odour of unwashed bodies mingled with that of the hot baked potatoes being devoured, Hannah noticed that the garments worn by the children were far from being rags. Having observed her entrance, Eliza rushed to her side and explained.
“We take their filthy rags and for the time spent here they are clothed properly, but we have to send them home in what they wore or their parents would sell anything clean and decent.” She put a hand to her mouth in an unconscious gesture that hid her cleft lip. “As you see, we have tables, donated by some of the local businessmen, and benches, but it is a case of food first and then lessons. We’ve been provided with slates and tonight we shall try and teach them their letters. You look tired, Hannah, but if you want to help, just talk with the lads; they like an interested adult. Most earn what they can during a twelve-hour day, some sweeping out stables, some making match boxes or selling matches on windy corners, or helping in some home industry…it’s endless. Oh! Here is…” She blushed hotly. “The Reverend James Christie. You must be
acquainted with him. He attends the workhouse. He’s so interested in all we try to do here.”
“Miss Morley, a pleasure to see you. Eliza…Miss Webster that is, good evening.” His single-breasted coat was worn, his eyes tired and he too seemed flustered. “As I always say, you and your helpers are doing wonderful things here.” Turning to Hannah he continued, “Some boys want to learn and most will pick up something, even if it is only to write their own names, but we are under no illusions that it is food and warmth they crave. We are planning overnight shelter for the little ones who sleep in doorways and ginnels, and already turn a blind eye to those who creep back in here.”
“I brought down more blankets,” Eliza said, her cheeks reddening again. “I knit strips and sew them together whilst I am sitting with Father.”
“Wonderful! I shall call and pay my respects to him,” James Christie said and a delighted smile tugged at Eliza’s misshapen lips. “I see we have another visitor tonight. If I’m not mistaken, it’s the journalist, Duncan Stuart-Rae.”
Hannah swung round, her interest aroused at the name. The visitor cut an elegant figure in a thigh length coat bordered with fur, and was apparently unaware of the discrepancies between his attire and his surroundings. Could this man have a connection with Rosa? More to the point, what were his intentions? “Let me introduce you,” the curate was saying, and she was soon shaking hands with this earnest looking man of middle years, his once black hair showing signs of grey. Did she imagine keen interest in his gaze, in the grey eyes that pinned her to the spot? Probably, but there was not the faintest whiff of cologne about him, she noted with relief.
“I am here to help when and if required,” he told Hannah in a soft cultured voice that held the trace of an accent, “but mainly to observe and talk to the boys. Are you familiar with the novels of Mr Dickens, Miss Morley? I see you are; he does not exaggerate the sufferings of the poor as you are probably aware. Not possessing his immense talent, I cannot and would not try to emulate his creative writing, my aim is to prick the consciences of an educated readership. Some published writings may have already borne fruit, but in any event there are more initiatives now to help and support the poor – factory laws, asylums, industrial schools. You are a good listener, but I must not weary you with my meanderings.”
“Far from it, Mr Stuart-Rae. I am employed at the workhouse and see so much that requires improvement in our society, although the new master and the guardians have a full rebuilding programme, we have better qualified staff and the matron, Mrs Stannard, is an excellent woman.”
“Have you heard of an inmate named Agnes Blair?” he asked without hesitation.
“I know someone of that name,” Hannah began carefully. “An elderly Scotswoman. She is a self-appointed housekeeper and a hard worker.”
“Does she talk to you, perhaps speak of the past as old people do?”
“She is concerned about the unfairness of life and fixated on certain recent tragedies, but is muddled at times and no, she has not spoken of her past to me.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to ask if the name Helena Rae meant anything to him but instead she suggested they attempt to control the boys who having eaten were milling about looking for trouble, or maybe just attention.
Her tiredness forgotten, Hannah entered into the spirit of the evening sessions, talking to the young boys, helping them with their work, and telling small groups of them stories and legends to which they listened with flattering attention.
“You transported them to other worlds, Miss Morley. You have a talent for creating pictures from mere words.” The Reverend James Christie was at her side.
“I could say the same about you,” she told him, but she no longer had his full attention. He was looking at Eliza who was washing and cutting a boy’s unkempt and shaggy hair.
“She’s a special person,” Hannah said softly. “Pure gold, wouldn’t you say? I think she could do with your help, Mr Christie.”
“Do you really? Well, maybe…” He was gone, his long strides taking him swiftly to Eliza who glanced at him with tenderness. Matchmaker! Hannah told herself, but it would be charming if those two good people fell in love, and unless she was mistaken, they were half way to doing that already.
It was as she walked back to her workhouse lodgings that she pondered on the conversation with Mr Duncan Stuart-Rae. Why his interest in old Agnes Blair? She should have asked him bluntly and now the opportunity had passed. A while later as she entered the main building and caught sight of the woman herself, something clicked in her mind. Agnes had been housekeeper for a prominent family. What if that family had been Stuart-Rae? What if Helena Rae had been a daughter of the house and had somehow ended in the workhouse; and why was Agnes here? She was competent enough, just slightly muddled as if her mind had been turned. Her thoughts fell over one another as she rushed after the sturdy figure now ascending the wide stone stairs and singing softly to herself.
“Mrs Blair…Agnes, please wait, I want to ask you something.” The woman turned and seeing Hannah, smiled broadly.
“Dinnae fash yoursel’. I’m no goin’ anywhere. Yer bruises are nae worse, that’s a mercy.”
“Agnes, please think carefully. Do you know a family called Stuart-Rae?”
“I’m nae saying a thing. I dinnae ken whit ye mean?”
“Agnes, please. There’s a little girl at risk. A child I think may be called Leah Rae. Does the name mean anything to you?”
“I dinnae ken the name. But oh, my puir lasssie; they’d hae put her awa’ but auld Agnes fooled the lot o’ them.”
It was impossible to make sense of what the muddled woman said. Hannah tried again. “Agnes, think carefully. Did you ever know a woman named Helena Rae?”
She was completely unprepared for Agnes’s reaction. The woman’s plump face seemed to sag and colour drained from her puffy cheeks before terror peeped out of her eyes. “Dinnae say the name. It’s nae permitted. The master’ll put me in the asylum for the mad folks, so he will.”
“Helena died, Agnes. Ten years ago. Nobody is going to hurt you. Mr Gidley isn’t going to put you in an asylum. You’re safe here.”
“Get awa’ frae me this very minute. I dinnae ken anyone and that’s a fact.” With her face contorted with panic and fear, Agnes turned and rushed away, leaving Hannah staring after her in alarm.
****************************************
Chapter Twenty
The Reverend James Christie appeared tired when next he visited the workhouse and no wonder, thought Hannah. There was little spare time for a curate whose lot was to perform many thankless tasks within the parish but he seemed to take pleasure in the chaplaincy of the workhouse. She wondered whether New Year’s Day, falling on a Sunday, would concentrate some duties and possibly give him time to spend with the Websters. Yes, he had visited, he informed her, as he rubbed together cold hands in an effort to warm them. She fancied Eliza might enjoy knitting him a pair of woollen mittens.
“Eliza’s father is improved in health but she carries a burden. The old man is frail. However, Eliza has inner strength.” It occurred to Hannah that in common with most people who were more than half way to being in love, there was a compulsion to mention the beloved’s name. She smiled encouragingly.
“I am exceedingly impressed with the work she does at the ragged school. You are often there, I gather.”
“I try to do my bit. We have more helpers now and Mr Stuart-Rae is to publish a piece about our work, that is about our particular school, in the near future. He seems both concerned and able, wouldn’t you say?”
“Concerned, yes, but I’m not sure that I have read any of his work. He aims to stir consciences, I believe. He didn’t say so but I imagine if tender consciences mean people of means dipped into their financial resources and wrote cheques to benefit the ragged school, it’s all to the good.”
“Indeed, but as Eliza reminds me, one needs to get a conversation going. She wants readers to talk about t
he all too often hidden work undertaken. Wouldn’t you say she combines the qualities of both Mary and Martha as they feature in the Scriptures? The mindfulness of one and the practical capabilities of the other?”
“Oh, I would, Mr Christie. I hope you have told her. My feeling is Eliza lacks confidence but with the right friends about her, she will blossom like the rose.”
“Poetically expressed,” Miss Morley. “Like the rose…quite so.”
Was it too much to hope that the curate might be bold enough to send Eliza a St Valentine’s card containing a verse or two about her rose-like complexion? Theirs was a romance waiting to happen if she was reading the signs aright.
*****
Dr Marcus Lisle returned the following day, appearing during the afternoon session on the relieving ward. Hannah had intended to greet his return with a certain coolness but looking up from the injured foot of a young boy who had trodden on a field rake and pierced the sole, she found herself smiling warmly. After a word with Mrs Stannard, he crossed to her side.
“I have news concerning Rosa,” he said quietly.
She nodded. “I have news too. The Reverend Lovatt-Browne was found dead in Longwell Church. It must have happened soon after my mother and I left the building.”
A shadow crossed his features. “That is dreadful. Natural causes? An accident?”
“I don’t know; I’m not sure anyone does. My mother wrote immediately she heard of it.”
“I spoke with him. He was frail and the uncomfortable rectory full of malicious draughts. Even the fire would not draw. A courageous man in his own way,” he said as Hannah bent over the injured foot again, “and I am very sorry to hear of his death. We cannot talk here but are to meet in the master’s office.”
Mr Gidley welcomed them and the matron with his usual warmth. “Be seated, everyone. Come close to the fire. So, where are we?” he asked, rubbing his hands together. “You, Dr Lisle have been investigating, so may I suggest you share your findings.”