The lower side of the Westgate road was lined with trees and below them was the River Wear. Mary could hear the sound of running water in the distance but the cries of young birds demanding food were much louder; their parents darted into the trees with offerings and came straight back out again in search of more.
The first houses Mary passed in the village were small, two-storey, terraced cottages. Their tiny front yards were surrounded by low walls topped with ‘bonny bits’ that the miners brought out of the mines – white quartz and spar crystals in purple and green sparkled against the brown sandstone walls. Mary found it hard to believe that waste from the mines could be so beautiful.
The public house ‘The Half Moon’ was closed this early in the day, but as she passed by, the door opened and a policeman stepped out. He said, ‘Good morning, lass. I haven’t seen you in Westgate before, you must be new here.’
‘I’m Mary Watson. I’ve just started working for Mr Peart at Springbank Farm.’
‘Robert Emerson, I’m the constable around these parts.’ To Mary’s surprise, he held out his hand for her to shake. ‘Very pleased to meet you, young lady. You’ve got a good place up there with the Pearts, you couldn’t ask for better. Lovely folks they are, aye, lovely folks. Anyway, I’d best be on my way. Work to do, aye, there’s always plenty work to do.’ He walked away humming to himself.
On the opposite side of the street, a notice about books in the window of a large building caught Mary’s eye. The sign above the door read, ‘Westgate Subscription Library AD1788’. She opened the door slowly and peered inside. A small man with an almost completely bald head sat at a large desk. He removed the reading glass he wore and looked up at her. ‘Good morning, and who do we have here?’ he asked.
Mary entered the room and, gazing in awe at all of the books neatly stacked on shelves, she replied, ‘I’m Mary Watson and I love reading. I’ve never seen so many books before!’
‘Are you a member of the library, Miss Watson?’
‘No sir, I saw the sign outside and I wanted to have a look. I hope you don’t mind. I’ve just started work at Mr Peart’s farm, so I’ll be living at Westgate for a while. Do you think I could borrow a book, please?’
‘If you work for Mr Peart, I can let you borrow a book. Mr Peart is a member of the library. Let me show you where everything is,’ he said, as he got up and began to point at the shelves. ‘These ones are religious texts – some of them are very old and are a little fragile now; these are science and medical books; over here we have geology and mining; and these ones are novels, plays and poetry. Now, what is it that you’re interested in?’
‘I don’t know really, maybe the novels. I like stories.’
‘I’ll leave you to have a look. Let me know when you’ve chosen one,’ he said with a smile, before returning to his desk and lifting the monocle to his eye.
Mary hadn’t read many books; her family only had a bible and a prayer book in the house, but she had read all of the books at school several times and knew them word for word. Mary spent a long time browsing the shelves and eventually selected ‘Wuthering Heights’ by Emily Bronte. She took it to the desk.
‘Ah, Emily Bronte. Did you know that she lived in Yorkshire?’
‘No. That’s not far from here, is it?’
‘No, it’s not. Haworth is in the Pennines as well, but at the southern end.’
The man opened a ledger and carefully entered the details of the book, her name, Mr Peart’s address, and the date.
‘There you go. When you’ve finished reading it, bring it back and you can borrow another one, if you wish.’
‘Thank you,’ replied Mary.
‘I’m Mr Proud. It was nice to meet you, Miss Watson.’
‘Thank you, Mr Proud, I’ll bring it back soon.’
She left the library and headed to Mr Graham’s shop, just a little further up the street. A bell rang as she opened the door and Mr Graham appeared immediately. ‘Hello there, judging by those eggs, I guess you must be the new girl up at Peart’s?’
‘That’s right, Mr Graham, I’m Mary Watson. Mrs Peart sent me down with the eggs and she wants me to pick up a few things while I’m here.’ She glanced around the shop and turned a full circle. Every surface of the room was covered in stock; she spotted fresh fruit and vegetables, meat and fish, sacks of potatoes and flour, dried rice and barley, dried fruit, butter, sweets, sewing and knitting supplies, cutlery, crockery, vases, small tools and daily newspapers, yet the whole room was smaller than the kitchen at Springbank Farm.
‘You have everything in here!’ she said in amazement.
‘We try to stock everything that folks want, so they don’t have to go down to Stanhope for them,’ Mr Graham said proudly, looking around his shop. ‘So, what would Mrs Peart like today?’
Mary passed him the note and he put the items into a brown paper bag which he handed to her. Then he reached for a book and turned to a page with Mr Peart’s name at the top. He carefully entered the date and added all of the items from the list to the Pearts’ account. The number of eggs he had received from her was entered into another column in the ledger.
When he had finished, Mary said, ‘Thank you, Mr Graham. I’ll be back tomorrow with some more.’
‘See you tomorrow, lass.’
She left the shop and walked back through the village. As she passed the houses with the bonny yards, she saw a man approaching on horseback. He pulled up the black stallion by her side.
‘Are you the new maid from the Pearts’ place?’ he asked.
‘Yes, I am. I’m Mary Watson.’
‘Henry Forster, I’m a friend of Connie’s. Please could you give her this note?’ He reached into his jacket pocket and brought out a folded piece of paper with a wax seal on one side.
‘Yes, of course I will, Mr Forster.’
He handed the note to her, turned his horse around and urged him into a trot. Mary thought it was odd that he had known who she was and that she would be taking eggs to the shop that morning. As she tucked the letter into her basket with the shopping, she wondered what it was about. Why would Henry Forster be writing to Connie? Perhaps it was something to do with the bet they had on the horse race; perhaps it contained Connie’s winnings.
Mary enjoyed the walk into Westgate. She liked meeting new people and seeing new places, and it felt so good to be outdoors in the fresh air. The Pearts treated her very well but it was nice to get away and be alone for a while. It gave her time to think and to dream.
That afternoon, Mary was baking in the kitchen at Springbank Farm. The wonderful smell drifted out into the yard and tempted Isaac and Jacob to come in to see what she was making. Their eyes lit up at the selection of food on offer. They each chose a pie and went back outside to work.
Mary took a tray of scones from the oven and placed them on the kitchen table. She used an old porcelain teacup to cut more scones from the dough and then arranged them on the baking tray, which she put back into the oven. All the surfaces in the kitchen were covered in cakes, pies and scones.
Mrs Peart fluttered into the kitchen and admired Mary’s work. She lifted a scone to her mouth with both hands and took a small bite. It was still warm and it tasted delicious. ‘These are wonderful, Mary. Is there anything you can’t do? I thank the Lord for sending you to us.’
‘I love baking,’ Mary replied. She spotted Connie standing in the doorway. ‘Would you like one, Connie?’
‘No! And you should call me Miss Constance or Miss Peart. Only my family call me Connie,’ she exclaimed.
Unfazed by the outburst, Mary said, ‘Oh, I have a letter for you from Henry Forster.’ She went to the basket to retrieve the letter.
Connie snatched it from Mary’s hand and marched out of the kitchen.
As Mrs Peart watched her daughter leave, she sighed and shook her head, ‘Why can’t she be more like you, lass? She’s always had everything she ever wanted and still she’s not happy. I don’t know what we’ll do with he
r.’
‘She’s very lucky to have you and Mr Peart for parents,’ said Mary sincerely.
‘Thank you, Mary, that’s very kind of you to say.’
As Mary transferred the bread dough into two bread tins to prove, she thought about how lucky Connie was to have a mother at all. She missed her mother so much now that she was gone, but at least she had appreciated her when she was alive. Why did she have to die? She put the tins on top of the range and turned towards the window so Mrs Peart couldn’t see the tears forming in her eyes.
A couple of days later, Mrs Peart came into the kitchen where Mary was preparing vegetables for dinner. She was dashing about, opening drawers and cupboards, obviously searching for something.
‘Is everything alright, Mrs Peart?’ asked Mary.
‘Have you seen my opal brooch? I’m sure I left it on my dressing table yesterday but it’s not there now. I’ve looked everywhere in my room and I’ve not been anywhere else but in here since I took it off.’
‘It was on the dressing table this morning when I made the bed.’
‘It’s not there now. I don’t know where it could be. I hope I haven’t lost it. Mr Peart gave it to me as a Christmas present. Would you help me look for it, please?’
‘Of course,’ said Mary, following her mistress upstairs.
They searched Mrs Peart’s bedroom thoroughly. They looked everywhere, lifting furniture and mats to check underneath them and opening every drawer and cupboard. They couldn’t find the brooch anywhere.
Connie appeared at the door, ‘What’s going on?’
‘I’ve lost my opal brooch, and Mary’s helping me look for it.’
‘Oh, is she?’ Connie looked smug. She went over to her mother and whispered something in her ear. Mrs Peart looked at Mary and then at her daughter. Without a word, she went to Mary’s room and opened the door. Mary followed her inside wondering what Connie had said to make her go there. Mrs Peart began to search around and, when she lifted Mary’s pillow, she uncovered the missing brooch. Curtly, Mrs Peart said, ‘Mary, you’d better wait in the parlour.’
‘But...but, Mrs Peart, I didn’t take it. I wouldn’t.’
‘Just do as I say and wait in the parlour.’
Connie was standing at the top of the staircase and, as Mary passed, she whispered, ‘Do you know what happened to the Featherstone girl who stole from Sir Thomas?’
‘Connie, wipe that smile off your face and come in here,’ said Mrs Peart, as she gestured for her daughter to enter the bedroom.
Mary went to the parlour and sat in a chair by the window. Connie’s words went around and around in her head, taunting her. Yes, she knew what had happened to Kate Featherstone. Kate was her cousin. But everybody in Weardale knew. Kate had been accused of stealing from Burnside Hall. The Forster family said she had taken some bed linen, a vase, a pocket watch and some coin but she had denied taking anything. The jury had decided that she was guilty, and she had been sentenced to twelve months in Durham gaol. While Kate was serving her time, she had written to her mother and to Reverend Richards, the local vicar, professing her innocence and declaring that she had been wrongly imprisoned, but it had done no good. Kate had served her full sentence. She hadn’t come back to Weardale after her release though.
Mary knew that she would be in serious trouble if the Pearts thought she had taken the brooch. The wait was torturous. Her heart beat twice for every tick of the clock. Almost an hour passed before she heard Mr and Mrs Peart’s voices outside the door. They sounded vexed, which made Mary fear the worst. Did they think she had stolen the brooch and hidden it under her pillow? Surely, they knew her better than that by now. She would never do such a thing. She wouldn’t risk losing her job or going to gaol or bringing disgrace upon her family.
The couple came into the parlour and sat down. Mr Peart began, ‘Mary, I’m very sorry for what has happened today. Connie can be troublesome at times and it appears she’s taken a dislike to you. She admitted that she took the brooch and put it in your room. Her intention was for you to get the blame and to be sent away from here. Now, we want you to stay here, lass, you’re a good worker, but it’s up to you. Please understand that Connie will be punished for this, but we can’t promise that she won’t do anything like this again. Unfortunately, it’s in her nature.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t know where she gets it from.’
Mary signed audibly. Thank God, they had discovered the truth and she still had her job. She didn’t hesitate before saying, ‘Thank you. I like working here and I’d like to stay.’
‘Good, that’s all settled then,’ said Mr Peart with a smile and he left the room.
‘I don’t know why she does it. You know, it’s not the first time she’s got girls into trouble with her silly pranks,’ said Mrs Peart. ‘Now you get along, I’m sure you have plenty to do.’
As Mary left the room, she thought ‘silly prank’ indeed. Connie’s silly prank could have ended in Mary losing her job and her family struggling to put food on their table, or she could have been arrested and sent to gaol like her cousin. Her silly prank could have had very serious consequences.
Chapter 4
Springbank Farm, Westgate
May 1872
As Mary was cleaning the upstairs windows, she saw a man walking towards the farm, with a red and white shorthorn cow on a halter, and she was certain it was the handsome farmer she had met on the way to Springbank Farm.
She rushed to finish polishing the windows on the front of the house so she could start on the windows at the back, from where she hoped to catch a glimpse of him in the yard. She wasn’t disappointed. There he was, chatting with Mr Peart. After a few minutes, the men took the cow through a gate into the bull’s field, but they soon disappeared behind the barn and were hidden from view. Mary continued with her work, hoping to see him again.
She remembered Mr Peart telling her that his shorthorn bull, Billy, had won prizes at all the local agricultural shows. His reputation was so great that farmers from up and down the dale brought their cows to him. The man must have brought his cow to be bulled, she thought.
The silence was pierced by a loud shout, almost a scream. What had happened? Mary waited and waited. It seemed such a long time before she saw two figures emerge from behind the barn, one leaning heavily on the other. Her heart missed a beat when she realised it was her man who was injured. He was limping badly, and blood oozed through the left leg of his trousers. Mr Peart guided him towards the back door of the house and Mary went downstairs.
Mrs Peart had been in the kitchen when she heard the commotion outside and, realising somebody had been hurt, she rushed to open the door. She saw Mr Peart struggling to help the young man across the yard, and she held open the door to let them pass.
‘Come on in, Joe. Now, what have you done? Sit him down over here by the window so we can see.’
Mr Peart released the man and he fell heavily onto a sturdy oak chair. Mrs Peart went over to him and said, ‘Now get them trousers off and let’s see the damage.’ He did as he had been instructed, wincing with pain as he undressed.
‘Just as well you’re wearing short drawers today, lad,’ said Mr Peart, trying to lighten the air. ‘If you’d been wearing long ones, you’d have had to take them off as well!’
Joe attempted a smile, but it looked more like a grimace. Blood flowed from a gash just above his knee; it ran down his shin and soaked his woollen sock. Mrs Peart turned pale at the sight of the wound. She rushed towards the hall and shouted, ‘Mary! Come and see to this, will you?’
Mrs Peart remained in the hallway. Mary passed her, went into the kitchen and saw the man sitting in the chair by the window, in his underwear. She blushed but, on seeing the wound, her thoughts went straight to the matter in hand. She felt the man watching her as she approached, but her eyes purposefully avoided his. Studying the wound, she said calmly, ‘He needs the doctor. I’ll do what I can to stop the bleeding, but it’s deep, it’s going to need stitching.’
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Mr Peart was standing with his back to the fire looking very concerned, but he leapt into action at Mary’s words, ‘I’ll send Isaac down to fetch him’.
Mr Peart went outside to find Isaac, leaving Mary alone with the man. There was water in the kettle. It was still warm. She used this and a small towel to clean the wound, which was bleeding heavily, so she folded another cloth to use as a pad and tied it tightly around his lower thigh.
She couldn’t help but notice how strong and toned his leg muscles were and she wondered if the rest of his body was in such good shape; she imagined it would be.
When Mary had finished dressing the wound, she said, ‘There now, all better,’ as she had done many times to her siblings when she had patched up their cuts and scrapes. She looked up at the man. He was watching her with glassy eyes. At that moment, he looked so incredibly vulnerable that she wanted to hold him and comfort him, as she would have done her brother and sister, but she didn’t know him well enough.
The colour started to return to his face and, with it, the smile that Mary had seen so many times in her dreams. Their eyes locked again and he said, ‘Thanks, lass.’
Mr Peart returned and realised his blunder at leaving a young woman alone with a partially-dressed man in his house. He cleared his throat, ‘Sorry, I should have introduced you two. Joe Milburn, this is Mary Watson, our new help. Doctor Rutherford shouldn’t be long now. Mary, please would you make a pot of tea?’
The Lead Miner's Daughter Page 3