That had been the moment those dusky eyes had smiled and his head had given the briefest nod.
‘I agree. But what is done is done and it is over. Please pay no more mind to it. You were frightened, Miss Chandler. Under such circumstances it is understandable you could misinterpret my intentions. You made a mistake any woman in your situation could have made. Forget it, Miss Chandler. I have.’
Raising a hand to Luke stood a little apart from them he had turned and walked away.
Stood in the bright sunlit kitchen Saran tried now as she had tried then, tried to stifle the thought that had played in her mind as that tall figure had turned from her. He had made no mention of the child, not once spoken of what had been at the very centre of that accusation. Had that been deliberate, had he consciously avoided the issue, turned from her before word of it was raised?
Unsettled by the questions, appalled by the answer her mind kept repeating, Saran took a still-warm loaf, wrapping it in a cloth. The dough sat in the hearth would take some hours to rise. Throwing her shawl about her shoulders, the loaf in a basket she had earlier filled with bits and pieces from the larder, she left the house. But as she walked towards the town the thought she feared most beat in rhythm with her steps.
Gideon Newell had refrained from addressing the cause of her anger, had ended their conversation abruptly thereby evading speaking of Martha, though he must have known she had discovered the child’s being returned to that dreadful place. Her glance lifting to the black spire of the hilltop church which touched its tip to the blue of the sky, Saran felt her heart trip. The man had accepted her apology, but had that apology been justified or had Gideon Newell’s silence hidden a terrible truth – the truth of taking the girl from the house of her mother’s friend, the truth of returning Livvy’s daughter to the workhouse!
‘the child won’t ever see the outside of these walls’
Each remembered word a whiplash across the heart, Saran had left the stifling workhouse. The air of Russell Street, though laden with the acrid stench of dozens of closely packed, identical nailshops with their forges belching heat, felt infinitely pleasant and cool in comparison to that miniature hell.
‘many folk die in a workhouse, one more won’t never be noticed’
Relentless as the swing of those hammers, the words rang on the anvil of her mind. She had come to Russell Street hoping that somehow the child was back with Livvy’s friend, that some miracle had caused Gideon Newell to forget his revenge for what, after all, was no fault of the girl. But miracles didn’t happen for Saran Chandler. The one begged for nightly in her prayers went unheeded while, daily, all enquiries of her mother and sister met with blank faces and shaking heads.
What had become of them? Had the man who had paid his money to Enoch Jacobs kept them? Were they being subjected to the same abuse the governor of the workhouse had tried to inflict upon herself? Was that the reason for their purchase?
The horror of it choking her throat, she walked on, all around her the sound of hammers mixing with the harassed voices of women hurrying to buy from the market stalls. Every moment of their absence from the workshops, a few less nails were made, meaning fewer pennies to buy their next meal.
Livvy’s friend wept on seeing the contents of the basket, her tears leaving pale tracks along dust-covered cheeks.
‘I ain’t ’eard no more o’ the little ’un,’ she sobbed, stacking the precious food into a locker fixed to the wall of the poky room which must serve as kitchen and living room, insisting Saran share a pot of tea. ‘That man who fetched her away . . . I ’ave no knowledge as to who he were but he had to ’ave come from the parish for he were dressed as no nailer would be nor any workman as I knows of, they don’t make the kind of money it takes to buy clothes such as he were wearing.’
She would have recognised Gideon Newell, the town was small, its occupants all familiar with one another, yet the woman had said she had no knowledge of the man who had come to her house. The thought brought an instant lift to Saran’s spirits only for them to crash with the next. Gideon Newell was no fool. It would have been a simple matter for him to pay someone else to fetch Martha away, some corrupt official, a man without feeling. That had to have been his action. He would not want the people of Wednesbury knowing him for what he was, a man so given to vengeance he would rob a helpless child of its life, so he had paid another to act in his stead; and now that governor would never release Martha to her or anyone else. Luke was blind to the truth, he trusted Gideon, believed him; and she almost had.
‘It seems we are destined to always meet this way, Miss Chandler, though I admit any way of meeting with you would afford me great pleasure.’ Crossing the market square after leaving Russell Street she almost collided with a tall smiling figure.
Struggling with the confusion of conflicting thoughts Saran blushed. ‘Mr Ensell, how . . . how very nice to see you.’
‘If you meant that you would smile.’
‘I . . . I’m sorry . . . I was deep in thought.’
‘But not so deep now, so where is that smile I have had so much difficulty in forgetting?’
She really didn’t want to talk, she wanted only to go home to sit and sort the chaos that swirled in her brain; but to brush this man aside would be bad manners.
‘Is something wrong, Saran?’ Jairus Ensell’s own smile slipped away. ‘Is there something I might help with?’
The whole thing suddenly too much to bear she lowered her gaze.
‘There is something!’ Firm and steady as his voice, his hand closed on her elbow and he guided her quickly from the market square. Settled in the tearooms he said quietly, ‘What is it, Saran? Please don’t deny something is upsetting you, for a girl as sensible as yourself does not cry over nothing.’
‘I . . . I had bad news—’
‘Your family?’ he interjected quickly but Saran shook her head.
‘No, not my family, the daughter of a friend, a young girl. We had hoped to have her with us to live at Brook Cottage.’
‘Ah yes, Brook Cottage . . .’ he nodded, ‘news travels fast in a small town and none so fast as in Wednesbury. I heard of William Salisbury’s gift and agree with the man, honesty such as yours deserves no less. So why is this young girl not with you?’
Leaving the tea untouched in her cup Saran drew a long breath, using it against tears welling in her throat.
‘The . . . the workhouse has refused to release her. I told the governor there was a good home waiting and there would be money to keep her, I even offered reimbursement for the days she had been supported by the parish but the answer was the same, Martha would not be released.’
Across the table the handsome face darkened with anger. ‘What!’ he ground. ‘They refused to release the child, for what reason?’
Her eyes raised to his glistened with moisture, her pale features suddenly turning scarlet.
‘You need not answer, Saran,’ he said, ‘your colour answers for you! But we will see what reply that governor gives to a man. Tell me the name of the girl and of any family she might have, and with your permission I will call upon you at Brook Cottage this evening when Luke can be with you.’
He had left her then, saying that to accompany her home, to where it was known she would be alone at that time of day, would induce gossip he would not have her subjected to.
Recognising the kindness and courtesy she was grateful but had been equally thankful at being left to walk home alone.
Taking the risen bread dough from the hearth she tipped it on a floured board, kneading it for several minutes, minutes filled with the same questions, the same confusion that had twisted and turned in her mind since leaving Russell Street.
Gideon Newell had looked her squarely in the face all the while they had talked, had listened to her apology with not the merest flicker of an eyelid to say it was not justified; Livvy’s neighbour had said the man come to her home was not Gideon Newell and Luke, too, was absolutely convinced he had played
no part in returning the child to the workhouse, yet the doubt refused to be dismissed.
Setting the dough aside to rise a little longer she stared with sightless eyes into the red heart of the fire.
In spite of his coming with Luke to find her that night, in spite of his not having made the proviso she had thought for taking Martha from the institution, in spite of the regret she had detected behind his telling her that what was done was done, that it was over, in spite of all this still that dreadful suspicion hovered like a black cloud.
But why was it a suspicion she had not divulged to Jairus Ensell? She had told him of her own visit to the workhouse, told him most of what had passed between the governor and herself, but not once had she mentioned the name Gideon Newell. Why?
Flames leaping into the dark chimney matched those burning the question into her heart. Why, when all the evidence pointed away from it, did she still believe Gideon Newell was the man responsible for destroying a little girl’s life?
The Elwell children were no longer at the workhouse. Covering the inside of a large basket with a freshly laundered cloth, Saran packed it with loaves and dainty finger-sized rolls she had spent most of the night baking.
Jairus Ensell had kept his word, calling at Brook Cottage that same evening. He had spoken with the governor, seen the register of residents containing the names Joseph and Martha Elwell – destitutes. The date of their entry into the institution had been penned beside the names as well as the date of their being withdrawn, but as to who had taken them only the description ‘gentleman’ was written.
Covering the deliciously smelling bread with another spotless cloth she carried the basket to the yard, setting it on a hand cart Gideon Newell had helped make.
Gentleman! Grasping the handles of the cart she pushed it towards the town. There had been nothing more, Jairus Ensell had been certain of that, nothing that would give a clue as to where those children had been taken. Like her mother and sister, it seemed they had vanished from the face of the earth. But they had to be somewhere.
Luke had listened then shook hands politely when Jairus had left but she had been aware of an underlying current of . . . what? Bringing the cart to a halt outside the malthouse, the first stop on a round of deliveries that had begun so quickly, she let the question dwell for a few seconds before acknowledging what she knew to be the answer. There had been an undercurrent of dislike between Luke and Jairus; in fact, Luke made no secret of the fact that on his part it was not simply dislike, it was mistrust. For some reason he could not or would not explain, he did not trust Jairus Ensell.
‘Eh up, wench! That there bread be nice enough to eat!’
His red face wreathed in smiles, the maltster came from a doorway set at the top of a short flight of stairs.
Reaching for a fat, round, batch loaf, Saran’s own smile greeted his. ‘I’ll believe that when you order another of these.’
‘Then believe it, wench, for I be doin’ that now and sayin’ along of it you can bring me one o’ these every day, for I’ve tasted none so good since my Bessie were teken . . . God rest her.’
Hands coated with the fine mealy dust of wheat rubbed against the apron reaching to the man’s feet as he extracted a coin from his pocket and exchanged it for the loaf, which he held close to his whiskered face, breathing deeply the warm aroma.
‘I hope you enjoy it!’ Saran said as he smiled appreciatively.
‘Enjoy it, I’ll say I do, wench, that and a bit o’ cheese be satisfyin’ to any man; why wi’ a glass o’ wheat wine the queen in her palace could ask no better.’
‘My grandfather liked wheat wine, he used sometimes to let me watch him brew.’ The delight of memory was shining in her eyes as Saran dropped the coin into her pocket.
‘Then your gran’father had good sense as well as good taste, it were smart o’ him passing skills to a young ’un; ain’t many as wants to learn the old ways since them there toob works an’ nailin’ shops comes to the town.’ His smile gone the old man shook his head sadly. ‘Seems no lad be interested . . . they all wants this modern way o’ earnin’ their livin’ . . . coal an’ iron be their god, but one day they’ll learn, one day when their insides be rotted by the black dust and their lungs seared from the fires o’ the forge or the scorching blast o’ iron furnaces, they’ll realise just how ’ard a god that be; but you, wench, you seems to ’ave teken the guidance of a mother’s hand that showed the mekin’ o’ good bread, an’ if it be you fancies addin’ to that the skills o’ your gran’father then come you to Ezekiel Millward, I’ll gladly teach you all I knows and you’ll find no better wheat in all of the country.’
She liked Ezekiel. Pushing the cart along Dudley Street and on through the market square Saran answered the smiles and greetings that came from all sides. The people here had accepted her and the knowledge held comfort, yet at the same time left her unsettled. Each day the order for her dainty rolls and small loaves increased as the cooks in the houses of the town’s wealthiest residents saw the purchase of them as a method of reducing their own daily chores and it was proving a way for her to earn her own living, being no longer a burden on Luke; but it also tied her to Wednesbury, prevented her holding to that self-made promise to move on, to widen her search for her mother and Miriam.
She had asked her question so many times. The last of the dozen rolls having been closely inspected by a sharp-eyed cook, Saran took her money and left the large house, hauling her cart aside as a shining black carriage passed along the drive. So many enquiries but only ever one answer, ‘I ain’t heard o’ no woman being bought.’ The large house being the last but one of her deliveries she pushed the cart to the High Bullen.
‘Eh, wench, that be right good o’ you bringin’ an old man a bite o’ bread an’ bacon.’
Stood beside the open gateway of the Coronet Tube Works a man with a wooden stump strapped below the knee of his right leg smiled as Saran bent over the cart and reached for the sandwich she brought each day.
‘You be a good wench,’ the man beamed his gratitude. ‘I tells that young Luke Hipton to hurry and grow so as to marry you afore somebody else do . . . he won’t know what he’s lost ’til some man teks you from him.’
‘I don’t think Luke need have any thought of that, no man is interested in me.’
Straightening she turned, placing the sandwich in eager hands and as it was taken she lifted her glance. For a moment her eyes locked on a pair which seemed to penetrate to her very soul; then Gideon Newell strode away.
His look had not been that of a guilty man nor an angry one. Pushing the empty cart Saran let her thoughts once more race free. Gideon Newell had given no indication that he had lied about Livvy’s daughter, shown no sign of the gratification he must be feeling.
A man’s smile can hide evil in his heart, but the truth of the soul shines in his eyes.
How many times had she heard her father say those words and how often had she seen the truth of Enoch Jacobs’s black soul reflected in that man’s narrow eyes as he had watched herself and Miriam?
But there had been nothing remotely resembling that in Gideon Newell’s gaze, not once in any of their meetings had she caught the faintest glimpse of anything but truth, so why could she not accept what Luke had? Why could she still not bring herself to believe his innocence?
Catching her foot on a stone she stumbled against the cart, and as she regained her balance she upbraided herself for allowing her attention to wander. Turning her steps along Meeting Street she was calculating the week’s requirement of flour when her breath caught in her throat.
It had to be! Transfixed, she stared at the figure sunk to the ground beside the closed door of the workhouse. The patched skirts, the faded shawl, the body curled in upon itself as if waiting for the next blow to fall.
‘Mother!’ she whispered. ‘Oh Lord, thank you . . . thank you!’
22
‘Mother!’
The cart forgotten in the mad leap of joy that surged t
hrough every vein, Saran ran the few yards separating her from the figure crouched before the heavy closed door. Miriam must have gone inside, gone to ask for them both to be taken in. But that would not be necessary now, they would not need a place in the workhouse, they were with her . . . at last, she had her loved ones safe; they would have a home, food and above all they would never be subjected to the cruelty of Enoch Jacobs ever again. Her mother and her sister, God had given them back to her! Her eyes blinded by tears of pure joy, Saran sank to her knees, gathering the huddled figure in her arms, her lips pressed to the shawl-covered head.
‘Mother . . .’ The word trembled from lips caressing the bowed head. ‘I tried so hard to find you . . . after Enoch Jacobs . . . Oh, Mother, thank God, thank God you came here!’
Cradled against her chest the woman whose body felt so thin and frail shook with the sobs that wracked one after the other through her wasted frame, but Saran felt only the wild happiness of reunion. A few weeks of loving care and her mother would be well again, and the roses that had faded from her sister’s cheeks would bloom with new life. She would care for them, she would never again let them from her sight; they were together at last and no power on earth would separate them a second time!
‘It’s all over,’ she murmured softly against the worn shawl. ‘You are safe now, you and Miriam both. You have no need to ask the welfare of the parish, you both have a home waiting for you. Give me a moment to fetch Miriam and I will take you there . . .’
‘No.’ The sobbing woman pushed free of the arms holding her, covering her face in the patched shawl. ‘The home you speaks of don’t be no home for me; as for my girl her don’t be inside that workhouse . . .’
Miriam was not in there! A touch of fear, cold against her heart, killing some of the joy, Saran glanced at the heavy oak door, her heart jerking as the sobbed words were repeated.
They had been sold at the same time. Enoch Jacobs had auctioned them off in that tavern and she had watched them being led away by the man who had purchased them, yet Miriam was no longer with their mother. Had her sister been sold yet again, passed into the hands of some other man simply for money? Thoughts careered more rapidly than Saran’s brain could handle, one flying into the next before it could be logically answered. How long ago had that been, had her mother been rejected, given her freedom for whatever reason? No! Though her mind reeled beneath the onslaught of questions that one was repudiated, quashed even as it touched the fringe of recognition. That type of creature, one who paid money for the pleasure of owning a fellow human being, did not grant them freedom. Yet her mother was here, it could only be that she had escaped the man’s clutches, that she had seen the chance for freedom and had taken it; but to run from a place – however vile her life had become there – to escape whilst leaving her daughter behind, a child she had ever tried to protect! The idea was preposterous, unthinkable! Rebecca Chandler loved her children too much ever to turn her back on either one of them and that protective love had continued though she had married the lecherous Enoch Jacobs. So why was Miriam not with her? If her sister were not inside that workhouse then where was she . . . and who was she with?
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