House of Angels

by Freda Lightfoot

  ‘Unfortunately for you, you’ve mistaken your target. I do not normally conduct interviews myself. Miss Caraway, whom you met just now, is the person responsible for hiring and firing shop staff.’ He made an impatient clicking sound at the back of his throat. ‘And you’ve most certainly cooked your goose so far as she is concerned. Whatever possessed you, girl, to issue such a barefaced lie? What possible advantage did you imagine it would give you to pretend to be one of my daughters? Do you not realise that it is an offence against the law to attempt to pass yourself off as someone else?’

  At this stage, having at last come face to face with her father, Mercy experienced a sudden urge to speak her mind. She longed to tell this man how her mother had suffered after he’d so callously abandoned her; how Florrie had been forced to live in the meanest of slums and work all the hours God sent to earn an honest crust. How she’d developed consumption and passed away a sad and broken woman believing the man she still adored no longer loved or cared about her.

  But all she could do was to gaze, mesmerised, at this man who had the reputation of being a tyrant, and was in fact her living, breathing father. Her tongue was cleaved to the roof of her mouth. She felt overcome by nerves, and some strange emotion she couldn’t begin to analyse, perhaps the knowledge that the man she’d longed to know for all her childhood years was now standing before her, that he did in fact exist. She’d believed, wrongly as it turned out, that her father was a sailor on the ocean blue. Yet here he was, in the flesh, and not at all as she’d imagined. The thought that this bull of a man might have bounced her on his knee when she was a small child seemed incredible. Impossible! Had he really teased and tickled and kissed her, as Florrie had claimed? Had he been in the least bit fond of her, or loved her just a little? If so, how could he then have gone off and left them both to starve?

  Mercy was mindful that she’d promised her mother she would be tactful and polite when she reminded him of his duty towards herself. This man was powerful, after all, and in a position to help her earn a living. And, illegitimate though she might be, he was still her father.

  Her fingers closed over the folded sheet of paper in the pocket of her skirt, and, gathering all her courage, Mercy handed him her mother’s letter. He read it in silence, glared at her for a long, heart-stopping moment, then read it again.

  ‘Your mother – Florrie – she’s dead, I take it?’

  ‘She is, sir, yes. Died a few weeks back, if’n you please, sir.’ What a silly remark to make. Why should it please him that her mother was dead?

  ‘How old are you, girl?’

  ‘Sixteen.’ She told him her birthday and he nodded, the lines of his craggy face tightening a little, almost as if he had no wish to be reminded of her birth.

  ‘And you now have no means of subsistence?’

  Mercy shook her head. There was the bit of weaving and knitting she did, but neither amounted to much with the prices currently being paid, and taking into account the poor state of her own skills. Jessie might be able to knit a jersey in a day, but Mercy could never match her speed, not in a million years, and even her friend struggled to cope with all them mouths she had to feed. She certainly couldn’t afford to take on one more.

  He was still glowering at her, then he instructed Mercy to wait and strode from the room. The click of the door as he softly closed it behind him seemed to echo chillingly in her head.

  Mercy stood on the fancy Persian rug and waited. For how long, she couldn’t afterwards recollect. It felt like hours. Long enough for her fast-beating heart to slow and her shredded nerves to calm down, and begin to gather her scattered wits. Sufficient time for Mercy to think of all she might have said: how she should have spoken with calmness and some show of intelligence. Instead, she’d just stood there like a gormless idiot while he’d read that letter, as if she didn’t even have a tongue in her head let alone a brain.

  She suddenly noticed that the letter her mother had written with such painstaking care as she clung on to the last threads of life had been blown from the desk in the draught from the door when it closed behind him. Or he had tossed it there. Whatever the reason, it now lay crumpled and rejected on the floor. For some reason this annoyed her and, picking it up, Mercy smoothed out the creases, reading the words again as she did so:

  I know you will do this small thing for me, Josiah dear, because of what we once meant to each other.

  The mere sight of her mother’s handwriting brought a lump to Mercy’s throat and tears momentarily blinded her. She gulped, rubbed away the tears, which would do her no good at all.

  ‘I’m here, Mam. I’m doing just what you told me. I’ve come to ask me pa for help.’ But would he give it? That was the question.

  Hearing a sound at the door, and still with the note in her hand, Mercy panicked, then quickly slid it into the letter rack that stood on Josiah Angel’s desk. At least there it wouldn’t get lost or crumpled. By the time the door opened, she was once more standing smart and straight on the Persian rug, chin high, heart pounding. She was disappointed to see it was the woman, Miss Caraway, and not her father, who entered. She remained framed in the doorway, arms folded. ‘This way, girl.’

  Mercy registered this as an order, not an invitation, and did as she was bid without question, obediently following the woman back along the labyrinth of corridors until they were once more out on the backstreet that ran behind the store. Her heart sank like a stone as disappointment hit home. Oh, no, she was being thrown out, yet again.

  ‘Where you taking me? Don’t I get no job then?’

  ‘Since you appear to be destitute, accommodation has been found for you,’ Miss Caraway informed her, rather tartly. ‘Get in.’

  Mercy blinked, and noticed for the first time that a carriage, or hansom cab as she believed it was more rightly called, pulled by a black horse, stood patiently waiting at the kerb. Hope soared within her. My word, this was something. They were offering her accommodation, no doubt to allow her time to settle in and get her uniform fitted before starting work at the store. And she was being taken there by cab. By heck, this was a turn-up for the books. ‘I’ve not brought me things,’ Mercy told the woman, in a sudden panic as she thought of her few bits and bobs at home.

  ‘Don’t worry about that, girl. All you require will be provided. Come along now, get on board. We don’t have all day.’

  Mercy settled herself with some importance upon the leather seat while Miss Caraway firmly closed the door. She’d never travelled in so much as a wagon before, let alone a fine carriage like this one with windows, and a proper roof to keep out the rain. Moments later the driver, who was standing behind the cab on some sort of ledge, flicked his whip and they were off, the horse clip-clopping along at a fine gait.

  Mercy settled back in her seat unable to believe her good fortune as the cab drove through the crowded streets of Kendal town, forcing people to step out of the way and allow it to pass.

  She couldn’t believe it. The interview had gone ten times better than she’d expected. A thousand times better. By heck, what would Jessie have to say when she heard about her being taken to her lodgings in a cab? If this was the sort of transport they used for staff, Mercy couldn’t wait to see where she’d be living, somewhere a lot better than Fellside, that’s for sure. And there were still the delights of the uniform to come. She must also remember to ask what her pay would be. Eeh, God bless Mam for revealing this long-held secret and making sure her future would be safe and secure. She’d fallen on her feet good and proper. It was all too exciting for words.

  It was only when she reached her destination that Mercy realised quite how ruthless Josiah Angel really was.

  Chapter Five

  Ella’s wedding followed a few weeks later at the unfashionable hour of twelve noon on a Friday in early May, and with very little jollity about it. No rose petals strewed her path to the church, no carriage with high-stepping horses, not even any pennies thrown to the town’s children from the church gate.
But then Josiah Angel didn’t believe in wasting his hard-earned brass, particularly not to the scavenging poor. All of the local gentry were present, since Josiah was a man of stature in Kendal. The repast he provided: a selection of cold meats, bread, cheese and the smallest of wedding cakes, all laid out on trestle tables on the lawns at Angel House, was considered somewhat penny-pinching by many, although none would ever risk saying as much to his face.

  The bride looked somewhat pale rather than blushing and blooming as brides were supposed to look on their wedding day, and wan in an outmoded wedding gown, its lace yellowed with age, probably having originally been worn by her mother.

  The only person who seemed entirely happy with the proceedings was Josiah himself, who beamed triumphantly upon all and sundry.

  ‘It may well be the happiest day of Father’s life, but not dear Ella’s,’ Livia muttered behind her hand to Maggie. ‘Did you see the anguished glance she cast her new husband? How will she endure it?’

  ‘I shudder to think.’

  Livia and Maggie watched with unashamed curiosity as Amos Todd moved among the guests, one hand clasped firmly to Ella’s elbow, as if to make sure he didn’t lose her at the eleventh hour. They noticed how his pale, some might say washed-out brown eyes carried no spark of interest, rarely showed expression of any kind, but maintained a polite disinterest throughout. It was almost as if he were nervous of meeting anyone’s gaze direct, save for when he spoke of his passion for his land and his animals.

  ‘Poor Ella,’ Livia whispered. ‘He looks terribly serious. I’ve never seen him smile yet. Imagine kissing that sour mouth, those dry, thin lips. Oh, Maggie, I’ve let her down. I promised Mamma that I’d take care of you both, and I’ve failed Ella completely.’

  ‘No, you haven’t. It’s not your fault, Livvy. There was nothing more you could do.’

  ‘But he’s so old! I believe he’s thirty-two, twelve years older than our Ella. And he’s so short and skinny!’

  Amos Todd was barely two inches taller than his bride. A wiry man with large hands and feet, the kind of physique considered ideal for a hill farmer. He wasn’t, Livia admitted, ugly as such, but nor could he be termed handsome. His face was plain and rather long, with ears that lay neat and flat to the side of his head, wearing an expression more sombre than joyful. Weather-beaten it may be, the cheeks bearing the ruddy hue typical of a man who spent his days out on the fells. Yet there was a blandness to it, a kind of serene calm, as if he’d resolved to remain untouched by the ills of life. By contrast, his hair, an indeterminate brown, was cut brutishly short, and Livia had an image of him sticking his head under a cold-water pump to wash it, something she could never imagine her demure sister ever doing.

  He took out a handkerchief to mop his brow, revealing some of the strain he must be under. At least the handkerchief is clean, Livia thought, which brought a new concern into her head.

  ‘Is there a housekeeper or washerwoman at Todd Farm, or must Ella do all of the chores herself?’

  Maggie frowned. ‘It’s quite large, hundreds of years old I believe, but Father insists she will have help. I’m not sure though that we can entirely trust him. I do worry that may not be the case. Amos is every bit as mean as Father, being a strict Methodist. How Ella will cope with a harsh, lonely life out on those fells at Kentmere, I dread to think. You know how lazy and spoilt she is, never doing a stroke unless forced to it.’

  Livia tried to smile. ‘I dare say she’ll learn, if she must, as we all will. What is to be our fate, Maggie? Have you considered that? Father can beat me till I expire, but I’ll not marry Henry Hodson. Never!’

  Maggie sighed. ‘Oh, Livvy, don’t sound so fierce. You frighten me.’

  Following the service and simple repast, a country dance started up in response to a neighbour tuning up an old fiddle. The assembled guests seemed determined to salvage something out of the day, even if the bride and groom themselves seemed not in the mood for celebrating.

  The sun was beginning to drop in a hazy blue sky by the time Maggie and Livia hustled Ella upstairs to help her change for the journey. Not that the newly-weds were having anything so frivolous as a honeymoon. Livia asked why this was, as she unbuttoned the row of tiny pearl buttons down her sister’s back to allow Ella to carefully step out of the gown.

  She explained that Amos could not leave his livestock, even for a day. ‘Cows still need milking and sheep tending, wedding or no.’

  ‘How very sad.’ Livia knew all too well that romantic Ella had once dreamt of a continental tour to Italy for her wedding journey.

  ‘I don’t care in the least,’ Ella said, her face pinched with despair. ‘The last thing I want is to be alone with that man.’ There was an edge to her voice as if she were on the verge of tears, and her two sisters quickly wrapped their arms about her to hold her close.

  The night before as they’d sipped hot milk together for the very last time, outspoken Livia had bluntly asked her sister if she were a virgin still. ‘Even if it was a lie about the pregnancy, did you and Danny ever…you know?’

  Tears had formed on Ella’s lower lids, causing the grey-green eyes to shimmer and seem as fathomless as the sea. She had loved Danny Gilpin for two long years, ever since she was eighteen. But because he was only a humble groom they’d both known that Father would never allow them to marry. It had meant that their love must be kept hidden and their meetings take place in secret. The result had been that Ella had drawn a little away from her two sisters, occupying a world of romance and dreams. Now she was facing stark reality, and felt crushed by it.

  She gave the smallest shake of her head. ‘I never dared. Oh, but I wish we had. I do so wish Danny had been the first. We were too afraid, too nervous of…of getting caught.’ A sob caught at her throat. ‘And now it’s too late.’

  Maggie quietly asked, ‘You do know what will be expected of you, Ella? What will happen?’

  A small nod, the lovely eyes wide with fear. ‘I do. Mama told me once, years ago.’

  ‘Don’t resist,’ Maggie warned. ‘It will only make it worse. It can be quite painful…or so I believe…the first time. After that, well, you get used to it. Close your eyes and think of—’

  ‘Of my darling Danny? No, I could never do that,’ Ella cut in. ‘It would be a sacrilege.’

  Her father’s voice boomed up the stairs. ‘It’s gone four o’clock and you’d best be making a move if you’re to be home before dark.’

  Ella felt panic rise in her breast. ‘This is my home. I don’t want a new one. Oh, and I shall miss you both so much.’ She was trying hard not to cry, to hold fast to her failing courage, but Ella felt as if her heart were breaking in two. How would she survive without them, without Livia’s energy or Maggie’s sweet gentle comfort, both of them fussing over her like mother hens? Since the death of their beloved mother the three girls had formed a special bond, supporting each other through good times and bad.

  ‘Be strong,’ Maggie said. ‘Be brave. Don’t forget you’ll have his children for company. I’m quite sure they will love you, and you’ll come to love them as your own.’

  Ella was silenced by this thought. She’d forgotten all about the children. How might they react to a new stepmother? She shuddered to think.

  Maggie and Livia both put their arms around her, holding their sister close in a tight, we’ll-keep-the-world-at-bay sort of hug while Ella clung to them as if her life depended upon it.

  Then she stepped bravely away, dried her eyes, striving to be as sensible as her newly acquired and very serviceable navy blue serge coat. She’d chosen it from a selection at the store for that very reason, as it would do well for chapel. Even so, Ella hadn’t been able to resist trimming the collar with a small pelt of grey fur, even if it was coney. Her matching navy hat bore a dashing flower with petals made from the same fur. Livia assured her that she looked as beautiful as ever, even if the coat wasn’t quite so stylish as the kind of outfits she usually wore.

  ‘Oh, my gl
oves. I’ve lost one of my new kid gloves. I was showing my going-away outfit to Mrs Crabtree in the parlour earlier. I must have dropped one.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Livia said. ‘I’ll run and find it for you. Wait here, and don’t you dare leave without saying goodbye.’

  ‘I won’t, I won’t, I swear!’

  As expected, Livia found the kid glove behind the sofa in the small parlour, but as she turned to hurry upstairs to her sisters she saw a man’s face peering in at the back window, clearly not one of their guests. Incensed by this apparent invasion of their privacy on this special day, Livia marched outside to remonstrate with the intruder.

  ‘Miss Angel, would it be?’ the stranger bluntly enquired, with not a scrap of courtesy or good manners, and before she even had time to ask what he was doing in their back garden.

  ‘Indeed, and who might you be?’

  The man dipped his head in a mocking bow. ‘Jack Flint, if you please. I dare say you’ll have heard of me.’

  Livia’s mind ranged swiftly over various possibilities where she might have met him, all of which seemed highly unlikely. Yet as she studied him more closely, she found herself thinking that surely she would have remembered if she had. He was not a man one would easily forget, being disturbingly good-looking in a rough and ready sort of way. Judging by the wildness of his dark hair and the stubble on his jutting jaw, Livia supposed it must be some considerable time since he’d last visited a barber. He wore dark fustian trousers, a crumpled tweed jacket that had seen better days, its collar turned up against a white silk scarf knotted loosely about his neck. The kind of clothing that very much set him apart from the rest of the wedding guests. Yet there was something about his stance, the proud tilt of his head, and the way he lounged before her with his hands in his pockets, that told her such sartorial matters were of little concern to him.

  Seeing how she observed him, his dark eyes glimmered with amusement, showing he was all too arrogantly aware of his own masculine charm; the long aquiline nose, straight and true, giving him almost a condescending air.