The Street Orphans

by Mary Wood

  The Earl smiled as he reloaded his gun. ‘Just to show you that I mean what I say.’

  Bending over as best she could, Ruth touched the lady’s forehead. She stirred.

  ‘See! It is as I said – you are a witch! You only had to touch her and—’

  Pushing back her hair, which had come loose from the ribbon Ma had tied in it, Ruth looked up at him and saw him properly for the first time. ‘Puny’ was how she’d label him. His bones jutted from hollow cheeks, his lips were feminine in their fullness, and she could see that his hair hung in false curls held with pins, some of which had escaped and now looked hideous. The depths of his black eyes held terror for her and, in that moment, she knew she was damned if his mother lived, and yet damned if she didn’t.

  The thought came to her that this would be the fate of her sisters and brothers as well. With this, her anger – fuelled by fear for herself and her siblings – caused her to grab her crutch and swing it with all her might. Catching the back of the Earl’s knees, her blow floored him. Lunging towards him on all fours, Ruth scrambled across him, holding his body down with her weight. Her eyes glimpsed his pistol, now loosened from his grip. Grabbing it, she mustered all her strength and smashed it across his head.

  The gaping, bloodied gash on his forehead shocked her back to reality. Gasping for breath, she stared in horror as the Earl’s head rolled to one side, as if independent of his neck. His breath gasped from him in a rasping, gurgling sound. He didn’t draw it back in. Oh God! No. No . . . I’ve killed him!

  ‘Ruth! God, Ruth, lass, what have you done?’

  ‘I didn’t mean to kill him, Seth. I didn’t. I just wanted to knock him out, so we could get away.’

  A moan caught their attention. The lady moved her head, but didn’t open her eyes.

  ‘What’re we going to do?’ Seth’s whisper held tears. His fear spurred Ruth into action. Pulling her crutch towards her and grabbing the piece of ribbon she’d lost from her hair – a precious memento now, as her ma had won it when the fair had visited – she put her hand out to Seth, who helped her up.

  A flash of memory came to her, as she held onto the ribbon – her ma’s words: ‘I’m choosing you over Amy or Elsie for the ribbon, lass, as it will help to keep you cool, to have your hair tied back. Never cut your hair, our lass. It is your crowning glory. Look at it: it reaches your waist. It suits your beautiful oval face and complements your blue eyes. You need it to distract people from your affliction, and to let folk see as you’re a bonny lass, despite that foot of yours.’

  Shaking the tear-jerking recollection from her, Ruth brought her attention back to their current situation. ‘Seth, you and George get the Earl’s body back into the coach. Hurry, afore his ma comes round proper. Put him in a position that he would likely be in if he’d been killed in the accident. Go on, me lads.’

  Hobbling over to the lady, Ruth placed herself between her and the carriage, because although the lady had sunk back into deep unconsciousness once more, Ruth felt afraid that she might still open her eyes and see what they were doing.

  ‘Amy, lass, bring Elsie to me, and then get sommat to disturb the mud to hide the trail of the lads dragging the body. A stick or something will do.’

  ‘But, our Ruth, anyone’ll know as he were out of the carriage afore he died. He’ll be covered in mud, and there’s mud on his boots.’

  Fear of the truth of what Amy said stopped Ruth in her tracks for a moment. When a solution came to her, she knew George wouldn’t be in favour of it, but their situation was desperate – hers above all, as now the noose would be her certain fate.

  ‘We have to attach the horses again and drive them over the cliff to take the—’

  ‘Naw!’

  George’s horrified gasp showed Ruth the enormity of what she’d proposed, and she knew she wouldn’t be able to achieve it.

  ‘We have to do sommat to cover up what really happened, George. We have to.’

  ‘I think I knaw what we could do, our Ruth.’

  Ruth didn’t dismiss Amy. The lass had a clever brain. She could even read and write, and she’d only had the miller’s lad to teach her what he’d learned in school.

  ‘We could just push the seating area of the carriage over the edge, with the Earl inside. Then, when he’s found, the state of him will give no clue to him having left the carriage before he died. And it won’t be too heavy for us to shift, now that it is detached from where the trunks are stored. We could say as we’d managed to get the lady out, but then had to unleash the horses as they were in danger of shoving the rest over the cliff. But just as we did so, the lightest part of the carriage went over, with the unconscious man still in it.’

  ‘Yes, that could have happened. You’re reet, lass. By, Ma allus said as you were the brains of the family, our Amy. Reet, me lads, that’s what we’ll do – just as Amy says – and I can help, if I get me back against it.’

  ‘Naw, you shield the lady’s view, Ruth, just in case. And mind our Elsie an’ all. Me and the lads’ll manage. We’re strong.’

  Ruth did as Amy suggested. She knew her own strength was limited and would more than likely be a hindrance. It wasn’t just her foot that was crippled, as the bottom of her spine also had a curve in it. Though it wasn’t much of one and it didn’t bend her over, unless she was tired, like now, the curvature did cause her pain almost beyond endurance at times. She held Elsie to her, and the crashing sound of the carriage against the rocks undid her. Her body trembled. The dry sockets of her eyes filled with tears as the full impact of their plight hit her. She looked in fear at the lady, but she hadn’t moved. The thought came to her: God, what now? What now?

  There was no doubt in Ruth’s mind that they had to take the lady down to Clitheroe and get help for her, but what trouble would that bring down upon them? The fear this caused increased the shaking in her body.

  2

  Katrina Arkwright

  Released from a Dreaded Event

  ‘I won’t marry him, Mama!’

  ‘My dear Katrina, Father will be so disappointed if you don’t marry Lord Bertram Rollinson . . . He is the Earl of Harrogate, for heaven’s sake!’

  ‘No! And I don’t care about his title or who he is, or what he represents. He is puny and disgusts me. His manner is effeminate and his breath smells. Ugh! The very thought of him repulses me. Why, Mama, why must I?’

  ‘Darling, he is such a good catch. Your father is so pleased about the Earl choosing you as his bride. Lord Bertram is sought-after by every female of standing who is of marriageable age.’

  Katrina doubted that her father had anything to do with it. A self-made man, he was accepted in society only because of her mama, who was born a lady; and although Katrina knew it pained him that Mama was no longer fully accepted, being so meant far more to her mama than it did to Daddy.

  ‘This is such a good opportunity for you, Katrina. Most girls of twenty-one have been spoken-for at least for a couple of years. And you will be such a help to your sister. Marcia will get to meet someone of worth, as you will be in the social circle that you should have been in by birthright – and that will involve us all.’

  ‘Mama, you – of all people – should understand how I feel. You were born a titled lady, and Grandpapa sold you to Father: a lower-class person made good. And that is what is happening to me. Lord Rollinson is trading a title for me, and Daddy’s acceptance into society circles, just to get his hands on our money. How could you wish this to happen to me?’

  ‘Because I know that such arrangements can work. Mine has. Yes, I had to marry your father, because Daddy was in so much debt, and by marrying me off to one of the richest men in England, he and my family would be saved. And, as it happened, your father wanted greater things for himself, so he was a ready target. What the poor darling didn’t realize was that you don’t get into the aristocracy by buying into it, but only by birth; and so he never managed to raise himself, only to lower me. You are different. You are from the ari
stocracy on my side, and marrying back into it will raise you up. You will become a titled lady.’

  ‘How contradictory is that: you want, for me and Marcia, what you didn’t want for yourself! It is all for Daddy, so you say. Well, I don’t believe you, Mama. And this is too high a price to pay for what you want. Besides, it didn’t work for Grandpapa – his debts crippled him in the end, and took him and Grandmama to an early grave, so what is to say that our money will work for bloody Lord Bertram?’

  ‘Don’t swear, darling. It doesn’t become you. Anyway, my father was a gambler; Lord Bertram isn’t. His father was and so is his brother, the Viscount Frederick, but that isn’t the cause of the decline of their wealth. Not altogether. The coming of the Industrial Revolution may have helped men like your father to advance themselves, but those who depend upon the land and their estates are not in a good position – except those who had funds to invest in manufacturing in the beginning. All the big money is centred on the towns. Just look how Blackburn has grown. When I was a young girl, it was nothing more than a large village. It is a—’

  A tap on the door interrupted her mother and increased Katrina’s frustration. If she could only bring her mama round to her side, she might stand a chance! There must be some way out of her situation. There had to be. God, she couldn’t marry that sickly nanny-boy. She couldn’t.

  Wistlow entered, at her mama’s bidding. Trying not to show their butler there was anything amiss, Katrina turned her back and walked over to the window. Her feet sank into the hand-made Indian rug as she went – a rug so huge it could almost be called a carpet. Its rich blues, golds and reds gave a splash of colour to the otherwise subtle creams and soft blues of Mama’s sitting room, without interfering with the elegance that Mama surrounded herself with. An elegance reflected in the carved deep-mahogany furniture and the beautiful chandelier, which held as many as forty candles.

  The view from the window brought some peace to Katrina. The mountains of the Pennines, with their snow-capped peaks, formed a backdrop to frost-tipped trees and acres of land covered in bracken, which was wearing its browns and rusts of the winter season. Wistlow’s words shattered that moment’s peace and brought her attention back to the present.

  ‘Ma’am, there is a policeman here. He has some bad news. Should I send him to the factory to talk to Mr Arkwright, or summon Mr Arkwright here?’

  ‘What does he want, Wistlow? Has the policeman told you?’

  ‘Only that there has been an accident, Ma’am, but he did say it wasn’t a family member and that he is here as part of his investigations.’

  Though this was alarming, Katrina couldn’t think how this accident could concern them, if her father wasn’t involved, or indeed Marcia, who was at this moment travelling home from finishing school.

  ‘Did he indicate whether the accident happened at the factory?’ her mother asked, but then answered her own question, ‘No, of course it couldn’t have. He’d have gone there, not here.’

  This set Katrina wondering: So who then? Good God, surely not the Earl and his mother, who are on their way to see us? Though that might solve my problem, if it was serious enough. This thought soon changed to: Let it be. Please let it be the ghastly Earl.

  Mama’s anxiety caused Katrina a feeling of guilt, as it was obvious that the same thought had occurred to her and distressed her. Her face had paled and her voice shook. ‘Oh dear, it can only be . . . No, it can’t be, not my dear Eleonore.’

  Lady Eleonore, the Earl’s mother, had been a friend of Katrina’s mother since they were girls at the same school in Belgium. A French nobleman’s daughter, Lady Eleonore had met and married the elder Earl of Harrogate, now deceased. Her sons, the new and despicable Earl, Lord Bertram, and his brother, the Viscount Frederick, couldn’t be more different, if they were born to entirely separate families. Katrina rather liked the handsome Frederick and wouldn’t have baulked at marrying him.

  It wasn’t just his looks – tall compared to Bertram’s short height; dark hair to Bertram’s fair; and, well, Frederick was altogether French-looking. Whereas Bertram . . . Oh, she didn’t want to think about him, other than to wish he’d be conveniently disposed of in some way.

  It didn’t take long for Mama to recover herself and instruct Wistlow to take the police officer to the kitchen and offer him some refreshment. ‘And then send an urgent message to Mr Arkwright. Tell him to come home at once, Wistlow.’

  After Wistlow had left, they sat in silence for a moment. Katrina had sunk down onto the light-blue, French-influenced couch and looked up at a picture of her mother adorning the chimneybreast above the huge open fireplace. This room, although cool in summer with its many windows and French doors that opened onto the garden, needed the roaring log fire to be kept alight to maintain the heat at this time of year.

  The spitting and crackling of the logs blazing in the hearth drew her attention. Trying to dispel the horrid thought she’d had, she looked into the depth of the flames and watched the dance of the sparks on the soot-covered fire-bricks behind them. She remembered herself and Marcia playing a game of claiming a spark each, and willing it to last longer than the other ones. She and Marcia had been so close in those days – how did it all change?

  They had spent quite a time apart because when she returned from finishing school, Marcia – two years younger than herself – left to attend the same school. The change in Marcia when she returned for a school break had dismayed Katrina. Now, although she loved her sister dearly, she was wary of her scheming ways.

  A small sigh from her mother broke into Katrina’s thoughts. ‘Would you like a drink, Mama? Because I could do with one.’

  Mama leaned forward and rang the bell on the table in front of her. ‘Yes, dear, I certainly would. I feel so worried. I am certain it is Eleonore, but what could have befallen them?’

  ‘Robbers maybe, or a lame horse rearing. Who knows?’

  ‘You don’t sound very concerned, Katrina, and that isn’t like you. You may not care for what happens to Lord Bertram, but Lady Eleonore—’

  ‘I know. I’m sorry, Mama.’

  Her mother nodded. The ringlets caught up in a bunch on the back of her head did a little jig as she did so. Still beautiful and very elegant, her mama showed little sign of her age. Her hair shone in a youthful way, with very few grey strands peppering its jet-black colour. Her oval-shaped face had a delicate, vulnerable look, and sweeping lashes framed her hazel eyes. Everything about her – from her creamy skin to her slanting shoulders and tiny, but in-proportion figure – was a picture of loveliness. Not that she was all sweetness and light, as she appeared to be; she was a woman who knew what she wanted, and she could twist her husband around her finger to get it.

  In some of that, Katrina knew she was describing herself. In looks and figure, that is, she was the epitome of her mother as a young woman, though she knew her nature was more like her father’s: determined, strong-minded and stubborn; in her youth this had been interpreted as being wilful.

  Wistlow had only just finished serving their drinks – gin with lemonade for Mama, and a sherry for herself – when a commotion started up in the hallway. Father’s loud voice could be heard shouting, ‘Where is everybody? I’m bloody summoned home and there’s no bugger here to greet me!’

  Mama raised her eyebrows, but remained seated. Wistlow moved in a sort of scurrying action towards the door. Too late: Daddy had already entered and almost threw his cloak at the poor man, followed by his tall hat, which Wistlow caught with style, making Katrina want to clap her hands and shout, ‘Bravo!’ – though she knew better than to do so at this moment.

  ‘Come and sit here, dear.’ Mama patted the seat next to her.

  Daddy calmed immediately, smiled and sat down. ‘Sorry, dear. I’m just very worried. What’s happening? Why the summons?’

  Mama told him about the policeman and why he was here. ‘We don’t know who is involved or why it is of interest to us. Only that it isn’t a family member, and
that we are part of his investigations. I thought you would want to handle it yourself.’

  ‘My love, you’re shaking. What are you afraid of?’

  ‘That it might be Lady Eleonore. Oh, Robert, I couldn’t bear it if she—’

  ‘Now, now.’

  Mama leaned heavily on Daddy’s shoulder as he tried to comfort her. ‘We’ll not meet trouble afore it meets us. Where is this policeman fellow?’

  Her father, though a huge man in stature, with his clothes, demeanour and manners telling of his extreme wealth, still had a Lancashire tone to his voice, which somehow was at odds with the rest of him, and could be so pronounced that you would think him a worker in his mill, instead of the owner. For all that, she liked the accent, and it didn’t matter to her that her father still showed his roots. She suspected it mattered to Mama, as she was always correcting him. This time, though, Mama stayed quiet.

  ‘By now he should be on his way to your study, dear. I instructed Wistlow to see to the man’s refreshment and keep him in the kitchen until you arrived, and then to take him to your study.’

  ‘Right. Yes, that’s the best place, I’d say. Well done. Are you wanting to come t’office with me? Hear at first hand what this is all about, eh?’

  ‘Can I come too, Papa? After all, it could concern me.’

  ‘Erm . . .’ Her father looked towards Mama. His way was to defer to her in all such matters. To Katrina’s delight, her mother agreed. Thank goodness. At least I won’t be left wondering.

  Walking in the garden some thirty minutes later, snuggled in her fur coat over a long brown day-frock, Katrina felt great sadness for the plight of Lady Eleonore, lying unconscious in a cottage hospital in Clitheroe. That lovely lady’s life hung in the balance, and yet she had no idea that her son was dead. Despite this, Katrina had to admit that her sadness for Lady Eleonore vied with the joy she felt for herself in being released from a fate she had thought of as worse than death.