by Annis Bell
“Let me come with you, Fiona.” The grim sheds of the workhouse beyond the wall were a source of irresistible fascination for Mary.
“No. You’ll stick out like a sore thumb with your blond hair. I look like ’em over there, and I can act like ’em, too. Not you, Mary.” Fiona lovingly stroked her friend’s silky blond hair, which curled around her pretty face.
During the evening meal, Mary was forced to sit in a corner of the dining hall and was given just a bowl of thin milk to drink. Her stomach growled loudly, and the smell of the food made her punishment even worse. She was happy to return to her bed that evening.
Fiona waited until everyone else had fallen asleep. As silent as a cat, she slipped on her dress and kneeled beside Mary’s bed, then whispered in her ear, “I’m going over. Make sure the window stays open. Got it?”
“Of course, but be careful, all right?” Mary crept out of her bed, which was in the corner beside a window, and helped her friend climb outside. Agile as a monkey, Fiona clambered down a drainpipe to the ground and was swallowed by the darkness. Mary waited awhile at the window, but saw and heard nothing more, and lay back down on her bed. She must have fallen asleep, for when she awoke, dawn was already breaking. She looked over to Fiona’s bed immediately. Empty! She was wide awake in an instant and sprang to the window, which was still open. “Fiona, where are you?” she murmured to herself, and peered out into the morning twilight.
She could hear sounds from the kitchen and the laundry over at the workhouse, and a dog barked. The milk cart pulled up at the gate on its rounds. She heard the clattering of the milk cans. A maid came out of the master’s house and collected two. Then there was silence again. Mary crawled back into her bed and cowered there fearfully, listening to every sound inside and outside of the building. Finally, Sister Susan pushed open the dormitory door.
“Wakey, wakey!” she shouted. A groaning and grumbling spread through the dormitory.
Mary was one of the first in the washroom that morning, and when she saw Sister Susan standing among the tubs with a look of triumph on her face, she knew that something terrible had happened. Mary took off her nightdress, climbed into a tub, and washed herself. When she had dried herself and pulled on her dress, she went to Sister Susan.
“Where’s Fiona?”
The woman’s top lip pulled back unpleasantly to reveal yellow teeth. “She’s moved. She’s in the small dorm now.”
Mary began to shake, and her knees threatened to give way. “No, she can’t. We belong together! We don’t have anything else.”
Sister Susan’s repulsive grin broadened. “March and get dressed. Or do you want to miss breakfast?”
With tears in her eyes, Mary ran down the corridor and caught a glimpse through the open door of the small dormitory. On a bed in the first row, against the wall, she saw a mop of red hair. The slender figure of her friend lay curled up under a sheet.
“Fiona!” Mary cried. She took a step into the room but was grabbed roughly by Sister Susan and pushed back into the corridor.
“Disappear, unless you want to join her.”
There was nothing she could do for Fiona. She could only try to avoid attracting attention and getting locked up herself. That way, at least, she could be there when Fiona came back. Her friend was not there for breakfast, nor did she join Mary in the classroom or for lunch. Mary felt as if the atmosphere inside the orphanage had changed. It had never been a pleasant place, but now a menacing cloud hovered over everyone. Alone, Mary crouched with an apple behind the oak, but finally stuffed the piece of fruit into her pocket, crept behind the bush, and peeked through the wall.
Until a few moments earlier, it had been drizzling. Now, however, the dark clouds had parted and a few rays of sunlight broke through. It was no longer cold, even at night, and everywhere the plants were sprouting new growth and flowers. If they catch me, I’ll say I wanted to pick the flowers there, Mary thought as she squeezed through the opening in the wall. She had only ever seen the workhouse yard from inside the workshops, when she’d been sent over to work. She screwed up her nose. It smelled awful there, reeking of moldy food scraps, old rope, manure. Or was that the cesspit?
Mary ducked behind a pile of wood and crept toward a pile of stones in the other corner. Fiona had mentioned that. Overgrown bushes and weeds grew everywhere. She heard the rough dialect of the London laborers and the crack of hammers on stone and sheet metal. From the main building came the crying of a child, but that was quickly silenced. The ground was covered in shards of stone and splinters of wood, and in a careless moment Mary stabbed her hand on a splinter. The pain was sudden and sharp, but she suppressed a cry and crept on as far as a dark patch in the grass. It smelled of ash and bones. At the wall of a shed stood a bucket of kitchen waste, and in front of the shed lay a dog, growling and tearing at the gristle of a pig bone. It growled louder as Mary moved closer.
She changed course, creeping back to the wall and from there farther along to the ash pile. She looked around and discovered a shovel leaning against a shed wall. Old boards, a ruined wooden barrel, and a pile of crates stood beside it. But there was no sign of anything that belonged to Mr. Gaunt. If the ground over here had been dug up, she could see no sign of it. And as long as the dog was lying there, she couldn’t look closer. Cautiously, she went to the stack of crates. They were nailed shut. Her hand burned from the splinter, but she did not let that dissuade her. She looked around for something she could use to open the crates, but found nothing. From the yard, this corner was out of sight, so Mary gathered her courage and pulled down the top crate, which was not heavy. She tugged at the boards nailed shut on top until one of them came loose and she could twist it aside.
She caught her breath when she saw the leather cover of a book inside. A book! Who would leave a valuable book lying around outside like this? She had no time to see what kind of book it was, for just then the dog howled.
“Away, you filthy mongrel! Aha, what do we ’ave ’ere?” The bulky form of Mr. Cooper moved around the crates, and his heavy hand grabbed hold of Mary and pulled her close to him effortlessly. She had never stood this near to him before. He stank of tobacco and gin, and dark slime oozed from one corner of his mouth. The former boxer spat out a plug of tobacco and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
The scar on his forehead darkened, and his deep-set eyes squinted at her unpleasantly. “What are you doing sniffing round ’ere? Don’t ’ave enough work to do?”
Mary was paralyzed with fear. She could not move. Cooper’s hand gripped her arm like a vise. He pushed his other hand through her blond curls. “Pretty thing. And so grown up, aren’t you?”
He grinned, revealing an incomplete row of brown teeth. His breath was so nauseating that Mary felt ill. Or perhaps it was fear. Her stomach rebelled, and she vomited on Cooper’s jacket.
He let go of her instantly and punched her in the face. “You little shite! Look at this mess! You’ll pay for this.”
“Pat? Pat, is that you?” It was Sister Susan, calling from the other side of the wall.
“Yes! Blast it, come ’ere and get this little rat. She’s been sniffin’ round my things,” Cooper bawled.
It wasn’t long before Sister Susan came running around the shed. She spotted the crates, then she looked at Cooper, but he was so furious that he only had eyes for his soiled suit.
Mary was curled on the ground, crying in misery. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it! The flowers . . .”
Sister Susan looked at her suspiciously. “Flowers? There are no flowers here. You’re just as bad as the redhead, but she got what was coming to her.”
Cooper pulled off his jacket and shook it. “Gawd, that stinks.”
“Give it here, I’ll get it clean.” Susan jerked the jacket out of his hand.
“You’ll get more for the blond ’ere than you did for the redhead, I’m sure o’ that. Then
I get ’er. She owes me that.” He reached out his hand for Mary, but Susan pulled her away.
“Not her! The master sold her today.”
24.
The discovery that Lord Hargrave’s valet had an injury to his hand that matched exactly with what Sadie had reported from Fearnham might, of course, mean nothing. Jane was well aware of that, though her mind was in turmoil, inferring the most absurd connections. Besides, Jack was considerably younger than the man Sadie had described. Jane swore Hettie to silence, which was not easy for the maid, but it was better that way. And Jane herself would not bring it up with Lord Hargrave. The man was unpredictable and not one to have anyone tell him how to run his affairs. Jane had sensed that very clearly from him. She was also uncertain as to whether he would really let the affair with Blythe rest. But that could wait. Now that he had returned to London, he would not be back in Cornwall for some time.
The London Season was a must for any self-respecting member of high society. For Jane, too, there were commitments to fulfill, whether she wanted to or not. The main part of the social season began each year after Easter in the city on the Thames. One could ignore the Derby, but Ascot was a sacred obligation, followed by the Henley Regatta. And there were numerous important balls and dinners to which she was invited. Lady Alison was throwing a party that Jane was looking forward to, but mainly because it was an opportunity to see her friend again. This year, she would not attend the event alone; Wescott would be at her side. The thought of her husband being there left her feeling ambivalent.
Blount had diplomatically suggested she inform Wescott about Hargrave’s valet, and then do nothing more. When she tried to sound Blount out about exactly what Wescott did in London, Blount prevaricated, and she gave up trying to ask the man anything else.
April drew to a close with warmer days. The sun was in the sky longer, and the heavy, gunmetal rain clouds had, for now, disappeared. In Cornwall, one could always count on wind and rain, but the days when the weather was good made up for the weeks of gray drabness.
Floyd, using a walking stick, emerged from the dining room, which was to be thoroughly cleaned and freshly carpeted during her upcoming absence. Jane wanted light colors and fresh, airy materials to drive out the oppressive atmosphere of the house.
“I’m leaving you behind only with great reluctance, Floyd, but I will sleep easier knowing you are here while I’m gone.” She looked warmly at her loyal butler, who was recovering well.
He would probably favor his injured leg for quite a while, but even that would settle with time. Doctor Woodfall had done good work.
“Thank you, my lady. I won’t be alone here.” Rufus had positioned himself between them, and the butler scratched the Great Dane’s back.
Jane sighed and nodded. “I’m not allowed to be selfish, am I? I would prefer to take him with me, but he’s used to living on the land and wouldn’t have any fun in a dirty city.”
She stroked Rufus’s silky fur. “I believe you will have an easier time of it with Mr. Roche now, but if you have any difficulties, let me know immediately.”
“Very good, my lady. And are you determined to stop by Rosewood Hall?” Floyd was immaculately dressed. Apart from the walking stick and pale patches on his cheeks, he was the epitome of a perfect butler.
“It is on my way. I am not in any hurry to visit my cousin, but it has to be done, unfortunately . . .” She waved to Hettie, who was hurrying down the stairs carrying three hatboxes. “In the coach, then the rest in the wagon and we can go. I don’t want to have to spend the night in Newbridge.”
She planned to visit the orphanage in Newbridge on her way. The visit to St. Austell with Violet Sutton had proved fruitless, though only in terms of her investigation. The orphanage was run by a friendly older couple and seemed to be a godsend for the area. The children had been happy and laughing and free to move around the buildings and yard without fear. Poverty was still the rule there, but it seemed that no one suffered for a lack of food, and the children were clean. But Violet was moody, swinging between hysterical, disconsolate, and waspish. After that visit, Jane had sworn to never to go anywhere again with the woman. When, back in the carriage, Violet produced the box with the syringe and ampoules, it was clear to Jane just how dependent on the opiate she had become. She felt sympathy and loathing for the woman, in equal measure.
Floyd nodded understandingly. Jane had spoken to him about the problem of the promissory notes that her cousin had uncovered among her uncle’s assets. Lord Henry had never mentioned them to Floyd. It could be assumed that, for Lord Henry, the matter was closed and no longer even worth mentioning.
“His lordship would never have allowed things to come this far. I hope you are able to reach an amicable agreement with your cousin.” The fact that Floyd never referred to Matthew as the new lord made it clear how little respect he had for Lord Henry’s avaricious son.
Mrs. Roche entered the hallway and stood slightly apart, waiting.
Jane was aware of being observed by the housekeeper when she shook Floyd’s hand. The familiar gesture demonstrated both respect and appreciation, and set the butler apart from the rest of the staff.
“I wish you a pleasant journey, my lady,” said Floyd, and his voice shook slightly. “Let me know in advance of your return, and I shall ensure that everything is prepared.”
It would not have befitted him to ask how long she would be away, but Jane said, “Three months in London is more than enough, Floyd. Until then.”
As Jane went out, she nodded to Mrs. Roche and was surprised to find the entire domestic staff lined up in the courtyard. When she took her place beside Hettie in the coach, she waved a final time from the window.
“Mrs. Roche has really shaped up, don’t you think, ma’am?” Hettie said, sitting back.
“And not without reason. She and her husband have profited from Blythe’s lapse themselves, or do you think that all the game that has disappeared in the last three years has gone to Hargrave?”
Rufus ran behind the coach barking, but gave up at the gate. Blount, who was accompanying them on horseback, made sure that the Great Dane returned to the house. Jane looked back sadly at her dog as the coach rolled alongside the stone walls that bordered the fields and meadows of Mulberry Park. Before the path led off into the woods, she saw a figure standing alone on a hilltop. The man doffed his hat and stood his ground until she could no longer see him.
“Blythe,” Jane murmured, and leaned back against the upholstered seat.
The closer they got to Newbridge, the busier the streets became. The tiny village was not far from Callington, a small town on one of the main traffic routes that led from the north coast to the south. Plymouth, with its important harbor, was only eight miles away, and to the east began the broad, uninhabited moorlands of Dartmoor. The region was notorious for its inhospitable climate and treacherous bogs, where those unfamiliar with the area could be easily lost. Ten years earlier, a prison originally built for prisoners from the Napoleonic wars had been reopened as a convict jail in Princetown, in the moor itself.
Jane was glad that she did not have to cross the notorious moor, because there was another hamlet, also called Newbridge, there.
The orphanage, which Violet Sutton had described as desolate and run-down, lay outside the village, surrounded by bleak fields and heavily thinned forests. Violet had mentioned that the women on the committee did not go out of their way to visit the place because the director was a most unpleasant patron. For Jane, that was just one more reason to see for herself the place that was supposed to be a refuge for needy children.
Along the way, Jane had asked the driver to stop and had bought several baskets of fruit and sweets for the children. The wagon carrying most of her luggage had taken the direct route to London. It had been mild the whole day, but now a thunderstorm was brewing, and the first raindrops spattered against the coach windows.
&
nbsp; They could make out the vague outlines of several buildings behind a wall interrupted only by a gatehouse. A sign rattled beneath a cast-iron arch spanning the gateposts. Blount, who had pulled on his waxed cloak, leaned down from his horse and shouted toward the gatehouse, “Hey! Anyone here?”
Hettie deciphered the sign and whispered, “It’s an orphanage and a workhouse.”
“Why are you whispering?” asked Jane, but the sight of the forbidding walls and desolate buildings made her uneasy as well.
A door creaked open, and the gatekeeper slowly emerged from his cabin. “Who are you and what do you want?” Gray, lank hair fell from beneath the sleepy old man’s cap. He was chewing a wad of tobacco.
“Open up. Lady Allen wishes to speak to the director of this facility,” Blount snapped at the gatekeeper in an imperious tone.
The man spat and shuffled forward to take a closer look at the coach. “Another o’ them fine crates! Like I care. Drive on through. The master’s house is down and right. You can’t miss it.”
Fat raindrops rattled against the roof of the coach, and they heard the coachman swear. Neither the roadway nor the yard in front of the buildings was sealed, and both had been transformed into a sea of mud. As far as Jane could make out through the streaming rain, behind the walls was a complex of barrack-like buildings, perhaps workhalls. She could hear the sound of hammers beating on rocks. Directly in front of her rose two conjoined buildings, the one on the right apparently of more recent construction. A sign hung over the entrance, and Blount swung the door knocker vigorously.
He spoke a few words with a servant girl who appeared, then returned to the coach and helped Jane and Hettie climb down.
“This way, my lady!” He guided her around puddles to the entrance.