by Cathy Sharp
Eliza had thanked her and did her best to avoid Roberts as much as she could. Mags wasn’t kind to her, but she wasn’t cruel either. At their evening meal Eliza sat next to Mags and as far away from both Jake and the master as she could. Yet Fred Roberts was still angry with her.
He stared at her hard each time he saw her that day. Eliza was frightened and wondered what would come next, but the next morning she woke to the sound of screaming from the floor below.
‘That’s the mistress givin’ birth,’ Mags said. ‘I’ll go down to her. Can you go to the kitchen and boil some kettles of water for me, Eliza?’
‘Yes, Mags. Do you want me to bring one up – and a bowl?’
‘Aye, that would save me legs,’ Mags said and smiled suddenly. ‘Don’t you be worried, girl. Mistress always screams as if she’s dyin’. He’ll send fer the doctor and like as not she’ll come through it.’
Eliza nodded, crossing her fingers behind her back. She ran downstairs to fill the kettles with water and put them on the huge, blackleaded stove. Mags had made the fire in the stove up before she went to bed and all Eliza needed to do was give it a stir with the poker. She ran upstairs with a bowl and some cold water in a jug while the kettles were heating, and then took up two kettles of steaming hot water.
‘You’d best put more on,’ Mags told her and emptied one of the kettles into the bowl. ‘This could go on for hours.’
The screaming went on and on all through the night. A doctor arrived and spent some time in the bedroom with Mrs Roberts and then came downstairs shaking his head. He asked Eliza for water and a bowl to wash his hands, frowning at her as though she were at fault even though she hurried to obey. She was a workhouse girl and as such could not be expected to behave properly unless instructed.
‘She’s in a bad way, girl. You must pray to God your mistress lives for unless He is merciful, you will soon have no mistress.’
Eliza’s throat tightened. Her mistress had never been unkind or said a harsh word, even though she kept her running up and down the stairs on errands. Eliza did not like to think of the mistress in such agony.
At seven in the morning the master came down and demanded his breakfast as usual. He glared at her but made no attempt to strike her as she went about her work. Eliza made bacon, fried egg and a thick slice of fried bread and he ate every scrap and drank his tea, and then he went into the shop and closed the heavy door behind him, just as if it were an ordinary day.
Eliza carried a tray of tea and bread and butter with a dish of strawberry jam up to the mistress’s bedchamber. She smiled and sipped a mouthful of tea, but Mags ate two rounds of the thick bread with butter and jam and drank two cups of tea to keep her strength up.
‘You’ll have to keep things goin’ downstairs,’ she said. ‘There’s fresh bread made yesterday and a big pork-and-ham pie the master can have with his pickles. Get yourself somethin’ to eat, girl, and then scrub the floor and clean the front parlour.’
Eliza wondered why Mags had told her to clean a room that was never used, but later that morning she heard terrible screaming, moaning, weeping and then silence. An hour or so later Mags came down red-eyed and looking exhausted.
‘Well, she’s out of it, the poor woman. She’s dead and the babe with her …’ She wiped her eyes and sniffed. ‘He’s killed her this time.’
‘The poor mistress,’ Eliza said and rubbed her eyes. ‘What will happen now, Mags?’
‘Once the funeral is over we’ll see. He’ll certainly have his brothers and their wives here for tea afterwards but it’s not for us to speculate on what the master will do next …’
Eliza got on with washing dishes and then finished polishing the parlour until it shone. She wondered if she would be needed now that the mistress was dead. Her back ached and her hands were sore. She felt so tired that all she wanted to do was sit down for a bit. A lot of her work had been running up and downstairs after the sick woman, but now she was dead and her babe stillborn. It might be that Master Roberts would let her go – return her to the workhouse. Eliza hoped he might, because although Mags was all right, despite her sharp tongue, she would rather be back with Ruth and Joe.
For the first few days in this house she’d thought of her friends and prayed they might come for her, but nothing had happened and she knew they could not rescue her. However, if her master returned her to the workhouse she would see them again.
Sighing, Eliza sat down in one of the parlour chairs; it was hard to the back being stuffed with horsehair and straight-backed, but she was so tired she fell asleep in seconds. It seemed as if she’d only just shut her eyes when she felt herself being roughly shaken.
‘Is this what I pay you for?’ her master grunted furiously and she felt his heavy fist connect with her face, splitting her lip. ‘There’s my wife lyin’ dead upstairs and you sittin’ ’ere takin’ yer ease – I’ve a mind to send yer back where yer came from, workhouse brat!’
His big fists sent her sprawling on the floor, where she lay dazed for a moment until he kicked at her and told her to get to the kitchen where she belonged.
Tears burned behind Eliza’s eyes as she walked into the kitchen. She’d hardly stopped working since she got here and now her face stung where he’d punched her. In that moment she felt as if she wanted to run away. It was worse here than in the workhouse, just as Ruth had told her.
CHAPTER 7
‘Good day, Mistress Simpkins,’ Arthur said politely that morning at the beginning of May. It was a beautiful spring morning and the trees in the parks were in leaf, some with bright blossom dressing them in their all finery. Having come from his own beautiful garden, he was aware of how dismal the harsh grey walls and high windows of the workhouse really were. Many of the inmates would never catch sight of a tree in full bloom or hear the sound of birdsong. ‘I thought I might like to speak with some of your female inmates – if you will permit me.’
‘You wish to speak to the inmates, Mr Stoneham? I fail to see the necessity for it. They are all well cared for under the terms of our agreement.’
‘I am sure of it, madam,’ Arthur said, though he was not certain at all that her wards were properly treated. ‘It is not an official inspection, I assure you. I wish to speak to some of the women about work I hope to provide in the future.’
‘Work?’ Her brows went up. ‘What possible work could you have for such women?’
‘I may have a job to offer the right person – perhaps more than one.’
‘Are you looking for a housekeeper?’ For a moment her eyes brightened eagerly but he shook his head.
‘The position is not in my home, madam, but in a house I am setting up to care for women in need.’
‘I see.’ The interest died from her eyes immediately. She gave him a grudging look. ‘Well, I cannot stop you from speaking to any of the women if you wish, though I do not believe you will find anyone suitable.’
‘What about the woman called Ruth? She was caring for that girl – the one who had been locked in the cellar and almost died. She seemed a decent woman.’
‘She is a surly creature.’ Mistress Simpkins scowled at him. ‘Since the girl was taken by her new master she has behaved sullenly and shirks her work. She has caused me a great deal of trouble.’
‘The girl recovered, then?’ Arthur looked at her with interest.
‘Yes, of course. There was nothing much wrong with her except temper. She is a difficult girl and I was unable to control her and so I let her go to a master. He has a wife and a housekeeper and she will be quite safe there – and since he is a butcher and known for his generosity she will be well fed.’ Mistress Simpkins sniffed. ‘Too well for the likes of her.’
‘What is the name of the butcher who hired her services, madam? I should like to make sure that the child is not being ill-treated.’
‘I disremember for the moment,’ Mistress Simpkins said and then saw the dangerous look in his eyes. ‘If you call at my office before you leave I daresay you may find it in my
record books.’
‘Which you are required to keep,’ Arthur said, eyes narrowed. ‘No, you need not accompany me, madam. I know my way well enough.’
She opened her mouth to protest and then shut it again. Most of the women were at their work in the laundry or the sewing rooms, where some hemmed sacking and others did more skilled work, for which their mistress received some shillings. Only a few men were taking the air and their morning exercise, the others hard at work making rope or maintaining the building. If the men had complaints she would not be the one in trouble for they were in their master’s ward. She frowned as Mr Stoneham left her office. She had made no entry of Eliza’s master’s name, but she could invent one and by the time he got around to visiting the man she could think of some excuse why Eliza was not there.
Ruth was in the kitchen when the gentleman entered. She knew him at once for he was one of the Board of Governors and she’d noticed him supping at the high table with the master and mistress on rare occasions. A man as attractive and vital as Mr Arthur Stoneham would attract the attention of any woman, even if she was not much interested in men. She looked at him warily. Some visitors asked questions about the mistress and the way the workhouse was run but it was best not to answer, because retribution for any awkward remark would be swift and sharp. Mistress Simpkins punished any that dare speak out against her.
‘It smells good in here,’ Arthur said and sniffed the air appreciatively. ‘What are you cooking between you?’
‘I’m making pastry for the rabbit pie for master’s dinner,’ Ruth said, ‘and Cook is making a stew for the men.’
‘And what do the women have – a stew similar to the men?’
‘No, sir,’ Cook spoke up. ‘I’m not given meat for the women and children, except on a Sunday or special occasions. I can only flavour their soup with a bone from the beef or the lamb that master has for supper. The women have vegetables made into a thick soup with flour and a hunk of bread.’
‘I see …’ Arthur frowned. ‘I must look into that, for your mistress should have sufficient monies to feed you all properly.’
Cook didn’t answer, just sniffed hard. His brows went up and he nodded, because he understood what she dared not say.
‘I do the best I can with what I have, sir.’
‘Yes, I’m sure you do, Cook – or what is your name, pray?’
‘’Tis such a long time since I be called anythin’ but Cook …but I think it is Mary, sir. Mary Janes – and I did come from somewhere on the south coast but I disremember where exactly – ’tis too long since, sir.’ She smiled at him, revealing yellowed teeth. ‘I believe ’twas near a place called Bournemouth though I never visited that town.’
‘And have you always been a cook?’
‘Yes, always,’ Cook smiled. ‘I learned from a clever mistress when I was very young and I have cooked for gentry.’
‘What brought you here, Mary?’
‘Misfortune, sir.’ Cook gave a little cackle of laughter. ‘’Twas a rogue that brought me down, sir – like many a good woman.’
‘Ah yes, I believe you’re right.’ Arthur looked solemn and turned to Ruth. ‘And you, mistress?’
‘I was brought in by my father, sir. He died and all my family with him. Twice since then I was sold to a master but …’ she faltered as his brows lowered.
‘You were sold, Ruth?’ His gaze intensified, as if he could not credit what he heard. ‘Are you certain it was not simply the dues owed to your mistress for your clothes?’
‘Yes, sir, perhaps …’ Ruth looked uncertain. ‘The man told me he’d bought me, that I belonged to him and had no rights.’
‘Your master sold you to him – or Mistress Simpkins?’
‘The mistress, sir,’ Ruth said and bit her lip. ‘You will not tell her I said so, for she would be very angry.’
‘I daresay she would,’ he agreed. ‘I shall say nothing yet but perhaps one day …’ He hesitated, then, ‘I am looking for two women I can trust to run a home for me. I am thinking of perhaps setting up a home for ladies that have fallen on hard times, often through no fault of their own – and yet sometimes it is wilful mischance that brings them down …’
Ruth and Cook looked at one another, their eyes opening in wonder as they hesitated. ‘Do you mean us, sir?’ Ruth asked at last. ‘Would it be paid work, sir?’
‘Certainly, you would be paid. Not a great deal, but you would have your food, bed, your uniforms – and two pounds a month, which is what my own cook is paid.’ He looked at Cook. There was something about the way she faced him honestly that made him feel he could trust her, and Ruth had impressed him from the start. ‘I would also need to trust you with the budget for everyone’s food and I am sure I could rely on you to buy good quality meat and vegetables for our ladies.’
‘Yes, sir, that you can,’ Cook told him. ‘How soon can we come, sir?’
‘As yet I have not found a suitable house, but if I should …?’
‘Will you think of us, sir? I’d come today if I could.’
‘I think Mistress Simpkins would have a right to be angry if you left without notice. We must give her time to find another cook.’ He looked expectantly at Ruth. ‘What do you say Mistress Ruth? If I should find my property, will you be my housekeeper and care for these poor women?’
‘Nothin’ would please me more, sir,’ Ruth said, ‘but I promised Eliza I would try to find her when I left this place.’
‘Eliza is the young girl I saw you tending?’ Arthur said and nodded thoughtfully. ‘Would it content you to know that I am intent on finding the child myself? I think she may have taken work with a butcher.’
‘Nay, sir. Eliza was given no choice. She wept to leave her friends here and was frightened – she was sold to him, just as if she were one of the animals he butchers.’
‘This is a serious accusation, Ruth. As mistress of the workhouse, Joan Simpkins is entitled to charge a small fee for the expense of keeping Eliza – but it must be the girl’s choice whether she takes employment. If she were sold to this man she would be a prisoner, unable to leave if she was unhappy.’
‘’Tis the same for us all,’ Ruth said and Cook nodded fiercely. ‘When I was sold the second time, my master thought he owned me body and soul and sought to use me for evil purposes, so I ran away, but I could not find work and was caught begging for food. I was sold twice, but once I was sent back because the mistress did not favour me.’
‘You would swear to this on oath?’
‘Yes, sir, but who would believe me? I am less than nothing – a wretch from the workhouse with a grudge against my mistress. The master would support her and his word counts for more than mine but if he knew it all …’ Ruth saw Mr Stoneham’s eyes narrow and shook her head. ‘I dare not say, sir. I might possibly be believed if I could prove money changed hands when I was sold – but the other … it is only whispered of and I dare not speak it aloud.’
Arthur nodded his understanding. ‘You are uneasy here. Mistress Simpkins has power over you and you fear her. When you are safe in your own room in my house you may find yourself able to tell me.’
‘I’ll tell you what has gone on here when we’re clear of this place,’ Cook said and looked at Ruth. ‘We owe it to him, lass. He’s a good man but even good men can’t stop these things unless they know what’s goin’ on – and as soon as I think there’s a place for me I’m leavin’.’
‘Yes.’ Ruth raised her head. ‘’Tis not me I fear for, sir, but Eliza and the other young girls – they’re the ones most at risk.’
Arthur’s eyes narrowed as he realised what she must mean. ‘My God, if I thought … but there must be proof. Keep all that I’ve said to you close. In time I shall return and fetch you both and now I shall set my agents to searching for the child Eliza.’
‘Oh please, sir. If I knew that Eliza was safe I should be happy to leave this place for good.’
Arthur nodded and, promising that he would speak to them again wh
en he had more news, went away to question some of the men he’d seen breaking stones in the yard. It was hard, back-breaking work, but no worse than most men would expect to do outside the workhouse. The men working on the stones seemed content enough; they answered him fairly in a respectful manner and though Arthur probed none seemed ready to condemn the master of the workhouse.
This reluctance confirmed what Arthur had imagined was the case here. Master Simpkins was a weak man. He probably took his cut of any profit made on the men’s work and no doubt would not refuse a bribe if it were offered – but it was his sister who was resented – and it was she who kept this place in order if Arthur was not mistaken. Arthur had no doubt that once he dug deep enough there would be enough dirt to have the woman dismissed, but the inmates were all afraid of her and would not speak out while forced to remain inside these walls.
Taking his leave, Arthur’s mind turned to the new order. Mr Disraeli had lost the recent general election and Mr Gladstone had taken his place. The Queen’s speech made at this time had spoken of Empire and weighty matters, but there was no mistaking her sadness at losing the Prime Minister who had brought her out of her heavy mourning. Prince Albert had, in 1861, died suddenly of what was believed to be typhoid fever and she’d thrown herself into a state of extreme despair. Her dress was, and Arthur suspected would always be, the severest black, for she sincerely mourned her lost husband, but at last the Queen-Empress had decided to speak out on national affairs again.
It was shocking that when such a good and pious queen sat on the throne of England, and after all the good work Prince Albert had done to bring about a state of decency in high places, establishments like this should still exist.
Arthur set his mouth firmly. He would get to the bottom of the situation here and he would see that wretched woman, Miss Joan Simpkins, get her comeuppance! He would visit the man who had either hired or bought that girl from the workhouse. It was the first step on a long journey – and he wanted to know how the girl fared with her new master. Something about her had touched him and he would be very angry if he found that she was being mistreated.