To Catch a Dream

by Mary Wood

  ‘Now, Bridget. Let me take a look at you.’

  The examining and cleaning of her wounds went on without Bridget giving it her attention or taking heed of the extra pain it caused.

  ‘Well, you’re going to have a sore body for a couple of days, and you will no doubt come out in more than a few bruises, but there’s no real injury. Nothing is broken. Your arm has taken the worst of it – keep it moving as much as you can, or you could have trouble with it. Now, don’t worry about my bill. That is something I’ll get out of Mr Armitage. I have enough to threaten him with to make him pay a weekly sum. He deserves that at least.’ Despite this, the doctor took the jam Mr Stevenson had left on the table and the tarts she’d put next to them.

  After they had all left, Bridget stood with Bert. His little body shook with sobs. ‘Can I touch her, Bridgee?’

  ‘Aye, let’s hold her hand, eh?’

  They stood in silence holding their mammy’s hand. Tears ran down Bert’s face, and there was fear in his eyes when he looked up at her. ‘You won’t leave me, will you, Bridgee? I’ll not stay here without you.’

  ‘No. If I leave, I’ll take you with me.’

  The thought of them leaving and going to Issy hadn’t died in her. She’d try to sort it. Maybe she could give a penny a week to Mrs Bartram to keep for her, until she had enough for the fare. But she would write to Issy – that would be best. A lot of obstacles presented themselves as she thought it through, but she remembered Issy saying, ‘You shouldn’t meet trouble halfway, as it may not be travelling your road.’ In the meantime she’d have to stay and fight her corner. Stand up to her brute of a stepfather.

  A knock on the door interrupted her thoughts. Two men stood there dressed in long black frock-coats. ‘We’ve come for the body, Miss.’

  As the door creaked shut behind them, the house took on the emptiness of a shell. Her mammy encased in a box, carried out to a cart – gone. Oh, Mammy, no! Her body gave way. She sank down on the settle and wept. Never had she felt so alone.

  ‘Don’t cry, Bridgee. You said as Ma wouldn’t want us to cry.’

  ‘No, she wouldn’t. She always wanted us to be happy.’ Somehow, having to be strong for Bert helped her to feel so many years older than fifteen. She’d get through somehow, she would.

  34

  May 1899

  Promises broken

  Jeremy held the letter to his heart for a moment. Two of the envelopes in today’s post had his name on – both he’d waited anxiously for, but the pretty-edged one written in a feminine hand drew his immediate attention. He hoped it wasn’t just an invitation. He so wanted to hear from her.

  He’d attended the spring ball at her house. He’d walked in still feeling he didn’t belong there, and had drunk a large glass of champagne to help get him through it. Then Laura was announced. He looked up out of curiosity, and something hit him in the pit of his stomach – nothing tangible, just a feeling he’d never experienced before. But then, he’d never seen anyone as beautiful before. Her perfect face stunned him. Her eyes – round, big and the deepest velvety-blue colour he could imagine – drew him into her gaze. There was a glossy sheen to her jet-black hair as it caught the light, and her creamy skin glowed. The room seemed to empty, and yet it was full of people. Their voices had taken on a distant hum. He waited, holding his breath as she glided towards him and offered her hand. Taking it in his, he held it to his lips. He hadn’t ever wanted to let go of it. They had danced almost every dance, and he’d seen off those demanding their turn, even though they had her promise marked on their card.

  All too soon it had ended, but they had written to each other ever since – at least ten letters each in the month that had passed. He opened this latest one with care, slicing the paper knife under the flap and lifting it, letting the anticipation grow inside him. It was an invitation, but around it she had wrapped a note. She spoke of her horse, her long days shopping for her outfits and the fittings she had to attend. How she longed for this year to come to a close so that all the formalities were out of the way and her mother and father would start to take the offers for her hand. How she hoped his would be amongst them, and how it would be the one – the only one she would even think about.

  Smiling at this, he marvelled at how far they had travelled in their relationship with just pen and ink to help them along – even to the point that they spoke of marriage. Through her letters he’d discovered a very forthright side to her, and amid the frivolous feminine activities she described was a love of horses and hunting, and anything to do with them. She even spoke of one day owning a stud farm, of all things. But whatever she wanted or dreamed of was fine by him. He loved her to distraction.

  If only he was a couple of years older. Twenty was a decent age to offer for a girl, he thought. But maybe they would accept him; after all, Laura was just eighteen and her parents were looking for a husband for her. They didn’t actually have to marry until much later – that is, if he could wait. He’d talk it over with his father to see what he thought.

  He slit the second letter open with much less care than the first. Yes! Sandhurst had accepted him. He read down the page. It seemed he had to report there on 1st September. Splendid! He could accept the invitation to Laura’s debut ball in August, and then stay on in London with his Aunt Agatha until he had to report for duty. That would give him time to shop for his uniform and all that he would need – though he might have to go down for measuring and fittings before that, of course. He sat down at once to write his acceptance, and the love-letter he would wrap it in. But he couldn’t wait until then to see her. Propriety might mean he had to, but he could try to find a way to see her sooner.

  My darling,

  I must see you again. How would a picnic suffice? I could bring friends and you could invite some of yours. That should give the occasion convention. Do you think your parents would allow it? Perhaps early in August, before the shooting season? We could easily arrange it if you could wangle an invitation for me and Simon and Teddy. And I will speak to Father about us holding a shooting party here, this year. He hasn’t done anything like that for years, but I am sure he will host one for me. Then I will invite you and your family and some friends of your choice, and arrange a summerhouse party for us younger ones.

  Oh, do say yes! It would be such fun, and we would see each other twice more before your debut ball. That would make the long wait a little more bearable.

  Before signing off, he told Laura of his success in gaining acceptance for officer training and finished with: This letter comes with my undying love, Jeremy.

  ‘Oh, there you are, Jeremy. I’ve been looking for you. I saw two letters for you on the sideboard. I could see who they were both from. What did Sandhurst say?’

  Andrew had a moment of disappointment at Jeremy’s news, but hid it well. He congratulated his son warmly, before giving him some news he’d just heard.

  ‘I am over the moon, my boy. Tom has just given me the news I have waited years to hear. Isabella is going to have a baby! How about that!’

  ‘Really, Father, you get so involved in the lives of those on the estate. You are funny. One of the many things I remember of Mama is her saying you were like a mother hen with them. Still, it is good news. Is Isabella well?’

  ‘Tom seemed to think so. Can’t see why she wouldn’t be – she’s had plenty of practice at seeing others through it.’ A stab of pain reminded him that she hadn’t been successful in doing so with his dear Dvina, but that wasn’t for want of her trying. No, there were no recriminations to put on Isabella’s shoulders – she had devoted herself to Dvina.

  ‘Good. Father, I have something I want to talk over with you. What age do you think it proper for me to offer marriage?’

  ‘Good God, Jeremy! You have only met the girl once!’

  ‘That’s of no consequence. I couldn’t be more sure if I’d known her all my life.’

  ‘Well, well, fancy yourself in love, do you?’

  ‘Mo
re than fancy . . .’

  ‘Then I had better speak to her parents and facilitate a few meetings for you both. She could come and stay here – we could hold a dinner party, and of course her parents would come, too. How would that suit?’

  ‘Very well indeed, thank you, Father. And I thought, maybe a shooting party? I would love that.’

  ‘Yes! The very thing. We’ll speak to the gamekeeper, though I am sure we will have plenty of kill. We always have an abundance. I’ll give it all my attention. Draw up a list of the guests you want to invite, and I will do the same. Yes, I’m looking forward to it already. A splendid idea!’

  Listening to his son switch his excitement from the woman he loved to his delight at his Sandhurst acceptance, Andrew’s heart sank. There had been a moment when he’d thought that Jeremy’s love for Laura Meriden would change his son’s mind about his career path. But no, his enthusiasm for the Army hadn’t waned, and it looked as if Andrew’s worst fears had now received the stamp of finality. He faced years of continuing to have full responsibility for the mine, and his visits to Lilly kept to once a month. This lay heavily on him. He was tired. But he couldn’t do anything about it – he’d tried and hoped, and failed. His son’s ambitions lay in a different direction, and he had no choice but to respect that for now.

  Bridget closed the book with a slam and put it under her pillow, tucking the pen in with it. The front door creaking on its hinges had prompted her action. She doused her oil lamp and shrank beneath the covers. Please God, don’t let him come into my room.

  His leering face, vivid in her mind, made her body tremble. He hadn’t touched her, in the week since Mammy’s funeral, but he’d said things. Things she knew he shouldn’t, implying that she should be making more money and that she had the body and face to coin it in for them. And on a couple of occasions he’d looked like he might try it on with her himself, but she’d stood up to him. This made him angry when he was sober, but when drunk – as he likely was now – he’d say she had the spirit of her mother in her, and he liked that.

  In the short time since her mammy’s death she’d put a plan into action. Mrs Bartram had promised to help her. She’d said that she would add a halfpenny to every penny Bridget managed to put away. She’d promised to keep it in a tin, hidden away for her. And she’d said that when it was enough for Bridget and Bert to travel, and if Issy had been in touch by then, she would help them get away – provide a way of covering for them.

  The book she’d secreted away held her partly written letter. The envelope was already addressed to Mrs Isabella Grantham, The Groom’s Cottage, Honey Lane, Breckton, Yorkshire.

  As she closed her eyes, her prayer wasn’t to God, but to her mammy and pappy. Look after me till that time comes. Please, look after me and Bert. Her hands went to the locket, but as she went to open it, to gain strength from the beautiful young faces of her parents, the door of her bedroom crashed open. Mr Armitage stood blocking the opening, his body swaying. His slurred words held a menace.

  ‘What’s your game? Away to your bed afore I get in? It’s only just on eight and—’

  ‘If you’re worried about your dinner, I have it ready. It’s in the oven, so you only have to get it out. The table’s set for you. I’m tired. I . . .’

  ‘Tired? You don’t know the meaning of the word! Get up. You’ve to go to Bartram’s.’

  ‘Bartram’s, at this time of night? What for? The shop’s closed.’ Even as she said it, she knew it meant nothing to him. He often sent her around the back of the shop late at night to get baccy for him if he’d run out, but he’d only just come from the ale house, so surely he’d have got some there.

  ‘The delivery of veg and stuff has come, and he needs your help. That useless bag of shit he calls his wife has took to her bed again. Get out of yer pit and get yourself down there. I promised him I’d send you the minute I got in.’

  As he left, he slammed the door and it rattled on its hinges. Something didn’t seem right. Yes, there was a delivery at the shop most nights – it was the only time a dray could get near unhindered, and a lot of the fresh stuff for the next day came in on a nightly basis from the farmers. But never before had Mr Bartram needed her help with it. Bridget’s nerves jangled as she dressed herself.

  Walking past the table provoked nothing from Mr Armitage. That was unusual in itself – no insults, no leering at her. He just slurped his dinner down him and kept his eyes on his plate. The worry in her escalated.

  A light shone from the shop window, but no cart stood outside. Perhaps he’d managed it after all and wouldn’t need her. She’d better call anyway, in case he’d got it inside, but needed help displaying and pricing it. The tentative knock that she gave the door resounded down the empty street as if she’d banged on it for dear life. It opened immediately. Mr Bartram stood there, with something new in his smile.

  ‘You’ve come then, lass? Good girl. Bruiser said as you were willing. Come in.’

  The worry turned to fear. Her voice shook as she asked, ‘W-where’s the new stock? Is it in the back?’ The lock clicked into place. Her heart felt as if it had dropped into her stomach and then rebounded, hitting the back of her throat and making it even more difficult for her to speak. ‘Is . . . is Mrs Bartram . . .’

  ‘Don’t worry about her, lass. She won’t hear nowt. I’ve made sure of that. Get yourself in the back room. There’s some sacks in there as will do for us.’

  ‘Sacks? What for? What’s going—?’

  ‘Eeh, don’t play the innocent, I’ve no time for that. Get in there and get your clothes off. I’ve a drop of gin ready for yer. Bruiser said as that’ll loosen you.’

  She shot back towards the counter as realization dawned. ‘No . . . let me out of here, Mr Bartram! I’m not for doing owt with you. I’ll scream if you touch me.’

  ‘Look, I paid good money to Bruiser. He said as you were ready, so what yer doing here, if you ain’t?’

  ‘He said . . . he said as you needed help . . .’

  ‘Well, I do. And I mean to have it, whether you’re willing or not. You’re your mother’s daughter, ain’t yer? I know as you haven’t had it yet – Bruiser took more than his usual charges because of that. But once you have, you’ll be onto a good thing. Now get in the back and let’s get on with it.’

  Frantic, she felt behind her, hoping the large knife they used for cutting cabbages and the like was in its place. Her fingers felt its cold steel. Working along it to its wooden handle, she grabbed it, and the blade of it flashed in the dim, candlelit room. ‘You touch me and I’ll ram this into you!’

  ‘You little bitch! Put that down!’ His face took on the hue she’d seen before, when his anger got the better of him. His body turned, his movement swift. The huge potato he’d picked out of the sack behind him hurtled towards her. Ducking to avoid its impact put her off-guard. His hands dug into her ribs. The breath squeezed out of her as his muscular arms encircled her and crushed her to him. As if she were nothing more than a bag of garbage, he dragged her into the back room and threw her onto the sacks. Her head hit the concrete floor. A searing pain brought a cloud down over her conscious thoughts. It zinged around her brain, before it turned black and blocked everything out.

  The sound of a woman’s screams pierced through her. A guttural groan in her ear brought awareness of the weight on her, and of the odd sensation and pain in her groin. As the heaviness shifted off her, she knew something to release from her private part, leaving it sore and very wet.

  The hammering and screaming took over the space around them. There didn’t seem any room for her thoughts. She couldn’t sort them out. The glass in the connecting door to the living quarters splintered with the sound of a thousand windows breaking. Shards of it landed on her, but she couldn’t get out of the way. The moving shadow took the form of Mrs Bartram, who looked like someone demented. Her hair – which Bridget had only ever seen clipped tight to her head – flew loose, and spittle frothed from her mouth. Her eyes bulged,
foul language spat from her, and she held a huge piece of wood high above her head.

  The sickening crunch as the wood made contact with Mr Bartram’s head brought the vomit gushing from Bridget. Bits of it stuck in her throat, and she could neither breathe nor choke it away. Panic died in her as the blessed relief of her own death stared down at her.

  ‘Bridget!’ Her body shook as Mrs Bartram tended to her. ‘Oh, love, that’s it. Cough it out of yer. Oh God, oh God!’

  Retching as if to bring her insides up through her mouth, the vomit cleared at last from her. A huge painful gasp brought the life back into her. She could only stare at Mrs Bartram, and register the anguish shaking through the features of the woman’s face. Watch the tears running down her cheeks and take comfort from the hand stroking her hair.

  ‘You’re awake, then?’ A strange face – yet one with familiar features – looked down at her.

  ‘Where am I? What . . . ?’

  ‘Well, I’m not surprised as you can’t remember. Mr Bartram falling off that ladder and knocking you for six gave you a right bump on your head. You’ve been in and out of consciousness this past week. The cart driver said as you never opened your eyes the whole journey down here.’

  Nothing around her was familiar. Confusion crowded in on her.

  ‘Don’t worry, you’re safe now. That stepdad, as me sister wrote about in her letter, can’t get to you. I’m Ethel. I’m Fanny Bartram’s sister. She sent you here during the night over a week ago. Gave me a right fright, someone hammering on me door at that time of the morning! Can’t you remember anything as happened, then?’