by Penny Jordan
The baby was still fast sleep, and so it seemed was the little cat—who for a while had sat up to watch her whilst she worked, as though wanting to oversee what she was doing. She felt so very tired, and so very dirty. Marianne stretched out in front of the fire, her too-thin body greedy for its heat. In the hallway, beyond the green-baize-covered door that separated it from the kitchen, a clock chimed the hour—but Marianne was already fast asleep and unable to hear it.
Not so the Master of Bellfield, to whom the striking of the hour heralded the start of a new working day. Like those who worked for him, the Master of Bellfield rose early, where others might have lain in their beds, enjoying the comfort and luxury paid for by the success of their mills.
There was no immaculately dressed maid to bring up the morning tea and a freshly ironed newspaper, no manservant to wake his master and announce that his bath had been drawn and his clothes laid out. How, after all, could a man reared on the cold charity of the workhouse, following the failure of his father’s business, appreciate such refinements?
The Master of Bellfield knew well what people thought of him—and what they said of him behind his back. That gossip would be fuelled afresh now, following the departure of his housekeeper, he acknowledged as he shaved with cold water, ignoring the sting of the razor. His dark hair, untamed and thick, was in need of a barber, and he knew that at the next Mill Owners’ Meeting at the fancy hotel in Manchester, where his peers met ostensibly to discuss business, he would be looked down upon by those who liked to pretend to some kind of superiority. Those who had lost their northern accents, smothered their hair in sickly smelling pomades and generally acted more like members of the landed gentry than mill owners.
That kind of foolishness wasn’t for him. It had, after all, been the cause of his own father’s downfall—too many nights spent playing cards with his newfound fancy friends, and too few days keeping an eye on how his mills were working and their profit and loss accounts.
His sister could screech all she liked to who she liked that their father had been cheated out of what was rightfully his when the bank had foreclosed on him, but the Master of Bellfield knew better.
He also knew how people had mocked and despised him for the steps he had taken to turn round his own fortunes—until they had learned to fear him and talk about their suspicions in hushed whispers. Well, let them say what they wished. Let the other mill owners’ stupid wives, with their airs and graces and their falsely genteel accents, ignore him and exclude him from the fancy parties they gave to catch a husband for their virginal daughters. He didn’t care.
He pulled on a cold and unironed shirt, and then stepped into a pair of sturdy trousers made from his own cloth. Only then did he pull back the shabby curtain from the windows and stare out into the darkness, illuminated by pinpoints of light coming from the various mills. He picked up his pocket watch.
One minute to five o’clock. He waited in silent impatience, only moving when, dead on the hour, he saw smoke billowing from the chimneys of his mills.
In the kitchen, two of its three occupants remained fast asleep when the Master of Bellfield entered the room, the third having padded silently over to the settle against the wall and crawled out of sight beneath it.
The first thing the master noticed was the young woman, lying in front of the fire. The second was the unfamiliar clean smell. His eyes narrowed as he strode against the scrubbed stone floor. The woman was lying on her side, one frail wrist sticking out from the thin shawl she had pulled about herself. He frowned as he looked down at her. He had not expected for one minute that she would be able to make good her claim to clean the kitchen. He had no doubt that she must have worked virtually throughout the night in order to do so. Why? Because she hoped to prevail on him to let her stay?
His mouth compressed as he looked at the basket on the table. If that was the case she was soon going to realise her mistake. Soon, but not now. It was half past five. Time for him to leave if he wanted to be at the mill for six, which he most assuredly did. Those who worked at Bellfield knew better than to try to sneak in later when its master was there to watch them clock in.
No foreman could instil the respect in his workforce that a watchful mill master could, nor ensure that the cloth woven in his mills was of such excellent quality that it was highly sought after. Let the other masters and their wives give themselves what airs and graces they pleased. It was Bellfield wool that was the true aristocrat of the northern valleys.
He made to step past the sleeping woman, but then turned to go back to the hall. He opened one of several pairs of heavy double mahogany doors that lined it and strode into the room beyond to remove from a fading red-velvet-covered sofa a dark-coloured square of cleanly woven wool.
Returning to the kitchen, he dropped the wool over her, and then headed for the back door. Other mill owners might choose to ride, or be driven in a carriage down to their mills. He preferred to walk. His head bare, ignoring the cold wind and the fraying cuffs of his shirt and jacket, he strode out across the yard, whilst behind him in the kitchen Marianne opened her eyes, wondering for a few seconds where she was, whilst the cat emerged from its hiding place to rub itself around her feet and mew demandingly.
Ignoring it Marianne fingered the fine wool cover that was now warming her. Someone had put it there, and there was only one person who could have done that. A faint blush of pink colour washed up over her skin.
An act of kindness from the Master of Bellfield? She shook her head in disbelief.
CHAPTER THREE
UNEXPECTEDLY—at least so far as Marianne was concerned—after the biting sleet-laden wind of the previous day, the morning had brought a sky washed clear of clouds and sharp cold sunlight, making her grimace as it revealed the grimy state of the kitchen windows.
A commanding cry from the cat had her obediently opening the kitchen door for it. The yard looked a bit more hospitable this morning, and there were even a few hens scratching around it. As she studied them, wondering if and where they might be laying, an errand boy riding a bicycle that looked too big for him came cycling into the yard, grinning cheerfully at her as he brought his bike to a halt and slid off it.
‘Charlie Postlethwaite of Postlethwaite’s Provisions,’ he introduced himself, whilst pointing to the lettering on the bicycle. ‘That’s me dad,’ he told her proudly, ‘and he told me to get myself up here,’ he announced, opening the basket on the back of the bicycle. ‘He said how he’d heard about that old besom that called herself an ’ousekeeper had done a flit, and that like as not she’d have emptied the larder afore she went. He said that he’d heard that the t’master had taken on someone new and all.’
Having removed a small flitch of bacon from his basket, he was eyeing Marianne speculatively.
‘Going’ to be stayin’, are you?’
‘That depends on Mr Denshaw,’ Marianne told him circumspectly folding her hands in front of her and trying to look like a proper housekeeper.
‘Ooh, Mr Denshaw, is it? We call him t’master round here, we do, ’cos that’s what he is. Down at t’mill he’ll be now, aye, and ready for his breakfast when he gets back. Me dad said to say how he’ll be happy to sort out an order for you if you were wishing to send one back with me.’
‘Mr Denshaw hasn’t had time to acquaint me with the names of the tradespeople he favours as yet,’ Marianne responded repressively, but her attempt at formality was rather spoilt when the baby gave a shrill wail and the boy looked past her into the kitchen and gave a low whistle.
‘You’ve never brought a babby with you, have you?’ he exclaimed. ‘Hates them, t’master does, on account of him losing his own—and his wife and all. Went into labour early, she did, when t’master were away, and died. Oh, and my cousin Jem said to tell you that if you was wantin’ someone to do a bit of outdoor work, he’d be willin’.’
Marianne had never known a boy so loquacious, nor so full of information. Just listening to him was making her feel slig
htly breathless. The cat, having finished its business outside, ran back across the yard, pausing to stand in front of her, very much in the manner of a small guard.
‘Here, that’s one of Miss Amelia’s fancy cat’s kittens, ain’t it?’ the boy exclaimed in some astonishment as he stared at the cat. ‘I’d heard how t’master had given orders that they was all to be drowned. Took it real bad, he did, when she left. There was some that said he’d brought her home from that posh school of hers so as he could make her his wife, and that it were on account of that she upped and ran off. Took her cat with her and all, she did, and when it come back, months after she’d gone, t’master had it killed. Some round these parts said that the cat weren’t the only thing he’d done away with, and that he’d killed Miss Amelia an all. Aye—and her cousin, that were t’master’s stepson.’
Such a garbled and gothic tale was bound to be over-exaggerated, Marianne knew. Nevertheless she found that she was shivering, and that her stomach was cramping hollowly as small tendrils of fear uncurled inside it to grip hold of her.
‘Thank you, Charlie.’ She stemmed the tide of information, determinedly starting to turn away, hoping that the boy would take the hint.
‘Aye, you’d better go and get some of that bacon on. He’s got a mean temper on him, t’master has, and he won’t be too pleased if he comes back to find his breakfast ain’t ready for him.’
‘You’re right. I shall go inside and cook it now,’ Marianne told him swiftly, exhaling with relief when this time the boy finally swung his leg up and over his bicycle.
‘So,’ she told the cat sitting watchfully at her feet a few minutes later, as she nursed the baby now sucking eagerly at his milky bread, ‘We have two good reasons why Mr Denshaw won’t want to keep me on. The baby, and you.’
She gave a small sigh. If the Master of Bellfield did but know it, she was as reluctant to be here as he was to have her here. But she had given her promise—a deathbed promise that could not be broken.
The baby had finished his milk. Marianne lifted him to her shoulder and rubbed his back to bring up his wind.
Within half an hour of Charlie Postlethwaite leaving, the baby had been fed and changed, and was back in his makeshift crib, now returned to the floor, whilst Marianne was carefully turning the bacon she was frying ready for the master’s return. All the while she kept a cautious eye on the cat, who had forsaken the hearth to go and sit beside the basket, where it was watching the sleeping infant.
‘Don’t you dare get in that basket,’ she warned it.
The cat gave her an obliquely haughty look, that immediately changed to a wary twitch of its ears as it stared at the door, as though it had heard something that Marianne could not.
Sure enough, within seconds, just after the cat had retreated to its hiding place beneath the settle, Marianne could hear the sound of men’s voices in the yard.
Hurrying to the window, she saw a group of men surrounding and supporting the Master of Bellfield. His arms were about their shoulders and a bloodstained bandage was wrapped around his thigh.
Marianne rushed to the door and opened it.
‘What’s happened?’ she asked the nearest man.
‘It’s t’master,’ one of them told her unnecessarily. ‘There were an accident at t’mill with one of t’machines.’
‘Told us to get him back here he did,’ another man supplied.
As the two men now supporting their employer struggled to get him through the doorway they accidentally banged his injured leg, causing him to let out a small moan through clenched teeth.
His face was pale, waxen with sweat, and his eyes were half closed, as though he was not really fully conscious. Marianne could see the bloodstain on the makeshift bandage spreading as she watched.
‘He needs to see a doctor,’ she told the men worriedly.
‘Aye, the foreman told him that. But he weren’t having none of it. Threatened to turn him off if he dared to send for him. Said as how it were just a bit of a scratch, even though them of us who’d seen what happened saw the pin go deep into his leg. Sheered off, it did, looked like someone had cut right through it to me…’
Marianne saw the way the other man kicked the one who was speaking, and muttered something to him too low for her to hear before raising his voice to ask her a question.
‘What do you want us to do with him now that we’ve brought him back? Only he’ll dock us wages, for sure, if we don’t get back t’mill.’
Marianne tried not to panic. They were treating her as though she really were the housekeeper, when of course she was no such thing.
‘Perhaps you should consult your master—’ she began, and then realised the uselessness of her suggestion even before one of the men holding him spoke to her bluntly.
‘Out for the count t’master is, missus, and in a bad way an all, I reckon. Mind you, there’s plenty living round here that wouldn’t mind seein’ him go into his coffin, and that’s no lie.’
Instinctively Marianne recoiled from his words, even though she could well understand how a hard and cruel employer could drive those dependent on him to wish him dead. It was no wonder that some workforces went on strike against their employers.
‘You’d better take him upstairs,’ she told the waiting men. ‘And one of you needs to run and summon the doctor.’
‘You’d best do that, Jim,’ the oldest of the men announced, ‘seein’ as you’re the fastest on your legs. We’ll take him up then shall we, missus?’ he asked Marianne.
Nodding her head, Marianne hurried to open the door into the hall, trying to look as though she were as familiar with the layout of the house as a true housekeeper would have been, although in reality all she knew of it was its kitchen.
She had time to recognise how badly served both the house and its master had been by Mrs Micklehead as she saw the neglect and the dull bloom on the mahogany doors which should have been gleaming with polish. The hallway was square, with imposing doors which she assumed belonged to the main entrance, whilst the stairs curved upwards to a galleried landing, the balustrade wonderfully carved with fruit and flowers whilst the banister rail itself felt smooth beneath her hand.
Two corridors ran off the handsome landing and Marianne hesitated, not knowing which might lead to the master bedroom, but to her relief the Master of Bellfield had regained consciousness, and was trying to take a step towards the right-hand corridor.
Trying to assume a confidence she did not feel, Marianne hurried ahead of the men, who were now almost dragging the weight of their master. Halfway along the corridor a pair of doors stood slightly open. Taking a chance, Marianne pushed them back further, exhaling shakily as she saw from the unmade-up state of the bed that this must indeed be the master bedroom.
‘We can’t lay him down in that, lass,’ one of the men supporting the master told her, nodding in the direction of the large bed. He added trenchantly, ‘That looks like best quality sheeting, that does, and I reckon with the way he’s bleedin’ it’ll be ruined if we lie him on it.’
He was right, of course, but since she had no idea where the linen cupboards were Marianne shook her head and said firmly, ‘Then they will just have to be ruined. How long do you think it will be before the doctor gets here?’
‘Depends on how long it takes Jim to find him. If I know Dr Hollingshead, he won’t take too kindly to being disturbed before he’s finished his breakfast.’
The two men had managed to lay their master on the bed now, and Marianne’s heart missed a beat as she saw how much the bloodstain on his bandage had spread.
‘Come on, lads,’ the man who seemed to be the one in charge told the others.
‘There’s nowt we can do here now. We’d best get back t’mill.’
Marianne hurried after them as she heard them clattering down the stairs.
‘The doctor will want to know exactly what happened,’ she told them ‘Perhaps one of you should stay—’
‘There’s nowt we can tell him
except that a metal pin shot off one of the machines and flew straight into his leg. Pulled it out himself, he did, and all,’ he informed Marianne admiringly, leaving Marianne to suppress a shudder of horror at the thought of the pain such an action must have caused.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE men had gone, but the doctor had still not arrived. Marianne, who had seen all manner of injuries during her time at the workhouse, and knew the dangers of uncleaned wounds, had set water to boil and gone in search of clean linen, having first checked that the baby was still sleeping.
When she eventually found the linen cupboards on the attic floor, she grimaced in distaste to see that much of the linen was mired in cobwebs and mouse droppings, whilst the sheets that were clean were unironed and felt damp.
Her aunt would certainly never have tolerated such slovenliness and bad housekeeping. This was what happened when a man was at the mercy of someone like Mrs Micklehead. Against her will Marianne found that she almost felt slightly sorry for the Master of Bellfield—or at least for his house, which must once have been a truly elegant and comfortable home, and was now an empty, shabby place with no comfort of any kind.
She made her way back down the servants’ staircase to the attic floor and along the corridor to the landing. The departing men had left the door to the master bedroom open, and she could hear a low groan coming from it.
Quickly she hurried down the corridor, pausing in the doorway to the room.
The Master of Bellfield was still lying where the men had left him. His eyes were closed, but his right hand lay against his thigh, bright red with the blood that was now soaking through his fingers.
Panic filled Marianne. He was bleeding so much. Too much, she was sure.
Whilst she hesitated, wondering what to do, someone started knocking on the front door.
Picking up her skirts, Marianne ran down the stairs and across the hallway, turning the key in the lock and tugging back the heavy bolts so that she could open the door.