The Girl From Poorhouse Lane

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The Girl From Poorhouse Lane Page 8

by Freda Lightfoot


  Kate barely glanced at the visitor, who was standing ready dressed in her outdoor attire of coat and hat and muff, evidently waiting for the carriage to be brought to the door. At first sight despite her obvious, dark-haired beauty, she appeared sour-faced, with lips as tightly pursed as a wrinkled prune. There was no sign of her bad tempered husband, for which Kate was vastly relieved. She gathered Callum into her arms, inwardly cursing herself for leaving him so long. And for making such a fool of herself by listening at the dining room door. She scurried back to the nursery, thankful to make her escape and be alone with her child at last.

  Ignoring the big, ancient crib which stood four-square in the centre of the floor, Kate took him into bed with her. The sweet, baby scent of him seemed like a miracle, as if the pair of them had indeed been reborn. Clad in a nightgown of softest lawn, she felt like a princess lying between the crisp clean sheets with her son snuffling contentedly beside her. No matter what difficulties might lie ahead, this must be right for Callum. Wouldn’t he thrive in this place? Indeed, she refused to be bullied, not by prating servants nor ill-mannered brothers. She’d stick it out, for the sake of a glorious future for her lovely boy.

  Until now she’d only been planning on Callum getting regular meals, a safe place to lay his head, and an education. Now Kate saw that there was much more involved, enough to make Charles Tyson furiously jealous. In a way she didn’t blame him. A fine house, a business employing hundreds of people would be worth fighting for, would it not? To think of her son gaining such an inheritance, was astonishing, to say the least, more than she could take in right now. Oh, but wouldn’t he make a fine gentleman one day? Strong and healthy and handsome. As she slid into sleep, a small voice at the back of her head was trying to decide how she could persuade her mistress to stop giving him sweets before the woman ruined all those brand new teeth of his.

  When next Eliot Tyson confronted his foreman, the man’s attitude could only be described as truculent. Swainson obviously bore a grudge over the fact that his authority had been undermined by his employer speaking up for the girl and not allowing her to be sacked. Not that Eliot allowed this to trouble him in the slightest. He was anxious to know what had happened to the brother, if he really was the troublemaker Swainson had made him out to be. They went through their usual morning routine of checking on the status of the work being brought in, new orders needing to be filled and then Eliot asked, ‘Did you stick with your decision not to use Dermot Flannegan again?’

  ‘Dermot Flannegan?’ Swainson could remember the name of each and every outworker he’d ever employed, particularly those who made him the most profit. His prevarication was simply to buy himself time to marshal his thoughts.

  ‘Kate O’ Connor’s brother.’

  ‘Oh, him. Aye, I stuck by it all right. Nowt but a rabble-rouser that one. Born troublemakers, these Irish immigrants. Girl an’ all, if you want my opinion.’

  Eliot didn’t, but kept his own counsel on that one. ‘She won’t be a trouble to you any more, she’s been given employment elsewhere.’

  Swainson’s bristly eyebrows shot upwards, his wandering eye seeming to cavort with fury. ‘And where would that be?’ If it was one of the independent shoemakers, he’d make the man sorry for taking on someone the foreman of Tyson’s had chosen to dispose of. Swainson didn’t care to have his authority challenged, not by the firm’s competitors, nor even his own boss. He’d had every intention of defying Tyson’s orders and ridding himself of the lass. A troublemaker if ever there was one, with her fire-brand temper and hair to match. Now he’d been denied even that satisfaction.

  Not for the first time, Eliot felt a prickle of discomfort in front of this man who’d worked tirelessly for his father for as long as he could remember, and was never slow to point out failings in others. Despite being accustomed to battling against a constant sense of inadequacy after taking over the business, at great cost to himself, Eliot was keenly aware that it wasn’t really his place to interfere in the foreman’s duties, certainly not to the extent of publicly undermining the man’s authority in the way he had.

  There were times when he wondered why he persisted with this crazy ambition not only to equal his father’s success but to surpass it, for all he had no family to follow him in the business. And for some reason he couldn’t quite work out, despite all his efforts Tyson’s was no longer as successful a company as it had once been. Proof, perhaps, that his father had been right. Eliot understood nothing about shoes and never would.

  So there was the nub of it: little though he cared for Swainson, the man was a long serving employee whom Eliot’s father had trusted implicitly to act in the best interests of the firm. He was conscientious and diligent and kept the outworkers up to scratch, which was no mean task. So who was he to find fault with such a man?

  ‘As a matter of fact, Mrs Tyson has taken a shine to the girl and provided her with a position.’

  ‘In your own household? Is that wise?’ Ned Swainson’s astonishment was not feigned and Eliot felt a surge of annoyance. It certainly wasn’t the foreman’s place to question his judgement.

  ‘It may suit her better.’

  ‘Oh, aye, I’m sure it will. Nice easy billet, and better for the bairn.’

  His tone was caustic and Eliot found it a struggle not to leap to the girl’s defence yet again. He didn’t usually concern himself with selecting domestic staff, but this was an extremely sensitive situation. He concentrated on checking a column of figures, asking a few questions about them along the way. Even so, he couldn’t resist confirming the rightness of his decision. ‘Amelia certainly seems well pleased with her. Gets her out of our hair at least, eh?’ And he gave a little laugh, as if this were all women’s business and out of his hands entirely.

  Swainson couldn’t quite believe the evidence of his own ears. He was aware that Eliot Tyson’s reputation as an unfeeling employer was due more to a sense of inadequacy than genuine harshness; an insecurity he hid behind a façade of aloofness typical of his class. And he was soft as putty where his wife and family were concerned, fool that he was. But this display of sympathy was excessive even by his standards. Swainson felt a raw fury kindle within that his authority had been flouted, that the girl had apparently been rewarded for defying him. Not that he gave any sign of this, but if there was some particular reason why that fool Tyson was protecting her, he’d dearly love to know what it was. She was a good looking little filly, no denying that. Happen Tyson fancied her, although that would be a shaker, him and his good wife still apparently acting like cooing love birds. Still, you could never tell with toffs. Ned Swainson decided to err on the side of caution, for the moment at least. ‘It’s not for me to comment upon Mrs Tyson’s choices, sir, but I’d keep an eye on that li’le lass, if I were you. Full of fire and brimstone, that little madam.’

  ‘I’m sure she is but Amelia is skilled at managing her maids. Probably do the girl good to have a touch more discipline. But what of the brother? Has he found work elsewhere?’

  By heck, Swainson thought, he’s persistent. Happen he’s bursting out of his trousers with need for the girl, eager to coax her into his bed. Well, Swainson, knew how that felt. He’d fancied the lass himself and been annoyed to be so rebuffed, so he wasn’t going to be the one to help another enjoy what he couldn’t. Besides which, the leather he’d given the lad had been of poor quality from the start, but he’d no intention of allowing his boss to discover that fact. Didn’t he, Ned Swainson, the man who had held this company together for so long, deserve every penny he made out of these little side-lines? He took the view that if Tyson was so green he didn’t pay proper attention to what his staff were up to, more fool him. ‘Nay, I wouldn’t know owt about him but I’m sure it’s not the first time the lad’s tried to cheat you.’

  ‘Indeed, I’m sure it isn’t. But I wouldn’t be best pleased if I learned that we had – shall we say – jumped to the wrong conclusion.’

  ‘Oh, and in what way might tha
t come about exactly - sir?’

  ‘I simply want to be sure we aren’t making a mistake in accusing him.’

  ‘Nay, I wouldn’t waste your time worrying over that scoundrel. He can easily be replaced with any number of better men. Dermot Flannegan will survive.’

  Eliot detected a certain insolence in the man’s tone but didn’t remark upon it. Nevertheless, he held his ground. ‘I would be unhappy if, following his discharge from my employ, word got about that the lad was considered untrustworthy and unemployable, yet proved to be innocent after all. We do need to be sure of our facts.’

  ‘Are you doubting my judgement?’

  ‘I’m saying, don’t take me for a fool, Swainson, or it will be your head on the block.’

  Swainson experienced a prickle of unease between his shoulder blades. There were times, he had discovered to his cost, when this apparently well meaning and ignorant employer of his could suddenly turn into a shrewd and sharp operator. He’d spent hours on the shop floor since his father died, in what he called ‘learning the trade’ which had largely left Swainson to run the factory as he thought fit. Now he seemed to be taking much more notice, which was a mite worrying. And all because of some jumped up little tart and her disreputable brother. Swainson manufactured a look of pure innocence and mock outrage.

  ‘Don’t you fret, you can rely on me, sir, as you well know. And how is your garden looking at the moment? Lovely time of year, spring, isn’t it?’

  Again Eliot hesitated, not entirely trusting the man’s fawning manner but finally deciding he was probably worrying unduly. Nevertheless, he did not reply to his foreman’s question, not being in the mood for idle chatter, or wish it to appear as if he could be easily diverted by trivial matters. He turned to leave the workshop, satisfied that he’d done all he could for the moment. He’d made his feelings on the matter plain. Eliot felt relieved that this particular problem seemed to have resolved itself. The lad had no doubt found work elsewhere, and, as Swainson said, wasn’t worth the candle anyway.

  Then for some reason he was never afterwards to fully understand, he paused to make one final point. ‘Should Dermot Flannegan reappear, send him to me, will you? It might only inflame him, and cause further problems, if you try to deal with the lad yourself. As I say, Amelia has taken quite a shine to the girl, and to the child. As a matter of fact, we’re thinking of adopting him. Amelia sees it as her Christian duty, an act of mercy to save the little one, at least.’ There it was, out in the open, and why not? Where was the shame in it? Although Eliot was careful to give no indication of their despair over ever being able to produce a child of their own. ‘I’d like them both left in peace, the girl and her brother. I’d be grateful for your cooperation in this matter. Right, I’ll leave you to it then. See that the Dixon order is ready by the end of the week, will you please? I’ll deliver it myself.’

  Ned Swainson was left standing with his mouth hanging slack with astonishment. Adopted? Bloody hell, that was a twist he’d not seen coming.

  The girl must have got her feet under the table good and proper, the clever little minx, and happen already got between the sheets. She’d certainly ideas above her station. For all Swainson knew, the child could be Tyson’s bastard. No wonder a humble foreman were nowhere near good enough for her. He might be a bit long in the tooth, a bit individual looking as you might say, but many a woman had been glad of his attentions. Indeed still were. While that canny little whore had sold her body, and her son too by the sound of it. No wonder Tyson was looking so pleased with himself. Who wouldn’t be, with that luscious little filly warming his bed? Not that Tyson had a reputation for womanising but this so-called happy marriage might all be a sham, a lie. Who could tell? The nobs had different standards, different ways of going about things. If that were so, then it was poor Mrs Tyson he felt sorry for, not only having her husband’s by-blow foisted upon her, poor woman, but having to employ his mistress as well.

  ‘And what will Master Charles think of this new development?’ Ned Swainson muttered to himself. As younger brother and junior partner always having to play second fiddle, Charlie-boy was unlikely to be pleased that an obstacle had been placed in the way of his inheritance. It had probably quite suited him that his sister-in-law had failed to produce an heir, but this would change everything.

  Swainson realised that it might be worth a few discreet enquiries to discover exactly what Charles Tyson’s reaction was to this unexpected turn of events. It wouldn’t pay to go barging in, mind. He’d need to play it canny but who knows, the man might be glad of a bit of help one day, and doing favours in high places wouldn’t do himself any harm. First, he must make sure that the Flannegan lad didn’t trouble any of them, ever again.

  ‘Time he learned that I’m not a man to cross. I can teach him a lesson, at least. One that he’s long been in need of.’

  Having made this satisfactory decision, Swainson wasted no time in putting it into effect. He strolled out into the factory yard and called over a couple of his trusties. It took only a matter of minutes to outline what he needed doing, and how he would make it worth their while. The pair went on their way with grins on their faces. Dermot Flannegan would never know what had hit him. As for the rest of this puzzling affair, he’d just have to keep his ear to the ground.

  The night they came for him, Dermot was entirely unprepared. He’d been feeling much better of late, quite pleased with himself in fact, having got a bit of work from his old master plus some repair work on the side. Cobbling bits of leather was a waste of his skills as a shoe maker but at least it was money coming in, and Dermot was beginning to think that maybe he could set up on his own account. There were surely plenty of people who’d be glad to buy hand made shoes, and be prepared to pay the price for quality work. He surely didn’t have to depend on someone like Tyson to provide him with outwork? Of course, he needed a bit of capital to buy the materials, the leather and nails, a last, and such like. He already possessed his own set of tools which he took great pride in. And he’d need to afford to pay the rent on a place. He didn’t need much, a room in some yard would do nicely. Perhaps then, him and Dolly could get wed after all. He was chewing all this over in his head as he sat on the doorstep outside of Clem’s place, when they came for him. Two great bruisers. One glance told him that they spelled trouble, and that it was meant for him.

  ‘Dermot Flannegan?’

  ‘Who wants to know?’

  Everything was a blur after that. There was the sound of Clem shouting, of Millie frantically screaming and God knows how many kids crying but he barely managed more than the odd surprised grunt as they laid into him. His last memory was of them dragging him between them over the cobbles. Ahead, just across the road, was the dark glint of the river.

  Chapter Seven

  Charles Tyson was not a happy man. At a stroke, everything had changed. All Charles’s carefully nurtured hopes and dreams had crumbled to dust because of one pauper child who was to be elevated above his station. Adopted into the family, for Christ’s sake! It really didn’t bear thinking about.

  Younger than his brother by little above a year, and despite his cosseted upbringing, or perhaps because of it, at twenty-five he felt cheated, feeling that life owed him much more. As boys, he and Eliot had rubbed along tolerably well, largely because they’d had separate groups of friends, and mixed very little. But once his beloved elder brother had been left full control of the company, Charles had felt largely shut out, given scarcely any say in the way things were run.

  He’d once accused Eliot of only allowing him on the board as some sort of sop. More to the point, his salary and profits from the business did not, in Charles’s opinion, properly reflect his status as a member of the Tyson family. To add insult to injury, even Aunt Vera and Aunt Cissie earned nearly as much as he did, simply by being shareholders and doing no work at all. It really was too bad. But when he’d voiced these grievances aloud, Eliot had simply laughed them off with some droll remark about hi
m always being a greedy little boy, and nothing ever being good enough to please him.

  Why should Eliot be the one to take over the company and the family town house, and run everything without so much as a by-your-leave? No wonder the business wasn’t doing well. Admittedly, Father had left him the house at the foot of Lake Windermere but Eliot still held the lion’s share. He complained frequently about Charles’s own spending, and yet had recently set up a scholarship for poor grammar school boys to go to university, having some outlandish notion that education should be available to all. In Charles’s view, educating the masses could well prove to be the touch paper which exploded society and brought it tumbling down around their ears. Eliot was even considering endowing some land for almshouses. The man was a liability with his philosophy that wealth was a responsibility which should be shared. How could he even consider handing it over to strangers, undeserving ones at that, while denying his own brother the increase in salary he deserved? Why should everything always be done Eliot’s way? The whole caboodle handed to him on a plate.

  His ‘good works’ were of course the reason Whineray had invited Eliot to stand for the town council. Which again was infuriating. An absolute nonsense, in Charles’s opinion. Such concerns should not be the province of a gentleman at all. It was surely women’s business to tend the poor and ineffectual. What else did his useless wife have to do with her time?

  And why was he never considered for elevation in the community? Why did no one think to give him the opportunity to shine? Charles certainly knew how to lead and take control much better than Eliot did. And he would make rather a dashing mayor

  Charles preened himself before his dressing mirror and thought himself a fine chap. Admittedly he cut a slightly more substantial figure than in his salad days, and if he did not possess his brother’s more classical good looks, there was surely power in his square, robust features. His hair was darker and more smoothly shaped about the head, and, unlike his brother who was clean shaven, he sported a neatly clipped, fashionable moustache, kept so by an excellent barber so that the whiskers did not quite conceal the noble line of his jaw or the fullness of his mouth. He also made a point of wearing suits of the finest cloth, made up in the latest style by a wonderful little Italian tailor he’d found in Manchester.

 

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