The Girl From Poorhouse Lane

by Freda Lightfoot

  ‘Oh, it wouldn’t be idle, so help me.’ Kate was spitting mad, hating the way he avoided looking at her, even with his good eye, and wanted to throw something at him, to wring his scraggy neck. But where would that get her?

  ‘Have you searched the river?’ he blithely enquired. ‘Happen you should fetch t’police and have them drag it. If the lad was drunk, he could easily have fallen in, and his body be lost. A man can drown in seconds in that cold, deep, river, as you well know.’

  Kate stared at him, the only sound in her head being the hammering of her heart in loud, frantic beats. She surely couldn’t lose a brother as well as a husband to that flaming river? That would be too cruel. And then she realised that if this had been the case, his body would have been discovered long since. ‘He’s alive some place, I know it. No thanks to you. I’d not find a nastier piece of work than you, Ned Swainson, in all the muck at the bottom of a dozen rivers, so help me. If you think you can frighten me, then I’ll have to disappoint you for I’m not so easily scared. But I will just nip into the finishing room, and ask around among the girls, if ye don’t mind. Somebody has mebbe seen him around.’

  Swainson looked affronted. ‘You can’t go in there without my permission. Them lasses are working and mustn’t be disturbed.’

  Kate gave a snort of exasperation and went in anyway, running in quickly before he had time to stop her. The huge, brightly lit room was packed with girls and women, all busily stitching the separate pieces together that comprised the uppers of a shoe or boot. They fashioned these with considerable care and skill, and with enviable speed. Kate moved up and down the lines of workers, stopping to ask anyone she recognised who she knew to be acquainted with her brother, if they’d seen him lately. Heads were shaken, eyes taking on a sad and sorrowful expression, as if they knew something she didn’t. But Kate couldn’t bear to acknowledge what this might be and obstinately pressed on with her questions. She couldn’t even find Dolly, the girl Dermot had been hoping to marry. Within minutes she saw the foreman bearing down upon her with a couple of his trusties in tow.

  ‘I’m not going, so don’t you dare put a finger on me. I need to ask these girls if . . .’

  She got no further as one of the men grasped her arm, while the second snatched her other wrist and twisted it up her back. As she squealed, a gasp of horror went up from the girls all around, though not one made a move to help her, too afraid of losing their own job to risk it. Swainson was smirking, which provoked Kate’s temper all the more and she lashed out at him with her foot, catching him on the shin with the toe of her boot.

  ‘You little bitch! I’ll have you for that.’

  ‘If you’ve done anything to our Dermot, I’ll see you hang fer it, so I will.’

  Now it was Kate’s turn to be frog-marched away, in this case not only out of the building but out of the factory yard altogether, the sound of the foreman’s threats ringing in her ears as the big gates clanged shut after her. But instead of this having the desired effect of scaring her into submission, it only served to inflame her fury all the more, for it convinced Kate beyond any doubt, that he did indeed have something to hide. Whatever had happened to Dermot, Swainson was involved, she was sure of it.

  ‘You’re late, Kate. Where on earth have you been? And why is your hair mussed up, and there’s mud all over the hem of your uniform? This is too bad. What have you been up to? You should have been back nearly an hour since.’ Amelia swooped Callum up into her arms, hugging him close as if to reassure herself he was unharmed.

  She’d been sitting at the parlour window waiting for her nursemaid’s return. Kate had seen the lace curtains twitch and knew, with a swift sinking of her heart that she would have to lie. She could hardly tell her mistress the truth, that she’d left Callum with Millie, who’d then taken him back to her hovel in Poor House Lane and fed him on watery gruel with the rest of her brood while she, Kate, had gone off to accuse their foreman of assaulting her brother, ended up attacking him in the finishing room of the factory, and then been thrown off the premises. Indeed, if she told such a tale, she really would be out on her ear, and all Callum’s chances of a good future would go up in a puff of smoke.

  Kate made some excuse about playing a game of ball on Gooseholme and quite forgetting the time. ‘I’ll take him up for his tea and a wash now, shall I, ma’am? And then bring him down to you in the parlour, as usual.’

  ‘Yes please, Kate. I’m sorry to fuss, but he is so dear to me, I got into quite a panic when I saw he wasn’t here. The shop has delivered our purchases and I rather expected you would have unpacked them by now.’

  ‘I’ll get to them right away. Would you like him to wear his kilt ma’am, or the yellow silk, knickerbocker set?’ Another creation she’d bought that morning.

  ‘The blue cotton smock and shorts, I think. It is only tea with his dear mama, after all. What a fright you gave me. Parenthood is so – so taxing. Dear me, my nerves are quite in ribbons.’

  Kate could see that Amelia wanted to say a great deal more but was too relieved to have Callum back so was allowing the incident to pass. She was still jiggling him up and down, smothering the wriggling child with a flurry of kisses and Kate suffered an overwhelming urge to rip him from the other woman’s arms and scream at her to leave him alone; to say that he was her son, and not Amelia’s at all. Wasn’t it enough to lose the rest of her family?

  Instead, she smiled and offered to bring her mistress’s tea through for her, once she’d got him properly dressed and presentable for visiting his dear mama. Three days later, the fever began.

  It began as a sniffle and a little shivering, but within hours had developed into a raging headache and by then the fever was all too apparent. Callum lay in his crib fretting and crying and burning up. Fear struck at Kate’s heart. It was her fault entirely. She should never have left him with Millie. It hadn’t seemed odd at the time because Millie had often minded him for her. But things were different now. She should have realised that her friend might ignore her instruction just to jiggle the pram or walk him around, and take him home to Poor House Lane. And he wasn’t simply her lovely Callum any longer. He belonged to another woman, to Amelia. Kate had never seen her so angry in all the months she had known her.

  Amelia demanded to know how her precious boy could possibly have caught a fever when they took such good care of him, and Kate confessed the whole sorry story. ‘I just chanced to meet Millie and she told me what had happened to my brother. I was bothered about our Dermot. He’s all the family I have left, after all.’

  ‘Kate, how could you? I’ve even given up my own charity work for the moment, to keep my boy safe. I trusted you, and you have let me down badly. Because of your rapscallion brother you’ve risked the health of my child.’

  Kate’s instinct was to protest that Callum was her child, but she didn’t dare. They’d made an agreement, after all. Papers had been signed, a day that would live forever in her heart. Kate had sat in the solicitor’s officer and later before a judge in a big room he called his chambers, and she’d agreed to hand over all rights to her child, for the sake of his future. Everyone had been very brisk and businesslike, quite unaware of the fear and misery beating in her heart. The judge had glowered at her over his spectacles and told her what a sensible girl she was, how fortunate for her son to be taken in by such a fine couple as Mr and Mrs Tyson. He’d pushed a piece of paper in front of her and instructed Kate to make her mark, expressing surprise when she’d signed her name instead.

  And so Kate had no say over her son now, no rights at all, and no matter how beneficial to her child in the long-term, for Kate this was a hard enough fact to live with. Losing her position would make it a thousand times worse, as she might then never see him again.

  Now she faced a further danger. There was no denying that Callum had an infection of some sort and the doctor was called immediately. He seemed quite unconcerned and, ignoring Kate completely, addressed himself directly to Amelia.

&nb
sp; ‘No rash, no swellings, no sign of anything sinister. But the boy should be carefully watched. He could simply be teething or it may be the start of influenza. There have been a few cases about, a quite nasty strain in fact. As I say, it might be nothing at all. Give him plenty of fluids, try to bring down his temperature with a cold compress, and keep him free from draughts. Children are like this, dear lady, sick one minute and bouncing around the next. There is nothing for you to fear.’

  Amelia was unconvinced but his instructions were carried out to the letter, and more besides. Blankets soaked in vinegar were hung at the doors to the bedroom, gallons of home made barley water laced with lemon juice were brought up by the jug-full from the kitchen, Mrs Petty doing her bit for the little master, despite her disapproval over this scandalous adoption.

  ‘Did he see a gypsy woman, or a mad dog perhaps when you took him around town?’ she enquired of her mistress, her voice fearful. ‘They do say as that can bring on a fever.’

  ‘I don’t think so Mrs Petty. And you’d be much better off not listening to such superstitious nonsense.’

  ‘Nay, tis true, you mark my words. No matter what you do in life, you has to take special care of the all-seeing eye of God. If he notices summat is not quite right, he takes his revenge.’ Glaring hard across at Kate.

  Amelia gave a snort of impatience. ‘That will be all, thank you, Mrs Petty.’

  And then the vomiting and the diarrhoea began.

  Now, even old Doctor Mitchell frowned and looked troubled. ‘I’m afraid the poor child has colic or gastro-enteritis of some sort. It’s a common enough complaint with young children, though more usually found in poorer families, and can become pernicious if we can’t stop the purging, or keep sufficient fluids inside him.’ He left careful instructions for the little boy to be given an infusion of strawberry leaf tea to stop the dysentery, feverfew for the headache and colic, and goldenrod to stop the violent sickness. ‘He must have nothing at all to eat but give him plenty of boiled water, and let nature take its course.’

  It seemed far too inadequate a remedy for such a precious child.

  Amelia absolutely refused to leave Callum’s bedside, despite Kate’s protests and the concerns of her husband that she mustn’t tire herself. All day and night she bathed his hot little head with a cold compress, struggling to persuade him to sip the boiled water and getting upset when he absolutely refused to take it unless Kate held the feeding cup. No amount of signed papers would change Callum’s mind on who his mammy was, and Kate couldn’t help but nurse a secret delight over this.

  But then after a while he became so ill that he neither knew nor cared who was at his bedside and from then on Amelia insisted on taking the lion’s share of the nursing. Much of the time she permitted no one else to come near him and Kate found herself demoted to emptying the chamber pot and changing sheets, when all the time she longed to hold her sick child to her breast.

  Chapter Ten

  The stink of sickness seemed to permeate the entire house. Early on the third morning, Kate was carrying an armful of soiled linen down the stairs, hurrying so that she could quickly return to the sick room, when she almost ran into Eliot. He grasped hold of her, steadying her when she might have lost her footing and fallen.

  ‘Kate, is he no better?’ The concern on his face was unmistakeable and Kate felt a constriction of fear block her throat. So far she’d refused to believe that Callum was in any real danger, that so long as they did exactly as the doctor instructed, in no time at all he would be well, beaming his toothy grin and up to his usual mischief. Now, for the first time, she faced the reality that he might not get better at all. Quite unable to voice these fears out loud, she could do nothing more than shake her head.

  ‘Oh, don’t cry. I’m sure he will recover. He’s a strong child, a fine boy.’

  Kate hadn’t realised, until he said those words, that she was indeed crying. Now she became aware of tears running down her cheeks unchecked. The next instant, Eliot Tyson, her employer, master of this household and a substantial shoe empire, was rocking her gently in his arms while Kate sobbed out her anguish on to his shoulder. It felt so good, so safe, such a wonderful comfort that she wanted to stay there for ever, feeling the strength of his arms about her, the power of his broad shoulder beneath her cheek.

  He took out a clean, linen handkerchief and began to dab at her tears. ‘There, there, that’s right, let it all come out. It’s been far too much for you to bear. I’ve tried to do a couple of hours work each morning but can’t seem to settle at the factory. Despite there being matters needing my attention, I keep coming back to see how things are here, find out if the doctor has called again.’

  This morning, Eliot had spotted a set of accounts which troubled him greatly, but he couldn’t seem to concentrate on them through worrying over the child. He hoped that when he went back later in the day, he’d find that he’d mistaken the figures in his anxiety, and there was really no problem at all.

  Kate was thinking that she could tell he’d been out by the scent of leather on his skin, mixed with the cold, clean damp of a Lakeland wind. It was utterly intoxicating.

  ‘You must be quite worn out, probably haven’t had a wink of sleep for days on end.’

  Kate tried to protest that lack of sleep really didn’t trouble her in the slightest but then met his gentle gaze, and the words vanished from her mind. She could see a reflection of her own image mirrored in the pupils of his brown eyes. It seemed right, somehow, that it should be there, almost as if it belonged. She also saw concern and sympathy, although really she was seeking something more, something far more personal.

  Finally, he spoke, a rough, croaking sound, barely above a whisper. ‘And what of my wife? How is she coping?’

  It was the mention of Amelia which brought her to her senses. The power of this moment of sharing was over and Kate took a step back, releasing herself from his grip. She put a hand to her face to wipe away the tears, tucked a strand of hair behind an ear as thoughts cascaded through her brain with neither clarity nor sense. What was she thinking of? She was behaving like a fool. He was her master, a married man. Quickly, Kate bent down and gathered up the discarded laundry.

  ‘I must get this down to the wash room right away, grab a bite to eat so that I can hurry back and take over for a while. The mistress needs rest more than any of us. You should tell her to take a nap. She might listen to you, sir. She won’t take it from me.’

  As Kate ran down the stairs she didn’t look back, aware that his eyes followed her, every step of the way.

  As if Eliot didn’t have enough anxiety over Callum, and the health of his dear wife as a result, he was growing increasingly alarmed about the state of the business. Something was most definitely wrong. He’d been planning to buy new machinery for the finishing room, some fancy new sewing machines from America, and now his accountant was telling him the company didn’t have the finance to carry out these plans. This came as a nasty shock. He may not enjoy the travelling and touting for orders which had been the mainstay of his father’s approach to business, but Eliot prided himself on having a good head for figures, and on keeping a finger on the financial button.

  He considered postponing the purchase of the new equipment. What did it matter anyway? Callum, whom he now thought of as his son, was seriously ill, and there was even a possibility that he might not recover. All he really wanted to do was to stay at home and be with the child, and to support Amelia. She was looking so tired and wan, so frightened of losing him.

  Yet simply because the boy was sick, somehow made it even more important that the business be kept safe and secure, otherwise it would be tantamount to admitting that Callum might not survive. Not that there was anything Eliot could do at home in any case, Amelia having banned everyone but herself from the child’s room. So he buried his fears deep and set about ensuring that the company would at least still be there for him, whenever he needed it in the future.

  Eliot had always
taken great care that the costings for the manufacture of the shoes were correctly done, and that all accounts were properly audited; unlike his father who had never troubled himself on that score, working purely on instinct rather than mathematics, being far more obsessed with fussing over every detail of work in the factory. And his brother’s principals of economy appeared to be that if he had a penny in his pocket, it was there to be spent. Would Charles go so far as to cheat on his own brother in order to get his hands on more money? Surely not! Yet capital was leaking away and Eliot intended to discover the reason.

  Could Kate perhaps be right about Swainson? Was he feathering his own nest? Or was it one of his other employees? He had to find out.

  Eliot closeted himself in his office with the books and spent hours pouring over lines of figures, balancing outgoings against income, searching for any unusual discrepancies or a mistake in the arithmetic. He was still there when everyone else had gone home, barely noticed Dennis who crept in late in the evening with a plate of sandwiches, courtesy of Mrs Petty. It was some time in the early hours of the morning that his fears were conclusively proved to be justified. Eliot sat staring at his findings, unwilling to believe his own eyes, even as alarm was changing slowly to a deep, burning anger.

  Someone was carrying out a meticulously perpetrated fraud. And he rather thought he knew who that someone was.

  He went home to quickly bathe and change, though sleep was impossible; checked on Callum, soothed and comforted his wife. Kate was optimistic that Callum was over the worst. His temperature had apparently dropped and the loss of fluids had reduced somewhat over the last twenty-four hours.

  ‘He’s on the mend, sir, so he is. Look at that bright, cheeky face. By this afternoon, he’ll be shouting for his boiled egg and toast soldiers.’

  Eliot clung to her optimism like a life-line, feeling it incumbent upon himself to hold faith in the child’s ultimate recovery, otherwise where was the point in anything?