‘Here,’ Elsie said to the smallest, a little girl with freckles who was struggling to tie up her bundle. ‘Take this measure and put it under the spout. Each one is designed to hold eighteen hundred splints. That will be just the right amount for your bundle.’
The girl’s friend looked alarmed at the prospect of having to count to so great a number, but Elsie helped her while the freckled girl darted off, teaching her the best knot to secure the bundle with.
‘I used to do this myself,’ she smiled, ‘when I was your age.’ Of course she was not as dexterous, these days, with her scarred hands.
The girl did not reply, though it was evident from her face that she did not believe a word of it. Perhaps it was odd, for the owner’s daughter to labour amongst the employees, but Pa said you didn’t know a factory until you had worked it. As far as Elsie could recall, that was the only truly useful thing Pa had ever said.
When Elsie walked away from the girls, she noticed her shoes left prints on the floor, like a person walking in sand. Machinery whirred and splints sprayed into the trough, casting forth a nimbus of dust. The freckled girl from Fayford coughed. Gradually, the dust cleared. And just like that, Elsie’s footsteps were gone.
Curious to think of all the hidden steps, all the moments the factory floor had known, buried then swept aside with a broom.
She mounted the stairs leading up to the office and stopped halfway, leaning against the iron banister, where she could look out across the entire factory. Women filling frames and supervising the machines, all their vitality burning off with the steam. Sparks from rogue matches that snapped and died out. How quickly it happened, the fizz and transformation from one state to the other. One moment the match was a stick with a proud white head; the next a charred, wasted thing with a forlorn appearance. Shrivelled.
Handcarts ferried the bundles to and from the dipping room. Beyond that were the drying sheds, not quite visible through the windows.
There. That patch there, near the circular saw, just concealed from view. If you scrubbed down to the surface you would find it black and scorched. That was where the fire began. Where Pa ran to douse it, frantic. And then . . . where the blood had flowed. Copious amounts of blood. Red blooming on the sawdust. Red trickling between the table legs. A strange deep red, like claret. Thick.
Vinegar and mops had taken up the worst of it, but Elsie imagined a remnant lingering there beneath the sawdust. Brown, not red now. Brown like molasses.
Jolyon was only six weeks old when it happened. Pa hadn’t even changed his will to include a son yet. If Elsie had been determined, she might have found a way to retain the entire ownership of this factory until her marriage took place. But it was not natural to keep anything from Jolyon. She needed him to help her shoulder the burden of such an inheritance: a legacy born of blood.
Slowly, she deflated and sat down on the steps, her cheek pressed against the cold banister. Yes, there were terrible moments in the history of this place, but somehow the movement of the factory eroded them, wearing them away like the sea smoothing a stone. In their stead came another memory, far sweeter.
She had been walking down these very steps – not dressed in black, then, but vivid in fashionable magenta – when Jolyon ushered three gentlemen through the main doors. One wore a bowler hat, the other two toppers. They were roughly the same age – in their middle years, or a little older – but it was Rupert who caught the eye with his bright, active face. He looked more like a young man, damaged by a rough decade. His companions were what Ma would call badly preserved, their skin wrinkled, pickled.
‘Ah,’ Jolyon had said when he saw her. He was nervous but trying not to show it. A dark patch appeared beneath his armpit as he gestured. ‘Here is my sister come to assist us with the tour. Mr Bainbridge, Mr Davies, Mr Greenleaf, may I present Miss Livingstone?’
They bowed. Only Mr Bainbridge smiled. Well, she assumed that was the case – Mr Davies and Mr Greenleaf sported such monstrosities of facial hair that she could not be sure they even possessed mouths.
Mr Bainbridge was her instant favourite. He had a tidy, salt-and-pepper moustache, and was nattier than the others – even his trousers were checked, blue and green. He had a habit of toying with his watch chain as he walked.
She had taken Jolyon’s arm and shown the trio around the factory, giving prompts where required and explaining the women’s work. Jolyon talked about machines and production rates. Between them, they had it rehearsed as thoroughly as any play. The acts ran according to the script; their potential investors nodded at the right moments, asked the questions they were supposed to. It was only when they went to the office, and Elsie sat opposite Jolyon at the head of the long, mahogany table, that the first problem arose.
‘Forgive me, gentlemen, I thought we proposed to talk business?’ Mr Greenleaf had put his bowler hat on the table, glancing from Elsie to a decanter full of brandy and back again.
‘And so we do,’ said Jolyon. ‘Please, proceed.’
‘Hardly gallant, with ladies present.’
Elsie screwed up a smile. ‘I assure you, Mr Greenleaf, the factory is a topic of which I never tire. You need not be afraid of boring me.’
He inclined his head. Of course, boring Elsie was not what he feared – she knew it, he knew it.
‘Dear madam, let me be plain. The language in these meetings can grow a trifle coarse. It would be far better if your brother simply recounted the parts suitable for your ears at a later time.’
Rupert’s laugh was a single breath. ‘Upon my word, Greenleaf, I don’t know what sort of meeting you’re intending to have. Here I was, prepared to be mannered and civil.’
Jolyon coloured. His hands began to hover about his pockets. ‘You must understand this factory is Miss Livingstone’s inheritance, as well as mine. She has a right, I feel, to be present at any—’
‘Pshaw, no one’s disputing her right, man. But is there a need? Spare the poor lady the formal horrors.’
She could feel her heart pounding in her neck, furious at this fat old man, stuffed with prejudice and money. Horror. What did he know of horror? Only the thought of Jolyon held her tongue.
‘Bad language and formal horror,’ commented Rupert, swinging his watch. ‘I start to doubt whether I wish to stay here myself.’
‘Bainbridge, you know well enough what I mean. Figures of speech and business formalities we take for granted could prove shocking, not to mention tiring, for a lady.’
The worst of it was that Greenleaf would never admit the truth. He would not insult her intellect. He would not argue her place. Instead he took up this degrading charade, mimicking chivalry, pretending to object for her own dear sake.
Greenleaf went on. ‘I really see no reason, Livingstone, why your poor sister should be forced to suffer this. No reason at all.’
‘Unless,’ Davies put in slyly, ‘it is for yourself. Young man that you are, you might require an elder sibling’s presence?’
Jolyon turned scarlet. That was the trigger. She stood up and seized the decanter of brandy.
‘Well, gentlemen, you’ve had your say and I’m sure you’ve enjoyed it. As for Mr Livingstone and me, we have business to attend. Anyone who invests in this factory will have a master and a mistress to deal with, and that is not up for debate.’ She poured herself a finger of brandy and tossed it back. ‘If you’re too squeamish to talk business with a lady, you had better leave now.’
The speech seemed to have said itself. Elsie felt a flame in the back of her throat and gazed down at the brandy glass, unable to understand how it had got into her hand.
Mr Greenleaf and Mr Davies left. Rupert stayed.
And after all that commotion it was Jolyon who spoke for most of the meeting, detailing their plans to change from lucifer matches to matches with safety heads, and their proposed improvements for the welfare of staff. It was Jolyon who explained ventilation fans, Jolyon who made the case for a separate drying house. But it was Elsie whom Rupe
rt remembered.
‘A remarkable woman,’ he said to Jolyon, when he thought she was out of earshot. ‘Your sister has an acumen for this business, Livingstone, I hear it in every word she says. You are quite right to involve her.’
‘Elsie.’
But that was not what Jolyon had said in response. It was not a voice from the past, but from the here and now.
‘Elsie.’
She blinked, making an effort to draw herself back to the present. The image of Rupert and Jolyon shaking hands melted away. In its void rose another Jolyon. He bore no resemblance to the young man she had just seen; his face was distorted, shocked; his voice hollow and unreal.
‘Elsie, what are you doing here? I’ve been looking all over.’
She stood, walking down the last few steps to take his hands. They were slick and hot. ‘Whatever is the matter? You look terrible, Jo.’
‘A damned awful business. Pack up your things. You need to go back to The Bridge. Today.’
The contents of her stomach shifted. ‘Why? What on earth has happened?’
‘It’s Mabel.’ He gripped her gloves, tight. ‘Mabel is dead.’
THE BRIDGE, 1635
He will die tomorrow.
It is my fault. All of it. Every morning I wake sick to the dregs of my stomach with guilt. But I have not suffered enough, I will never suffer sufficiently to please Josiah. He must push my face to it, like a dog that has messed in its master’s house. So we are hosting a celebration.
Since Mark caught up with the runaway, my husband has decreed that the servants be rewarded with a feast. All day the spits have been turning, flooding the ground floor with smoke. My eyes sting from it.
Josiah has granted them use of the Great Hall. They sit there now, clinking glasses, ripping meat from bones with their teeth as if they are ripping apart Merripen himself.
I have resigned myself to the kitchen with Lizzy. It is my penance to sit here in the choking smoke, sweat dripping from my forehead, watching the animal skins blister and bubble as they turn above the fire.
We try to make conversation but it seems too glib a thing, too ordinary an occupation. Can such trifles continue after all that has passed?
‘It don’t seem right,’ Lizzy sighed. She mopped her face. ‘Carrying on like that because a lad will be stretched in the morning. Even an evil lad.’
I listened to the fat dripping and sizzling. Would Merripen roast like that in the fires of hell?
‘I was so foolish to trust him. Yet he did not seem like a wicked boy.’
‘Aye. But the devil takes on many guises. The way he attacked that poor horse . . .’ She came and patted my hand with her own sweating, calloused palm. ‘Perchance it’s better this way. Put an end to him before he can turn his spite on a human soul.’
But what an end.
We watched the fire together. To my eyes the logs resembled charred limbs; a poor soul burnt at the stake. God grant they never discover the way I begot Hetta. If they hang, draw and quarter Merripen, what would they do to me?
‘How is Hetta?’ I asked at last. ‘Does she know what will happen to her friend?’
Lizzy heaved herself onto a bench. ‘I didn’t tell her, but she’s sharp. Knew there was to be a big feast. To and from the garden all morning she was, gathering herbs for Cook. I suppose it helps her to keep busy.’
‘And now?’
She glanced at the clock. ‘Now I had better be fetching her in. Didn’t have the heart before, so I let her sit where she was at peace. But there’s a vicious nip in that air. Can’t have her catching cold.’
I put up my hand as she made to rise. ‘Let me go, Lizzy.’
She nodded her consent.
The frozen air was pitiless when I left the heat of the kitchen. I did not realise how cold it had grown. It was cold enough for snow. Frost glittered on the twigs that snapped beneath my slippers as I made my way to the herb patch.
My once fine garden had turned into a collection of bony branches scoured by the wind. The sky stretched above, colourless as salt. No lilies grew, no roses survived. Only the topiary remained, a green ghost of my summer hopes. And Hetta’s herbs.
I thought I was chilled before I saw her. But the moment my eyes fell upon my child, my heart froze within me.
She sat on the frosted dirt with her skirts pooled around her. Perfectly still. Although her gloved hands were empty, she held them in her lap with the palms facing up towards the sky.
Her basket remained on the path. She did not look up as my feet crunched beside it. Her eyes stared blankly ahead.
‘Hetta? Hetta, what are you doing? You’ll catch your death.’
I tugged at her shoulder. She was like a doll in my hand, floppy and senseless. Crystals of moisture sparkled on her hair. How long had Lizzy let her sit here in the damp?
‘Hetta. Give me your hand and stand up.’
The last flicker of twilight danced upon the icy herbs and dazzled my eyes. I reached down and felt that Hetta’s gloves were sticky, stained with the juice of plants. They released the fragrance of thyme and something deeper, something bitter, as I seized them and pulled her to her feet.
‘Have you been gathering herbs with your hands?’ I looked to the basket. It was filled with creepers and thistles. ‘Where are your little scissors?’
She reached into her apron. Cold light flashed off the blades as she moved them, snip, snip. They looked rusty, a brown substance caking the handles.
‘You shall have to get the knife-boy to clean them.’
I jostled her towards the house. She looked more dead than alive; her skin waxen and her eyes a dull, singed green. My breath plumed out and shivered on the air before disintegrating but her breath was shallow, barely there at all. Only once did a wisp curl from her nose, thin as the smoke from a snuffed candle.
I changed her clothes and loaded her bed with furs. I banked up her fire with my own hands. Then I covered her sparrow’s cage and positioned one of the wooden companions by her side, just as she likes it.
While the wind groaned down the chimney we sat looking at one another, us two, complicit in our guilt. Together we had ruined the family. And still the wind howled, warning of further torment to come.
Hetta raised a hand. She was reaching, reaching for me, wanting my comfort . . .
No. She did not even see me. All she wanted was my diamond necklace.
I pulled away from her.
When at last Hetta slept, I crept back down to the kitchen. Lizzy was asleep at the table, her head on her outstretched arms. I sit now beside her dear, warm body and listen to the breath whistling from her nose. It strikes me that this old woman with the lines gouged in her face is the only true connection between Hetta and myself. After all my efforts to make a precious daughter and friend, this is all that we share: the love of a servant and the death of Merripen.
I had almost dozed off when shouts came from the hall. Footsteps followed, heavy and uneven. I touched Lizzy’s shoulder. ‘Lizzy, wake up. They are coming back to the kitchen.’
The fire had burnt low. A chill crept in through the stone walls. The wind was wild now, shaking the door, banging at the window. I looked up and tried to see outside, but ice marbled the glass.
‘Lizzy.’
She grunted and stirred. ‘What time is it, mistress?’
‘I do not know. Time for us to be a-bed. Come, I cannot stand to bide here. They might burst in singing.’
We were nearly at the servants’ stairs when a blow fell upon the door to the stable yard. I froze. Who could be out in that storm?
Glass rattled in the window frames. The chimney gusted.
The knock came again.
Lizzy moved towards the door, her servant’s habits ingrained. I grabbed her sleeve.
‘Lizzy . . .’ I could not say what I feared. Panic rose from my chest to my throat.
The noise of the servants grew louder.
‘I must answer it, mistress. A body could freeze to death in
that blizzard!’ Her woollen sleeve rubbed across my fingers and was gone.
She reached the door to the yard just as the servants burst in from the other direction. Mark staggered into the roasting jack, his face blotched red. Next came Jane, giggling, then Cook and a string of footmen who looked quite foreign to me, out of their livery. At their heels, haunting every step, wafted a sour cloud of alcohol.
‘Lackaday! What’s this? Mistress in the kitchen?’
Lizzy darted a glance at them before she turned and pulled the door open. It blew inwards, thudding against the wall. Snow flurried onto the tiles, melting in an instant as the fire gibbered, casting shadows on the ceiling.
Roars of disapproval came from the drunken servants.
‘Why did you open that door, damn you?’ hollered Mark. ‘It’s cold as a witch’s tit out there.’
I could not see who had knocked for admittance; the snow was too dense. I squinted, shivering. Something moved in the flurry. Something the height of Lizzy’s waist.
‘Oh! God save us, what is it?’ Lizzy reared back, stumbling into Jane. Now I saw it: the queerest creature; black as the devil, but dotted all over with white. It lurched forwards, mumbling in tongues. Jane shrieked.
‘Mercy.’ A single, comprehensible word. Everything fell still. The creature held out its dark hands; the atmosphere prickled around it. ‘M-m-mercy.’
And I saw it was no demon, but a meagre child, her hair loose and torn by the wind, dripping from the tips.
‘No beggars here!’ barked Lizzy. I had never seen her so afraid. ‘We don’t want your sort.’
I opened my mouth to say that she could sleep in the stables. Then I remembered what had happened the last time I let a stranger into those stalls.
The girl shook her head. Something in her black eyes was familiar. ‘Josiah Bainbridge,’ she stumbled over the name – it was clear that she did not use her native tongue. ‘I see Josiah Bainbridge. Mercy.’
Mark bumbled forward, pushing Lizzy behind him. ‘You’ll get nowhere near my master. Now hop it.’
The Silent Companions Page 19