Pauper's Gold

by Margaret Dickinson

  Hannah shook her head, pulled open the door wider. ‘Come in,’ she said hoarsely. As she moved back to sit down near the cold range, he followed her. In the mirror above the mantelpiece, she saw herself. No wonder Ernest had been startled. She looked a mess. Her eyes were swollen, her face blotchy. Her hair hung down in dirty, bedraggled lengths, the blonde at its roots showing clearly now that it was not fastened up. Her dress was crumpled and stained for she had not taken it off even to sleep at night.

  ‘I . . . er . . .’ Ernest began awkwardly. ‘I came to ask where Mr Adam is? I need to ask him—’

  ‘He’s gone,’ she blurted out. ‘He . . . he’s left.’

  ‘Left?’ For a moment Ernest was puzzled, then his face cleared. ‘Oh, gone away on business, you mean? In place of his father?’

  Hannah shook her head. ‘No, he’s gone away. For good. He won’t be coming back.’

  ‘Won’t be—?’ Now Ernest truly was shocked. ‘But the mill? What’ll happen to the mill? His father’s in no fit state to run it. At least, not at the moment, so they say. It’ll be a long time before he’s fit enough.’ His voice dropped as he muttered, ‘If he ever is.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Hannah whispered, ‘what’s going to happen. Can . . . can you and Mr Roper keep things going, just for the moment and I . . . I’ll . . . ?’

  Without warning, a spark of her old spirit ignited. This was not like her. This was not Hannah Francis who fought whatever life threw at her, who sang no matter what. Whatever was she doing shutting herself away like this, moping and starving herself and her child?

  Her child! She must think of her child. He – or she – was heir to the mill. Her child was a Critchlow, but it was Adam’s child. It had a chance – a good chance – not to be like the old order of Critchlows. She could bring it up to be different, and one day it would own and run the mill. But in the meantime . . .

  Hannah squared her shoulders.

  ‘Mr Scarsfield, will you do something for me?’

  The man was still dazed by the news that Adam had gone. He couldn’t take it in. He couldn’t believe that young master Adam would leave. Not now. Not of all times now when his father was incapable of running the mill. Surely . . . He dragged his attention back to what the new Mrs Critchlow was saying.

  ‘Of course – anything, ma’am.’

  She smiled at him. ‘First thing, please call me Hannah.’

  ‘Hannah? But I thought your name was Anna?’

  She sighed. ‘I can’t explain it all now. I will soon, I promise. I’ll tell you everything. I’d sooner you heard it from me than from anyone else. But there’s no time now. Would you send word to the Grundys to have some provisions brought here? I’ve no food in the house. And then this afternoon, I’ll come to the mill.’

  ‘Very well.’ He rose and then stood looking down at her for a long moment, then he murmured, ‘You know, I thought there was summat familiar about you. You’re that young lass that was here years ago, aren’t you?’

  Hannah nodded and held her breath, wondering what was coming next. But Ernest pulled on his cap and smiled. ‘Well, I always did like that little lass. Loved to hear her singing about the place. I hope we’ll hear you singing again, Hannah.’

  With that, he gave a brief nod and left her. For a long moment, she sat staring after him. Then she too rose, squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. She put her hand on her belly and smiled softly. ‘Come along, my little one. We’ve a mill to run.’

  As she went to fetch paper and kindling and coal to light the fire in the range, Hannah was humming softly to herself.

  About mid-afternoon, Hannah marched across the yard to the mill, her head held high and determination in every stride. She had washed, pinned up her hair and changed her clothes, and now she climbed the stairs and went straight to the offices. Without knocking, she strode into the outer office.

  ‘Mr Roper.’ She beamed at him. ‘It’s time you and I had a little chat.’ She gestured with her hand towards the inner door. ‘Please would you come into my office.’

  There was no mistaking the emphasis on her appropriation of Mr Edmund’s office. Josiah stared at her for a moment and then shrugged, put down his pen, slid off his stool and followed her.

  ‘Please,’ Hannah said as she moved around the desk and sat down in the well-worn chair behind it. ‘Do sit down.’

  Josiah sat in the chair placed for visitors in front of the desk. It was slightly lower than the chair in which Hannah was now sitting and she had the advantage of looking down upon him. It gave her confidence.

  ‘Mr Roper, as you know, Mr Edmund is very ill and unable to undertake his normal work of running the mill. As you may not know – though I expect the gossip grapevine has already been busy – Adam has gone away. His father informed him who I really am.’ She paused for a moment, looking Josiah straight in the eyes, leaving him in no doubt that she was well aware just how Mr Edmund had found out. Josiah dropped his gaze, but said nothing. ‘He – Mr Edmund that is – has disowned Adam,’ Hannah went on. ‘It seems – even though he cannot run the mill himself for the time being – that he would sooner see the mill ruined than have his son in charge.’ Hannah leaned towards Josiah. ‘But, Mr Roper, we are not going to let that happen. We – and by that I mean you, Mr Scarsfield and me – are going to keep this place going.’

  Josiah, for once, looked surprised. ‘I’d’ve thought that was exactly what you wanted to see happen? The Critchlows ruined?’

  Hannah sighed, rested her elbows on the desk and her chin in her hands. ‘Yes. Once I did. Once upon a time I would have been singing with joy at the thought. But things have changed.’ She hesitated briefly. It was difficult to talk to a man like Josiah Roper about affairs of the heart. She couldn’t believe he would understand. She couldn’t believe he had ever been in love. But he had to be told.

  ‘You see, what started out as revenge against the Critchlows has rather rebounded on me. I . . . I fell in love with Adam.’

  Josiah stared at her and then he smirked, ‘Well, I might have known. Women can’t keep up their desire for revenge. Not like a man. It takes years. It takes patience and single-mindedness. Women haven’t got the stomach for it. They’re too soft, too forgiving. Never forgive and never forget. That’s my motto and I live by it.’ His eyes gleamed with such relish that Hannah shivered. She couldn’t understand Josiah Roper and probably never would, but she needed him. She needed his knowledge and his expertise if she were to run the mill – if she were to save it for her unborn child. Adam’s child and Mr Edmund’s grandchild.

  ‘I haven’t exactly forgiven and certainly not forgotten what Mr Edmund did. But Adam was not to blame for any of it.’

  ‘He’s a Critchlow.’

  Hannah regarded him steadily as she said, ‘So’s the child I’m carrying.’

  For a moment, Josiah looked as if he too might have a seizure. He turned purple with rage. ‘Another Critchlow bastard!’ he spat.

  ‘No, Mr Roper. Adam and I are legally married, if you remember. The child—’

  ‘It might not be born a bastard legally, but it’ll be one by nature. It’ll have Critchlow blood in it.’

  ‘Yes, but Adam’s blood. He’s a good man. Even you must agree with that.’

  Josiah gave a non-committal grunt. ‘But what,’ he asked nastily, ‘if it takes after its grandfather?’

  Hannah grinned suddenly. ‘Then I’ll probably drown it.’

  Of course she was not serious and Josiah knew it, but her statement relieved the tension. Even Josiah allowed himself a small smile. There was a long silence before he said, ‘So, how do you intend to run this mill?’ His tone was scathing. ‘What do you know of business? Of dealing with suppliers and buyers?’

  ‘Absolutely nothing. But, Mr Roper, you do, don’t you?’

  ‘Me?’ He looked startled now. ‘I’ve never been allowed to meet with buyers and such.’

  ‘But you know what’s done, don’t you? There must’ve been t
imes when meetings have taken place in this very office.’ She leaned forward again. ‘I’m sure that door is not so thick that you haven’t been able to hear what’s been going on.’

  He wriggled his shoulders. ‘Well, yes, Mr Edmund had me in sometimes to make notes for him. Figures and such like.’

  ‘So you do know how Mr Edmund conducted his business meetings?’

  ‘Well, yes.’

  ‘Then I suggest you and I – and Mr Scarsfield too, if he’s willing – should meet such people together.’

  Josiah’s eyes gleamed. ‘You’re as crafty as a cartload of monkeys. I expect you’ll pile on the charm and make out you’re a weak and naive woman, whilst we drive home the bargains. That it, eh?’

  Hannah smiled and her eyes twinkled merrily. ‘Something like that, Mr Roper.’

  ‘What about travelling abroad? Mr Edmund did quite a bit of that?’

  Hannah put her head on one side. ‘Was it always strictly business? Was it always really necessary?’

  Josiah gave a bark of wry laughter. ‘See straight through the old bugger, don’t you? To answer your questions: no, it wasn’t, but there were times when it was. Occasional trips abroad are very necessary.’ He sighed. ‘Especially now.’

  Hannah frowned. ‘What do you mean? Especially now?’

  ‘You’ve heard about the war in America?’

  ‘Vaguely.’

  ‘There’s a civil war going on in America. It started about three or four months ago. The north versus the south.’ He reached for a newspaper lying on the desk, placed there every day for his master. ‘There was an item in the paper. I kept it,’ he murmured, scanning the small print. ‘Ah yes, here it is.’

  He came around the desk and spread the paper in front of her, jabbing at a paragraph with his bony finger. ‘Read it for yourself.’

  Hannah stared down at the tiny, close print. Whilst she was bright and had been a quick learner, her schooling had been spasmodic. She could read simple texts, write a neat hand and do arithmetic quickly in her head, but the tiny print and the long, complicated words baffled her.

  ‘Er, you tell me what it says, Mr Roper.’ She looked up at him and pulled a wry face. ‘My learning doesn’t go as far as the fancy words in The Times.’

  For once, Josiah did not smirk derisively. He merely nodded briefly, picked up the paper to read the item again to refresh his memory whilst Hannah waited with impatient anxiety.

  ‘The gist of it,’ he began, ‘is this. The majority of raw cotton that comes to this country comes from the Southern States of America. The people who do most of the work connected with the growing of cotton are black slaves belonging to the plantation owners. There’s been a movement to abolish slavery, but of course the south don’t want it because they want to keep their slaves – their cheap labour. But the people in the north believe it’s wrong to snatch people from their homeland – that’s Africa,’ he added by way of explanation, ‘and transport them to a far-off land and sell them to the highest bidder who’ll probably work them to death . . .’

  Hannah’s face was grim. To her, there were echoes from her own life. Hadn’t she been torn away from her mother and brought here to work at the mill for a pittance, made to sign a piece of paper she scarcely understood and been bound to the Critchlows for years?

  As if reading her thoughts, Josiah Roper said softly, ‘But there’s no escape for them, Mrs Critchlow. Not ever. They’re owned, body and soul, by the plantation owners. They even have to forget their own African names and live by whatever slave name their master chooses, taking his surname as their own.’

  Hannah shuddered. She’d taken her master’s name now, but the choice, for whatever devious reason, had at least been her own to make.

  Josiah went on, warming to his tale now that he had such a willing listener. It was the one thing he missed since his aged mother had died – having someone to talk to about world affairs and political matters. Once – in the early days – Edmund had treated him almost as an equal and had occasionally indulged in such discussion. But of late, Mr Edmund had treated Josiah with the contempt he showed all his workers. Josiah Roper was now no more to Edmund that the lowliest floor sweeper in his mill. ‘Now, the north and south are fighting each other over giving the slaves their freedom. It’s called a civil war and it sets friend against friend, even brother against brother.’

  Hannah gasped. ‘Oh, how terrible!’

  For a brief moment even the hard-hearted Josiah Roper spared a thought for the internal strife that must be tearing that great nation apart.

  ‘So,’ Josiah finished, ‘we need to find other suppliers.’

  ‘Could you do that?’

  Josiah wrinkled his brow. ‘Manchester’s the place to go – or Liverpool. I could find out what’s going on. It might even be necessary for me to go abroad. Rumour has it that we’ll need to get Indian cotton, though some of that is inferior quality. It would need someone who knew what they were doing to make sure the brokers don’t cheat us.’

  ‘Would you be willing to go abroad? To seek out other supplies? All expenses paid, of course.’

  For the first time a genuine look of pleasure crossed Josiah’s face. ‘I . . . I’ve always wanted to travel. See a bit of the world. Do . . . do you mean it?’

  Hannah nodded, knowing instinctively that she’d won him over. ‘I wouldn’t be able to go – not with the child coming. And besides . . .’ She put her head on one side, resorting to a little flattery to win him over. ‘I wouldn’t know where to start or what to do.’

  ‘I’m sure you wouldn’t be long in learning,’ Josiah murmured with a wry smile. It was the nearest he would come to paying her a compliment. He was still looking thoughtful, but now there was a hint of admiration for her in his eyes. ‘Do you know,’ he said slowly, ‘I think we could do it. The three of us together – you, me and Scarsfield. I really think we could keep this place going.’

  ‘I’m sure all the workers will help.’

  Now Josiah pulled a face. ‘They’ll be glad enough to keep their jobs, but as for actually helping, well, their hatred for the Critchlows goes deep.’

  ‘But it won’t be the Critchlows running it, will it? Not for a while, anyway.’

  ‘You’re a Critchlow now, don’t forget,’ he reminded her, though this time there was no malice in his tone.

  Hannah pulled a wry face but then she laughed. ‘Ah, but not by birth. That’s the difference. And things are going to be very different, let me tell you. There are going to be a few changes around here, Mr Roper. Oh yes, in fact quite a lot of changes.’

  Forty-Seven

  Ernest Scarsfield sat with a bemused expression on his face as Hannah explained all that had happened and detailed her plans. ‘Finally, you should know that I am expecting Adam’s child. Whatever happens with Mr Edmund and . . . and . . .’ her voice trembled a little, ‘Adam, there’s going to be an heir.’ She glanced at both Ernest and Josiah now. ‘So – will you both help me? Can we work together to save the mill?’

  The two men glanced at each other.

  ‘If you think we can do it, lass, well, yes, of course,’ Ernest said.

  ‘I’m sure we can. There’s just one more thing,’ she said as she stood up. ‘I’ll have to go and see Mr Edmund.’

  ‘Well, I wish you luck,’ Josiah said.

  And almost beneath his breath, Ernest muttered, ‘You’re going to need it.’

  ‘I’ll go now,’ Hannah said firmly, before her nerve failed. ‘Get it over with.’

  If the coming meeting with Mr Edmund hadn’t been so nerve-racking, Hannah would have enjoyed the walk up the hill, through the village and into the grounds of the Manor. It was a hot, still day with only the sound of birdsong and the distant weir to disturb the peace.

  Edmund was in his bedroom, sitting near the window so that he could look out, down the river valley. As she approached him, Hannah could see that the upper part of the mill was plainly visible. He was slouched to one side of his cha
ir, a rug over his knee. The left side of his face was drawn down, giving him a lopsided appearance. But he recognized her at once, for he began to splutter. He raised his right arm and, with a trembling hand, waved her away, making strange, unintelligible sounds. Saliva dribbled from the side of his mouth.

  He was a pitiful sight, yet Hannah hardened her heart. He’d been a cruel, ruthless man and even now, when he was helpless, he was still trying to turn her away.

  Ignoring his feeble protests, she sat down in a chair opposite him.

  ‘Adam’s gone,’ she said bluntly, sparing him nothing. ‘You’ve driven him away.’

  He made a noise and prodded his forefinger at her.

  ‘Yes, I’ve no doubt you blame me. And you’re right. I have much to answer for.’ Another grunt from Edmund, but Hannah went on. She leaned towards him. ‘But it’s me you should have sent away – not Adam. You could have done. You were good at it once. Remember Nell Hudson?’

  He dropped his gaze and let his hand fall back into his lap.

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘I see that you do.’ She paused and then added softly, ‘I wonder just how many bastards you’ve sired.’

  Now Edmund brought forth a growl of anger, but Hannah only laughed. ‘You probably don’t even know how many might come banging on your door one day to demand a share of their birthright.’

  ‘Huh!’

  ‘They’d get short shrift from you, I’ve no doubt. But Adam is your legitimate heir – and I am his wife and I intend to keep the mill running until he comes back to claim his rightful inheritance.’

  Edmund shook his head and made angry noises, but Hannah went on, relentlessly, ‘And here’s something else for you to think about. I am carrying his child – his legitimate child – and your grandchild.’

  With a great effort, Edmund reached out towards the small table placed beside him. A glass of water stood there and, thinking he wanted a drink, Hannah half rose from her chair to help him. But Edmund grasped the glass with his one good hand, picked it up and flung it at her. It struck her on the left-hand side of her forehead, just below her hairline, leaving an inch-long cut and spilling the water down her blouse and skirt. The glass fell to the floor and smashed as blood began to trickle down Hannah’s face.