‘Thank you.’ She smiled.
‘Roper – comes. Tells me – what’s happening.’
‘Yes, I know. I arranged that he should come up every week, show you the books and keep you informed.’
He nodded. ‘Thank you – Hannah.’
They stared at each other and between them there passed a kind of truce. As she left the house, Hannah kissed her baby’s forehead and murmured, ‘You’re a little miracle worker, my darling little Eddie, that’s what you are.’
Life settled down to a comfortable routine. Hannah recovered quickly from the birth of her child; she was young and strong and healthy. Sarah came as her housemaid for a few weeks, but when Hannah told her she could return to the Manor, the girl burst into tears. ‘I don’t want to go back there. Cook’s a tartar and Beamish, the butler, he’s never a kind word for anyone. And if I have to see the master, I shake from head to foot. Oh, madam, can’t I stay here? I’ll look after little Eddie. I love little ones and . . . and I am good with him, aren’t I, madam?’
‘You are,’ Hannah agreed. She’d left the child in Sarah’s care a few times whilst she went to the mill. She was quite happy that he was in safe hands.
Hannah was thoughtful. It would be a boon to have the girl work for her permanently. It would enable Hannah to resume her place at the mill. Since Eddie’s birth, Josiah Roper had come to the house every Friday afternoon on his way back from his visit to the Manor, to lay his books before her and report on the week’s activities at the mill. Ernest Scarsfield, too, came often, but he did not visit Mr Edmund.
‘I’ll leave that to old Roper, if you don’t mind, Hannah. He’s Mr Edmund’s right-hand man.’ He chuckled wickedly. ‘I could think of other names to call him, but I won’t be vulgar. Not in front of the little chap.’
Hannah laughed. ‘I don’t think he’s quite ready to pick up bad language yet, Ernest.’
Ernest moved to the crib and tickled Eddie under the chin. ‘By, he’s like Master Adam, Hannah. Spitting image of him at the same age, he is. I remember his mother bringing him to the mill when he wasn’t much older than this little feller.’
‘Ernest – what happened to Adam’s mother?’
‘She died. About two years after Adam was born, I think it was. In childbirth. Little girl, but the poor little mite died too. Nice woman she was.’ He glanced at Hannah. ‘Too good for the likes of Edmund Critchlow,’ he added in a low voice.
‘He’s changed. This illness seems to have – I don’t know, what’s the word? – cowed him.’
‘Huh!’ Ernest gave a wry laugh. ‘Don’t you believe it, lass. That one’ll never change. Oh, he might not be able to shout and storm about the place like he used to.’ His face was grim as he added, ‘At least the girls at the mill are getting a bit of peace just now, but mark me, Hannah, he’ll not have changed. Not in here, he won’t.’ He smote his own chest.
‘But he seems to have taken to Eddie. He’s quite upset if I miss a day taking him up there.’
‘Oh aye, he will be. Eddie’s his grandson. His eventual heir. He’ll want him all right. And whilst the child’s very young, he’ll need you. But you watch out, Hannah. If ever he regains his health and strength, he’ll be just like he always was. He’ll want the child – oh yes, he’ll want the child. But as for you – well, like I say Hannah, watch out.’
After Ernest had left, Hannah was thoughtful. She had thought that Edmund had mellowed, but like Ernest said, it could just be the debilitating illness that had curbed his ways. But he was recovering now. Hannah could see improvement almost daily.
And once Edmund Critchlow got his strength back, well, who knew what might happen then?
‘Looks like he really has deserted you, then? That husband of yours?’ Daniel was waiting to waylay her in the yard as she left the mill one evening, hurrying home to her baby.
‘So it seems,’ she said tartly.
‘Luke wouldn’t have done that.’ He stood in front of her, barring her way. She was not afraid of him – not physically – but every time she met him, she was reminded so sharply of Luke.
She swallowed hard, gritted her teeth and said, almost haughtily, ‘If you’ll excuse me, I have a baby to feed.’
‘Oh yes, your son.’ His face darkened. ‘The child that should’ve been my nephew.’
She lifted her head and met his resentful eyes. ‘Yes, Daniel,’ she said, softening. ‘He should’ve been. He should’ve been Luke’s child. And I promise you, he would have been if . . . if . . .’
‘If your husband’s father hadn’t killed him.’
‘Oh, Daniel. Let the past go. Don’t live your life with bitterness.’
‘I’ll never forgive and I’ll never forget. And I thought better of you. I admired you, the way you were planning revenge on the Critchlows, but now, you’re giving in to them.’ His lip curled. ‘Just like everyone else. Well, I won’t. The only reason I’ve stayed here all these years is because of Luke. I can’t leave him. He won’t rest until he’s been avenged.’
Suddenly, there was a strange look of madness in his eyes as he vowed never to forgive and forget. Hannah shuddered. They were the same words that Josiah Roper had used. They made a good pair, she thought.
‘I must go,’ she muttered, side-stepped around him and hurried away. But the conversation had left her feeling unsettled and strangely afraid.
Hannah did not forget either Ernest’s dire warnings nor Daniel’s continuing resentment, but there was one person who, surprisingly, did seem to have changed. Josiah Roper was in his element. It was what he’d always dreamed of: holding a position of authority, his talents recognized at last. He, in turn, was courteous and mindful of Hannah’s position, silently grateful to her that she was treating him with the credit he believed he deserved. And between Josiah and Ernest, who’d always disliked each other, there grew a mutual respect.
One Friday afternoon in March when they met in the inner office, both Josiah and Ernest entered to greet Hannah with glum faces.
‘What is it?’ she said at once. ‘What’s happened?’
They sat down and glanced at each other solemnly. ‘Things are getting worse, Hannah,’ Josiah began. ‘As you know I was in Manchester yesterday. They say that the mills there are on short time.’
‘Several have had to close,’ Ernest put in, ‘and workers are seeking public relief.’
‘We’ve been lucky until now. We had a fair stock of raw cotton, but that’s running low now and the price is rocketing,’ Josiah went on. ‘Since last October the brokers have been demanding one shilling and more a pound for the type we used to buy for eight pence. And prices are still rising. We can’t absorb all of it and still make a profit.’
‘Profit be hanged, Mr Roper. All we need to do is break even.’
Josiah raised his eyebrows and smirked, but Ernest laughed out loud. ‘Well said, Hannah. Well said.’
‘Mr Edmund won’t like that.’
‘Mr Edmund will have to lump it, if we’re to save the mill,’ Hannah said, grimly determined.
‘We could ask the workers to take a cut in wages,’ Josiah suggested, but Ernest snorted derisively.
‘You’ll have a strike on your hands if you do.’
‘Was there any cotton to be had?’ Hannah asked. ‘What about Indian cotton?’
Josiah shrugged. ‘Some, but only very inferior quality to what we normally use and the price of that has risen too.’
‘But these aren’t normal times,’ Hannah said, trying to hold on to her patience. It seemed as if Josiah was loath to accept change. But change there would have to be if they were to survive. She turned to Ernest. ‘Could we use inferior cotton?’
‘We’ll have to.’
Hannah smiled. At least Ernest was of the same mind as she was.
By April, Wyedale Mill had only very poor quality yarn to work with and the quantity Josiah could acquire for an acceptable price was not enough to keep the whole mill running. There was no alternative but to
put the workers on short time.
Hannah called a meeting of all the workers. The warm, balmy evening mocked the grim faces. Some of the women were in tears. It was no more than Hannah had expected. The news from the cities and the mills in Lancashire was desperate. Families were facing starvation. They had burned every stick of furniture they had in an effort to keep warm. New-born babies were dying for lack of nourishment and children cried for food. And soon such hardship would reach Wyedale Mill.
Earlier in the day she’d walked down the lane to the Grundys’ farm. Sitting in Lily Grundy’s warm kitchen and sipping hot tea gratefully, she said, ‘This is what I’m going to miss the most. Tea.’
‘Bad as that, is it, lass?’
Ollie and Lily sat opposite, their solemn faces turned towards her, as Hannah nodded. ‘I’m afraid it is and it’s going to get worse. I’ve called all the workers together for a meeting tonight at the mill. We’re going to have to put them on short time, even lay a few off. I thought I should come and tell you, because it’ll likely affect you. You’ve always supplied the village folk and . . .’
She saw Ollie and Lily glance at each other. Then Ollie cleared his throat. ‘Look, lass, me an’ the missis’ve been talking things over. The mill and the villagers’ve given us our living for years. And a good living it’s been too. Oh, it’s not easy, farming. It’s hard work and –’ he smiled a little – ‘not many days off in a year, I can tell you. But it’s a good life, a satisfying life. And now, we want to give a bit back.’
Hannah glanced from one to the other. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Well,’ Ollie began, ‘for a start I can take some of the fellers on to work on the land. If they’re willing to do a few hours each, it’d help several families, wouldn’t it. What I mean is, rather than take on one or two full time, they could sort of – sort of share the jobs out.’
‘But do you need any more help? You and Ted have always managed.’
Ollie laughed. ‘Mebbe we have, but that doesn’t mean we wouldn’t be glad of a bit more help.’
Tears sprang to Hannah’s eyes. Ollie, Lily – and Ted must be in on it too – were creating jobs for the out-of-work millhands.
‘With more help,’ Ollie went on, ‘we can grow more food for everyone.’
Hannah reached out and clasped their hands as the tears now flooded down her face unchecked. ‘Oh, how good you are.’
Now, as Hannah stood on a box before a sea of worried faces, with Josiah and Ernest on either side of her, she began to explain the situation. ‘We’re all in this together.’
‘You mean we’ll all be in the workhouse together,’ a voice from the back cried out.
Anger flashed in Hannah’s blue eyes and she shook her fist in the air. ‘Don’t let anyone mention the word “workhouse” in my hearing. No one – no one – from this village will ever go into the workhouse.’
There was muttering amongst the crowd and shaking of heads. They couldn’t believe her, however much they wanted to.
One of the men, Bill Ryan, who’d worked at the mill all his life pushed his way to the front to stand before her. He was tall, broad shouldered and strong. With a note of deference, he pulled off his cap, but he still addressed her as ‘Hannah’. Now, they all knew exactly who she was, and whilst they were always courteous towards her, she herself had insisted that everyone should call her by the name they always had. She didn’t want to be called ‘Mrs Critchlow’.
‘Hannah,’ Bill began, ‘we all know that you – and Mr Roper and Ernest here – have kept us going so far and we’re grateful. And we also ’preciate you always being honest with us.’ A low murmuring confirmed his words, ‘But times is hard and they’re going to get worse. Whole families work at the mill – you know that. Most of us have no other income except what we earn here, and soon we’ll not have bread to feed our wives and families.’ The proud man glanced around at his workmates and friends. ‘And we’re not going to sit idle about the house watching our families starve. If you’ve got to put us on short time or reduce our wages, then . . . then we’ll have to look for other work or go on the parish, lass. I’m sorry, but there it is. And we can’t even afford the penny a week for the doc no more.’
Hannah nodded. ‘I know and I understand, but first, let me tell you what we have planned. For one thing, Dr Barnes has agreed to keep coming even if he doesn’t get paid. “We must all pull together,” he said.’
There was another murmuring, louder this time, at the doctor’s kind sacrifice.
Hannah went on, raising her voice to be heard. ‘I’m going to open up the schoolroom again. We’ll start reading classes and—’
Before she could say more, a shout came from the back and a fist was raised in the air. ‘That won’t put food in our bellies. Reading! Pah!’
‘And,’ Hannah went on as if uninterrupted, ‘there are to be sewing classes and shoemaking.’
The murmuring grew to excited chatter. Now they could begin to see the usefulness of the idea. Hannah stamped on the box for quiet. ‘The Grundys at the farm are willing to take on hands to work on the land to help grow more food for all of us. And some of you might be able to find work on the hillside.’
The workings that Hannah had seen were for a railway that was to run through the dale all the way to Buxton. When she’d heard about it, Hannah had thought wryly, It’s come a few years too late for me. If there’d been a train then, Josiah might not have caught me. Work on the track had been going on for months and it was rumoured that the line was due to open in the summer. At her suggestion, she saw several men turn to one another and nod their heads.
‘And,’ she went on, and now she was smiling broadly for she knew her last piece of news would be the best of all, ‘whilst we are facing such difficulties, none of you will pay a penny in rent.’
A gasp of surprise rippled through the throng and Hannah heard Bill Ryan’s deep laughter. ‘I dare bet Mr Edmund hasn’t approved that, Hannah.’
She smiled down at him. ‘No, Mr Ryan, he hasn’t, but we three have.’
She dared not look down at Josiah, for she knew he would be frowning. He hadn’t agreed to the scheme, but he’d been overruled by herself and Ernest.
‘We all have to make sacrifices,’ Hannah had told him determinedly. ‘Even the Critchlows.’
‘I daren’t think what Mr Edmund will say,’ Josiah had muttered, but then a sly smile had appeared on his face that, for the moment, Hannah hadn’t understood.
Forty-Nine
Late that evening, as Hannah was settling Eddie down for the night, she heard a knock at the back door.
‘Sarah, see who that is, will you?’ she called. ‘There, there, my little man,’ she crooned, her attention returning to her son. Distantly, she heard voices and then Sarah’s footsteps running up the stairs.
‘Oh, ma’am.’ Her eyes were shining. ‘They’re back, they’ve come back.’
For a moment, Hannah’s heart lurched with hope. Adam! He’d come home. But then she realized that the girl had said ‘they’ not ‘he’. Her heart plummeted.
Levelly, she asked, ‘Who is it, Sarah?’
‘The Bramwells, ma’am. They’ve come home. You go down, ma’am, I’ll stay with master Eddie.’
Hannah picked up her skirts and hurried downstairs and into the kitchen. They were standing awkwardly just inside the doorway, each carrying a bundle of belongings. Hannah gasped and covered her mouth with her hand, staring at them with wide eyes.
If Sarah hadn’t told her who it was, Hannah doubted she would have recognized them. Although she hadn’t seen them for several years, she was shocked by the change in them. Arthur was thinner and stooped. He looked an old man, his grey hair straggling almost to his shoulders, unkempt and unwashed. A grizzled, untidy beard covered the lower part of his face and his eyes were desperate. But it was the change in Ethel Bramwell that shocked Hannah the most. She was thin and gaunt, her cheeks hollowed, her skin sallow. Her eyes, sunk into dark shadows, were life
less and defeated. Her shabby clothes were little more than filthy rags. To see the once neat and particular woman reduced to such poverty tore at Hannah’s heart.
A sob escaped Hannah’s throat as she stretched out her arms and rushed across the room to them, trying to embrace them both at once. ‘Oh, Mrs Bramwell, Mr Bramwell. Come in, come in, do. Sit down. Here, let me take your things. Sarah,’ the girl had followed her downstairs and was standing near the door, eyes wide with curiosity, ‘Sarah make tea for us all.’
‘Tea, ma’am?’ Sarah hesitated. Tea was an even more precious commodity in these hard times. ‘Yes, yes, tea. You, too. We shall all have a cup to celebrate Mr and Mrs Bramwell’s return. Oh, how good it is to see you both. Come and sit down by the fire.’ She urged them to sit close to the warmth, deeply anxious. They looked ill, both of them, but old habits die hard and she couldn’t bring herself – not yet – to fire at them the questions that were whirling around her mind. To her, they were still Mr and Mrs Bramwell, superintendents of the apprentice house.
As they sat together, sipping the tea, Hannah began tentatively, willing them to tell her themselves how they came to be in such straitened circumstances.
‘I heard you’d gone to Manchester after leaving here. Mrs Grundy told me.’
She saw them glance at each other, an awkward, embarrassed glance. Arthur cleared his throat. ‘It’s . . . it’s because of Lily Grundy that . . . that we’ve dared to come back.’
Hannah raised her eyebrows. ‘Dared?’ She was surprised by his choice of word. Then her face cleared, thinking she understood. ‘Oh, there’s nothing to fear from Mr Edmund, he’s . . .’ She stopped. Arthur was shaking his head.
‘It’s not him. It’s, well, you can see for yourself how we are.’ He gestured sadly towards his wife and himself and his voice broke as he said, ‘Little more than beggars, Hannah.’
With shaking hands, Ethel placed her cup down and took up their sorry tale. ‘Mr Edmund dismissed us when he stopped taking the apprentices. There were only a few with their indentures still running and he found lodgings for them in the village. Said there was no longer any need for the expense of the apprentice house. We begged to be allowed to stay, to turn it into a lodging house, that we could run and pay him rent. But no, he wanted us out, Hannah. Said we’d been a thorn in his side for years with our soft ways towards the children.’ She faltered, her eyes filling with tears.
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