Hannah nodded. ‘Talking of their health, would you be prepared to come to the mill again? Like you did before?’
‘Gladly.’ Dr Barnes smiled. ‘By the way, it’s rumoured that the war in America is coming to an end.’
Hannah clasped her hands together. ‘Oh, is it true? Is it really true?’
‘I think so,’ he began, but as he opened the door for her and they moved into the hall, the butler was opening the front door to two men.
‘Is the doctor here?’ One began, but then, catching sight of Dr Barnes, he pulled his cap off. ‘Ah, there you are, Doctor. Can you come? There’s been a terrible accident on the railway track. Some poor devil got hit by a train. It’s a nasty mess, Doctor.’
‘He’s dead?’
‘Oh aye. It must have hit him a glancing blow and knocked him flying. He wouldn’t’ve known much about it. I shouldn’t think the train driver even realized he’d hit anything. He didn’t stop.’
‘Did you find the body?’
‘Yeah. We work on the line, see?’
‘I’ll come at once. Have you called the police?’
The two men looked at each other. ‘No – we didn’t think of that.’
‘Then could one of you go and find Constable Jacques and ask him to meet me up there?’
‘We found these scattered around him.’ The man held out a ledger and a wad of paper money.
‘You really ought to have left it for the police,’ Dr Barnes murmured.
‘We never thought of that, sir, I have to admit. But it was blowing all over the place. We thought we ought to pick it up.’
Hannah gasped and moved forward. ‘That’s a fortune.’ She glanced at the two railway workers. They’d been very honest in handing over the money.
‘We couldn’t think why anyone should be carrying all that, but we thought – well . . .’ The two men glanced at each other. ‘We thought he might have family that’d be glad of it.’
Hannah’s glance was now on the book they were holding out. ‘That . . . that looks like one of our ledgers.’ She took it and opened it up.
The lines of figures, all in Josiah Roper’s neat handwriting, danced before her eyes. ‘Oh,’ she gasped and swayed a little.
‘And we found this too.’ Now one of the men held out a smaller item. ‘Maybe it’s his.’
Hannah’s hand trembled as she reached out to take the battered wallet the man held. She opened it up, and in a flat voice said, ‘It’s Josiah Roper’s.’
As Hannah had predicted, the mill was running again in under a week, though the supply of cotton – any cotton – was spasmodic. Once they knew that their jobs were safe for the foreseeable future and that Hannah and Ernest Scarsfield were once more in charge, all the workforce had worked around the clock to clean up the damage and get the huge water-wheel turning and the machinery running again.
There was only one mystery that remained: what had Josiah Roper been doing on the railway track with a large amount of cash and a bag containing clothing and personal belongings? Hannah, seated once more behind Edmund’s desk, puzzled over the ledger.
‘I don’t understand it, Ernest. It’s just a list of dates and figures. It starts years ago and it’s all small amounts. Sometimes just a few shillings, even pence. I can’t think what it can be.’
Ernest moved around the desk to stand beside her.
‘That first date – there . . .’ He pointed. ‘That’s the year he started here. I remember it, because he came just a month or two after I did.’
‘Really?’ Hannah turned page after page noting how the figures mounted up in the running total column. She came to the more recent pages. ‘Look, he’s deducted an amount here and here and – Ernest, those dates coincide with when he went abroad. I know they do, because he was away just before I had Eddie and . . . and I was worried he might not be back in time.’
Ernest leaned on the desk. ‘You know what,Hannah, I reckon he’s been thieving from the Critchlows all these years – stashing it away. And then, when he got the chance, he’s taken it abroad. I bet somewhere there’s a bank with Roper’s nice little nest egg.’
Hannah gasped. ‘You’re right.’ She remembered Josiah’s reaction when Edmund had put a stop to his trips abroad. ‘And I bet this time he was going for good. Ernest, d’you think he started the fire?’ She’d be relieved to be able to believe it was the embittered clerk. For a few dreadful moments she’d suspected Daniel, though she hadn’t voiced her fears to anyone else.
‘It’s possible. In fact, I’d say it was probable.’ Ernest stroked his moustache thoughtfully. ‘But that’s something we’ll never know. Thank goodness you saw it in time before it got a real hold.’
‘Yes,’ Hannah murmured absently, her mind still on the book in front of her. She could hardly believe the evidence before her, and yet now the little remarks that Josiah had made over the years all seemed to fall into place. His bitterness and resentment against the Critchlows had festered for years and he’d taken revenge, only to have Fate deal him a final blow.
‘I wonder if there’s any way of finding out if he has got a bank account abroad somewhere?’ Ernest murmured.
‘There are some numbers at the back of the ledger. Perhaps there’s a clue there, but it doesn’t make any sense to me. I’m going to hand it all over to the police, Ernest. Let them sort it out – if they can.’
‘Right,’ he said, standing up. ‘Then I’ll be getting on. Oh, by the way, Daniel wants to see you. Shall I tell him to come up?’
Hannah nodded.
A few moments later, Daniel came into the office.
‘Hello.’ Hannah smiled. ‘Are you all right? Have you recovered from the smoke?’
‘Yes, thanks. You?’
‘I’m fine.’
There was an awkward pause before Daniel cleared his throat and the words came tumbling out, as if he had been rehearsing them and now wanted to get them out before he forgot what he wanted to say. ‘Hannah – I’ve been doing a lot of thinking and I . . . I’ve decided to leave. It’s time I put the past behind me. Got on with my own life, but . . . but I can’t do it here. There’s too many memories. Too many ghosts.’
‘What about Luke?’ Hannah asked gently.
Daniel’s chin quivered for a moment then he said hoarsely, ‘I shall go to his grave – say “goodbye”. I think he’ll understand.’
‘I’m sure he will,’ Hannah whispered.
They gazed at each other. ‘Would you . . . mind if I came with you?’ she asked hesitantly, and then added swiftly, ‘Say if you’d rather I didn’t. I’ll understand.’
He smiled. For the first time in years it was a real smile that lit up his eyes. In that instant he looked a young boy again, so like Luke that Hannah’s heart turned over. ‘I’d like you to come.’
‘Sunday then? After the service?’
Daniel nodded.
Fifty-Three
Sunday was frosty but bright, and after the family service in the schoolroom, they walked to the cemetery, Eddie riding piggy-back style on Daniel’s shoulders, and Hannah carrying a small posy of flowers. When they reached Luke’s unmarked grave they stood together looking down at the place where the boy they’d both loved lay. Hannah knelt down and placed the posy on the grave.
‘I’d’ve loved to have put a headstone up, but I couldn’t afford it,’ Daniel murmured. ‘Maybe one day.’
‘Would you . . . let me have one put up, Daniel?’ Hannah asked tentatively, not wanting to destroy the growing understanding between them. ‘If . . . if you tell me what wording you’d like, I’ll see it’s done.’
‘Pay for it with Critchlow money, you mean?’
‘Well – yes, I suppose it would be.’
Daniel was thoughtful for a moment before he nodded slowly and said, ‘I reckon that’s the least they could do.’
They were silent for a few moments before Daniel said haltingly, ‘I’m letting go of it, Hannah. Like you said. Harbouring bitterness all these years, w
ell, I’ve only hurt myself – not the man I wanted to. But I reckon Fate’s taken a hand and done it for me. He’s got his just deserts now.’
‘Yes, Daniel, I think he has.’
‘What about you? Are you staying here? Running the mill?’
She nodded. ‘If I can.’
‘Oh, you can, Hannah. I’ve seen that. It’s as if you were born to do it.’ He ruffled Eddie’s hair. ‘Look after yourself – and him. He’s a grand little chap.’
‘Thank you, Daniel,’ she said huskily, taking her son’s hand.
‘Do you mind if . . . if I just have a few moments alone with . . . with Luke?’
‘Of course not. Shall I see you again before you leave?’
Daniel shook his head. ‘No, I’m off first thing tomorrow morning on the early train.’
‘So . . . so this is goodbye then.’
They stared at each other, and then awkwardly, Daniel bent and kissed her cheek. ‘God be with you, Hannah,’ he whispered. ‘And come and see Luke sometimes for me, won’t you?’
‘Of course I will. And don’t forget to let me have the wording for the headstone. I’ll see it’s done. I promise.’
He nodded now, unable to speak.
She squeezed his hand and turned and walked away. At the gate, she glanced back, but he was kneeling on the ground, his head bowed, bidding his twin a final farewell.
Hannah set off steadily down the hill towards the apprentice house, slowing her walk to the little boy’s pace. She was about to turn into the narrow path that ran behind the houses, when she saw a man standing near the big gate leading into the mill yard. He was tall with dark hair blowing in the wind, and the lower half of his face was covered with a dark, bushy beard. He was half-turned away from her, looking through the gate into the yard, but there was something about the way he was standing, the set of his shoulders . . .
Her heart missed a beat as she continued slowly down the hill towards him, hardly daring to breathe, hardly daring to hope . . .
Eddie pointed at the man, and in his clear, piping voice called, ‘Hello.’
Hearing him, the man turned and looked up towards them. He stared for a moment, then wiped the back of his hand across his forehead, as if shaken by the sight of her. She stopped, her eyes wide, her mouth agape.
‘Adam,’ she whispered. ‘Oh, Adam.’
Slowly, he came towards her until they were standing only a couple of paces apart. His gaze was on her face and he reached out and traced the line of her cheek with his finger.
He’s safe, she was thinking, he’s safe and he has come back. Her thoughts were a prayer of thanks.
‘I thought you . . . I mean,’ his deep voice was husky with emotion, ‘we docked in Liverpool and I heard about the fire – that someone was hurt. I was so afraid that you . . .’ His voice trailed away and his gaze shifted to the child, quiet now, staring in turn at the man who was a stranger to him. With a sad little smile, Adam squatted down in front of his son. His voice shook as he murmured, ‘I should have believed you, Anna. Can you ever forgive me?’
‘There’s nothing to forgive. It’s me who should ask forgiveness . . .’ she began, but his attention was wholly on his son now. The little boy reached out his chubby hand and stroked the man’s beard. It tickled his hand and Eddie chortled with delight.
‘And what’s your name, young man?’
‘Ed-ward,’ the little boy answered with careful deliberation.
Adam nodded and murmured, ‘Edward Critchlow of Wyedale Mill. Yes, it has a good sound to it. And you’re going to make a fine master one day, aren’t you?’
She hardly dared to ask, but she had to know. ‘Are you . . . are you back to stay? Have you come home, Adam?’
He straightened up and held out both his hands to her, palms upwards in supplication. ‘If you’ll both have me . . . ?’
And then she was in his arms and they were kissing and laughing and hugging, with Eddie clutching at their legs and laughing too. There was so much to say and yet there was no need now for anything to be said at all.
Adam was home.
Pauper’s Gold
Born in Gainsborough, Lincolnshire, Margaret Dickinson moved to the coast at the age of seven, and so began her love for the sea and the Lincolnshire landscape.
Her ambition to be a writer started early and she had her first novel published at the age of twenty-five. This was followed by nineteen further titles, including her most recent novel, Wish Me Luck.
Margaret Dickinson is married with two grown-up daughters.
www.margaret-dickinson.co.uk
ALSO BY MARGARET DICKINSON
Plough the Furrow
Sow the Seed
Reap the Harvest
The Miller’s Daughter
Chaff Upon the Wind
The Fisher Lass
The Tulip Girl
The River Folk
Tangled Threads
Twisted Strands
Red Sky in the Morning
Without Sin
Wish Me Luck
For David and Una Dickinson,
my brother and sister-in-law
Acknowledgements
I am very grateful to David and Mavis Holmes for their kind permission for me to use Cressbrook Mill in Derbyshire as the inspiration for part of this story. The former cotton mill has now been beautifully transformed by them into apartments – a far cry from the conditions in which spinners,weavers and apprentices once worked.
Because I never use real people as the basis for the characters in my novels, I always change the names of small towns and villages deliberately. But with larger towns and cities like Macclesfield, a town with a fascinating social history, I like to keep its rightful name. Although I mention the workhouse there, I must stress that the characters and story are entirely fictitious and have no relation whatsoever to any real inmates or staff. Similarly, I have named actual streets and buildings, but have peopled them with my own imaginary characters.
My grateful thanks to Professor Chris Wrigley of the School of History at Nottingham University, who recommended that I should read The Hungry Mills by Norman Longmate (Maurice Temple Smith, 1978). This story of the Lancashire cotton famine, 1861–5, was indeed inspirational. I also consulted several other books and papers in my research, the most noteworthy of which were A History of Macclesfield edited by C. Stella Davies (E. J. Morten, 1976) and Life & Labour in Victorian Macclesfield by George Longden (Neil Richardson, 1986).
Very special thanks to members of my family Helen and Mike Lawton, Carole and Paul Cairns and David and Una Dickinson, who gave generously of their time and knowledge, supplied books, maps and photos, and took me on tours of Macclesfield. Thank you too to the staff of Macclesfield Library, the Silk Industry Museum and West Park Museum for their interest, practical guidance and help. And not forgetting other members of my family and friends who have also read and commented on the script: Robena and Fred Hill, Pauline Griggs and Linda and Terry Allaway. The help and encouragement of all of you means more to me than you can ever know.
First published 2006 by Pan Books
This electronic edition published 2010 by Pan Books
an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited
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ISBN 978-0-330-52767-5 PDF
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Copyright © Margaret Dickinson 2006
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Table of Contents
Cover
Title page
Author biography
Dedication page
Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Pauper's Gold Page 41