by Liz Trenow
Each time I entered the room it was like running the gauntlet, doing my best to remain calm and polite while trying to avoid the hands reaching for my chest, my thighs or my backside. When he missed, he’d just laugh. It was a sport for him, a battle of wits. ‘You’re such a little tease, Charlotte,’ he’d slur. ‘But I’ll get you one day, mark my word.’ Once or twice he actually caught me but he was so clumsy with drink that I managed to slip away, although my uniform was ripped and I had to stay up half the night trying to mend it by candlelight.
He might have considered it a game, but for me it became a struggle for survival. I went to Mrs B. for advice, but she chided me as though it were my fault for encouraging him. ‘Once he’s married and she becomes mistress of this house, he’ll have to think twice about his carrying on,’ she said. ‘But in the meantime it is your responsibility to avoid him. There’s nothing I can do to protect you, so you’ll have to look after yourself. Never approach too close, never catch his eye, lock your door at night. And never even think of complaining to madam, or you’ll be out of this house in an instant. He’s the apple of her eye.’
For a few weeks I tried to follow her advice, until Boxing Day, when all the staff went out to welcome the hunt. Even cook had gone, taking pastries to the gathering crowds. Believing I had the house to myself, I went into the pantry for a piece of bread and cheese – it was hours since my breakfast and would be several more before luncheon. I was starving.
I heard the clump of boots on the servants’ stairs and quickly pulled the pantry door behind me. The footsteps passed and I allowed myself to breathe again. They seemed to be heading for the cellar, but soon returned, closer and closer. As the pantry door was flung open, it was all I could do not to cry out. Tobias was clutching a bottle of brandy.
‘You!’ His face was bright with triumph. ‘You’re not stealing food, are you, pretty miss?’ I cringed against the shelves until my back felt bruised.
‘No, I am allowed . . .’ I began, but of course his mind was already set.
‘So, I found a little tart in the pantry.’ He smirked, pleased with his own humour. ‘And I declare that I am so hungry that I shall eat you up.’ He held his arm tight around me, pulled me close and covered my face with his disgusting wet lips. The other hand was ripping at my skirt as he hitched me up onto the shelf, forcing my legs apart. The crocks fell to the floor around us, and even in my terror I found myself wondering how to explain to the breakages to cook.
Even the worst of my childhood beatings had never caused such intense pain. I must have cried out, but his hand covered my mouth and anyway there was no one nearby to hear. It was over in an instant: he snorted like a pig and then pulled away, panting as he re-buttoned himself and reset his wig.
‘Hah! What a delicious little tart,’ he crowed. ‘I shall take another bite whenever it pleases me. If you ever breathe a word I shall tell cook how I caught you stealing from her pantry. And you know what that means.’
He grabbed his brandy and left.
I hobbled to my room and did my best to wash as well as I could with the water left over from the morning and the sliver of soap we were allowed once it was worn too small for the mistress. But however much I scrubbed I felt dirty, inside and out. I was sick in the bowl more than once.
The other servants were returning from the hunt reception, and the house filled with sounds once more. There was a knock at my door, and Mrs B.’s voice: ‘Wherever have you been, Charlotte? Hasten yourself. You have chores.’
The days passed, somehow. When Tobias went away for a few weeks I breathed easily once more. For whole hours at a time I managed to forget. But when he returned I knew at once from the glint in his eye that he had not forgotten. Sure enough, late one night there was a knock on my door. Before I could answer the handle was already turning. I had locked it, of course, but he hissed: ‘Open up, missy, or I’ll break down the door. And you know what Mrs B. does to thieves.’
I had no option. He was just as brusque this time but it wasn’t so painful, and I managed not to cry out. ‘I think you’re beginning to enjoy it, you little hussy,’ he said afterwards, with a greasy smile. ‘Which is just as well, for I plan to have you as often as I like, now I know where to find you. Bon soir, ma petite.’
These days I often use French terms, since this is the language of the silk weavers and of their craft, and is often applied in fashion. But even now, the memory it evokes can sometimes make me shudder. When Tobias affected the French, I suppose because to his ears it sounded romantic, it left me feeling bleaker than ever. I was desperate. Once, on a dreary February morning, after a night when Tobias had demanded that he must have me twice, and took his time about it, I even considered walking to the lake and drowning myself.
He had me trapped, like a fly in a spider’s web.
6
Polonaise: an overskirt hitched up by interior or exterior loops, buttons or tassels to create swags of fabric at the sides or back of the dress, often worn with ankle-length petticoats and high-heeled walking shoes.
Anna listened in attentive silence. I’d summarised, of course. Even the best of friends should not have to bear the more intimate details.
‘My poor, poor darling. I would run that brute through if I ever got hold of him. Why didn’t you tell someone?’
‘He would have reported me for theft, and what was my word against his? I’d have been sacked without a reference and little chance of finding another position. I could have ended up on the streets.’
‘Could you not have turned to Louisa for help?’
‘The thing is . . .’ How could I explain the complicated turn of events that had led to the discovery of my sister? ‘At that time, she had not even found me.’
‘Found you? Whatever do you mean, dearest?’
‘We did not know of each other’s existence.’
‘How on earth . . .?’
‘It’s a long story, Anna. Have you got time to hear it?’
‘I have all the time in the world, dearest. So how old were you when you found your sister?’
‘Sixteen. To the very day.’
It was my birthday, and Mrs Hogarth arrived at the Manor asking to speak to me. My joy was beyond bounds. She usually wrote to me on my birthday, but I had not seen her since leaving London. To behold that dear face again, that gentle, affectionate smile, was a salve to my poor misused soul – it was all I could do to stop myself weeping with happiness.
Jane Hogarth is the most motherly woman in the world; it seems so sad that she and William were never blessed with a family of their own.
Their story was the most romantic I had ever heard: they fell in love at first sight, and married in defiance of her parents’ wishes. Her father was the eminent painter Sir James Thornhill and did not approve of the young printmaker yet to make his mark on the art world. Of course the rift was soon healed; only a fool could fail to see how talented William was, and how much he adored Jane.
Although she never spoke of it, I am sure that their inability to have their own children was what led to William taking to his heart the work of the Foundling Hospital. He agreed to become a governor and busied himself with organising exhibitions of paintings to raise money, and Jane was involved in her own way, volunteering to inspect the foster homes where babies were placed in their early years and even fostering a few of them in her own home.
I first met her when we were being prepared for a life ‘in service’ and she came to the Hospital to give us a talk about how we should comport ourselves in a grand house: instructing us to be obedient at all times, hold our tongues and express no opinion, to choose our friends and allies carefully, and always to work to the best of our abilities.
Her advice stayed with me and stood me in good stead, in the main, but what she did not include was how to fend off the likes of Tobias. I have never told her of the ill that befell me at his hands, for the events of those few months still fill me with shame.
After her talk we Hospital
girls handed around tea and biscuits to the assembled governors. As I passed, she detained me. ‘I watched your bright eyes as you listened, young lady,’ she said. ‘I am sure with your intelligence and enthusiasm you will make a very successful life for yourself.’
‘Thank you, ma’am.’ I curtsied as we had been taught, but as I did so a couple of biscuits slipped to the floor. She took the plate and placed it on the table, then leaned and picked up the broken pieces, deftly slipping them into the pocket of my tunic. ‘Share them with your friends later,’ she whispered, putting her finger to her lips. My mouth watered – we were always hungry.
‘Now, Miss Bright Eyes, what activities do you enjoy the most?’
‘Needlework, ma’am. And singing in the choir.’
‘Singing will never make you a living, but needlework most certainly could, if you are really determined and dedicated,’ she said. ‘My husband’s sister Ann is a fine example: she even has her own shop.’
A woman, owning a shop? The idea was unimaginable.
‘I will take you there one day,’ she said. ‘Would you like that?’
The suggestion was astounding, beyond my wildest dreams. ‘I would like that very much, ma’am,’ I stuttered.
‘Then that’s a promise. Tell me your name, child.’
‘Charlotte Amesbury,’ I said.
‘Charlotte. I shall remember that name.’ She winked and gave me back the empty plate. ‘Now you had better get back to your duties before matron catches us.’
And now here she was, having travelled all the way from London to Gloucestershire to wish me happy birthday. Mrs B. allowed us her office and, on learning how far Mrs Hogarth had come, sent a pot of tea and two large slices of her best poppy seed cake.
‘They seem very nice here,’ Jane said.
‘I am content,’ I said, guarding my words. ‘The Major and his wife are most kind, and she appreciates my sewing skills, which is flattering.’ It was on the tip of my tongue to say more, to beg her to rescue me from the nightmare in which I found myself. But before I could speak further she pulled an envelope from her pocket, and passed it to me. I assumed it to be her usual birthday missive, a note which sometimes contained a small financial gift, but this one was not in her writing.
‘I bring the most remarkable news, Charlotte,’ she said. ‘But take your time. Read it carefully.’
The letter was written on heavy vellum in a careful yet slightly unsteady hand, as though by someone for whom writing was a skill recently learned. But in my excitement I didn’t notice this at the time. It was addressed to the Foundling Hospital.
Dear Sirs,
My husband, the Reverend Ambrose Fairchild, and I are seeking information about a child deposited with you nearly sixteen years ago, recorded name of Agnes Potton, whom I believe to be my sister. Only recently have we learned of the child’s existence and how through unfortunate circumstances our mother was forced to give her up.
I pray you will be able to help us find out what happened to her. We are of good standing in society and have the means to welcome the girl into our family if, God willing, she has survived.
Yours &c.
Louisa Fairchild
The Vicarage, Westford Abbots, Essex
I looked up into Mrs Hogarth’s expectant eyes. ‘But what has this to do with me?’
She smiled like a magician about to reveal a posy of flowers, or a rabbit, from a hat. ‘Because, my dearest girl, you are that baby, Agnes Potton.’
‘But my name is Charlotte Amesbury.’ I shook my head, confused.
‘That is the name given to you by the Hospital, Charlotte. It is their policy to give each child a new identity, a new start. I have been shown the records and have seen with my own eyes, in black and white, and there is no doubt in my mind that you are indeed that same girl, Agnes Potton.’
Still I struggled to comprehend. ‘You mean . . . I am not Charlotte Amesbury?’
Her voice was kind and low. ‘You are of course still our dear Charlotte and always will be, if that is what you choose. But your birth name was Agnes Potton, and this is important, because it means that you have a sister, Louisa Fairchild, who has been looking for you and would like to meet you. Read her letter again: she is offering to take you into her family, if that is what you would like.’
The words swam before my eyes, but their meaning slowly began to sink in, like blessed rainfall softening a crust of parched earth. A sister? A sister who lived in Essex. I had no idea where that was, but it scarcely mattered: after all these years of believing myself to be entirely alone in the world, I now had a family.
Blissful visions tiptoed into my mind: the pretty young wife of an upright, honest clergyman, living in a clean, ordered vicarage in a charming village, doing good works and earning the respect of the community. Perhaps they even had children of their own, this couple, who would be my little nieces and nephews. I had a sudden, urgent need to know these people, to prove they were not just a mirage. ‘Can I meet them?’
‘I recommend that you write to Mrs Fairchild at once, telling her about yourself. You can broach the question of whether she would like to visit you, or for you to visit her. I have no doubt that she will invite you at once,’ Mrs Hogarth said. ‘You have their address, and as your birthday present I am going to give you the fare for the stagecoach.’ She produced another envelope and pressed it into my hands.
‘How far is Essex?’
‘A long way from here,’ she said. ‘You will need to go via London, which is two days, and take a new coach the following day. Westford Abbots is probably just half a day from London.’
‘Three days just to get there? It is impossible. I cannot take more than a day’s leave at one time.’
‘Nothing is impossible, dear heart.’ I longed to throw myself into Jane Hogarth’s arms, to press my cheek against that comfortable, well-upholstered breast. She had been the closest thing to a mother for me but her physical affections were always a little constrained, as though she was being careful to avoid too much intimacy, for fear, I suppose, that I might become overly dependent.
But now I had a sister. A real sister. My mind scampered ahead, allowing myself to imagine that, in time, I might discover my real mother too.
Jane stood up, smoothing her skirt. ‘I shall go immediately to visit your mistress, and I will inform her that this is a matter of such importance that she must give you at least two weeks’ leave,’ she said. ‘I shall use my greatest powers of persuasion. You shall meet your new family within the month, that I promise.’
7
Pinner: a type of hair covering for women consisting of a decorative piece of fabric pinned to the top of the head with a ruffle around the sides and front and sometimes with lappets.
I left the Manor on a windy day in late June. Clouds scudded across the sky like galloping horses urging me onwards at the greatest possible speed towards my new family.
Louisa’s reply had arrived promptly.
Dearest sister, (the word caused my heart to turn several somersaults)
It was with great excitement that we received your letter. God has truly blessed us that we have been able to find you, and that you are alive and well. I am consumed with impatience to meet you, to welcome you to our house and into our family. Please come as soon as you are able, and stay as long as you wish. I enclose two pounds to cover the cost of your fare. Just send us a quick note to give us your date of travel.
In joy and love
Your sister, Louisa Fairchild
By the time we reached Westford Abbots I was almost delirious with exhaustion and hunger, having endured three long days of being jolted around in the coach and two nights in dirty, noisy staging inns. I paid only for basic accommodation, which meant slops for dinner and a bed in a room with half a dozen others. When I alighted from the carriage and saw walking down the street towards me a woman who could have been my double, I thought it must be a hallucination.
We gazed at each other in mutual
astonishment and delight. There was no doubt that we were sisters. How could we not be, being so alike, with only the subtle difference of a few additional years? Her modest height and slight figure were just as my own, she had my straight brown hair, chestnut eyes sparkling beneath an arch of dark eyebrow, a heart-shaped face with a button nose, strong chin and a shy smile. It was like looking at myself. In an instant her arms were around me, and it felt as though there had never been a time when I had not known this embrace.
Throughout that day, and the days that followed, we delighted in discovering small things which only served to strengthen that conviction: we both loved cheese, rhubarb, gooseberries and plum pudding. She would bite her lip when thinking, as I did. She brushed her hair back from her forehead with the same movement as my own. Her forehead crinkled in two little vertical frown lines between her eyebrows, just like mine.
Her husband, the reverend, declared that he could not tell, from another room, whether it was she or I speaking, for we had the same tone and the same inflections. He did not appear amused at our likeness – indeed for much of the time I felt as though he considered me something of an inconvenience, an interruption to his daily life.
For all that, I could never have imagined that being a sister could bring such infinite pleasure.
She insisted on calling me Agnes but I quickly grew used to it, feeling myself to be in very heaven, delighted by the space, the peace, the freedom and the plentiful food at the vicarage. For the very first time in my life I had a room of my very own, at the front of the house, and was told that it could be mine for as long as I wished.
While my gown and petticoat were being laundered Louisa allowed me to borrow some of her clothes. We were perfectly the same size, and as I twirled before the looking glass in her chamber I had the first vision of myself as a proper young lady and not just a servant girl, a taste of what I hoped to become in the future. She lent me books, although I was entirely unaccustomed to the notion of having all the time in the world to read without being interrupted by someone else’s demands. There was never any need to worry about the candle-end burning out. In this well-provided house there was always another, laid beside the stick.
