The Daughters of Ironbridge

by Mollie Walton

  Anny glanced downwards, struggling to contain her obvious curiosity and managed to utter, ‘Can I be of assistance?’

  ‘I do hope so. My name is Jake Ashford and I am an artist.’

  ‘A what?’ said Anny, before she could stop herself, then cursed her big mouth. Of course she knew what an artist was. Well, she had an inkling. But she had made herself look ignorant, she felt. ‘I should say, an artist? How interesting.’

  Jake Ashford’s face broke into a smile and Anny could not help but smile too. Perhaps she had not made such a fool of herself. ‘Thank you. I have come here to paint the wonders of industry.’

  The what of what? she nearly blurted, but checked herself. What could he want here? ‘I see,’ she said, though she didn’t.

  ‘I wish to paint the developments happening here, in your area, to help show the world how extraordinary it is.’

  ‘Is it? Extraordinary, I mean?’ Anny couldn’t see how her home town could be of interest to anyone. It’s true she was proud of her father and his work, making iron that was shipped across the country, even abroad. But it was hard to see why anyone would want to come and see the processes by which it was made, let alone paint it. It was like painting the swan’s feet and not the swan.

  ‘Oh, yes!’ he enthused. ‘This is the centre of a revolution that is being felt all over the world. It must be recorded for posterity. Other artists have visited areas of industry to record the great rate of change taking place. Painters, poets and writers flock to them.’

  ‘Do they?’ she asked, amazed. Here? Our little town?

  ‘Oh, indeed. The world’s first iron bridge built here was a mighty advertisement to visitors to say, Look, see what we have created here! We come to marvel at the wonders of technology, improving year on year, the rate of change astonishing. And that is why I am here now. I wish to ask permission to visit the King ironworks and its workers and make sketches. I will then turn these into paintings, works of art for all to see the beauty and majesty of what is happening here.’

  Anny was completely wrapped up in his words now. ‘Beauty? What is beautiful about an ironworks? I’ve been around it all my days and never seen much beauty in it.’

  Jake Ashford took a step closer, placed his hat on Anny’s desk and raised his hands in the air. ‘The night sky above the furnace here turns blood red and scarlet, fiery orange and burnt umber. It is spectacular! Have you not seen it?’

  ‘Of course I’ve seen it!’ she cried. ‘I live here! My father works there.’

  ‘He does?’

  ‘Yes, he’s worked at the furnace for years.’

  ‘Can you not see its beauty? The hellish colours? The power of it?’

  Anny pictured it in her mind’s eye and thought about how impressive it was. He was right. She was simply accustomed to it.

  ‘I suppose it is. I cannot, imagine a painting of it though. But I think you could make it beautiful.’

  Her mouth moving faster than her thoughts, as usual. She was really thinking that he was beautiful, all fired up like that; she could almost see the flames reflected in those deep, dark eyes. She looked away and noted again the leather folder he held and wondered if his drawings were in there. She was about to ask to see them when the door behind her opened and out came Mr B and Pritchard, who were talking away until they saw the young man in their midst. Both stopped, and Mr B said, ‘And who’s this? May we help you, young sir?’

  ‘This is Mr Ashford,’ said Anny. ‘He’s here to paint.’

  The older men’s faces were as blank as her own at first. Once it had all been explained, Mr B was soon drawn into Jake’s vision, too. He talked with Jake for some time and Anny listened intently, not able to add much to the conversation but watching Jake Ashford the whole time. Mr B agreed to take him up to the big house to speak with the master.

  ‘I’ll go and see Mrs B afterwards, Anny. You have your lunch in peace, go where you will. Don’t forget to lock up.’

  As Mr B left the office, he held the door open for the artist, who paused before he left. ‘It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss . . . ?’

  ‘Woodvine. But you can call me Anny.’

  ‘And you must call me Jake,’ he said with a smile, and bowed to her, flourishing his hat before him and walking out, the door shut firmly behind him by Mr B.

  Anny did not eat her lunch that day. She had not the stomach for it. She did not even leave the office. She hoped Jake Ashford would return with Mr B. But he did not. She sat at her desk all afternoon, distracted from her beloved work for the first time since Cyril’s unwanted visits. She wondered what Mr King would say to this young artist. Would he be flattered by the attention or see the young man as beneath him? Anny willed him to accept. If Jake were granted permission, he would be about quite a bit. He would paint her father’s workplace and maybe even her father, who knew? Could she show him around? Could she be his guide? What would Father think of this? Her mind was filling with questions. But the uppermost one was this: when would she see Jake Ashford again?

  *

  Whenever Margaret heard people in the house, it was usually either business associates of her father or fatuous friends of her stepmother, and neither were of any interest to her. She found both sets of people intimidating and usually slunk off to her room and stayed there. These days her parents had more or less given up on the idea of her being any sort of social animal and left her alone. She heard the door open that let in business visitors and heard Mr B’s booming voice first. Well aware from Anny’s accounts of how nice Mr B really was, she had no fear of him anymore, but anyone loud always set her on edge. She was seated in the library reading a French novel when she heard him and did not have time to get past him up the stairs to her room, so hoped that they would not come in here. Mr B was with someone, that was clear, as he was talking away and a voice was answering, quietly at first, so she had to strain to hear. What were they talking about? Something about the business, about the furnace? She went back to her book. But the other voice was louder now and talking about colour. Lots of colours. He was listing colours and applying them to the things he had seen. His voice was quick, eager and intelligent. She heard the maid say that her father had stepped out briefly and would they like to wait for him in the library? Before she had time to gather herself, the door was opening and the visitors were inside.

  ‘Ah, Miss King!’ cried Mr B, his voice as piercing as ever. Beside him stood a dark-eyed young man, but before she had time to fully register him, Mr B went on, ‘Studious, as ever. Always a nose in a book. There never was such a child for quiet contemplation as Miss King. Never wants to talk, eh? Except to our Anny, the only one who ever was able to draw a conversation from you, Miss King.’

  Margaret bowed her head, perceiving a slight criticism. She had no idea what to say to that; she never did in these moments of social chit-chat. It was always better for everyone if she just disappeared upstairs. Then, another voice spoke.

  ‘But I see we are disturbing you, miss. My humblest apologies. I should wait outside, in the grounds perhaps.’

  Margaret looked up. The young man was handsome, decidedly so. And his politeness to her made him seem even more so. Mr B was wittering on about her and her books and how her father wouldn’t be long, yet she had lost all sense of what he was saying. Only those eyes held her. Intent, direct and as black as coals. She was compelled to do something she never did: she interrupted Mr B in full flight.

  ‘Won’t you introduce me?’ she asked, never taking her gaze from the young man.

  ‘Why, of course,’ said Mr B. ‘Mr Ashford, this is Miss King, the daughter of the household. Miss King, this is Mr Jake Ashford, an artist and painter who wishes to paint your father’s ironworks and seeks his permission. A most interesting project, I must say.’

  Margaret knew it was not etiquette to shake hands with a young man who was not of her acquaintance. She politely nodded her head and Jake Ashford did the same. Then, he spoke to her.

  ‘I
see you are reading in French, Miss King. When I was in Paris, the French shook hands with the left, as they deemed the left hand to be nearer the heart.’

  Margaret stared at him. How she wished that when introduced she had extended her hand and felt his own. She was sure it would not be that worst of things – a clammy handshake – but instead imagined it warm and dry, firm and lingering. Her hands tingled at the thought. There was a moment of stillness between them, broken by the sound of her father returning in the hall beyond the library door.

  ‘What?’ she heard him say. ‘There is a what in the library?’ Margaret looked down at her lap. It was the instant effect her father had on her. She wished to look up again at Jake Ashford, but the heaviness of her head in her father’s imminent presence prevented her from doing so.

  The door opened and her father entered, saying curtly, ‘What is this all about, Brotherton?’

  Margaret listened to the introductions and explanations with her head still lowered, her eyes burning a hole in the French words on the page before her. Jake Ashford had been in Paris. What was he doing there? Painting, perhaps? How she longed to speak to him of it. She had never been given leave to visit France, her father being such a hater of the people, but she desired to utterly. A vision of walking in the gardens of the Palace of Versailles with Jake Ashford leapt to mind and she started at it, so ridiculous was it. But oh, what a lovely vision! She listened and willed her father to do the right thing, the best thing, for her, that is. Invite this young man to paint his stupid ironworks, but then to stay and become an acquaintance of the family. But her father was taking some convincing.

  ‘But why on earth would an artist want to come here of all places? Shropshire is pretty enough, I suppose, but there are finer places to paint, surely.’

  Jake held up his hands towards the window and made the shape of a frame in the air. All eyes turned to his hands and waited for his next pronouncement. ‘Ironbridge and Coalbrookdale,’ he declared. Names so familiar to Margaret were transformed into something epic in Jake Ashford’s tones. ‘Surrounded by thick forest yet smothered in coal dust, lit by the constant burning of the fires from the ironworks. Due to the complex geology of this area, a range of vital industries have sprung up along the majestic River Severn. The hills and banks are clustered with steam engines, limestone mines, brick kilns and tar ovens. Wagons loaded with ironstone and coal trundle on iron railways down the inclined plane from the pits to be delivered to the works that will transform them into vital products. Their fruits include pig iron, cast iron and wrought iron; chinaware and fine porcelain; pipes and ceramic tiles – these riches then sent out across the world. What finer subject could a modern artist find than this?’

  Brotherton nodded proudly, as if he himself were solely responsible for the marvels the young man described. Her father looked impressed, too, but was not quite won over as yet.

  ‘Let us peruse your work, then,’ he said. ‘I cannot possibly agree until I have seen your calibre for myself. I assume you have some in that receptacle by your feet?’

  Jake picked up the wallet and opened it on the table at which Margaret was sitting. She closed her book and pushed it to one side. Out came sketch after sketch of charcoal on creamy white paper. Beautiful buildings with elaborate architecture that she could only imagine might have been French or Italian or who knew what, as her education had been so limited and mostly self-administered. There were pictures of birds too and people, large crowd scenes or vignettes of individuals, great bridges that spanned mighty rivers and detailed studies of statues she imagined he must have seen in lofty museums. The beauty of the lines and curves that spilled across the table thrilled her, as if Jake Ashford’s very mind had been poured forth before her. What a fascinating person he was, and very clearly talented. She thought the drawings were marvellous. She stole glimpses of him when she could and saw how he stared at her father, so keen was he to impress, it seemed. She wished the decision had been hers and that he had been looking at her so keenly.

  Her father was quiet for some time, leafing through the sketches, his mouth tight and his expression giving nothing away. At long last, he spoke. ‘These are good, Ashford. You can draw, I’ll give you that. But look here. These European flounces are all very well. But you must be aware that industry is a place of danger and you will be responsible for yourself at all times. I do not have the manpower to chaperone you when molten iron is about. You must be sensible and exhibit . . . common sense.’

  ‘I quite understand,’ said Jake. ‘I have travelled in Europe alone these past months, and believe I have developed a keen sense of self-preservation.’

  ‘Well then, I cannot see any harm in it. You may become our resident artist. I will pay a small stipend to assist you in your endeavours, if you agree to paint my wife too. I desire a painting of her. Can you do that? Can you manage portraits?’

  ‘I certainly can, sir. I would be honoured to paint anyone for you, sir. Anyone in your household.’

  Margaret’s heart leapt. Just imagine it, sitting for a painting for him, spending hours with him. Oh, it was too much to bear!

  ‘Yes, well, we shall see about that. Now then, I am a busy man. Brotherton will attend to you and arrange suitable accommodation. See to it, Brotherton.’ With that, Mr King left the room and Mr B instantly began to prattle on about the project.

  Margaret carefully placed her chair back and stood. Jake was tidying away his sketches and Margaret wanted to help. She picked up one and passed it to him, which he took with a kind smile directed straight at her. She picked up another, a lovely sketch of a formal flower garden, perhaps in Paris, perhaps in Rome, somewhere beautiful. Her eyes lingered on it. The country around here was handsome, nobody could deny it; the Severn was banked by rich, dense woodland and rolling hills beyond. But that was wild and this was tamed nature, rows of hedging and swirls of what looked like tulips, making a stunning pattern of perfect symmetry.

  ‘If you like it, you may keep that,’ said Jake.

  Margaret shook her head and went to hand it back – unable to agree to a gift from an unknown young man – but she wanted badly to keep it, and worried too that it would look ungrateful. She drew it to her, looked at it again and raised her eyes to his.

  ‘Thank you,’ she whispered, and clutched the picture tenderly.

  ‘It is nothing, but you are welcome, Miss King. Most welcome.’

  When he had gone, she stared and stared at his drawing. Her drawing, now. She looked up and out of the window, without thinking, clutching the picture tenderly against her chest. When she came to, she saw that the charcoal had imprinted itself onto her yellow dress, leaving a black mark across her breast. She ran her fingers over it, leaving a smudge of darkness on her hand.

  Chapter 9

  It was noon and Anny had escaped from the office, walked hurriedly down to Ironbridge and sought out a bench upon which to eat her lunch. She was just finishing off the Dawley doorstep spread with butter she had brought with her, when she saw Jake Ashford walking in a leisurely fashion up the street towards her. It was just as she had hoped. As she hurriedly brushed crumbs from her mouth and skirts, he saw her, smiled and increased his pace. They had spoken with each other several times now, either in the office or by chance, in town or near the ironworks. They had talked about his art and her work and more. She had never had such conversations in her life. She picked over the substance of their discussions after each one, rehearsing the arguments she would offer if the subject arose between them again. She was keen to impress him with her thinking, afraid that if she did not keep up with him, he would tire of their meetings. And these meetings had become the bright centre of her life. He seemed to have sought her out at the same bench she had been sitting on the last time they met – or was it merely a coincidence?

  ‘I find you here again, Anny. A welcome escape from the rigours of work?’

  ‘Ah, but I love my work. You know that.’

  ‘True, true. Although, you are on
e of the few, perhaps. May I?’ He motioned to the empty space beside her and she nodded keenly. He took his seat, placing his bag and wallet down on either side.

  ‘Perhaps you’re right,’ said Anny. ‘I know how lucky I am to find my work valuable and enjoyable, when to many it is a chore or a curse.’

  ‘It is not luck in your case, though. Your mother taught you for a purpose and you made the most of that. There was design in it and you grasped it and let your ambition guide you.’

  ‘But you are the same, Mr Ashford. You love your work and you are driven by it. Did you always know you wanted to be an artist?’

  ‘Not until I travelled and saw the old masters. And please, call me Jake.’

  Could she? They were friends now, she supposed. But who were these old masters he spoke of? She wondered if she should pretend to understand. But she knew that she’d never get anywhere in life by fakery. She knew nothing of art, and dearly longed for an education like his, even like Peggy’s, as limited as that was. But she was not ashamed of this fact, particularly with Jake, who she felt understood that her lack of education was beyond her control, not a part of her but a fact of circumstance.

  ‘What are the old masters?’

  He gave her a potted history of Western art, which she tried to follow, but eventually gave up and contented herself with listening to his voice. Then he came to the point.

  ‘These men painted scenes from the Bible, from ancient mythology. What relevance has that to me today? To you, or to any of us? It also seemed like the province of the rich, the classically educated. I knew this was not what I wanted to paint, definitely not. I want to get to the centre of things, to the core of mankind, not its luckiest, its richest, its most dominant. I want to answer the great unanswered questions. On my return, I determined that I would go out into the real world, into the everyday lives of the working people of our great country and discover for myself the substance of what really matters in this day and age.’