The Daughters of Ironbridge

by Mollie Walton

  To listen to him speak of such things was a thrill like no other. She watched his mouth move with the passion of his thoughts, memorised the tiny details in the nuances of his face: the way he looked far ahead as he spoke, as if his inner eye had travelled forward in time and had already arrived in the future; the way his neck would flush pink when he spoke with fervour, and the way he would listen to her speak. She especially loved the way one eyebrow went up and the other down when she let slip something gushing about him or his ideas, as if to say, I am not worthy of your fine words. His modesty made him all the more attractive.

  ‘I am quite sure I never heard a soul speak about the workers the way you do,’ said Anny.

  ‘I am not the only one who feels this way. There are writers all over Europe who see the world as I do, the artificial boundaries that exist between the wealthy and the poor. I want to change the way the rich see the working classes. I want my art to show them the dignity in a hard day’s work, the wonder of the changes taking place in industry right here on your home ground – not from the scientist’s or industrialist’s point of view – but from the ordinary folk, how each man and woman is contributing towards this great movement. People like your father. I have sketched him at work, Anny. There is more honour in that man’s muscle and sinew than in a thousand Greek heroes. For our modern times, your father is the hero!’

  Anny laughed delightedly. If Father could hear himself called a hero, he would laugh his fill, too. But Jake’s vision of him rang true for her and touched her heart.

  ‘I am so very proud of my father and the job he does. His work has never been easy, even now he’s been promoted. Not only the sweat of it, but the business side of it – the ironmasters and the way they treat the workers. It’s not a new thing, been going on like this for years. Why, when he was a young man he stood witness to strikes and uprisings. He often tells us the story, at the fireside of an evening, of when his father’s coal-mining friends gathered in protest at the cinder heaps, and the yeomanry were called and opened fire. Two colliers were killed. Others were arrested and one ringleader was hanged. They called it the Battle of Cinderloo. It sounds like a name heroes might choose. But it came to nothing, and still the workers are suffering at the whim of their masters. The working man is stamped on and crushed like an earywig.’

  To say these things aloud, and to this handsome young man who listened intently to her every word, was like gulping down wine. Heady and dangerous.

  ‘Seditious talk, Anny,’ said Jake, with an approving smile. She did not know the meaning of this, but it sounded good to her.

  ‘Truth, that’s all.’

  ‘I know it. I hope my art can help to bridge that gap between the classes. That is my aim. To create a clearer understanding between the masters and the workers. The honour would be mine, to attempt this necessary feat, to use my art for good purpose. It may be folly but I would rather try and fail than live a life of regret.’

  Anny listened intently and marvelled at his resolve. Everything she felt was wrong with the world was found here in its polar opposite: this optimistic, heartfelt young man. He was talented, which was appealing enough, but he was also earnest – an irresistible mixture.

  Jake went on. ‘But I fear it may be a fool’s errand. What bridge could ever span that gap, when the rich and the poor are separated as utterly as fish from birds? They live in different worlds. That the rich and poor could ever understand each other seems impossible.’

  ‘Not impossible,’ said Anny.

  ‘How so?’

  Anny glanced at him, his earnest face. Should she go on?

  ‘I have a friend . . . a rich friend. We understand each other.’

  ‘And how has this come about?’

  Anny paused again. Surely he could be trusted. She believed it.

  ‘My best friend is Miss King. Miss Margaret King, up at the big house. It’s a secret we share. Most people know we are acquaintances, that we make polite talk with each other if we happen to meet. But what they do not know is that we have been friends for years, have written letters to each other for years.’

  ‘Extraordinary!’

  ‘And she is rich and I am poor, but we understand each other all right. Always have. Why, we are like sisters. Secret sisters.’

  Jake clapped his hands and laughed. ‘You are full of surprises!’

  Anny grinned at this. It delighted her to delight him. The world went on behind them, around and beyond them, but her world consisted only of Jake’s words and Jake’s eyes.

  He said, ‘I have met Miss King. She is an intelligent, thoughtful young woman, I can see that. But other than that, she seemed entirely typical of her class. Accomplished, no doubt, yet uninspiring I’d thought, however pretty she may be.’

  Pretty. The word sliced through her intimacy with Jake like a knife through butter. The day after both she and Margaret had first met Jake, they had contrived to find each other almost at the same moment, and had let the words tumble out simultaneously, talking under and over each other about all of his attributes. They giggled and blushed, enjoying the opportunity to talk to another who clearly felt the same way. There was a comradeship in it that nobody else but these two girls could understand, the complete wonderfulness of Jake Ashford. Yet, there was a moment, in that very first talk, when both girls had paused and were clearly, obviously, lost in their own private thoughts of him. Then they both glanced up and caught the other at it, a look passed between them, a knowledge of connection in their joint regard for him, yet it left an aftertaste of rivalry, of jealousy, of division. Anny tasted it again at this moment, at Jake’s mention of Peggy.

  Jake continued, oblivious to the upset he had caused, ‘And to hear that you two are friends is quite delicious. I am going up to the King house later, to fulfil my first appointment to paint Mrs King. I shall give your warm regards to Miss King, wink at her and see if she keeps your secret better than you have, Anny!’

  Anny frowned and replied, ‘Oh please, no! It was a confidence. I did not mean . . .’

  Jake tipped his head back and laughed. ‘Oh, but you are too easy to tease! Far too easy!’

  Anny relaxed and found herself disarmed by a laugh, his own being infectious.

  He lowered his voice and looked straight at her: ‘I would never share your confidences, Anny. I wouldn’t dream of it. After all, if you could not trust me, then I would lose my chance forever to . . . to become better acquainted with you. If that is something that you wish for also. Do you? Do you wish to see me again and talk this way, another time? Many more times? Do you, Anny?’

  ‘I do,’ Anny whispered, as if the words came from deep inside her and had lost their sound by the time they reached her lips. She said again, much more clearly, ‘I do.’

  *

  ‘Now that you are home for good, Cyril my boy, you will take up your rightful place at my side. In your sojourns at home, you have accompanied me these past years in all aspects of the business and you have been educated to the correct . . . height – or is it depth? – to have developed your intellect and your sense of duty. I hope you realise how expensive your education was, and how grateful you ought to be for the opportunity?’

  Cyril bowed his head suitably and replied, ‘Yes, Father, of course. It has been the most enlightening education a boy could wish for.’

  He thought of the way old Cadman would bring down his great leather shoe onto any boy’s arse he was beating. He was an exceedingly tall man, so his shoes were enormous.

  ‘A man, Cyril. You are a young man now.’

  Then why do you call me ‘my boy’, you idiot? Cyril thought. He thought then of Bostock, the older boy who had also beaten him regularly, with even more viciousness than the masters. ‘We shall beat the boy out of you yet, King,’ Bostock used to explain to him, as if each attack were doing him a favour, arming him for the journey into manhood. Oh yes, he had certainly become a man now. He had seen everything. He wondered if his father had been simi
larly treated in his own time. He supposed not, as if so, why would any father put his own son through that? He would never forgive his father for sending him to that place. Cyril was not the forgiving type. But Ralph King was useful to him – held his future in his hands – so he would play the game and continue to flatter the stupid old duffer.

  ‘Yes, Father. I am ready and willing to serve. I was thinking that I would like to assist Brotherton in his office. There are some nuances of the selling part of the business that I feel I need somewhat more acquaintance with.’

  And there is a flame-haired beauty I feel I need far more acquaintance with, thought Cyril. He was working his way up to proposing to Anny. But, as little as she seemed to care for him now, he put this down to her fear for her position. If he could persuade his father that he wanted this girl, then he could reassure Anny that his intentions were honourable – well, some of them – and that her life would be changed forever; she would become the lady of the house. After all, his father had married some jumped-up adolescent strumpet whose parentage was decidedly suspect. Why couldn’t his son do the same? But deep down he knew his father would probably never agree to it, yet Anny didn’t know that. And maybe he could keep her in a little house, a secret mistress. He was sure his grandfather used to bed the maids. Why couldn’t he have his own little worker to bed? He thought, Why can’t I have what I want? I’ve always had what I want.

  ‘I cannot see there is much depth to what Brotherton and his ilk do. But if you feel it necessary, for a short time, you may. When you see Brotherton, ask him when this artist fellow is coming to the house. We made an arrangement for him to begin Benjamina’s portrait, but I cannot recall when.’

  ‘What artist fellow would that be, Father? What portrait?’

  ‘Oh, some young fellow, a sketcher, who has been recording scenes around these parts. Quite talented, yes. Fired up with the enthusiasm of his craft. These artist types are all passion, you know. He has a Romany air. Ashford, his name. Well, he will do a good job of the portrait. I want him to get started on it.’

  Cyril thanked his father. He didn’t like the sound of this artist fellow, this Ashford or whatever he called himself, not one bit. You could never trust the artistic types; he knew this from school. There was always something queer about them. And smug, too. He would soon put him in his place, if he saw him about. This fellow was a servant, like any below-stairs washerwoman, and he must remember his place.

  It was lunchtime when Cyril marched outside towards the office. Oh, dash it, he thought. Anny would probably be having her food somewhere. Margaret was not at home today, visiting some musical concert with Queenie, so Anny wouldn’t be chatting with her. Those two were too chatty all round. He didn’t like it. He wanted Anny to be his, not his sister’s. Although, once he gathered enough courage to talk to his father about marrying Anny, perhaps Margaret could be a useful ally. Yes, that could work in his favour. Perhaps he should talk to the little wretch about it. He’d do that later. He opened the office door to find no Anny. On her lunch, Brotherton informed him. He knew he was supposed to be staying in the office to learn things, but he made his excuses and left. Where would she be? He walked down the lane towards Ironbridge. Perhaps she had gone into the town.

  Ironbridge had only been in existence as a town these past few decades since the bridge itself was built. Now it was a bustling collection of a weekly market, coaching inns and boarding houses, a bank, post office, printers, grocers and drapers, lawyers and doctors, ironmongers and watchmakers, a meeting house, a school and a newly built church on the hill, and so on and so forth. All human life was here. Cyril thought of the ant nests he used to drown with buckets of water as a boy, only to find another spring up on a nearby patch of ground. Crawling things always found a space to crawl in, even under slimy rocks. You could never escape them. In his younger days, he had loved to bolt from the house and wander through town, jostling with people and looking for girls. These days, the locals mostly disgusted him. Their petty little lives. Each one of them thought they were useful and important. He hated them for that. He knew that many of them were truly necessary, to those around them. He felt he had more in common with the beggars than the workers or the merchants, the shopkeepers and the professionals. He had no place in life, no role. Anny had that. She worked hard and was valued. He wanted to take that away from her, make her his to own and mould in his arms, in his house. His value would be increased by subsuming everything Anny was.

  Then, he saw her. It was her red hair he saw first. He could always spot it a mile away; a glorious beacon. She was not wearing her bonnet. She was seated on a bench looking down. Perhaps her lunch was in her lap. What good fortune, to find her away from the office, where they could talk properly. But what was this? A dark-haired man beside her was in conversation with her and she was smiling at him, smiling broadly, veritably beaming at him. The man took off his hat and ran his fingers through his black hair. He had the look of a gypsy about him. Was this the artist fellow? He had a bag on one side – to carry his damned brushes and paraphernalia, he supposed – and a wallet on the other, full of scribbles, no doubt. Cyril stood across the road and watched the two of them. The man opened up his wallet and produced some scraps of paper, in which Anny showed great interest, nodding and talking, looking up to this man, listening intently to every word he spoke.

  What had this blasted artist fellow got that he hadn’t? He had money and position, a safe future ahead of him. How dare this stranger fraternise with the local girls! The man cupped his hand over his mouth and leant towards Anny, whose head then fell back with laughter. Cyril’s eyes narrowed. If this artist fellow was on the scene, well then, it was time to do something about it. In a moment, he would dodge the carts and horse dung on the road and go over there, tell this upstart a thing or two. Any moment now, he would do it. But the man was standing up, taking his leave of Anny with an affected flourish of his hat and a ridiculous bow. Anny watched him go, and Cyril watched Anny watching him. Cyril’s blood was up. He straightened his cravat and prepared to cross the busy road. Into his mind came an image of Anny’s laughing face tipped backwards in joy, but she was in bed and the man beneath her was not himself, but the damnable gypsy. This will not be borne, he told himself. I will show her who her true master is. But Anny was up and walking off towards the office at quite a pace. Cyril considered running after her. But what King had ever run after anybody for anything? No, he could wait. He would let his blood boil all afternoon and then, in a secluded place, he would find her, mark her and bag her.

  Chapter 10

  Margaret waited in the hall, listening to the silence behind the door in the sitting room. She imagined she could hear his brushes dabbing the canvas or the scrape of a knife on the palette mixing the correct hue of gold for Benjamina’s silk dress. But in truth, he was most likely doing some preliminary sketches. She could hear nothing and had not the bravery to enter and see for herself Jake’s progress with the portrait. She hovered uncertainly, picturing herself turning that brass doorknob and breezing in, asking him if he required any refreshment. She could do that. But she knew she never would. Instead she sat down on a chair in the hallway and waited. It was his first appointment painting her stepmother, so she didn’t know how long they would be. If she retired upstairs, she might miss his exit, but if she stayed out here and he came upon her, sitting in her hallway alone, he would surely know she had been waiting for him. Oh, what to do?

  Then, the door opened and there he was, her decision taken out of her hands. He smiled at her and closed the door gently behind him. He walked towards her with a confidential air, came quite close and – to her alarm and delight – bent his mouth to her ear and whispered, ‘Your mother is fast asleep. With her mouth wide open!’

  Margaret felt her cheeks burning. She felt quite faint at his nearness. ‘She is not my mother,’ was all she could think of to say.

  Jake stood upright and smiled again, this time lowering his head in deference. ‘Of
course. Your stepmother. Please forgive me.’

  Margaret stood and said, ‘Not at all. Well, I must say it is time for her daily nap. Was her dog asleep too? It usually sleeps at this hour.’

  ‘Yes, and it does exhibit a wide range of bodily functions when it sleeps,’ he said with a wry smile, again bending closer to whisper, ‘particularly of the windy variety.’

  Margaret could not help but laugh. He went on, ‘One wonders what exertions the lady of the house engages in to require a daily nap. She tells me she does not ride, walk or even leave home if she can help it. It’s a wonder how such indolence can be so exhausting.’

  Margaret was shocked by Jake’s cheek but also rather thrilled by it. ‘Mr Ashford, be careful. If my father were to hear you talk in such a way, you would be out on your ear in a trice!’

  ‘But will you tell on me, Miss King?’

  She said quietly, ‘Of course not.’ This confidence between them gave her a different kind of confidence to add, ‘Shall we take a turn about the grounds, if you have the time?’

  ‘I would be delighted,’ he said and bowed slightly with his arm out, for her to lead the way.

  As they crossed the hallway to the front door, she wondered what Anny would make of her asking Jake Ashford to walk with her. At once, she knew that she would not be telling Anny. She wished she could share this with her friend, but she knew she would not. She did not wish to analyse why this was, and instead pushed it to the back of her mind. She did not have time to consider that now, as Jake Ashford was asking her about botany. He wanted to know the names of certain shrubs they were passing and of the trees that circled the formal garden to the side of the house. She was pleased, as it was a subject about which she was quite knowledgeable, having read of them and spent much time in her childhood in the library or out of doors, both excellent for avoiding company. He revealed his ignorance of plants and flowers and the world of nature, having been brought up exclusively in a town house with no garden, front or back.