The Daughters of Ironbridge

by Mollie Walton

  Her words had cut to the quick, she could see that. His face was white with shock. But his eyes were black with hate. He had no words left. She took the moment it gave her and ran. She ran down the woodland path, tripping over roots, her arms flailing, her throat rasping with dry fear. She could not hear him pursue her, but she did not dare stop. At last, she saw the edge of her village, there in all its dependability. Salvation. But everything seemed at sea, the ground rippling like water, her head swimming with confusion. She stopped and glanced behind her. Nothing there. She put her hands to her head to steady herself. She had escaped him. She was safe. But everything had changed. Somehow, she knew that. Something irreversible had happened, and she feared it.

  Chapter 11

  Anny did not tell her mother or father about Cyril. She was too ashamed, too disturbed. Also, she felt she did not need to tell her parents, despite her fear. She would handle it herself. She could handle Cyril King. But then, the fear crept back in. What would Cyril do next? She knew him well enough to know how damned proud he was, how he would detest any suggestion of humiliation. And what could her parents do, anyway? Nothing, precisely nothing. They would tell her to leave Mr King’s employ, that’s what they would do. They would say it wasn’t safe. Well, damn that course of action. Why should Cyril King chase her out of her job? She had worked so hard for it, and it would lead on to wonderful things – a post in Shrewsbury, as Mrs B had once mentioned. Or beyond, if certain other circumstances developed, maybe in Birmingham, who knew? Yes, that was it. Jake was the answer. It was the perfect time. If she went to Jake now, confessed the horrible scene with Cyril, it would be sure to gain his sympathy. Then, to tell him of her true feelings. How could he refuse to love her? She was sure it was on the tip of his tongue anyway. Then, they could announce their engagement straightaway and stop Cyril in his tracks. He could have no designs, no revenge, once her relationship with Jake was above board and out in the world. Yes, the time was now. And what a relief it would be, to tell Jake how she really felt and to hear his feelings for her, to lock eyes, to kiss . . .

  The day after Cyril’s assault, she spoke to Mr B and managed to free up an extra hour that afternoon after lunch. She did not like lying to him – she said her mother was poorly – but needs must. She left the office in search of Jake. He had in the past sought her out at the office a couple of times at lunchtime, but she could not wait to see if he would today. She was on a mission. She asked Lucy if Mr Ashford were in the house today, but he was not. Perhaps he was in one of his other haunts, the furnace where he drew detailed line drawings of the men guiding molten iron into the moulds, the riverside sketching the curves and struts of the iron bridge; or perhaps he was further afield, and she would not find him. She was hungry and tired, rushing about from place to place, but she felt too nervous to eat. Then, with a wash of relief and excitement, she saw him, coming out of the baker’s, cramming a pie into his mouth messily. It surprised her a little, as he always had perfect manners, but it amused her too and she thought of all his little ways she would get to know once they had an understanding between them and they could truly be themselves together.

  She looked both ways at the busy lunchtime traffic on the High Street before crossing and calling to him. He turned, looking alarmed, then his face altered as he saw her. He smiled broadly and wiped his face and waistcoat down, the crumbs flying this way and that into the mud beneath his boots. She could not help but beam at him, as he held her happiness in his hands and each view of him released it from her face. But as she approached, her fears must have crept back into her eyes, for he looked concerned and frowned upon her as she reached him.

  ‘What is it, Anny?’

  She loved the way they were on first-name terms. She loved the way he said her name, the vowels clipped and precise, his accent speaking of city life and education.

  ‘I must speak with you. Can we walk? I have much to tell you.’

  ‘Of course. Let us cross the bridge, then go down the steps underneath it and walk along the path upstream, away from the furnace. We can find some peace there.’

  The sound of the ironworks nearby receded as they descended to the path and walked onwards, past a coracle hut on stilts, where a man came out hoisting his circular boat onto his back to carry it down to the water’s edge. They passed along the path bordered by woods of oak and birch, dotted here and there with pretty cottages, gardens and orchards. They could hear the roaring of the forge pools in the distance, emptying themselves into each other in cascades, a sound like remote thunder.

  ‘What’s wrong, Anny? Please tell me.’

  ‘It is a shameful thing to tell. But not shaming of me, but of him. I’ve never done any small thing to encourage him or such behaviour.’

  ‘Anny, do start at the beginning. You do have this habit of rambling so. You could take a leaf out of Miss King’s book and cull your words a little, you know.’

  The mention of Peggy caught her short. Why was he talking about her? ‘Well, Margaret could talk a bit more, if you ask me. She is too shy for her own good.’

  ‘I am only teasing you, Anny. Now, who are we talking of? Who is he? And what did he do?’

  ‘Master King. Cyril King. He followed me in the woods. He accosted me. Took hold of me.’

  Jake stopped walking and stared at her. ‘Did he hurt you? Are you . . . intact? Are you well?’

  The look in his eyes, of deep concern, was encouraging. She hesitated to speak, to hold onto his gaze for a moment longer and drink it in. ‘I am quite well, thank you. He did not . . . interfere with me, except he manhandled me and tried to kiss me. But I fought him off.’

  ‘But that is outrageous! How dare he! This is another example of the upper classes taking advantage of those they perceive as beneath them. I would guess he does this to all his father’s employees.’

  ‘No, it was more than that. He told me he loved me, that he wanted to marry me. Me! Become the lady at the big house!’

  ‘And what did you say to him? I hope you said no. He’s a pigeon-livered idiot, that one. Not right for you, not at all.’

  ‘Well, I told him no, of course.’

  ‘That must have been tricky, to turn down the master’s son. What reason did you give?’

  ‘I told him I was promised to another.’

  ‘That was clever! Did he believe you?’

  ‘Yes, and he guessed who it was.’

  ‘And who is it, Anny? Someone from your father’s ironworks? Or a handsome coal miner? You are too good for all of them, Anny. But you’ll find someone in Shrewsbury, when you go to work there. You’ll see. Someone worthy of you, of your intellect. You’re wasted on the dolts around these parts.’

  Every twist and turn of this conversation took her by surprise. She had to keep her wits about her to negotiate it and keep on track. ‘No, Jake. He did not guess any of the local boys. You see, he was spying on us. He saw us talking on the bench and he followed me from there. He is jealous of you, Jake. You must watch yourself. He is vengeful, I feel it. You must protect yourself.’

  ‘Me?’ said Jake, incredulous. ‘Why would he suspect me? How ridiculous!’

  This was not the reaction Anny was hoping for. She stopped walking and yet Jake did not immediately notice, carrying on a few paces until he turned and frowned at her.

  ‘It is not ridiculous, Jake. Not to me.’

  He came closer. ‘My dear girl . . .’ He trailed off, seemed torn somehow, glanced across the river and frowned again. She held her breath. ‘I like you very much indeed, you must know that.’

  ‘I have hoped it,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, but it is not so simple as that. Life is not so simple.’

  ‘It can be. Love is simple. We love or we do not love.’

  He laughed, a gentle scoff. ‘Love is perhaps the most complex part of life. But no, in this case – in our case – there are other complications at play. You see, I am not here to find love. I am here to pursue my art. Whatever els
e arises, this is my sole purpose. It is a stronger bond I have with my art than any other. It is hard for others to comprehend, those who do not have ambition. But I believe, of all people, you can understand it. You have that drive, too, that burning ambition, to change yourself, to change your environment, to change the world even. I saw this in you from the very first and knew we felt the same, that we were kindred spirits that way.’

  ‘Yes!’ she gasped. ‘We are kindred spirits. And that is why . . .’

  ‘No, Anny. I am sorry to rudely interrupt you, but no. I am guessing where you might be leading in your words, but I cannot follow. I am wedded to my art. It comes first for me in everything. Why, when I am painting, I do not eat, I do not sleep, I am obsessed. It means more to me than anything, more than the commonplace necessities of life that dull people worship. More than my health, more indeed than the fairer sex. I have no ambitions when it comes to love or marriage. I never have. I am a complete novice in the art of love. Only the art of drawing and painting has been my passion. Any woman in my life will find herself playing second fiddle, and that would be most unfair. Besides, even if I were to love another, I could not promise myself. I am not earning a living from my art. I am not established. Even if I wanted to . . . to marry . . . I could not.’

  The weight of disappointment was too great to bear. But she had not given up yet. ‘But I know all of this, Jake. I understand this about you. As you say, we are kindred that way. And I will wait. I will wait as long as it takes for you to become established in society.’

  ‘I could not ask that of you, Anny. It might be years.’

  ‘I don’t care!’ she cried. There was some hope rising in her now. ‘I would wait a lifetime! Find your place in the art world, find your success, which I know in my heart will be coming for you, when your paintings of these scenes, this place, are seen. I feel it, Jake. I know it. I believe in you.’

  ‘You are too kind, Anny.’

  ‘No. No, it is not kindness.’

  ‘It is, and you have too much of it to give. I cannot let you wait for me. It might be years. And I may never become successful. I do not have the blind faith in myself that you do.’

  ‘It is not blind faith. It is knowledge. And it is love. I love you, Jake.’

  She wanted to reach up and kiss him now, now as he looked into her eyes, listening to her passionate regard for him. But she was unsure of him, so unsure that she waited for him to be the one. She wanted a sign, a movement from him, that he wanted her. He was moving towards her; she closed her eyes. She felt his arms go about her; but his face moved to the left and went over her shoulder. He was patting her on the back.

  ‘There, there,’ he was saying. ‘You’re a good girl, Anny.’

  This was not what she wanted to hear. The feel of his arms about her, even in this brotherly way, was overwhelming and she felt herself press into him. The heat of their closeness was heady and bitter, as she felt he was holding back from her. She had to make him feel what she felt. Surely he would, if she breathed on his neck like this, if she sighed like this, if she pushed her fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck, like this, like this.

  She moved her mouth to his and pressed her lips to his. He did not resist. The kiss was chaste, lips to lips, gentle and tender.

  She opened her eyes to see his closed.

  ‘Anny,’ he whispered, and they kissed again. ‘You are so lovely.’

  ‘You are everything to me,’ she whispered back, then looked up at him.

  ‘Should I ask you to wait for me, Anny? Is that wrong of me?’

  Her heart leapt. ‘How can it be wrong when we love each other?’

  ‘Will you, then? Will you wait for me and come to me when I have made my fortune?’

  ‘I will, I will!’

  He kissed her again, and this time their mouths opened. She felt her whole body turn molten, fired by the burning heat in her heart.

  *

  Good, heavy breasts, this one, thought Jake as he walked along the path. Not skinny, like the other. He’d left Anny by the riverside, sure in his love and full of foolish happiness.

  Jake’s past was something he had become adept at rewriting. He selected only the information to reveal to others which could be of use to him. Of course, neither Anny nor Margaret knew how many women he had bedded. Neither did Jake, as he had lost count of the females long ago. Neither Anny nor Margaret knew how heavily he was in debt. Neither did Jake, as he had lost count of the debtors, too, long ago. He had also never availed them of the fact that he had been disowned by his father.

  As he strolled along, he replayed the circumstances in his life that had brought him to this moment. His parents had a disposable income and spoilt their two daughters and their youngest, a son. Jake’s father was besotted with his son and yet at the same time hard on him. Having come from lowly parentage and worked himself up ‘from nothing’, as he termed it, Mr Ashford was determined his children would be swathed in as much luxury as he could afford. Yet his keen work ethic conflicted with this and he took it out on his only son, alternately fond and rough, chucking the boy under the chin one minute, then slapping him hard for insubordination the next. Rather than training his son up in the business, Ashford senior indulged the boy’s one passion: art. However, on his return from the continent, he was called to his father’s study and instructed to demonstrate what he had achieved on this expensive trip. Mr Ashford liked to indulge his son to a point, but beyond this he knew that only talent and skill would make any return in this world. He perused his son’s work carefully, frowning. Then he had turned and said the words that still haunted Jake: ‘It’s not good enough, Jake. Not good enough by half. You’re not a painter, and never will be. I’ve done my best for you, boy, and I have to admit that it was in error. You need to knock this idea of art on the head now and come into the business with me. No sense wasting any more time.’

  Jake had been humiliated. He had compared his own skills with other artists he’d met on the continent. He knew he was not one of the best. But he was not one of the worst either. He had some skill, and surely this would improve with time. He told his father that nobody started off perfect, it’d take time to mature, like a good wine. He said how much his trip had changed him, how he wanted to change the world. He explained that he believed they were living through the most extraordinary era, one never before seen and never to be repeated, of such rapid and impressive change as to addle one’s brain. Yet, at the age of twenty and full of energy, he felt ready for anything, eager to grasp this new era with both hands and let it speed him into the future. He had a great ambition to get to the heart of society and see what burned there. But his words had left his father cold.

  ‘What a load of claptrap,’ his father had scoffed. ‘Fine words butter no parsnips. I’ll not have a lazy, self-serving son. Put those ideas out of your head once and for all. Your talent is paltry and it will not serve those big ideas of yours.’

  Jake had stomped out of the room, out of the house, and went off to get roaring drunk at a local tavern, after which he awoke with his face on the sagging breast of a much older prostitute, and he hoped he didn’t have the clap. He’d slunk home to find his father raging, who, at the sight of him, grabbed him by the collar and pulled him close, spitting in his ear, ‘You stink of booze and quim, lad. How dare you dirty my home and the home of your sisters and mother with your debauchery.’ His father had thrown him to the floor, upon which Jake’s head smashed into the hall table and broke his mother’s china plate reserved for visiting cards from the great and the good. This was the final straw.

  ‘Get out there in the world, boy, and don’t come back until you’ve found yourself a living or a wealthy bride. Don’t bother to darken my doorstep again until you’ve found one or the other. Be gone with you.’

  One out of two will do, thought Jake, as he remembered Margaret’s blue eyes sultry with desire every time she looked at him. In the meantime, he could amuse himself with this love
ly redhead. And she was so very willing, he thought, she had allowed him to run his fingers up and down her back, her pelvis pressing against his in her need for him. Her passion for him would serve to make the rich one jealous. If he played his cards right, he could be married to a rich bride before the month’s end and return home to his father in style. With his wife’s money and his father’s inheritance, he would never have to scrape a living again and could paint for his own gratification, not money. He could open a gallery in Ironbridge or Shrewsbury and display his industrial paintings for a fee, make a few more pennies and show his father who was the true artist around here, with paying customers eager to see his work.

  ‘I will wait for you, until the end of time,’ Anny had said, her voice hoarse with emotion.

  Maybe he would bed the redhead on the sly after the wedding celebrations were done. He suspected the blonde was too prim to let him in as much as he needed. He had healthy, natural appetites, for sex and for money. These two would serve nicely to satisfy them.

  Chapter 12

  Cyril left the house by the back door and crossed the lawn. It was still wet with dew, his brown shoes were soaked black with it, and he shivered in the early chill. He was heading for a tall oak tree, one he had identified days before as being close enough to the office to watch the comings and goings, yet broad enough to hide behind and not be seen. He stood and waited. Anny appeared from the forest path, humming to herself, her work bag that held her lunch and other female sundries swinging to and fro. She was happy. He hesitated. He felt a surge of something for her, not only desire, but something else he did not understand. He felt it for no one else. Something like fondness. But the old knowledge crept in like a thief, that she did not care for him. She hated him. And what right had she to be so happy this day? He watched her retrieve the key from her skirts and open the door. He thought, So, Anny has her own key to the office. That is most useful to know. Now he waited further, but not for long, as minutes later, Brotherton was seen coming up the hill. No Mrs Brotherton today. That was fortunate. Ill again, no doubt. A malingerer. He would deal with that later.