The Daughters of Ironbridge

by Mollie Walton

  He turned and went around the house, skirting the gravel pathway his facile stepmother regularly minced down with her yappy little dog. He did not want anyone to hear his step. He reached the stable yard. The stink of horse dung and sweat emanated from the stables, while the fragrance of damp leaves and bracken drifted from the woodland that surrounded them. All of this was cut through with the tang of industry, of coal fire and metal, leaking from the works down the hill and upriver. He saw the stable lad gently brushing down a horse, which nickered and shook its head.

  ‘You there,’ he called and the boy looked up, startled. Everyone around here looked at him like that. A mixture of fear and . . . something else. Repulsion, was it? No, respect. Yes, that was it: respect. ‘You. Come here. Take a message for me. Go and see Anny Woodvine in the estate office and tell her my father requires her attendance in the library immediately. And tell her that she must wait in the library until my father comes. Do you understand?’

  The boy carefully placed his horse brushes upon their hangings on the stable wall. Cyril shouted, ‘Hurry up, damn you!’ at which the boy bolted from the stable like a colt, the horse whinnying with fright.

  ‘Stop!’ he called, and the boy skidded to a halt. ‘I said, do you understand?’

  ‘Yessir. I do. Go tell Anny to wait upon the master o’er in the library.’

  ‘Not wait upon, you imbecile. Wait for. And she must be told to wait in the library until my father comes for her. Do you get it now?’

  ‘Yessir.’

  ‘And mind, do not mention my name at all. I am not in the habit of playing the part of messenger boy and do not wish to start a career as one. Do not say my name, do you hear? Well, hurry up, then.’

  Cyril watched him go, then turned and walked back to the house the other way. He came round to the kitchen door. The smell of bacon wafted out and piqued his nose, causing his unfed stomach to grumble. He would eat once he had finished this business. The cook was in the pantry, shouting orders through at the help. Right by the door, he looked down upon an indeterminate maid on her knees, sweeping up a pile of grit with a small brush – he never could remember all their pointless names, especially the plain ones, like this one – and barked at her, ‘Where is Lucy?’

  That same look, except this one was tinged with horror. His reputation preceded him amongst the maids, he thought with some pride. ‘Doin’ the fireplace, sir, in the drawing room.’

  ‘Fetch her immediately and bring her here.’

  ‘Yessir,’ muttered the ugly thing and clattered off, stupidly carrying her dustpan with her. He waited impatiently, thinking of the time it would take Anny to get to the library. His father was out all day, visiting friends in Oswestry, leaving at dawn. With a start, he realised that the stable boy would know this, would have attended or at least seen his father leave in the barouche. Well, what of it? The boy would follow orders, he would not speak out of turn. He would not question the young master of the house; would not, could not, as he did not have the wit for it.

  Lucy arrived, her eyes wide and white. Cyril took some pleasure from the fear he generated in his past victim. This one was special – he liked her milky-white skin, the scent of soap in her hair. She kept herself very clean, this one. But she had been replaced in his affections by Anny and he had not bothered with her in a while. Still she would not meet his look and came to the door, staring down at her boots.

  ‘Lucy, take a message to the estate office from my grandmother, Mrs King senior. Tell Mr Brotherton that she requires two bottles of green ink to be collected from the stationer’s on Madeley Road. He must be the one to fetch it and he must take it back to the office and keep it on his desk to be collected later. Have you got that? Repeat it back to me.’

  ‘I mun take . . .’

  ‘Speak up, girl!’

  She cleared her throat, never once looking up from her feet, then began again. She gave a good account of it and the most crucial part was there, that Mr B must not take the ink to the big house, but go back to the office.

  Then he leant close to her and whispered in her ear, as he was wont to do in previous times, ‘And I do not want my name mentioned to anyone regarding this. It was not me who passed this message on. If anyone ever asks, you are to say that Mrs King senior herself gave it to you. Do you comprehend me, girl?’

  ‘Yessir,’ she muttered, utterly still but breathing quickly.

  ‘Get on with you then.’

  He watched her go. He went into the house through the garden room and went into his father’s study. He thought he knew which drawer the keys were kept in but he was wrong. He opened and shut all the drawers he could see until he finally found them in a single drawer in an occasional table by the door. He left the study and crossed the entrance hall. He thought he heard a door click – he’d been jangling the keys in his hand as he walked and abruptly stopped – but there was no one there. Back out across the garden room and through the glass door. Then he crossed the lawn again, this time in the direction of the woods. He went in deep, hearing the alarm calls of birds announcing his trespass. He needed to come from a place of cover to approach the office. He crept up to the window as quietly as he could and peered in. Anny’s chair was unoccupied. He stepped around the neat brick building and looked in through Brotherton’s window. Nobody there either. From his pocket, he retrieved the office key. He must remember to replace it later, or all might be lost. Looking behind him at the house, then at the path down to town, he satisfied himself that nobody was around and he turned the key in the lock. He knew Brotherton would lock up behind himself, good worker that he was. Once inside, he retrieved the two safe keys from the secret drawers. Then he approached the safe.

  There was around a hundred pounds or so in there. He had to make a quick decision. How much should he take? How much would look correct? He decided upon thirty pounds. More would be too readily noticed, less would be a waste of the risk expended to take it.

  He relocked the safe and replaced the keys, before going to Anny’s desk. Where was her bag? She always had it with her, every morning. It was not hanging on the coat stand, or on the back of her chair. His eyes scoured the walls for pegs, but there was none. He started to sweat. He thought he heard the sound of feet approaching and rushed to the door, but there was no one. He thought feverishly, where could it be? She was a sensible girl and a neat one. Where would she put it? He eyed her desk and saw it had three drawers, two small and one large at the base. He pulled it open and there it was, stashed neatly in the bottom drawer. It had a clasp that was shaped like two halves of one heart. He paused. He was assaulted by a wave of nausea. His face was slick with sweat now. He did not have to do this. He could abort the whole scheme. But a memory came to him of her face, cursing him, hating him, and that artist rogue making her laugh. How dare such a girl spurn him! They were too proud by half, those Woodvines. The daughter must have learnt her pride from her insolent father, like that time at the furnace, all those years ago, when Woodvine had made a fool of him before the men. Well, now they would pay for their insolence. He forced open the clasp to Anny’s bag and dropped in the cash, shoving it to the bottom of the bag, underneath the lunch wrapped carefully in a cloth. He clasped the bag and pushed the drawer shut.

  But her lunch. She would get her lunch out of her bag long before counting up at the end of the day and she would see the money and know. He opened the drawer again and took out her bag, placing it on the desk. He nearly upset an inkpot and watched in a moment of horror as it tipped to one side a fraction, then fell back to its place, the red ink sloshing. His grandmother’s damned stupid idea of all that coloured ink. It could have been the end of this, if blood-red ink had flooded across the desk. He opened the bag and looked inside. What he wanted was an inner pocket, something he could place the money inside that she would not necessarily look in between now and the end of the day. He took out her lunch, a handkerchief, a coin purse and a small notebook. These things of Anny’s touched him and he paus
ed. But his hand felt a button. He peered inside the bag’s recesses and saw the pocket. He fumbled with the button and opened it, relieved to see there was nothing already inside; Anny clearly had no secrets. It was just large enough to stash the money inside. He put all her belongings back in just the way she had left them. He fastened the button, closed the bag and put it away in the drawer, then lurched to the door and slammed it shut, locking it clumsily, almost dropping the key. He rushed back to the garden room and went in through the glass door. Nobody about, thankfully. Straight to his father’s study to replace the key, then across the hallway to the stairs. He threw a quick glance at the library, where Anny would be seated, waiting nervously for his father, who would never come. He turned from her and stumbled up the staircase and across the landing to his room. He shut the door, went straight to his wash bowl and vomited into it, retching for minutes after, the yellowish slime of his bile smeared across the back of his hand. There, it was done. Now he needed to deal with Anny.

  *

  Anny stood stiffly by the library window. She did not dare sit down. She could not fathom why Mr King would want to see her, unless she was in some kind of bother. Heat prickled around her collar and her stomach churned. But she knew she had been working as well as usual, had met all of Mr B’s requests, though they had had a little quarrel that morning. No, not a quarrel as such, but a disagreement. She had asked him if he would be so kind as to write her a reference if she were to start applying for jobs in Shrewsbury. They had talked about it in the past and the Brothertons had always been so supportive. But he had seemed flustered by the request and made excuses for her not leaving presently and giving it some time before making such a rash move, as he put it. She was frustrated with his negative response, but supposed it was to do with Mrs B being ill again and so much work to be done. He was being a bit unreasonable and the uncomfortable look on his face told her he knew that, but he insisted that she was needed far too much in the office to leave them at present. He had gone into his room and shut the door, which he rarely did when they were working alone in the office together and she felt shut out. She decided she would talk to his wife when she was back, see if she could soften her and then Mrs B might be able to work on her husband’s resolve a little.

  But why had she been summoned here, to talk to Mr King? Mr B had said only today how invaluable she was, and she had never arrived late or mislaid anything or given anyone any cheek or . . . Could it possibly have anything to do with Cyril? Surely not. It couldn’t be. She put her hands to her hot cheeks and felt a little faint. Then, the door opened.

  ‘Anny!’

  It was Peggy. To see her friend’s open, smiling face here in this worrisome place was like a cooling breeze.

  ‘Oh, Peggy! I’m that happy it’s you.’ Peggy came over to her, a look of concern clouding her features and her face looked pale. ‘Are you well, Peggy? You look white as a sheet.’

  ‘It is only I feel a little washed out. A good night’s sleep will cure it. But what of you, my dear? I can see something is wrong, and I cannot imagine for the life of me why you are here in the library alone. Is there an emergency? Are you awaiting someone?’

  ‘I was told to come and wait for your father, but I have no clue why.’

  Peggy frowned. ‘My father? But he is not at home.’

  ‘He has stepped out?’

  ‘No, he left very early this morning. I believe he is in Oswestry for the day and will return by teatime.’

  ‘Oh, I am glad to hear that!’ cried Anny. It must have been a mistake then. But what a strange one. Anny’s relief swept across her face so clearly that Margaret smiled at her and reached out a hand to touch her shoulder.

  ‘Is anything amiss, dear Anny? It is so long since we’ve spoken and I . . . I have missed you. I have missed . . . our confidences.’

  Anny felt a brief flash of guilt. Things had moved so quickly with Jake, and then there was the trouble with Cyril . . . There had been no time to tell Peggy about either.

  ‘Oh, Peggy, I have so much to share with you. Good news and bad news.’

  ‘I have news, too!’ Margaret’s face lit up and Anny wondered what on earth it could be. ‘But you first. What is your news? Bad first, to get it over with.’

  The library door opened. Cyril strode in and turned his head in an exaggerated double take, whereupon he smirked at both of them. ‘Now then, what have we here? Not so secret meetings anymore, eh? Flaunting your mismatched friendship before the whole household, is it now? I don’t know. I come in to fetch a book and find the help seated in the library with the young lady of the house. Whatever next?’

  Margaret stood up and faced her brother. ‘As if you ever read a book, Cyril King. Are you spying on us?’

  Anny nearly burst out laughing to hear Peggy stand up to her brother so. That was a first!

  ‘Shut up, you little worm,’ spat Cyril. ‘And get back to the office, girl. How dare you sit here like an esteemed visitor.’

  Anny stood and dusted non-existent dust from her skirt. ‘I was told to wait in here for your father.’

  Cyril scoffed. ‘That’s not possible. My father is out all day. Who on earth told you that?’

  ‘The stable boy, Paddy. He said that I was to wait for Mr King in the library. No, he said, I must wait upon Mr King. And I said, Upon? And he said, No, I must wait for Mr King in the library.’

  ‘That halfwit. He was dropped on his head as a baby. Everyone knows that. Now, get back to work. Hurry up, damn you.’

  Anny quickly nodded to her friend as she walked past her. The conversation with Peggy would have to wait.

  Anny left the room in a hurry and was worried to hear Cyril was walking right behind her. She did not turn. She did not give him that pleasure. She walked steadily and with dignity out of the servants’ entrance and around the house to the office. All the while, Cyril’s footsteps haunted hers. She stopped at the office door and turned the handle to discover it was locked. Now, where could Mr B be? She retrieved the key from her skirts and put it in the door. As she opened it, she turned to confront Cyril. She could not allow him to come into the office and be alone with her in there. As she turned, she was surprised to see he was walking away, down the lane towards the town. She shuddered. His whims were disturbing. Oh, for the day when she and Jake could escape this place! As she went in and shut the office door, she looked about her at the office that had housed her day in, day out for four years, had taught her so much, had raised her from washer girl to office junior. Despite Mr B’s reluctance, she knew it was time to strike out now, to apply for jobs in Shrewsbury. Indeed, if she secured a better job, with a higher wage, then she and Jake would be one step closer to marriage. She pictured herself moving to Shrewsbury, her parents saying a fond goodbye as she climbed onto the coach, her trunk deposited on the top and the coach rattling along the roads to their grand county town, a place of dreams she had never been, where they said the jolly old river ran through topped by arching stone bridges, flanked by beautiful houses and churches full of history and pots overflowing with flowers on every street.

  She sat at her desk and began her first task of the day. She worked alone for some time, over a half hour. Where could Mr B be? At least Cyril had not returned. That was something to be thankful for. Then she heard footsteps approaching and looked up. In came Mr B, puffed and looking annoyed.

  ‘Well, I must say, what a to-do.’

  ‘Can I help, sir?’ said Anny.

  ‘No, my dear. It is simply that I am so behind now. What with you being called away, I then received a message from Mrs King senior to fetch ink from town.’

  ‘I could have done that for you.’

  ‘Indeed! But you had to see Mr King. Is everything well?’

  ‘Well, that is the curious thing. He is away from home all day. Went at dawn, apparently. I cannot think what got into Paddy, telling me that.’

  But with no answers to be found they both got back to work.

 
; The day passed slowly, with reams of figures to record, accounts to settle, sums to be done and papers to sort. Anny spent much of it thinking of Jake and their future, and worrying over the threat from Cyril. Near the end of the day, she heard the carriage arrive. Anny felt the same nerves from that morning, now that the master had returned. What if the message for her to see him had been correct, but delivered late, and he had wanted to see her? What if he still wanted to see her? What if he turned up now, at the door? She still could not imagine what on earth it could be about, if that did happen. She was distracted by the racing of her thoughts and did not notice Mr B come through and stand thoughtfully before her. She looked up.

  ‘There is money missing from the safe.’

  The statement shocked Anny. ‘Shall we count it again?’

  ‘I have counted it twice,’ said Mr B, his face a picture of worry.

  ‘Let us count it again together.’

  They went through and she looked at the ledger on his desk, checked the amount that should be there and then set to counting the money with him, speaking the amounts aloud and jotting down each denomination on his blotter. Then she added up all of the amounts and wrote a total. It matched Mr B’s twice-done calculations and was exactly thirty pounds off what the total should have been.