The Daughters of Ironbridge

by Mollie Walton

  ‘Thank you,’ said Anny, staring desperately at her now, squeezing her hand. ‘And I hope to God it works. I cannot stand it here much longer.’

  ‘Visiting time is nearly up,’ called the guard and people began to busy themselves to leave. Anny said, ‘There’s no time, Peggy. Listen, does Jake Ashford know I’m here? Does he know about this?’

  The mention of Jake’s name was a shock to Margaret. What was this? She frowned at it.

  ‘Well, I don’t know, Anny. I’ve not seen Mr Ashford these past few days.’

  ‘Will you take him a message for me, Peggy? Please? I know he comes to the big house. Will you please tell him something from me?’

  Margaret fought to control her expression. ‘Of course I will. What is it?’

  ‘Tell him I didn’t do it. Tell him you’re going to help me. Tell him . . . to wait.’

  ‘Wait . . . for what?’ said Margaret.

  ‘Visiting time is over now. Out you go. Out you all go,’ called the guard, who was joined by a turnkey, ready to take the prisoners back.

  ‘And Peggy,’ said Anny, standing, grasping her friend’s hand now so tightly, so desperately it crushed her fingers, ‘tell him to visit me. Please! Tell him to come to me, as soon as he can, Peggy. Please!’

  The visitors were leaving and the guard was approaching. Anny released her friend’s hand and turned from her, a turnkey standing between them, ushering the prisoners out.

  ‘I will speak to my father,’ called Margaret, as Anny gathered up her package and left the room by a back door. Anny looked back once, eyes pleading, then disappeared into a gloomy corridor beyond. Despite the weight of this terrible place upon her, Anny’s bearing was ramrod straight. So, was there an understanding between Anny and Jake Ashford? Margaret’s heart twisted with it. It couldn’t be. Jake had asked to spend more time with her. There must be some mistake. How she wanted her friend to possess this happiness, and yet at the same time how she smarted with envy. Could it be true? Whatever the case was, she had to drive it from her mind. The only thing that mattered now was helping Anny to get out of this hellish place. Margaret inhaled deeply, breathing in the stink of the prison, which only minutes before had sent her coughing into her lace handkerchief. But she was determined to overcome her previous sensibilities. As she left the room and followed the turnkey out into the corridors and beyond, she felt she was changing inside. For the first time in her sheltered life, she had been shaken to the core by the reality of what other people had to endure in this world. How stupid she’d been, how pathetic and scared and shy – and of what? These were real problems, solid, unavoidable problems as heavy as iron, and as immovable. And now her dear friend was in mortal danger and she was the only one on earth who could do anything about it. She felt herself grown an inch by the time she reached the prison gates, and as she left the prison behind and entered into the sunshiny afternoon, she emerged as a new creature.

  Chapter 16

  Ralph King sat at his study desk, looking down gloomily at his mound of a belly that pushed up against the drawer handle. Where did it all come from, this flesh? As a younger man, he had been able to eat like a pig and never put on an ounce. He hunted, walked, rode and even swam without a second thought. Nowadays he broke into a sweat climbing the stairs. He thought about going up there to look at himself in the mirror, to turn sideways and see if his profile was worse than the last time he looked. But Benjamina was up there, taking her customary nap. What on earth did she do to warrant a sleep every afternoon? Weakness, that was it. Women were weak. But she ate bonbons and cake and other delicacies and all of it disappeared without blemish into her slim frame. Her breasts and hips and buttocks were womanly and ample, he thought with a minor jolt, but everywhere else was lean and firm. How did she do it? How he envied her that. It must be born in her. Or perhaps it was age. She was so very young, at twenty-three. And he felt so very old, though surely forty-three was not ancient. He felt somehow he was ageing more quickly than her. She was receding from him, growing distant. With a looming sense of doom, he wondered why his pretty wife did not want to bed him anymore. She had been voracious when they first married and now had cooled off considerably, always complaining of headaches and so forth. Even when they did, she would just lie there and stare off into the distance, waiting for it to be over. And why did she always ask him to leave her alone straight afterward? She said she didn’t want a child yet, as she was too young. He could understand that. He didn’t want one either in particular, but surely this was unnatural for a woman. His first wife had had two, long before she was twenty-three. But look what happened to her. Celia, lovely, loving Celia. She had been so innocent, so giving, so sweet. Benjamina’s lasciviousness had been stimulating to begin with, but it didn’t last and now it seemed tarnished, when he thought of Celia. It nearly broke him, when she bled and died like that in their bed. How he hated Margaret after that; couldn’t hold his baby daughter in his arms without cursing her. That was wrong, he knew that. But can a man help how he feels, really feels? No, he cannot. And no man loved a woman more than he had loved Celia. His love for Benjamina – well, that was lust. And necessity. Mostly lust. Her body, soft here, tight there, open to him. Or had been, once upon a time. Maybe he should tell her he wanted a child and then she’d be duty bound to perform. Yes, he’d try that. And stop eating so much.

  He realised that he was lonely. Yes, the great Ralph King. Did his wife love him? His daughter? His mother, even? Anyone? Cyril. His beloved son. Did the boy love him, though? Could he love anyone, that boy? The doubts came thick and fast, like flies to fresh manure. The boy had that cruelty in him, just like Ralph King senior, his own father. He knew they’d both had their way violently with maids about the place. He’d heard his father grunting away with them at night, seen his son manhandling them. He’d had words with Cyril, only one time, when he was caught almost in the act, ravishing that pretty one, Lucy. It would cause such a scandal if word got out. Didn’t the boy know to keep his activities private? He’d never had the urge, himself. He never wanted to touch the lower classes, if he could help it. Couldn’t understand it.

  And then there was Margaret. Only today she had taken the barouche without asking and kept it out all day and was still not back. He was furious with her. So out of character and so damnably selfish. Cyril had wanted to take it out this morning, and he himself had required it this afternoon. They had to make do with the curricle. What in heaven’s name was the girl thinking, sneaking off like that at first light? How dare she! He’d have a word or two to say about that when she returned. And Benjamina. He’d have a word or two with her as well, this evening.

  A knock on the door dragged him from his musing and he called whoever it was to enter. It was Brunt, his faithful butler of over thirty years, around when he was a boy and his father was young and vital. That should be the way of things, servants committing themselves to one family. So many of these younger ones hopped from job to job, never sticking at anything. Times were changing and he did not like it. He did not like it at all. Brunt was waiting for him.

  ‘What is it, Brunt?’

  ‘Messrs Brotherton and Pritchard are here, with their daily report. Shall I show them in, sir?’

  ‘Indeed, indeed,’ said King, forcing himself to appear businesslike. Oh hell, these meetings were tedious. And, if he admitted it fully to himself, they were confusing. They often tried to explain things to him of the nature of the business, and he so often failed to grasp the gist of what they were banging on about and ended up bluffing his way through it and hoping nobody noticed. He was sure, actually, that nobody did notice. He was very good at bluffing.

  The two men came in, caps in hand. Ralph would usually stand up and address them from in front of the fireplace but today he was weary and quite comfortable in his position at his desk. He remained seated and said, ‘Proceed, gentlemen.’

  Brotherton began with some figures about labour and materials, then something about breakage in the m
achinery at the rolling mill that would need fixing – something about the screws of the pillars of the rolls that would need re-cutting – and Ralph just said affirmative things on occasion and hoped Brotherton would shut up soon, which he did. Then Pritchard started up about the illness of some key workman which delayed production, and then about working hours and Ralph lost interest. Why did they bother him with such things? So far, no questions had been asked, so he felt unencumbered by having to do anything more than nod sagely and agree with all of their conclusions, unless it involved the spending of more money, in which case his ears always pricked up and he weeded out such revolutionary ideas and crushed them.

  Just then, the sound of a coach and horses coming up the drive alerted him to the return of his daughter. He must get rid of these fools and take her to task for her behaviour. Surely they had finished by now. He attuned his mind to the string of words that came from Brotherton’s mouth and nodded twice. But then Pritchard piped up and was talking about materials, and how the cost would be increased but that it would surely be a worthy investment, and so forth.

  ‘What’s this?’ said Ralph, and the two men stopped and stared in embarrassed silence. ‘Pritchard, do go over what you just said, as I can hardly believe my ears.’

  ‘Uh . . . well, sir, the problem is occurring with the raw materials. The coke and the limestone we are supplied with needs a more uniform preparation, if slips are to be avoided.’

  What were slips again? Oh, the processes that went on in these blast furnaces were so complicated, one needed to concentrate damnably hard to understand them.

  ‘Slips?’

  More staring. ‘Yes, sir, slips,’ said Pritchard.

  ‘And your argument again is . . . what? About slipping?’

  ‘Slips, not slipping, sir. You see, at times the materials stick to the inside wall of the furnace and cause a blockage. That’s your slip. If it builds all the way across, that’s a scaffold. That’s very dangerous, sir, and could cause an explosion. The coke and limestone we’re presently receiving are of a poorer quality. The pieces are so uneven as to cause blockages, as they burn at different rates. We need to increase the checks on the production of our materials to ensure a more uniform size and . . .’

  ‘It sounds expensive, Pritchard.’

  Brotherton piped up. ‘Not really, sir. It might be only further instructions needed to the bridgestocker in the proper preparation of the materials and may only require a small increase in expenditure, due to the . . .’

  ‘No,’ said Ralph and decided to clench his fist and place it commandingly on his desk for effect. ‘No, no, no. This business is already spending far too much money on labour and materials. We will not be adopting anything that drives the cost up further.’

  Pritchard started up again: ‘But, sir, the safety of the furnace and therefore the men themselves . . .’

  ‘Are well taken care of,’ Ralph interrupted.

  ‘With respect, sir,’ Pritchard began. Well, he didn’t like the sound of that. If he had respect, he wouldn’t need to declare it in such a presumptuous manner.

  ‘Now then, Pritchard, this won’t do. This really will not do. You come in here and make these demands like a common highwayman. Yes, it needed saying. My furnace runs very well and has done these past years. I trust in the ability of you and your workers to keep an eye on these things and do your best with the materials you are given. Why, if we spent all the money in the world on perfect materials and perfect labourers, I dare say we’d have a perfect ironworks. But we would not make a profit, would we now, hmm? And you would not earn a wage and neither would any of your men and I would be a beggar on the streets alongside you.’

  He would have liked to add, And what do you say to that, eh, Pritchard? But he restrained himself. He had made his point, brilliantly. He didn’t need to rub their noses in it, though it was tempting. But he had had quite enough of these two for now and was itching to launch his wrath at his daughter.

  He rang the bell for Brunt and when he came, told him to escort them out and bring Margaret to him forthwith. When Brotherton and Pritchard had finally gone, he breathed a sigh of relief. Another problem dealt with in an excellent manner, and any possible humiliations due to muddles had been swiftly side-stepped. He got up from his chair, which took more effort than he’d like and took up his favourite spot by the fireplace, sucked in his stomach and waited. There was a knock on the door.

  ‘Enter.’

  In came his daughter, and her appearance surprised him. Somehow, she looked older than she had only the day before. Her bearing was more upright and her gaze more direct. She suddenly seemed the very image of her dead mother, the same large mouth, swan-like neck and graceful hands. He really must remember to be nicer to her in general terms, but not at this moment. Now what was needed was a hard lesson.

  Chapter 17

  At the sight of her father, Margaret quailed. She had never willingly approached him to converse about anything. But she knew that the moment had come to steel herself and act, for justice, but most of all, for her friend.

  ‘Father, I must speak with you,’ she said and approached quickly, placing her purse on his desk with a confident gesture that seemed to unsettle him.

  ‘Indeed you must. What is the meaning of this, Margaret? How dare you take the barouche today without my permission! What makes you think that a girl of your tender years can go gallivanting about the countryside without a chaperone, without . . . my permission, as I have just said. I demand an explanation.’

  ‘Never mind about that, Father. It is something else I need to discuss with you.’

  Her hands were trembling and she clasped them together to steady herself.

  ‘What in God’s name is this? What has happened to my shy, retiring daughter of only yesterday? Who is this arch young woman accosting me with demands? I say again, Margaret . . .’

  ‘No, Father, really. We don’t have time for that now. We must discuss Anny Woodvine.’

  ‘What is this, now? Woodvine? What the devil . . .’

  ‘I’ve been to see her in Shrewsbury. She’s innocent, Father.’ Margaret walked over to the fireplace and stood at the other end of it, directly opposite him.

  ‘You’ve been where? To Shrewsbury?’

  ‘Yes, I visited her in prison. I saw her father there. We spoke to her. She told us everything that happened. And I must say . . . it is my duty to inform you . . .’

  ‘You? You went to Shrewsbury Prison? With an ironworker? A prison?’

  She took a step towards him. She was within striking distance now. She felt her knees weakening but she forced herself to stay upright. She would not allow him to win this one. Everything was at stake now.

  ‘Yes, Father, but that is of no consequence. You really must listen to me, Father. I have to . . .’

  He hit her very hard across her right cheek. She did not fall to the ground. Instead, she bent right over, but her knees did not give way. She cradled her cheek in one hand, but stood her ground and looked up at him.

  ‘I will be heard,’ she said, quietly but firmly.

  ‘Must I strike you again?’ he said, his voice low.

  ‘Cyril put that money in Anny Woodvine’s bag. He did it out of revenge.’

  ‘What witchcraft is this? What lies are you cooking up? This is madness!’

  He went to hit her again, but she was wise to it now and dodged out of the way, causing him to stumble forward. He caught his balance with one hand on the mantelpiece. She hopped behind his leather armchair, the bulk of it between them.

  ‘It’s the truth, Father, and you must hear it. Cyril is no good. He’s rotten to the core.’

  Margaret was still stationed behind the chair, her eyes alert, her stance ready to flit away again. He was looking at her with narrowed eyes, as if trying to fathom her. Perhaps he was realising that his old ways were not working now. She would not be cowed by the back of his hand. She could see him chan
ging tack. What would he say next?

  ‘I am sorry I struck you, Margaret,’ he said carefully. ‘I lost my temper there for a moment and it is regrettable. It won’t happen again. Let us discuss this like civilised people. Here, come sit beside me and we shall reason this out, together.’

  He put his hand out to her. She hesitated. She did not take his hand but she did come out from behind the chair. He sat in his leather chair and motioned to her to sit on the matching footstool, but she declined and stood on the hearthrug. She did not trust him. She knew at that moment that she truly hated him. But she needed him to save Anny. And so she must listen and deal with him. It was heartening to see him acting more reasonably.

  She began, ‘You may well be unaware of this, but Cyril has been after Anny Woodvine for years.’

  ‘It is his way with the servant girls. An unfortunate weakness, but one I am preparing to take in hand.’

  ‘No, Father. It is more than that with Anny. He asked her to marry him.’

  ‘He did what?’

  Margaret thought her father might explode. ‘He told her he wanted her to be his wife. But she refused him.’

  ‘Has he told you of this himself?’

  ‘No, but Anny told me. And I trust Anny with my life. I never knew a more honest person than Anny Woodvine. Mr Brotherton would concur with this, I am sure. And he can confirm that Cyril was always bothering Anny at the office and trying to get her alone. Just ask him.’

  Her father was pinching at his lower lip, staring at the floor.

  Margaret went on, ‘Father, you know what Cyril is like, how proud he is. It would have humiliated him, to be refused by a girl like Anny. He would have wanted revenge. He must have come up with this plan to ruin her. But she is innocent of this crime. Cyril orchestrated the whole thing. We must force Cyril to admit it and you must tell the court to let her go.’

  She was standing over him, her arms crossed in an unfeminine stance which would probably infuriate him. Speaking the truth had given her courage. Also, he had not shouted at her again and he had not tried to deny what she said. This gave her hope that, finally, her father might just take her side, for the first time in her life. It felt extraordinary to talk to him in such an open, direct way. To be on equal terms, almost. She felt a great shift in power was occurring. Her father took a breath and she prepared herself for his next pronouncement.