The Daughters of Ironbridge

by Mollie Walton

  ‘My dear, I have listened to your accusations. There is no question of your brother being involved in any such plot. And there is no question of doubt in Woodvine’s guilt of theft, as charged. If you choose to speak your ridiculous theories about this elaborate plot that my son is supposed to have been involved in, I will disown you as my daughter. Not only that, I will personally see to it that our family doctor pronounces that you are feeble of mind, just as your grandmother is, and just as her sister was, who, as you know, though we never speak of it, killed herself in a lunatic asylum, the family shame. So, you see there is in the female side of this family a weakness, a propensity to madness . . . of invention and imaginings. Any such story bandied about by you concerning any male member of this family will be met with your own incarceration. You will be as surely locked up as your friend Woodvine. But there is one difference. In her case, she will go to trial and may be fortunate; she may be transported to Australia for seven years and not serve her time in a prison here. You, on the other hand, would be sent to an institution for the rest of your life. Mark my words, my girl, for I will make sure of it. So, the choice is yours. It will be your freedom or hers.’

  *

  The child came into the room, her face white with shock, a scalding red mark on her cheek and a bluish bloom beside her eye. Queenie glanced at Jenkins, who shot her a knowing look back. Queenie nodded and Jenkins went to the girl, made a bit of a fuss about her and steered her to sit down on the end of the bed.

  ‘Oh, Grandmother!’ cried Margaret and sobbed, covering her face, which made the girl flinch at the touch.

  ‘Stop that now!’ Queenie heard herself cry. She did not intend it to sound so harsh, but she could not abide tears, she really could not. ‘Crying never did a person one shred of good,’ she continued in a softer voice. It seemed to do the trick as Margaret calmed a little and wiped her face, wincing from the tenderness around her left eye. ‘I am not one to condone your father’s violence, but you must admit that it is your own doing on this occasion, disappearing like that without permission.’

  Margaret looked up at her. Those blue eyes, just like Selina’s, her poor lost sister. ‘It wasn’t that, Grandmother. It was about Anny.’

  ‘Who on earth is Anny?’

  ‘Anny is my friend. Anny Woodvine. She works at the office with Mr Brotherton.’

  ‘The thief?’

  Margaret shuffled closer along the bed, her tears gone now, a look of activated energy in her eyes. Queenie felt alarmed. What could the girl have to do with this person? She had heard of it from Jenkins, the shame of it, the degradation of having a thief in their midst, a cuckoo in the nest, whose sex and lowly station in life had been overlooked and who had been given a chance at a plum job, only to betray them all and take their cash, like a common pickpocket.

  ‘Grandmother, I must tell you the truth. I tried to tell Father but he would not listen. Anny is not a thief. She is innocent. Cyril wanted to marry her and she said no, so he put the money in her bag. It’s all a lie. She is in prison now and we must help her. We simply must help her, Grandmother.’

  The words of the girl had tumbled out at such a pace that Queenie’s sense of it was muddled. There was something about this thief and her grandson and marriage and prison. It all sounded like a romance novel and not at all what Margaret ought to be reading. She would have a word with Ralph about that, about curbing his daughter’s reading habits, which were tending to the dangerous by the sounds of it. But then she remembered they were talking of something real, that Margaret had been struck by her father and that something bad had occurred. Could it be real? Cyril and a common office girl?

  ‘I do not believe a word of it,’ said Queenie, finally, and looked at Jenkins, who nodded her head, her mouth set in a hard, straight line. If Jenkins agreed, it was sure to be right. She took comfort from that. But Margaret was standing up, taking a step closer to her, looking down upon her and talking again. What could the child be thinking?

  ‘It is the truth, Grandmother. Cyril is rotten, through and through. He attacked Anny in the woods. He has been doing it to the maids for years. Surely you’re aware of this.’

  A quick glance at Jenkins, who raised her eyebrows and looked askance. So Cyril was about the same business as his grandfather, was he? As her husband? Yes, she could believe that.

  Margaret went on. ‘Anny is a good person, Grandmother. A wonderful person. She works hard and has ambition. She has no reason to lie or steal. She was planning to apply for better jobs in Shrewsbury.’

  Queenie was now focused on what the child was saying. Sometimes her mind fogged over, like the stealthy arrival of the mist that hung about the river in autumn. It would linger a while and her thoughts would be confused and lost. But then a meaningful word, a look, a deed by others about her could bring her back instantly to herself; the mist of her mind would be burned away and she would find herself as clear and sharp as she ever was in her youth. She sat up straighter in her bed and said, ‘Perhaps she stole the money to help set herself up in Shrewsbury. Have you thought of that, hmm?’

  ‘Why would she risk it, though? She would ruin her chances. She is intelligent, far cleverer than I. She had no necessity to steal, with her good job and the promise of a career to come.’

  ‘You are young and do not know people. People are stupid. People act in a stupid manner, a nonsensical manner. If you try to fathom every act that people do and why they have done it, why, that would be a futile exercise.’

  ‘This one is not stupid. I know her.’

  ‘Sit down, child, will you? You are hurting my neck, making me gawp up at you like this.’ Margaret seated herself and continued to stare unsettlingly at her, her back straight and her hands folded in her lap. She is blossoming, thought Queenie. ‘Now, how could you possibly know an office girl like that well enough to make these pronouncements about her character?’

  ‘She and I have been friends for years, secret friends and correspondents. We began writing to each other as children and have met up many times since. She is the person I know best in the world. She is my dearest friend.’

  ‘How did I not know of this?’ said Queenie. How could such shenanigans have been occurring in her household without her knowledge?

  ‘I did tell you, Grandmother. When I first met Anny years ago, I told you I wanted to be friends with her.’

  ‘And I advised you then that it was a preposterous idea. But you defied me! How can this have come to pass, in our family? Friendships with servants?’

  The child was protesting about it, saying something about an office, but Queenie was not listening. She was scolding herself inwardly. It was because she spent too much time in bed these days. Yes, that was it. Well, this would not do. She would have to insist that Jenkins got her up and about more. She had become indolent and this was the outcome. The child needed taking in hand. ‘Well, I must say, any such friendship is wholly ill-advised and should never have been allowed to prosper in the first place. The poor are an unknown quantity, my dear. We can as little understand the workings of their minds as that of Benjamina’s dog. They are simply another species.’

  ‘You would say that of Jenkins, would you?’ said Margaret, not looking round at the subject of her sentence.

  The very thought! Queenie saw Jenkins puff up with consternation. Jenkins, her mainstay, her friend, her everything! ‘What a ridiculous notion!’ she spluttered at Margaret. ‘Jenkins is not poor. She has a job for good here. Well, until I pass on, but I have ensured she will be looked after when I am gone. The idea that Jenkins is poor or could ever be poor is insulting and you must apologise immediately, girl.’

  Jenkins had folded her arms and was looking pointedly above Margaret’s head, with an air of disgruntled forbearance that Queenie loved about her.

  ‘Please, Grandmother, we digress. I am merely saying that Anny is not poor and is not another species. She is a wholly dependable, intelligent person who has been cruelly wronged. Cyril – your gran
dson – has committed a crime. He is the one who has stolen money and has then tried to blame it on an innocent person. He is the criminal.’

  Another moment of lucidity came to Queenie. Her grandson, a criminal? Whatever the boy had done, this must never be permitted to come to pass. The family name would be in tatters. She alone knew what she had suffered and sacrificed all these years to bolster the King family name. Her dear sister had died for it. Selina, her darling Selina . . .

  To think of all that had been lost to make the King name what it was, all that Queenie had suffered to build this family into the tower of strength it was today. And now this girl, this office girl, was going to bring it all crashing down? With nasty accusations of attacks and theft and whatnot? An ironworker’s daughter at that? A nobody? Never!

  ‘Grandmother!’ cried the girl and Queenie was snapped back into the present moment. What was it they were doing again? Margaret’s voice was shrill and harsh. ‘What do you have to say about Cyril? What are we to do?’

  ‘Why,’ said Queenie, recovering her senses and sitting up straighter, ‘nothing. Absolutely nothing. It is out of the family’s hands and there is nothing to be done. If the girl is innocent, then the truth will out in court. The family cannot be seen to bring disgrace upon itself. As the elder of this clan, I will never allow the King name to be brought into disrepute by accusations against any member of this family. Now, go away, child. Never let me hear you speak of it again.’

  There. Another crisis averted. The girl was still wittering on, something about her father threatening her but Queenie had stopped listening and waved her hands to shoo the noise and fuss away, which Jenkins did with swift economy. When the girl had gone, she said to Jenkins, ‘I’m still queen of this castle.’

  Jenkins winked at her and plumped her pillows. Queenie soon drifted into a dreamless sleep. When she awoke, it was dark. Jenkins must be next door, asleep. She turned her head towards the drawn curtains and saw a slit of light emanating from outside. Not daylight, but a shifting, curious sort of a light that was bright then dimmer, bright again. She stared at it for some time, her eyes adjusting to the pulse of it. She felt compelled to leave her bed and seek it out. She drew back the curtain and looked down upon her family graveyard.

  An apparition stood before the grave of Ralph senior, pulsing with light. Queenie blinked and looked again. It was still there, gazing across the graveyard into the distance. Its hair and skin were the hue of moonshine. Its eyes emanated the bluish flare of a city street gas lamp. Queenie pinched herself, hard, and cried out. But still the vision was there and had not moved. Could it be real? Was she losing her mind? She had hoped to see spirits before, those of the ones she had loved the most and lost. But this was not her sister and it was not her daughters. It was some other entity and it stood below her, as real as herself. And it was beautiful.

  Queenie gazed at its splendour, then shuddered when she recognised that exquisite face. It was Blaize. The servant girl, Betsy Blaize. It was the maid she and her husband had dismissed five years before. It looked up, directly at her. It stretched out its arms and opened out its palms, showing her how empty its embrace was with no baby to fill it. It spoke to her, though not with its mouth. She heard the voice of Betsy Blaize in her mind. It said four words only, but those four little words terrified Queenie so greatly, she turned abruptly from the window and cried out, losing her footing and falling to the floor. Jenkins arrived from the next room, in a flurry of white nightdress and unpinned hair, rescued her from her collapse and got her back into bed. Jenkins scolded her for being out of bed at the witching hour. Queenie grasped Jenkins’s arm and glared at her. ‘Yes, it is the hour of the witch. She visited me. She told me. She cursed us.’

  Jenkins tried to soothe her and lay her down but Queenie was having none of it. She must tell Jenkins what the ghost had said.

  ‘This house will fall.’

  Chapter 18

  The following morning, Margaret arose early. She breakfasted alone, glad to be by herself. She felt so lost and powerless. Her family was beyond redemption, even Queenie. She wondered what rock they had found to crawl under and hoped they were hiding in shame. She knew Queenie and Benjamina usually breakfasted in bed but the absence of her father and brother was odd. They did not materialise for church either, which was highly irregular. When she, her grandmother and stepmother returned from church, she made her excuses and went upstairs. Her every movement felt mechanical, like a repetitive steam hammer along the river that marked time. But all the while she was screaming on the inside. Desperate for some way to save Anny, she changed into walking boots and a warmer cloak. It was a drizzly day, misty and muggy after the yellow heat of the day before. She left the house, unnoticed, made her way down to the riverside and walked through the woodland fringe towards the Woodvines’ cottage, her tread slow and a little clumsy.

  She was tired. She had wept a lot the night before. Her eye ached where her father had walloped her. Memories of Anny’s imprisonment and visions of her own possible incarceration haunted her through the night, whether her eyes were open or closed. She feared for Anny, feared her father’s threat. She did not know much of what had happened to her grandmother’s sister, Selina, as it was a tale that had been silenced long ago. There were whisperings in the family and Cyril had mentioned it once or twice, about their lunatic great-aunt. As bad as Anny’s prison was, she could only imagine that a madhouse was worse. It was too terrifying to contemplate. She tried not to think of it, but then her mind filled with the anguish of not being able to help her friend, of the promises she’d made to Anny and Mr Woodvine. Stupid, reckless promises. But she had been so sure of herself yesterday. So sure that truth would win the day, that all one had to do was state the facts and the world would listen, and change.

  Too soon, she arrived at the cosy gathering of houses where the Woodvines lived. She dreaded this visit, of what she had to report to Anny’s parents. She had not seen John Woodvine again the day before. He had not waited for her outside the prison and she had instructed her driver to look out for him on the road home, but he hadn’t been seen. She hoped he had found his way home all right. As she approached the house, the neighbourhood children looked up from their games as she passed.

  Mr Woodvine appeared at the door as she neared it, his face lit up with expectation. Oh, how cruel it was to bring bad news to these good people! His wife could be seen behind him and they both came outside and nodded to Margaret, smiling uncertainly and both of them wiping their hands, as if she deserved it. But she did not deserve it, any of their politeness or kindness. She had failed.

  ‘Miss King,’ said John Woodvine. ‘Please come in. We are glad to see you.’

  She stepped over the threshold into Anny’s house. She had glimpsed it before, during her fancy dress ruse as Anny’s workmate, all those years ago. But she hadn’t seen much of it, as she’d been too shy to speak to Mrs Woodvine and had stayed outside, so sure was she that her hopeless attempts at blending in would be scuppered if she opened her mouth. What she wouldn’t do to turn back the clock to that day.

  Once inside, there came to her a delicious aroma of dough. She saw it placed on the windowsill in earthenware pans to rise. It was small inside the house, very small. It was a one-storey dwelling, the front room a neat square with three chairs arranged about a fireplace. One took a few steps and reached the kitchen area, a large table and every other surface and piece of furniture swathed in the products of Mrs Woodvine’s washing work. Beyond the kitchen were two doors, to each of the bedrooms. All of the walls lacked plaster and thus the lumps and bumps of the stone that built the cottage jutted out into the room on all sides. But instead of feeling hemmed in by this, it gave the rooms a cosy, comforting appearance, as if the walls themselves were part of the family, gathering it in and keeping it safe. Such a tiny dwelling, so little room. But so filled with love all these years, replete with happiness. Until now.

  ‘May I fetch you any . . . refreshments, M
iss King?’ asked Mrs Woodvine, her eyes ringed by deep shadows. How little she must have slept these past few nights.

  ‘No, please. I require nothing. Thank you. I must speak with you both.’ Margaret faltered here, as she had no idea how to continue, how to explain what had occurred. There was much she could not say to them, to anyone, so that anything she said would only be a fraction of the truth. With that in mind, it was so difficult to know how to convey her sympathy for them, how to explain how hard she had tried. If they only knew how much she had wept for Anny. But there she went again, feeling sorry for herself. She wanted to slap her own face.

  ‘Please sit,’ said Mr Woodvine. She glanced at him and his face was dark. He had such an expressive face, as if one could read the weather of it changing moment to moment. Then, it was overcast. He knew it was not good news. Margaret sat down on a chair and the others did so too. There was no more putting it off. Now she must speak.

  ‘I am sorry to say . . .’

  Immediately Mrs Woodvine began weeping. Oh heavens, oh God. What could she say to make this better? Nothing. Nothing. Mr Woodvine was shushing his wife gently and patting her shoulder, staring into the bare grate of an empty fireplace as he did so. The muggy day had turned it stuffy in that little house, almost unbearably so, and Margaret could feel wet patches blooming under her arms and behind her knees. She forced herself to go on. ‘I have spoken to both my father and my grandmother. They were both . . . unwilling to change their positions on the matter. My father will not withdraw the charges against Anny.’