The Daughters of Ironbridge

by Mollie Walton

  ‘I felt I should come,’ said Margaret, ‘Mr Woodvine, Jake Ashford. Have you seen them?’

  ‘No, miss.’

  ‘Oh, Lucy. This is beyond bearing . . . and all the fault of the Kings. What must you think of us? What must everyone here think? I know what they are saying, about . . . my father, the family. I know they say it is his fault. He should be there, he should be down there, helping. Instead he came home. I saw him retreat to his room. He ran upstairs, I tell you.’

  Lucy did not speak. Her face betrayed no opinion. But she was listening and this gave Margaret the confidence to go on. ‘But I want you to know that I am not like him, or my brother. I am not one of them. I never have been. I know my family is rotten and I cannot imagine why anyone would want to work for them, especially a kind and good person like you, Lucy. I cannot understand it.’

  Lucy looked down, a grim smile played about her lips and she answered, ‘We must work, miss. We have no choice as to our masters. And all masters are the same.’

  Margaret was shamed by her forgetting of this hard truth.

  ‘You are right. I am sorry, Lucy.’

  ‘Dunna fret yourself, miss. It is the way of the world.’

  ‘But it doesn’t have to be so, does it? Cannot we strive for change?’

  ‘Change is for the rich, not for the likes of me and mine.’

  Margaret stared at Lucy’s face. She was an attractive girl, pale skin and pink cheeks, black hair tucked neatly under her cap and pretty dark eyes. It was the first time Margaret had observed her closely, the first time she had ever looked carefully at one of the servants’ faces, looked into their eyes to see the person they were, not simply the role they played in her father’s house.

  ‘I am powerless, too, in my own way,’ Margaret said to Lucy, whose eyebrows rose just a touch, enough to show her derision of such a statement, yet sufficient to remain respectful. ‘I know you don’t believe that, but it is true. Yet, there are ways. There are ways we can break free of our bonds. One of them is friendship. It can break down the barriers between us.’

  She expected another world-weary retort from Lucy, but the girl was quiet, regarding her steadily for a moment with those small, intelligent eyes. Then she glanced about her. ‘I should get back now, miss. But, in all this muddle, I still have no word on my uncles. I’ve been down there and back and all over town looking for word, and none yet. Will you give me leave to keep looking, leave from my post at the house?’

  ‘Of course, Lucy. Will you bring me news of John Woodvine and Jake Ashford?’

  ‘I will if I can, miss,’ she said and turned away, slotting into the crowd and moving as one with them, her drab servant’s clothes mingling her into obscurity amongst her people.

  Margaret stood on the bridge and looked through the iron rails, the river flowing peacefully beneath her, oblivious to the human drama enacted upon its banks. She watched those coming from the direction of the blast, shaking their heads, some of the women crying, others covering their eyes with their hands.

  She wanted to run, run home and never leave it. She raised her head to catch a glimpse of her house on the hill, presiding over the town. Despite the rot that she knew grew daily within that house, it was the only home she knew. She turned her eyes to the road, summoning the courage to enter the fray.

  Then, she saw him.

  ‘Jake!’ she screamed. ‘Jake Ashford!’ Some looked around but she was not alone in calling out, as here at the bridge there was a loud hubbub of voices, of similar reunions and shouts and cries. Jake had not heard her and was pushing his way through the throng to get across the road to his lodgings. She rushed to him and reached him at his door.

  ‘Jake!’ she cried again and grasped his arm. He turned to her.

  ‘Oh, Margaret!’ he gasped and let her throw her arms about him.

  ‘Are you hurt?’ she said.

  ‘I am well, quite well. I was there. I was there, Margaret!’

  His eyes were lit up and his face was grubby.

  ‘You are not hurt? Are you sure?’

  ‘Quite sure. I was along the river a way and was sketching a scene of the workers framed by trees when it went off. I was thrown to the ground by the blast, but I was not injured. I was very lucky.’

  ‘Oh, thank heavens!’ she cried and began to sob, resting her head on this chest. He patted her on the back then stood her upright.

  ‘There, there, dear girl. I am well. But many others are not. It is the most incredible scene down there. I simply cannot describe it. But I must not, for you will never sleep again if I do.’

  ‘I was just there myself, Jake. It was terrible. The worst thing I have seen in my life.’

  ‘What on earth possessed you to go down there?’

  ‘I came to find you and Anny’s father. I did not see you there. A maid of ours took me away from it.’

  ‘Well, she did right. These are not sights for eyes as beautiful as yours. Now then, I lost my bag in the blast. I must go upstairs and fetch more materials. I must record it.’

  ‘You are going back there? To sketch?’

  ‘I must! This is an extraordinary event. I must record it for posterity.’

  Margaret stared at him. ‘Please do not go back there. Please stay with me.’

  ‘Ah, my little mouse,’ he said and took her hands, squeezing them. ‘There is no danger now. I am fine. You must go home and stay safe. I will come to you soon. Then, we will talk. We will make plans. But for now, I must go. You do understand, don’t you?’

  She thought of what he’d said about his mistress, art, who now had put fire in his belly; he would not be turned.

  ‘Of course. Please be careful there, Jake. And if you can, please can you ask about Mr Woodvine, Anny’s father? And come to the house to tell me if you hear news of him? Will you do that for me, Jake?’

  ‘I will do what I can.’

  ‘And you will send me word, of when and where we can meet next?’

  ‘Of course I will, my sweet. Now, go. Go home. I will see you anon.’

  With that, he turned and went into his lodging house and shut the door in her face.

  She walked home and waited in her room for hours. Cook prepared a plate of cold meats and had them sent up to her in her room. In the late evening, she heard sounds downstairs of doors closing and the voices of servants. She went out onto the landing and made her way across to the servants’ staircase. She heard weary feet coming up them, and there was Lucy.

  ‘Lucy, I am glad to see you,’ she said. Lucy stopped on the stairs and lifted her face. It was grimy like the others who’d come from the site, but Lucy’s eyes were ghostly, haunted by what they had seen, no doubt. ‘Is your family safe?’

  ‘Yes, miss. All my uncles are safe.’

  ‘What good fortune, Lucy. I am so glad to hear that. How did they escape it?’

  ‘They was in a different part of the works. Luckily none of them near the blast.’

  ‘Lucy, did you hear any news of the Woodvines? Of Anny’s father?’

  Lucy did not speak. She looked down at her feet. She shook her head.

  ‘Do you mean, you have no news? Or that it is bad news?’

  ‘It is bad news, miss. The worst. John Woodvine is dead.’

  Chapter 22

  Anny did not open her eyes. She knew she was awake, she knew that the touch of Jake’s hand on her face had been a dream, she knew she was in the worst room she had ever been in her life. She had thought the cell must be the worst, until she fell ill with fever and they brought her here, to the prison infirmary. After days of fever, of a boiling heat in her body that left her wordless and limp, she had begun to cool down and slowly crawl back to the land of the living. At her lowest moments, she did not know if she wished to recover or not. She wanted to escape the infirmary but the cell was nowhere she ever wanted to be again. The only thing that kept her going was the thought of what her death would do to those who loved her. Her father and mother mostly, but also, P
eggy. And Jake? How she longed for him. Her dreams were plagued by soft, sweet memories of his touch. But she was haunted by doubt. Did he love her? Why had he not come to her? There was something about him that made her doubt herself, her own judgement. She wanted him, indeed she did, but his love was not for her alone – she had to share it with his art. It was not how she pictured love would be: simple, warm and good. Jake’s love was like fire, but cold too, like a mirror on a winter’s morning.

  On waking in the infirmary, the smell hit her first. The only thing close to it was the butcher’s stall in Ironbridge mixed with the stench of the stale sweat of the men coming back from the furnace, including her father. Bless him, but he did stink after a shift. There was another smell in there, something sickly and sweet she couldn’t place. Something to do with death.

  She lay listening to the sounds of the sick. Some were coughing, others moaning, one snored. She could hear her heart beating, as it echoed dully deep inside her ears. She thought about how nobody else in the world could hear that sound but her. She was the only person allowed inside her own mind. This thought had comforted her these past weeks in prison. Whatever was happening outside of her body, or to her body, nobody could get inside her head. It was her refuge.

  She heard voices in the corridor beyond the infirmary. Her eyes opened and she looked towards the door but could not see anyone. She scanned the room, to see if anyone else had passed in the night. Two had perished since she’d been in there, carted away, staring, dead eyes still open, no sheet to cover them, taken with no ceremony. She wondered where they were buried, if anyone informed their families. It was a gloomy room lit only by candles, with eight beds arranged in two rows along each opposite wall, three of them occupied with sleeping prisoners, two men and one other woman. It was very hot and airless in there. She craved water but they were only given a small cup once a day. This was not a place where the sick were tended. This was a place where most came to die.

  There were those voices again. She saw a silhouette appear in the doorway, joined by another. She couldn’t make out the faces. But then she heard her surname and she saw the matron turn and look at her. She pulled herself upright. Was it Jake? Oh, let it be Jake! She squinted at the figures in the doorway, one of whom stepped into the room, where the candlelight caught her face.

  ‘Peggy!’ said Anny, her voice cracking as her throat was so dry.

  Peggy looked at her and smiled, then turned to the figure behind her, who Anny saw was Brotherton. Mr B! Come to see her with Peggy? She still held his disloyalty against him but maybe he was making amends now. Could it be . . . good news? Why else would both of them come? Was she to be released? Oh, happy day, if it were true!

  ‘I fear this was a mistake,’ said Brotherton and looked about to turn around and leave.

  ‘Wait outside if you must,’ said Margaret. ‘I am going to talk to Anny.’

  Margaret walked over to Anny’s bed and sat down at the end of it, smiling wanly. Anny saw Mr B wait at the door, then he stepped outside into the corridor. Anny thought, Why is he not coming to me? Anny looked back at Peggy, whose face showed the shock she knew came from her own pale and drawn appearance. She guessed she must look so much worse than the last time Margaret had seen her. She imagined she must look years older.

  ‘It’s me, Anny. It’s Peggy. I am here. I came to tell you—’

  ‘Is Jake with you? Is he here?’ she asked weakly.

  ‘Jake is not here, no. I am sorry, Anny. I do not think he will be coming. But I am here.’

  ‘Why? Did you talk to him? What did he say?’

  ‘Only that he must serve his art. I think he is too committed to his vocation. He isn’t deserving of you, Anny. You need a man who will devote himself to you.’

  Anny’s head dropped and she covered her face with her hands. I knew it, she thought. I knew he was not a good man. Deep down, I knew it. He is selfish and untrustworthy.

  ‘Oh, Anny, please don’t take it so. Please.’

  Anny looked up and set her face straight. ‘I am glad you told me the truth and that I won’t have to waste my time thinking of him any longer.’

  Oh, but it sustained me, she thought. It kept me going in this awful place. How I have missed him. How I will miss the thought of him.

  She could not keep up the brave face. She broke down and sobbed. Peggy handed her a clean handkerchief, pure white, embroidered fancily with the letters M and K. Then Peggy reached over and put her arms about her and held her as she cried.

  ‘He’s not the one for you,’ Peggy went on. ‘Not this one, not him. Forget him. Better to cry for him now and forget him. Better for everyone,’ said Peggy.

  Through her tears, Anny wondered, What does she mean, better for everyone?

  ‘I am so sorry, Anny,’ said a voice behind them. It was Mr B. Anny looked up.

  ‘Mr B,’ she managed, wiping her eyes and composing herself.

  ‘Yes, Anny. Oh, I don’t know what to say. I doubt I can add anything to what Miss King must have said so eloquently.’

  ‘No, Mr Brotherton! Not yet!’ said Margaret urgently.

  ‘We will all miss your father,’ Brotherton went on. ‘A good man. The best. Such a worker he was, like no other.’

  Anny looked at Peggy. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Oh, Anny,’ said Margaret and brought her fist to her mouth.

  Nausea rose in Anny’s throat. Her head felt like it was draining of blood. ‘What is this about my father?’

  ‘But Miss King, have you not . . . ?’ began Mr B incredulously.

  ‘Your father . . .’ said Peggy, looking at her with wide, fearful eyes. ‘There was an accident. At the furnace. There was an explosion. Your father, Anny . . .’ She reached over and took Anny’s hands in her own.

  ‘No.’ Anny’s voice was low at first. ‘No,’ she said again, louder and higher.

  ‘It was an accident,’ said Brotherton. ‘Fifteen dead, Anny. Your father was one of them.’

  ‘No, no, no.’ Anny was shaking her head now, her eyes moving erratically with each phrase, each new thought. Not Father, not dear old Father. Not him, never him. He was in the cast-house these days, much safer than the furnace top.

  ‘There is a mistake. It cannot be Father.’

  Mr B shook his head. ‘There is no error, Anny. It is definitely your father. They say he ran towards the furnace top just before it was about to blow, to help the others, but got caught in the blast himself. He died a hero, Anny.’

  ‘And my mother?’

  ‘She’s taken the news badly and isn’t well enough to come, but she will recover.’

  Anny’s mind had been racing, but now it stopped dead, as if hit by a heavy object and trapped beneath it. There was no point in struggling. That would only cause more pain.

  ‘No,’ she whispered, the truth dawning on her now. ‘No.’

  ‘It is a tragedy,’ said Mr B in a soothing tone. ‘A terrible, awful tragedy. A terrible, awful accident.’

  ‘No,’ said Anny again and looked up at Mr B. Something new was brewing in her now. It was not grief or pity. It was not misery. It was anger, pure, white-hot rage. ‘This was not an accident. Father used to tell me about the furnace. About the danger. There were blockages, poor materials. King could have stopped this. It’s his fault. Not an accident. It’s King’s doing.’

  Peggy was staring at her, shaking her head. ‘You,’ said Anny and looked upon her, as if seeing her clearly for the first time. ‘You are a King. It’s your fault. It’s all your fault.’

  ‘No, Anny!’ said Mr B, attempting to soothe her. ‘Miss King is here to . . .’

  ‘No!’ It came out as a screech. Anny thrust Peggy’s hands away. ‘The Kings are behind this. They are behind everything. How could I have trusted you? You, just another King!’

  ‘Anny, please!’ Peggy was sobbing now.

  ‘You’re the worst of the lot! You pretend to be good, but you’re just like them. What have you ever done f
or me? You desperate . . . little bitch! You had no friends of your own, so you picked on me. Made me think I could aspire to something, a better life. But look at you. Why should I want anything that you have, anything that you are? You’re pathetic. You disgust me. You’re all the same. We were never friends.’

  ‘We were, Anny, please! I’ve always loved you. If you only knew how I’ve tried to help you.’

  ‘Oh, poor you! Poor little rich girl!’ Anny spat out the words like poison on her tongue. ‘Do you want me to pity you now? We were always different. You’ll always have a pillow to lay your pretty little head on. Below the poor, there is no pillow. There is only a hole, a bloody great hole with the workhouse, poverty, disease and death at the bottom of it. Rich and poor can never be friends.’

  Mr B tried to intervene. ‘Oh, Anny, you don’t know what you’re saying.’

  ‘Shut up, you snivelling bastard!’ Anny cried. ‘You’re as bad as the Kings. When did you ever speak up for me? When did you ever risk a moment of your comfortable little life to speak for me? You knew I’d never steal, you knew that and so did your wife. But here I am. And where is Cyril? Off scot-free, no doubt. And you knew about the furnace, too, about the danger. And yet here you are. And where is my father? Dead. Dead! Murdered by the likes of you – and you!’

  Mr B patted Peggy on the shoulder and muttered, ‘She’s not herself. We must go.’ Peggy stood up reluctantly and followed Mr B to the door. The other prisoners in their sickbeds were all wide awake and upright now, enjoying the show, one man grinning at Peggy as she passed. They could do that, Peggy and Mr B, they could walk out of here and never come back. But she was left here, in this hell, with the knowledge of her lost father haunting her forever. Oh, Father! There could never be a daughter who loved a father more than me. My lovely father, my dear father. Gone. Ruined. Dead. The rage boiled in her like the furnace that killed her father. Now, it was about to blow.

  Anny shouted after them: ‘That’s it. Run away, you bloody cowards. That’s right. Canna stand the truth? Run away, back to your wife who I tended when she was sick I dunna know how many times. Where is she, eh? And you, run back to Jake Ashford. Oh yes, dunna think I dunna know what your game is. He’s not the one for you, Anny. Oh yes, we all know why that is. Because you’re after him for yourself!’