THE LOST SISTERS
Lindsey Hutchinson
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About The Lost Sisters
Orpha Buchanan and Peg Meriweather had a very different start in life. Orpha surrounded by wealth and riches, Peg dumped on a doorstep as a baby with nothing to her name but a scruffy blanket and tatty clothes. But one thing they had in common from their very first day, was a mother who despised them and wished them gone.
Hortense Buchanan wasn’t made to be a mother. Bullied herself when she was a child, she continues the tradition with her own children, loving money and finery more than her own flesh and blood. When her daughter Orpha runs away from home, Hortense celebrates, never once worrying for her safety.
Circumstances bring Orpha and Peg together, and before long they’re as close as family, making their way in the hustle and bustle of a booming Birmingham and the smoke-filled Black Country. But before long, Hortense realises that her daughter stands in the way of the one thing she really cares about, and the bitter legacy of the Buchanans looks set to destroy them all…
Contents
Welcome Page
About The Lost Sisters
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
About Lindsey Hutchinson
A Letter from the Author
Also by Lindsey Hutchinson
Become an Aria Addict
Copyright
For my children Matthew and Esther
who make me so very proud in everything they do.
Chapter 1
The sound of the slap echoed around the quiet parlour. Orpha Buchanan’s head rocked on her shoulders from the impact.
‘You are a spiteful, vindictive woman! Why ever did you have me in the first place?’ Orpha shouted then listened with horror to the answer her mother gave.
‘It was your father’s fault, I never wanted you! I would have left you to die but for your father finding a wet nurse and nanny! If I had had my way, you wouldn’t be here now!’
Hortense Buchanan smirked as she watched her daughter’s face. The girl’s bravado suddenly crumbled.
‘What is it that makes you hate me so much?’ Orpha sobbed as she slumped into a chair.
‘You were born! With your dark hair and green eyes like your father’s; your sweet nature… you make me sick!
Finding her courage once more, Orpha shouted, ‘I didn’t ask to be born! That was your mistake, if you hadn’t wanted a child…’
Another sharp slap halted the girl’s words.
‘How dare you speak to me in such a manner!’ Hortense’s fury reached boiling point as she landed blow after blow on her daughter. In a frenzy of anger, she slapped the young girl who tried desperately to fend off the attack. Hortense screamed abuse as she rained down the blows with her open hand until finally she fell into a chair exhausted.
‘Get out of my sight girl!’ Hortense said in hardly more than a menacing whisper.
Orpha shot from the parlour to the safe haven of her bedroom. Sitting on her bed, she allowed the tears to fall at last. Her face was stinging from the slaps, and the hurt to her body told of yet more bruises to come.
Slowly and carefully she took off her blouse and allowed her long skirt to fall to the floor. Bathing the sore areas around her face and shoulders with cold water from the bowl on the dresser, Orpha stared into the mirror.
Why was it that she and her mother could not get on? Why did they have to argue over the most trivial of things? She was at a loss as she searched for answers to these questions. From as early as she could remember, Orpha’s mother had shown only her dislike of her daughter. Hortense was jealous, that much Orpha had worked out, jealous of the fact that she and her father had the same features and character as well as sharing a good relationship. Even Orpha could see there was nothing of her mother in her, and she, at least, was grateful for that.
As she stared at herself in the mirror she wished she had been born in another century. Would the future be any different? Would she have been better placed to fight her own corner in a time yet to come? Tears flowed freely as she feared that time may never come.
Looking again at the marks that covered her body, Orpha turned away. Drying her tears, she carefully began to get dressed once more. Finally managing to lie on her bed, her thoughts swirled. Why did she put up with the constant physical and mental abuse from her mother? She didn’t really have a choice. At fourteen years old, what could she do? She could tell her father, but then Hortense would make her life unbearable. She contemplated what might happen if her father knew about what was going on. Would he divorce her mother? If he did, would he hold her, Orpha, responsible for the break-up of the family? She could not risk her father’s displeasure, she loved him too much for that. She could run away, but where would she go? She had no working skills, no trade to fall back on. She would starve or end up in the workhouse. No, even taking the beatings was better than that! She realised at that moment there was no way out for her… at least not yet.
As she lay on her bed, Orpha heard the singing and joviality from the people in the streets around her home in Wednesbury. She had hoped to be allowed to join in, but instead she had received yet another hiding. The day had been declared a bank holiday in celebration of Queen Victoria’s Diamond Jubilee – 20th June 1897, and street parties were in full swing everywhere. Orpha had asked her mother’s permission to go out and enjoy the day with the other people of St. James’ Street, but Hortense had refused.
Orpha slowly stood and walked to the window, looking out longingly at the revellers. She heard the music and laughter of the road’s residents as they enjoyed their day off from the daily grind of work.
She pursed her lips as she thought about those fortunate enough to have a job. This celebration day off was welcome indeed for them. If she had a job herself it would give her freedom and independence from her mother, but finding work would be nigh on impossible in the poverty stricken town.
As she watched the festivities she thought about the people who were singing and dancing in the street. She thought about where she, and they, lived.
Wednesbury was a smal
l town in the heart of the industrial ‘Black Country’, so named due to the pall of smoke constantly hanging over the place, belched out daily from chimneys both domestic and industrial. The coal dust from the three collieries combined with the dark smoke from factories and furnaces coated every building with a layer of grime. Housewives spent many hours cleaning their closely packed terraced houses only to have to do it all again the next day. Work, she knew, was hard to come by and the ‘bread line’ – out of work people standing at the corner of the marketplace in the vain hope of finding employment – grew steadily day by day.
She considered how fortunate she was to live in such a fine house as she watched the poorer people making the most of their day off.
Buchanan House stood at the top end of St. James’ Street where it joined Dudley Street. It was a large house and two steps led to the front door, which was flanked by two massive stone pillars. The red quarry tiled floor of the hall led to the parlour on the right and the comfortable sitting room on the left. At the end of the corridor, on the right, stood the door to the kitchen, with the scullery and butler’s pantry opposite. Further along were the back stairs, which led to four servants’ bedrooms. The imposing front staircase ran up from the foyer, where there were four large family bedrooms. The lavatory was housed in a brick building behind the house. She felt extremely lucky to be living in such a fine place but residing with her volatile mother made her life thoroughly miserable.
Snapping her attention back, her eyes roamed up and down the street. She saw the trestle tables laid out covered with food and drink. Bunting was strung from house to house and fluttered in the wind. Men and women were dancing in the cobbled road as others played instruments. Children dashed about playing ‘tag’ and other games. Orpha realised she was tapping her toe in time with the music and smiled at the antics of her neighbours.
Her enjoyment came to a swift end as her mother threw open the bedroom door and marched in. ‘What do you think you are doing? Get away from that window at once!’ Hortense grabbed Orpha by her raven black hair and dragged her across the bedroom. ‘Come with me, I have a job for you,’ Hortense gave another sharp tug to her daughter’s hair before she let go. ‘Kitchen… now!’
Orpha preceded her mother down the stairs and into the kitchen, still rubbing the soreness on her head.
Hortense’s brown eyes narrowed as she stared at her daughter. Her face was pinched into a scowl and her mousy hair was pulled back severely into a tight bun at the nape of her neck. Sliding her hands down her black shirt, she rounded on the girl, saying, ‘I have given Alice the day off, therefore you will have to mop this kitchen floor.’ Seeing Orpha about to object, she held up a finger and went on, ‘You will mop this floor and make sure you do a good job. I intend to watch, and woe betide you if I’m not satisfied!’
As Orpha moved to the scullery for mop and bucket, she thought it unfair the maid had the day off and she had to do the chores. Pumping water into the bucket from the standpipe in the yard, Orpha carried it back to the kitchen and began to mop the floor. From the corner of her eye she saw her mother begin to make herself a cup of tea.
Hortense watched with eagle eyes then shouted, ‘Put your back into it, girl!’
Orpha pushed harder on the mop, her anger fuelling her efforts. Once finished, she took the mop and bucket through the scullery to empty the water onto the small patch of garden.
Orpha returned to the kitchen in time to see her mother move towards the kettle. Slipping on a patch of floor that was still wet, Hortense grabbed the edge of the table to steady herself and the cup and saucer flew from her hand, crashing to the red tiles.
Looking at the broken china then to Orpha, Hortense screeched, ‘You bloody idiot girl… I could have broken my neck!’
I wish, thought Orpha, but wisely kept it to herself.
Rounding the table, Hortense slapped Orpha across the face, ‘Idiot!’ she said again.
Orpha’s hand touched her stinging cheek as she bit back the tears.
Dropping into a chair, Hortense began to fan herself with her hand before saying sharply, ‘Make me a cup of tea, girl, quickly before I faint.’
Orpha walked to the kettle, rolling her eyes at her mother’s theatrics. Placing the cup of tea on the table, Orpha cleared the broken china from the floor and asked sarcastically, ‘Is there anything else I can do for you?’
‘Yes,’ Hortense snapped, ‘you can get out of my sight… NOW!’
Orpha returned to her bedroom and watched the St. James’ Street inhabitants enjoy the rest of their day. She stood by the window long into the night until the last of the revellers went home to bed, only then realising how badly her legs ached.
Slipping her clothes off and gently pulling on a nightie, Orpha climbed into bed and cried her unhappiness into the darkness.
*
While Orpha had been watching the festivities from her bedroom window, Hortense Buchanan had taken her tea into the parlour and sat thinking.
She thought of her husband, Abel, and his wealth. Her eyes glanced around the room and she enjoyed, yet again, the luxury that surrounded her. Abel had made his fortune mining emeralds in some far-off country when he was still a young man. Hortense cared little for how he had made this fortune, she cared only that he had it. Now the emeralds were stored in the bank in Birmingham where Abel met often with its owners Messrs. P and H Williams. Although her husband denied her nothing, he still kept a careful eye on the comings and goings of his money.
Hortense quietly contemplated the gifts Abel bought for Orpha, jewellery, clothes and all manner of things a fourteen-year-old had no need of. They took the tram to Birmingham once a week and Orpha always returned with some trinket. Wasted money was the opinion of Hortense. At least Abel could only spend his money on one daughter now.
The tea having gone cold in the cup, Hortense didn’t notice as she remembered Abel’s other daughter. Hortense had given birth eighteen years ago to a girl they had named Eugenie. With a mop of dark hair, the baby blue eyes had soon turned emerald green… just like Abel’s. Hortense hated the child on sight, as she had with Orpha, and quickly made up her mind the baby had to go… one way or another.
The pictures formed in her mind of how she had instructed the stable lad to ready the horse and trap; to leave it outside the front door before going back to his business in the stables. When she had been sure the boy was nowhere to be seen, Hortense had laid Eugenie in a large basket covered by a blanket. Placing the basket next to her on the seat of the trap, she had flicked the reins for the horse to walk on.
She saw again the child sleeping peacefully as the trap rumbled over the cobblestones of Holyhead Road. Through the smoke-blackened streets of Wednesbury and out across the Monway Colliery, keeping to the well-worn tracks and avoiding the disused coal pits, Hortense had guided the horse for hours. Tracking her way over the Old Moorcroft Colliery, she had eventually come to what appeared, at first, to be a deserted cottage. Halting the horse and seeing no signs of life in or around the cottage, she had lifted the basket down, putting her arm through the handle. Walking across to the cottage, she noticed the building was run-down but the garden was full of vegetables. Someone lived there, that much was evident, but were they inside the cottage? Hortense walked up the tiny path where she knocked on the front door. There was no answer, so she walked round the side of the house to the back. Laying the basket on the doorstep, she peeped round to the front, and seeing no one, she walked swiftly back to the trap. Climbing aboard and turning the horse around, she set off for home.
As she had driven the trap homeward through the streets of Wednesbury once more, she’d glanced around at the dirty buildings and houses. Coal dust from the mines and soot from the chimneys hung over the town. The factories and furnaces working night and day added to the pall of smoke and Hortense was not surprised people were dying of diseases of the lungs.
Without realising, she shook her head as her thoughts roamed. No wonder it was called the Blac
k Country, for everything was covered in a layer of dirt. Children who were dressed in rags, barefoot and dirty ran around the streets. The amount of poverty was appalling but Hortense had ignored it. She had plenty, thank you very much, so why should she care whether the kids of the town had enough to eat.
Her mind slipped back to the day she had met Abel. She had spotted him across the crowded room of the Mayor’s inaugural ball. She had ignored the businessman who had invited her along for most of the evening. The man who she had set her sights on was tall, with raven black hair. His skin was the colour of mahogany from spending many months in the sun. As she had wandered closer, she saw he had the most unusual eyes – emerald green.
She had been introduced to him and during their conversation had learned about his adventures in Colombia and working the emerald mine.
Hortense had lived in Wednesbury all of her life, and had hated it from the moment she was old enough to understand the poverty of the smoke blackened drab little town. This handsome man, Abel Buchanan, would be her ticket to a better life, and she had actively pursued him with a view to marriage.
As time wore on and they eventually did marry, she had tried her best to entice Abel to take her to live in a more salubrious area, even suggesting they move abroad. However Abel would have none of it, he loved the ‘Black Country’ and was busy building up his consultancy business.
Then had come Eugenie. She continued her previous train of thought.
On reaching home, Hortense had left the trap by the front door and rushed into the house. Calling for the maid and getting no answer, Hortense had quickly put the perambulator in the garden in the last of the weak sunshine. Going back into the kitchen, she made herself some tea as she thought about what she had done and how she could tell Abel about his missing daughter when he got home from the Gentlemen’s Club.
She smiled as she watched the moving pictures in her mind’s eye.
‘Abel, Abel! Thank God you’re home… Eugenie’s gone!’ Hortense had cried as her husband had walked into the parlour.
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