Prue picked up one baby and gave her a hug and a kiss before handing her over to a young attendant. ‘That sheet is wet, Nurse. Best change it before Sister sees it.’
None of the babies had napkins on them, Mercy noticed, but they did at least look pink cheeked and well fed. She said as much to her new friend, who clearly held some status over the other attendants.
‘Oh, aye, they get well fed here; plain fare but substantial. All food and schooling provided by the local council. Just as well since most are orphans, or illegitimate, with no loved ones of their own to provide for them.’
That word – illegitimate – made Mercy shiver. This could so easily have been her own fate. At least she’d been more fortunate than these poor mites, having been brought up on Fellside with her mam.
One girl was rocking herself back and forth, banging her head in a tragic rhythm against the end of her cot. She must have been doing this for some time as there were large blue and yellow bruises on her forehead. The young nurse in charge put the child in a straitjacket.
Mercy could hardly bear to watch as the child stiffened and became rigid, screaming her protest at being so confined.
‘Is this where I’ll be working?’ she asked, a thread of hope in her voice. Surely she could try to make the babies lives more cheerful, perhaps by telling them stories or finding something to occupy them. She knew any number of games she used to play with her mam. All she needed was paper and pencil, or a bit of a string for cat’s cradle. Prue shook her head and hurried Mercy out through the big swing doors.
Crossing an open courtyard they came to a large door, which her companion proceeded to unlock with a key hanging from her wide belt. A small knot of unease lodged itself in Mercy’s chest, some instinct warning her this wasn’t quite right. She wanted to ask why the door needed to be locked, but her tongue had somehow cleaved to the roof of her mouth, and her heart started to pound against her rib cage. All she wanted to do was turn on her heels and run. The trouble was, there was nowhere to run to.
‘This is where you’ll be working, for now at least.’
Mercy could barely believe the sight that met her eyes. She stared in horror at the inmates, all male with hair cropped as close to their heads as her own now was, dressed in unbleached calico suits, complete with waistcoats, although they wore no necktie at the collarless shirt. As she hesitated, Prue bustled her inside, locking the door carefully behind them.
‘Don’t panic, love. I’ll have you moved soon as I can, but all new girls start here. They might look odd but they’re harmless enough.’
Clearly curious about the newcomers who’d suddenly appeared in their ward, the men came shambling over, looking very much like a herd of cows examining a stray dog who’d wandered into their field.
Mercy took a step back. ‘What’s wrong with them?’ At least she’d found her voice, weak and trembling though it might be.
‘Nowt, so far as I know, ’cept they’re imbeciles, or so they call them. Real sad cases. Your job is to keep them – and the ward – nice and tidy and clean, which I’m sure a fine strong girl such as yourself can do quite easily. You won’t get much help from them, mind. These poor souls barely have the sense to wipe their own bums.’
Mercy looked at her aghast, but Prue gave her a nudge. ‘Go on, get along with you then. Go and report to Nurse Bathurst. You’ll find her in her office. Keep your head down and do exactly what she tells you to, that’s my advice to you, love. Batty Brenda, as we calls her, isn’t exactly the patient type, and doesn’t much care for shirkers. Just keep your head down and get on with the job. That way you might survive.’ And having issued this bleak warning, her new friend turned on her heel and left Mercy alone in the ward.
Mercy had barely taken two paces when she found herself surrounded by men. They stroked her hair, pinched her cheek, fingered the buttons down the front of her dress as if trying to count them, or perhaps undo them. She was too terrified to decide which. One untied her apron strings and Mercy hastily retied it, in a double bow this time. Another patient, clearly male with stubble on his unshaven chin, was dressed like a woman in a stuff gown. He even wore a bonnet.
‘I like your dress,’ he said. ‘Have you got drawers on?’ And he lifted up the hem of her dress to see for himself, making his comrades giggle and grin like naughty schoolboys.
Mercy tried to tug her dress free. ‘Please don’t do that,’ she begged. Close to panic, she longed to slap him, to push them away, but was doing her utmost to remain calm, remembering how Prue had told her that these patients might be simple-minded but were largely harmless. It was hard to believe this as one reached out and squeezed her breast, chuckling with delight when she squealed.
‘Stop it,’ she cried, trying to sound like a disapproving schoolmarm. ‘Stop this at once.’ But they weren’t even listening to her. They had her apron entirely off now, followed by her cap. The men were crowding her, pushing and shoving, stroking her breasts and hips, and Mercy found herself helplessly cornered, unable to escape.
Quite how it came about she could never afterwards explain. Maybe she slipped, or one of the men pushed her, but suddenly she was on the ground and they were all over her like a troop of inquisitive monkeys. She could smell their tainted breath, feel the roughness of their hands as they poked and probed at her.
She let out a stifled scream, unable to help herself, recognising something like joyous madness in their eyes, and knew they could easily turn into a rabble out of control.
Fear cascaded through her. What did they intend to do to her? She was quite incapable of fighting them all off. As she pushed one away another quickly took his place. Mercy felt trapped. One lifted her skirts, exposing her legs and she cried out in terror. Where was this nurse Prue had mentioned? Why didn’t the woman come and help her?
And then she saw her, standing by what must be her office door. She seemed perfectly aware of what was going on as she stood watching, arms folded across her flat chest, saying nothing, and making not the slightest effort to step in and help her new assistant.
‘Help! Get them off me,’ Mercy cried.
The man who had pulled up her skirts was now on top of her, grunting like a rutting animal and his mates were cheering and egging him on.
‘Go on, go on.’
‘She is wearing drawers,’ he cried in delight, hooting with laughter, as if he’d made a great discovery. ‘See, she is, she is.’
‘Let me see,’ cried another, pushing the first one away.
Hands reached for her, and for one terrible moment Mercy was quite certain they meant to strip her entirely, but then a voice rang out. Not that of the nurse but a high-pitched falsetto.
‘That’s enough, boys. We’ve had our bit of fun, now no more rough games. Let her go.’ It was the man in the dress, and, by a miracle, the rabble obeyed. One moment they were like rampaging lunatics, the next they melted away, chuckling and giggling together, quite happy with their little joke. Some even redid the buttons of her frock, tied on her apron and tried to put her cap back on.
‘I like you,’ said one young man, giving her a kiss.
Mercy was shaking, quite beside herself with terror, but somehow managed to thank him.
The man, or woman, whatever he was, helped Mercy to her feet, brushed down her skirts and found her shoe, which seemed to have come off in the scuffle. ‘They can get a bit enthusiastic at times, bless them. Are you all right, love?’ His voice this time was deep and throaty, a man’s voice, and he held out a large calloused hand. ‘The name’s George, by the way, but everyone here calls me Georgina.’
He shook her hand, grinning all the while. Then, leaning closer, he – or she – whispered softly in her ear. ‘You won’t tell on them, will you? It was only high spirits. They meant no harm, and they don’t get much chance of a laugh in this place. Only, if they get punished, it could all turn very nasty.’
Mercy thought of the tramp in the cell breaking stones, and again glanced over to the office door
. The nurse in charge of the ward was nowhere to be seen. Shocked as Mercy had been by the assault, she realised it would do her no good at all to make a complaint. Perhaps they were simply testing her, and she really didn’t seem to have any choice over which ward she was assigned to.
She managed a tight little smile. ‘No, of course I won’t tell,’ and then, adopting a slightly scolding tone, added, ‘But can we make sure it doesn’t happen again?’
Georgina giggled behind her hand. ‘We’ll try to behave better, but you’re so pretty. And I do like your drawers. We couldn’t resist finding out if you had any on. Will you show me how to make a pair just like them, with the frill round the legs and everything?’
And suddenly Mercy found herself laughing too. ‘Can you sew?’ she asked. ‘Any of you?’ And as heads were shaken and frowns gathered, she laughed again. ‘Then I’ll have to teach you. But the other men won’t want a pair of drawers. What can we teach them?’
‘Dignity,’ said a stern voice from behind her. ‘Something in which you seem to be sadly lacking, girl.’
Chapter Nine
It was Saturday afternoon, Maggie was taking a rest and catching up on her diary, and Livia decided on a short walk. She was already missing Ella, even if her sister had only been gone a few days, and had some serious thinking to do, for which she needed a clear head.
She opted to walk right up to the castle ruins, quiet at this time of day, and settled herself on a grassy mound. A cow lifted its head to stare at her, its jaws working, before ambling away. Livia loved the peaceful solitude of this place. The castle was built back in the twelfth or thirteenth century by one of King John’s powerful barons, so far as she could recall from school History lessons. By the fourteenth century it was in the hands of the Parr family, and some said Catherine Parr herself was born there, and had spent much of her childhood in Kendal. She too had been married off against her will to two geriatric husbands before accepting the dubious honour of becoming the sixth wife of Henry VIII.
What was it about men? Why was their father so hard on them? Livia knew that her father worshipped power. Craved it as others might crave whisky. She heard occasional talk in the town that Councillor Josiah Angel took bribes. That a suitably substantial sum slipped quietly into his bank account would earn you the right to build where you wished, expand your factory, or treat your employees in whatever manner suited you. Such gossip distressed her greatly as Livia felt a natural pride in her father’s achievements as a self-made businessman.
It also upset her that he made little more than a perfunctory show of caring about the welfare of the poor, being of the view that their penurious state was due to their own fecklessness, and in no way connected to the high rents he charged them to live in the property he owned.
Kendal was a prosperous town and Livia was aware that she lived in one of its better class districts, with everything she could wish for by way of material comforts. She couldn’t imagine what it must feel like to share a room with ten others and be uncertain where your next meal was coming from. But the old saying that money didn’t necessarily bring happiness was certainly true in her eyes. There were other ways of bringing misery into a person’s life beside poverty, and surely the lack of love was the worst cross to bear.
Her father had made her mother’s life a misery, constantly criticising her and finding fault as if to prove that he was better than her, no longer the young man who had joined her father’s business as a mere apprentice. He seemed to carry a chip on his shoulder because they came from different ends of the social spectrum, and Josiah never missed an opportunity to put her down.
In the end the poor woman had taken refuge in ill health, thankful to be out of the firing line of his caustic remarks and cruel tricks. Livia felt her loss keenly, but the responsibility of caring for her two younger sisters, as she’d promised their dying mother she would do, harder to bear than she’d ever imagined.
Things had got steadily worse once his three daughters were his only target. Whatever dissatisfaction or disappointment he felt in life, he took out on them, viewing them as mere pawns to use in his empire-building. Ella had been married off to a man she barely knew, and poor Maggie was so fragile and vulnerable Livia feared for her health. She felt quite anxious about her, but then she’d always been a sickly child who needed care and rest. Yet Father made no allowances for that fact.
He seemed to expect to control every part of their lives and Livia was fully aware that if he had his way, he would marry her off to Henry. Livia had no intention of marrying anyone.
She stared out over the view of the town she so dearly loved, the huddle of grey stone houses, Victoria Bridge that straddled the river, and the Helvellyn range visible on the distant horizon. Despite her strong loyalty and love for the town of her birth, Livia longed to pack her bags and walk away and be free. But that was impossible. Where could she go? Besides, nothing would induce her to leave Maggie.
Yet the fact that she stayed didn’t mean she had any intention of being bullied as her poor sisters were. She meant to resist him to her last breath.
Dinner that evening was reasonably civilised, if rather quiet. Maggie was troubled by an irritating cough, as was so often the case, and picked at her roast lamb before taking herself off to bed early. Livia issued a whispered reminder for her to take a sip of her cough mixture before retiring, and worried in case her departure might create a fuss. Their father seemed to revel in punishing his younger daughter for her apparent intransigence over the poor state of her health. Tonight, however, he seemed preoccupied, and more subdued than usual.
Then quite out of the blue, he said, ‘I was speaking to Henry Hodson this morning. He will be calling upon you tomorrow to pay court and make you an offer. See that you’re ready to receive him. Put on your prettiest frock, the jewellery your mother left you, whatever you young ladies feel appropriate for such an occasion.’
His tone was cold and matter-of-fact, as if he were discussing a business proposition and not a possible marriage for his daughter.
‘I would like to have this little matter resolved fairly soon. Time is of the essence, Lavinia. You are no longer the young girl you once were, nor so attractive a proposition in the marriage mart as you might imagine. And you really are far too opinionated for your own good. Fortunately, Henry Hodson has known you long enough to be able to ignore these flaws. As a wealthy young businessman, he can also afford to overlook such trifles as your lack of dowry. See that you make an effort to receive him with good grace and charm, and bring him nicely to the point, if you please.’
Having settled the matter to his own satisfaction, Josiah rose to his feet, dusted a few stray crumbs from the swelling dome of his stomach, and made a move to retire to his study to partake of his usual glass of port and smoke a cigar. Once the engagement was announced his debts would be nicely settled and the accounts could go hang. He might then employ a clerk to take that particular chore off his shoulders.
Livia could barely comprehend the words. Little matter! Too opinionated for her own good! Bring him to the point!
She sat stunned, open mouthed, shocked to the core, and only when the door was about to close upon his departing figure did she jump to her feet and summon up the courage to respond.
‘I can’t do that, Father. I won’t!’
He turned on her, his voice a roar of displeasure. ‘You can and you will.’
‘No. Never!’
He raised a fist, his face livid with anger. Livia braced herself for the blow, but then he seemed to stop himself. Perhaps he realised that a young woman with a black eye or bruise on her chin would not look half so attractive to a young suitor. With immense difficulty he brought himself back under control.
‘You’ll do what I say, miss, or pay the consequences. And you well know what those will be.’
Livia tilted her chin as father and daughter confronted each other, eye to eye, neither prepared to be the one to back down. At length, Josiah told her quite coldly
and calmly that he would be at the store all the following day until seven-thirty as usual. ‘You may call in and tell me the result of the interview at any time. You’ll find me in my office. Once I know this matter is settled I shall begin to make the necessary arrangements.’
Then turning on his heel, he left her.
Livia remained where she was, shaking, although whether with rage or fright, she wasn’t quite sure. Josiah Angel had made his wishes known, and, like it or not, as a dutiful daughter she was expected to carry them out. She must accept Henry Hodson’s offer, whatever her own feelings on the matter.
Amos left Ella alone the second night, and the one after that. Every night she lay in bed expecting him to come, but he never did. Listening with acute attention for the slightest sound, she could almost hear him breathing as he paused at the bedroom door, then his step would continue onward and upward. She assumed he slept in the attics above.
She felt cold and lonely in the strange bed, the darkness seeming to press in upon her. Why did he not come? Was it that he found her unattractive? Why couldn’t he make love to her?
Somewhere out on the empty, silent fells an owl hooted, reminding her of their isolation, and she shivered. The sounds at Angel House had been so much more comforting: servants quietly going about their business, the clip-clop of horses’ hooves in the street as carriages returned home late after some party or soirée. She longed for her own room, her things about her, her own bed, knowing her sisters were close by.
What were they doing right now? Staying up late and whispering together, giggling and being silly, as they had used to do on high days and holidays? Such delights were closed to her now. She was a wife. Amos could return to her bed whenever he chose. He had that right, as her husband, and she would be expected to carry out her wifely duties, whatever they might entail and however disagreeable. She didn’t even know whether to be glad or sorry that she’d had no opportunity yet to discover.
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