And, as Blanchard helped Lydia from the carriage, her face grew more stern and unsmiling. She was wondering how God could allow His house to look down on such a repellent sight.
She turned brusquely back to her maid in the brougham. “Wait with Blanchard for me, Sarah,” she directed quietly. “If you put the rug around you, you will not feel the cold too much. My visit here should not take too long.”
“Yes, miss.”
With her face puckered in determination, Lydia hitched up her skirt and trod carefully across the untidy yard towards the foreman. Matthew Dobson had been waiting for Annesley’s new young mistress for over an hour and now, as she drew nearer, his dark-ringed eyes stared uncertainly from his bulbous face.
He raised his cap. “All is prepared for your inspection, miss.”
Lydia acknowledged the man with a curt nod. “Then let us get on, Dobson.”
“I think we’d be best starting wi’ the pump.” The foreman pointed upwards, and Lydia lifted her eyes as his blunted finger drew her attention to a barn-like structure of brick, with a covered tower on top. “Yon’s the shafting that connects the engine,” he explained briefly. “Below us here is a river of salt - mightier even than the Severn - and the engine pumps it up to our sheds. But you’ll see better inside how it works.”
Lydia nodded again and followed him into the works. They crossed a narrow covered courtyard and passed through a door that stood ajar.
But then, as she stepped inside, Lydia stopped suddenly. She was surely at the brink of hell! And, as her eyes grew accustomed to the shuddering, smouldering cauldron, she wondered how anything - human or otherwise - could endure this pit of fire and brimstone.
The salt was choking her now. Even in so short a time, her velvet cloak was encrusted with a million particles of ubiquitous brown dust. Her eyes smarted and the back of her throat had already become bone dry with the heat.
“Here, we pump up the brine,” she heard the foreman explain. “Then we boil it to extract the salt but, if you’ll follow me, miss, you’ll see more of that further on..” He paused uncertainly and Lydia felt his concerned glance. “Are you all right, miss?”
“Perfectly.” Lydia straightened her shoulders and gave a small cough to clear her throat. “Carry on, Dobson, I wish to see everything. Don’t concern yourself with me.”
“Well, if you’re sure, miss --”
“I am!”
As they walked along the narrow passageways between the rows of salt pans, Lydia felt a sickness rise in her throat, stifling her breathing.
Beneath her feet, the rough, flagged floor seemed to burn through the soles of her inadequate boots and the sweat from her brow trickled down her face. She pursed her lips grimly.
She knew now why her aunt had waited so long to show her this! The old lady had been shrewd enough to know that it took more than an eager, determined heart to be certain the salt works prospered - it needed a strong stomach, too!
How could these workers bear this hell? All around were the blackened, sweat-streaked shapes of men as they hurled coal onto the fires beneath the salt pans.
And the women, as black and as sweat-streaked as their men, stood by in pairs, ladling and raking the salt with heavy iron shovels.
As she passed by, the women instinctively pulled their thin chemises further up around their shoulders. It was a small sign of respect but Lydia did not blame them for their state of undress. It was too hot to be fully clothed so they, like their menfolk, worked near naked at the top.
And Lydia noticed, too, the deep shadows across their haggard faces, thrown by the flames and illuminating their watchful eyes as the new mistress of Annesley passed them by.
Further along the narrow aisle Lydia paused, her eyes lighting on a girl as she ladled the salt; a girl whose thin shape had, thus far, been hidden by the deep red shadows cast by the flames.
The girl glanced up as Lydia caught her eye. She bobbed a vague, deferential curtsy before wiping her mouth with the back of her hand and bending once more to her work.
A damp muslin rag stretched tightly across the tips of her breasts as she pulled on the ladle, and the straggled black hair was tied back from her face.
There was a sudden glare of white heat from the fire and Lydia shielded her eyes. But, even as the smoke curled around the thin, wraith-like form, Lydia recognised her instantly. It was the girl whose face had been buried against the broad chest of Caleb Vyne. It was Sally Shrike.
Lydia Annesley watched the girl with close attention. It seemed impossible that so frail a body could so skilfully wield a spade. Sally Shrike brought it round full on as she emptied it, then rested momentarily, her hand clutching at her side as she moved to let another woman take her turn.
“Why is that girl doing such work, Dobson? Surely, she is too frail for the pans?”
“Sally Shrike’s as strong as they come, miss - all the Shrikes are.” Dobson laughed, but it was false laughter and Lydia knew it. “Over there’s Maria and she’s a good ’un! Strong as well!” He continued to grin. Lydia looked and realised by her features that the middle-aged woman was probably Sally’s mother of whom Aunt Elizabeth had spoken.
She frowned. “I think you are mistaken, Dobson.”
“I put the girl to work where I’m told, miss,” growled the foreman sulkily, “but, if you think she must be moved, then that’s a matter you must take up wi’ Miss Elizabeth - begging your pardon, miss.”
“It is for me to decide what must be done now, Dobson,” Lydia informed him quietly. “And I would like her moved to lighter work.”
Their eyes met and Dobson’s betrayed a little alarm. “She wouldn’t like that, miss. Lighter work wouldn’t pay enough for Sally Shrike.”
“You will do as I say! I will make sure that she does not suffer any loss for it.”
“Yes, miss. As you wish, miss.”
They reached the other end of the building. It was cooler here by the open door and Lydia took long, grateful breaths of the reviving air before she made any further comment.
“It is truly back-breaking work to be a salter, foreman.”
“Aye, miss, it is. We use only the strongest for this work. Four men on the fine and two on the broad!”
A movement distracted her from another door. She turned quickly, aware of something; something fleet and furtive, and very, very fast - so fast that she wasn’t sure it had been there at all. “What was that, Dobson? Surely, not a child?”
“Aye, miss, it was young Jemmy.”
“Young Jemmy?”
“Young Jemmy Yarwood, miss. That’s his pa yonder.” Once more Lydia’s gaze followed Dobson’s indication. The boy, no more than five or six, handed his father a red spotted bundle.
The man’s face was grey like the rest of the salters, his features pouched. He had the look of a man whose face had once been skinned by fire. “Young ’uns bring in food for their fathers when the salt is running well.”
“Why do they bring in food? Do we not give them time to eat?”
“Not always, miss. Sometimes, the men can’t leave the pans. There’s many a time a good salter’ll tend his pan a full week - even sleep by it.”
“Why should he do that?”
“The family’s livelihood depends on it, miss, and he earns more money. The more salt pumped, the more his pay.”
Lydia sighed deeply, leaning back against the door and grateful for the coolness. How she longed to be with Sophie, striking out across the white frosted fields with the sigh of the wind against her face! She closed her eyes, wondering how she could improve the lot of these salters of Upwych without jeopardising their living more than she had to.
A few moments later she opened them and looked around. The boy had gone and her attention turned once more to Sally Shrike.
The girl looked wretched. She was leaning now against the wall, her hands clutched across her stomach and almost in a faint.
Uneasy in her mind, Lydia started hastily towards her, avoiding
the flames that leaped at her skirt.
And, as she made her way through the pans, the other women looked on sullenly, none of them making a move to help Sally Shrike.
Yet, even as Lydia reached her, a quick glance over her shoulder told her that the girl’s brother, Sam, had laid aside his shovel and was standing back from his work.
The foreman came swiftly up behind Lydia. “Miss Annesley, you shouldn’t be here --”
“Silence, Dobson,” she ordered sharply. “Can’t you see the girl is sick?” She gestured to the salter. “Come here, Mr. Shrike. Your sister is ill, you must take her home.”
“Home?” repeated the foreman. “In the middle of the day?”
“Yes, Dobson. I will not have a woman treated so.” She looked up into Sam Shrike’s worried face as he came respectfully to her side and, as the man hesitated, she added softly, giving his arm a comforting pat, “and do not be afraid of losing your pay, I will make it up.”
Sam Shrike raised his face, smiling faintly. “Bless you, Miss Annesley,” he said, his intelligent eyes examining his young mistress against this background of hell.
How small she was, how delicate, and how prettily her hair hung in the ringlets around her shoulders. And she was an Annesley! It was a wonder Charlie Sheridan hadn’t set his sights on this one!
Gratefully, he took hold of his sister’s arm and led her away. At the doorway he paused, turning and looking back doubtfully.
He waited until Lydia nodded, assuring him again of her permission, then he said again, his words barely audible above the shed’s clamour, “Bless you, Miss Annesley, for your kindness.”
When the Shrikes had gone, Lydia turned her attention back to her inspection of the rest of the works.
She followed the foreman around, her nimble brain learning quickly of the salter’s trade, yet her mind still troubled. Her attention was still dwelling on Sally Shrike.
She knew the girl must be ill. Surely, it was not only the salt that was making her face so pale. She must find out and do the best she could for her. And whatever she meant to Caleb Vyne was nothing now to Lydia. She must have people fit to do the work.
“Oblige me by escorting me to my carriage, Dobson,” Lydia said when there was nothing else left to see. “I have many things to do, not the least of which is another visit to the Upwych bank. This I will do straight away.”
“Yes, Miss Annesley.” The foreman watched Miss Lydia step into her carriage aided by her coachman. He was feeling very doubtful indeed. She had far too soft a heart for a brinemaster. He didn’t know what was going to come of it all!
Once inside, Lydia leaned back against the cushions. Blanchard held the horses still, waiting for orders. Lydia looked into Sarah’s nervous face.
“You’ve brought your basket?” The girl nodded. “Good! Then you may go to the butcher’s while I visit Mr Smith at the bank!”
“Very good, Miss Annesley.” The girl popped her head out of the window and called to Blanchard. “High Street for miss, Mr Blanchard!”
Tipping his hat, Blanchard geed up the greys and pulled away from the factory gates.
*
Lydia’s suppositions regarding Mr Smith had sadly been correct. The bank manager’s head indeed held nothing but figures.
He was perfectly polite as befitting a financial servant, whose bank had made some sizeable profits out of Annesley’s better days, but he was quite unbending.
He reiterated the fears he’d expressed earlier on, when he’d visited Annesley House to inquire about Aunt Elizabeth’s health:
“Profit will only come from the sale of salt, Miss Annesley and, although it pains me to say so to you when you have many anxieties, Annesley Works has staunch competition, which is eating away at its profit.”
“You mean Strettons?” Lydia’s chin set determinedly. “But they have always been our rivals. I don’t fear them.”
“Ah, Miss Annesley,” he said, unclasping his hands. His bald head was glinting in the sun, which streamed through the office window, “Strettons are investing - or so I believe - they set much store by constantly updating their machinery and making provision for further bore holes. In that way they can be sure that salt flows freely.”
“Annesley brine is not drying up, Mr Smith,” she reproved, “and that is the purpose of this visit. With the bank’s help, we, too, may think about investing.” The manager looked worried, nor made reply for a moment which Lydia took to be a grave sign. Then he was shifting papers before him. He cleared his throat:
“Forgive me, Miss Annesley, but behind this lay the nature of my call on you earlier. Miss Elizabeth has been a wonderfully competent manager and mistress but without her holding the reins, how could Annesley fortunes thrive? She has a lifetime of experience!”
Lydia flushed.
“I may be young, Mr Smith, but I have Annesley Works at heart. I intend to learn all I can about the trade and make it a success. But I can only do this if the bank will extend me credit.” The manager leaned back in his chair, thinking what an enchanting picture she made, her eyes eagerly holding his. But he knew his board would not agree.
She was far too young and inexperienced to risk large funds. Faced with such heavy responsibilities, she might surely take fright and run back to London at a moment’s whim. And, given her beauty, it was even more likely she might find a husband and lose interest in her salt empire.
“I’m afraid it’s not that easy, Miss Annesley,” he said. “We need a business plan and substantiation of your position. For instance, who will furnish you with knowledge? Whom can you consult on this?”
“I was thinking that might be a part the bank could play,” said Lydia quietly. She could see she was getting nowhere. The possibility of the dapper and friendly Mr Smith helping her cause was becoming more distant with every sentence.
“Perhaps you should talk it over with Miss Elizabeth - when she’s feeling better,” said the manager.
“But she can have no worries the doctor says,” cried Lydia. Mr Smith was ignoring her pleas and shuffling papers about on his desk. Then he picked them up and placed them in a flat box. Lydia knew that her interview was almost over.
“I can assure you the bank will be sympathetic in the near future. However, should your aunt’s condition worsen, then my board will want to quickly take stock of our position.”
“To put it plainly, Mr Smith,” answered Lydia in her forthright way, “should my aunt die --” the manager looked shocked, “you will foreclose and force me to sell out.” She pushed back her chair and, next moment, Mr Smith was hurrying round to her side.
“Not so, Miss Annesley. I hope such an unfortunate occurrence may be prevented on both counts. At present, this is all the advice I may offer. If you could find yourself a backer of substance, a guarantor, then my board would be of a different mind.”
“A backer?” It was a new idea, a straw to clutch at. But whom? As Mr Smith hurried to open the door for Lydia, the serious face of Mr Vyne rose up in her mind. Was this what he meant when he offered his help?
Stepping out into the bright sunlight, she dismissed the thought, which was quite impossible as he was a Stretton and they were sworn enemies and competitors.
Once in her carriage, she ordered Blanchard to drive on down the High Street so that Sarah could visit the butchers and obtain a brace of pheasant to tempt her aunt’s poor appetite.
Seated in her carriage, the crooked High Street held no beauty for Lydia that day. She watched Sarah enter the butcher’s shop then leaned back against the cushions.
Whatever would she do? A backer? But whom? She gazed out of the window again across to the milliner’s. The sight of two extravagantly decorated hats did nothing to lift her spirits; suddenly, she was remembering the day she had come down from London with Aunt Elizabeth to take her place as the future owner of the salt works. Then, the only matters she had to think on were fashionable hats! She sighed.
Sarah was coming back now, looking frozen, th
e pheasants’ tails protruding from the basket. She climbed in and Blanchard stirred the patient horses.
The carriage was almost at the top of the street when a great deal of rough shouting assailed the occupants’ ears. Sarah looked at her mistress in horror, her hands up to her mouth, while Blanchard brought the horses to an abrupt halt. Then Lydia was leaned from the window.
The whole of the street was packed with a white host of factory workers, the marks of their trade on skin and clothes. They were jostling into an enormous haphazard circle.
Lydia gasped. At the centre was a young man with hair tied back in a ribbon, his full mouth twisted in an arrogant leer. He was facing a tall, gaunt young man, who stood aggressively, fists clenched. Lydia recognised both assailants! Mr Charles Sheridan and Lydia’s own salter, Sam Shrike!
“Come away from the window, miss,” squeaked Sarah in a frightened voice. But the shocked Lydia could see what was about to happen. Her man was challenging Mr Sheridan - a most unseemly and dangerous thing to do. And then he struck Mr Sheridan a blow to the chin! The salters let out a wild cheer of triumph!
“Blanchard, let me down!” cried Lydia imperiously. She must put a stop to such impertinence. The odds were quite unequal and she had the power to change the balance.
Charles Sheridan was hurling himself at the ring of men, looking for a means of escape, but they wouldn’t let him through. Lydia’s heart went out to him, although her hands were perspiring greatly. And she couldn’t blame Mr Sheridan for his language! He had no idea she was present.
“Damn you, damn you all,” he screamed. “Old Mr Stretton shall hear about this.” Sarah had her hands over her ears as Blanchard opened the carriage door a crack:
“Miss, I beg you. Don’t interfere. The men are in an ugly mood.” The groom’s face was white under his hat. Suddenly, one of the men was turning:
“Look!” They were all staring as Lydia pushed Blanchard aside and stepped down from the carriage - but the circle didn’t break. “Miss Annesley!” The salter doffed his dirty cap. And Charlie Sheridan saw a chance to escape and made a desperate lurch again.
The Price of Beauty Page 8
