by Dilly Court
Contents
About the Book
About the Author
Also by Dilly Court
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Copyright
About the Book
Circumstances force eight-year-old Sarah Scrase and her widowed mother Ellen to enter the notorious St Giles and St George’s Workhouse.
When Ellen dies in childbirth, an independent-minded, spirited Sarah falls foul of Workhouse Master Trigg and his cruel wife.
Sarah’s ordeal seems to be over when philanthropist and sugar mill owner James Arbuthnot takes her into his home.
But her wealthy benefactor reports Trigg and his wife. And blaming Sarah for their misfortune, in a fit of revenge the couple decide to take the law into their own hands.
About the Author
Dilly Court grew up in North-east London and began her career in television, writing scripts for commercials. She is married with two grown-up children and four grandchildren, and now lives in Dorset on the beautiful Jurassic Coast with her husband. She is the bestselling author of seventeen novels. She also writes under the name of Lily Baxter.
Also by Dilly Court
Mermaids Singing
The Dollmaker’s Daughters
Tilly True
The Best of Sisters
The Cockney Sparrow
A Mother’s Courage
The Constant Heart
A Mother’s Promise
The Cockney Angel
A Mother’s Wish
The Ragged Heiress
A Mother’s Secret
Cinderella Sister
A Mother’s Trust
The Lady’s Maid
The Best of Daughters
The Workhouse Girl
Dilly Court
For all the hardworking staff at Dorset County Hospital and a special mention for the operating department team
Chapter One
St Giles and St George Workhouse, London, 1859
‘MY NAME IS Sarah Scrase, and I don’t belong here.’ White-faced and terrified, but defiant, Sarah clasped her small hands tightly behind her back, digging her fingernails into her palms in an attempt to control the tears that welled into her blue eyes.
‘What?’ Matron Trigg bellowed like a cow in calf, causing the other children in the schoolroom to huddle together in fear. ‘What did you say, girl?’
‘My name is Sarah Scrase and I want my ma.’
Matron Trigg turned to her husband, the workhouse master. ‘Did you ever, Mr Trigg? No you did not, nor I neither. What is the world coming to when a young child speaks back to her elders and betters?’
‘Shocking, Mrs Trigg. Deal with her as you see fit.’ Mr Trigg beat the air with the cane he was holding, and the swishing sound sent a ripple of terrified murmurs around the classroom. ‘Another peep from any of you girls and you will all feel a taste of the Tickler’s anger.’
Sarah was trembling violently and a feeling of faintness almost overcame her, but she struggled to keep calm. She had already experienced the Tickler, Mr Trigg’s much used method of corporal punishment, twice, and she had only been an inmate at the workhouse for a few hours. The Tickler had punished her for clinging to her mother’s skirts when they were first separated, and had beaten her soundly for refusing to abandon her own clothes for the grey grogram workhouse uniform, coarse calico petticoat and blue check apron, and now she was likely to endure another assault with the fearsome instrument of torture. She glanced nervously at Matron’s bulldog jaw, set in a harsh line despite her flabby jowls, but she was not going to give in. ‘I’m Sarah Scrase,’ she whispered, ‘and I want my ma.’
‘Your mother is a whore,’ Matron said in a voice that reverberated like a clap of thunder. ‘She is no better than she should be and at this moment is giving birth to another spawn of the devil.’
‘You take that back.’ Forgetting everything other than the need to stand up for her beloved mother, Sarah put her head down and charged at Matron’s corpulent body, butting her in the stomach and sending her staggering backwards into her husband’s arms. Sarah fell to her knees, bowing her head as if waiting for the axeman’s deadly stroke.
There was a moment of horrified silence and then someone giggled.
Mr Trigg thrust his wife aside and flailed the air with his cane as he grabbed Sarah by the white cap she had been forced to wear. It came off in his hand, exposing her spiky hair, which to her horror had been cropped short when she was admitted to the workhouse. Seizing her by the scruff of her neck, he dragged her to her feet. ‘You are indeed the devil’s daughter,’ he said, bringing the cane down across her back. ‘Spawn of Old Nick. Offspring of Old Scratch.’
Sarah cried out as he beat her again and again until she crumpled in a heap at his feet. He released her with a growl. ‘Let that be a lesson to you.’ He turned to his wife who was leaning against the teacher’s desk, clutching her large bosom and groaning. ‘I’ll leave this brat to you, my dear. Treat her harshly. Teach her manners in any way you see fit.’ He stormed out of the classroom, slamming the door behind him.
Matron Trigg raised herself, aiming a savage kick at Sarah. ‘Get up.’
With difficulty, Sarah scrambled to her feet. She faced her tormentor with a defiant toss of her head. ‘I’m not the devil’s daughter,’ she said in a low voice. ‘I used to go to Sunday school regular, and he’s got no right to say things about Ma. It ain’t her fault that Pa got drownded in the Thames when his wherry was run down in the fog.’
‘What is your name?’ Matron Trigg leaned over so that her face was close to Sarah’s.
‘I’m Sarah Scrase.’
‘Not now you ain’t.’ Matron’s bloodshot eyes opened wide and her nostrils flared. ‘I’ll tell you what it is, girl. You’ll bear your demon father’s name for the rest of your time in this institution. From now on you will be known as Sal Scratch.’ She beckoned to one of the older girls. ‘Nettie Bean. Come here.’
Sarah looked round and saw an older girl making her way between the regimented lines of wooden desks. Freckle-faced and with hair the colour of gingerbread, Nettie Bean looked as though she might know how to stand up for herself. Sarah met her green-eyed gaze with a mute plea for help.
‘Hurry up,’ Matron Trigg said crossly. ‘I haven’t got all day.’ Taking a sheet of paper from her desk, she dipped a pen in the inkwell. ‘Can you read, Sal Scratch?’
‘Yes, and I can write me name.’
Matron thrust the pen into her hand. ‘Then write this – I am the devil’s daughter.’
Sarah’s instinct was to refuse, but her backside was still smarting from the Tickler’s harsh punishment, and her ribs were sore where they had come into contact with Matron’s boot.
Without waiting for the ink to dry Matron snatched the paper from her and gave it to Nettie. ‘Pin it on her back. She’ll wear this until she has learned her lesso
n.’ She took a pin from her collar and put it in Nettie’s outstretched hand. ‘Hurry up, girl. I haven’t got all day to waste on stupid and ungrateful children.’
‘Sorry,’ Nettie whispered as she fastened the placard to the back of Sarah’s bodice.
It was barely more audible than a sigh, but the single word came as the first hint of human kindness that Sarah had encountered since she entered the fearsome building in Shorts Gardens. ‘Ta,’ she whispered, lifting her hand, and for a fleeting second their fingers touched. In that moment Sarah knew that she had made a friend for life.
‘Get back to your seat,’ Matron said, pointing to Nettie. ‘And all of you write on your slates – I must not speak to Sal Scratch.’ She pushed Sarah off the podium with a vicious prod in the ribs. ‘Go and stand in the corner. You’ll remain there until the end of the lesson.’
Sarah stumbled and only just saved herself from falling on her face, but no one laughed. Heads were bent over slates and the scrape of the girls’ slate pencils and laboured breathing filled the air. Sarah stood in the corner, hands clasped firmly in front of her, willing herself not to cry. She closed her eyes, praying silently for her mother, who had been in labour for two days before desperation drove her to the workhouse door. Sarah had been present on two occasions when her mother went into premature labour, and the tiny infants had barely taken their first breaths when they had given up the struggle for life. No doubt they were in heaven with Pa, but he was buried in a pauper’s grave. There had been no money to buy him a plot or even a headstone.
Sarah had loved her pa, but she had also been a bit frightened of him. Big, muscular and inclined to fits of temper, Jed Scrase had been a force to be reckoned with, but he had also been a gambling man. Drink had not been his major vice, but he would bet on anything from a bare knuckle fight to dog ratting, and the money he earned as a wherryman was often gone before he arrived home at night. They had lived mainly off her mother’s earnings as a cleaner in the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, which was close to the rooms they rented in Vinegar Yard. Sarah’s education had been gained from watching the actors during rehearsals, and she had learned to read by studying the programmes and billboards. The theatrical folk had taken her to their hearts, and by the time she was five years old she could recite whole passages from dramas by Boucicault without faltering. She had also been quite a favourite with the ballet dancers, especially when as a toddler she had climbed onto the stage during rehearsals and attempted to copy their graceful movements.
None of this helped her now as she stood for a painful hour, suffering muscle cramps and increasing exhaustion while the class was tested for spelling and times tables. Eventually the lesson came to an end and they were dismissed. Matron Trigg left the room, apparently having forgotten Sarah’s existence, and she was left wondering what to do. Did she stand here all day and maybe all night, until someone discovered her? Or should she follow the rest of the girls?
Nettie was the last to file out of the classroom but she hesitated in the doorway and beckoned to Sarah. ‘You’d best come with us. I think old bitch-face has forgotten you.’
Sarah would have giggled at this had she not been quite so scared. ‘But – but she said I had to stay here.’
‘You can if you like, but she’ll have gone off to her office to drink tea and eat cake while we pick oakum in the yard.’ Nettie held out her hand. ‘Come on. I’ll show you where to go and what to do.’
Sarah needed no second bidding. She ran to join Nettie and was about to rip the offending sign from her bodice when her new friend shook her head. ‘I’d leave that on if I was you. She’ll lock you in the cellar with the rats and spiders if you take it off. She might have forgot you now, but her memory ain’t that bad, Sarah.’
Sarah smiled shyly. ‘Ta, Nettie.’
‘For what? I done nothing.’
‘You called me by my proper name. I’m not Sal Scratch.’
Nettie grinned, revealing a missing eye tooth. ‘Not to me, nipper, but if the old besom has anything to do with it you’ll be Sal Scratch until you’re old enough to be sold to the highest bidder.’ She took Sarah by the hand and hurried down the dark corridor after the rest of the girls.
‘Sold? They’ll sell us?’
‘They call us pauper apprentices, but it means the same. I’ve seen it happen often enough. You get these fat old mill owners who pay the workhouse master for boys and girls to work for them. I suppose it’ll be my turn next.’
‘No. You mustn’t leave me,’ Sarah cried, clutching her hand even tighter. ‘What if Ma dies? I’ll be all alone in the world.’
‘Then you’ll be the same as most of us in this place. Some of us, like me for instance, was dumped here as babies, and there ain’t no escape unless we go to work at the mill or go into service. You just got to be brave, Sarah. Do what they tell you, but don’t let them beat the spirit out of you.’
‘You there. Nettie Bean.’ A stentorian voice from the end of the passageway made them both jump. ‘Stop talking and get to the women’s yard now or you’ll be on bread and water for the rest of the week.’
‘That’s Stoner,’ Nettie whispered. ‘He’s the superintendent of outdoor labour. You don’t want to fall foul of him. If you think that Matron Trigg is a dragon then he’s a demon from hell.’ She broke into a run, dragging Sarah behind her.
They arrived in the yard just in time to file in at the end of the line. The sight that met Sarah’s eyes made her heart sink even further. Rows of women sat on wooden benches tugging at lengths of tarred rope with their bare fingers in order to extract the strands of hemp. The late autumn sun beat down on their heads and it was hot and airless in the enclosed area of the yard. Even from a distance Sarah could see that the women’s fingers were raw and bleeding from picking at the salt-stiffened fibres.
‘We do this until dinnertime,’ Nettie whispered, seemingly regardless of the fact that the man Stoner was glaring at her beneath beetling black eyebrows. Sarah blinked, not daring to acknowledge this piece of information in case it brought his wrath down upon her head. She knew that she was an object of curiosity, if not pity, as she sported the damning sign. She had seen one of the women, who presumably could read, cross herself at the sight of the devil’s child.
As she shuffled along behind Nettie towards the area set aside for the younger girls, Sarah glanced up at the building which towered five storeys above her. She had heard someone say that the lying-in ward was on the topmost floor beneath the roof. Ma was surely closer to heaven up there, but Sarah could only hope that she did not go there too soon.
‘You there. Pay attention.’ Stoner’s loud bellow made her jump and she realised with a sinking heart that he was pointing at her. She huddled a little closer to Nettie but he reached out and grabbed her by the ear. ‘So you’re the devil’s daughter, are you? Well, I’m Beelzebub hisself and if you don’t behave yourself, little girl, I’ll strike you dead on the spot.’ He leaned over her and his breath stank of stale beer and tooth decay. ‘D’you understand what I’m saying?’
‘Y-yes, sir.’ Sarah swallowed the bile that rose in her throat and threatened to make her vomit all over Stoner’s dusty boots.
He gave her a shove that sent her sprawling on the bench beside Nettie. ‘Show the brat what to do, Bean. I’ll be round to check, so no slacking.’ His cold grey stare encompassed the rest of the girls, who had already begun their onerous task. ‘That goes for all of you.’ With his hands clasped tightly behind his back he proceeded to walk slowly along the row and back again. Apparently satisfied with their prowess, he turned his attention to the older women.
Nettie waited until he was out of earshot before heaving a sigh of relief. ‘He’s a bastard, that one. We all hate him even worse than Trigg, and that’s saying something.’
Sarah was doing her best to extract the fibres from the tarred rope, but her hands were small and her fingers were already beginning to hurt. ‘Is it always like this?’
‘No, love. Sometimes
it’s much worse.’ Nettie bent her head over her work. ‘You’ll get used to it.’
By midday Sarah was exhausted and her fingers were a bleeding mass of broken blisters. She had been up before six o’clock that morning and had eaten nothing since a meagre breakfast of a slice of stale bread. After three hours in the schoolroom and two hours of picking oakum, she was barely able to stand when the dinner bell rang. Nettie helped her to her feet but Sarah had to walk to the refectory unaided, and she stumbled several times before she reached the large, echoing room filled with trestle tables and narrow forms. The meal of thin soup and a hunk of bread was barely edible but she was so hungry that by this time she did not care. There was silence except for the sound of the women and children slurping the tasteless broth and slapping their lips as though it were nectar from heaven.
Despite her physical discomfort, Sarah’s only thoughts were for her mother. She was determined to get to the lying-in ward one way or another, but it proved almost impossible. Their every movement was watched by someone in authority, and after the tables were cleared and scrubbed until they were bleached bone-white, and the floors had been swept clean, it was time to return to work. The women went back to the yard to continue picking oakum, but the girls were divided up and some went to the sewing room and the others, including Nettie and Sarah, were given buckets and scrubbing brushes and strict instructions to clean the corridors and staircases until they were spotless.
This was something that Sarah had often done in the theatre when her mother was unwell or too far advanced in pregnancy. She filled her bucket and rolled up her sleeves. The cold water soothed her sore hands but the coarse lye soap stung when it touched the raw flesh. She did her best to ignore the pain as she made her way up five flights of stairs to the top floor. No one, it seemed, was eager to start at the top but it gave her the opportunity of sneaking into the female ward.
The heat beneath the rafters was suffocating, and the smell of blood almost knocked her sideways as she crept into the lying-in ward. The moans and screams of the women in labour filled her with horror, and she was tempted to turn and run, but somehow she forced herself to keep going. She tiptoed between the rows of iron beds, hardly daring to look at the tortured faces of the women as they struggled to give birth. The midwives were too busy to notice one small child in their midst, and Sarah was able to get to the far end of the room without being apprehended. She found her mother lying white-faced and still amongst blood-stained sheets. Her eyes were glazed and her lips moved silently as if in prayer.
