The Workhouse Girl

by Dilly Court

  Sarah jumped as the door opened and she covered the present she had been wrapping with the folds of her skirt, but it was only Parker, staggering beneath the weight of the wooden doll’s house.

  ‘I dunno why you’re spoiling them kids,’ he said, placing it on a table by the window. They’ll spend the rest of their lives in the workhouse if Mr Fitch has his way, and I’ll probably end up there too.’

  ‘Nonsense. He can’t afford to lose you, Parker. You know too much about him. One word from you and he’d end up in prison, which is where he belongs.’

  Parker took the doll from inside his jacket and laid it on a cushion. ‘I remember Miss Elsie playing with this when she was a little girl.’

  Sarah shot him a curious glance. ‘Really? I can’t imagine Elsie playing with dolls.’

  ‘Oh yes, miss. The doll’s house was hers too. Miss Charlotte joined in sometimes but she was always the flighty one.’ He plucked a cobweb from its roof. ‘Miss Charlotte loved pretty things and she was her father’s darling. She was a sunny little thing and everyone loved her. We was all heartbroken when she died so young.’

  ‘What happened, Parker? Was she ill?’

  He shook his head. ‘She was just setting off for a ride when a fox ran out of the yew tree tunnel and she was thrown from her horse. She lay there like a broken flower, so young and beautiful and not a mark on her. You’d think she was sleeping, but Master Toby was only five and he was walking in the grounds with his nanny. He was the first to reach his ma and he clung to her crying and begging her to wake up.’

  ‘That’s so sad,’ Sarah murmured, biting back tears. She tried hard to picture Grey as a small boy and failed. ‘He must have loved his mother very much.’

  ‘We all did, miss.’ Parker cleared his throat and turned away. ‘It were tragic. The old master never got over it and Miss Elsie was heartbroken. She was never the same after that.’

  ‘It must have been a terrible time.’

  ‘Miss Charlotte’s husband never got over it. He gambled away his fortune and took to the bottle. He died a couple of years later and Master Toby was sent off to school, but he came here in his holidays. It’s no wonder he got in with the wrong crowd.’

  ‘He’s a good man at heart.’ On the verge of tears, Sarah made an attempt at a smile. ‘I mean, he was a good man, who had taken the wrong path.’ Setting aside the half-wrapped present she rose to her feet. ‘I refuse to believe that he and Davey are dead, Parker. I think I’d know it if anything dreadful had happened to them.’

  He gave her a pitying look. ‘Believe what you will, miss. But their boat was wrecked. They wouldn’t have lasted long in them seas.’ He ambled from the room, leaving her alone with her thoughts.

  She clenched her hands at her sides, glaring at the portrait of Grey’s sombre-faced grandfather. ‘You could have done something more for your grandson,’ she said angrily. ‘You were the head of the family but you didn’t stand by Elsie and it seems you didn’t lift a finger to stop Grey from getting into bad company, and look how your son George turned out. He’s not a credit to the family name.’ She glanced round the wainscoted room, most of which was in deep shadow, and she smiled. ‘How you would laugh if you could see me now, Grey. Here I am on Christmas Eve, talking to your long-dead grandfather.’ She pulled a face. ‘And Davey would say I was a mad woman.’ She gathered up the presents and placed them under the tree. At least the children would have a good Christmas. What would happen in the future remained to be seen.

  The snow continued to fall in the days that followed and froze into a solid mass, making the roads impassable. When their meagre supplies ran out Sarah was forced to use the secret passage in order to reach the village, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to purchase even the most basic essentials. She bartered logs for flour, salt cod, herring and occasionally a pat of butter or a wedge of cheese that some hardy soul had trudged through the snowdrifts to purchase from one of the outlying farms.

  Late one afternoon at the end of January, she was returning home from one of her forays to the village with half a dozen eggs in her basket together with a small bag of flour and a lump of salt cod, which would feed them for a day or two if she eked out the rations. She entered the church and took a few moments to say a brief prayer, before lighting a candle and going down the steps to the crypt. She had made this journey at least twice a week and was no longer afraid of the darkness or the creepy atmosphere below ground, but this time it was different. As she reached the bottom of the stairs she thought she heard a movement behind the closed door. She hesitated, cocking her head on one side and listening, but there was silence. Thinking it was her imagination playing tricks on her she opened the door, but as she stepped inside a draught of cold air extinguished her candle and someone seized her in a grasp that knocked the air from her lungs.

  Chapter Twenty

  ‘DON’T MAKE A sound.’ The voice was deep and gruff and the arms that held her were merciless. ‘Give us some light, Joe.’

  She heard the scrape of a vesta being struck and she was momentarily dazzled by its glow. ‘Who are you?’ she demanded angrily. ‘Let me go.’

  ‘This must be the one, Fred.’ The man called Joe, a scruffy individual with a crooked nose, lit a candle and held it closer, peering into her face. ‘He said as how she was a plucky little thing.’

  Released without warning Sarah stumbled and would have fallen if he had not steadied her. ‘Who are you?’ she demanded angrily. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I’d have thought you could work that out for yourself, duck.’ Fred, a muscular fellow with a toothless grin, jerked his head at the piles of contraband. ‘Trade’s been slack these past weeks, but you might say we’re back in business now.’

  Looking round she could see that they had been busy. Kegs, crates and bolts of cloth were stacked neatly around the room. ‘Aren’t you taking a terrible risk by coming here in broad daylight?’

  Joe perched on the edge of a tomb. ‘The excise men can’t get about for the snow,’ he said, chuckling. ‘It makes our lives a lot easier so long as the natives don’t peach on us.’

  ‘And most of them are involved in one way or another,’ Fred said with a careless shrug of his shoulders. ‘They’re all at it, from the vicar and the schoolmaster to the chap who owns the big house, and that’s where you come in, missy.’

  ‘I’ve nothing to do with it,’ Sarah said hastily. ‘I know it goes on, but . . .’

  ‘Knowing is as good as doing, according to the law.’ Joe took an expensive-looking half-hunter from his pocket and examined it. ‘Tide will be on the turn shortly, Fred. Best be going.’

  Sarah clutched Fred’s sleeve as he was about to open the door. ‘Wait a minute. You can’t just walk away without telling me who you were talking about. Who said I was plucky and how did you know who I am?’

  He gave her a cursory glance. ‘Young fellow by the name of Davey. We pulled him and his mate out of the sea a few weeks ago.’

  ‘They’re alive?’ Her breath hitched in her throat and the words came out in a barely audible whisper. ‘Tell me, please.’

  ‘They was half dead but still breathing when I last saw them.’

  ‘Where are they now? Please tell me.’

  Joe pushed past them to open the door. ‘We left them in safe hands. C’mon, let’s go, mate.’ He mounted the steps. ‘I’ll sail on me own if you don’t get a move on, cully.’

  Sarah barred their way. ‘Where I can find them?’

  ‘We left them in a village near Calais. They’ll be well cared for so long as they can pay their way.’

  Sarah thought quickly. ‘Do they need money?’

  ‘Everybody always needs money.’ Fred sidestepped her and was about to leave but she caught him by the coat tails.

  ‘Wait a moment. Will you take me to them?’ The words spilled from her lips before she had time to think.

  ‘It’ll cost you.’

  ‘I don’t care. Where are they exactly?
’

  He rattled off a French name. ‘It’ll cost you more than you’ve got, I daresay.’

  ‘If I can raise the money will you take me to them?’

  He stared at her, frowning. ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Yes, I am. When will you be back?’

  ‘Come on, Fred.’ Joe’s impatient voice floated down from the inner sanctum of the apse. ‘We’ll miss the bloody tide.’

  ‘We’ll be back a week today with a bit of luck. If not you’ll have to find your own way. Keep a lookout for us.’ Fred disappeared into the dark interior of the church, leaving Sarah with the stub of a candle to light her way back to the house. She closed the door and leaned against it as she fought to control her erratic breathing. She did not know whether to laugh or cry. They were alive and that was all that mattered. It was all the incentive she needed to risk the perilous sea journey. She retrieved her basket, which she had dropped in her fright, and found that miraculously the eggs had survived in their bed of straw and not a single one was broken. It must be a good omen. She made her way back to the house.

  She found Parker chopping wood in the log store and told him of her encounter with the smugglers. He listened intently. ‘Well now,’ he said, bringing the axe down on a log and splitting it in two. ‘That’s good news in one way and bad in another.’

  She stared at him in surprise. ‘I thought you’d be delighted to know that Master Toby is alive and well.’

  ‘And I am, miss. But there’s a haul of contraband to be collected and stowed away until the roads are passable.’

  ‘Yes, I understand that.’

  ‘And that means that the she-devil herself will be back with her men to collect the merchandise.’

  ‘I suppose so, but I hope to be in France by then.’

  ‘And how will you raise the money?’

  She shook her head. ‘I haven’t worked that out yet.’

  ‘And in the meantime we’ve got a dead body frozen like an icicle in the yew tree tunnel. We couldn’t move it even if we’d got a team of strong men, but when the thaw sets in . . .’ Parker’s voice trailed off and he fixed Sarah with a meaningful gaze. ‘D’you see what I mean?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said slowly. ‘I do, and we’ve got the children to consider now. If I go to France who will look after them?’

  ‘Don’t look at me. I’m no nursery maid.’

  ‘They can’t go back to the cottage. Mrs Trigg has let it to someone else. Old Mrs Scranton told me so when I bought eggs from her. She said that one of the fishing families has taken it for their newly married son and daughter-in-law. The children couldn’t go back even if they wanted to.’

  ‘It’ll be the workhouse then,’ Parker said gloomily. ‘The master won’t stand for no nonsense, especially with that woman bending his ear.’

  ‘I won’t let it happen. I’ll get help.’

  Parker raised a shaggy eyebrow. ‘The only one who can help is him up there.’ He pointed at the sky with its iron-clad clouds threatening yet more heavy snowfalls.

  ‘Mr Moorcroft,’ Sarah said, wondering why she had not thought of him before. ‘He’s a kind gentleman and he’s rich. If I can get to London I know he’ll help me.’

  Once again Parker pointed skywards. ‘It’s going to snow again.’

  ‘There must be an answer.’ She thought hard. ‘What about the railway? I’ve never been on a train but I’ve seen the great iron monsters steaming out of the London stations, belching smoke and spitting sparks. Where’s the nearest station, Parker?’

  ‘That’d be Maldon, but you’ve still got to get there, and the roads are blocked with drifts.’

  Sarah thought for a moment. ‘But I could get there by boat. I just need to find a fisherman who’s willing to take me.’

  ‘And what will you do for money?’

  ‘There’s a small fortune in contraband waiting to be collected by Trigg’s men, or I suppose I should say Mrs Trigg’s men now.’

  ‘Aye, that’s true, and I’d best start bringing it back to the house.’

  ‘You’re missing the point, Parker. What if it never reached the cellars here? What would the landlord of the Ferryboat Inn pay for a keg or two of finest cognac? Wouldn’t the squire’s wife love to have a gown made of pure silk at half the price it would cost if purchased in Spitalfields?’

  He scratched his head, staring at her as if she was speaking in a foreign tongue. ‘But it belongs to the master. He’s paid for it in advance.’

  ‘He can hardly report the theft to the police,’ Sarah said, chuckling. ‘How can things get any worse? We’ve got a dead man on our hands and you stand to lose your job and your home simply because you gave us shelter. Mr Moorcroft will know what to do and he might be able to prove that Master Toby is the rightful owner of Blackwood House and not his uncle. Help me to do this, Parker. Please.’

  It was arranged. Parker had delivered two kegs of brandy to the Ferryboat Inn, and, after a bit of hard bargaining, Moses Cable had agreed to take Sarah to Maldon in his boat.

  They set sail at first light. The sea was reasonably calm for the time of year, or so Moses informed Sarah as he trimmed the sail. ‘If the wind don’t pick up we’ll have to row,’ he said, chewing on a plug of tobacco and spitting a stream of juice into the water.

  Sarah huddled in the bows and said nothing. The smell of fish guts seemed to have permeated every inch of the small craft and she was feeling distinctly queasy.

  ‘I’m wasting good fishing time by doing this,’ Moses grumbled. ‘The herring are running and I’m losing money by taking you to Maldon.’

  ‘You’re being paid,’ she said, stung into a response. ‘And you’re helping to save Davey’s life. Surely that means something to you.’

  His blue eye glared at her while his brown eye focused on the sail. ‘I got to make a living,’ he muttered. ‘Start baling out: the sea’s getting up a bit.’ He tossed a pannikin at her.

  By the time they reached the calmer waters of the River Blackwater Sarah was feeling cold and wretched. When she stepped ashore her legs felt like jelly and her stomach was still churning from the effects of seasickness, but she paid Moses for his services and thanked him, trying not to sound too relieved that they were parting. He tipped his cap and put a fresh twist of tobacco into his mouth before pushing his boat away from the jetty and picking up the oars.

  Sarah set off on foot for the station. It was hard going on the tightly packed snow and even harder if she stepped off the path into the drifts at the side of the road, but she arrived at the railway station at midday and bought a ticket for Bishopsgate.

  ‘The next train will leave at half-past two,’ the man in the ticket office said, examining his pocket watch. ‘There’s a fire in the waiting room.’ He peered through the glass partition. ‘You look a bit peaky, miss. Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  He continued to stare. ‘You look as though you could do with a nice hot cup of tea.’

  She was hungry and thirsty but she needed to be careful with her money. She smiled vaguely and nodded. ‘I think I’ll just go and sit in the waiting room.’

  A gust of wind spiked with hard pellets of sleety snow almost blew her over as she made her way along the platform and she took shelter in the waiting room. A coal fire blazed up the chimney and she settled down on a wooden bench, warming her hands and feet on the hearth. She had been there for less than five minutes when the ticket clerk brought her a cup of strong, sweet tea and two jam tarts on a plate. ‘The missis baked these this morning. She always makes too many for us.’ He handed her the cup and saucer and balanced the plate precariously on the narrow mantelshelf. ‘She can’t get used to the fact that our nippers have grown up and left home. There’s always a piece of cake or a slice of pie going begging in our house.’

  Sarah sipped the tea. ‘That’s very kind of her. Thank you.’

  ‘Not at all, miss. Just leave the crockery there when you’ve finished. I’ll collect it later.’ He
went to the door but he hesitated, turning to her with a concerned look. ‘The train should be on time, but it depends on the weather up the line.’

  ‘I understand.’ She took a jam tart and bit into it. ‘Please thank your wife. This is delicious.’

  He puffed out his chest. ‘My Maggie is a fine cook. She used to work in a big house before we was wed. I’ll pass on your message, miss.’ He glanced out of the window as a man in a top hat strode past. ‘There’s the station master. I’d best get back to my post.’

  The train was ten minutes late, but at least it arrived. For a while Sarah had been afraid that the service would be cancelled due to the weather, but gradually the waiting room filled with people and the platform was crowded when the train pulled into the station. She found a seat in a third-class compartment and settled down for the journey to London, cramped between a travelling salesman who kept taking furtive nips from a flask which smelled strongly of gin, and a large woman with a wicker basket on her lap containing two live and extremely vocal chickens.

  It was dark when the train arrived at its final destination and Sarah was stiff, tired and extremely hungry. It was, she thought, too late to go to Mr Moorcroft’s office, and she decided to go straight to Mrs Arbuthnot’s house in Elbow Lane. She toyed with the idea of walking in order to save money but when she saw the slushy state of the pavements and discovered that it had started to snow again, she hailed a cab.

  It seemed strange to be back in the hustle and bustle of the city with its gaslit streets and tall buildings, but by the time they reached Shadwell and the cabby drew his horse to a halt Sarah was beginning to feel at home again. She paid the cabby, but as she knocked on the door she was suddenly nervous and unsure of her welcome. She waited, shivering in the cold night air as she listened for sounds of life within, and was rewarded by the pitter-patter of footsteps on the tiled floor. The door opened and it was Nettie who stood there with a look of astonishment on her face. ‘Gawd above, it’s you!’ She grabbed Sarah by the hand and dragged her over the threshold.