by Emma Hornby
They were the poor relations, always had been; they relied on the Powells’ support significantly. Not only would the truth mean inevitable unemployment for the pair of them – if Esther didn’t throw them out on their ears, then Flora would certainly insist they were finished with the shop – it would also mean losing the only kin they had left. Jewel couldn’t deny that her uncle and aunt had been there for her mother both financially and emotionally throughout the years since Fred Nightingale’s death. This would fracture beyond repair a relationship that her mam not only held dear but depended upon.
Concocting a tale of a mystery attacker was becoming more appealing by the second. Could she pull it off convincingly? Would her family believe her? Could her tongue really allow her to see her cousin walk away scot-free from this mess he’d helped create?
Crushing powerlessness swamped her and her shoulders sagged. She took some deep breaths to steady her frayed nerves. She must get up and see to her chores, couldn’t let her mother see her like this, had to go on as normal without arousing suspicion until she had a concrete version of events devised in her head. She couldn’t afford to slip up, had to get this right if she was to do it at all.
She rose from the table, then, catching sight of the scrunched pages of Bernard’s newspaper, clicked her tongue in contrition. With care, she smoothed it out as best she could and placed it back where she’d found it. She was about to make for the fire when her eyes, straying to a particular piece of smudged text, picked out a few words. She paused.
Thanks to her uncle’s patient teachings, Jewel had learned to read sufficiently well alongside her cousin at a young age. Though she hadn’t revelled in it quite as much as Benji did, she had still grasped enough to be able to read at an adequate level. Now, lifting the paper once more, she scanned the short advertisement:
NURSE CHILD WANTED, OR TO ADOPT.
Widow with moderate allowance would be glad to accept the charge of a child. Age no object. If sickly, would receive a parent’s care. Terms 15 shilling a month or would adopt entirely for small sum of £10.
Jewel re-read the words a half-dozen times or more. Her heartbeat had quickened and her hands felt clammy. This sort of thing really happened? There were folk out there willing to take a child off your hands, no questions asked? For what purpose? A married couple unable to bear a baby of their own, she could understand, but a widow? Dear God, what did the ins and outs matter? her mind yelled. This could be the answer to her prayers …
Just as quickly as it had risen, the rush of hope drained away and disappointment replaced it – ten whole pounds? How in heaven could she ever dream of having such an amount at her disposal? Even the monthly fee this widow was asking was beyond her means. Jewel handed over her wages to her mother each week, and the little that Flora gave back for her to treat herself with didn’t amount to anywhere close.
Looking down, she was surprised to see that her hand had travelled to her midriff. It had done so of its own free will, almost as if to shield the life lying within from the article, from its mother’s contemplations …
‘Shut up,’ she told herself firmly. ‘Daft imaginings like that will get you nowhere but the asylum, for you’ll bring on the madness with such thoughts.’ And yet …
Her gaze once more swivelled to the paper. But again, the impossibility of it was undeniable. She shrugged, sighed and gave the advertisement underneath it a cursory glance. Again, the word ‘Wanted’ leapt out at her, only this one was followed by something else – something that brought heat to her veins and excitement to her breast more than the first had done.
Bringing the newspaper closer to her face, she read on quickly:
WANTED, IMMEDIATELY, GENERAL SERVANT.
A gentleman’s family seeks respectable girl to attend a young child as well as regular household duties. Good wages. Character reference required. Apply to Mrs Kirkwood after 6 p.m. at the following residence …
Scanning the address, Jewel’s face lit up to see it was no distance from her own home. Then surely this instead was the answer, albeit a temporary one, to her prayers: escape.
Anything could happen over the course of the next few months: she could lose the child naturally – it happened to women all too often, she knew. Should that occur, she’d be all right, could continue with her life afresh. And if the child didn’t break from her before its time … well, then she’d just have to try to hide her condition from these potential new employers for as long as she could.
It would be a while yet before her belly began to grow. Time in which, mercifully, she wouldn’t have to be in Benji’s presence, wouldn’t have to look at the hard-faced swine, nor be forced to resist smacking him in the teeth … Also, being so close to home, this family might just be persuaded to let her stay on at Back Cheapside with Mam.
She was aware that general servants – a glorified title for maids-of-all-work – normally lived in, but there was no harm in asking, was there?
But the ad stated that her duties would involve caring for a child. She had no experience of such a thing. However, how hard could it be? If the family asked, she’d say she’d cared for little ’uns before – surely this would arouse no suspicion and she’d learn as she went along? Besides, if it came to it, it would be much-needed practice for when her own baby came along, God help her.
She nodded to herself, her enthusiasm mounting. Her mother and, undoubtedly, Esther would want to know why she’d decided to leave the shop but, for now, explanations could wait. At this moment, she could think of nothing but doing all in her power to secure this position. The fact that the prospect evoked this level of pleasure proved to her she was doing the right thing.
It could be said she was approaching such a career relatively late. Most girls began at thirteen, often younger – how they coped with such responsibility at that tender age, Jewel didn’t know. Not only was it a solitary situation but a gruelling one. Arising with the lark and to bed barely shy of midnight, general servitude was not for the faint of heart. A maid-of-all-work was just that: a sole servant with an endless list of tasks that were seemingly never done. Housemaid, kitchen maid, cook, washerwoman, seamstress – and at this residence, nursemaid, too – rolled into one.
To make matters worse, vast numbers of girls received rough treatment from their employers and endured a miserable existence with next to no thanks. She just prayed the gentleman and his family were kindly and didn’t use her too hard.
After memorising the house number and returning the newspaper with a determined nod, Jewel set to her chores with gusto. The hours flew by, and before she knew it Flora appeared in the doorway informing her it was time to come home. She smiled, nodded and went to collect her shawl, then she and her mother set off on the short distance across the square.
Jewel had spoken to her mam at odd intervals throughout the day but to her cousin she’d uttered nothing more. Likewise, Benji hadn’t spoken to her – what, after all, was there left to say to each other? He’d made his feelings known and she, unable to see a way forward in that respect, had kept the truth locked within.
She wouldn’t, as she’d sworn she must, tell their family anything just yet. One matter at a time – securing the servant’s job should take priority. When she did eventually break the monumental news, a faceless attacker being the culprit, as Benji had suggested, would be the explanation she’d go with. This she’d decided during her work, and the more she’d mulled it over the more sensible the idea had become. Though she was loath to let that swine off the hook like this, she could see no other option for a quiet life. He’d get his comeuppance some day, somehow, she was certain. Past wrongs had a funny way of catching up with you like that and she looked forward to the time Benji was called to answer for his. Oh, she did.
‘More bread, lass?’
Reasoning that she might as well learn the outcome of her interview before revealing to her mother her decision to leave the shop, Jewel had done her best to act naturally whilst helping Flora prepar
e their evening meal. Inside was another matter; anxiety coupled with hopeful anticipation had churned her stomach throughout – she’d struggled to get the food down. Now, as Flora lifted the knife to the stale loaf, Jewel shook her head quickly.
‘Not for me, ta, Mam.’
‘You sure? Another sup of tea, then?’
She shook her head once more. Avoiding her mother’s gaze and forcing herself not to gawp at the cheap tin clock yet again – she’d barely taken her eyes from it since they arrived home – she pushed back her chair. ‘D’you know, I fancy a walk.’
‘Now?’ Frowning, Flora glanced to the window and the pale grey sky beyond. ‘It favours we’re due rain.’
‘Nay, it’s brightened up a bit, I reckon,’ she responded mildly; inside, however, her heart was thumping like a drum. ‘Anyroad, I’ll not roam far and I’ve got my shawl.’
‘Aye, all right. Thinking on it, the air will do thee good after being holed up in that stuffy shop the day through. Mind, you never bemoan it. You’re a good lass, aye.’
The soft pride in her mother’s tone brought a sting of guilt. They had never kept secrets from each other and she hated the fact that she’d started now. Before leaving, Jewel bent over her and pressed her cheek to hers. She closed her eyes. ‘I love thee,’ she murmured against the warm, lined skin.
Flora stroked her daughter’s long plait which lay between them. ‘I know, lass. And I thee. Now, go on, enjoy your walk. I’m for putting my trotters up awhile by the fire.’
The town hall clock struck five thirty as Jewel stepped outside, and excitement stirred in her. Positioning her shawl to drape loosely around her shoulders against the midsummer breeze, she turned her clogged feet towards the square.
She’d take a wander around, after all, until the appointed time; hopefully, it would help to calm her racing heart and mind.
Chapter 7
HERE, MERE YARDS from the slum dwelling Jewel had always called home, was like stepping into another district altogether. Lined with fine, mainly three-storey late-Georgian town houses and institutional buildings, Mawdsley Street was an attractive spot.
Naturally, the very best places to be were the villas in areas away from the belching chimneys of industry; by Bolton Park, for example. That was where the wealthiest and most important – the cotton merchants and their ilk – made their homes. They wouldn’t dream of polluting their own lungs with the noxious smoke their businesses created. They left that to their workers, who could afford rent only on the crumbling rooms clustered around their mills and factories. Money didn’t just talk here, it bellowed for the world to hear. Such was life.
Nevertheless, despite its central location, Mawdsley Street was certainly not to be sniffed at. You could quite easily forget the truth that its residents lived cheek by jowl with the less fortunate packed into the tight grid of lanes surrounding it once you turned the corner into this straight and narrow, well-kempt road.
Jewel paused outside the address and looked about. Some of the mixed stone and brick edifices were more elaborate and imposing than others, but each seemed like a royal palace compared to what she and everyone she knew was used to. And to think she might shortly be living amongst this, too, she thought excitedly, eyes drinking in the clean and quiet surroundings.
The private residence before her boasted a pedimented entrance and a tall, shiny dark-wood door with a brass knob and knocker – these, she spied, were dull and in need of a good polish. In fact, looking more closely, she saw that one or two other things showed subtle signs of neglect. The sash window panes appeared a little dirty and the front step looked as if it hadn’t seen a scrubbing brush in months. She frowned. Then the corners of her mouth lifted and she nodded. It seemed she’d come at just the right time.
After quickly tidying her hair and smoothing down her skirts and shawl, she took a deep breath and knocked. The door opened almost immediately and she stepped back in surprise. ‘Oh. He–hello.’
‘Yes?’
‘My name’s Jewel Nightingale. I’m here about the general servant’s position advertised in the Bolton Evening News.’
A tall, well-dressed woman with greying brown hair secured in a neat bun who she assumed was the mistress, Mrs Kirkwood, lifted an eyebrow with evident interest. ‘I see. Follow me, please.’
She led the way to a good-sized drawing room in dusky blue. Like the curtains, the sofa was a shade darker and complemented the space beautifully – to this, the lady motioned and, tentatively, Jewel sat.
‘It is not quite six yet. The advertisement did stipulate that all applicants were to apply here after that time.’
‘I’m sorry … Should I come back later?’ Jewel had half risen as she spoke, but the lady brushed her suggestion aside.
‘No need, you’re here now. You’re able to wait?’
‘Aye, yes, Mrs Kirkwood.’
‘Good. He’s normally home a few minutes after six, then we can get down to business.’
Jewel smiled and nodded instead of letting her frown show. He? Husbands never usually involved themselves in such matters – the taking on of staff was left to the mistress of the house to deal with. Something else didn’t quite add up: the terms mentioned she’d have to care for a young child, yet Mrs Kirkwood appeared a little long in the tooth to have recently borne one. She was fifty if she was a day. It was possible at such an age, it was true – Mam was proof of that – but still …
‘Have you experience of domestic servitude, Miss Nightingale?’
Snapping out of her reverie, Jewel chose her answer carefully. Though she’d cleaned at the umbrella shop and helped with the cooking for her and her mother for just as long, she hadn’t ever actually held the title of servant … ‘I can scrub and cook with the best of them, Mrs Kirkwood,’ she announced with what she hoped was confidence.
‘Good, good. And children?’
Again, Jewel thought her response through. ‘I have a younger cousin.’ That Benji was barely two years her junior, she didn’t mention. To her relief, the lady took from this what Jewel had hoped she would – Mrs Kirkwood nodded, satisfied.
‘Well, so far so good.’
The ticking of the clock on the ornate mantel filled the silence for a minute or two until, finally, there was the sound of the front door opening and closing.
Mrs Kirkwood disappeared into the hall and Jewel took the time alone to prepare herself for the interview proper, checking again that her hair and clothing were neat and taking some slow, deep breaths. She’d just fixed a small, polite smile to her lips when the drawing-room door opened and the couple stepped inside.
‘Oh.’
‘Oh.’ Jewel echoed the man’s surprised greeting. Blinking in confusion, she could lay her tongue to nothing more: what on earth was going on?
‘The two of you have already made one another’s acquaintance?’
Maxwell Birch nodded to the equally puzzled-looking lady. ‘You could say that.’ A definite smile lingered behind his eyes. ‘Her uncle is a client of mine at the bank.’ To Jewel, he added, ‘Miss Nightingale, may I introduce Mrs Kirkwood, my sister.’
Sister? But she’d assumed … God above, how could this be? Her shoulders drooped and disappointment pained her chest. That was her dream of employment here dashed right away. Given what he knew of her, that he believed her to be of unsound mind, there was no chance he’d want her beneath his roof, and especially tending to his child …
‘Shall we begin?’ Maxwell removed his dark jacket, which his sister took from him and left the room to hang up, then loosened his stiff collar. Then he motioned to the sofa and when Jewel, after a long hesitation, resumed her seat, he sat in a chair facing her. Resting his elbows on his knees, he steepled his fingers and stared at her.
She dropped her eyes to her feet. ‘Mr Birch—’
‘How are you?’
Their encounter at the park that morning played in her mind and her cheeks grew redder. ‘I’m well, ta. Look, Mr Birch, I shouldn’t have come
—’
‘You’ve changed your mind about the position?’ he interrupted again. ‘So soon?’
‘You mean …?’ She lifted her gaze to his. ‘You don’t want me to leave your house? You’re prepared to interview me, sir?’
A quiet smile appeared at Maxwell’s mouth. ‘Why ever would I not be? Is there a reason why you deem yourself as undeserving of a fair trial, same as everyone else?’
‘You know there is.’ She spoke in a dull whisper. ‘You believe me to be mad. To be honest, I don’t blame thee. Often question it myself of late.’
For a full minute, he was silent, then: ‘I think you are unhappy, and deeply so. Something troubles you which you feel unable to disclose, even to those nearest to you. However, I don’t think you are mad. Not at all, Miss Nightingale.’
Jewel’s eyes filled with tears at the sincerity of his tone. To hell with the job – she just needed someone to talk to. She opened her mouth, fully intending to spill her secret, for that’s how this man affected you. He made you feel … safe was the only word she could summon to mind. Aye, secure in the knowledge that he would listen without judgement. That he’d understand, maybe even offer a solution. That it was just you and him, here in this moment, in the whole world … Until, the door opened and Mrs Kirkwood breezed back in, snapping Jewel back to her senses.
God above, what was she playing at? That she’d almost … had actually considered … To him?
Her mind was racing; she needed to leave, must get away from this house and Maxwell Birch. She watched in dismay as, before she had a chance to make her escape, the lady took a seat in the chair facing her brother as though to continue the interview.
‘So, Miss Nightingale.’ Mrs Kirkwood raised her brows encouragingly. ‘You were saying earlier about your experience in tending to children?’
‘I … Well, I …’ Jewel’s face burned brighter still. She licked her lips. ‘Aye, yes. Well, what I, I mean, is—’
