Outcast

by Josephine Cox

  From his position at the window, Caleb Crowther followed the doctor’s movements, a contrived look of deep concern on his face. When the doctor turned to declare, ‘I’m afraid I was too late. We can do nothing for Thadius now,’ the look of concern deepened, and, passing his hand wearily over his face, he gave a painful groan, ‘Poor Thadius, but at least his sufferings are over now.’ When, out of the corner of his eye he saw Mrs Manfred emerging from the cupboard and hurrying out of the room, a suspicious look crossed his face. But he could not be sure of what she had seen . . . he would never be sure.

  It was into this sombre scene that Mr Holford, the solicitor, came, but he quickly realized what had happened and left the room. Caleb Crowther followed him into the hallway, where he answered the solicitor’s immediate question with regret, ‘No, I’m afraid I know nothing of why Mr Grady should want to speak to you.’ He secured an appointment at which time Thadius Grady’s legal arrangements would be confirmed. Then, with a show of compassion for that same departed soul, he bade Mr Holford good day.

  When Agnes Crowther made her way upstairs to break the news to Emma, Mrs Manfred found a quiet place to consider what had taken place. She could not be certain of what had happened. Already, she was trying to wipe from her mind all memory of what she had seen. After all, it was possible that Thadius Grady had passed away naturally as he tried, in his fevered state, to see Emma. It was possible that Caleb Crowther had simply recovered the pillow from the floor where it had fallen. It was also possible that she had too vivid and dangerous an imagination. Yes, all of these things were possible, but she was not convinced! All the same, she resolved that she would put everything that had transpired out of her mind. To know something was often a burden; but to suspect something was usually dangerous! She was just a housekeeper, after all. But she had a particular love of Mr Grady and young Miss Grady. Yet, what was she to do without proof of her suspicions? She would have given anything not to have been in that room – but she had been there, God help her! And, even if she was wrong in her suspicions regarding the death of Thadius Grady, she knew she was not wrong about the evil nature of Caleb Crowther: a man with no compassion; a man who had deliberately denied his own brother-in-law his last dying wish of the comfort of his daughter by his side; a man who had cruelly kept Miss Grady from her dying papa. What sort of creature could hear a father and daughter crying out for each other yet wilfully keep them from one another’s arms? The composition of such a man was beyond comprehension. However, of one thing she was certain. He was a man with the power to completely discredit any accusation a mere housekeeper might bring against him! But what of the comment she had heard regarding Emma’s real papa? No, it was her imagination! It had to be!

  Later, when Mrs Manfred found a desperate need to confide her thoughts to Cook, they were greeted with scorn and given short shrift.

  ‘I’ve never heard such foolishness from a growed woman! It’s a dangerous thing to let your imagination run riot, and you’d do best to put such dreadful thoughts from your mind!’

  Mrs Manfred reluctantly agreed. She immediately reproached herself for having broken her self-imposed rule of not indulging in gossip below stairs.

  Emma was devastated! All through the service when the rector spoke in respectful and glowing terms of ‘the good man, Thadius Grady’, she gazed at that long wooden box beneath the altar. There, within its cold and silent darkness, lay her darling papa – denied in his last moments the words she would have uttered to him. Oh, there was so much she had wanted to tell him! She would have held his frail familiar hand in her own, and murmured of her deep and grateful love. She would have told him of her heartfelt intention to become the daughter she suspected he had always wanted – not wild or wilful, not bold and adventurous, but more sedate and ladylike. She would have given her word that, with all her heart, she would try always to be a sophisticated and genteel young lady, who, one day, would marry a man much like her own papa. She would be a good, respectful wife to that man, and a fine mama to the children she bore him. All of these things, Emma would have said. Instead, her papa had died without hearing any of them. So, she said them now in her heart, strengthening also her promise to steer clear of the river-people. But, even as she made this silent resolve, the dark, laughing image of Marlow taunted her memory and touched her heart.

  Outside, in the churchyard, with the sun beating down on her bowed head, Emma waited until the last mourner had moved away. Then, hardly able to see for the tears burning and swimming in her eyes, she went on her knees. ‘I love you so, Papa,’ she whispered into the ground, ‘I pray you know how much I’ll miss you, my darling.’ In her heart, there was such great sorrow that it felt like a physical weight pulling her down – down, into that place where her papa was sleeping his final sleep. But mingled with this pain there was a strange, inexplicable feeling of another loss besides that of her papa. Although Emma was aware of this, she did not realize its implications: this other loss was that of her youth, her girlhood, all the lightness and irresponsibility of laughter and innocence. But there was also something else. In the fullness of time, her joy of life would return and the laughter would once again light up her eyes, but this other feeling – so deeply etched into her very being – was destined to stay with her forever. Emma knew that no passing of years nor easing of grief could ever ease it, for, never would she forget how Caleb Crowther had so vindictively kept her from the one person she loved, thus denying him the touch of her hand in his last moments. It was vindictive! It was inhuman. Thadius Grady had always taught Emma to forgive and for his sake she would try – but not yet, for she truly believed it would be the hardest thing she would ever be called on to do.

  Emma had been unkindly forced into womanhood by her suffering, and this now betrayed itself in the shadows of her lovely but sad face. These shadows carried away her youth and brought in its place the strong, resolute lines of womanhood. Not once during the service inside the church nor in the churchyard outside, had Emma moved her eyes to look upon Caleb Crowther. Thus she had not witnessed the terrible bitterness on his face as he stared at where her papa lay; she did not hear the secretly whispered words, ‘Mary was mine, Thadius . . . she was always mine!’ If only Emma had been aware of the black hatred eating at Caleb Crowther’s heart at that moment, she might have been better prepared for the terrible injustice he would one day inflict upon her.

  Chapter Three

  ‘Poor Mr Grady would turn over in his grave at the way they treat Miss Grady.’ Gladys, the parlourmaid, joined Mrs Manfred at the casement window. From there they watched the dog-cart carry the master and young Emma out of sight. ‘T’were a different kettle o’ fish a week ago, when Martha Crowther left fer that fancy school!’ declared the maid, in a scornful tone. ‘Tis a great pity the solicitor didn’t get here in time, don’t yer think, Mrs Manfred? For I can’t help thinkin’ as Miss Grady’s papa had begun ter see through the master an’ that wife of his!’

  For a moment, it seemed as though Mrs Manfred might engage in small conversation with the chubby, likeable maid, but, thinking it unwise to endorse such comments with a reply, Mrs Manfred instead gave a weary sigh and pointed out to the young woman that there was ‘still much work to be done.’ With this, the maid shrugged her shoulders, realizing she’d already said too much, and hurried about her business.

  Mrs Manfred lingered for a moment longer at the window, her eyes fixed on the upward spiral of dust that marked the progress of the dog-cart along the sandy lanes, which, because of the lack of rain these past weeks – almost the whole of September – were unusually dry underfoot. Presently, she turned away, her thoughts with Emma on her first day as clerk at the Wharf Mill. She hoped it would not be too bad, for, in spite of Emma’s deepening maturity resulting from the painful loss of her beloved papa, she was nevertheless untutored in the ways of the world. But, Mrs Manfred was not altogether despairing, for Emma had always had a deep and precious gift for accepting most things with a wisdom way beyond
her years. Somehow, she was always ready to make the best of things, however daunting they might seem to another, and these traumatic past four weeks had only served to strengthen this precious quality in her. Mrs Manfred’s thoughts reflected briefly on the dreadful thing which Caleb Crowther had done in keeping father and daughter apart at a time when they had needed each other more than ever before in their lives. She had convinced herself that Caleb Crowther must have thought it for the best, but it was still a terrible thing; it had swept Emma’s childhood away seemingly overnight, taking with it a tender innocence and a certain softness from her eyes, which once had seemed to smile all the time.

  Still, Mrs Manfred was most confident that Emma would not let this business of working in the mill get her down. Indeed, if she knew Emma, and she did better than most, the lass would seek to do well – if only for her papa’s sake.

  Certainly, as Caleb Crowther urged the horse onwards, out of Breckleton and into Blackburn via Preston New Road, Emma’s thoughts were of a similar nature. After her initial reservations regarding her clerical assignment to Mr Gregory Denton, Emma had begun to look upon it as a test, and she vowed to herself she would show Caleb Crowther that she was her papa’s child – made of the same sterling quality! It would take more than being incarcerated in one of the Grady mills to break her spirit.

  There was no lasting envy in Emma’s heart towards her cousin, Martha, who, only a week ago, had also departed to begin a new adventure. But how very different Martha’s departure had been from her own, she mused with a wry smile. Such fuss and ceremony! From the moment the pampered creature was risen from her bed to the moment she clambered into that fine, luggage-laden carriage – when her doting mama had thrust into the grasping gloved hands yet more refreshments for the journey – Martha Crowther had utilized a whole range of emotions. She had panicked, whimpered, wept, and indulged in every manner of tantrum!

  Martha’s departing words to Emma had merely been an attempt to raise herself above her cousin, with a cut to the heart. ‘Of course, Emma,’ she had started, mimicking her mama by peering down the length of her nose at Emma, ‘you would gain nothing by going to a school for young ladies, having shown yourself to be at times unruly and vulgar. Oh dear me, no! But, I’m quite certain you will do well at the mill. Papa is an excellent judge of your limitations. Such work should suit you eminently.’ With that, she allowed her mama to kiss her lightly on the cheek, but had seemed somewhat depleted when her papa merely gave her a curt instruction to ‘attend well to your studies.’ She had then swept out to embark upon her journey, which was some two hundred miles long and taking her to a grand school situated in the heart of Bedfordshire.

  Now, here am I embarking on mine, thought Emma, with a strange feeling of satisfaction for, if the truth were told, she would not wish to change places with Martha – not for all of Queen Victoria’s crown jewels!

  These past weeks had been a hard and painful experience. She had known for a long time that her papa was desperately ill and had tried so hard to prepare herself for his leaving her on her own. Yet, when it happened she was not prepared; the manner of his death was such that now she missed him even more. And it was all the fault of the man seated beside her now – his very nearness caused her flesh to creep. Once or twice since Caleb Crowther had climbed into the dog-cart and taken up the reins, Emma had sent a caustic glance in his direction, thinking all the time what a foul and sorry creature he was. His sober and serious expression gave nothing away; the tails of his long black coat were ceremoniously laid out behind him – like the mantle of a devil, thought Emma bitterly; his stomach protruded grotesquely over his lap; his back was as straight and rigid as the look upon his stern, forbidding face; and perched on top of his mass of brown and iron-grey hair was that tall, upright hat which he was so seldom seen without.

  ‘I would rather have found my own way to the mill,’ Emma ventured. ‘It would be no problem because papa took me there many times.’ She had made the same observation on the previous evening when Caleb Crowther had told her of his intention to ‘See you get there, on your first day.’ The resentment at his accompanying her was easily evident in her voice as she raised the issue again. So Emma was not surprised when he turned his head sharply to glower down at her. Then, giving only a grunt to signify that he had heard her, he returned his full attention to the road ahead. ‘Giddyup!’ his voice boomed down on the bay mare, as he slapped the reins in the air until they made a cracking sound which spurred the animal on at an even faster trot. It was not often that Caleb Crowther took it upon himself to drive the dog-cart into town, but on the odd occasion when he did, it was to be both heavy-handed in his management of it, and to present a fearsome spectacle to the less law-abiding citizens, who at some point along the journey would recognize him as Caleb Crowther – a tyrant who infused his sweating horse with terror, just as he did the miscreants upon whom he legally dispensed justice. He was not a liked man, nor was he respected – only despised and feared.

  ‘Thomas has instructions to bring you in future. I have far more pressing matters which demand my time!’ spoke Caleb Crowther now. ‘As for you . . . Mr Denton has instructions to keep you plied with work and kept busy for the four hours you will be there each day; with the exception of Saturday, when no doubt your aunt will instruct you in duties of a more domestic nature. Later, of course, you will be called upon to put in a very much longer day.’

  Emma thought this idea must please him intensely, for he now turned his head slightly to bestow on her a stiff little smile. But she paid him no attention. The prospect of work was not one that worried her. True, the mill was a daunting place in which to be confined – as she had witnessed on the numerous occasions she had been in there with her papa. She had seen for herself how dark and grimy conditions there were. But she had also seen how, despite this, the work-hands applied themselves wholeheartedly to the task in hand. And that is exactly what I shall do, Emma told herself now, certain that her papa would be proud of her resolve. Then she softly began humming a tune, as she assiduously observed the bustling activity all around, which increased significantly the nearer they came to Blackburn town centre.

  At this early hour of eight a.m., there was much coming and going in every direction. The muffin-man was busy pushing his wicker-trolley along, his cloth cap perched precariously over his forehead, his step a lively one, and his lips pursed together in the whistling of a jolly melody. The brewery-waggon ambled along across the street, loaded with hefty wooden barrels brimful of draught beer. As usual, the big black shires harnessed up front were magnificent in their polished brass and leather harness, with their long tails neatly plaited, and their manes gathered in rows of intricate decorated braids. So delighted was Emma by this scene, that she raised her hand in a friendly wave as the waggon rolled past them in the opposite direction.

  ‘Mornin’ to you,’ called one of the two men from the drivers’ bench, both of whom were dressed in dark coats and trim little bowlers, with light-coloured breeches tucked into their black knee-length boots. These boots were polished to such a deep mirror finish that they gave the impression of being shiny wet. Emma thought the whole ensemble to be a proud and dignified one – albeit for the purpose of carting ale!

  As they passed the grander houses of Preston New Road, the ladies emerged in twos and threes. Some were dressed in flouncy crinoline style, while others favoured the newest bustle line; but all were bedecked in extravagant bonnets, and all were unquestionably elegant and resplendent. It amused Emma to see how her Uncle Caleb’s countenance suddenly changed at the sight of all this female finery. At once, he was wearing the sickliest of smiles, and doffing his hat in exaggerated gentlemanly gestures – only to scowl and curse, in characteristic fashion, when a four-horse carriage immediately behind began showing signs of impatience at his dawdling.

  Emma grew more and more engrossed in the hustle and bustle as their route carried them farther away from the open countryside and wide roads, into the hear
t of industrial Blackburn town, with its narrow cobbled streets of tightly packed back-to-back houses, overlooked by towering and monstrous mill chimneys – themselves alive as they pumped out long creeping trails of choking black smoke. On a day such as this – when the earth was parched and devoid of a breeze which might cool it or lift the billowing smoke higher into the air – the dark swirling clouds could only cling to the roofs and chimneys like a thick acrid blanket enveloping all beneath, and shutting out the brilliant sunlight from above. But, to the vast majority of Blackburn folk it was a natural and accepted thing which was as much a part of their daily lives as breathing itself. The cotton mills were the life-line of almost every man and his family, whether they were mill-workers, mill-owners, river-people, or others who benefited from this industry. They tolerated the smoke and the shrill scream of the mill whistle calling them from their beds at some ungodly hour, for cotton was the thread by which their very existence hung. It gave them work; it gave them a means by which they could raise their families in dignity; and, above all, it gave them a sense of pride and achievement.

  Cotton mills were going up at an unprecedented rate all over Lancashire, but, here in Blackburn the programme of mill construction was staggering. Emma had inherited her papa’s own pride in these great towering monstrosities, and she knew all their names – Bank Top Mill, Victoria Mill, Infirmary Mill – and, oh, so many more! Cotton was big business, keeping the town a hive of bustling activity. No hard-working mill-hand ever grew rich by it as his wages were too meagre; but, for the man with money to invest, the opportunities grew by the day. The Leeds to Liverpool Canal was a main artery from the Liverpool Docks to the various mills. Along this route the fuel and raw cotton which kept the mills alive was brought, thus affording a living to the many bargees who, with their families, dwelt in their colourful floating homes and spent most of their lives travelling to and fro with their cargoes. This consisted mainly of raw cotton, unloaded from the ships which carried it across the ocean from America.