The Girl From Poorhouse Lane

by Freda Lightfoot

  ‘I’m sure she will, sir. Don’t we just have to keep faith in the Good Lord’s mercy?’

  Their conversation was being carried out in whispers as they stood together in the dimly lit bedroom, looking down upon the sleeping patient, each loving and grieving for her in their different ways, and both devastated by the terrible news.

  ‘Are we being punished, Kate, for wanting a family? Is that the reason Amelia is ill, because we weren’t satisfied with Callum?’

  ‘Don’t talk like an eejit,’ was Kate’s immediate response, as brusque as ever. ‘Of course she was satisfied with Callum. Who wouldn’t be? The poor lady tragically mistook nature’s signals, that’s all. ’Tis a terrible shame, but no fault of hers or yours.’ Kate blamed this abiding obsession of her mistress to have a child of her own, almost entirely on the gossip-mongers. Amelia had been perfectly content over the adoption until they had started brewing their malicious rumours and spreading spiteful lies, making the poor woman feel inadequate.

  And to be fair, Amelia had never for a moment believed a word of the evil which Lucy had concocted about Eliot and Kate, and which had spread with the speed of a forest fire. She’d maintained a firm conviction that her beloved husband had been completely faithful to her, and that Callum was indeed who Kate said he was, the child of her own legal marriage. But the hurtful comments had cut deep and the battle had taken it’s toll.

  ‘Oh, Kate, what would I do without you?’ Eliot murmured.

  ‘I’m sure you’d manage well enough, though thankfully ye don’t have to try.’ Kate’s love for this man was such that she could even wish his wife would stay well, for his sake, just to keep him happy.

  Yet gazing upon the desperately sick woman, breathing so shallowly in the bed before them, they each knew only too well they would soon be obliged to manage without Amelia. Dear Lord but she would be missed, Kate thought. Her kindness, her sweet smile, the joy she’d found in playing with Callum and reading him stirring tales of adventure which he loved, for all he didn’t understand the half of them. Her unobtrusive skills at ordering her household, and the thoughtfulness which so endeared her to the servants. The way she would be adamant that Sunday lunch be served promptly at twelve so they could enjoy as much of their afternoon off as possible. How she would insist that the horses not be kept waiting should the family be going out in the carriage, when really it was Dennis she was concerned about, fearful he might catch cold. And never once did she complain to Askew about the piles of leaves he never quite got around to sweeping up. Without exception, they all adored her.

  So how would they ever get by without her? Callum was three and a half now and all of Kate’s fears and regrets at letting him be adopted had long since evaporated in the face of her mistress’s good will. This was where he belonged, where they both belonged. Amelia had given them both a new life, made them welcome, a part of the family and been so anxious to share this lovely wee boy that it had been quite impossible to bear any resentment towards her.

  Kate and Eliot exchanged a speaking glance, and, looking into her eyes, he saw that their liquid sheen this morning had nothing at all to do with their lovely misty grey colour, and everything to do with the unshed tears which trembled on the golden lashes. He’d wanted so much to believe all was well that he’d shut his mind to any other possibility. Now, as he looked into Kate’s troubled gaze, he was compelled to face the truth.

  The workers at the factory were growing restless, fearful that new machinery and bought-in footwear were beginning to affect the manufacturing output and would ultimately lose them their jobs. Already there were murmurs of disapproval because during the last months Tyson’s hadn’t replaced workers who’d left through illness, retirement or death. Eliot attempted to allay these fears but since there was indeed some truth in them, his efforts weren’t entirely effective. He was depending upon an increase in sales to justify his actions, which so far hadn’t happened, so he urged the young man he’d taken on to be responsible for winning orders, to work harder, travel further and stay on the road longer.

  One morning he arrived at the factory to find the men standing about in the yard, refusing to work. Afraid of eventually losing their jobs, they were out on strike.

  ‘Where is the point in this?’ Elioit demanded, standing on the front steps to address the men as a fine drizzle started, coating his head and shoulders with beads of moisture in seconds. It was a dismal morning, with a grey mist enveloping the town, blotting out the famous view of the castle and lending another meaning entirely to the title of Auld Grey Town, which generally referred to the limestone architecture. It seemed, in that moment, as if the whole world, even God, had turned against him. The weather certainly did nothing to lighten Eliot’s mood as he gazed upon their set faces. This was the last thing he needed with a beloved wife at death’s door.

  ‘You know that trade isn’t good, profits are down with the extra competition we’re up against, and that I’m trying to pull the company back from the brink after one or two recent problems.’ He wasn’t entirely certain how much the men knew about Charles’s attempt to purloin funds from the company and transfer it to his own business, so he glossed over that part and hurried on. ‘Orders are slack and I’m doing my best to cut costs, and to encourage more business. What else can I do? What more do you want from me? Why aren’t we getting the orders we should? Tell me that.’

  ‘Happen because the quality isn’t there any more. Have you checked the leather recently?’

  Eliot, who dealt with paperwork and was not a man to understand the finer details of different grades of leather, which of course his father had been, looked confused. ‘What are you saying? That the company is going downhill because I don’t know my stuff?’

  ‘If the company’s going downhill then we’ll all be in the mire,’ roared one man, and Eliot wished he’d kept quiet.

  ‘Stick with quality,’ shouted old Harry Crabtree. ‘That’s what we allus used to produce here at Tyson’s in yer father’s day. Quality.’

  If there was one thing Eliot hated, it was to be compared with his father who’d spent his entire life criticising him. ‘I believe we still do produce quality, Tom, but it is expensive and our shoes are not selling in sufficient quantity so we must do something else as well. Market other lines. We can’t risk putting all our eggs into one basket.’

  Swainson took a step forward from where he’d been lurking in the doorway of the factory listening to all of this, and confronted the crowd, a mixture of angry men and troubled looking women. He didn’t like all these awkward questions about quality. Before you knew it, someone would be asking to see the manifests, chits and dockets; wanting to check the bends of leather ordered and how much was actually paid for them, as opposed to what was written in the book.

  So far, Eliot had not linked Swainson with his brother’s swindles. Lady Fortune continued to smile on him, and he was still an innocent man in his boss’s eyes. Long may it remain so - long enough for him to finish feathering his nest before disappearing over the horizon with his pockets heavy with brass. The Tysons weren’t the only ones with gentlemanly aspirations. Now the foreman squared his shoulders and took another step forward into the mêlée. ‘Happen you’re suggesting I’m the one not doing me job properly, Crabtree, is that it?’

  ‘If the cap fits.’

  ‘And you can do better I suppose?’

  Another voice piped up, ‘What happens if this bought-in stock is all the customers want in future? What are we supposed to manufacture then with all these fancy new sewing machines?’

  Eliot answered swiftly. ‘Tyson’s will always be involved in manufacturing, but it’s true there may need to be a slight reduction in the work force. I’ll do my best to keep it to an absolute minimum, I promise.’

  ‘And what job could we hope to get here in Kendal if we do get the sack? At the sock factory, happen? Well, I can’t bloody knit!’

  Eliot lost patience. ‘No, Ted, I don’t suppose you can, so you’l
l just have to trust me, won’t you? And if it’s all a bit slow in coming right, then I’m sorry about that. I can’t stand about here all day discussing how this company ought to be run. I’m cold, and wet, and damn’ well fed up. I’ve enough on my plate at the moment, as it happens, not to mention a deal of work waiting to be done. As have you. Why not get back to it and leave me to sort these matters out as I think fit. When have I ever let you down before?’

  There were a few shamed faces, boots were shuffled on the cobbles and murmurs of agreement voiced, the discomfort of the crowd palpable. There wasn’t a man or woman present who didn’t know that the mistress was ailing, and without exception they all liked her. She’d always been kind and cheerful, had a reputation for helping those in need without making them feel beholden or being in any way patronising.

  A few women began to rail at the men, reminding them how hard it had been for the poor lady losing her bairns, and weren’t they only making matters worse for the master? With set faces they began to drift away towards the factory, and one by one the men followed. The heat had gone out of their argument, the danger passed, but Eliot had felt the draught of their anger, and would not forget it.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The doctor was sympathetic but recommended Amelia not be told. Eliot at first protested. ‘But won’t she realise when no baby emerges at the end of nine months? Surely that is most dreadfully cruel? She has lost too many babies already, how can I allow her to go on excitedly believing that all is well?’

  The doctor tweaked his moustache and said nothing, but the expression in his eyes said everything, silently informing Eliot that his wife would not survive long enough to feel the loss of another child. ‘You have your adopted son. Let her spend as much time with him as possible. It may bring her some joy in her final days.’

  And so as spring changed into summer, Callum would be taken to visit with his mama each and every morning and afternoon, long enough to entertain and cheer her, but not so long as to tire her.

  Eliot kept up his strength by working - a form of denial, admittedly, as if by pretending that everything was normal, then by some miracle it would be.

  Deep down he knew that he could never have coped during this endless, dreadful summer without Kate, who nursed her mistress uncomplainingly throughout a long and painful illness. She didn’t seem like his Amelia now. Her lovely face had grown skeletal, there was a brittleness to her emaciated limbs, a yellow pallor to her skin.

  But not once did she suspect there was anything wrong. She submitted to their fussing, and to the enforced bed rest, for the sake of the child she believed she was carrying. Fortunately, in her confused state, she lost track of time and had no notion that the time for her confinement, had their actually been a child, was long past. And both Eliot and Kate kept up a front of robust cheerfulness, as if they too were looking forward to the new arrival.

  Even the servants, who of course had to be put in the picture, were firmly instructed not to weep but always to smile when in her presence. Mrs Petty spent hours searching through her receipt books for new delicacies to tempt a failing appetite. Dennis took to helping old Askew pick vegetables and soft fruit to keep the kitchen well supplied, and Fanny was being unusually agreeable by helping to mind Callum whenever Kate was otherwise occupied, which seemed to be most of the time, as she rarely left Amelia’s bedside. She, poor lady, tossed and turned in the August heat. Once or twice Kate helped her outside so that she could sit in the sun for a while, but by September even this small treat was too much for her as she soon tired and asked to be brought back in again.

  ‘You must be so bored, sitting here with me all day, Kate.’

  ‘Not at all. Aren’t I practising me knitting? We can’t have his or her majesty, when the babby deigns to arrive, having nothing fit to wear, now can we?’ Amelia herself had instructed her in the skill and insisted that a layette be prepared. Kate had continued with the task ever since, even though it was not needed. Privately, she’d made up her mind to take the garments to her friend Millie at some appropriate juncture. Millie always had use for baby clothes. In the meantime, it kept her hands occupied and provided Amelia with a giggle as she dropped and hunted for stitches.

  ‘Oh, but it seems so long drawn out. How much longer, dear Kate, before my child is born?’

  ‘Not long, I’m sure,’ Kate said, hoping the stiffness of her lips didn’t reveal itself in her smile.

  ‘You do know that a child of my own will make no difference to my feelings for Callum. He will still be my beloved son, that I’ll love him every bit as much.’

  Emotion held Kate silent for a moment before she was able to go on. ‘Don’t I know that already, ma’am. And doesn’t he love you an’ all? His dearest mama.’

  Amelia’s eyelids were fluttering closed again, the short conversation already tiring her, but yet she seemed content. ‘And isn’t he the luckiest of boys to have two mothers?’

  Kate did not pause in her knitting, in the hope that keeping her fingers working would stop the tears from falling. She sat on for another hour while Amelia slept. The afternoon waned and as dusk began to fall Kate heard the front door open and the familiar sound of Eliot’s voice, his footsteps striding across the hall and up the stairs, bringing the usual beat of anticipation to her heart. She glanced again at Amelia, saw the eyelids flutter and her voice whisper, Eliot?’ followed by that infinite, unfathomable silence which takes place when the anticipated next breath never comes. By the time Eliot breezed into the room, still wearing his overcoat in his anxiety to reach his wife, he was too late. She had gone.

  Despite the long drawn out end, Amelia’s death still came as a shock to the entire household. It seemed to Eliot that one minute he had a beautiful, lively wife revelling in her adopted son, the next he was a widower, bereft and alone. He shut himself in his room and conducted his grieving in complete privacy, making it clear he had no wish to be disturbed, not for any reason whatsoever. Fanny would creep up the back stairs, tap on his door and when there was no response, set the dinner tray down beside it and creep away again. The next time she came, the tray would still be there, untouched.

  The servants went about their daily duties in doleful silence, mourning a much loved mistress. Kate did not have time for such an indulgence, nor even to think. There didn’t seem to be a minute of the day when she wasn’t busy with something or other, not least looking after Callum, who kept asking when he could go and see Mama. Kate it was who washed her mistress’s emaciated body, dressed her in a pretty nightgown and laid her out in the satin-lined coffin provided by the local undertakers, in the front parlour. Old Mr Askew brought flowers in from the garden to set at it’s foot, and Mrs Petty carefully covered all the mirrors so that the devil couldn’t capture her soul. Young Ida insisted on keeping a small fire in the grate, because madam was so cold. Not one quite had the heart to stop her.

  Kate tapped on Eliot’s door and said that the undertakers wished to know if he had any particular instructions regarding the funeral. Should she call in the vicar to say a prayer over Amelia? Had he notified all of Amelia’s family and friends, or did he want Dennis to take round a note? ‘If so, have ye any black edged cards in yer study that we could use? Shall I fetch them to you sir, so you can write them, or would you be wanting Dennis to give the message personally, from his own lips as it were?’

  His only response was to tell her to go away and not to bother him with such trifles. ‘I can’t make any decisions right now, Kate. I can’t even bear to see her like that. You deal with it.’

  And so, grieving for the man she loved as much as for her lost mistress, Kate walked sadly away and found she had no choice but to take complete control. She chose the time and place for the funeral, even the hymns she thought Amelia would have approved of. She’d no idea who to inform, or where they might live but Mrs Petty listed the most important members of the family and Kate wrote out the cards, in her best hand writing taught to her by her father, for Dennis to del
iver. And she personally delivered the notification to put in the Westmorland Gazette. If it weren’t so tragic she would have gained a sadistic sort of pleasure from the pain this would cause to all her old friends who had so callously and cruelly deserted her.

  It was shortly after she returned from this errand that the front door burst open and Lucy stormed in without bothering to ring the bell or wait for Fanny to show her card.

  She roared through the house like a tornado, ransacking the drawing-room with an all encompassing glance, then rushing up the stairs to the nursery and when she found nobody there either, running back down again, only then thinking to look in the front parlour where she found Kate seated by the coffin in silent vigil. ‘My God, it’s true then? I couldn’t believe it when I read the card.’

  Kate genuflected and, getting quietly to her feet, respectfully indicated with a slight frown and finger to the lips, that perhaps Lucy should lower her voice somewhat in the presence of her newly departed sister-in-law.

  Ignoring her completely, Lucy marched over to the coffin and looked calmly in upon Amelia’s lovely face, no longer lined with pain and suffering but almost as sweet and beautiful as it had been in life.

  ‘It does not surprise me in the slightest that she’s gone in this way. She was never a strong woman. Eliot shouldn’t have allowed her to try for another child. A very dangerous thing to do, and look where it’s got her? Though how he’ll react to her death I cannot imagine. He’ll be a lost soul, poor man. No doubt he’ll give up the ghost, and the business, after this; hide himself away among his trees and flowers and paintings. Charles will naturally have to return to the company and take up the reins again. Who else is there?’