Pauper's Gold

by Margaret Dickinson

  ‘From school, you mean?’

  ‘That’s right. He’s away at some fancy boarding school. That’s why we never see him much. He only comes home in the holidays.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’

  Luke forced a grin. He was trying hard to draw Hannah’s thoughts away from the sadness they were both feeling, take her mind off what was happening back at the apprentice house. ‘’Cos I’m a nosy beggar.’

  ‘Who else lives there, then? Is there a Mrs Critchlow?’

  Luke shook his head. ‘No. The old man’s wife died years ago and Mr Edmund’s wife died having another baby.’

  ‘Oh yes. I’d heard that.’

  ‘It’s a houseful of men.’

  ‘They’ve got servants though? They’ll have a housekeeper, surely?’

  ‘Oh aye,’ Luke said airily. ‘But servants don’t count, do they?’

  ‘No,’ Hannah said soberly and her thoughts came back to Jane. The little girl’s life hadn’t counted with the Critchlows.

  Sixteen

  By a strange coincidence, it was Adam Critchlow whom they saw first when they dragged their feet reluctantly back to the mill.

  ‘What’s he doing here?’ Luke muttered.

  ‘He must be home from school,’ Hannah said.

  The young man was standing in the middle of the yard looking up at the mill. At the sound of their footsteps, he turned. He didn’t say anything until they drew level with him. They were about to pass by, but he spoke, bringing them to a halt.

  ‘I heard about the little girl.’ His voice was soft, gentle almost, though Hannah could hardly believe such a word could describe any of the Critchlows. She pressed her lips together to stop the tears flowing again, yet her action had the look of disapproval.

  Adam’s eyes clouded. ‘Tell me,’ he said suddenly, his gaze on Hannah’s face. Luke was ignored. ‘What happened? Tell me it all. I want to know.’

  Hannah did so, sparing him nothing. She was gratified to see him wince, yet at the same time his response surprised her. Perhaps this Critchlow did have some feelings. If so, he was the only one who did, she thought bitterly.

  But it seemed that Adam believed differently about his family. ‘My grandfather’s distraught.’

  Hannah’s eyes widened in disbelief and, beside her, she heard Luke give a derisory snort. Adam glanced at him briefly, but dismissed his presence. His attention returned to Hannah. ‘He is,’ he persisted. Even though Hannah had not spoken, he could read her thoughts plainly written on her face. He stepped closer to her, cutting Luke out. ‘I know perhaps he seems harsh to you, but there are other mills a lot worse than this one, you know. They don’t have good food or the medical attention we provide.’

  ‘Medical attention? What medical attention? We never see a doctor from one month to the next. They only called him in this time because they had to. Because . . .’ Her tears spilled over again. ‘Because they knew she was going to die. He couldn’t save her. No one could have done except not to’ve let it happen in the first place.’

  Adam dropped his gaze and shuffled his feet. ‘I know and I’m sorry.’ He lifted his head again and stared into her face, holding her gaze. ‘But one day it’ll all be different. One day – when the mill’s mine – it’ll be very different.’

  ‘Aye,’ Luke spoke for the first time. ‘But how long have we to wait before that day comes? And in the meantime, once the old man’s gone, it’ll be your father in charge.’ He paused and added pointedly, ‘Won’t it?’

  To this, it seemed, Adam had no reply.

  News of the child’s accident and subsequent death spread through the mill, and a sadness descended over the workforce. Though everyone carried on with the work expected of them, there was an undercurrent of resentment flowing beneath the surface. The workers were suddenly not as biddable. There was a feeling of unrest, and Nathaniel Critchlow was alarmed by it.

  ‘It’s just like that other time when a little girl got killed. What can we do?’

  ‘Do?’ Edmund snapped at his father. ‘Why, nothing, of course. As long as they’re doing their work. And Scarsfield will see to that, else he’ll have me to answer to.’

  Nathaniel spread his hands. ‘But I like my workers to be happy. They work better. Maybe we should have a doctor visiting the apprentices regularly. I’ve heard there’s a mill in Cheshire where—’

  ‘Nonsense, Father. You’re too soft. They respect a firm hand, not a weak one.’

  Nathaniel regarded his son soberly and not without a little disappointment. ‘There’s a vast difference between a firm hand and a callous one, my boy. It’d be no bad thing to look after their health. And,’ he added pointedly, ‘to be seen to be doing so.’

  Edmund’s mouth twisted. ‘I’m not one for philanthropy.’

  His father shook his head. ‘Outsiders – and even the workers themselves – might see it as philanthropic. But think about it for a moment, Edmund. A healthy, happy millhand will work better. We need to keep them on our side.’ He frowned worriedly. ‘It’s what your grandfather believed and so do I.’

  ‘Our side,’ Edmund scoffed. ‘Workers will never be on “our side”, as you put it. It’s us and them, Father. Always has been, always will be. And for most of them, the more they produce, the more they earn. Isn’t that incentive enough?’

  ‘Not for the apprentices. They’re not paid at all unless they do overtime.’

  ‘Huh! We feed and clothe the little brats. And we have to educate them – thanks to all the blasted new laws they keep bringing in.’ Edmund wagged his finger at his father. ‘Their lives are better here than if they were still in the workhouse, but as for pandering to them with regular health checks, well, that’s an unnecessary expense to my mind.’

  ‘It’s not pandering to them. They have a right to—’

  Edmund stepped closer to his father’s desk and leaned across it. Prodding his forefinger on the surface of the desk, he said, slowly and deliberately, ‘They have no “rights”. When they work in this mill, when they sign their indenture, they belong to us. We own them. Body and soul.’

  Edmund swung round and marched out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

  Nathaniel stared after him with a growing sense of foreboding. How, in God’s name, he asked himself, had he reared such a heartless and, yes, he had to admit it, cruel son? A shudder of apprehension ran through him. He had a sudden, awful, premonition of how the mill would be run after his own demise. It was a picture that filled him with fear. He sighed deeply. We should be looking to improve conditions, not going back into the past, Nathaniel thought. It’s bad enough I’ve let him persuade me to carry on the scheme with Goodbody long after every other mill owner has abandoned it. They were breaking the law, he knew. The children in Wyedale Mill worked longer hours, had less schooling than anywhere else. If a government inspector should call . . .

  ‘There’s only one thing for it,’ he murmured aloud. ‘I’ll just have to live long enough to see Adam grown up and come into the business.’ But then his musings came to a halt. The boy was certainly tender-hearted, but would Adam be strong enough to stand up to his ruthless father?

  Nathaniel groaned aloud and, resting his elbows on the desk, dropped his head into his hands. He felt suddenly dizzy and sick at the thought of what might happen to the mill his own father had begun.

  From boyhood, the mill had been Nathaniel’s life. He could still remember so vividly the day they had found Wyedale. They’d been touring the Derbyshire countryside on horseback, just he and his father, Moses, looking for a place to build a cotton mill.

  And they had found it. At the end of the long, curving valley where the River Wye tumbled in a natural waterfall, Moses had found the perfect place to build a mill for his son to inherit. And it would pass down the generations, Moses had dreamed. From father to son with always a Critchlow at the helm.

  Nathaniel could still remember that day so clearly – his father sitting astride his horse, his tall and
imposing figure hiding a stern yet kindly disposition. At the top of the hill, he had taken off his hat and waved it in the air, his dark brown hair blowing in the wind. They had ridden down the steep mud track, past the smattering of houses – the farm and a few cottages – right to the end of the dale, where there was room to build a mill beside the river that would provide the power for the great wheel.

  ‘This is it, my boy,’ Moses had cried jubilantly. ‘This is where the Critchlows’ mill will stand for generations. For you, Nathaniel. For your sons and even for their sons.’

  ‘But, Father,’ Nathaniel had said, looking around him at what appeared to him to be a bleak and desolate place. ‘There are no houses. Where will you get the people to work in the mill?’

  Moses had laughed, the wind whipping away the sound and carrying it through the dale. ‘We shall build houses. Up there.’ He had pointed to the cliff face rising steeply at the end of the valley. ‘We’ll bring workers from the city slums. From the workhouses. We’ll give them a good life – a better life than they’ve ever known or ever expected. And in return,’ Moses had smiled down at the young Nathaniel, ‘they’ll work hard for us and make us rich men.’

  And everything that Moses had promised had come to pass. He’d built his fine mill and the houses on the cliff for the workers, and Millersbrook village above Wyedale Mill was born. He had built an apprentice house and a schoolroom and brought pauper orphans from the workhouses in the nearest towns and cities. And many had stayed on to work in the mill as adults and to live in the cottages in the village, to marry and bring up their families there.

  Moses was a strict but fair employer. The list of rules and the fines posted up about the factory were those he had drawn up, and they were still in force to this day.

  Remembering all this, Nathaniel groaned aloud.

  The sound carried through the door to the outer office, and Josiah Roper smiled.

  Three days later, though he was quaking inside, Mr Critchlow stood up to his son. ‘You’re to let anyone who wants to go attend that child’s funeral.’

  Edmund glowered and opened his mouth to speak, but Nathaniel Critchlow held up his hand. ‘We’ll have a rebellion on our hands if you don’t.’

  Edmund appeared to think for a moment. ‘I’ll allow her closest friends to go and the Bramwells. Maybe Scarsfield as well, but no others. We’ll have the whole mill grind to a halt if they think they can all wangle time off.’

  ‘Very well, then,’ Mr Critchlow agreed to the compromise. ‘Are you going?’

  Edmund laughed without humour. ‘Me? Attend a pauper’s funeral? Hardly!’

  Nathaniel’s hand shook visibly. ‘I should go,’ he murmured. ‘But . . . but I can’t face it. I don’t feel well.’ He passed a hand over his forehead as he felt the dizziness and the headache he had been experiencing for the past few days – ever since the child’s accident – sweep over him.

  But to everyone’s surprise, there was a Critchlow at the funeral.

  As Arthur Bramwell and Ernest Scarsfield pushed the coffin on the handcart up the steep hill to the burial ground beyond the village, the few – the pathetically few – mourners fell into step behind them. Mrs Bramwell, Hannah and Nell in the front, followed by Luke and Daniel, as ever walking side by side.

  As they began to move off from the apprentice house, Adam Critchlow stepped out from behind the mill’s pillared gateway and fell into step at the back. Hannah didn’t notice him. Walking between Ethel Bramwell and Nell, she kept her eyes firmly fixed on the small coffin and quietly prayed that her little friend had truly found peace.

  ‘Did you see him?’ Luke asked her later when it was all over and they were sitting in the kitchen at the house, drinking tea as a special treat on such a dreadful day.

  ‘At the back,’ Daniel put in. The four youngsters were sitting together whilst the three grown ups had gone into the Bramwells’ sitting room to partake of something a little stronger than tea.

  ‘Who?’ Hannah asked listlessly, cupping the mug in her hands to warm them. She was still shivering, though it was more from her inner misery and the terrible burden of guilt rather than from the cold day.

  ‘Master Adam,’ Luke said. ‘He followed us all the way to the cemetery.’

  ‘At the back,’ Daniel repeated. ‘He walked behind us and then stood at the back when we was all round the grave.’

  ‘Did he?’ Hannah was surprised and, even against her will, a little moved. She wanted to think badly of the Critchlows, yet was there one amongst them who was actually showing some compassion?

  ‘Did you speak to him?’

  ‘No,’ Luke said and Daniel shook his head.

  ‘I wonder,’ she mused, ‘just why he came?’

  No one could answer her.

  ‘I’m sorry, Francis,’ Ernest Scarsfield stopped Hannah as she was leaving the mill three days after Jane’s funeral, ‘but my mate can’t find out anything about yer mother. He went to the workhouse, but they wouldn’t tell him anything. He saw someone called – now, what was it? – Good, was it?’

  ‘Mr Goodbody,’ Hannah said, the disappointment spreading through her already. She’d had such hopes that word would come any day from Mr Scarsfield’s friend. Since Jane’s death, Hannah had not felt like singing – not once – and news from her mother had been the only thing she’d looked forward to.

  ‘Aye, that was it. Well, he more or less ordered him out of the place. “Can’t divulge information about inmates,” he said. Miserable old bugger. It wouldn’t’ve hurt him to send word to a little lass about her mother, now would it?’ He looked to Luke for agreement. Luke was always at Hannah’s side these days with Daniel never far behind.

  Luke nodded. ‘He’s a right bastard.’ And Daniel nodded grim agreement.

  For a brief moment, Ernest Scarsfield looked taken aback, then he frowned. ‘Now then, lad, none of that sort of language here. You know the rules. By rights, I should fine you thruppence for that.’ Then, realizing that he had just been swearing himself, Ernest smiled. His admonishment was gentle. These three had been through enough already in their young lives. He ruffled Luke’s hair as he added, ‘But I know what you mean.’ He turned again to Hannah. ‘I’m sorry, lass.’

  Hannah tried to smile, but her voice wobbled as she said, ‘Thank you for trying, Mr Scarsfield.’

  She turned away, but Ernest called after her. ‘You could see Mr Critchlow. The old man, that is. He might help. He’s not a bad old stick – most of the time.’

  ‘Thanks. I will.’ But she didn’t hold out much hope.

  *

  ‘We’ll have to go and see Mrs Grundy. I haven’t dared go yet, but I should,’ Hannah told Luke and Daniel the following Sunday.

  Luke nodded. ‘You’ll have to tell her that they’ve taken the money she lent you. And kept it.’ He paused a moment. ‘It’ll take you years to pay it back.’

  ‘I know,’ Hannah said miserably. ‘I’ll be old and grey by the time I do.’ She sighed. ‘Still, let’s get it over with. Let’s go and see her.’

  ‘Can I come an’ all?’ Daniel asked.

  Luke’s face sobered and he shook his head, but not, as Hannah thought at first in answer to his brother’s question, but to her suggestion. ‘We can’t go. None of us.’

  Hannah stared at him. ‘You . . . you mean you won’t come with me? Oh, Luke!’

  ‘No, no, it’s not that. Of course I’ll come with you.’ He paused, then added, ‘When you can go.’

  ‘But I want to go today. Now.’

  He shook his head. ‘You can’t.’

  ‘What do you mean? It’s Sunday. We’ll go this afternoon. Mrs Bramwell will understand.’

  ‘You can’t. You’re not allowed out. Not even to go to the service with the rest of us.’

  ‘Not – allowed – out? Nobody’s said anything to me.’

  ‘I heard Mrs Bramwell telling Mary that you’d be staying with her this morning and that she’d tell you to help get the dinner ready.
’

  Hannah, angry now, whirled around. ‘I don’t believe this. I’ll go and ask her myself.’

  ‘Hannah, don’t . . .’ Luke called after her, but Hannah paid no heed.

  She knocked sharply on the door of Mrs Bramwell’s sitting room, indignation lending her boldness.

  ‘Come in.’

  Hannah flung open the door and marched into the room. ‘Is it true?’ she burst out. ‘Is it true I’m not allowed out? Not even to go to the service?’

  Ethel Bramwell sighed, rose and came to stand in front of the girl. ‘I’m sorry, Hannah. Truly I am. But that’s Mr Edmund’s orders. We’re under his strict instructions, see. Me, Mr Bramwell and even Mr Scarsfield. We’ve not to let you out of our sights, so to speak. I’m to keep you here and Mr Bramwell’s to see that you go to the mill every morning. Then Mr Scarsfield’s to keep his eye on you all day until you come back here at night.’

  Hannah’s gasped and her eyes widened. ‘But . . . but that’s like being in prison.’

  ‘Aren’t we all?’ the older woman murmured.

  ‘Well, I won’t be a prisoner. Not here. Not anywhere.’

  ‘You’ve no choice, child.’ Ethel Bramwell said, but there was sadness in her tone. ‘None of us have. The Critchlows own us – all of us.’

  Hannah frowned. She knew she was fastened to the Critchlows for the term of her indenture, but surely the Bramwells weren’t.

  ‘Why do you say “all of us”? You and Mr Bramwell can leave any time you like, can’t you? You’re not under any kind of indenture, are you?’

  Mrs Bramwell shook her head. ‘No, but think about it, Hannah.’ Without realizing it, Ethel Bramwell called the girl by her Christian name. ‘How would we find other employment? If we just upped and left, where would we go? How would we ever get another position without a reference?’ She leaned closer. ‘And how would we get a reference? Mr Critchlow would never give us one in a month of Sundays if we said we wanted to leave even though we’ve served him for over twenty years.’

  Shocked, Hannah stared at her. She hadn’t realized that everyone here – including the Bramwells, even Ernest Scarsfield and Mr Roper – were all virtual prisoners of the Critchlows.