Pauper's Gold Page 14

  ‘Now, you be a good girl and do what they say for a week or two and then we’ll see. Likely, they’ll’ve forgotten all about you by then.’

  Hannah pursed her lips and shook her head. ‘I’m not staying locked up in here even for a week or two. First thing tomorrow morning, I’m going to see Mr Critchlow.’ Then she swung round and marched from the room again, leaving Ethel Bramwell staring after her and sighing deeply. ‘Oh, my dear child. You don’t understand what you’re doing. You really don’t.’

  Seventeen

  Hannah ignored their warnings. She paid no heed to Mrs Bramwell or to Luke. Not even to Ernest Scarsfield. They tried to stop her – tried to warn her.

  ‘And if you run into Mr Edmund, well . . .’ They all said exactly the same thing, and all left the sentence hanging in the air unfinished. Hannah was determined, but she was trembling as she knocked on the door of the outer office and stepped in to face Mr Roper.

  Josiah Roper did not, of course, try to dissuade her. He had good reason not to. He wanted a few fireworks to brighten his dull routine. He didn’t care if this wilful child, who’d spoilt his weekend away from this place, was locked in the punishment room again. He was smiling as he ushered her into his master’s office and closed the door behind her. He didn’t return to his desk, but leaned close to the door to listen.

  Inside the inner office, Hannah faced Mr Nathaniel Critchlow. She breathed a little easier to find him there and not his son.

  ‘Please, sir, I’d like your permission to go to morning service with the others on Sunday.’

  The old man frowned at her. ‘So you can run away again, eh?’

  Hannah shook her head. ‘I wasn’t running away, sir. I keep telling everyone, but no one will believe me. I just wanted to find out how my mother is, that’s all. I haven’t heard from her since I came here even though I’ve written several letters to her. I was coming back, sir. Truly I was.’

  The man gazed at the young girl’s fresh face, at her clear blue eyes, at the golden hair cascading down her back. He sighed. She was going to be a real beauty in a few years’ time. She was now, but she was not quite old enough . . . He shuddered. Maybe he shouldn’t keep her here. Maybe he should let her go back to the workhouse. He could tell Goodbody that she wasn’t suitable, even though she was actually one of the best child workers they had. She was shaping up very nicely. Soon, she would be shaping up in an entirely different way and then his son would really start to take notice of her . . .

  With unaccustomed impetuosity, he said, ‘Would you like to go back to the workhouse, my dear – for good?’

  ‘Oh no, sir. I signed that piece of paper for you and I intend to keep my promise. I mean to stay here. But all I want is to know how my mother is.’

  Now Nathaniel Critchlow stared at her in amazement. ‘You want to stay here?’

  Hannah nodded. ‘I didn’t – when Jane—’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Nathaniel said and his own voice was husky. He hated any kind of accident in his factory. And this had been a bad one – the very worst. Though he’d shied away from seeing the child for himself, he still trembled at the mere thought of Jane’s injuries.

  ‘I wanted to run away then,’ Hannah was saying, ‘because I blamed myself for not tying her hair up properly for her like we’d been told.’ The man and the girl stared at each other, their faces filled with sadness at the tragedy. They each felt a sense of guilt that the accident could have been avoided.

  ‘I just can’t understand why my mother hasn’t answered my letters. She can’t write herself, but she’d have got someone to read them to her and then sent me word.’

  Nathaniel leaned forward and rested his elbows on his desk, linking his fingers to stop their shaking. ‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do,’ he said slowly, ‘but first, you have to give me your word that you won’t try to run away—’ As Hannah opened her mouth to protest once more, he held up his hand. ‘Not even just for a day.’

  Hannah took a deep breath. ‘It depends what you’re going to do.’

  Nathaniel smiled wryly. The boldness of this girl was truly amazing and yet it was not insolence. Even from his lofty position as her master – the man who owned her body and soul now – he had to admit that she was only standing up for what she considered her rights. Her rights, indeed! Edmund would say that she had none and Nathaniel was tempted to tell her as much. But as he gazed again on her pretty, open face, the retort died on his lips.

  ‘Well, providing I have your promise, I’ll write to Cedric Goodbody myself and ask for news of your mother. We might even arrange for her to visit you here.’

  The ecstatic delight on the young girl’s face was like the appearance of the sun after storm clouds. ‘Oh, sir, would you really do that for me?’ She clasped her hands in front of her. ‘Oh, thank you, thank you.’

  Nathaniel cleared his throat and said gruffly. ‘So, will you give me your promise? No more trying to sneak off to see her for yourself.’

  ‘I promise, sir. Oh, I promise.’

  ‘Now, just to show me that you mean what you say, you’re to stay in for another two weeks. Then you can go to the Sunday services again.’

  Hannah nodded and thanked him again. At that moment she would have done anything he asked her. Anything at all.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Grundy, about the money. But I will pay you back every penny.’

  Three Sundays later, the three youngsters – Hannah, Luke and Daniel – were sitting in the warm kitchen at the farm.

  Mrs Grundy shrugged. ‘Don’t worry about it, love. I shan’t lose any sleep over it. I’m just sorry you didn’t get to see your mother.’ Her usual merry face clouded. ‘That Josiah Roper – he’s a nasty piece of work. He could’ve turned a blind eye. Could’ve let you go when he found you at the top of the hill. I remember our Lucy hated him. He was always creeping about the mill, watching an’ listening and then telling tales to Mr Edmund.’

  She looked into the sad faces opposite her. ‘I heard about your little friend,’ she said gently. ‘Just like our Lucy, weren’t it?’

  Hannah nodded, looking stricken.

  Lily Grundy sighed heavily and heaved herself up to get them a drink and fetch a fruit loaf from her cake tin. Changing the subject away from matters that grieved them all, she said, ‘So, what are you going to do now about yer mam?’

  ‘Mr Nathaniel’s been quite good,’ Luke said taking up Hannah’s tale. ‘He’s promised—’

  ‘To write to Mr Goodbody himself,’ Daniel finished.

  For a moment, Mrs Grundy glanced between the three of them, with a puzzled expression. Then her face cleared. ‘Oh, him at the workhouse, you mean? Where you came from? But I thought you’d already written to him.’

  ‘Not exactly. I wrote to me mam.’

  ‘And she’s never replied?’

  ‘Well, no. She can’t write. But I know she’d’ve got one of the others to write for her.’

  Mrs Grundy handed round mugs of thick creamy warm milk and slices of cake before she spoke again. She sat down and pulled her cup of tea towards her, stirring it thoughtfully. ‘I don’t suppose that someone along the way has been stopping your letters. Either going out or coming in.’

  The three youngsters stared at her. ‘Would . . . would they do that?’ Hannah asked indignantly.

  Mrs Grundy snorted and took a sip of her tea. ‘I wouldn’t put anything past that lot up at the mill – if it suited their purpose. Anyway, love, it’ll soon be Christmas. Maybe your mother will send you a letter then, eh?’

  ‘Do you think anyone would really do that?’ Hannah asked the two boys again as they walked back to the apprentice house as dusk descended into the dale. ‘Stop someone’s letters?’

  ‘Mr Edmund would,’ Luke said.

  ‘And Mr Roper,’ Daniel volunteered.

  ‘But I don’t think old Mr Critchlow would, do you?’ Hannah said. ‘I’m sure he wouldn’t.’

  The two boys glanced at one another but did not answer, and t
he three of them walked the rest of the way in silence.

  Christmas came and went, marked only by a little more food at dinnertime and a couple of hours’ free time in the afternoon. The pauper children in the apprentice house scarcely noticed the difference, though the feasting at the Manor lasted three days and left Nathaniel Critchlow suffering from severe indigestion and an even worse headache from the drink he had consumed.

  Struggling to his office at the mill on the fourth day, he sat at his desk, his head in his hands. ‘I don’t know what to do,’ he murmured.

  Josiah, hovering on the other side of the desk, asked, ‘Can I help, sir? You don’t look too well. Perhaps you should go home.’

  ‘I should speak to Edmund,’ the old man murmured.

  ‘Mr Edmund won’t be back from Manchester until late tonight.’

  It was from the merchants in Manchester that the Critchlows bought the bales of raw cotton, that started life on the Gossypium plant in the southern states of America, its fluffy bolls picked by slave labour and transported all the way to Liverpool and by canal to Manchester. Edmund was a shrewd and clever negotiator – no one could deny that – and Nathaniel had been happy and relieved to hand over that side of the business to his son.

  ‘Are you sure I can’t help, sir?’ Josiah asked again. His seeming concern was persuasive. Nathaniel sighed and confided, ‘It’s the girl.’

  ‘Which girl might that be, sir?’ Josiah feigned ignorance, yet he’d already guessed.

  ‘Francis.’

  ‘Ah!’ Josiah said, a wealth of understanding in that simple utterance. ‘She is somewhat – er – wilful. What has she done now?’

  ‘It’s not so much what she’s done as what’s happened.’

  Nathaniel Critchlow raised his head slowly and sighed deeply. ‘When she ran away that time, it seems that all she was trying to do was to see her mother. She’s not had word from her mother – or even of her – since she came here. And the child’s worried. It’s only natural, I suppose. She’s written several times, she says, but no word has come.’

  Josiah smiled but said nothing. All Hannah’s letters had been unanswered because they had only left his office in shreds.

  ‘Until now,’ Nathaniel finished heavily. He picked up a sheet of paper and held it out for Josiah to read. ‘This arrived this morning. It’s from Goodbody. The child’s mother died only a few weeks after the girl’s arrival here. All this time and no one thought to tell us so that we could tell the poor child.’

  Nathaniel’s face crumpled and he dropped his head into his hands once more. Brokenly, he said. ‘It’s all getting too much for me. I can’t bring myself to tell her.’

  Josiah looked down at his master and felt a thrill of jubilation. The old man was past it. High time he retired and handed over the running of the mill to his son. And with Edmund in charge – Edmund, who was Josiah’s mentor and friend, then . . .

  ‘Why don’t you leave this to me, sir? I’ll attend to what needs to be done.’

  Nathaniel looked up gratefully. ‘You will? Thank you, Roper. You’re a good man.’

  He pulled himself up and stood swaying unsteadily. Josiah put out his hand and took hold of his arm. ‘I think you should go home, sir. I’ll get one of the hands to bring the pony and trap to the door. Here, let me help you with your coat.’

  Solicitously, Josiah helped the old man shuffle to the door, down the stairs and into the trap.

  ‘See him right home, Baldwin,’ he ordered one of the mill workers. ‘Mr Critchlow isn’t well.’

  ‘Your father doesn’t seem well, Mr Edmund,’ Josiah greeted him on his return late that night. Knowing Mr Edmund’s habit of returning straight to his office after a successful buying trip to the city, the clerk had stayed late in the office deliberately. Sitting there in the semidarkness, Josiah had hatched a plan. But it would need careful handling.

  ‘You still here, Roper?’ Edmund said, shrugging himself out of his coat and striding into the inner office and towards the waiting whisky bottle in his cabinet. He poured himself a double measure and sat down in his father’s chair. Leaning back, he rested his feet on the corner of the desk, crossing his ankles. ‘What’s the matter with him?’ His eyes gleamed, matching the excitement glittering in Josiah’s eyes. ‘Serious, d’you think?’

  ‘I hope not, sir,’ Josiah said dutifully, but they both knew it to be a lie. They both wanted the same thing – Edmund to be in full control of the factory.

  By God! they were each thinking. Then we’ll see things happen.

  ‘This letter,’ Josiah went on, holding out the piece of paper, ‘seemed to upset him. It’s from Goodbody. About the Francis girl. It seems your father wrote to him to make enquiries. At the girl’s behest.’

  Edmund dropped his feet to the floor with a thud and sat up. ‘Did he, b’God?’

  ‘It seems,’ Josiah went on smoothly, ‘that the mother died only a few weeks after Francis came here. And – um – nobody seems to have thought to let us know.’

  ‘I see.’ Edmund’s eyes narrowed as he regarded his clerk thoughtfully. Josiah licked his lips before saying carefully, ‘I think your father was reluctant to tell the child. Didn’t want to distress her further. She . . . she’s a trifle wilful, I believe.’

  Edmund snorted and took another mouthful of the burning liquid. ‘She’s trouble. I’ve a good mind to send her back to the workhouse and let her stay there.’ He was silent for a moment, thoughtful. Despite the trouble Hannah had constantly caused, Edmund was no fool. The girl was a good worker. Scarsfield had said so. Soon, she would be capable of carrying out an adult female’s work at no extra cost. Besides, he was confident that the Bramwells or Scarsfield fined or punished her appropriately for her misdemeanours. And now, she was truly an orphan.

  Josiah’s humble tones cut into his thoughts. ‘If you’ll permit me, I’d like to make a suggestion, Mr Edmund.’

  ‘Eh?’ Edmund roused himself from his thoughts. ‘Of course, Roper.’

  Josiah licked his lips again. ‘I’ve been thinking over the problem, sir. You see, if the girl finds out her mother’s dead, she could do anything. Cause a riot amongst the apprentices, run away. She might,’ he emphasized, ‘even take the matter to the authorities. Anything . . .’

  Edmund’s eyes narrowed. ‘So – what is your suggestion?’

  ‘That we don’t tell her.’

  Edmund pulled a face. ‘But won’t she go on asking? Won’t she try to run away again to find out for herself? Just like she says she did the last time?’

  With smooth deliberation, Josiah said, ‘Not if she starts to receive regular letters from her mother.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘If I may be so bold, I believe your – er – relationship with Mr Goodbody is such that the man would be prepared to participate in a little harmless deception. I say harmless, sir,’ he hurried on, ‘because, after all, we have the child’s best interests at heart, don’t we? We want her to be happy and settled in her work. And I’m sure she would be, Mr Edmund, if she were to receive a letter every now and again from her mother telling her to be a good girl and not to even think of running away.’ Warming to his theme, Josiah hurried on. ‘She’d be reassured that her mother was in good health and . . . and I think she’d be obedient to her mother’s wishes as expressed in the – er – letters.’ He cleared his throat. ‘It seems, sir, that the girl’s mother cannot read or write and would have to ask someone to write for her. So, there is no chance, you see, that she’ll question why someone else has written in her mother’s stead.’

  Edmund stared at the man in front of him. ‘Well, well, well, Roper. What a devious mind you have.’ His eyes gleamed and he smiled. ‘But a clever one, even I have to admit. And yes, you’re quite right. Goodbody will do whatever I ask him. I’ll write to him. But not a word to my father, mind.’

  ‘Of course not, sir,’ Josiah said with a little bow. He laid the letter on the desk in front of Edmund. ‘If there’s nothing else, then I�
�ll bid you goodnight, sir.’

  ‘Goodnight, Roper,’ Edmund murmured absently, as he picked up the letter from the master of the workhouse and began to read it for himself.

  The following week, Josiah Roper sent for Hannah.

  ‘Come in, girl, come in.’ He beckoned her forward and motioned her to stand in front of his tall desk.

  ‘Mr Critchlow has asked me to tell you—’

  ‘Has he heard from Mr Goodbody? Is my mother all right?’

  Josiah frowned. ‘If you’ll give me time, girl, I’m getting to that.’

  ‘Sorry, Mr Roper,’ Hannah smiled at him winningly, but her prettiness was lost on the cold-hearted man.

  ‘Mr Critchlow – Mr Edmund Critchlow, that is – has asked me to see you. His father is unwell at the present time and all correspondence is now being dealt with either by Mr Edmund or – myself,’ he added loftily. He was deliberately dragging out getting to the point. He was enjoying the girl’s agitation. She was hopping impatiently from one foot to the other and pressing her lips together as if to prevent further questions bursting forth.

  Slowly, he held up a piece of paper. ‘This letter purports to be from your mother, child. Mrs Goodbody, I understand, has been kindness itself in undertaking to write to you on behalf of your mother.’

  Joseph believed that in matters of deceit, the nearer the truth one could keep to, the better the chance there was of the lies being believed. Mrs Goodbody had indeed penned the letter, but under the instruction of her own husband, who’d explained tersely the necessity of keeping on the right side of Edmund Critchlow.

  Hannah sprang forward and snatched the sheet of paper from Josiah’s bony fingers. She scanned it eagerly and, as Josiah watched closely, a smile spread across her mouth. There were tears in her eyes as she looked up at him.

  ‘Oh, thank you, Mr Roper. You don’t know how much this means to me. Please – will you thank Mr Critchlow for me? I don’t know how I can ever repay him.’