The Workhouse Girl Read online

  Sarah and Nettie were both in a state of excitement as they made themselves ready to go to the theatre. Miss Gant had quickly run up two linsey-woolsey skirts for them to wear and Mrs Arbuthnot had sent Dorcas to a dollyshop in Well Street to purchase two white cambric blouses, which would have to do until their new clothes were ready. She had also given Dorcas enough money to buy two thick woollen shawls as the chill of autumn was making itself felt early that year.

  Cook was in a good mood and she left Dorcas with a string of instructions for serving the evening meal above stairs. In the end Dorcas lost patience, which Sarah had observed was never her strongest point, and told Cook in no uncertain terms that she knew very well how to look after the master and mistress. She shooed them out of the door into the area. ‘Go and enjoy yourselves. I’ll look after young Betty.’

  As Sarah left the warmth of the kitchen and followed Cook up the steep steps she could feel the cold and damp rising up from the ground. The air was thick with smoke-laden fog which made breathing difficult and filled her nostrils with an unpleasant acrid smell. She wrapped her shawl a little tighter around her shoulders and hurried after Cook and Nettie.

  Wilton’s music hall was situated in Grace’s Alley, a narrow passageway which led from Wellclose Square to Well Street. The fog swirled about them and it was difficult to see anything more than a few feet away, but Cook marched ahead wielding her umbrella as if attempting to cut a path through the worsening pea-souper. If it had not been for the gas lights suspended over the doorway they might have walked past the theatre as it was rather oddly situated in the middle of a row of terraced houses. Figures emerged ghost-like from the murk as the audience began to arrive in twos and threes, but Cook pushed her way to the front, using her tightly furled umbrella to good effect. Sarah followed her into the foyer and was surprised at the smallness and simplicity of the area compared to the grand entrance of the Theatre Royal. Cook paid for their tickets and in her eagerness to secure a good seat she was up the stairs that led to the gallery with the agility of a mountain goat.

  Nettie nudged Sarah. ‘It looks like she’s forgotten about her rheumatics.’

  ‘Shh,’ Sarah whispered, giggling. ‘She might hear you, and it’s very good of her to bring us here.’

  Nettie took her by the hand. ‘Come on, let’s make a dash for it or we’ll get killed in the crush.’ She darted forward, dodging in between the crowds of people who apparently had the same idea as Cook. They made it to the gallery to find that Cook had already picked her vantage point and had settled herself on a wooden chair with her skirts spread out over the seats on either side of her. She beckoned furiously.

  ‘Come and sit down or you’ll lose your places.’

  Sarah took her seat and leaned on the balustrade to watch the audience who were still arriving in the hall below. It was all so achingly familiar that it brought a lump to her throat. The theatre was neither as big as the one in Drury Lane nor was it as sumptuously decorated, but the sight and sounds of the small orchestra tuning up brought back memories of happier times. If she closed her eyes she could imagine that she was back in the Theatre Royal, waiting for Ma to finish her work and take her home to their humble lodgings in Vinegar Yard. It was no thanks to Pa, whose gambling had caused Ma such distress, but Sarah had seen how hard her mother had worked to keep food on the table and there had always been a fire to huddle round in winter. They had known hard times but Sarah had been happy.

  She opened her eyes to concentrate on the scene below, forcing thoughts of her mother’s sad end in the airless heat on the top floor of the workhouse to the back of her mind.

  The orchestra struck a chord and then the master of ceremonies, wearing a rather shabby-looking tailcoat and over-tight breeches, introduced the first act.

  Mrs Burgess craned her neck to get a better look as a rather large gentleman, also wearing evening dress that had seen better days, made his way onto the platform and took a bow. Sarah and Nettie exchanged grins as he fingered his cravat and glanced nervously at the orchestra, but the chatter in the theatre ceased when he started to sing ‘The Girl I Left Behind Me’ in a glorious baritone voice, and his performance was received with thunderous applause. He bowed several times and the next act was a pretty young woman wearing a white ball gown. Her dark hair was studded with white camellias and confined in a snood at the nape of her neck. She sang ‘Flow Gently, Sweet Afton’ in a pure soprano voice that throbbed with emotion. Sarah was enchanted by everything she saw and heard. The songs were new to her and refreshingly simple but touched her to the core. She could hardly believe it when the performers took their final bow to a standing ovation as the show ended.

  Cook was sniffling into her hanky, apparently overcome by the emotion of the evening, and Nettie was unusually silent. She sat motionless with a rapt expression on her freckled face, and jumped when Cook tugged at her sleeve. ‘I never saw nothing like it in me life,’ she breathed. ‘Did you see them gowns the women wore? They was so fine, and the way they sang. It made me go all funny inside.’

  Cook tucked her hanky into her reticule. ‘Yes, it was all wonderful, but we’d best get home. It’s late and you never know who’s lurking around in the dark. It’s lucky we haven’t far to go. Get up, girl. Everyone’s leaving and we don’t want to spend the night locked in an empty theatre.’

  Nettie stood up and stretched. ‘I could live me whole life in here, smelling the perfume and the cigar smoke. I like watching the rich people in their fine clothes. I want to be one of them and wear fine gowns and ride in a private carriage.’

  ‘Get on with you.’ Cook gave her a gentle shove. ‘There’s only one way a girl from the workhouse could earn enough money to look like that and it’s not for you, young Nettie. You’re going to grow up to be respectable or my name ain’t Hepzibah Burgess.’

  Sarah stifled a giggle and dared not look at Nettie in case she burst out laughing and offended Cook, who had been kind to them.

  ‘Yes, Cook,’ Nettie said, winking at Sarah. ‘If you say so.’

  ‘I do indeed.’ Cook plucked her shawl from the back of her chair and slipped it around her shoulders. ‘Let’s go home. I’m looking forward to a cup of cocoa and my nice warm bed.’

  They joined the queue for the stairs and were almost the last to leave the theatre. The darkness outside had swallowed up the stragglers and it was eerily silent. The fog was even thicker now and suffocating in its greenish yellow density. Sarah put her hands out in front of her, feeling her way along the walls of the terrace. Nettie and Cook were a little way behind her but she could barely hear their muffled footsteps and she was suddenly scared. The pleasant evening had taken on a sinister note and it could not just have been the pea-souper that had blanketed the city which made her feel nervous and ill at ease.

  She stumbled over a doorstep but managed to save herself from falling by clutching at a protruding windowsill. Then through the murk she could just make out the faint greenish shimmer of the gas lamp at the corner of Grace’s Alley, and she started to run. Although there was no obvious reason for her panic, she raced over the cobblestones, slipping and sliding in her desperate attempt to get out into the square and the safe haven of her new home. She saw a shadow in the hazy pool of light but it was not until it moved that she realised it was the burly figure of a man wearing a caped greatcoat. She came to a sudden halt, turning her head in the hope of seeing Cook and Nettie, but the wall of fog and darkness obliterated everything. Before she realised what was happening a large hand clamped over her mouth and she was lifted bodily off her feet.

  Chapter Four

  SARAH KICKED AND struggled, but with the hand covering the lower half of her face it was almost impossible to breathe. The sulphurous smell of the fog only added to her distress and she was beginning to feel faint when without warning her captor uttered a grunt and she fell to the ground. She landed with a thud that momentarily knocked the wind from her lungs. Gasping for air she raised herself on her elbow and saw Cook att
acking the man with her umbrella. He was about to snatch it from her but Nettie put her head down and butted him in the stomach. He doubled over, clutching his belly.

  ‘Come on, Sarah,’ Nettie cried, dragging her to her feet. ‘Run.’

  Sarah yelped with pain as she put her right foot to the ground. ‘I twisted me ankle.’

  Wielding her umbrella, Cook clouted the man round the head, sending his hat flying to the ground. ‘I dunno who you are, mister, but you got no right to attack little girls and defenceless old women.’ She took another swipe at him. ‘And that’s for using bad language in front of ladies.’

  He scrabbled around trying to find his battered hat, which had rolled into the gutter. ‘Defenceless,’ he gasped. ‘You’re a vicious old cow, but I got her mark and I’ll get her sooner or later. No one gets the better of me, let alone a nipper.’ He struggled to his feet but Nettie pushed Cook out of the way and kicked him on the shin.

  ‘You just try it, mister. I grew up in the workhouse. I learned to take care of meself and I ain’t afraid of you.’

  ‘Come on, girls,’ Cook said firmly. ‘We’re going home and if he tries to follow us I’ll set the German sugar bakers on him.’

  Taking advantage of the fact that their attacker was hopping up and down in pain, Nettie grabbed Cook’s umbrella. ‘Follow me.’ She ran on ahead, trailing the ferule along the railings so that even as she disappeared into the wall of fog the metallic sound rang out like a peal of bells, leading them home.

  When they were safely indoors with the door bolted, Sarah sank down on the nearest chair and Cook stepped over the sleeping Betty to take the simmering kettle off the hob. ‘We’ll have a nice hot cup of cocoa, and you can tell me why that ruffian wanted to take you from us, young Sarah.’ She reached up, taking the cocoa tin from the mantelshelf. ‘Pass me some cups from the dresser, Nettie.’ She frowned, turning her gaze on Sarah who was shivering even though the kitchen was warm. ‘Had you ever seen that man before?’

  ‘N-never.’ Sarah wrapped her arms around her body in an attempt to control her shaking limbs. ‘I dunno why he wanted me.’

  Nettie placed the cups on the table. ‘It don’t take a clever person to work that out, duck. Who was here just a few days ago, making a fuss and demanding his rights?’

  ‘Mr Trigg, but that wasn’t him.’

  ‘No, silly, but I’ll bet it was the workhouse master what sent him to get you. Trigg ain’t the sort to give up easily, and he’s greedy. He’ll be in trouble if the governors find out about his crooked business dealings, and I’ll warrant it don’t stop at selling the odd kid into slavery.’

  Cook stopped what she was doing and her eyes narrowed. ‘The master should be told about this.’ She pushed the kettle towards Nettie. ‘Finish making the cocoa. I’m going to see if Mr Arbuthnot is still up. He should be told.’

  ‘He might send me away,’ Sarah whispered, her bottom lip trembling. ‘He might even send me back to the workhouse.’

  Cook stepped over Betty, who had not stirred from her straw-filled palliasse by the range and was snoring loudly. ‘He won’t do that, but he might well report the matter to the governors.’ She left them staring helplessly at each other as she went upstairs.

  ‘I hope he’s gone to bed,’ Sarah said, biting her lip. ‘I don’t want any trouble.’

  Nettie finished making the cocoa and passed a cup to her. ‘Looks like you got it, whether you wants it or not, love.’

  Cook returned just as they finished their warming drinks. She was flushed with triumph and slightly out of breath. ‘The master was in his study and he was horrified and then furious. He said he’s already told the board of governors about Trigg but he’ll let them know about the attempted kidnap. It might not be anything to do with the workhouse master, but he’s going to report the matter to the police in case the man is known to them. I can certainly give a description of him, and you two might be asked to put your twopenn’orth in as well. Anyway, off to bed with you.’

  The constable noted down everything that Sarah said. Mr Arbuthnot sat behind his desk, making encouraging noises when she was at a loss for words, and Mrs Arbuthnot sat beside her, holding her hand.

  ‘That will be all for now, sir.’ The constable closed his notebook. ‘I’ve taken a description from Mrs Burgess and the other young girl and it will be circulated, although I have to say it could fit any number of the criminals known to us.’

  Mr Arbuthnot rose from his seat. ‘I understand, constable. Anyway, thank you for attending so promptly.’

  ‘The officer on the beat will keep an eye on the house, sir.’

  Mrs Arbuthnot squeezed Sarah’s fingers. ‘That makes me feel much better. At least we’ll be safe in our beds at night.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  Mr Arbuthnot moved to the door and opened it. ‘I’ll see you out, constable.’

  Sarah gazed anxiously at Mrs Arbuthnot. ‘I’m sorry to have brought trouble to your door, ma’am.’

  ‘Nonsense, my dear. None of this is your fault, and you mustn’t be afraid. We will see that no harm comes to you.’ She released Sarah’s hand with an encouraging smile. ‘You may go about your duties as usual, but you must on no account go out alone. I don’t know why the workhouse master is causing us so much trouble, but I promise that we won’t ever send you back to that dreadful place.’

  Sarah bobbed a curtsey. ‘Thank you, ma’am.’ She left the room and went to find Dorcas, who was dusting the drawing room on the first floor.

  ‘I seem to have missed all the excitement,’ Dorcas said, tossing a duster to her. ‘Be careful with Mrs Arbuthnot’s Dresden figurines. She’ll be very upset if they get damaged.’

  ‘Yes, Dorcas.’ Sarah picked one off the side table, hardly daring to breathe as she dusted the soot from the fragile piece.

  ‘So what did the peeler say? Did he know who it was who leapt out at you?’

  ‘I don’t think so. He said it could be any one of the villains known to the police.’

  ‘But the master thinks it has to do with that horrible man Trigg.’

  ‘I think so, but I can’t understand why he would want me back. Mrs Trigg used to call me Sal Scratch and made me wear a placard with my name written on it for everyone to see. She said I was the devil’s daughter.’

  Dorcas uttered a hollow laugh. ‘Did she now? Maybe she’s the one related to Old Nick; it certainly sounds that way.’ She gave a start as Sarah picked up a dainty porcelain shepherdess. ‘Oh, do be careful of that one, that’s her favourite of all.’

  Sarah put the ornament back on the table and when Dorcas was not looking she blew the dust off the delicate face and fingers. Before she came to Wellclose Square she would never have considered that keeping house was such a nerve-racking task, but she was rapidly learning its dangers and pitfalls, although so far she had not broken anything.

  Dorcas lifted the sash and shook her duster out of the window. ‘At least the fog has cleared. It’s my afternoon off and I’m stepping out with my gentleman friend.’ She leaned out further. ‘There’s a lady knocking on the front door.’ She withdrew her head, turning to Sarah with a pleading look. ‘Run down and answer it, there’s a good girl. She looks like one of them church-going ladies who raise money for orphans and foundlings. The master always gives something; that’s why they make a beeline for this house.’

  ‘Perhaps you ought to go,’ Sarah said nervously. ‘I wouldn’t know what to say.’

  ‘I’ve got to get done or I’ll be late meeting Wally, and he’s a stickler for time. Just be polite and let her do the talking.’

  Sarah was glad to be relieved of the onerous task of dusting precious things, and she raced downstairs hoping that she could remember everything that Dorcas had taught her. She stopped to check her appearance in the wall mirror by the hallstand before opening the front door. A housemaid had to appear clean and tidy at all times; that was what Dorcas always said. She opened the door and her breath hitched in her throat when she
saw who was standing on the pavement outside. Forgetting everything that Dorcas had taught her about how to behave in public she threw her arms around the startled visitor, almost knocking her over. ‘Miss Parfitt. You came to see me.’

  Disengaging herself from Sarah’s frantic grasp, Miss Parfitt straightened her bonnet, which had almost been knocked off in the embrace. ‘I had to come, Sarah, but my business is with Mrs Arbuthnot.’

  Sarah stared at her in amazement. ‘You know the mistress?’

  ‘Not exactly, but she sent a message to the workhouse asking me to come here today, although she didn’t say why exactly.’ Miss Parfitt glanced over Sarah’s shoulder. ‘I think you’d better let me in, dear.’

  ‘Oh, yes. I’m sorry. I’m not used to doing this. It’s Dorcas’s job really but she’s getting ready to go out and meet Wally, her gentleman friend.’ Sarah stepped aside. ‘I’ve forgotten what I’m supposed to do next. I’m so pleased to see you, miss.’

  ‘And I you, Sarah. I think you ought to find Mrs Arbuthnot and tell her that I’m here.’

  ‘I expect she’s in her parlour. That’s where she spends most of the time on Sundays after dinner. We all went to church this morning. Nettie and me went with Cook and Dorcas, and Mr and Mrs Arbuthnot went on ahead. They sat in the front pew and we was at the back of the church, but the singing wasn’t nearly as good as it was in the theatre last night.’

  Miss Parfitt smiled and her pansy-brown eyes danced with amusement. ‘I’d love to hear about it, dear. But I think you should knock on the parlour door and announce me. Then if Mrs Arbuthnot says so, you come and tell me she’ll see me, and show me into the room. Can you remember all that?’

  ‘Of course I can.’ Controlling the urge to run, Sarah crossed the hall and knocked on the parlour door.

  ‘Come in.’

  Sarah opened the door and went inside. ‘Miss Parfitt is here to see you, ma’am,’ she said, bobbing a curtsey.