Cathy Sharp - The Winter Orphan

Eliza smiled. ‘I am well, ma’am, though I fear Miss Edith is not as strong as she might be.’

‘I am sorry for that,’ Hetty said looking at her with sympathy. ‘You know you may come to us if you are worried or distressed and we shall do our best to help you. My door is always open to you, Eliza.’

Eliza smiled at her sweetly and in that smile, Hetty saw something of the man she admired, and in her heart had always loved. Arthur only needed to see that smile to know for sure that she was his daughter, but Hetty knew that for the moment his grief had made him blind to anything but his memories of Katharine and her loss. He worried what to do for Eliza for the best, because she loved Miss Edith and to take her from the woman who had given her a home might distress her, and yet he wanted her to have the life she deserved. Once he’d managed to set his grief aside, he would undoubtedly put his mind to ensuring Eliza’s future happiness.

‘Miss Edith told me to make sure that Sarah knows the dose is once every six hours, Miss Hetty,’ Eliza said. ‘She should not take more.’

‘We’ll look after her, don’t you worry …’ Ruth said and smiled at her. In the workhouse she had looked after Eliza as if she were her own child for she had none to love and truly cared for the girl.

Hetty knew it was on Ruth’s mind that she needed to tell Eliza the secret she’d kept all these years, to give her the diamond trinket she’d discovered pinned inside her shawl – placed there, Ruth had no doubt, by the mother who had been forced to give her up. However, she agreed with Hetty that she needed to ask Arthur Stoneham’s permission before she did so and in all the distress of the past weeks she had not dared to ask.

‘Has Mr Stoneham returned from the country?’ Eliza asked suddenly.

‘Not yet – did you wish to speak to him?’

Eliza hesitated and then nodded. ‘Yes, ma’am but it is not important. I know Mr Stoneham is a busy man. I only wished to ask if he had found any record of who brought me to the workhouse. He did say he would help me if I asked …’

‘Arthur will return soon I am sure and you may ask him then. He has spent the weeks since Katharine’s death, at Christmas, searching for her sister, but I fear too many years have passed for him to succeed. Only a little miracle would bring that to pass.’

‘Her death was very sad, ma’am. We were sorry to hear of it …’

Hetty sighed. It would take a miracle and a persistence few could muster to find someone who had disappeared all those years ago. No one but Arthur Stoneham would have attempted it. She had calmed Ruth’s fears, but she too wondered where Arthur was, for she had expected his return before this. His cousin, Matthew Soames, who was also his secretary, was taking care of business in Arthur’s absence, but Hetty felt it keenly. Arthur Stoneham was never far from her thoughts or her prayers these days. Yet she believed that if he had not returned from his search there must be a good reason for his tardiness.

Bella sat on the stairs, hugging her thin arms about her body as the tears trickled down her cheeks. She hated this place – and most of all she hated Mistress Brent. Mistress Brent was the warden in charge of the female section of the workhouse but her husband was the master. He ruled the house with a rod of iron and even his wife had been seen with black eyes after he’d beaten her. It was after he’d taken his wrath out on Mistress Brent that she vented her spite on the women and girls in her charge – but most of all on Bella.

Bella had no idea why the mistress despised her and ill-used her so much more than the other children. A harsh, thin-faced woman, tall and skinny but very strong, when Mistress Brent gripped Bella’s arms, her fingers dug in so hard they bruised her and she had black and mauve marks all over them. The mistress had a long thin cane, which she used whenever she felt inclined, striking out at anyone she thought was being disobedient or impertinent. She made the children line up for everything – food, visits to church or the schoolroom, which was a privilege reserved only for those the mistress favoured, despite the law that said children must be educated between the ages of five to ten years. Bella had learned to write her name, but she could not read more than a few letters nor could she reckon numbers, even though some of the women inmates said that it was a disgrace she had been denied this right.

‘It’s the law that all the children should be taught their letters, numbers and to read, as well as sewing and other things and the child’s ripe to learn,’ they’d said amongst themselves, but no one dared to say it to the mistress’s face. All the women and girls obeyed their mistress almost by instinct, their spirits long subdued, and it was Bella alone who refused to march in time to her tune. She ran when she should walk and talked when she was ordered to be silent and took her punishment without tears. Something told Bella that, whatever she did, she would be beaten and ill-used and a fierce pride inside would not let her lie down and let the mistress wipe her feet on her.

Bella was good with a needle. Her eyes were sharp and her stitches were neat, and because of that she was given most of the mending to do. She was allowed to sit in the special room reserved for the seamstresses and help them in the afternoons, but in the mornings she was set tasks like scrubbing the floors or washing dishes. Yet she suspected that if her needlework had not been so neat, her life might have been harder. There were far worse jobs in the workhouse – the laundry, which was hot and damp and smelly; picking oakum, which made hands bleed, and slopping out the latrines. They stank, especially in summer, and they were cleared manually by the men, but children had to wash them down after the men had taken the stinking effluent away. Bella had been given that job once but since then she’d been fortunate enough to be sent to the sewing room.

Bella had learned about the woman who had given birth to a healthy child but was told it was dead while she sat quietly mending. The other women had gossiped about the young woman who had arrived earlier that bitter afternoon on the point of giving birth.

‘She does not know her own name nor whence she came,’ Florrie said as she cut the delicate pattern out of expensive silk. Florrie was the head seamstress and her work was so fine that word had spread to Lady Rowntree, whose family had founded the workhouse. Lady Rowntree had started by asking for some alterations and repairs, but then she had asked if Florrie could make some fine underwear for her daughter, Rosalie, who was soon to be wed. ‘I think a man betrayed poor Jane – for so the mistress said she should be called – and beat her and she lost her mind, poor wench.’

‘She would be better off if the babe dies at birth for she cannot care for it,’ Marta said as she paused in her own sewing. ‘In any case, I know the mistress and master sell the healthy ones – it has always been so, except in her case …’ The woman nodded her head at Bella. ‘Why do you think she kept her?’

‘Hush, Marta.’ Florrie shot a warning look at her friend. ‘If someone tells her what you say, they’ll shut you in the cellar and starve you.’

‘They can’t let me die,’ Marta said in a belligerent tone. ‘It’s not lawful – and Lady Rowntree would close this place down if she knew some of the things they do. It was she and her husband who endowed this place and they are still the guardians of it.’

‘I think he is too ill to care what happens here,’ Florrie said, shaking her head. ‘Her ladyship might – and Miss Rosalie would be shocked. She’s a lovely young lady, she is – and so grateful for our work. She told me that she has not seen better embroidery than ours, Marta.’