Cathy Sharp - The Winter Orphan

‘He’s come for the girl,’ she said. ‘You’d best hurry, Bella, or goodness knows what she’ll do – I think the devil has got into her today.’

Even the women chosen to help the mistress disliked her. Bella felt fear ripple through her, because she knew that wherever she was being sent must be much worse than this house. The trustee took hold of her arm, holding it firmly.

‘You have to go, Bella. She’s made up her mind to it and there’s no help for you here.’

‘Please, I don’t want to leave you …’

Bella looked back at Florrie imploringly but the woman gave a little shake of her head. ‘I’ve done all I can for you, child – may God be with you …’

Bella shook her head. Sometimes, she did not believe in God. How could there be a God when he let people like Mistress Brent rule their lives? People said they were lucky to live in the workhouse, because otherwise they might starve – but folk who said that knew nothing of the hardship and cruelty behind those impressive wrought-iron gates.

As she was taken into the hall, she saw a large man standing there, waiting. He had big arms and shoulders and untidy lank hair that hung about his shirt collar. His ruddy face was unshaven and there were black marks all over his skin. She could smell a sharp, metallic odour that seemed to emanate from him.

‘So this is the brat,’ he bellowed in a voice calculated to put fear into the stoutest of hearts. ‘She’ll not last five minutes – but I’ve been paid to take her so come on, brat. I’ve got no time to waste.’

Bella was given a little push towards him. Now the stink of him was much stronger and her stomach rebelled. The food she’d been given in the kitchen rose up her throat and splashed out of her mouth on to the floor, some of it landing on his boots.

‘Little pig!’ the man yelled and gave her a smack on the side of the head. ‘You’ll learn not to waste your food – and never to spill it on Karl Breck. I’m your master now, brat, and you’ll clean these boots as soon as we get back to the works.’

Bella found her arm taken in a grip of steel and she was propelled out of the house. A weary-looking horse and a wagon stood outside and Bella was unceremoniously tossed up into it, landing on a pile of old sacks. She felt the pain of her back and legs where she’d been beaten, but the tears that spilled now were because she feared for the future, not for what she had suffered at the mistress’s hands.

Where was she going and what would happen to her now? Bella had no true friends, though Florrie had been patient with her, teaching her how to refine her skills as a seamstress, so she would not break her heart over those she left behind, but she was terrified of this man who said he was her master and she lay shivering as the dusk gathered around them and they were driven away from all she had known.

Florrie’s anger had begun to smoulder after the brute she knew to be a chain-maker in the village of Fornham, which was some four miles or so from the Sculfield workhouse, took Bella away. She liked the young girl who had refused to be cowed by the harsh regime at the workhouse, enjoying the time they spent together in the sewing room and teaching her to improve her skills. Now the talent Bella had shown in her needlework would be wasted. She would be put to the drudgery of chain-making, which was hard enough for strong men but a destroyer of women and innocent children. The young ones often lasted only a few months, for the work was both tiring and dangerous – the heat of the furnaces was intense and it burned the unwary, scarring arms, legs and searing faces. Bella’s delicate complexion would be lost if she toiled over those wicked fires.

Women and children earned only a few pennies a day, because the work was paid for by weight. Men made the thick chains used by ships and heavy industry and were paid a fair price for their labour, but chain-making was known to be a bad trade for women and girls. The chains they made were smaller and lighter and yet they took many hours to fashion; it was a trade only the desperate would choose, when there was no other work to be had – and Bella had no choice. She’d been indentured to a master who would work her to death and that was what Mistress Brent hoped for. Florrie suspected it was unlawful for the Mistress to sell Bella the way she had, but Mistress Brent cared nothing for the law. The guardians of the workhouse trusted her and neglected to inspect or control her and she ruled much as she pleased with none to gainsay her. Bella had dared to defy her – as had Bella’s mother – and this was her revenge, Florrie knew.

Florrie recalled the delicate young woman who had spent some three weeks in the workhouse before running away from its strict regime. Later, Florrie had heard that Bella’s mother had given birth one cold winter’s night and died in the fields. She had told the warden that her name was Marie but Florrie thought it was not truly her name. She herself had only recently come to the workhouse at that time and had formed a friendship with Bella’s mother who’d told Florrie a part of her story.

‘I was attacked,’ Marie had confided as they sat together over their sewing, her eyes dark-shadowed as she remembered. ‘I was alone in the woods and – and I was attacked and – and violated. I never saw his face, for he was masked with a thick scarf …’

‘Oh, you poor girl,’ Florrie said.

Marie smothered a sob. ‘I was unconscious when Jez found me, Florrie. He and his sister Bathsheba are gypsies. They took me in and cared for me, and I was ill for a long time.’

‘How awful for you!’ Florrie could hardly envisage such a terrible fate. ‘Why did they not take you to your home?’

‘I did not remember my name or where I lived, then – and besides, Jez was afraid he would be blamed for what had happened to me. He was not supposed to be in those woods.’

‘But you remember your past now?’

‘Some things,’ Marie said. ‘I remember that I had a sister named Kathy and Papa was a parson but I do not remember where we lived or anything more of my life and I do not know why I was in the woods that night, though I think I may have quarrelled with someone, but I cannot remember him.’

‘I am so sorry,’ Florrie had told her, holding Marie’s hand as she saw her tremble. ‘Could the gypsies not help you find your home?’

‘Bathsheba wanted to take me back to where Jez had found me when I was recovered from my fever. She thought then I might remember more and she could help me find my family.’

‘But then you discovered you were with child?’ Florrie guessed and the young woman nodded. Marie was of a good family, a parson’s daughter, she thought, and would have been too ashamed to return to her home once she knew of her condition, even if she could.

Marie’s face clouded. ‘Yes … I could not go home to shame my family. Kathy would never have found a husband and Papa could never hold up his head again. Jez told me I should stay with them.’

‘Then why are you here?’

Marie shook her head. She could not be persuaded to finish her story and a few days later she had run away from the workhouse. Florrie had been distressed, especially when she learned that the girl had died in the fields. But why had she run from the gypsies who had befriended her? It was a mystery and had haunted Florrie all these years. During that time Florrie had found work outside the workhouse, but it never lasted for more than a few months and so she had returned to seek shelter – and something else drew her back time and again.