PENNY JORDAN - Orphans from the Storm - Bride at Bellfield Mill / A Family for Hawthorn Farm / Tilly of Tap House

Instinctively Marianne recoiled from his words, even though she could well understand how a hard and cruel employer could drive those dependent on him to wish him dead. It was no wonder that some workforces went on strike against their employers.

‘You’d better take him upstairs,’ she told the waiting men. ‘And one of you needs to run and summon the doctor.’

‘You’d best do that, Jim,’ the oldest of the men announced, ‘seein’ as you’re the fastest on your legs. We’ll take him up then shall we, missus?’ he asked Marianne.

Nodding her head, Marianne hurried to open the door into the hall, trying to look as though she were as familiar with the layout of the house as a true housekeeper would have been, although in reality all she knew of it was its kitchen.

She had time to recognise how badly served both the house and its master had been by Mrs Micklehead as she saw the neglect and the dull bloom on the mahogany doors which should have been gleaming with polish. The hallway was square, with imposing doors which she assumed belonged to the main entrance, whilst the stairs curved upwards to a galleried landing, the balustrade wonderfully carved with fruit and flowers whilst the banister rail itself felt smooth beneath her hand.

Two corridors ran off the handsome landing and Marianne hesitated, not knowing which might lead to the master bedroom, but to her relief the Master of Bellfield had regained consciousness, and was trying to take a step towards the right-hand corridor.

Trying to assume a confidence she did not feel, Marianne hurried ahead of the men, who were now almost dragging the weight of their master. Halfway along the corridor a pair of doors stood slightly open. Taking a chance, Marianne pushed them back further, exhaling shakily as she saw from the unmade-up state of the bed that this must indeed be the master bedroom.

‘We can’t lay him down in that, lass,’ one of the men supporting the master told her, nodding in the direction of the large bed. He added trenchantly, ‘That looks like best quality sheeting, that does, and I reckon with the way he’s bleedin’ it’ll be ruined if we lie him on it.’

He was right, of course, but since she had no idea where the linen cupboards were Marianne shook her head and said firmly, ‘Then they will just have to be ruined. How long do you think it will be before the doctor gets here?’

‘Depends on how long it takes Jim to find him. If I know Dr Hollingshead, he won’t take too kindly to being disturbed before he’s finished his breakfast.’

The two men had managed to lay their master on the bed now, and Marianne’s heart missed a beat as she saw how much the bloodstain on his bandage had spread.

‘Come on, lads,’ the man who seemed to be the one in charge told the others.

‘There’s nowt we can do here now. We’d best get back t’mill.’

Marianne hurried after them as she heard them clattering down the stairs.

‘The doctor will want to know exactly what happened,’ she told them ‘Perhaps one of you should stay—’

‘There’s nowt we can tell him except that a metal pin shot off one of the machines and flew straight into his leg. Pulled it out himself, he did, and all,’ he informed Marianne admiringly, leaving Marianne to suppress a shudder of horror at the thought of the pain such an action must have caused.

THE men had gone, but the doctor had still not arrived. Marianne, who had seen all manner of injuries during her time at the workhouse, and knew the dangers of uncleaned wounds, had set water to boil and gone in search of clean linen, having first checked that the baby was still sleeping.

When she eventually found the linen cupboards on the attic floor, she grimaced in distaste to see that much of the linen was mired in cobwebs and mouse droppings, whilst the sheets that were clean were unironed and felt damp.

Her aunt would certainly never have tolerated such slovenliness and bad housekeeping. This was what happened when a man was at the mercy of someone like Mrs Micklehead. Against her will Marianne found that she almost felt slightly sorry for the Master of Bellfield—or at least for his house, which must once have been a truly elegant and comfortable home, and was now an empty, shabby place with no comfort of any kind.

She made her way back down the servants’ staircase to the attic floor and along the corridor to the landing. The departing men had left the door to the master bedroom open, and she could hear a low groan coming from it.

Quickly she hurried down the corridor, pausing in the doorway to the room.

The Master of Bellfield was still lying where the men had left him. His eyes were closed, but his right hand lay against his thigh, bright red with the blood that was now soaking through his fingers.

Panic filled Marianne. He was bleeding so much. Too much, she was sure.

Whilst she hesitated, wondering what to do, someone started knocking on the front door.

Picking up her skirts, Marianne ran down the stairs and across the hallway, turning the key in the lock and tugging back the heavy bolts so that she could open the door.

‘Doctor’s here, missus,’ the man who had been knocking informed her, before turning his head to spit out the wad of tobacco he had been chewing.

Marianne could see a small rotund bearded man, in a black frock coat and a tall stovepipe hat, emerging from a carriage, carrying a large Gladstone bag.

‘I understand there’s been an accident, and that the Master of Bellfield has been injured,’ he announced, without removing his hat. A sure sign that he considered a mere housekeeper to be far too much beneath him socially to merit the normal civilities, Marianne recognised, as she dipped him a small curtsey and nodded her head, before taking the bag he was holding out to her.

‘Yes, that’s right. If you’d like to come this way, Doctor. He’s in his room.’

The bag was heavy, and she could see the contempt the doctor gave the dusty hallway. She vowed to herself that on his next visit she would have it gleaming with polish.

‘You’re new here,’ he said curtly as Marianne led the way up the stairs.

‘Yes,’ she agreed. Taking a deep breath, she added untruthfully, ‘Mr Denshaw sent word to an employment agency in Manchester that he was in need of a new housekeeper. I only arrived last night.’ She hoped that the sudden scald of guilty colour heating her face would not betray her.

She paused as they reached the landing to tell him, ‘The master’s bedroom is this way, sir.’

‘Yes, I know where it is. You will attend me whilst I examine him, if you please.’

Marianne inclined her head obediently.

The sheet was red with blood now, and the man lying on the bed was unconscious and breathing shallowly.

‘How long has he been bleeding like this?’ the doctor demanded sharply.

‘Since he was brought here, sir,’ Marianne told him, as she placed the doctor’s bag on a mahogany tallboy.

‘I shall need hot water and carbolic soap with which to wash my hands,’ he told her disdainfully, as he went to open it. ‘And tell my man that I shall need him up here. Quickly, now—there is no time to waste. Unless you wish to se your master bleed to death.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Marianne almost flew back down the stairs, thankful that her ankle, whilst swollen, was no longer bothering her. Opening the front door, she passed on the doctor’s instructions to his servant.

‘Probably wants me to hold him down,’ he informed her. ‘You wouldn’t credit the yellin’ and cursin’ some of them do. Shouldn’t be surprised if he has to have his leg off. That’s what happens to a lot of them.’

Marianne shuddered.