Dilly Court - The Mistletoe Seller - A heartwarming, romantic novel for Christmas from the Sunday Times bestseller

‘Where are you taking me?’ she demanded angrily.

‘The workhouse in Bear Yard, if you must know.’

Angel stared at him in disbelief. Surely the bump on her head must have addled her brains. ‘The workhouse?’

‘That’s what I said. You’re a pauper now. You are the devil’s spawn and you’re going back where you belong. It’s a new building, opened only last year. You’ll be quite comfortable there.’

‘But you promised Aunt Cordelia that I would be taken care of. You said I was to be a companion to a girl my own age somewhere in Essex.’

‘I lied,’ he said complacently. ‘It comes naturally to a lawyer – you’ll learn not to believe everything you’re told. This is a valuable lesson in life.’

‘You can’t do this to me.’

‘There’s no such word as can’t. That’s what my old nanny used to tell me and she was right. You will do as I say or I’ll inform the workhouse master that you are a simpleton and must be tied to your bed for your own protection. You won’t get the better of me, Angel Winter, so don’t try.’

Despite Angel’s protests she was admitted to the workhouse and forced to undergo the humiliation of being stripped of all her fine clothes, scrubbed down with lye soap and her hair rinsed with vinegar. It trickled into her eyes and made her yelp with pain, but a quick slap from the older inmate charged with this task made Angel catch her breath, and she bit her lip, determined not to cry. Finally, after being given a coarse huckaback towel, she dried herself as best she could and with the greatest reluctance dressed herself in a shift and a shapeless, faded blue-and-white striped dress. A calico pinafore and a white mobcap completed the outfit and a pair of boots that had seen better days pinched her toes. When she tried to protest and ask for her own shoes, she received a clout on the ear that sent her sprawling onto the flagstone floor. In all her life she had never received anything more brutal than a smack on the wrist, and that was for a misdemeanour so small that she could not remember what she had done to deserve the punishment. Now in the space of a couple of hours she had been knocked to the ground, humiliated and imprisoned amongst total strangers. The comfortable life she had led in Spital Square seemed like heaven and now she was in hell. There was only one thing left that linked her to her past, and, when the woman turned away to hang up the towel, Angel took the ring and chain from inside her cheek where she had concealed it before the undignified assault on her body. She just had time to slip the chain around her neck and tuck the ring beneath her shift, before the older woman rounded on her. She yanked Angel to her feet.

‘Come with me.’

‘Where are you taking me?’

‘Don’t speak unless you’re spoken to or you’ll get another wallop.’

Angel had no alternative but to follow the hunched figure from the communal washroom into a long dark corridor that led, eventually, to a flight of stairs. An unpleasant odour of damp and dirty laundry wafted up from the basement in clouds of steam. The large room, little more than a dank cellar, ran the length of the building, and the heat from the coppers was stifling. The red-faced women worked silently, washing the bedding, rinsing it and feeding it through giant mangles, which they operated by hand. Huge baskets were piled high with sheets and blankets and taken to the drying room. The deafening sound of hobnail boots clattering on the stone floor combined with the bubbling noise from the coppers and the rhythmic grinding of the mangles. Added to all this was the constant chorus of coughing from diseased lungs. It was a horrific place, but this was where Angel was destined to spend the rest of the day, and, as far as she knew, the rest of her life.

Angel had missed the midday meal by a whisker and she had eaten very little at breakfast. As she worked on throughout the afternoon all she could think about was the bowl of thick, creamy porridge, sprinkled with golden sugar and slathered with thick cream that she had left barely touched. The boiled egg had fared little better, and she had only nibbled the buttered toast. Her stomach growled and by suppertime she was faint with hunger, dazed with exhaustion and could barely drag one foot after another as the inmates were marched to the dining hall. A hunk of dry bread accompanied a bowl of thin gruel, and this was eaten in silence with the matron watching every move.

That night, trying to sleep on a hard wooden bed with just a thin flock-filled mattress, one blanket and no pillow, Angel made up her mind to escape. The other girls in her dormitory ranged in age from seven to fifteen: the younger ones cried themselves to sleep and the older girls talked in hushed voices for a while. Sobs, snores and coughing filled the night air, and a strong smell of carbolic emanated from the floorboards, which were scrubbed each morning until they were bleached white. This, Angel had learned from Lizzie, the older girl who shared her bed, was the job of those who were too young to pick oakum or work in the laundry, and too old for the schoolroom.

Despite her aching limbs and physical exhaustion, Angel’s mind was surprisingly clear as she plotted her escape. The first thing she would need was her own clothes. She had seen them folded and placed on a shelf in the area next to the washroom. They were to be sold off to pay for her uniform, so Lizzie had said, and Angel had no reason to doubt her. Lizzie had been born in the workhouse and had never seen her brothers, who had been admitted with their mother. The unfortunate woman had died some years earlier, but what had happened to her father Lizzie could not say. The thirteen-year-old lived in hope that one day someone would come and take her from here. She smiled as she slept and Angel could only imagine what dreams her new friend must be enjoying. At least Lizzie could escape from the reality of her incarceration for a few hours each night. But it was not so for Angel; she kept her eyes open, waiting until all was quiet. She had no idea how she was going to make a break for freedom, but she was determined to try. Anything and anywhere would be better than this dire place.

At last it seemed that everyone slept. Angel raised herself carefully from the narrow bed so as not to wake Lizzie, and crept out of the dormitory, barefoot and still in her calico nightgown. At the sound of footsteps, she dodged into a cupboard and peered through a crack in the door as the light from an oil lamp bobbed up and down, and the sound of footsteps drew nearer. She held her breath until the woman was out of earshot. She had not bargained for the night watch, but this put her on the alert and made her even more determined to get away. The long corridor ran parallel to the dormitories and moonlight streamed in through the tall windows, its benevolent rays illuminating the way to the staircase.

She made it to the ground floor without mishap, although she had to hide from the night patrol several times. The reception area was deserted and silent and the doorkeeper had, for some reason best known to himself, deserted his post. To Angel’s intense relief she found her garments still neatly stacked on the shelf. Her fingers shook as she took off the nightgown and put on her own clothes. Her red flannel petticoat caressed her bare legs like a whisper after the coarse material of the workhouse uniform. She slipped the green silk bodice and overskirt over her head, fastening it with difficulty. Every second counted and she was about to put on her stockings when she heard approaching footsteps. She pushed her bare feet into her boots and tiptoed across the room to open the outer door. The bolts drew back with little more than a click and the door opened with just a sigh of well-oiled hinges. The night air enveloped her in a warm hug as she stepped out into Bear Yard. She picked up her skirts and ran. Where she was going she had no idea, her only aim was to get as far away from the workhouse as her legs would carry her.