Authors: Dilly Court
A Loving Family
Contents
Stella Barry is forced into service as a kitchen maid when her father dies at sea and the family find themselves living hand-to-mouth.
Leaving her mother and younger brother and sister in the slums of London's docklands, Stella goes to a big country house outside London.
A year later, having not seen them in all that time, Stella walks to London with a cake for her mother for mothering Sunday. But she discovers the family has disappeared. Thrown out of their lodgings no one knows where they have gone.
Seven years later Stella is now undercook and it looks likely she'll soon become Cook. But when the son of the house makes improper advances and she knows he'll be believed over her, she must leave at once.
With no references and only a few personal possessions to her name she heads off. She has never forgotten her loving family and is determined to find out what happened to them â once and for all.
Dilly Court grew up in North-east London and began her career in television, writing scripts for commercials. She is married with two children and four grandchildren, and lives in Dorset on the beautiful Jurassic Coast with her husband. She is the author of eighteen novels, and also writes under the name of Lily Baxter.
Mermaids Singing
The Dollmaker's Daughters
Tilly True
The Best of Sisters
The Cockney Sparrow
A Mother's Courage
The Constant Heart
A Mother's Promise
The Cockney Angel
A Mother's Wish
The Ragged Heiress
A Mother's Secret
Cinderella Sister
A Mother's Trust
The Lady's Maid
The Best of Daughters
The Workhouse Girl
Dilly Court
For Di Ellard
Barrack Hospital, Scutari, 1855
THE SMELL OF
lye soap could not mask the stench of disease and death that filtered from the hospital wards to the laundry room in the basement of the Barrack hospital. The army wives and camp followers attempted to cope with the soiled bedding and bloodstained bandages of the wounded soldiers, but it was a never-ending battle.
Miss Nightingale rarely showed her face in the hell-hole below the ground where the washerwomen were often as sick as the men lying in the hospital beds. Sanchia Romero had been working since daybreak and now it was late in the evening. She knew that she was ill. She had seen many of her comrades sicken and collapse in the rat-infested cellars, which were never intended to be used for such work. With little ventilation and the overpowering heat from the coppers they were a breeding ground for the cholera and dysentery that Miss Nightingale and her nurses were trying so desperately to eradicate.
âI must go back to our tent,' Sanchia whispered to the woman who was scrubbing a bloodstained sheet on a washboard. âMy daughter is all alone. She needs me more than the poor devils on the wards.'
Nellie Jones made the sign of the cross on her flat chest. âI wish I'd never followed my old man to the battlefield. I should have stayed at home in Spitalfields, even if I had to put up with a mean old bitch of a mother-in-law, and I wish to God that I had.'
Sanchia clasped a work-roughened hand to her forehead. She was burning up with fever. She knew the danger signs only too well. âI have to go, Nellie.' Gathering strength from the thought of seeing her fourteen-year-old daughter, perhaps for the last time, Sanchia made her way between the steaming coppers towards the stone steps.
Outside the building the hospital yard was filled with the injured on stretchers or simply lying on the ground where they had been left to await admission. Their pathetic groans and pleas for water made her cover her ears, and the rumble of the cart taking the deceased to the mortuary would echo in her head long after she had reached the haven of their makeshift accommodation. It seemed that there was no escape from this terrible place, but Sanchia was determined that her beautiful child would not suffer a similar fate to the one she knew awaited her. She feared that time was not on her side.
She found Jacinta huddled in the rough shelter of canvas that had been their home since they arrived at Scutari weeks ago. How long exactly they had been in this hell on earth she did not know, but it felt as though it had been forever. She had watched her man die slowly and painfully from the wounds he had received in battle, and she had been helpless to save him. Fred Wilton's last wish had been for her to take their daughter to London, where they had met when Sanchia was a girl of thirteen, but it was not easy to get a passage home.
Orphaned by the death of her immigrant parents in a typhoid epidemic, she had been roaming the streets begging for food when Fred had come across her. It had been love at first sight, although they had never got round to making their union legal. She had known it was not a good idea to bring their daughter with them, but Fred had insisted on keeping their small family together. Jacinta had always been her father's pet and Fred had insisted that his little girl would be kept safe. With his last breath, the husband of her heart and father of her beloved daughter had declared his love for them.
Sanchia wiped a tear from her eye as she lifted the canvas tent flap and saw her daughter huddled up against the bitter cold. âJacinta,' she whispered. âI am sick. You must leave here immediately.'
Jacinta raised a tear-stained face and her lips trembled. âNo, Mama. I won't leave you.'
Sanchia shook her head. âYou are to leave tonight on the steamboat heading for Boulogne. It is all arranged. You are to travel with one of the nurses in charge of the soldiers who are being repatriated. You are going to England. Your father's family will look after you. I have written them a letter.' Breathless and burning up with fever, Sanchia pulled a crumpled piece of paper from her pocket and pressed it into her daughter's hand. âI cannot look after you, my darling child. I will soon be joining your father in heaven. I have followed him since I was a girl like you, and in death we will be reunited.'
âMama, I will stay with you and make you better.' Jacinta's voice broke on a sob.
âIt is too late for that.' Sanchia leaned out of the tent and waved to attract the attention of Nurse Davis, who had shown her small kindnesses in the past. âMiss Davis, over here, please.' With the last of her strength she dragged her daughter to her feet and thrust her outside. âMiss Davis will see you safely on board the
Victus.
When you arrive in London go to the address on the letter. Go now and God go with you, my sweet girl.'
On board the ship Jacinta had to sleep on deck as there was no room in the accommodation. Miss Davis was kind, but too busy looking after the men in her care to bother about a healthy young girl, and Jacinta was left to her own devices. She was still grieving for her father and now she had lost her mother. She had seen enough in her short life to know the reality of cholera and her mother had exhibited all the symptoms of the dreaded disease.
âAre you all right, love?'
Jacinta was huddled against the bulwarks with her arms wrapped tightly around her knees. The night air was chilly and she had not had anything to eat since a bowl of thin soup at midday. She looked up into the face of a young seaman. âI am all right. Thank you.'
He grinned. âYou'll feel better if you drink this.' He handed her a tin mug filled with tea.
She wrinkled her nose. âI don't like tea.'
âYou ain't English, are you, love?' He squatted down beside her. âI can tell by your looks and your accent. I'd say you were from Spain. Is that right?'
âI have never been there, but my mother is from Catalonia.' She turned her head away so that he could not see the tears in her eyes. âI mean, she was from there. My pa was English. From Bethnal Green, London. His father is what they call a rag and bone man.'
âI see.' He thrust the mug into her hands. âWell, your pa would say drink the split pea and you'll soon perk up.' He nodded his head. âGo on, love. It's hot and sweet. Just the thing on a cold night.'
She sipped the brew. âIt's quite nice,' she said with an attempt at a smile. âYou are kind.'
He held out his hand. âIsaac Barry. What's your name? I can't keep calling you love, although you are a very pretty girl, if I may say so.'
âJacinta,' she said, blushing. âJacinta Romero.'
He frowned. âYou said your pa was from London.'
âIt's my mother's name.'
âI understand,' he said hastily. âAnd it's a very good name too. Now how about something to eat, Jacinta? I'm well in with the cook on this particular voyage. Why don't we go down to the galley and see if he's got anything left from supper that a young lady might fancy?'
She met his smiling gaze and she knew in that moment that she was alone no longer. Isaac Barry was not the most handsome young man she had ever seen. Some people might call him plain to the point of ugliness with a snub nose and large ears that stuck out at a comical angle, but his generous mouth seemed permanently curved in a smile and his blue eyes had a kindly look in them that made her want to trust him. She held out her hand. âThank you, Isaac. I am rather hungry.'
He helped her to her feet. âCome on, my duck. You're skinny as a little rabbit, but we'll soon feed you up and bring the roses back to your cheeks.'
By the time they reached Boulogne Jacinta was halfway to being in love with Isaac and the thought of parting from him was agony, but when he announced that he was travelling on to London she knew for certain that she wanted to be with him forever.
They travelled overland to Calais and onward by ferry to Dover, where they caught the train for Victoria. Miss Davis had been reluctant to hand Jacinta over to the care of a young man who was unrelated to her, but Isaac assured her that his intentions were strictly honourable. He reassured her that he was going to take Jacinta to her father's family in Bethnal Green, and Miss Davis seemed pleased to accept his plan. âYour mother was a good woman,' she said as they parted at Victoria station. âShe wanted you to be happy, Jacinta, and I'm sure that your papa's family will give you the welcome you deserve.'
The address in Bethnal Green that Sanchia had scribbled on the brief note to Jacinta's grandparents led them to a mean street backing on to the railway goods depot. The run-down terraced houses were all in a similar state of dilapidation. Broken windowpanes were stuffed with rags to keep out the worst of the weather. The paint on the doors was blistered and peeling, and a thin layer of soot veiled the brickwork. Dung lay in heaps on the cobbled street and detritus filled the gutters, attracting vermin even in the middle of the day. Rats as large as cats trawled through the rubbish and barefoot children played in animal excrement.