Pauper's Gold (17 page)

‘Aye, that was it. Well, he more or less ordered him out of the place. “Can’t divulge information about inmates,” he said. Miserable old bugger. It
wouldn’t’ve hurt him to send word to a little lass about her mother, now would it?’ He looked to Luke for agreement. Luke was always at Hannah’s side these days with Daniel
never far behind.

Luke nodded. ‘He’s a right bastard.’ And Daniel nodded grim agreement.

For a brief moment, Ernest Scarsfield looked taken aback, then he frowned. ‘Now then, lad, none of that sort of language here. You know the rules. By rights, I should fine you thruppence
for that.’ Then, realizing that he had just been swearing himself, Ernest smiled. His admonishment was gentle. These three had been through enough already in their young lives. He ruffled
Luke’s hair as he added, ‘But I know what you mean.’ He turned again to Hannah. ‘I’m sorry, lass.’

Hannah tried to smile, but her voice wobbled as she said, ‘Thank you for trying, Mr Scarsfield.’

She turned away, but Ernest called after her. ‘You could see Mr Critchlow. The old man, that is. He
might
help. He’s not a bad old stick – most of the time.’

‘Thanks. I will.’ But she didn’t hold out much hope.

*

‘We’ll have to go and see Mrs Grundy. I haven’t dared go yet, but I should,’ Hannah told Luke and Daniel the following Sunday.

Luke nodded. ‘You’ll have to tell her that they’ve taken the money she lent you. And kept it.’ He paused a moment. ‘It’ll take you years to pay it
back.’

‘I know,’ Hannah said miserably. ‘I’ll be old and grey by the time I do.’ She sighed. ‘Still, let’s get it over with. Let’s go and see
her.’

‘Can I come an’ all?’ Daniel asked.

Luke’s face sobered and he shook his head, but not, as Hannah thought at first in answer to his brother’s question, but to her suggestion. ‘We can’t go. None of
us.’

Hannah stared at him. ‘You . . . you mean you won’t come with me? Oh, Luke!’

‘No, no, it’s not that. Of course I’ll come with you.’ He paused, then added, ‘When you can go.’

‘But I want to go today. Now.’

He shook his head. ‘You can’t.’

‘What do you mean? It’s Sunday. We’ll go this afternoon. Mrs Bramwell will understand.’

‘You can’t. You’re not allowed out. Not even to go to the service with the rest of us.’

‘Not – allowed – out? Nobody’s said anything to me.’

‘I heard Mrs Bramwell telling Mary that you’d be staying with her this morning and that she’d tell you to help get the dinner ready.’

Hannah, angry now, whirled around. ‘I don’t believe this. I’ll go and ask her myself.’

‘Hannah, don’t . . .’ Luke called after her, but Hannah paid no heed.

She knocked sharply on the door of Mrs Bramwell’s sitting room, indignation lending her boldness.

‘Come in.’

Hannah flung open the door and marched into the room. ‘Is it true?’ she burst out. ‘Is it true I’m not allowed out? Not even to go to the service?’

Ethel Bramwell sighed, rose and came to stand in front of the girl. ‘I’m sorry, Hannah. Truly I am. But that’s Mr Edmund’s orders. We’re under his strict
instructions, see. Me, Mr Bramwell and even Mr Scarsfield. We’ve not to let you out of our sights, so to speak. I’m to keep you here and Mr Bramwell’s to see that you go to the
mill every morning. Then Mr Scarsfield’s to keep his eye on you all day until you come back here at night.’

Hannah’s gasped and her eyes widened. ‘But . . . but that’s like being in prison.’

‘Aren’t we all?’ the older woman murmured.

‘Well, I won’t be a prisoner. Not here. Not anywhere.’

‘You’ve no choice, child.’ Ethel Bramwell said, but there was sadness in her tone. ‘None of us have. The Critchlows own us – all of us.’

Hannah frowned. She knew she was fastened to the Critchlows for the term of her indenture, but surely the Bramwells weren’t.

‘Why do you say “all of us”? You and Mr Bramwell can leave any time you like, can’t you? You’re not under any kind of indenture, are you?’

Mrs Bramwell shook her head. ‘No, but think about it, Hannah.’ Without realizing it, Ethel Bramwell called the girl by her Christian name. ‘How would we find other employment?
If we just upped and left, where would we go? How would we ever get another position without a reference?’ She leaned closer. ‘And how would we get a reference? Mr Critchlow would never
give us one in a month of Sundays if we said we wanted to leave even though we’ve served him for over twenty years.’

Shocked, Hannah stared at her. She hadn’t realized that everyone here – including the Bramwells, even Ernest Scarsfield and Mr Roper – were all virtual prisoners of the
Critchlows.

‘Now, you be a good girl and do what they say for a week or two and then we’ll see. Likely, they’ll’ve forgotten all about you by then.’

Hannah pursed her lips and shook her head. ‘I’m not staying locked up in here even for a week or two. First thing tomorrow morning, I’m going to see Mr Critchlow.’ Then
she swung round and marched from the room again, leaving Ethel Bramwell staring after her and sighing deeply. ‘Oh, my dear child. You don’t understand what you’re doing. You
really don’t.’

Hannah ignored their warnings. She paid no heed to Mrs Bramwell or to Luke. Not even to Ernest Scarsfield. They tried to stop her – tried to warn her.

‘And if you run into Mr Edmund, well . . .’ They all said exactly the same thing, and all left the sentence hanging in the air unfinished. Hannah was determined, but she was
trembling as she knocked on the door of the outer office and stepped in to face Mr Roper.

Josiah Roper did not, of course, try to dissuade her. He had good reason not to. He wanted a few fireworks to brighten his dull routine. He didn’t care if this wilful child, who’d
spoilt his weekend away from this place, was locked in the punishment room again. He was smiling as he ushered her into his master’s office and closed the door behind her. He didn’t
return to his desk, but leaned close to the door to listen.

Inside the inner office, Hannah faced Mr Nathaniel Critchlow. She breathed a little easier to find him there and not his son.

‘Please, sir, I’d like your permission to go to morning service with the others on Sunday.’

The old man frowned at her. ‘So you can run away again, eh?’

Hannah shook her head. ‘I wasn’t running away, sir. I keep telling everyone, but no one will believe me. I just wanted to find out how my mother is, that’s all. I haven’t
heard from her since I came here even though I’ve written several letters to her. I was coming back, sir. Truly I was.’

The man gazed at the young girl’s fresh face, at her clear blue eyes, at the golden hair cascading down her back. He sighed. She was going to be a real beauty in a few years’ time.
She was now, but she was not quite old enough . . . He shuddered. Maybe he shouldn’t keep her here. Maybe he should let her go back to the workhouse. He could tell Goodbody that she
wasn’t suitable, even though she was actually one of the best child workers they had. She was shaping up very nicely. Soon, she would be shaping up in an entirely different way and then his
son would really start to take notice of her . . .

With unaccustomed impetuosity, he said, ‘Would you like to go back to the workhouse, my dear – for good?’

‘Oh no, sir. I signed that piece of paper for you and I intend to keep my promise. I mean to stay here. But all I want is to know how my mother is.’

Now Nathaniel Critchlow stared at her in amazement. ‘You want to stay here?’

Hannah nodded. ‘I didn’t – when Jane—’

‘Yes, yes,’ Nathaniel said and his own voice was husky. He hated any kind of accident in his factory. And this had been a bad one – the very worst. Though he’d shied away
from seeing the child for himself, he still trembled at the mere thought of Jane’s injuries.

‘I wanted to run away then,’ Hannah was saying, ‘because I blamed myself for not tying her hair up properly for her like we’d been told.’ The man and the girl
stared at each other, their faces filled with sadness at the tragedy. They each felt a sense of guilt that the accident could have been avoided.

‘I just can’t understand why my mother hasn’t answered my letters. She can’t write herself, but she’d have got someone to read them to her and then sent me
word.’

Nathaniel leaned forward and rested his elbows on his desk, linking his fingers to stop their shaking. ‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do,’ he said slowly, ‘but first, you
have to give me your word that you won’t try to run away—’ As Hannah opened her mouth to protest once more, he held up his hand. ‘Not even just for a day.’

Hannah took a deep breath. ‘It depends what you’re going to do.’

Nathaniel smiled wryly. The boldness of this girl was truly amazing and yet it was not insolence. Even from his lofty position as her master – the man who owned her body and soul now
– he had to admit that she was only standing up for what she considered her rights. Her rights, indeed! Edmund would say that she had none and Nathaniel was tempted to tell her as much. But
as he gazed again on her pretty, open face, the retort died on his lips.

‘Well, providing I have your promise, I’ll write to Cedric Goodbody myself and ask for news of your mother. We might even arrange for her to visit you here.’

The ecstatic delight on the young girl’s face was like the appearance of the sun after storm clouds. ‘Oh, sir, would you really do that for me?’ She clasped her hands in front
of her. ‘Oh, thank you,
thank
you.’

Nathaniel cleared his throat and said gruffly. ‘So, will you give me your promise? No more trying to sneak off to see her for yourself.’

‘I promise, sir. Oh, I promise.’

‘Now, just to show me that you mean what you say, you’re to stay in for another two weeks. Then you can go to the Sunday services again.’

Hannah nodded and thanked him again. At that moment she would have done anything he asked her. Anything at all.

‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Grundy, about the money. But I will pay you back every penny.’

Three Sundays later, the three youngsters – Hannah, Luke and Daniel – were sitting in the warm kitchen at the farm.

Mrs Grundy shrugged. ‘Don’t worry about it, love. I shan’t lose any sleep over it. I’m just sorry you didn’t get to see your mother.’ Her usual merry face
clouded. ‘That Josiah Roper – he’s a nasty piece of work. He could’ve turned a blind eye. Could’ve let you go when he found you at the top of the hill. I remember our
Lucy hated him. He was always creeping about the mill, watching an’ listening and then telling tales to Mr Edmund.’

She looked into the sad faces opposite her. ‘I heard about your little friend,’ she said gently. ‘Just like our Lucy, weren’t it?’

Hannah nodded, looking stricken.

Lily Grundy sighed heavily and heaved herself up to get them a drink and fetch a fruit loaf from her cake tin. Changing the subject away from matters that grieved them all, she said, ‘So,
what are you going to do now about yer mam?’

‘Mr Nathaniel’s been quite good,’ Luke said taking up Hannah’s tale. ‘He’s promised—’

‘To write to Mr Goodbody himself,’ Daniel finished.

For a moment, Mrs Grundy glanced between the three of them, with a puzzled expression. Then her face cleared. ‘Oh, him at the workhouse, you mean? Where you came from? But I thought
you’d already written to him.’

‘Not exactly. I wrote to me mam.’

‘And she’s never replied?’

‘Well, no. She can’t write. But I know she’d’ve got one of the others to write for her.’

Mrs Grundy handed round mugs of thick creamy warm milk and slices of cake before she spoke again. She sat down and pulled her cup of tea towards her, stirring it thoughtfully. ‘I
don’t suppose that someone along the way has been stopping your letters. Either going out or coming in.’

The three youngsters stared at her. ‘Would . . . would they do that?’ Hannah asked indignantly.

Mrs Grundy snorted and took a sip of her tea. ‘I wouldn’t put anything past that lot up at the mill – if it suited their purpose. Anyway, love, it’ll soon be Christmas.
Maybe your mother will send you a letter then, eh?’

‘Do you think anyone would really do that?’ Hannah asked the two boys again as they walked back to the apprentice house as dusk descended into the dale. ‘Stop someone’s
letters?’

‘Mr Edmund would,’ Luke said.

‘And Mr Roper,’ Daniel volunteered.

‘But I don’t think old Mr Critchlow would, do you?’ Hannah said. ‘I’m sure he wouldn’t.’

The two boys glanced at one another but did not answer, and the three of them walked the rest of the way in silence.

Christmas came and went, marked only by a little more food at dinnertime and a couple of hours’ free time in the afternoon. The pauper children in the apprentice house
scarcely noticed the difference, though the feasting at the Manor lasted three days and left Nathaniel Critchlow suffering from severe indigestion and an even worse headache from the drink he had
consumed.

Struggling to his office at the mill on the fourth day, he sat at his desk, his head in his hands. ‘I don’t know what to do,’ he murmured.

Josiah, hovering on the other side of the desk, asked, ‘Can I help, sir? You don’t look too well. Perhaps you should go home.’

‘I should speak to Edmund,’ the old man murmured.

‘Mr Edmund won’t be back from Manchester until late tonight.’

It was from the merchants in Manchester that the Critchlows bought the bales of raw cotton, that started life on the
Gossypium
plant in the southern states of America, its fluffy bolls
picked by slave labour and transported all the way to Liverpool and by canal to Manchester. Edmund was a shrewd and clever negotiator – no one could deny that – and Nathaniel had been
happy and relieved to hand over that side of the business to his son.

‘Are you sure I can’t help, sir?’ Josiah asked again. His seeming concern was persuasive. Nathaniel sighed and confided, ‘It’s the girl.’

‘Which girl might that be, sir?’ Josiah feigned ignorance, yet he’d already guessed.

‘Francis.’

‘Ah!’ Josiah said, a wealth of understanding in that simple utterance. ‘She is somewhat – er – wilful. What has she done now?’