The Lost And Found Girl
Women of Iron
Silk and Steel
Without a Mother’s Love
A Mother’s Sacrifice
The Orphan Child
Published by Hachette Digital
ISBN: 9780748119219
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2011 Catherine King
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.
Hachette Digital
Little, Brown Book Group
100 Victoria Embankment
London, EC4Y 0DY
To the memories of Lester Dale Piper and Albert
Robin Piper
Acknowledgements
I should like to thank Betty Davies, secretary of the Friends of Rotherham Archives, for telling me about an old myth concerning twins, also Jean Grantham from Fareham Writers Group who is a qualified midwife and who verified the facts for me. My thanks are also due to Dennis Ramsbottom for introducing me to the wilder aspects of the Yorkshire Dales, and to his son Andrew who told me about the South Craven Geological fault.
This book would not be finished without the encouragement and support of my agent Judith Murdoch and the wonderful hardworking team at Little Brown, especially Caroline Hogg, Hannah Hargrave and Manpreet Grewal; my grateful thanks to all of you.
Catherine King
Chapter 1
February 1829
Beth dropped her bundle of belongings to the stone floor and shivered as she stood in the draughty church porch wearing her best bonnet and gown. She hugged her old winter cloak closely to her body. ‘Is he here, sir?’ she asked.
‘Be patient, child.’
She hadn’t been a child for years, she thought irritably. Thankfully, no one would dare to call her that after today. ‘May I go inside?’ she suggested.
The principal of Blackstone School scowled at her. ‘You must wait here until he arrives.’
‘But I am very cold, sir.’
‘You’ll do well to get used to it. It’s a wild place you’re going to.’
Beth did not mind the windswept landscape, but her journey to the Dales in an open trap had been long and tedious, and she was hungry. It can’t be as bad as Blackstone, she thought. She had suffered the frugalities of poverty in
that dreadful place for as long as she could remember and had prayed, four years ago when she’d reached fourteen, that the school would find her a position away from it. Instead she had been employed as a servant in the principal’s home to ‘learn to housekeep’, he had told her. She had been considered fortunate by other girls in the school who had been sent to work as house- or nurse-maids in the homes of shopkeepers or tenant farmers. So Beth had not complained about the long days of servility with little time for reading or recreation.
At first she had been excited at the prospect of leaving the harshness of school life, although she missed the company of her friends. One had been special to Beth and they had corresponded regularly until she had received a note from her which read:
My mistress does not think it fitting for domestic servants to be writing letters. I am so sorry.
Beth’s life in the principal’s house had been lonely and miserable, for Mr Barden was strict and believed in the strap for discipline. His wife and daughters were lazy and she had been at their beck and call from six in the morning until ten at night. Over the years they had taught her very little apart from how to cook, clean and mend. But they had given her one of their out-grown gowns to wear today. Although it was plain with long sleeves and buttoned to her neck, it had not needed to be repaired and it was, by far, the nicest gown she had ever worn. The plain grey did nothing to enhance her fair colouring but it was well cut and made her look like a lady’s maid rather than a more lowly servant. She had fashioned a new collar and matching cuffs edged with her own drawn thread work and looked forward to removing her cloak for the ceremony.
However, in spite of the dreary routine she had left behind,
her new-found excitement had turned to nervousness as Mr Barden’s trap had rattled along the rutted track, climbing away from the only life she had known, and across the moor until she reached this small stone church on the edge of the Yorkshire Dales. The bleak expanse of scrubland and rock did nothing to quell her anxiety.
She heard horses’ hooves on the track and the churnings in her stomach started again. ‘Is – is this him?’ she asked. Her voice wavered. Would he be as cold and strict as Mr Barden? Or would he be pompous and overbearing like the school benefactors? She knew little about him except that he was nine and twenty and came from a sheep farm high on the fell. She straightened her chilled back and hoped that she would please him.
A clatter of a carriage following shortly afterwards caused Beth’s heart to beat faster. It was really happening to her. In a short while she would be the wife of Edgar Collins and go with him to live at High Fell Farm. She heard the churchyard gate creak and moments later two people entered the gloomy doorway.
She recognised the woman as Edgar’s mother who had visited Mr Barden to inspect her and ask about her demeanour and habits. Beth thought at the time that Mrs Collins had put on airs and seemed grand for the mother of a sheep farmer. But, although she had looked down her nose at Beth, she appeared to approve of her as a bride for her son.
However Beth soon realised that this initial condescension had not gone away. Mrs Collins wore black from her velvet cape to her full silk skirts and her dark eyes glittered as they travelled over Beth’s cloak and bonnet. She did not smile. She turned her attention to Mr Barden and asked, ‘Do you have the gold?’
‘After the ceremony, madam,’ he replied stiffly.
‘I want sight of it before the vows.’
‘Very well. Wait here for me, child.’ He went outside with Mrs Collins, leaving Beth alone with her future husband.
Beth looked at him with a tentative smile on her lips. She had thrown back the hood of her cloak to reveal her cheap straw bonnet that she had decorated with evergreen leaves and grey ribbons. Tendrils of fair hair escaped around her pale face. They trembled in the draught and caught on her lips as she hovered in the chilly church porch. But her blue eyes were bright and she had a wide smile that showed off good cheekbones, even if it was too late to pinch them for a rosy glow.
He was taller than she, with the outdoor swarthiness of a country man, and he was dressed as gentry in old-fashioned breeches. His long jacket was cutaway to reveal a richly embroidered waistcoat. His tall hat stayed firmly on his head and he clipped his riding crop against high leather boots in a gesture that Beth took to be impatience. Beth’s initial confidence in her appearance drained away as she realised that her dress did not match his in status. However she rallied when he murmured, more to himself than to her, ‘Well, she’s pretty enough.’ But his eyes did not meet hers and, although he sounded satisfied, his face was grim and his mouth turned down at the corners. ‘Come on, then. Let’s get on with it,’ he added and disappeared into the church.
As she listened to his boots ringing on the stone flags of the empty church, Beth did not know whether to follow him or wait for Mr Barden. For as long as she could remember she had been obedient to the orders of Mr Barden, his teachers and latterly his wife and daughters. Agreeing to this marriage had been the first time he had consulted her for
an opinion of any kind, though it was made quite clear to her at the time that her answer would be ‘yes’ even without sight of her future husband. It was a good offer. He was a farmer and she was a nobody, a ward in chancery, a bastard child; but one with a settlement.
Beth had no illusions about this match. It was her dowry that enabled her to be married and she silently thanked her unknown benefactor for his generosity. There was no point in asking who he was for even the London lawyer did not know. He had provided a weekly amount for her education and lodging until she was eighteen and then a significant sum for a dowry. After today she would be off his hands for ever. At least, Beth thought, marriage would be better than life as a servant.
While she was deciding what to do, Mrs Collins swept through the entrance porch, past her and into the church. Over her shoulder she said, ‘Bring the girl.’ Mr Barden followed, took hold of Beth’s elbow and propelled her through the door.
Beth walked purposefully down the aisle with Mr Barden by her side. She must not show her fear. She rehearsed the vows she had practised using her prayer book and the task took her mind off the anxiety bubbling in her stomach. There were no flowers, not even a winter arrangement, and the air smelled dank indicating the church was little used. The clergyman was talking to her future husband in a relaxed manner, as though they were acquainted. They were, Beth judged, of a similar age and they lapsed into silence as she took her place in front of him with Edgar Collins by her side and looked directly ahead. In the periphery of her vision she was aware that Mrs Collins watched keenly when they exchanged vows and Edgar slid a thin gold band onto her finger.
She gazed at it in awe, bright yellow and shiny against her pale skin. It was the first time she had been given jewellery of any kind and its symbolism overwhelmed her. She was no longer Elizabeth Smith. She was Mrs Edgar Collins. She was someone’s wife and a part of his family. She had his name, a home, a position and the respect that went with it. Of course she was aware that she had new duties and responsibilities, but Blackstone had prepared her well to do her husband’s bidding as mistress of his house. She would, with the help of his servants, keep his home clean and sweet smelling, wash and mend his clothes, provide wholesome meals and, of course, tend to all his husbandly needs. She wasn’t very sure about the latter in spite of asking Mrs Barden, who had brushed away any discussion of the more intimate of her wifely duties.
Mr Barden was impatient to leave and said, ‘She’s all yours now, sir,’ before turning to walk back down the aisle. Beth glanced sideways at her husband. He looked pleased and his mother too had a self-satisfied look on her sallow lined face. Relief flooded over Beth. They were happy with the match and she resolved to be a good wife. She put her hand on his arm, expecting him to escort her back down the aisle and out of the church to his waiting carriage.
He shook her off. ‘Go with Mama. I am in need of refreshment.’
Well so am I, she thought. It had been a long time since her breakfast porridge.
Her husband smirked at the vicar. ‘Come, Milo, we shall celebrate and look forward to the Lady Day shoot.’
The clergyman replied, ‘This is only the beginning, Edgar. It pleases me to help a friend secure his future.’
‘I have you to thank for everything: the girl, the ceremony
and the loan of your carriage for Mama. How shall I repay you?’
‘There will be time enough for that when you are installed in the Abbey. All I ask is the living there. It has the finest rectory in the South Riding.’
They walked off towards the vestry without a backward glance at Beth and she wondered about the Abbey. Blackstone was on the edge of the South Riding and the only Abbey she had heard of was Redfern, for its coalfields spread across the Riding. Mrs Collins was already on her way out and Beth hurried after her. She watched Mr Barden carry a small box from his trap to Mrs Collins, who instructed her driver to secure it inside the carriage beside her feet. Beth’s bundle of belongings, she noticed, had been stowed outside under the driver’s seat. ‘Goodbye, Mr Barden,’ she said, and thought, Goodbye Blackstone. She heard, and then saw, a pair of hunters gallop away carrying the vicar and her husband, their travelling cloaks flapping as they rode.