The Workhouse Girl

Contents

About the Book

About the Author

Also by Dilly Court

Title Page

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Copyright

Circumstances force eight-year-old Sarah Scrase and her widowed mother Ellen to enter the notorious St Giles and St George's Workhouse.

When Ellen dies in childbirth, an independent-minded, spirited Sarah falls foul of Workhouse Master Trigg and his cruel wife.

Sarah's ordeal seems to be over when philanthropist and sugar mill owner James Arbuthnot takes her into his home.

But her wealthy benefactor reports Trigg and his wife. And blaming Sarah for their misfortune, in a fit of revenge the couple decide to take the law into their own hands.

Dilly Court grew up in North-east London and began her career in television, writing scripts for commercials. She is married with two grown-up children and four grandchildren, and now lives in Dorset on the beautiful Jurassic Coast with her husband. She is the bestselling author of seventeen novels. She 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

For all the hardworking staff at Dorset County Hospital and a special mention for the operating department team

‘
MY NAME IS
Sarah Scrase, and I don't belong here.' White-faced and terrified, but defiant, Sarah clasped her small hands tightly behind her back, digging her fingernails into her palms in an attempt to control the tears that welled into her blue eyes.

‘What?' Matron Trigg bellowed like a cow in calf, causing the other children in the schoolroom to huddle together in fear. ‘What did you say, girl?'

‘My name is Sarah Scrase and I want my ma.'

Matron Trigg turned to her husband, the workhouse master. ‘Did you ever, Mr Trigg? No you did not, nor I neither. What is the world coming to when a young child speaks back to her elders and betters?'

‘Shocking, Mrs Trigg. Deal with her as you see fit.' Mr Trigg beat the air with the cane he was holding, and the swishing sound sent a ripple of terrified murmurs around the classroom. ‘Another peep from any of you girls and you will all feel a taste of the Tickler's anger.'

Sarah was trembling violently and a feeling of faintness almost overcame her, but she struggled to keep calm. She had already experienced the Tickler, Mr Trigg's much used method of corporal punishment, twice, and she had only been an inmate at the workhouse for a few hours. The Tickler had punished her for clinging to her mother's skirts when they were first separated, and had beaten her soundly for refusing to abandon her own clothes for the grey grogram workhouse uniform, coarse calico petticoat and blue check apron, and now she was likely to endure another assault with the fearsome instrument of torture. She glanced nervously at Matron's bulldog jaw, set in a harsh line despite her flabby jowls, but she was not going to give in. ‘I'm Sarah Scrase,' she whispered, ‘and I want my ma.'

‘Your mother is a whore,' Matron said in a voice that reverberated like a clap of thunder. ‘She is no better than she should be and at this moment is giving birth to another spawn of the devil.'

‘You take that back.' Forgetting everything other than the need to stand up for her beloved mother, Sarah put her head down and charged at Matron's corpulent body, butting her in the stomach and sending her staggering backwards into her husband's arms. Sarah fell to her knees, bowing her head as if waiting for the axeman's deadly stroke.

There was a moment of horrified silence and then someone giggled.

Mr Trigg thrust his wife aside and flailed the air with his cane as he grabbed Sarah by the white cap she had been forced to wear. It came off in his hand, exposing her spiky hair, which to her horror had been cropped short when she was admitted to the workhouse. Seizing her by the scruff of her neck, he dragged her to her feet. ‘You are indeed the devil's daughter,' he said, bringing the cane down across her back. ‘Spawn of Old Nick. Offspring of Old Scratch.'

Sarah cried out as he beat her again and again until she crumpled in a heap at his feet. He released her with a growl. ‘Let that be a lesson to you.' He turned to his wife who was leaning against the teacher's desk, clutching her large bosom and groaning. ‘I'll leave this brat to you, my dear. Treat her harshly. Teach her manners in any way you see fit.' He stormed out of the classroom, slamming the door behind him.

Matron Trigg raised herself, aiming a savage kick at Sarah. ‘Get up.'

With difficulty, Sarah scrambled to her feet. She faced her tormentor with a defiant toss of her head. ‘I'm not the devil's daughter,' she said in a low voice. ‘I used to go to Sunday school regular, and he's got no right to say things about Ma. It ain't her fault that Pa got drownded in the Thames when his wherry was run down in the fog.'

‘What is your name?' Matron Trigg leaned over so that her face was close to Sarah's.

‘I'm Sarah Scrase.'

‘Not now you ain't.' Matron's bloodshot eyes opened wide and her nostrils flared. ‘I'll tell you what it is, girl. You'll bear your demon father's name for the rest of your time in this institution. From now on you will be known as Sal Scratch.' She beckoned to one of the older girls. ‘Nettie Bean. Come here.'

Sarah looked round and saw an older girl making her way between the regimented lines of wooden desks. Freckle-faced and with hair the colour of gingerbread, Nettie Bean looked as though she might know how to stand up for herself. Sarah met her green-eyed gaze with a mute plea for help.

‘Hurry up,' Matron Trigg said crossly. ‘I haven't got all day.' Taking a sheet of paper from her desk, she dipped a pen in the inkwell. ‘Can you read, Sal Scratch?'

‘Yes, and I can write me name.'

Matron thrust the pen into her hand. ‘Then write this – I am the devil's daughter.'

Sarah's instinct was to refuse, but her backside was still smarting from the Tickler's harsh punishment, and her ribs were sore where they had come into contact with Matron's boot.

Without waiting for the ink to dry Matron snatched the paper from her and gave it to Nettie. ‘Pin it on her back. She'll wear this until she has learned her lesson.' She took a pin from her collar and put it in Nettie's outstretched hand. ‘Hurry up, girl. I haven't got all day to waste on stupid and ungrateful children.'

‘Sorry,' Nettie whispered as she fastened the placard to the back of Sarah's bodice.

It was barely more audible than a sigh, but the single word came as the first hint of human kindness that Sarah had encountered since she entered the fearsome building in Shorts Gardens. ‘Ta,' she whispered, lifting her hand, and for a fleeting second their fingers touched. In that moment Sarah knew that she had made a friend for life.

‘Get back to your seat,' Matron said, pointing to Nettie. ‘And all of you write on your slates – I must not speak to Sal Scratch.' She pushed Sarah off the podium with a vicious prod in the ribs. ‘Go and stand in the corner. You'll remain there until the end of the lesson.'

Sarah stumbled and only just saved herself from falling on her face, but no one laughed. Heads were bent over slates and the scrape of the girls' slate pencils and laboured breathing filled the air. Sarah stood in the corner, hands clasped firmly in front of her, willing herself not to cry. She closed her eyes, praying silently for her mother, who had been in labour for two days before desperation drove her to the workhouse door. Sarah had been present on two occasions when her mother went into premature labour, and the tiny infants had barely taken their first breaths when they had given up the struggle for life. No doubt they were in heaven with Pa, but he was buried in a pauper's grave. There had been no money to buy him a plot or even a headstone.

Sarah had loved her pa, but she had also been a bit frightened of him. Big, muscular and inclined to fits of temper, Jed Scrase had been a force to be reckoned with, but he had also been a gambling man. Drink had not been his major vice, but he would bet on anything from a bare knuckle fight to dog ratting, and the money he earned as a wherryman was often gone before he arrived home at night. They had lived mainly off her mother's earnings as a cleaner in the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, which was close to the rooms they rented in Vinegar Yard. Sarah's education had been gained from watching the actors during rehearsals, and she had learned to read by studying the programmes and billboards. The theatrical folk had taken her to their hearts, and by the time she was five years old she could recite whole passages from dramas by Boucicault without faltering. She had also been quite a favourite with the ballet dancers, especially when as a toddler she had climbed onto the stage during rehearsals and attempted to copy their graceful movements.

None of this helped her now as she stood for a painful hour, suffering muscle cramps and increasing exhaustion while the class was tested for spelling and times tables. Eventually the lesson came to an end and they were dismissed. Matron Trigg left the room, apparently having forgotten Sarah's existence, and she was left wondering what to do. Did she stand here all day and maybe all night, until someone discovered her? Or should she follow the rest of the girls?

Nettie was the last to file out of the classroom but she hesitated in the doorway and beckoned to Sarah. ‘You'd best come with us. I think old bitch-face has forgotten you.'

Sarah would have giggled at this had she not been quite so scared. ‘But – but she said I had to stay here.'

‘You can if you like, but she'll have gone off to her office to drink tea and eat cake while we pick oakum in the yard.' Nettie held out her hand. ‘Come on. I'll show you where to go and what to do.'

Sarah needed no second bidding. She ran to join Nettie and was about to rip the offending sign from her bodice when her new friend shook her head. ‘I'd leave that on if I was you. She'll lock you in the cellar with the rats and spiders if you take it off. She might have forgot you now, but her memory ain't that bad, Sarah.'

Sarah smiled shyly. ‘Ta, Nettie.'

‘For what? I done nothing.'

‘You called me by my proper name. I'm not Sal Scratch.'

Nettie grinned, revealing a missing eye tooth. ‘Not to me, nipper, but if the old besom has anything to do with it you'll be Sal Scratch until you're old enough to be sold to the highest bidder.' She took Sarah by the hand and hurried down the dark corridor after the rest of the girls.

‘Sold? They'll sell us?'