The Barefoot Child

‘But that was when I held you in my arms and let you rant out your grief,’ Hetty said, reminding him of the days when she’d been a whore and he’d sought comfort from her because of his tearing grief over the woman he’d loved and lost. ‘If I am to be mistress here, I must show respect.’

‘I’ve always thought you one of the finest women I know. What fate made you once is of no importance. You changed your life to one of respectability, and it was your kindness to me – and your wisdom – that made me ask you to take on this post. These women and children have been sorely mistreated by life, Hetty.’ Arthur sighed. ‘I had hoped that you might take over the workhouse in Whitechapel and I fought for it, but to no avail. The woman the guardians chose is no doubt respectable, but I doubt she has any kindness in her. She will rule with a rod of iron and her husband is a careful man and, I fear, under her thumb. I do what I can to ease the life of the inmates there – but here I am determined that they shall be treated decently.’

‘You have shown trust in me by bringing me here and I shall do all I can to earn it.’ Hetty smiled. At three and thirty she was past the first flush of beauty and youth, but there was a sensual warmth about her smile and her figure was still as trim as when she had given Arthur the love and trust he’d needed to regain his self-respect all those years ago. ‘What exactly do you want to provide here, Mr Stoneham?’

‘Firstly, their basic needs of clean beds and clothes and good food. The children need to be taught at least the beginning of arithmetic and writing, so often denied them by the workhouse because the guardians believe they need only know how to sign their name and learn how to work. Some of the women may wish to find honest employment once they have a home – and my friend, Miss Katharine Ross, has offered to give any who wish for it, instruction in needlework. She may also assist you in educating the children.’

The look in his eyes told Hetty that Katharine Ross was special to him, and she was glad of it, because she better than anyone knew the remorse and regret that lived inside him.

‘I am partial to good cooking myself,’ Hetty told him firmly. ‘You can rely on me to make sure that our people are fed properly.’

‘Then, I think I can safely leave you to settle in,’ Arthur said. ‘Good luck, Hetty – and I hope you won’t hate me for taking you from your comfortable home.’

‘It was not as comfortable as you suppose,’ Hetty said, her voice reflecting humour. ‘When the school I worked at closed, I took a post as a housekeeper and my employer imagined that, as his housekeeper, I should also warm his bed, which I declined.’

‘And how is your daughter?’ Arthur asked, preparing to take his leave. He was smoothing his gloves between the fingers and did not see the sudden wary look in her eyes. ‘I trust she thrives at that expensive school you sent her to?’

‘Oh, yes, Sylvia does very well,’ Hetty told him and smiled as he turned to her. ‘She is intelligent, and I think she will go on to achieve something worthwhile – perhaps become a teacher or a nurse like Miss Nightingale.’

‘If your daughter is as beautiful as her mother, she will marry well,’ Arthur said but Hetty shook her head.

‘Sylvia shall not be dependent on any man, Arthur. I want her to be independent and earn her own living in a way that gives her respect.’

‘You do not want her to marry?’

‘Perhaps, if she could marry the right sort of man – but how likely is it that she will?’

‘When the time is right, I could help her to mix in the right circles …’

‘The daughter of a whore and an unknown father?’ Hetty’s eyes flashed a challenge at him. ‘I do not think that would wash well with your high society friends, Arthur.’

‘I have other friends. I would help you and your daughter achieve whatever you asked, Hetty – but I know well you will not ask.’

‘I’ve won my independence, Arthur,’ Hetty said. ‘It was hard won and I would not give it up for any man – even you.’ That last was a lie, but she would never permit him to see her true feelings, because his heart belonged to another.

Arthur laughed and took his leave of her. Hetty smothered her sigh and went through to the bedroom where three trunks had been deposited. Arthur would never learn the truth of Sylvia’s birth from her, or that she herself was entitled to hold her head high as the daughter of a gentleman. Hetty had never asked for favours since a man of high birth had spat in her face and told her to find her own way in the world. Disgraced, alone, and with only a few shillings to her name, Hetty had chosen the only way she knew of surviving – but she was determined that her daughter would have a better life.

Sylvia had been given a good education and she would grow up to be respectable; and if she married, it would be to a working man who respected and loved her.

Hetty knew that Arthur Stoneham had once wronged a woman, but he had been young and careless and, afterwards, he’d tried to repair the damage but it had been too late – and for that he’d never forgiven himself. The man who had wronged Hetty was cruel and took pleasure in her downfall, but with Arthur’s help she had won back her freedom and her self-respect. For that she loved him, though he did not know it and never would. She smiled a little wryly as she began to unpack her things. It was a huge task that she’d taken on to please Arthur Stoneham and she only hoped that she would manage it well.

‘So, my friend,’ Toby Rattan said as he met Arthur that evening in the exclusive gentleman’s club they frequented. ‘Is it all settled – is Hetty installed as the mistress of your refuge?’

‘Yes, and I think she is happy enough,’ Arthur said. ‘I shall send her a few things she might like to furnish her rooms with; Hetty Worsley is a woman of sense and she will make it her home for the foreseeable future.’

‘You do not think she will end her days there?’

‘I very much doubt it – nor would I ask it of her,’ Arthur said. ‘I hope she will find content in marriage one day, but first she may make the lives of others happier.’

In recent months Toby had taken more interest in such affairs, though he’d given up in disgust at the intransigent guardians of the workhouse, who had installed a harsh-looking woman and her husband to run the workhouse in Whitechapel.

‘And as for that block of ice they installed at the workhouse …’ Toby’s voice trailed off in revulsion. ‘She has not an ounce of humanity in her.’

‘I think in some ways she may prove worse than Joan Simpkins – though I do not accuse her of the vile crime of selling children into whorehouses.’

‘Then she will suit your fellow guardians, Arthur, for they are a harsh lot, despite their good works. Some of them probably think you are too lenient towards the poor, for you give and expect nothing in return.’

‘Yes, I dare say,’ Arthur said wryly and twisted his delicate wineglass, watching the way the glass spiralled up the stem. ‘A good vintage, this claret, Toby. I had some of it last Christmas from your father. How is he these days?’

‘A little better again, I think. His chest was bad with the bronchitis this last winter, as you know, but I think he makes progress now. I certainly pray for it.’

‘Yes, I imagine you do,’ Arthur acknowledged. Toby and Arthur’s friendship went back years, since their schooldays, and they had remained friends even through the years of Arthur’s wilderness, when he had lost himself in drink to forget the wrong he’d done a gentle girl, Sarah, the girl he ought to have married had he not been too young and arrogant to see it; Sarah, who had borne his child. He’d paid for his arrogance with regret after she’d died and now suffered from uncertainty over what to do about the young girl that he believed to be his daughter by Sarah.

He’d rescued Eliza Jones from the fate that Joan Simpkins had planned for her – well, Eliza had, in fact, rescued herself from an evil man by her own ingenuity, escaping to the protection of a young gipsy boy with whom she’d formed a friendship, but with the shadow of murder hanging over her. It had been Arthur’s duty and pleasure to find her and tell her that she had merely stunned the man who had sought to defile her, and that he had been arrested for his vile crimes.

Eliza had allowed him to take her back to Miss Edith, the apothecary with whom she lived now. She was learning that profession and helping Miss Edith, who was unfortunately ill much of the time. Now sure that Eliza was his daughter, Arthur felt unable to claim her. She was doing well, despite her unfortunate beginnings in the workhouse, and seemed happy in her new life, though he seldom visited. Arthur longed to give Eliza gifts of pretty clothes and trinkets of value, but knew he must not, for it would be misunderstood.

‘Well, are you planning to attend?’

Arthur’s thoughts had strayed and he suddenly became aware that Toby was addressing him. ‘Forgive me; my mind was elsewhere.’

‘I was asking if you intended to accompany me tomorrow evening, to the lecture about the situation in the Transvaal and where the end of the Boer War leaves us as a nation.’

‘Ah, yes, I remember you had an interest in that business. Your father has some financial concern out there, I think?’

‘He bought shares in some land, which was to be used by the railway – but now he thinks British interest is lost to the Boers and his investment will be sunk.’

‘I daresay,’ Arthur said. ‘It was, in any event, a risky investment for your father, Toby. Look what has happened here – they said the railway would be a blessing but with all the fatal accidents we’ve had since they were built I sometimes wonder if we should have done better to stick to horses.’ The coming of the railways had changed the face of England, destroying with their noise and the bustle of the traffic they brought, the tranquillity of sleepy country towns that had existed for centuries. ‘Would it really be feasible in Africa with all its problems?’

‘I think it may be the only way to conquer its vastness.’

‘Yes, perhaps …’

‘Queen Victoria herself approves of the train as a form of transport. Besides, the railways will be a big help to the poor in time.’ Toby was insistent. ‘My father is certain of it. It enables men to seek work further afield and thus alleviate some of the hardships when work is scarce in the country or the mines, which has often resulted in starvation in the past – and food can be brought fresher to London. That must be of benefit even to you.’ His eyes twinkled with good humour.

‘And what of the overcrowding it brings to towns, the noisome slums created by the sheer force of people who have nowhere to live?’

‘We must simply build more homes and do away with the rookeries of these slums,’ Toby said. ‘Come now, you must see some benefits?’

‘Food is fresher brought in by train, I admit. Yet I still prefer to travel by horseback,’ Arthur said thoughtfully. ‘I like to be in control and not at the mercy of some drunken fool of a train driver as I heard was the cause of one recent accident on the railway.’

Toby could not argue with that. ‘As it happens, I have heard of a pair of greys I believe you might like; shall we take a look together?’

‘Yes, why not?’ Arthur raised his glass. ‘It would be amusing – and goodness knows we need something to cheer us all up.’

‘Speaking of which, have you seen Miss Katharine recently?’ Toby asked with an air of studied innocence. ‘I understand she intends to have herself appointed as one of the governors of your workhouse.’

‘It is not my workhouse, God forbid,’ Arthur said and frowned. ‘If it were, I should make changes instantly and not have to argue for months over something fundamental, like a new water closet for the women.’ Only a few years earlier cholera had been rife in the crowded towns, but a new system of fresh water, piped daily, had improved the health of many. Arthur had personally paid for new pipes at the workhouse in Whitechapel. He nodded thoughtfully now. ‘I understand Katharine is taking a keen interest in such things these days, but I have not encouraged it. Her aunt wishes her to marry advantageously – in fact, I rather think she has her eye on you as a suitable husband for her niece, Toby.’

‘Well, her aunt may look at me,’ Toby countered mischievously, ‘but I believe Miss Katharine is more inclined to glance your way, Arthur!’

His friend did not answer. He’d asked Katharine to marry him some months earlier and she had intimated that she might, but had told him he must court her to win her aunt’s approval. He had since accepted invitations to dine and to social evenings that bored him stiff, but although Katharine teased him and flirted with him, she had not yet given him any reason to believe that she was ready to be proposed to a second time. She was disappointed that, as yet, despite engaging agents, he had found no trace of her sister, Marianne, and seemed to blame Arthur – yet she had always known it was unlikely her sister could be found after nearly thirteen years.

‘I think Katharine’s aunt has taken a dislike to me.’

‘Ridiculous,’ Toby retorted. ‘I don’t know what murky secrets lie in your past, but I do know that you have atoned for them many times, my friend. If you care for Katharine, you should tell her – before it’s too late. I must warn you, Sir Roger Beamish is very interested and I think her aunt is pushing Katharine his way.’

‘Beamish is a cad and worse!’ Arthur exclaimed, indignant that a man he thought beneath regard was pursuing the woman he desired above all others. ‘That brute is not worthy of her. I have not spoken to him since I caught him cheating at the card table.’

‘Then do something about it.’ Toby finished his wine and stood. ‘I am for my bed – do you care to share a cab with me or shall we walk?’

‘It’s a fine night, let us walk,’ Arthur said and took up his walking cane, which had a fine silver knob and was also a sword stick, used more than once against rogues who had tried to rob him. ‘We’ll come to no harm …’ He brandished his stick and Toby laughed, for he, like Arthur, was ready for an adventure if one should come their way.

Arthur was aware that the contrast between his exclusive club and the dining room of the workhouse he visited the following morning could not have been more marked and he took a keen interest in all that he saw, listening to Master Docherty’s anxiety concerning the roof above the long dining hall intently.

‘I fear the roof has been patched so many times that one big storm might bring it down,’ the workhouse master told Arthur. ‘And I do not believe that the present budget will stretch to a new roof, sir.’

‘Nor I,’ Arthur replied. ‘Leave it with me, Docherty, and I shall request some advice regarding the cost.’ It would not be easy to convince the governors that more money was needed for the upkeep of the workhouse, and Arthur was aware that much of the cost of a new roof would fall on him. However, to leave it much longer would be to risk it giving way in the first storm.

The men had already eaten their meal and left to get on with the work they did here at the workhouse. Several of them recognised Arthur and tipped their heads to him, though a few had looked at him resentfully. Now the women and girls were coming in to take their places at the long tables. Once, the inmates had all been served together but the new mistress preferred that the women and girls eat separately but he noticed that some whispering went on as the two groups passed at the door.

Arthur watched as the women quietly took their places, voices low and respectful. He watched the women serving the meal and noticed one elderly woman in particular. She wore a grey puritan bonnet, a grey wool dress and a white apron, much as the other women, but there was something about her that was different. As Arthur watched, seeing the hands, misshapen and gnarled with age, she lifted her head and looked at him – and then very deliberately winked before returning to her task of ladling out stew into the enamelled plates.

‘That woman is a little old to be working, isn’t she?’ Arthur murmured to the warden beside him.

Master Docherty looked at her and frowned. ‘That’s old Moll,’ he said. ‘She is old, but stronger than you’d think. I imagine she’s had a hard life, though I know little of her. She turned up a few weeks ago and said she’d decided to come in because she was ready.’

Arthur nodded. That wink had told him that Moll had more spirit than most of the inmates. If she was ‘ready’, then she had quite probably decided that she would come here to die. Many of the older folk did that once the struggle for life outside became too hard.

‘Take care of her,’ he said to Master Docherty. ‘It won’t hurt her to do light work if she’s up to it – but give her a few extra perks, please, and I will reimburse you for them.’

‘Certainly, sir,’ the master said and nodded. ‘I rather think Moll enjoys her beer. An extra ration at night now and then won’t hurt.’

‘No, indeed,’ Arthur said and smiled. ‘Well, Master Docherty, I shall see what can be done about your roof. I congratulate you on the cleanliness of the place. It is a vast improvement on what it was.’

‘That is down to my wife,’ the master said, looking pleased. ‘Mistress Docherty is a good woman and will be sorry to have missed you, sir, but she was called out to visit an elderly couple. They cannot manage now he is too old to work but they are reluctant to come in.’

Arthur nodded. There was a stigma about the workhouse and few would willingly come in, unless they had good reason like Moll, who, he was almost sure, had come here to die in a bed rather than on the streets.

Arthur took his leave. Some young lads were sweeping the yard as he crossed it and one of them grinned, doffed his cap and bowed. ‘Do yer need someone to ’old yer ’orses, sir?’

‘I’m walking today,’ Arthur said and smiled. Taking a shilling from his pocket, he tossed it to the boy. ‘Come to me when you’re fifteen and I’ll see what I can do …’

‘Jem Carter’s me name, sir!’

Arthur smiled as the lad caught the shilling and called out his thanks. Some it was easy to please, for others there was little he could do …

CHAPTER 3

It was spring, now, and the weather was beginning to get warmer. Her mother was dead and Lucy felt the weight of sorrow heavy on her shoulders. A few weeks before she died, her mother had called Lucy into the bedroom and told her that her time was short.

‘I’ve done my best by you since your father died, but have little to leave you,’ she’d said tonelessly. ‘My sister would have you, but she is a harsh woman and I think you would find it unbearable to live in her house. I have written to your father’s only relative, Mr Stoneham, care of his lawyer, telling him that I am dying, but he has not replied. You must care for your brother and sister – for I can do nothing more.’

Lucy had wept bitter tears in her own room but knew she must be strong. She was now sixteen but earned only a few shillings each week and knew that it would be hard to manage without her mother’s guiding hand. Ma had mentioned the name of their father’s rich relative but Lucy expected nothing from him for she knew that her mother had refused his help after Pa died, because of her pride. Mr Stoneham’s lawyer had offered financial help but Ma had refused it and nothing more had been heard from Mr Stoneham. Now Lucy had Ma to bury and did not know how she would manage it.

Unless she could find five pounds, they would bury Ma in a pauper’s grave. The vicar had been to visit and asked what hymns she wanted sung in church and he’d told her that it would cost six pounds for the burial if they wanted a good oak coffin. All they had in the world was the eighteen shillings in Ma’s purse and two shillings Josh had left in his pay packet that week. As a lowly apprentice at the factory, he received only three shillings and sixpence a week.

‘Where are we goin’ ter get five pounds?’ Josh asked anxiously. Kitty was whimpering, crying for her mother. Lucy had given her bread and jam and it was all over her face.

Lucy picked up a flannel, wet it and wiped her sister’s face. ‘Crying won’t bring Ma back,’ she reproved and received a resentful look from Kitty, who at eight years old, and the baby of the family, had been her mother’s favourite.

‘I want Ma!’

‘So do I, but she’s dead,’ Josh said. ‘Stop that row, Kitty. We have to talk about what we’re goin’ ter do next.’

Lucy’s eyes went to the corner cupboard. Ma had loved it and she loved it too, but it was one of the few things of value they owned. ‘I suppose we could sell the cupboard,’ she said half-heartedly. ‘And we could sell Ma’s weddin’ ring or her gold pin that Pa gave her …’

‘Not the weddin’ ring,’ Josh said. ‘The pin and the cupboard and her clothes – you could sell her shoes at that stall …’

‘Josh!’ Lucy was distressed. ‘Must we sell Ma’s things when she’s hardly cold?’

‘Do you want Ma buried in a pauper’s grave?’

‘No, I don’t,’ Lucy said and tears trickled down her cheeks. ‘I can’t bear it, Josh! Why did it have to happen?’

He shrugged and looked miserable. ‘There’s Dad’s writing box in the tallboy,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘It may be worth more than the cupboard.’

‘We can’t sell Dad’s box whatever happens,’ Lucy said. ‘Supposing he comes back and asks for it?’

‘He’s dead,’ Josh said, and he was angry. ‘The box is mine as head of this family now he’s gone – and if I decide we’ll sell it, we will.’

Lucy supposed he was right. Men usually inherited everything and he was nearly a man, even though nearly two years younger than Lucy.

‘Where do we sell whatever we need to sell?’

‘There’s Ruskin’s stall on the market for the clothes and I’ll ask around for the furniture,’ Josh said and ignored Lucy’s reproachful look. ‘Ma isn’t goin’ to want her clothes, Lucy. We should let the things we like least go first – because we’ll need to sell a bit at a time or they’ll cheat us.’

‘What do you mean? Why should we sell more than we need for the funeral?’

‘Because they won’t let us stay here,’ Josh said. ‘We haven’t always paid the rent on time since Pa went – and now there are just us three the landlord will want us to leave.’

‘Where shall we go?’ Lucy had not thought she would have to leave their home and for the moment she was stunned, leaving her brother to make the decisions.

‘I’ll find us somewhere,’ he said, assuming the mantle he’d taken for himself. ‘But we have to sell some bits of furniture, because we shall only be able to afford a room – so the tallboy and the parlour furniture go first and then we’ll see.’

Lucy looked at the set of his face and knew he was hating this as much as her, but it had to be done. They must sell the things Ma had been so proud of and keep only small bits and pieces they could easily take with them. Besides, it looked as if they would have to sell most of what they had to cover the cost of the coffin and burial in hallowed ground …

Lucy counted the coins in her purse. She had five half-crowns, six shillings and several sixpences and pennies. It was all they had left in the world after paying their debts and the rent owed for the cottage they were leaving that day.

Lucy hadn’t seen the room Josh had found for them yet, but she guessed, from the look in her brother’s eyes, that it was not what they’d been used to. He’d loaded most of what they still owned on a barrow he’d borrowed and taken it on ahead. They’d managed to keep their mattresses, their father’s box, Ma’s sewing box, the corner cupboard and a few blankets, some crockery and their own clothes and trinkets. Their clothes were in three leather bags, which had belonged to their parents, and that was all they had left in the world.

Lucy was loath to sell her mother’s few bits of jewellery and she wore Ma’s wedding ring around her neck on a ribbon which was sewn together so it could not come untied and be lost. The little gold pin with a cabochon ruby was pinned inside Lucy’s frock, but that was all they had left. A gold cross and chain and a silver brooch had been sold, as well as a gold stock pin that belonged to their father. It had been Josh’s by right but he’d preferred to keep their father’s writing box.