Orphans from the Storm: Bride at Bellfield Mill / A Family for Hawthorn Farm / Tilly of Tap House

She had just finished filling the hod when she felt something cold and wet slither against her ankles. She had lived in poverty long enough to know the creatures that haunted its darkness, nor did it surprise her that there should be rats so close to the house. Instead of screaming and running away, she gripped the shovel more firmly and then raised it, ready to despatch the too-bold vermin.

‘Miaouww.’

It was a cat, not a rat. Half wild, starving, and probably infested with fleas. Marianne tried to shoo it away, but as though it sensed her instinctive sympathy for it the cat refused to go.

Perhaps she would put out a saucer of milk for it if it was still there in the morning, Marianne decided, as she shooed it away a second time. She started pulling the hod back across the yard, but its weight forced her to rest several times before she finally reached the back door. She leaned against it, then pushed it open and dragged the hod into the kitchen. Her ankle was still swollen and aching, but at least she had not twisted it so severely that she could not walk, she reflected gratefully.

First thing in the morning she intended to find out if the Master of Bellfield employed an outside man to do such things as bring in the kindling and fuel to keep the fires burning. If he didn’t, then she was going to insist that he provided her with a wheelbarrow, she decided breathlessly as she opened the range doors and stoked up the fire. Properly banked down it should stay in until the morning.

She stood up and stepped back from the fire to check on the baby, who thankfully was still sleeping peacefully. When she looked back towards the fire she saw to her bemusement that the cat was sitting in front of it, basking in its warmth. It must have slipped in without her noticing when she had brought in the hod. Its fur was a silky soft grey, thick and long, and beautifully marked. Marianne stared at it in astonishment as it looked back at her with an unblinking gaze. She frowned, remembering how long ago, as a child, her aunt had taken her to visit a friend of hers. She had been entranced by the cat that lived there because of its beautiful long coat. It had been a special and very expensive, very aristocratic breed, she remembered her aunt’s friend informing them.

But, no matter how aristocratic its coat, the cat couldn’t possibly stay inside. Marianne went briskly towards it, scooping it up. Beneath its thick coat she could feel its bones and its thinness. Surely that wasn’t silent reproach she could see in those eyes? Marianne hesitated. It wouldn’t hurt to give it a saucer of milk and let it stay inside for a while. It would be company for her whilst she set to work cleaning the kitchen.

Telling herself that she was far too soft-hearted, Marianne returned the cat to the hearth and poured it some milk.

Even the way it lapped from the saucer was delicate and dainty, and when it had finished it set to immediately cleaning its face, before curling up into a tight ball and going straight off to sleep.

Lucky cat, Marianne reflected, as she covered the baby’s basket with some muslin netting, just in case the cat should be tempted to climb into the basket whilst her back was turned. Marianne had never forgotten hearing her aunt’s cook telling the most dreadful story of how in one place she had worked the mistress of the house had gone mad with grief after her pet cat had got into the nursery and lain on top of the baby, smothering it to death.

The pans of water she had set to boil whilst she had been out filling the hod were now bubbling and spitting with the hot water she needed to start washing the dirty crockery that seemed to have been left where it had been used. Marianne had no idea how anyone could tolerate so much disorder.

It took her the best part of another hour, but at length the crockery was washed and dried and put back on dresser shelves that she’d had to wipe down first to remove the dust and grease.

She was so tired—too tired now to want to eat the bread and jam that had made her mouth water so much earlier. But she could not sleep yet. There was still the table to scrub down and bleach, and the floor to be cleaned, the range to be stoked up again for the morning, and the baby to be fed again—if he could be coaxed into taking a little more bread. Refusing to give in to her own exhaustion, Marianne set to work on the table.

The mixture of strong carbolic soap and bleach stung her eyes as she scrubbed, and turned her hands red and raw, but there was still a sense of accomplishment and pleasure in being able to stand back from the table to survey her finished handiwork.

The glow from the oil lamps was now reflecting off a row of clean shiny pans above the range, and the air in the kitchen smelled fresh instead of stuffy. The baby gave a small thin cry, signalling that he was waking up, and the cat, no doubt disturbed by the sound, uncurled itself and stretched.

Washing her hands carefully, Marianne headed for the pantry—and gave a small shriek as she opened the door to see three or four mice scattering in the lantern light, a tell-tale trail of flour trickling from one of the many bags of foodstuffs stacked on the larder floor.

A streak of grey flashed past her to pounce on a laggard mouse, before despatching it with swift efficiency and then padding towards Marianne to drop the small body at her feet.

‘So, you’re a good mouser, are you? Well, then, between us we should be able to get this kitchen into a proper state. That’s if the Master of Bellfield will allow us to stay,’ she warned the cat, which, having accepted its due praise, retrieved its trophy—much to Marianne’s relief.

The baby’s basket would be safer tonight placed up on the table, she decided a few minutes later, watching in relief as the baby fed sleepily on his milk and egg bread. Marianne thought he was already a little bit heavier and stronger, and she prayed that it might be so. There had been so many times during the dark days since his father’s death when she had feared that he too might slip away from her.

Fed and changed, the baby was restored to his cosy bed, now safely elevated away from any wandering mice daring enough to creep past the cat. Marianne ignored her own tiredness to set to work on the kitchen floor, which she could see needed not only rushing but a good scrubbing as well…

Marianne had no idea what time it was when she finally emptied away the last bucket of water and squeezed out the mop. All she did know was that the kitchen floor was now clean enough for even its master to eat his dinner off, and that she herself was exhausted.

The baby was still fast sleep, and so it seemed was the little cat—who for a while had sat up to watch her whilst she worked, as though wanting to oversee what she was doing. She felt so very tired, and so very dirty. Marianne stretched out in front of the fire, her too-thin body greedy for its heat. In the hallway, beyond the green-baize-covered door that separated it from the kitchen, a clock chimed the hour—but Marianne was already fast asleep and unable to hear it.

Not so the Master of Bellfield, to whom the striking of the hour heralded the start of a new working day. Like those who worked for him, the Master of Bellfield rose early, where others might have lain in their beds, enjoying the comfort and luxury paid for by the success of their mills.

There was no immaculately dressed maid to bring up the morning tea and a freshly ironed newspaper, no manservant to wake his master and announce that his bath had been drawn and his clothes laid out. How, after all, could a man reared on the cold charity of the workhouse, following the failure of his father’s business, appreciate such refinements?

The Master of Bellfield knew well what people thought of him—and what they said of him behind his back. That gossip would be fuelled afresh now, following the departure of his housekeeper, he acknowledged as he shaved with cold water, ignoring the sting of the razor. His dark hair, untamed and thick, was in need of a barber, and he knew that at the next Mill Owners’ Meeting at the fancy hotel in Manchester, where his peers met ostensibly to discuss business, he would be looked down upon by those who liked to pretend to some kind of superiority. Those who had lost their northern accents, smothered their hair in sickly smelling pomades and generally acted more like members of the landed gentry than mill owners.

That kind of foolishness wasn’t for him. It had, after all, been the cause of his own father’s downfall—too many nights spent playing cards with his newfound fancy friends, and too few days keeping an eye on how his mills were working and their profit and loss accounts.

His sister could screech all she liked to who she liked that their father had been cheated out of what was rightfully his when the bank had foreclosed on him, but the Master of Bellfield knew better.

He also knew how people had mocked and despised him for the steps he had taken to turn round his own fortunes—until they had learned to fear him and talk about their suspicions in hushed whispers. Well, let them say what they wished. Let the other mill owners’ stupid wives, with their airs and graces and their falsely genteel accents, ignore him and exclude him from the fancy parties they gave to catch a husband for their virginal daughters. He didn’t care.

He pulled on a cold and unironed shirt, and then stepped into a pair of sturdy trousers made from his own cloth. Only then did he pull back the shabby curtain from the windows and stare out into the darkness, illuminated by pinpoints of light coming from the various mills. He picked up his pocket watch.

One minute to five o’clock. He waited in silent impatience, only moving when, dead on the hour, he saw smoke billowing from the chimneys of his mills.

In the kitchen, two of its three occupants remained fast asleep when the Master of Bellfield entered the room, the third having padded silently over to the settle against the wall and crawled out of sight beneath it.

The first thing the master noticed was the young woman, lying in front of the fire. The second was the unfamiliar clean smell. His eyes narrowed as he strode against the scrubbed stone floor. The woman was lying on her side, one frail wrist sticking out from the thin shawl she had pulled about herself. He frowned as he looked down at her. He had not expected for one minute that she would be able to make good her claim to clean the kitchen. He had no doubt that she must have worked virtually throughout the night in order to do so. Why? Because she hoped to prevail on him to let her stay?

His mouth compressed as he looked at the basket on the table. If that was the case she was soon going to realise her mistake. Soon, but not now. It was half past five. Time for him to leave if he wanted to be at the mill for six, which he most assuredly did. Those who worked at Bellfield knew better than to try to sneak in later when its master was there to watch them clock in.

No foreman could instil the respect in his workforce that a watchful mill master could, nor ensure that the cloth woven in his mills was of such excellent quality that it was highly sought after. Let the other masters and their wives give themselves what airs and graces they pleased. It was Bellfield wool that was the true aristocrat of the northern valleys.

He made to step past the sleeping woman, but then turned to go back to the hall. He opened one of several pairs of heavy double mahogany doors that lined it and strode into the room beyond to remove from a fading red-velvet-covered sofa a dark-coloured square of cleanly woven wool.

Returning to the kitchen, he dropped the wool over her, and then headed for the back door. Other mill owners might choose to ride, or be driven in a carriage down to their mills. He preferred to walk. His head bare, ignoring the cold wind and the fraying cuffs of his shirt and jacket, he strode out across the yard, whilst behind him in the kitchen Marianne opened her eyes, wondering for a few seconds where she was, whilst the cat emerged from its hiding place to rub itself around her feet and mew demandingly.

Ignoring it Marianne fingered the fine wool cover that was now warming her. Someone had put it there, and there was only one person who could have done that. A faint blush of pink colour washed up over her skin.

An act of kindness from the Master of Bellfield? She shook her head in disbelief.

CHAPTER THREE (#u7b3ccc40-0b36-5e53-ba5e-4de9466f11bc)

UNEXPECTEDLY—at least so far as Marianne was concerned—after the biting sleet-laden wind of the previous day, the morning had brought a sky washed clear of clouds and sharp cold sunlight, making her grimace as it revealed the grimy state of the kitchen windows.

A commanding cry from the cat had her obediently opening the kitchen door for it. The yard looked a bit more hospitable this morning, and there were even a few hens scratching around it. As she studied them, wondering if and where they might be laying, an errand boy riding a bicycle that looked too big for him came cycling into the yard, grinning cheerfully at her as he brought his bike to a halt and slid off it.

‘Charlie Postlethwaite of Postlethwaite’s Provisions,’ he introduced himself, whilst pointing to the lettering on the bicycle. ‘That’s me dad,’ he told her proudly, ‘and he told me to get myself up here,’ he announced, opening the basket on the back of the bicycle. ‘He said how he’d heard about that old besom that called herself an ’ousekeeper had done a flit, and that like as not she’d have emptied the larder afore she went. He said that he’d heard that the t’master had taken on someone new and all.’

Having removed a small flitch of bacon from his basket, he was eyeing Marianne speculatively.

‘Going’ to be stayin’, are you?’

‘That depends on Mr Denshaw,’ Marianne told him circumspectly folding her hands in front of her and trying to look like a proper housekeeper.

‘Ooh, Mr Denshaw, is it? We call him t’master round here, we do, ’cos that’s what he is. Down at t’mill he’ll be now, aye, and ready for his breakfast when he gets back. Me dad said to say how he’ll be happy to sort out an order for you if you were wishing to send one back with me.’

‘Mr Denshaw hasn’t had time to acquaint me with the names of the tradespeople he favours as yet,’ Marianne responded repressively, but her attempt at formality was rather spoilt when the baby gave a shrill wail and the boy looked past her into the kitchen and gave a low whistle.

‘You’ve never brought a babby with you, have you?’ he exclaimed. ‘Hates them, t’master does, on account of him losing his own—and his wife and all. Went into labour early, she did, when t’master were away, and died. Oh, and my cousin Jem said to tell you that if you was wantin’ someone to do a bit of outdoor work, he’d be willin’.’

Marianne had never known a boy so loquacious, nor so full of information. Just listening to him was making her feel slightly breathless. The cat, having finished its business outside, ran back across the yard, pausing to stand in front of her, very much in the manner of a small guard.

‘Here, that’s one of Miss Amelia’s fancy cat’s kittens, ain’t it?’ the boy exclaimed in some astonishment as he stared at the cat. ‘I’d heard how t’master had given orders that they was all to be drowned. Took it real bad, he did, when she left. There was some that said he’d brought her home from that posh school of hers so as he could make her his wife, and that it were on account of that she upped and ran off. Took her cat with her and all, she did, and when it come back, months after she’d gone, t’master had it killed. Some round these parts said that the cat weren’t the only thing he’d done away with, and that he’d killed Miss Amelia an all. Aye—and her cousin, that were t’master’s stepson.’