Marrying Miss Martha (18 page)

When she got home, Georgie hummed as she sorted through her clothes, leaving the ones she’d rejected piled on her bed and stuffing her chosen dress into a bandbox. She couldn’t be that fat and ugly, whatever Ben said, if a gentleman like Peter Brindley, who had lived in London and dressed so fashionably, wanted to walk and talk with her. And fancy Miss Martha liking pretty clothes too! Who’d ever have thought it? Georgie well remembered her own year of wearing black for her father. It had made her feel very low in spirits and not been at all flattering.

Perhaps going to the school wouldn’t be as bad as she’d expected. Her teachers had treated her kindly so far and they didn’t leave her on her own with nothing to do, something she hated. They were talking about teaching her how to manage a household, which might be quite interesting, not stupid things like copying maps of countries you’d never visit. And Miss Penelope had promised to teach her to draw better, which would be a useful accomplishment for a lady.

She looked at the framed sketch on the wall of her bedroom. It was one of the few things she’d ever done that she was proud of, a likeness of her father. She still missed him dreadfully, wept for him at night, longed to be able to confide in him. Only
he
had truly understood her, taken her walking, talked to her, teased her. Why did he have to die? She had no one who cared about her now.

Martha and Georgie set out after their midday meal to visit the seamstress, who lived in the west end of town. It was a longer walk than they usually took, but for once Georgie didn’t complain at that prospect. Instead she chattered on happily, pointing out which were her family’s terraces and which belonged to the other mill owners. “Father had to build the houses or the workers wouldn’t have had anywhere to live, because at first they came from other places to work here. This was quite a small village when he was younger, you know.”

Brindley’s houses looked markedly inferior to Seaton’s and Wright’s, with sagging doors, tiles missing off the roofs and broken windows stuffed with rags. Thin children or worn-looking women stood outside some of them, arms huddled around themselves against the cold and Martha could feel their hostility as they passed.

Even Georgie commented. “They get upset sometimes because Mr Brindley treats them so badly. Ben said they’d settled down again after the riots, but I’m glad I’m not on my own today. They look hungry, don’t they, poor things?”

They did indeed, Martha thought, feeling pity surge through her.

The seamstress was a cheerful woman of middle years, who spoke with a broad Lancashire accent and was not in the least servile, treating them more like old friends than customers. She was wearing a dress which Martha considered well-cut and flattering, and that spoke volumes for her ability as a seamstress.

Miss Briggs tutted at the mere sight of the dress they showed her. “Far too fussy,” she said disapprovingly, holding it up, “but lovely material.”

Georgie was torn between annoyance at the woman’s criticism of her mother’s choice of style and hope that maybe Miss Briggs did know something about making dresses that were more flattering.

“What do you advise?” Martha asked, careful to bring Georgie into the discussion while at the same time guiding her choice. To her relief the girl agreed with everything suggested.

When they came out, Georgie asked, “Will it really make me look less fat?”

“I’m sure it will. And it’ll be ready by tomorrow, so you won’t have long to wait, will you? If this one’s all right, you should take your other dresses to her.”

“Perhaps they don’t suit me because I’ve grown. I’m sure Mama would never choose something unflattering for me.”

Martha was touched by the girl’s faith in her mother and by her general vulnerability. She had never had time to become deeply concerned about clothes because at that age she’d been running a household and had had more important things to deal with. She felt a dampness on her face and looked up to see that black clouds had blown up to cover the sky and more rain was threatening. “Oh, dear. It’s done nothing but rain lately and I’m longing to go for a tramp up on the moors.”

“I used to go with my father. Ben offered to take me on Sunday, but I didn’t want to go with him.” Georgie looked sideways at Martha and added, trying to appear casual, “Anyway, I haven’t got any proper walking shoes and I’d get blisters because mine are too small now. And I’d need a simpler bonnet than this one, as well.”

“The bonnet’s easy. Penelope is a dab hand at trimming them—or in your case un-trimming them. We could make that a needlework lesson for you. A lady should always be able to sew, don’t you think?” She was glad to see the girl’s face brighten. “Isn’t there a shoemaker in town? We could visit him on the way back and order some sturdier shoes for you. I’m sure your brother would be happy about that.”

“I suppose it wouldn’t matter if my walking shoes weren’t in the latest fashion,” Georgie allowed.

We’ve got to give that girl something to think about besides fashion, Martha decided, already heartily sick of the word. It was one thing to appreciate pretty clothes, quite another to talk about nothing else.

The shoemaker was all attention and promised a pair of half-boots within days. He studied Georgie’s feet and nodded. “You’ve got a neat little foot there, miss. I remember making your shoes when you were a child. Don’t cram yourself into shoes that are too small and narrow, like those.” He indicated the shoe she’d taken off, his expression scornful. “Whoever made that pair didn’t look at the shape of your foot. I should be ashamed to turn out ill-fitting rubbish like that.”

“We’d better check with your brother,” Martha said as they continued on their way. “It seems to me you need several pairs of shoes, not one.”

“He won’t care.”

But Ben did care, showing a keen interest in all his sister had to tell him about her outing with Miss Merridene and approving her visit to the shoemaker’s. “I should have thought of that myself. You’re at an age where you’re still growing. Last spurt into womanhood, probably. I’ve seen it with lasses at the mill. They suddenly shoot up and almost overnight they’re women, not girls.”

He couldn’t have said anything which pleased her as much and she was more affable that evening than at any time since she’d come to live with him.

Martha Merridene had worked miracles with Georgie, he thought as he got ready for bed. He smiled as he pictured her brisk, no-nonsense ways. Strange sort of miracle maker! He was very grateful to her, though surprised that she was the one who’d been able to help his sister. He’d expected it to be the younger teacher, who was more softly pretty and looked elegant.

* * * *

Georgie’s dress turned out so well, a clever rearrangement of trimming hiding the fact that it had been altered, that Martha did a few calculations and decided to visit Miss Briggs on her own account. Her clothes were getting very shabby and although it was a little early to stop wearing mourning for her father, she didn’t want to order more black garments. Perhaps a soft grey or lilac? What did Penelope think?

“I think it’s about time you got something new for yourself. It’s been years. You even had your old things dyed for mourning. I told you when I bought my last dress length that you should do so too. And if this seamstress is as good as you seem to think, I’ve a mind to have a new dress made for myself soon as well.”

“Come with me, then. We could go and buy a dress length now. You haven’t been out all day and I’m tired of that schoolroom.”

“I’d love to. And we’ll invite Georgie to go with us to the seamstress tomorrow, perhaps? She’ll love that.”

They enjoyed their small outing, returning with some soft blue material for Martha, which brought out the rich colour of her hair. She had demurred, worried about breaking their mourning, but as Penelope pointed out, she’d still be wearing her dark clothes most of the time and keeping this for best.

But the following day Penelope came down with a slight cold, enough for Martha to insist she stay indoors. And Georgie was limping badly, admitting that her shoes had been hurting for a while and had rubbed up blisters, so she couldn’t go far until they were better and she had her new boots.

“I’ll go on my own, then,” Martha decided.

“Should you, dear?”

“It’s only a few streets away, for all Georgie makes it sound like halfway to London. Miss Briggs lives at the west end of town, just beyond Brindley’s mill. To tell you the truth, I shall be happy to stretch my legs. We’ve done far too much sitting around lately.”

She set off briskly, wondering if she could find a longer way back because she was enjoying striding out at her own pace, for once.

It was as she was passing some of the less salubrious terraces belonging to Brindley that she heard the sound of voices shouting. Not more troubles! she thought, pausing to listen and try to work out where the sounds were coming from. They were to her right and ahead of her, she decided, and quickly came to the conclusion that it would be prudent, if disappointing, to return home. After the riots they’d had in the town lately, it was better to be safe than sorry.

But then more shouting erupted, seeming to come from behind her this time, and she stopped again, beginning to feel worried now for her own safety. The only thing she could think of was to hurry to Miss Briggs’ house and take refuge there.

As she was passing the end of the next narrow street, which was at a right angle to this one, she saw men running along it towards her and abandoning dignity and ladylike behaviour, she picked up her skirts and ran on, her boots thudding on the earth with a dull sound that seemed to beat along her veins.

To her horror, two men erupted from a street ahead of her, facing the other way and yelling obscenities at someone still hidden from her. She stopped dead, shrinking closer to the high wall that ran along the lower edge of the hill on her left. Perhaps they wouldn’t see her.

Unfortunately one of them did and nudged the other, who swung round to stare. They strode across to her, stopping a few feet away to look at her in an assessing way that made her shiver. Some women who were following them began to shout insults, though no one actually touched her.

“Rich bitch!” one shrieked. “What do such as you care if my childer go hungry?”

“Who is she? Has Brindley brought in a whore in now? He hasn’t been near any of his operatives since last year when we showed him we wouldn’t stand for it. Or is this one his son’s fancy piece?”

Other men and women gathered, shaking their fists at her, their voices swelling into a crescendo of anger. They were so loud she couldn’t make herself heard when she tried to tell them who she was.

Then a woman bent and picked up a stone, throwing it at her and catching her on the upper arm. There was a roar of approval from the crowd.

Another woman came right up to her, grabbing her skirt and rubbing the material between her fingers. “My childer ha’nt got enough to wear an’ look at her! She’s got enough in this skirt alone to cover three.”

“Let’s take it off her then,” one of the men said.

“I’ll do that for you, lad.” The woman reached out again, grabbing Martha’s sleeve and tugging. “And we’ll see what she’s got in that parcel, too.”

As Martha slapped her hand away and began to struggle to keep both her parcel and herself intact, there was a roar from the crowd.

“You show her!”

“Get her clothes off!”

When someone came up behind her and pulled her backwards by the shoulders, Martha spun round, terrified she was being attacked by more than one person.

“What’s got into you, Mary Dixon?” roared a man’s voice from close to her ear.

Ben Seaton! Martha stopped struggling and when he pushed her behind him, she went willingly, leaning against the wonderful strength of his powerful body for a moment and trying not to shake with sheer relief. There were still only the two of them and a crowd of angry operatives, so she said nothing, waiting to see what would happen.

The woman had stepped back, panting, her face and body so thin you could see the bones beneath the grimy skin.

“He’s making us work longer hours for the same money,” she said sullenly. “We’re not having it.”

“That doesn’t give you the right to attack ladies passing by.”

“We thought she was one of his son’s grand friends. Why else would she be in this part of town?”

“She’s one of the new teachers who’ve come to work for me and Mr Wright. You’d better learn who your friends are, Mary.”

Ben turned and pulled Martha forward to stand beside him, putting his arm round her shoulders, feeling her tremble as he shouted, “This is Miss Merridene. She’s a teacher and she works for me and Mr Wright. If anyone harms her, I’ll come after them and make them regret they were ever born.”

They had stopped shouting now, a few looking ashamed but others scowling.

“She’s got a sister, too,” he called. “Tell folk that these ladies are under my protection.”

Martha knew she should pull away from him, for he was holding her so close it was almost an embrace, but she couldn’t. She was still shuddering inside, trying to overcome her fear of these ragged, almost feral creatures. Then she saw Mary brush an arm across her face and step back, sagging with weariness and despair, and felt a surge of pity for the emaciated woman.

“You’ll do no good by this sort of behaviour,” Ben warned as some of them began to move away.

“What will do good, then?” a man asked, one who’d stood scowling with his hands shoved deep into his pockets. “My childer go to bed hungry as often as not, an’ so do I.” He pulled his pockets inside out as he added, “I’ve got nowt left to buy food, not one penny, because he fined me for being late. Put his clock forward, he did, the sod.”

Ben’s voice softened just a little. “I don’t know the solution. Brindley goes his own way. I wish I could help you.”

“Aye, well, you can’t, so we shall have to help oursen, shan’t we? We s’ll not stand for him making things worse. We might as well line up outside the poorhouse now. At least in there they feed you enough to keep you alive.”