Pauper's Gold (10 page)

Edmund regarded her.
This girl is a little wild-cat
, he was thinking.
And wouldn’t I just like the taming of her
. He smiled, but his smile was at his own thoughts. He was
imagining Hannah a few years older . . .

He shook his head, pretending regret. ‘I’m sorry, my dear, but it will not be possible to allow you to travel all that way to visit your mother.’

‘But, sir—’

He held up his hand to still her protest. ‘Perhaps, by now, she may have moved on. Found employment—’

‘She’d’ve let me know. She’d’ve written to me.’

‘Would she, indeed? She can write, then?’

‘Well, no, but she’d’ve got someone else to do it for her. She’d’ve let me know somehow.’ Hannah was insistent and incensed enough to demand boldly,
‘Why can’t I go to see her?’

‘Because you signed a paper promising to be a loyal employee.’

‘But I am a loyal employee. I’m not trying to leave. Just to go and see me mother. Just for a day. Other children see their parents. Several go home on a Sunday even though they live
in the apprentice house in the week.’

‘Not the workhouse paupers.’

She flinched to hear herself described that way.

‘You see,’ he went on, ‘those other children live locally. They’ve been apprenticed by their parents, who’ve signed the paper on their behalf. So it is the
parents
who are legally bound to ensure their children keep to the agreement. Now, in the case of children from the workhouse, we have only the signatures – or the crosses – of
the apprentices themselves. If we were to allow them to go wandering all over the country, well, we’d have no way of knowing if they’d come back.’

Hannah gaped at him. ‘But of course I’d come back. I’ve promised you, and I don’t break my promises.’

‘Very laudable, I’m sure.’ Edmund leaned back again. He regarded her thoughtfully for a moment. ‘And do you know,’ he said, sounding as if the admission actually
surprised him. ‘I think I believe you. But it’s not possible. If we were to allow one to go, then all the others would want to go too.’

‘But most of them don’t have family. Most of the children, who’ve come here from the workhouse, don’t have anyone. They’re orphans. I’m not.’

‘But you should be,’ Edmund said. ‘Goodbody is supposed to send only orphans.’ His face darkened. ‘Otherwise we encounter this very problem.’ His lip curled.
‘Children wanting to see their parents.’

Hannah bit her lip. ‘Then – will you let me write to her? Will you see that my letter is sent?’

Edmund looked at her thoughtfully. He felt the familiar stirrings. One day, he promised himself, he would have this girl. Deciding to appear benevolent, he smiled, ‘Of course, my dear. You
write your little letter and bring it to Mr Roper. He’ll make sure that it’s sent to your mother.’

There was no more to be said. Hannah could see that no amount of pleading was going to change his mind. If only, she thought, she could have seen the older man, Mr Critchlow senior, then . .
.

As if reading her mind and without looking up, Edmund added, ‘And don’t go asking my father if you can visit her. The answer would be the same.’

As she turned and marched towards the door, his final words followed her. ‘And don’t think about running away, will you? Our punishments are very severe for runaways.’

Hannah looked back over her shoulder, staring at him for a moment.

She hadn’t thought of doing any such thing. At least, not until he had put the idea into her head.

‘So.’ Nell smiled. ‘Are you ready to become a piecer?’

Hannah nodded. The previous evening she’d written her first letter to her mother. It was nestling in her skirt pocket. She planned to take it to Mr Roper at dinnertime. But for now, she
must concentrate on what Nell was telling her.

‘We work for the women who operate the spinning machines – mules, they’re called. You’ll be with me and Dorothy Riley to start with. Then, when you’re good enough,
you’ll work with someone else.’

Hannah smiled. ‘What do we have to do?’

‘When a thread breaks we have to twist the ends back together again. But you have to be quick, ’cos they don’t stop the machine.’

‘Isn’t it dangerous?’

Nell shrugged and pulled a face. ‘Not if we’re quick. And the women are good. They shout a warning.’ Nell leaned forward and lowered her voice. ‘The women get paid for
every piece they produce, and if we can mend the broken threads without the machines having to be stopped, they can earn more. Sometimes, at the end of the week, they’ll give us a few pence
out of their own wages ’cos we’ve helped ’em earn more, see? We’ll be working with Mrs Riley. She’s ever so generous. She’ll see us right. And you need nimble
fingers.’ She flexed her own long, slim fingers and laughed. ‘Mr Edmund says I’ve got nimble fingers.’

‘Mr Edmund? I thought it was Mr Scarsfield who told us what work we’re to do.’

Nell stared at her for a long moment, then seeing the genuine look of puzzlement on the younger girl’s face, she gave a small sigh and said flatly, ‘Yes, yes, of course it is.
That’s what I meant to say. Mr Scarsfield.’ She smiled and linked her arm through Hannah’s as they moved into one of the spinning rooms, where the clatter of machinery was
deafening. Hannah grimaced but she saw Nell was laughing. ‘You’ll soon get used to it,’ the girl mouthe d at her.

For the morning, Hannah just observed Nell watching the rows and rows of yarn being drawn and twisted. The girl never took her eyes off the machine, and the moment a thread snapped, she swiftly
twisted the broken ends together. By dinnertime, Hannah had a slight headache from staring at all the fine strands of cotton and the noise all around her, but she kept the fact to herself. Not one
word of complaint would pass her lips. The job was a good one for a child of her age and – like Nell said – she was sure she would get used to it. Nevertheless, she was pleased to
escape into the fresh air in the hour’s break for dinner. She ran lightly across the yard and up the stone steps to the counting house. At his ‘come in’ in answer to her knock,
Hannah opened the door and stepped inside to stand meekly before Mr Roper’s desk, waiting until he should condescend to look up and acknowledge her presence. He kept her waiting –
deliberately, she thought – for what seemed an age, until Hannah was afraid she’d be late back to her work.

‘Don’t fidget, girl. What is it you want?’ he snapped, looking up at last.

‘Please, sir, Mr Edmund said you’d see that a letter’s posted for me.’

Hannah gave him what she hoped was her most winning smile, but it was lost on the embittered man. He merely glanced at her briefly over his spectacles and grunted sourly, ‘Leave it there.
I’ll see to it.’

‘Thank you, sir. Thank you very much.’

As Hannah left the office, Josiah Roper picked up the letter and, for a moment, weighed it in the palm of his hand. He glanced at the door, listening to make sure she had gone. He could hear her
footsteps clattering down the steps and her sweet voice echoing back up the stairs. Josiah’s mouth curled with disdain. Singing, indeed! How anyone could feel like singing in this place he
couldn’t imagine. He unfolded the letter to read her neat, childish handwriting.

‘
Dearest Mam, I hope you are well. I am fine and now working as a piecer with Nell, who is my friend.
’ The letter went on to describe the apprentice house and Mr and Mrs
Bramwell and some of the other children. She made no mention, Josiah noticed, of the Critchlows or the fact that she’d already been confined to the punishment room on several occasions and
that stoppages had been made out of her precious two guineas now in Josiah Roper’s keeping. He smiled wryly. The child made this place sound idyllic, but, he realized, the girl wanted her
mother to believe her well and happy.

Perhaps she was, Josiah thought, surprised. If her wretched singing was anything to go by.

The letter finished with a plea. ‘
I do wish you would write to me. I long to hear from you and know that you are all right. Perhaps matron would write a letter for you.
’

Josiah frowned thoughtfully. The matron. Matilda Goodbody. Ah, now there was an idea – if it should become necessary. He glanced at the door once more before slowly tearing the letter into
small pieces. He was not taking this action on his own initiative; Edmund had given the instruction.

‘Destroy them, Roper,’ he’d said. ‘And make sure no incoming letter reaches her.’

Josiah smiled cruelly, deliciously anticipating what the girl might do when no answer to her letters arrived.

As Hannah and Nell left the mill that evening and crossed the yard, they passed a boy talking to Ernest Scarsfield. The newcomer was tall and very goodlooking in Hannah’s
eyes. He had dark brown hair and eyes to match. He looked a little solemn, but then, she thought, he might well if he had any idea what he was coming to. She bent towards Nell to whisper, ‘Do
you think he’s come for a job?’

‘Eh?’ Nell gaped at her in surprise. Then she laughed. ‘Don’t you know who that is?’

Hannah shook her head.

‘That’s the next Critchlow. Adam. He’s Mr Edmund’s son. We don’t see much of him though. He’s away at school most of the time. Just now and again he comes to
the mill when he’s home for the holidays.’ She grinned. ‘To check his inheritance, I expect.’

Hannah glanced back over her shoulder and stared at the young man. He looked a little older than she was. Fourteen or maybe fifteen, she thought. She could see now that he had the look of his
father, the same dark colouring. Yet there was a marked difference: the boy had no cruel, sardonic twist to his mouth. As if feeling her scrutiny, Adam Critchlow turned and their eyes met.
Embarrassed, a faint blush crept up Hannah’s face and she looked away swiftly.

‘Well, I’m off to the schoolroom,’ she said, deliberately changing the subject.

‘Not for much longer you won’t be. You’re not allowed to go after you’re twelve.’

‘Oh.’ Hannah bit her lip. She was twelve already, almost thirteen, but she loved the two hours in the schoolroom after work each day. It was the only place she never got into
trouble. Though the master was strict, Hannah so enjoyed soaking up the knowledge that her attention never wavered. She could write neatly, spell reasonably well and was above average at
arithmetic. Some of the children, even at her age, still couldn’t write their name in the sand tray, let alone be allowed to move on to use a slate. But Hannah was surprisingly alert even
after long hours in the mill.

For the teacher, who laboured with children too exhausted to take in anything he was telling them, Hannah was a joy to teach. The elderly schoolmaster found his stern ways softening towards this
able pupil. He had never before encountered such an enthusiastic child amongst the pauper apprentices at the mill. So, when later that same evening Hannah approached him as the other children
escaped the classroom, he smiled at her. The girl didn’t return his smile.

‘What is it?’ he asked. ‘Some thing amiss?’

‘Please, sir, I understand I’m not supposed to come to school any more. I’m thirteen next month.’

‘Ah.’

‘But I don’t want to stop coming for lessons, Mr Jessop. That book you’re reading to us –
Swiss Family Robinson
– I love it. I want to know what happens. I
want to hear the end.’

The man was thoughtful for a moment. ‘Has anyone said anything to you? Mr Critchlow, Mr Edmund or the Bramwells – about you not being able to attend classes any more?’

Hannah shook her head.

A twinkle came into Mr Jessop’s eyes. A twinkle that very few of his pupils ever saw. He leaned towards her. ‘Then we’ll carry on until someone tells us to stop, eh?’ He
pointed his forefinger at her. ‘You don’t know the rule about stopping at twelve, and I,’ now he pointed towards himself, ‘don’t know how old you are.’

Hannah’s eyes shone. ‘Oh, thank you, Mr Jessop.’

‘Just one thing, mind,’ he added. ‘You won’t be able to tell anyone that it’s your birthday.’

‘I don’t mind. I’d rather keep coming to school.’

Mr Jessop nodded. ‘Very well, then. Our little secret, eh?’

It would be six months before anyone realized that Hannah should no longer be attending the school, but in that time Mr Jessop had finished reading the story and started another. When she was
forced to stop attending, he lent her books from the schoolroom. And whenever Hannah found herself destined for a spell in the punishment room, she hid the current precious book beneath her skirt
and was lost in another world away from the stark confines of the bare room.

Little did anyone know that, apart from constant hunger, Hannah now quite enjoyed her spells of solitary confinement.

As Nell had said, Dorothy Riley was more than just ‘nice’, she was generous with her pay at the end of the week.

‘There you are, my pets,’ she said, slipping a few coppers into the girls’ hands outside the mill gates. ‘Can’t promise it every week, but you’ve done really
well considering it’s your first week. Mind you,’ she laughed, eyeing them, ‘I don’t think you’ll be at the job long. You’ll soon be a mite too big to nip in and
out. Besides, old Scarsfield’s got his eye on you two to go up in the world.’

Nell and Hannah exchanged glances. ‘You think so, Mrs Riley?’

‘I know so, luv. So, you keep on the way you are and you’ll soon be earning proper money of your own.’

Hannah pulled a face. ‘Well, Nell might. She’s older than me, but I’ve a long way to go before I’m out of my indenture.’

Dorothy laughed. ‘Don’t you worry about that, luv. Our Ernest has ways and means of getting round that if he finds a really good worker amongst the apprentices.’ She tapped the
side of her nose knowingly. ‘You mark my words.’

The two girls were to find that Dorothy Riley was even more generous in sharing her knowledge and experience with her two young piecers. When the machine was running smoothly, she made them
watch her every move and explained everything she did and everything that happened. Before long, Hannah was working with another woman, Mrs Martin, who was as generous as Dorothy Riley.