The Trial of Marie Montrecourt (3 page)

“No matter how brightly the sun shines, its warmth and light never penetrates any of the shops in Market Alley, does it?”

In the small backroom of the bookshop, standing in front of the cracked mirror over the sink, Marie unplaited her hair and let it fall in a curtain to her waist. Daphne, perched on the edge of the desk, reached out a hand to stroke the silk strands, letting them trickle through her fingers. Marie’s hair was cool to the touch and filled the air with the scent of lavender and patchouli. It was a pleasant change from the smell of dusty volumes and old leather.

“It’s the colour of amber, your hair,” she murmured.

“So why did you choose to open a shop here of all places?” Marie said. “It’s always so dark. It must put a lot of people off.”

“Those who search for knowledge are never put off by darkness. You aren’t, are you?” Daphne replied. “Besides, it suits me here. It’s private. No one interferes with me. Come here and let me do it. You’re not having much success, are you?”

Silence fell as Daphne took the brush and began to gently untangle the knots in Marie’s hair.

Although her first venture into Harrogate unaccompanied had been disapproved of by the Mintons, Marie had managed to persuade them to let her repeat it by pointing out that there was no real alternative. She couldn’t remain shut away in her room and they were too busy to spare her any time. They agreed reluctantly, but insisted that she must return well before dark. Revelling in her newfound freedom, she’d become a regular visitor at Daphne’s bookshop, calling in at least three or four times a week. She decided against telling the Mintons about her new friend because she sensed they wouldn’t approve.

Daphne inhabited such a different world. It was full of challenging ideas she’d never thought of before, and Daphne spoke about them with such passion that they caught fire in Marie’s imagination. She always left the shop with arms piled high with pamphlets about the conditions of the working class, or women’s right to vote, or articles protesting against women’s economic dependence, and she read every one of them avidly.

Mr John Pickard had called on her that morning to inform her that he’d arranged a small dinner party in her honour, which would be held that evening at Devonshire Place. The dinner was to be hosted by Isabelle and Geoffrey Minton, and attending would be a few of their friends and neighbours. The idea was to widen Marie’s circle of acquaintances. She had very little choice but to accept graciously, although she would far rather remain in her room reading Daphne’s pamphlets.

Daphne now broke the silence that had fallen between them. “By the way, did you read the leaflet I gave you last week – about Bridgewater?”

“Yes, I did.”

She’d been deeply moved by it. Daphne was its author, and it was inspired by an article published three years ago by a woman called Annie Besant, which had attacked the working conditions of the match girls in London. The dyes used at Bridgewater were destroying the health of the factory women in the same way, and Daphne had quoted some distressing examples.

“Are you thinking about taking the same action that Annie Besant took with the match girls?” Marie asked. She’d read that Besant had led a successful march through London. “I mean the circumstances are very much the same, aren’t they? I think it’s very courageous of you to take a stand.”

Daphne’s reply was, as usual, sharp and to the point. “My courage doesn’t enter into it; it’s my judgment that counts. I need to be careful how I advise the women. It’s true that the poison is slowly destroying them. It’s also true that when they die or they’re too ill to work, no one will care. Someone else will step forward and take their place, and the wheels of industry will just grind on. Still, any wrong move on my part and they could suffer even more.”

“But you
are
thinking about marching against the factory?” Marie had already pictured herself by Daphne’s side, marching through the crowd-lined streets of Harrogate with everyone cheering them on.

“I hope we can avoid it. I hope that reason will win.” Marie tried not to show her disappointment, but Daphne knew her well enough to be aware of it. “You have no idea what trouble a march might bring down on the heads of the women, Marie. Harrogate isn’t London. The wrong action could hurt them far more than it helps them. Confrontation is the last thing these women need. Besides, I’ve not yet exhausted all other avenues. I’m writing to the other factory owners, asking them to bring pressure to bear.”

Marie thought of the stand she’d made at the convent when Reverend Mother had tried to force her down a path that would surely destroy her. It was actions not words that had prevented it from happening. “Will letters change their mind?”

With a sigh, Daphne handed the hairbrush back to her. “I don’t know. There’s no easy answer. But I don’t intend to involve the women directly unless I really have to.” She returned to the task of sorting out orders, thereby putting an end to the discussion.

As Marie pinned up her hair, she heard Daphne mutter one of her expletives. “Damn. Dr Stillwood’s cancelled his order for the medical almanac. He’s found a copy somewhere else. It’s already arrived, hasn’t it? Can you check that pile of books on the floor near the door? They’re the new deliveries.”

Marie spotted a heavy volume that was bound in red leather. With an effort, she extracted it from the pile. “
Farnsworth’s Medical Dictionary
? Yes, it’s here.”

“I’ll have to send it back to the publisher. That’s the second time that man has cancelled an order at the last moment.”

Curious, Marie started leafing through the book. It contained details of various remedies for a multitude of illnesses. There were some words she didn’t understand, but, thanks to Sister Grace’s training, she could make sense of most of it. She became aware that Daphne was watching her.

“You have an interest in medicine?” she asked.

“In the convent, Sister Grace let me help her in the infirmary. She used natural remedies, though, so nothing as complicated as these. She wasn’t schooled, but she taught me how to make syrup from coltsfoot to cure a cough, and how to create a tincture from arnica to calm a bruise. She gave me her notebook full of remedies, jars of herbs and a Bunsen burner to heat up the mixtures. I brought them with me from France. I’m not sure what I’ll do with them.”

“Perhaps it’s a skill you should cultivate.”

“I’m not certain it’s a skill I have. Reverend Mother certainly didn’t think so.”

Daphne set down her pen. “So, what happened to you at this convent of yours? You never talk about it.” Daphne saw Marie’s hesitation and made a move to pick up her pen again. “Of course, if you’d rather not tell me I completely understand.”

“No, it’s all right.” They so rarely talked about personal things – perhaps this was the moment to remedy that. “It’s just that it wasn’t a very nice place. There was a lot of cruelty – punishment rather than prayers. I didn’t fit in there, I didn’t need Reverend Mother to point that out me, but she made it clear from the beginning it was her opinion. The problem was, she needed the money that was paying for my education, but she resented having to take it. She must have had mixed feelings when that source of income came to an end.”

“Was that when you came to England?”

“Not straightaway. I had no choice but to stay there; I had nowhere else to go – no family or home. I was willing to work for my keep. Sister Grace would have been happy for me to go on helping her in the infirmary, but that wouldn’t do for Reverend Mother. Working on the farm and in the kitchens, I was told, was to be my future. There were two girls already working there. One of them was simple in the head; the other one had grown sick working from dawn until dusk without a break. She’d tried to run away but had nowhere else to go either. When she was returned by the authorities, no one in the convent felt any pity for her or gave her any help – and that, I’m ashamed to say, included me. It wasn’t until I was threatened with the same fate that I felt any sympathy at all. You must think me very selfish.”

“No.” Daphne reached out and squeezed her hand reassuringly. “Who am I to judge? I still don’t understand how you arrived in England, though.”

“Neither do I really.”

“But you didn’t end up working in the kitchens.”

“If I’d allowed that to happen, I knew I would become invisible to everyone. I would cease to exist, just like the two girls. It would be my life until the day I died. There had to be some other way, so I refused to eat and then became sick. Sister Grace convinced Revered Mother it would damage the good name of the convent if anything happened to me.”

“Making a stand on your own – now, that
did
take courage,” Daphne said, quoting Marie’s words back to her.

“It was desperation. I have Sister Grace to thank for saving me. She must have had money somewhere, even though it should have belonged to the convent. I think she got in touch with Mr Pickard and arranged for me to be sent to England, and she’s paying an allowance for me until my future here is settled. I owe her everything.”

“She sounds too good to be true,” said Daphne, dryly. “And who will help the other two girls?”

Marie flushed. “You see how selfish I am? I didn’t even think about them. No one will help them, probably. They were unmarried mothers whose families had abandoned them. Their babies had been taken away from them and Reverend Mother said they were doing penance for their sins.”

“And what was your sin?”

“I don’t know. Being born, perhaps.”

“I’ve never had to struggle. I’ve led a privileged life. My father’s a mathematician – he teaches at Oxford. He made sure I had a good education, so he sent me to Girton.” She realised Marie had never heard of it. “A ladies’ college. I was an exemplary student and a great deal was expected of me. Many of the girls from Girton went into teaching, you know. One of them is now headmistress of Hull Ladies’ College. My father would have been proud of me if I’d done that.”

“Isn’t he proud of you now?”

“No, I shamed him. I followed my heart, not my head.” Daphne paused and Marie sensed the memory was still painful to her. “I followed Dora. I left home because of her. My father didn’t approve of our friendship. He wanted to separate us, but nobody could do that – except, as it turned out, Dora herself.”

The shadows in the backroom were lengthening and the sun was beginning to set. Silence fell and Marie didn’t move, not wanting to break the intimacy of the moment.

“Dora was my closest friend at Girton and when we left we set up house together. My father made life hell for us both, so she took a job here in Harrogate. She said she didn’t want me to suffer for our relationship, but I followed her and took the flat above this shop. When the shop came up for sale, I bought it using the allowance my father grudgingly gave me. I insisted that Dora move in with me. I wasn’t ashamed of our friendship.”

“Was
she
ashamed?” Marie asked.

“She must have been. She took up a teaching post in India a year ago, and I realised she was using India as a means of escaping from me. She couldn’t bear the disapproval that surrounded us – disapproval of a friendship that must never be acknowledged. So, she ran away from it all and I stayed here. After that I became involved with the women at the factory and suddenly my own future didn’t seem so important.”

The shop doorbell rang and the intimacy of the mood was broken. “Well, there’s a reprieve for you from all this maudlin sentimentality.”

Daphne went through to serve her customer while Marie remained where she was. She felt better having shared everything with Daphne. Perhaps the pull of the confessional would always remain with her.

The voices from the shop now caught her attention. They became shriller. It was a man’s voice: “If you try a trick like that again, I’ll have the police on to you or worse.” Daphne’s voice, firm but angry, replied: “What he’s doing is illegal. He’s paying those women a pittance to work in appalling conditions. I intend to go on making a nuisance of myself until people start to take notice.”

The man then said something in a low voice that Marie couldn’t hear. The shop bell jangled as he left and then there was silence.

Marie tentatively pulled aside the curtain that separated the backroom from the shop. “Is everything all right?” Daphne, looking pale and shaken, pushed past her and leant against the desk. Marie pulled forward the chair. “Sit down,” she ordered and, for once, Daphne obeyed. Marie always carried a small phial of Sal Volatile in her pocket. “Here. Inhale.” She waved it under Daphne’s nose. “Is that better?”

“Yes, yes, yes.” Daphne pushed aside the phial tetchily. “I’m all right. It’s not the first time something like this has happened. I don’t suppose it will be the last. It’s worth it,” she said, fiercely. “It’s all worth it. I know it is.”

Marie had never seen Daphne so shaken. She always seemed to be in control. “Was that man from the factory?” Daphne nodded. “Was he threatening you?” Daphne nodded again, and for the first time it struck Marie how dangerous it might be to stand up to Bridgewater Dyes.

After a moment, Daphne pulled herself to her feet. Her mouth was set in a thin line of determination.

“That decides it. We will march. We have no choice. Reasoning with them is obviously not going to work.”

It was relief to see the return of the old Daphne. “Then I want to march with you. I want to be a part of it, too.” As Daphne opened her mouth to refuse, Marie quickly added, “After all, you keep making me read all these pamphlets. We can’t let it go to waste.”

It made Daphne smile. “Very well, Marie Montrecourt. Can you call by the shop tomorrow? We need to start on the banners.”

“I will be there,” Marie promised. “I won’t let you down.”

*

That evening, she stood outside the door of the dining room at Devonshire Place, listening to the rise and fall of voices, and wished herself anywhere but there. She felt no more like exchanging small talk with a group of people she didn’t know than she felt like jumping over the moon. She wondered how they would react if she told them about the march, but Daphne had made it clear to tell no one. To be effective, it needed the element of surprise.