Clare gazed into the half-hearted flames. She had managed to raise more money from the governors, but she was well aware that Netherlands was hopelessly out of date and would require far more to be spent on it. They needed better plumbing, electrification throughout, updated furniture, desks, even coat pegs. And books. Lots of books to replace the dog-eared volumes which had passed through the hands of countless orphans.
The governors saw her as a dinosaur; Clare knew that all too well. She was a joke to them, but they couldn’t dislodge her because she had been loyal and given good service; dedicated her life to Netherlands … Clare nudged the coal with the tip of her boot. It shifted in the grate and sent up a little puff of smoke.
Alice would bring a breath of fresh air, a young outlook. That would impress the money men. They would look at Netherlands in a new light then, not as some outdated Victorian anachronism. Clare stretched her hands out to the fire to warm them. Thank God that no one knew the truth about Alice Rimmer, she thought. If they had, all her careful plans would fold. But how could anyone find out? The solicitor who had sent the child to her so long ago had died, and the single evidence of Alice’s past was in a locked-up file to which only Clare herself had access.
Settling herself down on a chair in front of the fire, Clare thought of Alice’s secret and how it had weighed on her mind. A year ago something had suddenly prompted her to remove Alice Rimmer’s file from her office. It had always been in safekeeping there, but its very existence had been beginning to nag at her. At first she had decided to destroy it, but that had seemed too extreme, so in the end she had put it in the bank with other confidential papers. There no one would find it. Clare knew only too well that people like Evan Thomas and Dolly Blake would be dangerous with such knowledge.
It would not have mattered had Alice Rimmer been just another foundling. If she had been a plain, dull child she would have sunk into the background; gone to work in a mill or as an undermaid for some well-off family. A different child would not have had the wit or the spirit to spark interest – but Alice had never been an ordinary child and she had all the making of an extraordinary woman.
Clare Lees’ envy of Alice had faded as the years bent her shoulders and took away all ambition or curiosity about the world. Now she merely admired Alice. The skittish child had grown up and become a responsible person, a young woman she could trust. And there were precious few people Clare Lees could trust.
She knew she was – and always had been – surrounded by opportunists. The Welshman was always waiting for his chance and was proving a jealous rival to Alice. As for Dolly Blake, she was washed up, a bitter woman consumed with righteousness. If she was getting no affection in her own life, no one else would. Every woman – simply by nature of being female – was now suspect to Dolly.
But Alice … Clare relaxed and then rubbed her shoulders. If she carried on the way she was, Alice Rimmer could be a person of some status. Memory came back quick and sharp – Alice Rimmer had been born to privilege but life and circumstance had take it away from her. If she knew the truth Alice would want far more than Netherlands had to offer. She would want her birthright – the birthright Clare Lees had so vigorously denied.
But it had been for the best, she reassured herself. It had been hard to shatter a child’s hopes, but it had cured Alice. In fact, she had no curiosity about her past any more. She never referred to her family or asked questions. The spirited, overconfident little girl had been reined in: Alice Rimmer would be content to live the life organised for her. She would serve, as Clare Lees had always done. She would do her duty.
It was the least she could do.
‘Sssh, keep your voice down,’ Victor said, leaning towards the gate which separated the boys’ quarters from the girls’ at Netherlands. His fingers reached through the railings timidly and touched the back of Alice’s hand. The feel of her skin warmed him, touched him to the heart.
‘Victor, can’t you sneak out?’ she asked, her eyes searching his shadowed face.
‘It’s not safe, tomorrow maybe.’
She nodded, disappointed but resigned. A sound behind her made Alice turn, but it was only a night bird in the bushes. To her right she could see the light burning in Clare Lees’ office.
‘We have to be careful.’
‘We’re always careful,’ Alice replied, not a little impatiently. How could he be so patient? She knew he cared for her.
Memory came in a tidal wave.
It had been a hot August day last summer, sun beating down the yard, dusty outside. Drowsy children had hung about listlessly in their dormitories, the staff idling in the corridors. Clare Lees had had visitors, the governors, the murmur of their voices coming low and lulling on the warm air. Alice, walking in the yard outside the main doors, had glanced over to the boys’ quarters – to see a tall, blond youth watching her.
Startled, she had looked away. Then turned back. He’d stared at her and then smiled slowly, as though it was something he was unused to doing. Nervous, Alice had looked away again, and when she had finally glanced back he had gone.
Yet later, still on that drowsy day which had hung its head to evening, when she walked back out into the yard he was there again, watching her.
‘Who are you?’ Alice had asked, walking over.
She had seen him on and off for years, but had never dared speak to him before. Well aware of the trouble she would be in if she was caught talking to one of the boys, Alice had glanced round to check that no one was watching her. She’d felt excited, her old spirit flaring.
He’d pressed his cheek to the bars. ‘I’m Victor, Victor Coates.’
‘How old are you?’
‘Eighteen. And you?’
‘Sixteen.’ She’d moved closer to him.
His eyes were steel grey, the lashes brown. It was a strong, open face, not at all alarming. After all that she had heard about boys and how they were not to be trusted, Alice had been disinclined to believe Clare Lees. What did she know, a spinster, a woman who had never had a man of her own?
‘We shouldn’t be talking …’
‘I know,’ Alice had agreed, her voice dropping further. ‘How long have you been here?’
‘Since I was seven.’
‘What happened?’
He’d frowned. ‘Huh?’
‘Why did you come here?’
‘My parents died.’ He had paused. ‘How about you?’
Alice had stared down at her feet. ‘My parents are dead too. I came here when I was only a year old.’ She’d looked back to him, fascinated. ‘Don’t you go out to work?’
He’d nodded. ‘I’m an apprentice at the cabinet-maker’s, Mr Dedlington’s.’
Alice had digested the information. An apprentice. That meant that Victor got out of Netherlands every day, went into Salford. A free man, almost.
‘Do you have to stay here?’
‘Until I’m qualified, yes,’ he’d replied, glancing over his shoulder. ‘I give my wages over every week to Miss Lees – I just get to keep enough for tobacco and a few bits and pieces.’
‘Why