‘It seems only sensible to make use of inmates who have these skills, does it not?’ he’d asked the master of the workhouse and he’d grudgingly agreed, because Arthur Stoneham was the chairman of the Board and these days not many disagreed with him openly, though each reform had been hard fought for.
Dressed in her hated uniform, Lil made her way across the courtyard to the kitchens, clutching her belongings. She’d been allocated a room with one other unmarried pregnant woman, who also wore the badge of shame, and would take her damp towel there when she was ready, but she was hungry and she was hoping that Ruth and Cook would give her something to eat. However, when she reached the kitchen she discovered that the women who had been kind to her on previous visits to the workhouse were no longer there.
‘Went orf months ago, they did,’ Sadie muttered giving Lil a look filled with spite. ‘I’m in charge ’ere now and no one gets no favours, see. Put yer things under the table, get an apron on and start peeling them spuds and carrots. I’ve got three ’elpers and one of ’em is sick in the infirmary – so you’ll have to look sharp about it.’
Lil wasn’t feeling well and she would have liked a glass of ale and a bit of bread and cheese, as well as a chance to put her feet up, but she knew she’d surrendered her freedom by coming here. Those who said the spike was much better than being on the streets had it wrong, in Lil’s opinion; some of the bad things might have been stopped, but life was as harsh in here as it had always been.
‘I hope you do not mind my calling on you,’ Katharine Ross said as she was admitted into the neat parlour at the refuge for fallen women. ‘When Mr Stoneham told me you had taken over, I wanted to make myself known to you. Mr Stoneham may have told you that I have charitable interests in common with him?’
‘Yes, he has, Miss Ross,’ Hetty said and smiled at the fashionable young woman wearing a rather frivolous hat. ‘Please sit down. You are very welcome here.’
‘Please, call me Katharine.’ Katharine Ross looked pleased. ‘I do want us to be friends, Hetty – may I call you that?’ Hetty agreed and her visitor nodded. ‘You will be doing such good work here.’
‘I am glad to be of help where I can – though it was not the job Mr Stoneham intended, I think?’
‘No …’ Katharine frowned. ‘He very much wanted you to take over the workhouse in Farthing Lane, but another was chosen despite his arguments.’ She shook her head. ‘The way that awful Simpkins woman treated some of these children!’
‘He was so angry …’
‘Oh yes, I know how concerned Arthur was for those children,’ Katharine agreed. ‘Had it not been for his intervention, some of them would have been lost forever.’
‘Yes, indeed,’ Hetty agreed. ‘Thankfully, he was in time to stop them.’
Katharine nodded. ‘Mr Stoneham is a truly good and charitable man – do you not agree, Hetty?’
‘Yes, he is,’ Hetty agreed, ‘though he would not like to hear us say so for he does not think it.’
‘He may not think it – but we know, do we not?’
They smiled at each other in perfect agreement, and then Katharine said, ‘I have come to arrange when it will be convenient to commence the sewing lessons?’
‘I think two afternoons a week would suit us, if that is agreeable?’
Katharine said that it was and soon after took her leave.
Hetty was thoughtful after her guest had gone. Her love for Arthur was unselfish and she liked the young woman he had given his heart to. She hoped that they would find happiness together for both had suffered loss and unhappiness in the past.
Arthur flicked through the pile of post in his study. It had accumulated while he was out of town and most of it was unimportant. He could not be bothered to go through the pile himself and thought that he ought to have a private secretary to do such things for him. His butler normally placed those he thought important on top and Arthur answered his letters when he considered it necessary.
He shrugged, turning away with a frown on his face. In no mood for social events, he ignored what were most likely invitations to a ball or other frivolous affairs. His lawyer attended to anything of importance and Benson would have ensured a missive from him wasn’t missed. He would seek out his friend Toby and then visit Hetty at the refuge and see if she was settled in …
‘What are yer doin’ in ’ere?’ the fat woman demanded as Lucy put her pot of chicken and vegetables into the black range oven, which had a dull, used look and needed a good brush and polish. ‘You ain’t entitled to use the oven – there’s too many of us need to use it already.’
‘Mr Snodgrass says I can, as long as I provide my own fuel, and I’ve brought a bucket of coke with me,’ Lucy said and lifted her head defiantly. The woman smelled of sweat and unwashed clothes. ‘He says we all have the use of everythin’ – the kitchen and the tap in the yard and the toilet. He’s goin’ ter have the night soil cleared and we all have to pay another two shillings next month on the rent.’
‘And who asked you to interfere?’ the woman said. ‘I’m Jessie Foster and I’ve bin ’ere longer than anyone – and your room should’ve been mine when the last lot left. So why don’t you get yer stuff and go while yer can? I’ll make yer sorry if yer poke yer nose in my business!’
‘I’ve put my pot in the oven, and if there’s no room for yours you will have to wait until someone takes theirs out,’ Lucy said.
‘You little …!’ The woman raised her fist in threat.
‘Leave ’er alone, Jessie,’ the other woman who was in the kitchen said. ‘She’s got to cook sometimes, ain’t she? And I’m takin’ mine out now so you’ll have room fer yourn.’ She winked at Lucy. ‘About time someone made ole Snodgrass call out the night-soil man – that yard stinks to ’igh ’eaven.’
Jessie stormed off.
‘It’s too expensive to buy hot food from the pie shop every night,’ Lucy said apologetically. ‘I have to cook somewhere.’
‘Take no notice of ’er,’ the woman said. ‘I’m Sara, by the way. Jessie thinks she owns the whole house – and she’d stop all of us usin’ the yard and the kitchen if she could.’
‘I shan’t use it all the time but I can’t afford to buy all our food ready cooked.’
‘Tell yer what, you give yer dish to me ’fore you go to work of a mornin’ and I’ll put it in in time fer yer supper, love – she won’t bother me …’
‘Thank you, Sara,’ Lucy said and lifted her head proudly. She was determined that Jessie Foster would not intimidate her, because she knew they would have to stay here for a while. Lucy had searched for another room for her family but could find nothing at a price they could afford.
‘No doubt you’re an honest girl,’ one housewife who’d worn a spotless apron told her, ‘but you’re young – what happens if you don’t earn enough to pay me rent? I can’t afford to be giving you a home for nothin’.’
Lucy had sworn that she would pay her rent and be no trouble to her but the woman had set her thin lips and asked her to leave. She’d realised they must stay where they were for the moment and put a brave face on, but at least Kitty was happy at her school. Lucy would make the best of things rather than see her family in the dreaded workhouse.
‘The girl is no more than thirteen,’ the woman lied to the Reverend Mr Joseph, who she had accosted in the street one early June morning.