Bride at Bellfield Mill. PENNY JORDAN

when she had brought in the hod. Its fur was a silky soft grey, thick and long, and beautifully marked. Marianne stared at it in astonishment as it looked back at her with an unblinking gaze. She frowned, remembering how long ago, as a child, her aunt had taken her to visit a friend of hers. She had been entranced by the cat that lived there because of its beautiful long coat. It had been a special and very expensive, very aristocratic breed, she remembered her aunt’s friend informing them.

      But, no matter how aristocratic its coat, the cat couldn’t possibly stay inside. Marianne went briskly towards it, scooping it up. Beneath its thick coat she could feel its bones and its thinness. Surely that wasn’t silent reproach she could see in those eyes? Marianne hesitated. It wouldn’t hurt to give it a saucer of milk and let it stay inside for a while. It would be company for her whilst she set to work cleaning the kitchen.

      Telling herself that she was far too soft-hearted, Marianne returned the cat to the hearth and poured it some milk.

      Even the way it lapped from the saucer was delicate and dainty, and when it had finished it set to immediately cleaning its face, before curling up into a tight ball and going straight off to sleep.

      Lucky cat, Marianne reflected, as she covered the baby’s basket with some muslin netting, just in case the cat should be tempted to climb into the basket whilst her back was turned. Marianne had never forgotten hearing her aunt’s cook telling the most dreadful story of how in one place she had worked the mistress of the house had gone mad with grief after her pet cat had got into the nursery and lain on top of the baby, smothering it to death.

      The pans of water she had set to boil whilst she had been out filling the hod were now bubbling and spitting with the hot water she needed to start washing the dirty crockery that seemed to have been left where it had been used. Marianne had no idea how anyone could tolerate so much disorder.

      It took her the best part of another hour, but at length the crockery was washed and dried and put back on dresser shelves that she’d had to wipe down first to remove the dust and grease.

      She was so tired—too tired now to want to eat the bread and jam that had made her mouth water so much earlier. But she could not sleep yet. There was still the table to scrub down and bleach, and the floor to be cleaned, the range to be stoked up again for the morning, and the baby to be fed again—if he could be coaxed into taking a little more bread. Refusing to give in to her own exhaustion, Marianne set to work on the table.

      The mixture of strong carbolic soap and bleach stung her eyes as she scrubbed, and turned her hands red and raw, but there was still a sense of accomplishment and pleasure in being able to stand back from the table to survey her finished handiwork.

      The glow from the oil lamps was now reflecting off a row of clean shiny pans above the range, and the air in the kitchen smelled fresh instead of stuffy. The baby gave a small thin cry, signalling that he was waking up, and the cat, no doubt disturbed by the sound, uncurled itself and stretched.

      Washing her hands carefully, Marianne headed for the pantry—and gave a small shriek as she opened the door to see three or four mice scattering in the lantern light, a tell-tale trail of flour trickling from one of the many bags of foodstuffs stacked on the larder floor.

      A streak of grey flashed past her to pounce on a laggard mouse, before despatching it with swift efficiency and then padding towards Marianne to drop the small body at her feet.

      ‘So, you’re a good mouser, are you? Well, then, between us we should be able to get this kitchen into a proper state. That’s if the Master of Bellfield will allow us to stay,’she warned the cat, which, having accepted its due praise, retrieved its trophy—much to Marianne’s relief.

      The baby’s basket would be safer tonight placed up on the table, she decided a few minutes later, watching in relief as the baby fed sleepily on his milk and egg bread. Marianne thought he was already a little bit heavier and stronger, and she prayed that it might be so. There had been so many times during the dark days since his father’s death when she had feared that he too might slip away from her.

      Fed and changed, the baby was restored to his cosy bed, now safely elevated away from any wandering mice daring enough to creep past the cat. Marianne ignored her own tiredness to set to work on the kitchen floor, which she could see needed not only rushing but a good scrubbing as well…

      Marianne had no idea what time it was when she finally emptied away the last bucket of water and squeezed out the mop. All she did know was that the kitchen floor was now clean enough for even its master to eat his dinner off, and that she herself was exhausted.

      The baby was still fast sleep, and so it seemed was the little cat—who for a while had sat up to watch her whilst she worked, as though wanting to oversee what she was doing. She felt so very tired, and so very dirty. Marianne stretched out in front of the fire, her too-thin body greedy for its heat. In the hallway, beyond the green-baize-covered door that separated it from the kitchen, a clock chimed the hour—but Marianne was already fast asleep and unable to hear it.

      Not so the Master of Bellfield, to whom the striking of the hour heralded the start of a new working day. Like those who worked for him, the Master of Bellfield rose early, where others might have lain in their beds, enjoying the comfort and luxury paid for by the success of their mills.

      There was no immaculately dressed maid to bring up the morning tea and a freshly ironed newspaper, no manservant to wake his master and announce that his bath had been drawn and his clothes laid out. How, after all, could a man reared on the cold charity of the workhouse, following the failure of his father’s business, appreciate such refinements?

      The Master of Bellfield knew well what people thought of him—and what they said of him behind his back. That gossip would be fuelled afresh now, following the departure of his housekeeper, he acknowledged as he shaved with cold water, ignoring the sting of the razor. His dark hair, untamed and thick, was in need of a barber, and he knew that at the next Mill Owners’ Meeting at the fancy hotel in Manchester, where his peers met ostensibly to discuss business, he would be looked down upon by those who liked to pretend to some kind of superiority. Those who had lost their northern accents, smothered their hair in sickly smelling pomades and generally acted more like members of the landed gentry than mill owners.