Angel Meadow (32 page)

“Oh, my dear, whatever has happened to you? When your housekeeper said you weren’t well . . . I had no idea what caused . . .”

Suddenly from some back recess of her mind, where perhaps instincts are formed, Nancy became aware of a sureness, like a soft and drifting image, that told her this woman could be trusted. That she need not hide the truth of her previous life, for she would not be judged by it but by what she had done with it. What she had achieved. Mrs Underwood was a woman of the world who would not faint or shudder or scream at the appalling circumstances that had brought her to this moment. She had been raped and later beaten by a man, none of it her fault, as many so-called respectable women would believe of a girl such as herself. She should not have been out after dark on her own, since none of them would dream of it. She had asked for trouble, they would tell one another, having no regard for the fact that she was forced to support herself and her younger sisters, since she had no man to do it for her.

She lifted her head, smashed, bruised but unbowed, and as they sipped the strong, hot tea Annie had brewed before she wandered off into the garden with Kitty she told Hetty Underwood how she had come from Angel Meadow to Grove Place. Mrs Underwood said nothing but her eyes, almost black in the amber smoothness of her face, never left Nancy’s and when she had finished speaking there was silence for several minutes. Nancy stared into the small fire. She would be sorry if this woman took offence and refused to have anything more to do with her. More than sorry, for a good deal of Nancy’s merchandise was sold in Mrs Underwood’s shop. She would find other buyers, she had made up her mind to that; indeed, when her face was healed she meant to walk the length of Deansgate, Market Street, St Ann’s Square, King Street and Exchange Street, in fact anywhere respectable shops were to be found, and look for other customers.

Mrs Underwood took a deep breath, then placed her cup and saucer on the kitchen table. Nancy still kept her face averted, not from a misplaced sense of guilt or shame, far from it, but she felt that if she looked up and saw revulsion on Mrs Underwood’s face it would hurt her deeply. She didn’t know why, really, for the woman was nothing to her. And yet she was. There was a strange bond between them, of what sort she didn’t know, but it was there just the same. There were not many people in this world whom Nancy took a liking to, whom she held in respect. She loved her sisters, of course, and Jennet meant as much to her as they did. Annie was almost like a mother to her, fond, scolding, always ready to speak her mind, protective and sharp-tongued but Nancy knew Annie loved her and she loved Annie. Into this equation the baby face of her daughter glowed and something unfamiliar warmed her heart. She was a charmer, there was no doubt about it, like her father; but also in her childish character was a steadfast will, a resolute determination and strength which showed itself even at this tender age and Nancy found she liked it. And now there was this woman who seemed to have found a place in Nancy’s . . . should she say heart? No, that was too fanciful but she really liked her and would be distressed if she proved weak and false.

“Will you look at me, Miss Brody . . . or may I call you Nancy?”

Nancy turned her head in astonishment and delight.

“Of course you may, Mrs Underwood.”

“I feel we are to be friends, Nancy, and though I know I am a good deal older than you that does not matter. Your tale horrifies me, for though I am from the working classes I have lived a sheltered life, a privileged life and confess I have never come across violence. Now, tell me, is your face to heal?” For like the others she felt a real sense of loss for the beauty that had once been Nancy Brody’s.

Nancy shrugged carelessly and Hetty Underwood realised that the girl was still in a state of shock. No woman likes to lose her looks and Nancy’s attitude of indifference could not be real. It was apparent that what had been done to her had left her scarred, not just on her face but in her inner self, and to cover that wound she was affecting not to care. Men were anathema to her now, so what did it matter whether she was plain or pretty, or even downright ugly. Her work was the most important thing in her life, her business that she had built from nothing and with very little help. Hetty Underwood could not conceal her admiration.

“What are you to do, my dear, when you resume work?”

Nancy stared in surprise. “Do? What can you mean? I shall do exactly what I have always done. Jennet is working the market stall today and until the end of the week. Mary has kept the workroom going, though she is very young for such a responsibility. They have done wonderfully well but they need me, Mrs Underwood, and I cannot afford to stay at home for more than a day or two. I am to go to the hospital on Friday, when Doctor Whitehead is to remove the rest of the bandages, and every day the bruising to my face fades a little. I intend taking over the stall on Saturday which is our busiest day—”

“You need more staff,” Mrs Underwood interrupted abruptly. She leaned forward and her face was alight with some private enthusiasm.

“More staff: you mean machinists?” Nancy was plainly astonished.

“I do.”

“But I have only six sewing-machines.”

“You need more of those as well.”

“But I have not the room.”

“And bigger premises.”

“Mrs Underwood!” Nancy’s face showed her bewilderment, even under its layer of padding. She and Annie had brushed back her hair as best they could, knotting a length of scarlet ribbon at the end of the plait Annie had fashioned, but it had not been washed for over two weeks. It looked drab and lifeless and though the nurses had done their best there were still streaks of dried blood here and there. As soon as her dressings were gone she would wash it, she had told Annie this morning. The plait hung over her shoulder and across her breast and her hands were busy with the ribbon, tying and untying it in her consternation, then she sat up straight, looking stern and somewhat aloof.

“Mrs Underwood,” she said again. “Believe me, if I had the wherewithal I would do all these things you suggest, and one day I shall, but at the moment I am hard pressed to—”

“I know, that is why I am here, apart from wishing to ascertain the state of your health. You have a talent for business, Nancy, for making money, but you need money to
make
money. I see you as a good investment and so I wish to invest in you. If you agree, that is,” she added somewhat hastily, for Nancy’s face was a picture of amazement. “You must look for bigger premises, rent more machines, employ more girls and I guarantee you will expand beyond all your wildest dreams. I know you have had plenty of those, my dear. So what do you say? Will you accept my offer? You could manufacture not just shirts and baby clothes but blouses and even dresses.”

“Oh, Mrs Underwood, stop, stop, I can’t think.” Nancy’s eyes glowed with excitement, ready to brim with tears but already there was that reflective look on her face which told Hetty Underwood she was weighing up this and that and the other and would not be found wanting when it came to the details.

“You agree?” She took Nancy’s hand in her large capable one and squeezed it. She did not need an answer as Nancy stood up and, throwing off her hand, stretched her arms to the ceiling, tipping back her head in what looked like ecstasy. Then she became still and an expression stole over her face that Hetty Underwood was to see many times.

“This will be a proper investment – is that what you call it? – with contracts and . . . and whatever legal arrangement are necessary. Lawyers and . . .”

“Of course, my dear,” and she smiled. “I see you are not a woman to be trifled with, Nancy Brody. I think you will go far.”

18

Josh Hayes was deep in thought, his mind only half occupied with the task of steering his chestnut mare through the Saturday midday traffic, which is perhaps why the accident occurred.

It was warm, sultry, the air trapped beneath the inevitable pall of dirty brown smoke that would hang about over the city for the rest of the day even though the chimneys from which it poured were now at rest. The factory hooters and whistles had signalled the end of the shift, since, after the introduction of the statutory establishment of the Saturday half-day, the pavements were crowded with workers making their way home, their clogs clattering on the cobbles as they darted almost under the belly of his horse. He scarcely noticed.

It was June 1861 and since the beginning of the year affairs in North America had assumed a more and more unhappy and alarming character, so much so that the British government had last month felt compelled to issue a proclamation of its neutrality. The exact nature of the dissension between the northern and southern states that led to the war between them was never quite understood by those not involved, many of them believing that it was merely over the abolition of slavery, but there were many other factors tangled in its complex history. For years estrangement had gradually been building up between the northern and southern states, grounded on a number of differences, some, not all, on the continual collisions to which the question of slavery gave rise. In November of last year Abraham Lincoln had been elected President of the United States of America and, beginning in December and continuing to February 1861, seven southern states had withdrawn from the union and Jefferson Davis had been sworn in as President of what was known as the Confederate States of America. In April Fort Sumter, situated on an island in northern hands-off Charleston in South Carolina, was fired upon by Confederate troops and President Lincoln called for the rallying of union forces and proclaimed a blockade of all southern ports.

It was on this that Josh was dwelling as he picked his way along the narrow congestion of Moseley Street in the direction of the considerably broadened Market Street, for if southern ports were blockaded how were the cotton planters of the southern states to get their raw cotton to market? Manchester was known as the spinning centre for the finest of all cotton yarns and most of its production found its way into the city’s own weaving sheds. It was the world’s largest market for cotton goods. Ready-made clothing and the rising influence of the fashion cycle were changing the dress habits of the lower middle classes. There was a steady growth of a working-class market for ready-made clothes, most of the making up carried out in small, ill-regulated sweat shops where underclothes, shirts, and collars were made up, though of course there were exceptions.

The firm of Brody and Williams, begun no more than twelve months ago, was, besides its baby garments and shirts, becoming well known for its good-quality blouses and dresses. Its merchandise was aimed at the lower middle classes in the first instance, but it had rapidly become popular with that in-between class that was neither upper nor lower, consisting of self-made men who were enterprising and knew how to set that enterprise and their own ambition to good advantage in the world of business opportunities which abounded in Manchester. They had wives who wished to be considered fashionable, despite the fact they could not yet afford the bigger and more expensive fashion houses, and they were happy to make their purchases at Mrs Underwood’s, a smart little shop, recently extended, on the corner of Market Street and Brown Street in which the blouses, dresses, undergarments and baby clothes made in the small factory owned by Brody and Williams were sold. Josh had heard that they intended branching out into other areas of ladies clothing: shawls and fans, lacy garments to be worn in the privacy of a lady’s own boudoir – for those ladies who had a boudoir – bonnets, gloves, parasols and a host of fancy goods. He knew, of course, who the Brody was in Brody and Williams, for did not she and her companion, Miss Williams, still cause something of a stir whenever they called into his warehouse to view his textiles. Their orders had grown by the week, not just in plain cotton but in the other fabrics he had introduced since his father had trusted him with the management of the warehouse: batiste, a dressed cotton muslin; dimity, a stout cotton with a raised pattern: fustian which was coarser; jaconet, fine and light; nankin and sateen; all made from cotton but with a different appearance and use. It was said, for men were just as inclined to gossip as women, that the Misses Brody and Williams bought silk from many of the silk manufacturers in the city, ribbons, artificial flowers, feathers and all manner of materials in the making up of their goods; and there was a rumour that Miss Brody and her partners were so successful new premises were even now being looked for to accommodate her machinists.

And in all this time he had not once seen her, on his premises or off. He passed the draper’s shop in Market Street and her home in Grove Place on the New Bury Road on his way to Broughton and though he could not say he deliberately searched her out he often cast an eye at the small house where she lived. He had seen the child in the garden, her daughter who was the same age as Freddy, playing some game with the dog and an older woman, and had nodded politely at the woman who had nodded back. She was the one who had told him a year ago that Miss Brody had suffered an accident, no details, but that she was not at home to callers; and since he was disinclined to call anyway he had – inexplicably – left the puppy and enquired no further. It was best that way. She was a beautiful woman and for some reason had aroused a certain feeling – interest: what could he call it? – in him, and God knew where it might lead if he was to investigate it. He was older and wiser since his affair with Evie, the tragedy of her death, the birth of his son, and he meant to keep well away from any temptation of that sort. He had immersed himself in his warehouse and the mill his father was encouraging him to take charge of, in the delights of parenthood which gave him all that was required for the softer, affectionate side of his nature. He knew he had withdrawn into himself over the last two years, hidden his emotions, buried them with Evie, which was strange since he had not loved her. Only his little son was allowed to see the gentleness, the sweetness, the tenderness that lay dormant in his heart, even the humour that had once made him tease and flirt and laugh, since he had nothing to trouble him then. It was gone now, leaving only the serious concerns of business, of profit and loss, of balance sheets and expanding markets for his cloth – which might not expand so easily with the situation as it was in America – and it was very clear that before long these matters which nibbled at his half-attentive mind would need to be concentrated upon and appropriate action taken.