Pauper's Gold (2 page)

At ten years old, Rebecca went to work eight hours a day in the mill.

‘Hello there, young ’un,’ James Gregory, the man who was the supervisor over the workforce of women and children, had greeted her. ‘Going to be as good a worker as your
mother, are yer?’

Rebecca, with her shy, brown eyes, her soft dark hair hidden beneath her bonnet, had nodded, gazing up at him in awe. James had bent down and touched her cheek. ‘Don’t be afraid of
me, young ’un.’ Gently he’d traced his finger round the outline of her face. ‘You’re far too pretty to be afraid of anyone.’

From that moment, Rebecca had been James Gregory’s willing slave. She idolized him. Through the years as she grew, the other women teased her. ‘Mr Gregory’s little sweetheart,
ain’tcha? But just remember, girl, he’s got a wife at home and there’s a little ’un on the way.’

By the time Rebecca was fifteen she had the shape and demeanour of a woman. Working alongside adults all day long – women who talked and laughed and joked, and who didn’t trouble to
curb their raucous tongues before the youngsters in their midst – Rebecca could not be ignorant of the facts of life. She knew full well that it was wrong to meet James Gregory in secret,
knew it was dangerous to give herself to him.

But Rebecca was hopelessly, helplessly in love with James’s blond, curling hair and merry blue eyes. He was tall and broad shouldered, with slim hips, and he carried himself proudly as if
he truly believed he was destined for better things. Rebecca was utterly, selflessly loyal to him and when, inevitably, she found herself carrying his child, she refused to name him as the father.
Gossip was rife through the mill, but Rebecca stubbornly refused to blame anyone but herself. When her daughter, Hannah, screamed her arrival into the cramped bedroom of the terraced house, there
was no loving father present to welcome her, only a reluctant grandmother. Even the grandfather had disappeared to the nearest pub to be with his cronies and to try to blot out all thought of his
daughter’s shame. Tactfully, his friends asked no questions. What was going on in Matthew’s home at that moment was women’s business.

Overcrowded and at times a hotbed of gossip though the houses in their street might be, there was nevertheless a deep sense of neighbourliness, of protecting their own. As news of her arrival
spread quickly, there was soon a constant stream of visitors at the door. Some bore gifts, others came just to see the child and the young mother, yet more with an excuse to wet the baby’s
head.

‘She’s a bonny ’un,’ was the unanimous verdict. But, tactfully, they made no comment on the child’s wispy blonde hair and bright blue eyes. Only amongst themselves,
they nodded their heads and said, ‘No mistaking whose kid she is.’

Kept in ignorance, Hannah’s early life was happy. She lived in the close-knit community, was protected by it, too young to remember when her grandfather, Matthew, died only three years
after her birth. Rebecca’s wage now supported them, with a little help from the work Grace was able to do at home. Their landlord rented out Matthew’s garret workroom to another weaver.
For a while, Grace and Rebecca were terrified they would be turned out of their home. Thankfully, the weaver lived elsewhere and was happy to walk the couple of streets to his new workroom.

Of Hannah’s father not a word was ever spoken. Not until she was old enough to play in the street with the other children did she begin to understand the circumstances of her birth.
Slowly, it dawned on her why her surname was the same as her mother’s and her grandmother’s. Cruel names were hurled at her and sometimes she found herself excluded from the other
children’s games. Hannah would toss her bright curls and smile at those taunting her. And beneath her breath she would sing to comfort herself. Little by little, she won them over and when
the day came that her mother and grandmother insisted she should attend school, it was now the children from her own street who defended her against curious strangers.

The first really harsh blow to disturb her childhood came when Hannah was eight years old. Her grandmother, Grace, was taken ill with distressing sickness and diarrhoea and terrible leg cramps.
Rebecca stayed at home from work to nurse her mother but after only three days Grace died. After a simple funeral attended by their neighbours, Rebecca and Hannah returned to the home that now
seemed empty and soulless without the old lady who had been its centre.

‘I’ll have to go back to work,’ Rebecca said in her soft voice. ‘I’ll see if Auntie Bessie next door will take care of you.’

‘I can take care of meself, Mam,’ Hannah had declared stoutly, but Rebecca had shaken her head. ‘No, no, I won’t have you left alone. Bessie won’t mind.’
Rebecca had smiled gently. ‘She’ll never notice another one amongst her brood.’

So Hannah had become a daily visitor to the overcrowded house next door where Bill and Bessie Morgan, their three sons and two daughters lived. The Morgan children were all older than Hannah but
they took the lonely child in and treated her as if she were another sister. Peggy, the youngest at twelve, was the closest in age, but even she was already working at the mill. Bill and two of his
sons worked in the top floor garret of the house and Bessie had her hands full caring for them all.

‘’Course she can come to us. She can ’elp me with me washing,’ Bessie had said at once when Rebecca tentatively broached the subject. It was from Bessie Morgan, who sang
all day long in her loud, tuneless voice, that Hannah, amongst the soap suds and steam of the back yard wash house, was to learn the words of all the hymns.

‘We’ll mind her,’ Bessie had promised. ‘You get back to your work, Rebecca, while you’ve still got a job to go to.’ She had cast a knowing look at Rebecca,
and the younger woman had felt the flush of embarrassment creep up her neck.

In the uncertain silk industry, Rebecca had kept her place at the mill even through hard times when many had been laid off. She was well aware it was whispered that it was only because she was
James Gregory’s mistress that she had kept her job. And, in a way, Rebecca had to admit that it was true. Whilst he’d never openly admitted to being the father of her child – and
Rebecca maintained her steadfast silence – James Gregory had always made sure she’d a job at the mill. And though she was no longer his mistress – hadn’t been from the day
he’d learned she was pregnant – he still favoured her, much to the irritation of the other workers. If she was feeling tired or unwell, he’d find her easier work. He allowed her
time off – with no questions asked – if Hannah was ill. The other women grumbled, but there was little they could do about it other than to ostracize Rebecca. It was a lonely time for
the young woman but she stuck it out. She’d no choice – hers was the only income her family had.

Hannah’s time with the Morgan family was short lived. Life swiftly dealt Rebecca another harsh blow. In less than a year, James Gregory had left the mill. She had heard the news from the
gossip that rippled amongst the mill workers.

‘’Ave you ’eard, ’ee’s got himself another fancy piece. Daughter of a mill owner, no less. And her father’s made him manager of one of his mills.’

‘What about his wife and family? Gregory’s married, ain’t he?’

‘Oh, didn’t you know? His wife and kiddie died with the cholera last year. So he’s fancy-free.’

‘Is ’ee, by God! So, he’s not marrying that girl – what’s ’er name?’

‘Rebecca Francis. Oh no. ’Ee’s set his sights higher than ’er. And let me tell you something else. Once ’ee’s gone from here, that little madam ’ad
better watch out.’

And soon after James’s departure, Rebecca was told that her ‘services were no longer required at the mill’.

For a few months, she managed to pay the rent, though she grew thinner from worry and tramping the streets in search of work. By the January of 1851 there was no food in the house, no fuel to
keep them warm, their winter clothes had been pawned, and she was hiding when the rent man called. Two months later, Rebecca and her young daughter were evicted from their home.

The workhouse was the only place they could go.

‘Now, have you got everything? How generous Mr Goodbody has been.’ Rebecca fingered the clothes lying spread out on Hannah’s bed. The garments –two
shifts, two frocks, two aprons and two pairs of stockings – were not new, but Rebecca had washed and lovingly ironed and mended them. It was the final motherly act she was to be allowed to do
for her daughter. ‘And you must take care of this money. Two whole guineas,’ Rebecca told her, handing her a cloth purse. ‘Tie it round your neck for the journey, but you’ll
have to give it to . . . to whoever’s in charge of you . . .’ Her voice threatened to break, but she smiled bravely and added, ‘Mind you’re a good girl, won’t you? Do
as you’re told and—’

Hannah’s blue eyes brimmed with tears. She flung her arms around her mother’s slim waist and hugged her tightly. ‘I don’t want to go. Don’t let them send me away. I
– I might never see you again.’

Though Rebecca embraced her fiercely in return and her voice trembled, she tried valiantly to make the words cheerful and hopeful. ‘Of course you’ll see me again. Once you’ve
got settled in, you ask around. There might be a job for me there. I’m sure my experience in the silk mill will count for something, whatever Mr Goodbody says. You just mind you tell them
about me. Don’t forget, now will you?’

‘Oh no, Mam. ’Course I won’t.’

The cart pulled to a halt at the top of a steep hill.

‘Right, out you get.’ The old driver dropped the reins and climbed stiffly down from his seat. He walked to the back of the cart. ‘Come on,’ he said roughly. ‘I
ain’t got all night.’

Three of the four children riding in the back scrambled out. Only Hannah made no move to obey him. ‘You’re not leaving us here. There’s no sign of the mill and you were paid to
take us all the way.’

The old man coughed juicily and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. ‘Well, this is as far as I’m going, missy. I’m on me way back to Buxton now. You do as you please.
This is as far as I can take you. My old girl wouldn’t make it back up this ’ere hill if I teks ’er down. You’ll have to walk rest of the way. It’s down there.’
He pointed to the road, disappearing steeply down into the dale below them. ‘Just follow that road. Mill’s at far end. You can’t miss it.’

As Hannah climbed down, she looked about her and, suddenly, she smiled. The sun was setting behind the hills, casting a golden glow over the slopes and glinting on the trees. Even the rough road
on which they were standing was bathed in golden light.

‘It’s a pretty place,’ Hannah murmured.

The man climbed back onto the front of his cart and picked up the reins. ‘Aye, missy, take a good look at the sunshine. Pauper’s gold, they call it. I reckon that’s the only
gold you’ll ever see. And you won’t be seeing much of that either – not in Critchlow’s dismal mill, you won’t.’ He laughed loudly at his own joke and flapped the
reins. The horse, as if knowing it was homeward bound, moved forward with an eager jerk. Within moments the cart was rattling back the way it had come, leaving the four youngsters standing
forlornly in the road. Far below them a river wound its way through the deep valley between hills that seem to fold in on each other. They could see houses dotted here and there, and sheep in a
line following a track along the hillside, making for home. But there was no sign of a building large enough to be a mill.

‘Should we ask the way?’ Luke jerked his thumb over his shoulder towards the Wyedale Arms behind them. Hannah glanced at it, but the door was shut and there seemed no sign of life.
She was the eldest of the four – and the boldest – and the others were looking to her to take the lead. She felt a tiny, cold hand creep into hers and looked down into the small, white
face of the youngest. Jane was only ten and small for her age. She had been born to a young widow in the workhouse who had died at her birth. She was truly an orphan. She looked exhausted by the
day’s travelling, her eyes huge in her pale, gaunt face. Tears were close. ‘Are we lost?’

Hannah gave the child’s hand a comforting squeeze. ‘No, ’course we’re not.’ She glanced round at the two boys – twin brothers, Luke and Daniel Hammond –
trying to instil confidence into her voice. ‘Come on, you lot. It’s down this hill, the man said. We’d best get going if we’re to find it before dark.’

With more purpose in her step than she was feeling inside, and still holding Jane’s hand, Hannah strode down the hill, the other two falling in behind them.

‘Lead us, heavenly Father, lead us . . .’ she began to sing.

She’d sung the hymn through once and was about to start again, when Luke said, ‘How much further is it?’

‘Dunno,’ Hannah said cheerfully. ‘Maybe we’ll see it round the next bend.’

They walked on beneath the canopy of trees overhanging the lane as the shadows lengthened and the sun dipped out of sight. Dusk settled into the dale.

‘I’m tired and me leg hurts,’ Jane murmured.

‘I’m hungry,’ Daniel moaned.

Luke and Daniel had been left at the workhouse door five years earlier when their mother had died and their father couldn’t cope with the lively six-year-olds. They hadn’t seen him
from that day to this and had given up hope of him ever coming back for them. Now, coming up to twelve years old, they were excited at the prospect of a real job. They were small and thin like most
of the children in the workhouse, but they were fit and healthy with the same mop of unruly light brown hair, hazel eyes and cheeky grins. Their teeth were surprisingly good, white and even. Just
the sort of boys that Mr Critchlow was looking for, Cedric Goodbody had assured them.

But now, they too were tired, their excitement waning.

‘It can’t be much further,’ Hannah said, almost dragging the weary little girl alongside her.

The shape of a house loomed up on the left-hand side of the road.

‘Is that it?’ Jane pointed. ‘Is that the mill?’

Hannah eyed it doubtfully. ‘I don’t think so. It’s not big enough.’ She paused and added, ‘Is it?’ She wasn’t exactly sure just how big a cotton mill
was, but she imagined it must be at least the size of the silk mill where her mother had worked.