The Doorstep Girls Page 23

  So that is what ladies do in their spare time, Grace mused. I have often wondered.

  ‘Mr Newmarch seems very taken with you, Miss Sheppard,’ Miss Emerson commented. ‘I felt that he explained the factory owners’ position very clearly.’

  Grace blushed. ‘Mr Newmarch has always shown me consideration, Miss Emerson. He’s always been very civil.’

  ‘He is – you are quite right, Miss Sheppard,’ Miss Gregory chipped in. ‘Most civil, and he treats women as his equal.’ She gave a sigh. ‘It’s a pity that he lacks a spark of vitality, though. He would be quite charming and—’

  ‘Marriageable!’ Miss Emerson laughed. ‘Although I understand he is that already. He is the elder son, is he not? But I agree, he can sometimes appear to be rather grave and dull. But very dependable, nevertheless, or so my father says.’

  Grace was shocked. How could they speak of a friend in such a manner, and especially in front of her?

  ‘I understand his brother is to be married shortly?’ Mrs Westwood addressed Georgiana Gregory. ‘To a relative of yours?’

  Georgiana nodded and wiped the corner of her mouth with a table napkin. ‘To my cousin, May. She and Mr Newmarch have been affianced for some months, but my aunt, May’s mother, wished them to have a spring wedding.’

  Grace had been trying not to listen for she was perplexed by their casual gossip, but her attention was now caught by their conversation.

  ‘Edward Newmarch is very handsome, isn’t he? But I feel he might be liable to stray. Your cousin will have much to do to keep him at home!’

  Edward Newmarch! To be married? Grace was dismayed at what she heard. Oh, poor Ruby! She can’t know or she would have said. She’ll be cast off and be back where she started! No. Worse than that, for she’s become used to eating well and living in those lovely rooms, and paying her mother’s rent. Oh, wicked man for giving her all that and then taking it away. And I’m so far away and can’t warn her!

  ‘Are you all right, Miss Sheppard? You have become rather pale.’

  ‘I’m tired, Miss Gregory,’ she replied. ‘If you don’t mind, I’d like to go to bed.’ They agreed that she should and that they would shortly do the same. As she rose from the table, she asked politely, ‘Do you think you could call me Grace? I’ve never been called Miss Sheppard, except by Mr Newmarch,’ and she recalled that sometimes he called her Grace, when no-one else was listening. ‘It doesn’t really sound like me. I keep thinking that you’re speaking to someone else.’

  They all smiled, seeming to be quite relieved. ‘Grace!’ Mrs Westwood proclaimed. ‘It’s a lovely name. It suits you very well.’

  Grace hesitated outside the dining-room door. It was an old inn with numerous small rooms and staircases and, as she paused to get her bearings, she heard Miss Gregory’s voice saying, ‘I’m a little worried about Mrs Rogerson’s reaction to Grace. She is so haughty and patronizing even though she is a devout Christian lady. I’m not sure if she will wish Grace to dine with us.’

  Mrs Westwood’s murmured reply registered disapproval, though Grace couldn’t hear her actual words. But she was pleased that her unintentional eavesdropping had prepared her, and, as she mounted the narrow staircase, she knew what she had to do.

  The Reverend Rogerson was polite towards her when introduced the next day, although he seemed to be puzzled by her accent and eventually asked if she was a native of Hull.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ she said shyly. ‘Born and bred, like my ma and da.’

  ‘Good and honest working people, are they?’ he enquired probingly. ‘I ask, because people who come to hear you will want to know your background.’

  ‘Poor but honest, sir,’ she said, gazing back at him. ‘Whether they’d be considered good by others, I don’t know, but they have been good parents to me.’

  He nodded sagely. ‘We can only speak of what we know, my dear, and you do right to be so frank.’

  His wife, when Grace met her, was courteous, but only just, being more interested in Miss Gregory’s views on the rights of women, yet expressing astonishment when she declared that women should be allowed to take part in politics and to vote. ‘Those of us who are able must of course practise philanthropy, and teach that there is a better life through Christian religion and education, but few women, in my opinion, are able to understand the principles of politics.’

  ‘Do you not consider, Mrs Rogerson,’ asked Mrs Westwood, ‘that you are intellectually as intelligent and capable of making decisions as your husband?’

  The Reverend Rogerson had by this time retired to his library, and the question could be answered without fear of offence, but Mrs Rogerson appeared completely taken aback by it and was unable to reply coherently.

  Grace sat quietly listening and absorbing, and not always understanding as Miss Emerson, Miss Gregory and Mrs Westwood quoted women such as Elizabeth Fry, whom she had heard of, Sarah Martin, whom she hadn’t, and Lady Byron who had opened schools for pauper children.

  ‘Begging your pardon,’ she said in a low voice, during a brief break in the discussion. ‘But – these ladies are not working women such as me. They’ve had an education so they can speak without fear of ridicule. The words which come out of my mouth won’t be expressed in ’same way.’

  Mrs Westwood leant towards her. ‘You need not be afraid,’ she said earnestly. ‘We have heard you speak, and the reason you were asked to join us was because of your sincerity and eloquence. And,’ she added, ‘Sarah Martin, of whom we spoke, was not a rich woman. She was the daughter of a shopkeeper who became a prison visitor.’

  ‘And’, Miss Emerson intervened, ‘working women are beginning to speak publicly and support reforms. They became chartists and have denounced the Poor Law. Please, Grace,’ she implored. ‘You must speak. You are far more important than any one of us here.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Grace asked if she might take supper in her room at the Rogersons’ house. She thought it might save the ladies embarrassment in view of what she had overheard, and she explained to them that she needed to prepare herself for the next day when they were to attend the rally in Wakefield.

  Molly was in the room next door, and she too was having her supper on a tray rather than eat in the kitchen with the Rogersons’ staff. ‘Let’s eat together,’ Grace suggested.

  ‘Will anyone find out?’ Molly asked anxiously.

  ‘Does it matter?’ Grace was surprised at the question.

  ‘Well, you’re one of ’ladies that I have to look after,’ Molly explained seriously. ‘Miss Emerson said so.’

  ‘Oh!’ Grace was astonished. ‘But I can look after myself.’

  ‘But I dressed your hair, didn’t I?’ Molly grinned. ‘You couldn’t have done it as well yourself.’

  Grace nodded. ‘No. I couldn’t. But there’ll be no need for you to do it tomorrow.’ She glanced at Molly. ‘I have other ideas for tomorrow.’

  The next morning she rose at six o’clock, poured the water from the jug on the washstand into the bowl and washed herself thoroughly. Then she brushed her hair and plaited it and dressed in her own clothes which she had brought with her. She wore a clean grey skirt, a white shirt, and wrapped her checked shawl around her shoulders.

  When the maid knocked on the door at eight o’clock to bring her breakfast tray, her mouth dropped open as she saw Grace sitting by the window, looking out at the view of the gardens.

  ‘Beg your pardon, miss. I didn’t think you’d be up yet.’

  ‘I’m usually up at this time.’ Grace smiled. ‘In fact I’m usually at work by six.’

  The maid, who was very young and obviously confused by the situation, simply nodded, put down the tray on a side table and backed out of the room.

  Grace stared at the tray. This surely couldn’t all be for her? There were boiled eggs and ham, slices of thin bread, and a pat of golden butter in a silver dish. A dish of marmalade, a pot of tea, milk in a jug and a china plate with sliced lemon neatly arranged on it.<
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  There was another knock on the door and Molly came in. She was dressed in black, with a white apron. ‘You’re wearing your own clothes!’ she gasped. ‘Whatever will Miss Emerson say?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Grace confessed. ‘But I have to feel comfortable. This is the real me, Molly, and if I’m to speak for working women, then I must look like one. Would you like some breakfast?’ she asked. ‘They must have made a mistake in ’kitchen. There’s enough here for two or three.’

  Molly looked at her. ‘I’ve had mine already,’ she said. ‘And there’s no mistake, Grace. This is how rich folk live. They waste so much food that could be given to ’poor folk if onny they’d think of it. Go on, eat up. You’ll need your strength if you’re going to face all them at ’rally. I’ve just heard in ’kitchen that there’s hundreds expected.’

  Other ladies joined the party after breakfast, all eager and excited at the prospect of what was to come. One or two were not in the class of Miss Emerson and Miss Gregory, but were better educated and more confident, Grace surmised, than she was herself. The Reverend Rogerson and his wife were not accompanying them at this stage, but were to come later after morning service, as the day was Sunday, though they were not expected to participate in the meeting. Some of the ladies had already attended church, Grace discovered, but no-one had said that she was obliged to do so.

  Four carriages trundled off from the Rogersons’ home and within half an hour they were entering the town of Wakefield. A platform had been erected in an open space off the Bull Ring and close by the cathedral, and some wooden seats and benches placed there.

  One of the other ladies came up to Grace as she stood feeling isolated on the platform. ‘So what do you do? Miss Sheppard, isn’t it?’

  ‘Grace,’ she answered quietly. ‘Grace Sheppard. I was a mill worker, but now I’m a maid of all work. I do anything I can to earn an honest living.’

  The woman nodded. She was tall and imposing, plainly dressed and with a forthright and abrupt manner. ‘And what axe do you have to grind?’

  Grace stammered that she didn’t know what she meant. That she was here to speak on behalf of children who had to work to add to the family earnings. The woman gave a wide smile. ‘Good,’ she said. ‘Not here for yourself then, like some of these women?’

  Grace noticed that she called them women and not ladies and was looking in the direction of Mrs Westwood and Miss Emerson. She hesitated for a moment, then explained. ‘I suppose I’m also here for selfish purposes. I’ve lost my job at ’cotton mill because married women and children earn less money than me. But if I’m honest,’ again she hesitated, wondering if she was being disloyal to Mr Newmarch, ‘I also think I lost it because of speaking against children working and taking adult jobs.’

  ‘That’s more like it.’ The woman took her hand and shook it in a brisk masculine fashion. ‘My name is Mary Morris. I’m here to speak on women’s rights, same as Miss Gregory over there. But we need a fresh young voice to speak up for working children who can’t speak for themselves. You’ll mention the wretched climbing boys, won’t you? And the boys and girls who are sent to their deaths in the coal mines?’

  Grace gazed at her. I am so ignorant of facts. Why am I here? I know nothing. What do I have to say? But there came into her head at the same time an image of Freddie, Ruby’s brother, who had gone to be a chimney sweep’s lad and who, Ruby and Bessie were convinced, was destined to be his own master. He won’t, she thought miserably. He won’t come back. We’ve been telling ourselves that he will, but he’ll be broken or burnt and have the hand of death on him.

  Tears came into her eyes. ‘Yes,’ she said in answer. ‘I will.’

  Mary Morris was the first to talk and introduced the other speakers, not all of whom were women, Grace was surprised to see. There were some men who wished to question the Factory Act, and others to complain of insanitary housing conditions.

  Miss Gregory spoke on women’s issues, followed by Mrs Westwood, and Grace wondered why Mary Morris had seemed to gaze disparagingly upon her. Mrs Westwood spoke of her children who, since they were over the age of seven, were within her husband’s care. She was only able to visit them when he agreed to it. ‘My children need me as their mother,’ she pleaded. ‘Why should they be deprived of my love and attention?’

  ‘You shouldn’t have left ’em, missus,’ a woman shouted from the crowd. ‘You should have put up wi’ his blows for t’sake of thy bairns.’

  Mrs Westwood shook her head. ‘Someone has to take a stand. Is it right that women should be considered inferior to men and have no rights in their children’s welfare?’

  She spoke for ten minutes more in this vein and was given only a mild ovation for they were mainly working-class people in the crowd, who were not unduly concerned about the problems of middle-class women. The women there were not unused to a beating from their menfolk and accepted it as their lot, along with the exhausting struggle of daily living.

  And then it was Grace’s turn. She trembled as she stood in front of them. She had no notes to read from, as Mary Morris and some of the male speakers had. She tried to swallow but her throat was dry, so she took a deep breath and someone called out, ‘Don’t be shy, lass. We’ll not bite thee.’

  There was a ripple of laughter and Grace smiled and felt better. ‘My name is Grace Sheppard,’ she began and raised her voice. ‘I ask you to forgive my nervousness but I’m not used to having so many people listen to what I have to say. My ma and da, they’ve allus listened to me, but I never thought that anybody else would be interested.’ She took another deep breath. ‘But perhaps you might be. I used to work in a cotton mill …’

  She told them of her circumstances, much as she had done at Dock Green, of losing her job which she had had since she was nine years old, and of Freddie who had been sold to be a climbing boy. She didn’t mention Ruby, for she realized now that she was speaking of different issues and Ruby was a grown woman and not a child. But she told of the dark morning when the little Irish girl had drowned in the river Hull as she went to work.

  A tear trickled down her cheek as she remembered, and she brushed it away. She saw that some of the women who were sitting at the front of the crowd were wiping their eyes on their sleeves or shawls, and she realized that these people knew what she was talking about: they too had lived through the experiences of which she was speaking.

  A woman got to her feet and came towards the platform. She was carrying what appeared to be a bundle of rags, but as she held up the bundle towards Grace, she saw that it was a child. ‘Look,’ she cried, holding out her arms. ‘This is my bairn. Murdered in t’coal fields. Murdered, though he’s not yet dead.’

  Grace knelt down on the platform floor and put out her arms to take the child, but the mother wouldn’t let him go. She shook her head and drew back the thin shawl which was over him. Grace saw the emaciated body of a young boy, his legs and back crooked and his spindly arms a mass of cuts and bruises. His face was yellow and skeletal and his bloodshot eyes, which he opened as his mother took off the shawl, were large in their sockets.

  ‘Twelve years old, he is,’ said his mother, and Grace drew in a breath, for she had thought him no more than six or seven. ‘And won’t reach his thirteenth birthday.’

  The boy looked up at Grace and smiled, and reached up to touch her cheek with thin fingers. She smiled back and bent to kiss his forehead.

  ‘God bless you, Miss Grace,’ the woman whispered. ‘Do what you can. It’s too late for my lad, but there’s many like him.’

  Grace stood up. Her cheeks were wet with tears and she found that she couldn’t speak any more. She put out her hands in supplication towards the crowd and then towards the boy and his mother. With a slight bow of her head she retreated to the back of the platform where the other speakers were clapping.

  ‘Go forward, Grace,’ Miss Gregory urged. ‘They want you to.’

  Grace looked up. The crowd were clapping and calling her name. ‘Miss G
race! Miss Grace!’ She stepped forward to the front of the platform and inclined her head and a cheer rang out.

  ‘Well done, Grace,’ Mary Morris said in an undertone. ‘Very well done.’

  As the applause died away, Miss Morris put up her hand. ‘Miss Grace has given up her job of scrubbing floors to be with us for this tour. Would you be willing to spare a copper for her to give to her family, who will sorely miss her contribution?’

  Grace shook her head. ‘No,’ she objected in a low voice. ‘My ma and da wouldn’t want that. They said that I should come.’ But nevertheless she saw a hat going round and those who could afford it dropped in a coin.

  When the hat came back it was full to the brim, mainly pennies and halfpennies, though there was the odd piece of silver shining through the copper. The woman and boy were still sitting at the front of the crowd and Grace watched them. They were obviously very poor: the woman’s dress was ragged and torn, she wore no shawl and Grace guessed that her only one was covering her son.

  She took the hat from the man who had collected and thanked him, then, carefully balancing it with one hand, she took a penny from it and held it up for the crowd to see, and told the man to give the rest to the woman and boy.

  ‘I have my youth and strength to survive,’ she called out. ‘I thank you so very much. I shall keep this coin for ever and will use it only if I’m at death’s door.’

  The applause once again erupted at her generous gesture and she retired to the back of the platform in some confusion.

  The meeting concluded with a short prayer by the Reverend Rogerson and the singing of a hymn, led by his wife, and the crowd started to drift away.

  ‘You must be exhausted, Grace!’ Miss Emerson said. ‘Will you be able to do the same again on Tuesday?’

  ‘I’m not exhausted, Miss Emerson.’ On the contrary she was buoyed up and exhilarated by the response she had received and was quite ready for the next part of the tour.