Liverpool, 1864. When Jemima Jenkins's beloved Pa passes away leaving her orphaned, she is cruelly thrown out of her lodgings and dismissed from her cherished job as a schoolmistress.
Offered a temporary home with her best friend Betty, Jemima is determined to avoid the workhouse and get back on her feet, even daring to hope about one day opening her own school for poor children.
But when she uncovers a mysterious letter, revealing shocking revelations about her past, Jemima's plans are cast into doubt.
Will Jemima's dreams come true or will the secret about who she really is jeopardise her one chance at finding happiness?
An enthralling and empowering Victorian saga, perfect for fans of Maggie Ford, Lyn Andrews, and Rosie Goodwin.
PRAISE FOR JUDY SUMMERS:
'I thoroughly enjoyed this book . . . The characters are well drawn and believable' Lyn Andrews
'Fascinating insights into Victorian Liverpool and a heart-warming story make for an inspiring read' Mollie Walton
READERS LOVE JUDY SUMMERS!
'I was enthralled throughout . . . an absolute rollercoaster of emotions'
'I simply could not put it down!'
'Judy Summers has left an impression on me, and my is it a good one!'
Release date:
April 10, 2025
Publisher:
Headline
Print pages:
400
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Jemima stared down into the rich, steaming cup of chocolate and tried not to cry.
It just wouldn’t do, not while she was here in a crowded public place, and particularly not when she was sitting on her own. She would make a sad spectacle of herself, and if word got back to Mrs Silverton that she’d done anything less than rigidly respectable, there would be trouble.
Being by herself wasn’t helping. Normally, of course, Betty would be here too, because this was where they always came on a Saturday afternoon after they’d been paid, spending a small portion of their wages on a weekly treat before taking the rest home. When Jemima had first been employed, she’d been more than happy to bring her entire pay packet back to Pa as her contribution – the wages paid to a fifteen-year-old female assistant teacher not being great, in any case – and proud to do so. But dearest Pa had insisted that she spend a little on herself first. After all, he’d pointed out, working men always kept some of their earnings back, so why shouldn’t she?
So, since last September, Jemima and Betty’s Saturdays had taken on a familiar and enjoyable routine. School in the morning, with Betty often rushing in late due to her family commitments, but Jemima having done Betty’s early chores as well as her own, to cover for her. Then lessons, recess, more lessons, and bidding farewell to the excited children as they ran off for their day and a half of holiday before Monday came round again. Then tidying up and sweeping the classrooms to the accompaniment of a lecture from Mrs Silverton on what they could have done better that week, then pay and an escape to Hopkins’ tea room for a drink of chocolate and a bun. Jemima was so grateful that Pa had—
She only just succeeded in choking back a sob. Because it was all going to end. This would be the last time she would ever sit at one of these tables, covered with their pretty cloths, the last time she would drink the chocolate and eat the macaroons for which Mrs Hopkins was famed. In fact Jemima shouldn’t be here today, even, not when Pa needed her; but he’d insisted, had said he’d be all right resting until she got back. She needed her treat, he said. She was a young thing and shouldn’t be cooped up in a sickroom when she could be out living her life. Still thinking of her, even at such a time: that was just like Pa.
And so Jemima sat, as a kind of farewell to old times. When her cup and plate were empty she would, again with great finality, pop into the grocery in the other half of the building and buy Pa a bag of his favourite barley sugar to bring home, even though he . . .
She really must compose herself. She picked up the chocolate and took a tiny sip. It was as delicious as ever, but she hardly tasted it. She needed to think of something else, or she would collapse in a heap, here with all these cheerful people around her.
Jemima tried to distract herself by looking around the room. It was crowded, as it always was on a Saturday afternoon. Naturally there were some people she didn’t recognise, but others she knew by sight, as they were post-wages regulars like herself and Betty. A sprinkling of other girls and young women in twos and threes, employed in the local shops; a few courting couples, the boys in tight white collars and the girls in their best hats; and the single elderly lady who always occupied the same table in the far corner, from where she could survey the room, and who was always treated with extreme deference by the staff.
The place was owned by a married couple – he running the grocery shop while she did the cooking and baking for the tea room – and between them they also seemed to manage a baby and a dog. Despite the establishment’s modest air, the quality of the Hopkins pies, pastries and delicacies was renowned among Liverpool’s lower middle classes, and business was thriving. And, of course, it served no alcohol, so it was an entirely respectable establishment in which two young assistant teachers could drink tea or chocolate without risk to their reputations or positions.
Jemima rarely saw Mrs Hopkins herself, except for a glimpse of her flying about the kitchen whenever the door opened, as most of the serving was done by a cheerful woman called Sally and a girl, Hannah, who was two or three years younger than Jemima. The sole exception was that Mrs Hopkins would always personally bring out the tray for the elderly lady in the corner, stopping to exchange a few words before she went back to her ovens and pans.
With a sigh, Jemima realised that she’d managed to take her mind off everything for about one minute, but now the weight was settling heavily on her shoulders again. Despite her best efforts, a tear splashed into her cup. There was no point in staying here. It had been a mistake to come, especially when Betty had been obliged to rush straight home after work today, needed to look after some of her many younger siblings while her mother went out. But somehow Jemima had convinced herself that as long as she continued with her usual routine, as long as she collected her wages and walked to the tea room and had her chocolate and her macaroon, that everything would still be normal. But it wasn’t, was it? And nothing would ever be the same again.
‘Excuse me, dear, do you mind if I join you at this table?’
Jemima looked up and found, to her surprise, that she was being addressed by the elderly lady. She glanced over to the table in the corner to see that it was already being occupied by someone else, so she could hardly refuse; besides, it would be bad manners to do so. ‘Of course, ma’am.’ Politely, Jemima stood and pulled out the opposite chair, waiting until the woman was comfortably seated before she took her own place again.
Given the way in which she was always so carefully waited on by the staff, Jemima had assumed that the woman would be stern, but now she had the chance to observe her at close quarters she could see a kind face with smile lines around the eyes.
It was absolutely necessary to try to appear normal, so with a huge effort Jemima prepared herself for a bit of small talk. ‘I do believe,’ she said, pushing the crumbling remains around her plate, ‘that Mrs Hopkins must make the best macaroons in Liverpool, if not in England.’
By complete chance, this seemed to be exactly the right thing to say; the woman beamed. ‘That she does. She was a talented cook from the first moment she stood at the range as a girl, and she’s only gone from strength to strength since then.’
Comprehension dawned. The pride in the voice, the reference to Mrs Hopkins as a child, the way she always made time to come out personally: this must be her mother. Thank goodness Jemima had said something positive rather than putting her foot in it!
She sat up straighter. ‘I’m so glad we agree, Mrs . . .?’
‘Roberts, dear. Mrs Roberts.’ There was a slight pause before she continued. ‘Now, you might call me a nosy old woman, and if you prefer then I’ll go away again. But I’ve been able to give a sympathetic ear to many, many girls over the years, and if it helps you to talk to a stranger, please do. One thing is plain, and that’s that you’re not your usual self today. I see that your friend isn’t here, but if you’re upset because you’ve fallen out, there’s surely a way to put things right.’
Jemima couldn’t help but correct the mistake. ‘Oh no, ma’am, that’s not it at all. She just had to go home early today to help her mother.’
Mrs Roberts nodded, and Jemima understood she hadn’t actually thought that was the problem at all; she’d only used it to get Jemima to talk. But now she’d started, she somehow wanted to continue, and what was the harm in speaking to someone she would, in all probability, never see again? It wasn’t as if she had anyone else to confide in, except Betty, who had plenty of concerns of her own, and the relief of having an older, wiser woman at hand was suddenly irresistible.
Fighting back against a renewed threat of tears, Jemima managed, ‘It’s my Pa.’
Mrs Roberts made no reply, but her mouth set in a line.
Jemima was flustered at the implication. ‘Oh no, not that! He could never be— no, he’s the dearest Pa in the world. But . . .’ She forced herself to say the words out loud over the heaving of her chest and the lump in her throat, the words she could hardly bring herself to think, never mind speak. ‘He’s dying.’
She heard a sharp intake of breath. ‘Oh, my dear, how terrible for you.’
Jemima’s hand was lying on the table next to her cup, and she felt it being taken in Mrs Roberts’s own. The warmth of the touch, the kindness of it, was what really made her tears flow, and with her other hand Jemima groped for her handkerchief.
‘Now, my dear,’ continued Mrs Roberts, with great compassion in her voice, ‘I’m sorry that there’s nothing I can do or say that will take that pain away from you. It will be a very difficult time for you and for all your family. But the rest of you will be able to support each other, so I hope you can take comfort from that. Your mother, your brothers and sisters?’
Jemima shook her head and lowered her face, scrubbing it with the handkerchief. Slowly she allowed it to be coaxed out of her that she would be completely alone once Pa was gone: Ma had died when Jemima was a little girl, and there were no other siblings.
Mrs Roberts’s face assumed a greater expression of concern as the sad tale continued and Jemima belatedly realised that she had no business – no right – to be burdening a stranger with her problems. What on earth was she thinking? And people would be staring by now.
‘I really must go,’ Jemima said, standing up so abruptly that the dregs of the chocolate nearly slopped out of the cup. ‘Pa absolutely insisted that I should come here today, just like normal, but I’ve been away from him too long.’
Mrs Roberts retained Jemima’s hand just for a moment. ‘I know that I’m nothing to you, my dear, just some stranger in a tea room. But if you ever need a sympathetic ear, or a cup of tea – or both – then you’ll find me here most afternoons.’
Jemima nodded.
‘And . . . may I know your name?’
Had she not mentioned it when Mrs Roberts had introduced herself? How ill-mannered of her. ‘It’s Jemima, ma’am. Jemima Jenkins.’
‘Well, I wish you nothing but the best, Jemima Jenkins, and remember that Hopkins’ tea room will always be a place of sanctuary.’
‘Thank you, ma’am, and thank you for listening. I’m grateful, I really am. But I must get back to my Pa.’
Jemima just about managed a collected walk out of the tea room, rather than a full-scale flight, but it was close. She stopped in the vestibule for a moment to take a few deep breaths and then entered the grocery.
Mr Hopkins was busy with another customer, chatting in his normal calm and kindly manner as he helped her to pack her purchases, but the boy who was his assistant spotted Jemima and gave a grin. ‘Afternoon, miss! Quarter of barley sugar, is it?’
‘Yes please, Charlie.’ He was a bright lad, who must have been a pleasure to teach when he was at school. Jemima wondered which one he’d attended, and whether his work in the shop had helped with his arithmetic.
As it happened, he was a little too bright and perceptive today. He handed over the twist of paper, took her coin and peered closely at her. ‘You all right, miss? Do you need to sit down? Glass of water?’
Jemima stowed the sweets in the little shoulder bag she carried everywhere. ‘No, no, I’m fine, thank you. Just some dust in my eye and a slight headache. I’ll walk it off on the way home.’
‘If you’re sure, miss. You go carefully, now.’
Everyone was being so kind. How could she bear it?
Jemima paused once more in the vestibule, looking back through the glass window of the door to the tea room. The efficient Hannah was clearing away the plates and cups from the table where Mrs Roberts still sat, and was evidently making some remark about her change of seat. They chatted for a moment and then the girl returned to the kitchen. Mrs Roberts began to stand, and Jemima hurried away so it would not seem as if she were waiting for the elderly lady in order to waylay her.
As she walked out of Williamson Square and along a crowded Duke Street, Jemima’s mind was in so much turmoil that she didn’t even stop to look properly in the windows of the many book- and print-shops that lined the road, her gaze merely sliding past their wares. John Gore’s was advertising bound volumes of the latest poetry by Browning and Tennyson. Hughes and Shaw was partly a bookbinders, but also displayed prints and papers, including the first part of a new monthly serialisation by Charles Dickens. George Perry’s window boasted a brand new plan of Liverpool and some fine engravings. Normally Jemima would have found all of this fascinating, and lingered in front of each, but today none of it held any interest.
Even if it did, it was an interest she would have to learn to do without, because what she’d been far too proud to mention to Mrs Roberts was the impending downturn in her financial situation. Not only was she about to lose her dearest Pa, to become an orphan, but she would have to survive on the pitiful wages paid to a single girl. There was a little money saved up, because Pa had always been so careful about it, but that wouldn’t last forever and she certainly had no scope to be extravagant. There would be no more chocolate or macaroons, to be sure, nor books or papers, but the situation was even more serious than that. Their boarding-house accommodation, in a well-kept establishment on a reasonably reputable street, would have to be exchanged for something much cheaper once she was on her own. It wasn’t ‘home’, not exactly, for they hadn’t had a proper one of those since Ma died, but the surroundings were at least familiar, comforting and safe, and she was going to lose all of that, too.
As Jemima walked on, in an almost dreamlike state, she had the strangest feeling that someone far behind her was calling out her name. She made a vague and half-hearted attempt to turn, but the street was packed and most of the tide was going in the same direction she was, and anyway she was surely imagining things. Was it due to her distress? The last thing she needed was to lose the ability to think clearly, even if she did have to put up with the tea-room fare sitting uneasily in her stomach. She resolutely ignored the voice and continued on her way.
Soon Jemima had turned off on to the not-quite-so-smart Suffolk Street, and a hundred yards after that into the shabbier Pitt Street, which was just about holding on to respectability by the tips of its fingers. The boarding house did at least front on to the street, and wasn’t hidden away down a back alley, and it boasted a scoured white step and a brightly polished door-knocker. Jemima didn’t need to knock or to ring the bell; as trusted long-term residents she and Pa had been honoured with a key to the front door.
Inside, the hallway was quiet, and Jemima paused for a moment in front of the small looking glass to take off her bonnet. Smoothing her hair, she saw a pale face with sad, reddened eyes staring back, so unlike the blooming reflection that used to greet her. Her chief concern was that Pa would notice and that it would upset him further, although he was so far gone by now . . . Just in case, she dabbed at her eyes with the rather damp handkerchief and pinched her cheeks to bring a little colour to them. Then she exhaled slowly before she climbed the stairs, bracing herself for what she might find.
The house was divided into rooms and apartments of varying sizes and rents. Thanks to Pa’s careful financial management over the years, they were able to afford to live in the best situation it had to offer: two rooms on the first floor, with a view over the street to the front. It wasn’t quite like renting a house of their own, as Jemima remembered from her earliest years; but it was convenient, and their meals were included in the rent, so she didn’t even have to cook when she got home each evening.
At first Jemima’s key wouldn’t turn, and because she still wasn’t thinking properly it took her a moment to realise that this was because the door was already unlocked. She pushed it open to find that Mrs Lewis, the landlady, was sitting by Pa’s side, where his bed was placed over by the window. Bless him, he’d always insisted that Jemima should have the apartment’s bedroom to herself, so she had her own private space in there while he slept on one side of the sitting room. The creak of him settling on the narrow single bed, long after Jemima was safely tucked up under her own blankets, was one of the most familiar and comforting sounds of her childhood. This arrangement made the actual living space a little cramped, but there was still room for a couple of chairs and a kettle by the fire, along with a small table and some shelves for their few plates and cups and Pa’s little collection of books. It wasn’t much, but it was theirs, hers and Pa’s.
Mrs Lewis turned as she heard the door, putting down her sewing so she could bring a finger to her lips. ‘He’s asleep,’ she whispered. ‘I had mending to do, so I thought I might as well keep him company until you got home. He was awake for a while, and knew me, but then he dropped off.’ She stood up, still keeping her voice low. ‘I’ll go now that you’re back. I’ve tonight’s tea to get ready.’
Jemima thanked her. She heard the door close but paid little heed to the sound of footsteps on the stairs, because all her attention was fixed on the pale wreck of a man who lay in the bed.
Years ago, when life was full of sunshine, the name of James Jenkins had been a byword down at the docks for size and strength. He could lift more weight, carry more loads and keep going for longer than any other man there. He’d been a coal heaver, one of the most demanding jobs imaginable: these workers unloaded huge, heavy, filthy sacks off the barges that docked continuously, all day every day, and then carried them on their broad shoulders and bent backs across to the wagons that would take them out into the fuel-guzzling city. Only the very strongest and fittest men were employed for the task, because the weight would crush anyone less able, but it was so demanding that the working lifespan of a coal heaver was only about ten years. It couldn’t be started until a man was in his twenties – nobody younger had the strength – but it was all over by the time he reached his mid-thirties, because by then he’d be twisted with pain, coughing, exhausted and broken. This didn’t bother the employers, who could simply choose from among the ready supply of younger, fitter men looking for work, but it meant the start of a slow decline for the heavers themselves.
Such had been the case for Pa, and as Jemima had grown up, he’d been on his way down. First he’d slipped from his coveted full-time and well-paid position to queuing up for casual daily-paid labour unloading lighter goods. After a while the aches and pains had caught up with him, the wheezing in his chest had got worse, and he sank into lowlier and lighter work which paid less and less. And then, within the last year, some kind of illness had struck him. It was difficult to know what it was – he’d had no specific accident and hadn’t fallen into a fever – but it was like something was eating him up from the inside. He’d become gaunt and then skeletal, struggling at work and eventually being let go entirely. His pride had kept him upright a little while longer, as he attempted to make himself useful by doing odd jobs round the house for Mrs Lewis, but soon he’d got so weak that he’d been forced to take to his bed. He would never leave it again; Jemima had known that for some while, as she nursed him and watched his skin stretch ever more tightly over his bones. Her beautiful Pa was an emaciated ruin, a man not yet forty-five who looked ninety.
There was no real need for a fire at this time of year, but Pa did get so cold these days that Jemima lit one. There was already water in the kettle, so she set that to boil, hoping she might be able to get him to sip a little tea when he awoke. There wasn’t much else to do: the room was clean and Mrs Lewis had obviously been doing a bit of dusting while she’d been there, judging by the few bits and pieces that had been knocked askew.
Jemima straightened the books on their shelf, managing the ghost of a smile as she remembered each one and what they’d meant to Pa. He’d never been to a proper school, having been sent out to work at a young age, but he’d learned his letters at Sunday school and then continued practising as much as he could when he was older. Liverpool was a wonderful place for working men who wanted to improve themselves: thanks to various rich benefactors there were public lectures, and even a library where books could be borrowed by anyone who was a member. Pa had attended every free event he possibly could, eager to learn anything new whatever the subject. After Ma had died he’d sometimes taken Jemima with him, if no neighbour was available to mind her, and when she was little she’d been treated as a novelty, patted on the head by the other men and sometimes given sweets or a farthing. But as she grew older she’d been aware of an undercurrent of hostility, murmurs of how this wasn’t the place for a young woman, who ought to be at home seeing to domestic matters.
Pa had ignored all this and encouraged Jemima to learn, as well as himself; not just so he would have someone to talk to about it all, but genuinely for her own sake, because ‘learning is never wasted’. He’d also insisted that she attend a proper school, paying the pennies to keep her at it even as his earnings shrank, so she could make something of herself. ‘You’re my Jemima,’ he used to say, ‘and I believe in you.’ And his belief and support had paid off: the day Jemima had come home to say she’d been offered her present position had been one of the proudest of Pa’s life. He, a dock labourer, a working man since the age of eight, was now the father of an assistant teacher! He’d taken her hands and spun her around the room, laughing and saying how proud her Ma would have been.
It had been suggested to Jemima more than once, by jealous fellow schoolgirls and scornful boys, that she was lucky to get all this attention from Pa, and that it was probably because she had no siblings, and specifically no brothers. If Pa had been the father of sons he might have saved those precious pennies for them rather than educating a mere girl, they told her, but Jemima knew in her heart that he would have encouraged her anyway. He loved her, and that knowledge was a constant in her life.
It was, however, unusual to be an only child, and Jemima often wondered how this had come about, especially when Pa liked children so much. Obviously Ma had died young, but Jemima had been five and a half at the time, so she might well have been left with two or even three younger siblings, judging by the size and shape of other families. And there were no older brothers or sisters, either, for all that Ma and Pa must have been married for some while before Jemima came along. But she’d been too young to wonder about all this while Ma was alive, and she hadn’t liked to ask Pa after their loss in case it caused him upset. They just went on together: she being everything to him just as he was to her. Privately, though, Jemima did sometimes feel the lack of siblings and wished that she had at least one sister. But that was never to be, so there was no point in dwelling on it. Ma had a favourite saying, one of the few things Jemima could remember properly about her: ‘If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.’ Life, she said, was what you made it.
Pa’s books were now all neat on their shelf, properly lined up and grouped according to subject area. The collection was small but wide-ranging, including a few novels and volumes of literature as well as factual works on engineering, farming and history. When he woke up he might be lucid for a little while, as he still sometimes was in the afternoons, so Jemima would pick something out to read to him.
She heard him stir just as she was running her hands along the lettered spines, so she moved to the vacant chair next to the bed and took his hand. ‘Pa? Pa, can you hear me?’
He made a vaguely coherent sound, and she felt her hand being lightly squeezed by the gaunt fingers.
‘Do you think you could drink some tea for me? The kettle’s on.’
He didn’t reply, but he did lick his lips, which Jemima took as meaning yes. She sat stroking his hair until the water boiled, then made tea and poured him half a cup. She knelt by the bed and slipped one hand under his head to support it while he managed a few sips.
‘There now, Pa, that’ll do you good.’ This close to him, she could hear the terrible wheezing and . . .
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