Hannah Fox

by Elizabeth Jeffrey

Genres: General Fiction; Sagas

Synopsis

When Hannah Fox's younger brother Sam is ridden down in the street by Thomas Truswell, the spoilt son of the most powerful industrialists in Sheffield, she sets off to the Truswell's estate to complain. Lady Truswell is taken with the hot-tempered young girl who has come to demand an apology of her son. Promising to deal with Thomas, Lady Truswell offers Hannah a position as housemaid on the estate. But Hannah's father forbids her to have anything to do with the Truswells. In his anger he reveals that his grandfather was once in partnership with a Truswell, who stole his silver designs and made a fortune that should have rightly been shared with the Foxes. Dismissing this as history, Hannah resolves to defy her father - only to find that the Truswells' taste for treachery is not all in the past.

Release date: August 7, 2014

Publisher: Piatkus

Print pages: 449

Sample

It was one of the hottest days of the summer. Hannah could feel the sweat trickling down her back as she waited impatiently with the other girls while Joe Woods parsimoniously portioned out the wages. It wasn’t fair, she fumed. She had been the one who had run all the way to the cutlers with the finished knives and razors and all the way back with the money, yet she would be one of the last to be paid because she was the youngest – except for little Tilly, who was only fourteen, two years younger than Hannah, and not yet old enough to be trusted with the precious razors. Or the money.

At last it was her turn. She held out her hand, two fingers wrapped in bloodied rags.

‘That’ll learn thee to tek a bit more care ’andling t’stuff,’ Joe said, pointing to them as he counted out her meagre share. ‘I hope tha took care not to bloody t’razors.’

That was all he cared about, Hannah thought bitterly. She could have cut off her finger and he wouldn’t have cared as long as there was no blood on the razors.

She followed the other girls down the three flights of dim, rickety stairs. At each landing there were other workshops, and the grinders, chasers and silversmiths were all putting away their tools for the weekend, their grinding wheels and hammers still and silent now. Her father was there, along with the other grinders, but she didn’t wait for him. His first call would be to the beer house; the thirst of grinders was legendary.

She came out into the yard where a few brave blades of grass struggled up between the greasy cobbles. The tall tenement buildings surrounding it on three sides blocked out the blazing sun and the worst of its heat but the air was still hot, thick and stifling with the sulphurous fumes that rose from the forge as the forger threw a bucket of water on his fire to dowse it for the weekend.

Some of the other girls in the team of acid etchers who worked for Joe Woods stopped and hung about the yard, gossiping and waiting to flirt with the men as they came out. But Hannah didn’t wait. She was in a hurry because she was late – nothing new for a Saturday when the week’s work had to be finished and delivered before wages were paid – and Stanley would be waiting for her on the corner of Norfolk Street.

Ever since Hannah had begun work, two years ago, just before her fourteenth birthday, her young brother Stanley had met her every Saturday on her way home and she had filched a farthing from her wages to buy him a treat, a stick of candy or a liquorice strip. He was twelve years old, her only brother and her favourite.

She hurried along the crowded Sheffield streets, noisy with the clatter of clogs, horses’ hooves and iron-shod cart wheels, a tall girl, striking rather than pretty, with long, nut-brown hair that was usually tied back with rag, a pale complexion and a wide, generous mouth. But it was her eyes that people noticed. They were green, with hazel, almost golden flecks in them when she was angry or excited.

Not that she was often excited. Hannah’s life was nothing to get excited about. It was dull, hard and for the most part dirty. Only in her dreams did she rise above the daily grind, telling herself that there must be more to life than learning to be an acid etcher at Fletcher’s Wheel, as the tall, drab tenement where she worked was called. Fletcher’s Wheel, like any number of tenements in the courts off Arundel Street, housed some ten or a dozen workshops rented out to self-employed craftsmen in the cutlery and silverware industry. These men were known as ‘Little Mesters’, and they worked for a pittance in unspeakable conditions to produce the hand-crafted pocket-knives, razors and all manner of exquisite silverware, respected the world over because they bore the proud title ‘Made in Sheffield’.

This fact cut no ice with Hannah. Two years of working for Joe Woods and his team, delivering finished work to one firm, fetching rough work from another, collecting dinners from the cook shop, watching the various processes attached to acid etching, learning the dangers of corrosive acids, getting used to handling knives and razors that would have your finger off if you didn’t watch out, convinced her that she had been born to better things. Not that Joe Woods’ hull, as each workshop was known, was any worse than the rest. They were all filthy, the whitewash – bug-blinding as it was known – turned to a dirty, peeling grey, the windows so grimed with the smoke of the town that they hardly let in any light, the stairs narrow and rickety, the paintwork chipped and blackened.

It was amazing that such exquisite work should be turned out in such squalid surroundings. Hannah hated it. She envied her sister Mary, who had recently gone into service. Hannah would have liked that. But she didn’t have a choice. When it was time for her to leave school Nat Fox, her father, had happened to see a notice, GIRL WANTED, chalked up on the wall near Joe Woods’ acid etching workshop and with no thought of consulting her, decided that it would do for his eldest daughter.

She glanced down at her filthy, bloodied hands as she hurried along and tried to wipe the worst of the blood and grease off on to the ragged dress she wore for work, all the time craning her neck to look out for Stanley.

He saw her first because she was tall and he waved and began to weave his way through the crowd, shouting excitedly to her as he was jostled out into the gutter by a group of men straggling across the pavement and already halfway to being drunk.

‘Look out, Stan!’ she screamed, and stopped in her tracks, her hand to her mouth in horror as she saw what was about to happen, powerless to prevent it.

It was over in a flash. One of the men had staggered and knocked into Stan, pushing him off-balance so that he stumbled straight into the path of a horse and rider galloping by. The horseman lashed out furiously with his whip, knocking the boy down as the horse shied and kicked out. Then he galloped on, muttering and swearing, without so much as a backward glance.

Hannah began to push and elbow her way through the crowd that had gathered round Stanley, now lying unconscious and bleeding in the filth of the gutter.

‘Let me through. He’s my brother. Let me through,’ she kept shouting.

‘Aye. Let the lass through. He’s Nat Fox’s little lad an’ she’s his sister.’

‘Did tha see who was ridin’ t’horse? ’E was goin’ as if all t’devils in ’ell were after ’im.’

‘Ay. It were young Truswell. Cutler Truswell’s son.’

‘He might have stopped, to see if t’little lad was hurt.’

‘Stop? Not ’im. He’s a reet mad allick, is that one.’

‘There were no need to lash out at t’lad that road. It weren’t ’is fault.’

‘Poor lad could have been killed.’

‘Niver even looked back.’

‘Aye. Well, ’e wouldn’t, would ’e? Too bent on cuttin’ a dash.’

All this Hannah heard without really registering as she fought her way through to Stanley, lying where he had been thrown, in the gutter, a spreading pool of blood staining the filth.

She smoothed his hair back and her hand came away sticky with blood.

‘Oh, Stan, lad, what have they done to you?’ she whispered, cradling his limp figure in her arms. He was pale as death, his eyes closed.

‘D’you live far?’ Someone touched her on the shoulder.

‘Off Wicker Lane,’ she said without turning. ‘Number three Angel Court.’

‘Give him here. I’ll carry him back for you. He’ll not weigh more than two penn’orth.’

‘Thank you.’ She stayed crouched, watching, as the young man lifted Stanley gently in his arms and straightened up. She recognised him at once. He was Reuben Bullinger, a grinder who worked in the next hull to her father. She got to her feet to follow him and out of the corner of her eye she noticed something glittering in the filth of the gutter. She bent and picked it up. It looked like a gold thimble. Then she realised that it was the ferrule from the young horseman’s whip. ‘By,’ she whispered through gritted teeth, ‘he must have struck our Stan with some force to knock the end off his whip. Strikes me he’s the one who could do wi’ horse whipping, lashin’ out at a young lad like that just because he fell in his path.’ She clenched her hand round the ferrule. ‘By ’eck, if I could get my hands on him, boss’s son or no boss’s son I’d give him whip!’ Still clutching the ferrule she hurried after Reuben.

Jane Fox finished suckling the baby and put her down in the box that served as her crib. She was her tenth child, a pretty little thing, four months old now and still healthy. Frances, they’d called her, Fanny for short. Jane touched the downy cheek. It didn’t do to get too fond of babies, they had a habit of worming their way into your heart and then breaking it by dying. Jane knew this from bitter experience. Four of her children were already in the churchyard, three of them never even drawing breath and the fourth dying after a matter of weeks. But this one looked as if she’d hold on to life. Jane smiled down at her.

‘You’re a bonny lass, Fanny Fox, even if you have made your Dad mad by being another girl. But I don’t care. You stay bonny, that’s all I ask.’

She cocked her ear as she heard a commotion in the yard. Quickly, she straightened up and hurried to the door.

‘Yes, that’s the one.’ Hannah was pointing to the open door. Then she saw Jane. ‘Mam, it’s our Stan. He’s been knocked down. He’s hurt bad. Mr Bullinger carried him all the way home for me.’

‘Bring him in and lay him on the couch, there.’ A quick anxious look at her son and Jane indicated the old horsehair sofa with its stuffing hanging out. ‘And thank you kindly for your trouble, Mr Bullinger. It was good of you to carry him home.’

Carefully, Reuben put the boy down. He didn’t know much about these things but the lad looked pretty bad to him. ‘Shall I fetch the doctor, Missus?’ he asked Jane.

Jane shook her head. There was no money for doctors in the Fox household.

‘Thanks all the same, but we’ll manage for ourselves,’ she said covering Stanley with a ragged blanket. ‘Blood allus makes things look worse. Hannah, love, fetch water and a cloth.’ She turned to the two little girls who had crowded round to look at their wounded brother. ‘You little ’uns, off you go, out and play in the yard. Give the poor lad room to breathe.’

Hannah took a bowl and went out to the yard to the tap. Reuben followed her. He was a tall, thin man of about twenty-five with a pale, serious face. Although he was a grinder he didn’t behave like the others, swearing and spending most of their hard-earned money in the beer house. He lived with his mother and attended the local Ebenezer Chapel, which forbade both swearing and drinking. Because of this he was ‘different’ and the other men at Fletcher’s Wheel didn’t know how to treat him so they left him alone, making fun of him behind his back.

‘Thanks for fetching our Stanley back,’ she said as she waited for the bowl to fill. ‘It was good of you.’

‘I hope he’ll mend well. I shall pray for him.’ He frowned. ‘It looks bad, that cut on his head. Wants stitching. And I noticed as I carried him home there’s a nasty cut on his shoulder where the whip caught him.’

She nodded and gave him a brief smile, anxious to be rid of him now that Stanley was safely home. ‘We’ll see to it. Any road, thank you.’

‘You’re cut, too.’ He pointed to the bloody rags round her fingers.

‘Oh, that’s nowt. They’ll soon mend.’ She hurried back indoors with the bowl.

The house was only one room deep but it was on four floors counting the cellar, which was too wet and rat-ridden to be used for much except keeping the coal, when they had any. The living room, on a level with the yard, was spotlessly clean but sparsely furnished. A table, two benches, the sofa and a stickback elbow chair beside the fire was the sum total, with a rag rug at the hearth. A cupboard built in beside the chimney breast held what food and crockery there was. Upstairs there was a double bed shared by Nat and Jane and the latest baby while the three girls slept on the floor in the attic. Stanley came off best because now he was growing up he slept on the sofa in the living room.

Nathaniel Fox had never over-provided for his family; his thirst took priority over their needs.

As Jane gently sponged Stanley’s head Hannah told her how the accident had happened. There was an ugly gash above his temple and a long laceration stretching from his shoulder to his elbow. She pointed to the gash. ‘I reckon that’s where the horse kicked him,’ she whispered. ‘An’ look, that’s where the whip caught him.’ Her voice rose. ‘Oh, I could kill that …’

‘That’ll do, my girl. Carrying on like that won’t do our Stan any good,’ Jane cut in. ‘But I reckon you’re right. Looks as if that whip caught him across the face, an’ all.’ She bent and kissed her son. ‘It were a cruel thing to do to you, lad,’ she whispered. Then she continued cleaning him up.

Stanley never moved as she worked and his breathing was shallow.

‘I should go for the doctor, like Mr Bullinger said,’ Hannah said, hovering anxiously. ‘He looks real bad.’

‘Don’t be daft. How would we pay a doctor?’ Jane’s voice was rough with worry because she knew Hannah was right.

‘I’ll pay.’ Hannah had been saving for months for a pair of soft leather boots like she’d seen in the window of Cockagnes department store but Stan’s well-being was more important than footwear, since she’d either worn clogs or gone barefoot for most of her life, anyway.

‘Wha’s to do, then?’ Nat came in. He’d received a message while he was with his mates at the beer house that his son had had his head kicked in. He didn’t like his drinking interrupted but Stanley was his only son, so he’d finished his beer and come home. Now he stood looking down at the boy, swaying slightly.

‘Wha’s wrong wi’ t’ lad?’ His speech was slurred as he tried to get his fuddled brain round the unaccustomed sight of Stanley lying still and pale, his face still streaked with traces of blood.

‘He had an accident, Dad,’ Hannah said. ‘He got knocked down and kicked by a horse.’

‘Whose bloody horse? I’ll kick his bloody horse, whoever it was. I’ll …’

‘He needs a doctor. Have you brought any money home or have you already tipped it all down your neck?’ Jane cut in, her voice harsh.

Nat stared at her owlishly. He wasn’t used to being spoken to like that. He felt in his pocket and slapped sixpence down on the table. ‘That’s all tha’s gettin’, woman, now shut thee face.’

He turned back to Stanley, trying to clear the haze from his mind. The lad looked proper poorly and no mistake. He wished he hadn’t paid Ma Ragley so much off the slate. She could have waited. Then they could have sent for the doctor. If only he’d known … But it wouldn’t do to admit that to Jane. A man had his pride.

He sat down at the end of the sofa, his hand on Stanley’s foot as if he could somehow pass life to him through the contact. Stanley was his pride and joy, his hope for the future. Stan was going to make a fortune and see his old dad right. And now he was hurt real bad and there was no money to send for the doctor.

He sniffed. It wasn’t really his fault. If Jane didn’t keep falling for babies she’d be able to work more and there wouldn’t be so many mouths to feed. He’d only to throw his trousers on the bed and she was up the duff again. All girls, too. Except the one. And now Stanley was hurt and he’d no money for the doctor.

‘It’s all right. Hannah’s gone for the doctor,’ Jane said, weakening under his hang-dog expression. ‘She’s paying, too. She’s a good lass, is Hannah.’

‘Aye. She’s a good lass.’ He coughed, long and hard. Jane watched him, an extra knot of anxiety twisting in her chest. Grinder’s asthma. He’d been lucky to reach the age of thirty-eight before it began to take its toll. Once it did there was no going back. No cure.

The doctor came back with Hannah. He put several stitches in Stanley’s head and went away, taking Hannah’s boot money with him. He hadn’t even looked under the blanket to see if there were any further injuries.

‘How did it happen? I want to know how it happened,’ Nat kept repeating. He was still sitting at the foot of the sofa, holding on to Stanley’s leg.

Hannah repeated what she had seen, leaving out the identity of the horseman and the fact that he had struck the boy with his whip.

‘Who was riding t’bloody horse, then?’ he demanded. ‘Tell me who was riding t’bloody horse!’

Hannah shrugged and lowered her eyes. ‘I didn’t see. Anyway, what does it matter? It wasn’t his fault. Stan fell in his path. He was pushed off the pavement.’

‘Tha’s a bloody liar, my girl. Tha did see. I can see it in tha face. Now, out with it. Who was it?’

‘I – I’m not sure. I believe it might have been young Truswell.’ She whispered the last word because she knew it would be like a red rag to a bull.

‘By Christ I knew it!’ He slapped his knee. ‘T’bloody Truswells again! Allus t’bloody Truswells! By God, if that lad dies …’

Hannah held her breath. The Truswells were the biggest cutlers in the town, barring Wolstenholmes, and her father hated their very name. In fact, ever since she could remember Nat had held the Truswells responsible for every misfortune, big or small, that befell the Fox family. She could never discover exactly why this should be, except that when he was drunk, which was most of the time, Nathaniel waxed maudlin on the subject of some mythical fortune that should have come to the Foxes if they hadn’t been cheated out of it by some member of the Truswell family. Just what this fortune was and how they had been cheated was never made clear; because when Nat was drunk he was practically incoherent and when he was sober even the mere whisper of the name Truswell was enough either to plunge him into black despair or to send him off on a tirade against fate, punctuating every other word with a blow in the direction of whichever child – or indeed Jane, his wife – happened to be within reach.

‘Never mind t’Truswells!’ Jane’s voice cut across Hannah’s thoughts. ‘Stan’s going to be all right, Nat. He’ll not …’ She couldn’t even bring herself to say the word. She bent over and stroked his hair, still wet from where she had bathed it and sticking spikily up through the bandage the doctor had wound round his head. ‘You’ll be all right, won’t you, lad? You’re strong. You’ll do.’

It was wishful thinking. Few children in Victorian Sheffield were healthy, let alone strong and Stanley was no exception. He was short for his age and his legs were rickety. But as if in answer his eyes fluttered open, then closed again.

‘There! What did I tell you?’ she said looking up happily.

Hannah, watching, felt in her pocket. The gold ferrule was still there. Her hand closed round it, giving her a warm, comforting feeling. Because here was something she could sell. And the money would provide endless delicacies to help Stanley’s recovery and if in the end he had to go to hospital – she was still anxious about the cut on his head even though her mother didn’t seem overconcerned – there would be money for that.

On the other hand – a sudden thought struck her – she could take it back to its rightful owner! And she could give him a piece of her mind with it! She’d let him know that just because his father owned Truswell’s Cutlery Works it didn’t give him the right to lash out with his whip at a young lad who had had the misfortune to fall under his horse. She’d let him see that the Foxes weren’t a family to be trifled with.

Her mind made up, she went out to the pump and fetched water which she took down the steps to the cellar. There she stripped off and washed carefully, ignoring the rat that watched with interest from the far corner. Then she went up to the attic and put on the only dress she possessed apart from the one she worked in. It was a red gingham that had faded to an almost uniform pink and was a bit tight under the armpits so she had to be careful as she brushed her hair and tied it back.

‘Where are you off to?’ Her mother looked up from spreading bread and dripping for the children’s tea, one eye still on Stanley.

Hannah tossed her head. ‘I’m going to Cutwell Hall to see t’Truswells,’ she said, without looking at her father, who was still sitting at the end of the sofa.

‘Thee’ll not go beggin’ to t’bloody Truswells!’ Nat sat bolt upright at the mention of the word Truswell.

Hannah looked at him coolly. ‘Why not, Dad? You’re always saying they owe us, so why shouldn’t they pay for Stan to get well?’

‘I’ll not have thee beggin’ favours.’

‘I’ll not be begging favours. But I’m going to tell them what happened an’ if they like to give me summat to pay for the doctor I shan’t refuse it.’ She had thought it all out and was determined not to be put off. ‘Fair’s fair, after all’s said and done.’

‘Fair’s fair!’ he mimicked. ‘Fair don’t come into it. When’s life ever been fair to me? I’m tellin’ thee. Thee’ll get nowhere. Thee don’t know t’bloody Truswells like I do.’

‘We’ll see.’

‘Tha’ll not see! Tha’s not goin’!’ Nat thumped his fist down on the table.

Hannah’s eyes flashed golden. ‘I’m going! It’s for our Stan an’ I won’t be put off.’ Her mouth set in a hard line.

‘Speak to me like that, my lass, an’ I’ll tek me belt off to thee.’ His face darkening with rage Nat stood up and began to unbuckle it.

‘My leg hurts.’ A plaintive little cry came from the sofa.

Nat and Jane both turned to their son. Hannah watched as Jane uncovered Stanley. His leg was swollen and bruised but it didn’t look too terrible.

She snatched the opportunity to slip away before her father got his belt off.

Hannah set off. She wasn’t altogether sure where Cutwell Hall was, except that it was on the edge of the town, out Endcliffe way, but she was sure she would be able to find it because the Truswells were sure to live in the biggest house.

She left the Wicker and crossed Lady’s Bridge. The River Don ran sluggishly beneath, murky and stinking from the filth that found its way into it, partly from the smoke-blackened steel mills and wire works that lined its banks and partly from other unsavoury sources. But she didn’t notice the smell as she hurried on; her thoughts were too full of what she would say to young Mr Truswell when she came face to face with him. He should be ashamed of himself, hitting a young lad so hard that the end came off his whip. Stanley could have died …

She hurried on, until she crossed the end of the road where her sister Mary worked. Halfway across she stopped in her tracks. Mary didn’t know about Stan’s accident. Perhaps she ought to be told. Just in case … It wouldn’t take a minute.

Impatient at having to make a detour yet knowing it was the right thing to do, Hannah ran up the road to the house where Mary now lived. Mary hadn’t long worked for the Brownings and all Hannah knew about them was that Mr Browning was a floor walker at Cockagnes, the big department store in Angel Street, and wore a frock coat. She hoped they wouldn’t mind her calling on Mary.

She reached the house, in a neat-looking terrace, and went down the steps to the basement and knocked at the door.

Mary answered it. She looked very smart in a white starched apron over her black uniform dress, a cap with long tails perched on her curls. She scowled when she saw Hannah.

‘Hannah! What’s up wi’ you? Can’t you leave me alone five minutes? It’s nobbut six weeks sin’ I left home.’

‘I’ve come to tell you about our Stan. I wouldn’t have come, else,’ Hannah said sharply.

‘What about him, then?’ Mary said impatiently, obviously with no intention of asking her in.

‘He’s had an accident. He were knocked down and kicked by a horse. He’s hurt bad.’

Mary covered her mouth with her hand and her voice changed immediately. ‘Oh, Annie! How bad is he?’ Now she stood aside for Hannah to enter.

‘Bad enough for t’doctor to come and stitch his head,’ Hannah said bluntly.

Mary slumped down on a chair, still with her hand to her mouth. ‘Is it …? Will he …?’

Briefly, Hannah told her what had happened, finishing, ‘It were an accident. Our Stan was shoved into the road by some fellas who’d had too much to drink. It wasn’t his fault he fell near the horse and scared it.’ Her expression hardened. ‘But there weren’t no call for young Mr Truswell to lash out at him the way he did.’

‘Oh, my Lor’.’ Mary’s eyes closed as if to shut out the scene her imagination had conjured up.

‘Do you want to run home and see your brother for yourself, Mary, lass?’ Cook looked round from the depths of the rocking chair where she was resting her aching feet. ‘I’m sure t’missus wouldn’t mind.’

Mary hesitated. She didn’t want to go home. She didn’t want to go home ever again to squalid Angel Court – Angel Court, that was a laugh – where her father did nothing but work and drink his senses away and her mother slaved her fingers to the bone trying to keep the family decent and where the cradle never seemed to be empty. Here at the Brownings’ she slept in a proper bed, in a room that was all her own. She’d discovered that there was a better life and she was determined never to be dragged back to the old one. She shook her head, half ashamed.

‘No, better not. I’ve got to take t’missus her tea soon,’ she mumbled. She turned to Hannah. ‘But you’ll let me know how he goes on, Annie, won’t you? You can come any time,’ she added eagerly, trying to make amends both for her lack of welcome and her reluctance to go back home. ‘Can’t she, Cook?’

‘Aye, that she can. And welcome.’ Cook smiled round her chair at Hannah.

‘Don’t forget to give our Stan my love.’ Mary went over to the dresser. ‘Oh, and you can take him …’

‘I can’t take him anything. I’m not going home just now,’ Hannah said quickly, going to the door.

Mary looked round in surprise. ‘Where are you off to, then?’

Hannah pulled back her shoulders. ‘I’m going to have it out with young Mr Truswell at Cutwell Hall. Look.’ She opened her palm and showed Mary the gold ferrule. ‘This came off his whip when he lashed out at our Stan. That just shows how hard he hit him. Well, he can have it back and I’ll give him a piece of my mind to go with it. Nobody treats my little brother like that an’ gets away with it.’

Mary’s eyes widened. Then she laughed. ‘Don’t be daft. You’ll never get near him. Look at you. You haven’t even got any shoes.’

Hannah didn’t laugh. ‘Maybe not,’ she said grimly. ‘But I’ve got this, haven’t I!’ She threw the gold ferrule up in the air and snatched it as it came down. ‘And look, it’s got his initials carved in it. TJT, so he can’t pretend it isn’t his.’ She shook it in her fist. ‘By, you just wait till I see him …!’

Mary watched her climb the steps to the road. ‘Well, I wish you luck,’ she called after her. ‘But you’re wasting your time, if you ask me. They’ll never let you see him.’ She turned back into the house, adding, ‘But I wouldn’t want to be in his shoes if she does. I know what my sister’s like when she gets her dander up!’

Hannah continued on her way, out on to the long, long road, uphill nearly all the way that led to Endcliffe and hopefully to Cutwell Hall, where Sir Josiah Truswell and his son lived. As she walked she thought about her younger sister.

She hoped Mary realised how lucky she was to be working in that lovely house. Hannah had only seen the kitchen but she had been impressed by all the china arrayed on the dresser, plates of all sizes, with big dishes and enormous oval platters all to match, and the rows of saucepans hanging along the wall near the big range and the polished copper jelly moulds displayed on the mantelpiece. She had never seen anything like it in all her life.

And Mary had looked so smart in her uniform. It suited her slim figure and pretty face. She had always been the ‘lady’ of the family, Hannah reflected. She had never liked scrubbing floors or helping with the little ones, preferring to play in the street or to hide away to sort out her treasures, such as they were, in the box she kept in the attic beside her bed. And Mary had never been the one that had had to stay at home from school, losing precious learning time when Mam was lying-in with yet another baby. That had always fallen to Hannah, being the eldest. Yet Mary had hated going to school. Hannah was the one who was desperate to learn.

Guiltily, Hannah pushed away the feeling of envy towards her younger sister, remembering that she had good reason to be grateful to Mary. Because Mary had helped her to fill in the schooling she had been forced to miss, albeit reluctantly. It had been real hard work, Hannah thought wryly, recalling how she had bullied her sister into helping her with her letters and numbers. In fact, in the end Hannah could read and write and do figure work better than Mary could by dint of practically teaching herself, sitting at the kitchen table when the others were in bed, nearly drop