The Girl with the Scarlet Ribbon

by Glenda Young

Genres: Historical Fiction; Sagas

Synopsis

'In the world of historical saga writers, there's a brand new voice' My Weekly

From the author of Pearl of Pit Lane, a dramatically powerful and romantic saga of tragedy and triumph.

If you love Dilly Court and Rosie Goodwin, you'll LOVE Glenda Young!

'You deserve more than this, Jess... You deserve to know the truth about the McNallys.'

When a newborn baby girl is found abandoned with nothing but a scarlet ribbon tied to her basket, Ada Davidson, housekeeper of the wealthy McNally family's home, the Uplands, takes her into her care. Sworn to secrecy about the baby's true identity, Ada names her Jess and brings her up as her own, giving Jess no reason to question where she came from.

But when Ada passes away, grief-stricken Jess, now sixteen, is banished from the place she's always called home. With the scarlet ribbon the only connection to her past, will Jess ever find out where she really belongs? And will she uncover the truth about the ruthless McNallys?

Praise for Glenda Young:

'I really enjoyed Glenda's novel. It's well researched and well written and I found myself caring about her characters' Rosie Goodwin

'Will resonate with saga readers everywhere...a wonderful, uplifting story' Nancy Revell

'All the ingredients for a perfect saga and I loved Meg; she's such a strong and believable character. A fantastic debut' Emma Hornby

'Glenda has an exceptionally keen eye for domestic detail which brings this local community to vivid, colourful life and Meg is a likeable, loving heroine for whom the reader roots from start to finish' Jenny Holmes

'I found it difficult to believe that this was a debut novel, as "brilliant" was the word in my mind when I reached the end. I enjoyed it enormously, being totally absorbed from the first page. I found it extremely well written, and having always loved sagas, one of the best I've read' Margaret Kaine

Look out for Glenda's other compelling sagas, Belle of the Back Streets, The Tuppenny Child and Pearl of Pit Lane.

(P)2020 Headline Publishing Group Limited

Release date: May 14, 2020

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 384

Sample

26 September, 1903

Mary gripped the iron bedstead with both hands. She’d never felt pain like it before. She opened her mouth, tried to tell her mam not to pull so hard, tried to say something, anything, that would make her stop. But each time she tried to speak, her words were lost in a tortured cry. She clawed at the sodden bedsheet beneath her.

Mary’s aunt Peg kneeled at her bedside, rinsing blood from a cloth. She bit her bottom lip.

‘I told you we should’ve called the doctor,’ she hissed at her sister Eva. ‘How many times did I tell you? You’re going to rip the girl apart!’

Mary was so wrapped in pain that she missed the look her mam gave Peg. But she heard every one of her words.

‘It’s a right little stubborn so-and-so. Doesn’t want to come out,’ Eva said, shaking her head.

Mary writhed in agony. Her breath came out of her thick and fast. She felt as though her insides were splitting open. Her dark hair was drenched with sweat, and long strands stuck to her face. The pain heaved in her stomach. Over and over it came; great waves of sickening agony.

Eva squared her shoulders and slid her hands back towards Mary.

‘I’m going to try again, Mary. You hear me?’ she said briskly.

‘Push, Mary. Push!’ Peg called.

Peg handed her sister another damp cloth. It was pink from Mary’s blood, which was now swirling in the washstand bowl. Mary didn’t feel the touch of the cloth at the top of her legs as her mam did her best to clear away mucus and blood. She couldn’t feel anything other than pain ripping her in two as her baby fought its way out.

‘Come on, Mary! Push!’ Eva cried again.

The baby’s head inched from Mary’s body and into Eva’s waiting hands. Mary roared with pain and relief. As the baby came away, there was more blood, too much for Peg’s liking. She jumped to her feet.

‘I’ll get Dr Anderson!’

‘Will you shut up about the flaming doctor!’ Eva snarled. ‘Do you think I’d be delivering this bairn myself if we had money to spend on him?’

Peg rinsed another cloth and laid it on Mary’s brow as her niece lay sobbing on the bed. Eva lifted the bloodied baby and quickly appraised it. She was relieved to see that its tiny nose and mouth were clear.

‘It’s breathing,’ she said.

She laid the baby on top of Mary’s blood-soaked nightgown. Mary felt the weight land on her chest.

‘It’s a girl,’ Eva said.

Mary’s heart leapt at the words. A girl. She turned her head and saw Peg making the sign of the cross.

‘May God keep her safe. May God keep her strong.’ She spoke quietly, but both Mary and Eva caught her words.

‘There’s no point in asking God for favours for this bairn,’ Eva said sternly. ‘Mary knows what’s to happen. It’s all been arranged. Its future lies in someone else’s hands now.’

At her mam’s words, another, different pain hit Mary hard. Her mam was right: she knew exactly what was planned for her child. Or at least, what her mam had planned for it. But it wasn’t what Mary wanted. She had ideas of her own, for herself and her bairn, but she hadn’t dared breathe a word. She closed her arms protectively around the tiny life handed to her. Lying there bruised, torn and hurting, she was overwhelmed with a rush of feelings and emotions she’d never felt before. She was filled with a potent desire to protect the tiny baby, and for now, nothing else mattered.

Her daughter was crying at her breast, her tiny face ragged and red. Mary marvelled at the baby’s hair. It was as dark and thick as her own. She kissed the top of the little head.

‘It’s sticky,’ she said.

From under the bed Eva took the knife she’d kept ready. Peg saw the glint of steel and looked away. She couldn’t bear to watch. Mary closed her eyes too. Eva didn’t hesitate, and in seconds the cord was sliced through.

‘Peg. The blanket,’ she ordered. ‘Wipe the blood off the bairn, as much as you can. Go gently now. And then wrap her tight.’

Peg did as she was told. Eva took one of Mary’s hands, brought it to her lips and gently kissed her daughter’s fingers. Then she shook her head as if to dismiss a sentimental notion that threatened to overtake her.

‘Now, remember what we said. We’ll keep the bairn three nights to make sure it’s all right. That’ll give you time to rest,’ Eva said, businesslike. ‘Tonight Peg will bring you food and help you get cleaned up. On the fourth day, as soon as it’s light, you’ll take the child as we’ve discussed.’

Mary cradled her crying baby closer. Peg shook her head and tutted at her sister.

‘You’re really going to make her sell it, aren’t you? And for a pittance too.’

‘What choice do we have?’ Eva yelled. ‘You know we can’t keep it. I’ve got five mouths to feed and the bairns are starving as it is. We’ve been through it a million times, Peg. If I’d been able to get shot of it when we first found out she was pregnant . . .’

Mary felt an icy chill run through her.

‘Mam, please,’ she whispered. ‘Not now. Let me have this time with my baby.’

Eva nodded. ‘It’s no wonder the bairn took some getting out of you. It’s got a stubborn streak all right. And I know exactly who it gets that from.’

Mary closed her eyes to block out the sight of her mam’s weary, lined face. Her aunt Peg was still bustling about the room, tidying and cleaning. Peg was a short woman, younger and thinner than Mary’s mam. Her skirts rustled as she worked and the noise was as annoying as a wasp in Mary’s ear. She wanted to be left alone with her baby. They only had a few days together and she wanted to make the most of each precious moment. She kissed her daughter’s head again. The pain she’d suffered was suddenly replaced with great roaring waves of tiredness. Around her, she heard voices, her mam and Aunt Peg. The bloodied cloths were taken and fresh water brought in. She lay still as her aunt cleaned her legs, her arms, her brow. When all was done to Peg’s liking, Mary was finally left alone.

Outside the window, the grey light filtered down as dawn broke over the September day. Through the window, Mary saw the yard at the back of their tiny terraced home. She saw their tin bath hanging on the brick wall; she saw the door to the netty. The bedroom door slowly opened and her younger sisters Miriam and freckled little Gracie crept into her room.

‘It’s a girl,’ she whispered.

‘Can I stroke her?’ asked Gracie.

Mary shook her head. ‘She’s not a puppy, love.’

‘What are you going to call her?’ Miriam asked, as inquisitive as ever.

Mary’s heart dropped. The girls had no idea what lay ahead for Mary and her child. What she was going to do would break their little hearts. But she had no choice.

‘Best not to think of it yet,’ she said.

‘Why?’ Miriam wanted to know. ‘Will she die like our Sal did when she was a baby?’

‘She might,’ Mary replied. Telling a lie to her sisters was easier than telling the truth. The less anyone knew what she was up to, the better.

‘Leave me, girls, would you? I’m tired,’ she said.

‘We’re sleeping in the kitchen for three nights,’ Gracie said, excited. ‘Mam says we can’t sleep in here until you’re better.’

Mary closed her eyes and felt two tiny kisses on the side of her face, one from each of her sisters as they said their goodbyes.

Mary lay a long time in silence cradling her newborn, her skin warming the baby. Stubborn, her mam had called the child. If that was the case, then it was a trait she had inherited from Mary, for there was none so determined as her. The gossip in the village was that she was too headstrong and wild. It was this, they said, that had led to her getting herself pregnant, and at such a young age, just sixteen. They called her the lass with no shame and that name followed Mary wherever she went.

It was true, there was something spirited and impulsive about Mary that was born from a restlessness in her. She knew what the gossips said and she didn’t care. She just carried on in her hot-headed way, unconcerned about what others thought. But this time the gossip found its way back to Eva and the news had brought shame to their door. Eva knew they could never afford to keep Mary’s child. They had neither the money nor the means to feed it. But she knew a woman who would take it off their hands and pay them for it too. And so she arranged the sale. What she hadn’t banked on, however, was just how stubborn her daughter was, for Mary had a plan of her own.

The day passed slowly as Mary drifted in and out of sleep. In the bedroom, voices came and went, her mam’s and Aunt Peg’s, and she heard the door open and close. She felt the weight on her chest lighten as her daughter was lifted. She was aware of sounds in the room as the baby was cleaned. When she was replaced at her breast, Mary felt a cotton sheet about her child’s body that was cool to her touch. And then there was silence, just Mary and her baby. She ran through her plan again. She thought of the route she would take, not the one her mam had told her to walk, but to somewhere else in Ryhope, somewhere her mam had never been.

Three days later, Mary was sitting up in bed cradling her baby. She was feeling stronger, less broken and torn, but still in pain when she needed the netty. The baby was growing too, feeding greedily from her breast. Mary was planning again, running through what she needed to do. Her aunt Peg came into her room carrying a tray. On it was a bowl of thin soup and a chunk of heavy bread, along with a mug of hot tea. Peg lifted the baby and cradled it in her arms as Mary began to eat.

‘Your mam says you’re to head out at first light tomorrow when the streets will be empty,’ Peg said. ‘And if anyone sees you and asks what you’re doing out so early, you’re to tell them nothing.’

Mary nodded; she had to keep up the pretence that she was following her mam’s plan. She watched as Peg gazed at the sleeping child, wondering what thoughts lurked behind her aunt’s affectionate smile. Eva had told Mary many times throughout her pregnancy not to let herself become attached to the child. Oh, Mary knew the reasons why; she understood only too well how poor her family was. Why else had she decided on her own plan? What use would it do her to do as her mam wanted and sell the baby for a small fee? The money would disappear in a heartbeat once her dad got his hands on it. He’d go straight to the Railway Inn to sink pint after pint while Miriam and Gracie shared clothes and shoes that didn’t fit either of them and their stomachs rumbled with hunger. And there was already a baby to feed in the house: Mary’s brother George, who was just six months old and in constant need of food.

Mary knew there wasn’t enough money coming in to feed those who lived there, never mind another child. And then there was her dad, who’d threatened to throw her out on the streets when he’d been told she was pregnant. He’d demanded that she tell them who the father was, but Mary had kept quiet, even though he swore that he’d beat it out of her if he had to. Mary kept the identity of the child’s dad a secret from everyone who asked. Mary lived with her dad’s rage and her mam’s tears for months, and it was all Eva could do to stop Harry from disowning his daughter.

All through the nine months of her pregnancy, on the days when Mary was heaving with sickness and dropping with tiredness, Eva had been firm, reminding her that her baby would be sold. Both Eva and Mary knew that to keep the child would be to ruin its chances in life. To keep it would mean subjecting it to a lifetime of poverty, hunger and thirst. To keep it would have been cruel too, for it would have meant Mary’s child would always be known as a bastard; the child of the wayward girl who was stubborn and wild and caused gossip wherever she went. Worse still would be the malicious rumour carried on the breeze that Mary Liddle’s bastard was the child of a married man. It was a rumour that would taint Mary for as long as she lived in Ryhope, made all the worse because it was true.

It was her dad’s anger and her mam’s shame that had forced Mary to plan her own future. She would run away, as far away from Ryhope as she could. She’d leave the gossips behind and the words that tainted her. She’d start again somewhere else, somewhere that would offer her excitement and possibilities of the kind a small village like Ryhope never could.

In the dead of night, Mary lay still in her bed. She knew she had to carry out her plan while she still had the bedroom to herself, while her sisters and brother were asleep in the kitchen. In her mind, she followed the route from her home to where she would take her child. She’d walked the pathways many times before, in all weathers too, day and night. It wasn’t far and it wouldn’t take long. But this time would be different. She would be carrying her daughter in her arms and a heaviness in her heart.

She slid one leg from under the sheet and touched her foot to the bare wooden floor. She tried to sit up, holding tight to her baby, but it took effort to steady herself. Working with just one hand, the other cradling her child, she dressed quickly, pulling a cloth dress on over her nightgown. There was a cotton belt at the waist to give the dress shape, but she let it fall. It didn’t matter how she looked that night. She would need to tidy herself up in the morning, but tomorrow was another day. What mattered right now was taking the child to the place she had in mind.

She pulled a woollen jacket over her dress and slipped her feet into the pair of boots she shared with her mam. Eva would go barefoot the next day, and the next, when she discovered Mary missing. She ran a brush through her long hair then pulled on a black woollen hat and tugged it down low on her head. It was dark out, but there was still a chance she might be seen. She pushed her hair down inside her jacket and brought the collar up. She pushed her feet forward in her boots. Mary ached everywhere and was overwhelmed with exhaustion, but there could be no stopping her now.

She dipped a hand into the jacket pocket and was reassured when it rested on what she knew to be there. She ran the precious item lightly through her fingers before pushing it securely down. In another pocket she felt the piece of paper ripped from a page in the Sunderland Echo. It contained an advert for Mrs Guthrie’s domestic agency offering a free overnight bus ticket to London. The ticket money would be taken from the first week’s wages of work once in London, which Mary felt fair. When she was certain she had all she needed, and with her baby wrapped tight, she headed into the night.

She left the cottage by the back door, walked through the yard and into the lane. She kept close to the wall for fear that anyone who couldn’t sleep and might be gazing from their window would see her. Her steps were silent, her breathing calm as she hurried. She had planned this so well, it was as if her body knew what her heart and head were asking. Ahead of her she saw the tower of Ryhope Hall, illuminated by misty moonlight, rising above the cattle market. She turned left on Station Road in the cold, airless night. Again she followed the high wall, using its protection to hide her features from anyone who might be about. She was still hurting inside and over-tired, but was driven to do what was right. On the other side of the wall, the windows of Ryhope Hall looked down to the road. She doubted very much if anyone there would know or care who she was, unless the staff had heard gossip too.

As she walked, she took care not to disturb her baby or cause her to wake and cry, for that would bring attention she didn’t need. A dog barked in the distance and her heart jumped. She pulled the baby tight until the barking stopped, and only then did she continue on her way. Step by step along the dirt path she walked, with each step taking her closer to where she needed to be. To her right, trees and bushes hung over the wall, and a branch snagged on her jacket. It caught her arm, pulled the sleeve, and she cried out. Her eyes darted left and right, her heart pounded. Was there someone there? Was she being followed? She spun round but found only the blackness of an empty path.

She carried on walking until the village school came into view. Here, she knew she had to be careful. To reach the school she had to cross a wide expanse. There were no walls to walk alongside and no trees to hide under. Mary looked around and crossed the road, walking as quickly as her sore, tender body allowed. From the school she turned right on to Cliff Road. There were high walls again here, this time on both sides of the path. She was safe, out of sight. She was almost there. Just a few steps more.

Suddenly she stopped dead in her tracks. Her legs turned heavy, her feet seemed stuck to the path and her heart felt as if it would burst. Her baby squirmed in her arms. Was she hungry? Was she as frightened as Mary? Straight ahead of her was the Uplands, the house she’d worked in for years, the only job she’d ever had. She knew every inch of it, upstairs and down, for she’d cleaned and scrubbed it all.

The Uplands was one of Ryhope’s oldest and grandest homes. It was three storeys high and its front windows looked out over Cliff Road. The side of the house with its rounded bay windows faced a lawn that sloped gently to a thicket of hazel trees. There were three sets of chimneys for the roaring fires that Mary had once stoked to keep the residents warm. She knew what lay behind every window, behind every curtain and door. She knew the layout of the gardens and what flowers grew where; knew what vegetables would be ready for pulling from the soil. She knew the Uplands like the back of her hand.

She knew all of its secrets too.

The moon’s silvery light gave the house a mystic, icy air that Mary had never noticed before. A moment’s hesitation caused her mind to spin again. Was she doing the right thing? She shook her head to dismiss the notion. There was no choice. She could not countenance taking a small fee for the sale of her child from the woman her mam knew. No, she would not barter her bairn when there was the chance of giving her a good life. It would be a better life, different to anything the Liddle family could afford.

She took a deep breath and laid her hand on her baby’s head, taking comfort from the warmth of the child’s skin. Then she forced her feet forwards, one in front of the other, step by step towards the black iron gate. As she lifted the latch, it rattled in the silence. She stood stock still, listening in case the noise had alerted anyone inside. Only when she was certain that no one was coming did she carefully push the gate open.

The imposing, solid, tall black door of the Uplands was directly in front of her, so close she could have reached out and touched it. She gazed down at the wide doorstep, weathered and worn by centuries of footsteps. This was the first time she had come to the front door. Her position as housemaid when she’d worked at the house had obliged her to use the side gate. She crouched down, wondering where best to place her precious child. She reached a hand to the step; it was cold to her touch. A rush of anger roared in her head. How stupid she was, how careless, not to have brought a basket with her. She was about to take off her woollen jacket to wrap the baby in, but thought better of it. She needed the jacket, even if it was shapeless and worn, more than her bairn ever would. It was the most respectable item of clothing she had. And she needed to look respectable when she met Mrs Guthrie’s agent outside Sunderland Town Hall the next day.

Suddenly she remembered the woodshed in the grounds of the Uplands. As well as wood for the fires, it was where the gardener kept his supply of containers and crates. Holding the baby tight in her arms, she picked her way across the lawn, glancing nervously at the windows as she went. What if someone had woken at the noise of the gate? What if there was a party inside that was running on after midnight? But her worries were unfounded, for there was silence. Mary was relieved to see the Uplands in darkness. She ran to the woodshed under a spread of hazel trees. The door was unlocked, as she’d always known it to be. She opened it with her free hand, keeping her baby close to her. Inside it was pitch dark. She reached out to where she remembered the gardener’s bench was, patting her fingers over what felt like boxes and tins. A rustling noise reached her and her heart jumped. Was it a rat? She calmed herself, and slid her hand back along the bench until it struck a wicker basket. She yanked it towards her and something from inside it spilled noisily to the floor. There was more rustling and this time a squeaking noise too. She forced herself not to be afraid. She wasn’t thinking of herself now, only of her child, and it made her determined.

She carried the basket back to the door of the Uplands. In the moonlight she got a good look at it. It was a long, low kindling basket, the kind the gardener used to carry logs. The handle was strong and the basket robust enough to hold what she needed it to. There didn’t appear to be any jagged edges. She laid it in the middle of the doorstep, then kneeled down and gently, slowly laid her sleeping child inside. She was determined not to cry, ready to do what she must. She had planned this for months. But before she knocked at the front door, there was one more thing she had to do.

From her jacket pocket she pulled a length of ribbon. In the dark of the night the colour was muted. But in daylight it was a vivid scarlet red. She bent low to the basket and tied the ribbon around the handle in a bow. All was done and she was ready.

She stood and knocked hard – four, five times – banging with her fist at the door of the Uplands, determined to wake those within. She heard a shout, a man’s voice. James’s voice. She would recognise it anywhere. Then another voice, this time a woman. She wondered if it was James’s new mistress, of whom she had heard gossip. She banged again, and again. And then, without a backwards glance, she walked away as fast as she could.

With each step she took away from the Uplands, away from her child, Mary felt her heart break into pieces. It was as if she was leaving a part of herself behind. She forced herself forward, fighting the urge to turn and run back. And as she scurried away, her tears began to flow.



The bells of St Paul’s Church were chiming midnight as James McNally pulled his dressing gown tight and pushed his feet into charcoal-grey slippers. He’d been woken by an insistent banging at the front door and was determined to find out who was making the infernal noise. The housekeeper at the Uplands, Ada Davidson, had also been woken. She was already in the hallway wearing a long green nightdress that covered her short, stout frame. Light from an oil lamp in her hand spilled to the hallway floor.

‘Who is it, Mrs Davidson?’ James called from the landing.

Ada pushed strands of her wavy brown hair behind her ears. It didn’t do at all to be woken in such a way, and she wasn’t happy for her employer to see her in her nightwear. In all the years she’d worked at the Uplands, she’d never been caught in such a dishevelled state before. She knew it could only be bad news coming to their door at this hour. She set the oil lamp on the floor and, using both hands, slid the bolt on the front door. Then she lifted the lamp again and opened the door wide.

She’d expected to see a policeman standing there. Or if not a policeman then the vicar, with word of a disaster at Ryhope coal mine. What else could warrant such a furious noise at midnight? But all she saw was the blackness of the night. She peered around the doorway, looking left and right.

‘Who’s there?’ she called. ‘Show yourself!’

A sound caught her ear, a tiny noise like a cat’s cry from the garden. She swung her lamp low, seeking out the source of the noise, and that was when she saw the basket. She bent down and peered close, unable to believe her eyes. Behind her, she heard footsteps as James made his way across the hall.

‘Who in God’s name is banging on the door at this unearthly hour?’ he demanded.

Ada straightened and handed him the lamp. ‘You might want to see for yourself, sir,’ she said.

James gave her a puzzled look, but nonetheless he took the lamp and swung it to where she indicated. ‘Why, it’s just a basket,’ he said, confused.

Ada shook her head. ‘No, sir. Look closer.’

He did as she advised. He stood a long time looking at the basket, taking in the truth of what had been brought to his door.. . .