Workhouse Angel Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Also by Holly Green

  Title Page

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty One

  Twenty Two

  Twenty Three

  Twenty Four

  Twenty Five

  Copyright

  About the Book

  Will she ever be reunited with her real father?

  Angelina was abandoned on the doorsteps of Brownlow Workhouse when she was just a baby – her only possession the rag doll she held in her arms.

  Nicknamed ‘Angel’ for her golden curls, she is adopted by Mr and Mrs McBride. At first Angel is so happy to have found a caring family to save her from the drudgery of the workhouse. But her new parents are not the benevolent guardians they first appear.

  Angel has lost all hope when she discovers that a man has visited the workhouse, looking for the baby girl he was forced to give up. A girl who isn’t an orphan after all…

  About the Author

  Holly Green writes historical sagas about love and war, and her books are inspired by the stories she heard from her parents when she was a child. Her father was a professional singer with a fine baritone voice and her mother was a dancer, but they had to give up their professions at the outbreak of World War II.

  Holly is from Liverpool and is a trained actress and teacher – her claim to fame being that she gave Daniel Craig his first acting experience! She is married with two sons, and two delightful grandchildren.

  ALSO BY HOLLY GREEN

  Workhouse Orphans

  Prologue

  Mist lies thick over the Mersey and, beyond the crowded buildings, the first faint lightening of the sky shows the dawn to be near. It is very cold. The streets are empty, save for one heavily cloaked figure, who walks with an uneven stride to the doors of the great building that squats menacingly at the top of Brownlow Hill. He carries in his arms a shawl-wrapped bundle, holding it close to his chest within the folds of his cloak. The doors of the workhouse are closed and no light burns in the window of the porter’s lodge. The man hesitates, looking down at the burden he carries and then back over his shoulder towards the river. From out of the mist a ship’s whistle sounds a warning.

  ‘It will be light soon. Then someone is bound to open the gates. You won’t be left alone long.’

  His voice is choked with tears. He stoops and lays the bundle tenderly on the flagstones in front of the gate.

  ‘I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I don’t know what else to do. I have to go. You will be cared for – and I shall come back to find you when I can.’

  He kisses the small face, looks up for a moment at the grim outline of the building, then turns and hobbles away as fast as he can towards the river.

  It is cold and she is hungry. She begins to cry. For a long time nobody comes. She wants her mother, wants to be picked up and held and comforted. She cries louder. There is movement and light falls on her; then unfamiliar hands pick her up. She is carried, passed into other hands; strange faces peer down at her.

  ‘Left outside like a parcel. Might have been there all night for all I know! Who could do such a thing?’

  ‘Plenty have done worse. Let’s have a look at her.’

  She is unwrapped by brisk, ungentle hands.

  ‘Well, it’s a girl. Pretty little thing. How old would you say?’

  ‘Not a newborn, that’s for sure. A year, maybe a bit more.’

  ‘Anything left with her, to show who left her here? No note or anything?’

  ‘Nothing at all, except this rag doll.’

  Raggy! She reaches out, feeing for the familiar shape. It is not there. She begins to cry again.

  ‘Oh, shut your noise! I can’t be doing with it.’ The voice, like the hands, is harsh.

  ‘Here, give her this. Maybe that will quiet her.’

  The rag doll is thrust into her grasp. She holds it tight. It smells of home, and Mother.

  Time passes. She is dumped in a chair and a spoon is pushed into her mouth. The food tastes strange and she spits it out. The spoon is pushed in again, more forcefully. She screams in anger and distress.

  ‘Do without then, see if I care!’

  She continues to scream. She is picked up and shaken roughly. Then, suddenly, other arms go round her, holding her gently, rocking her and a soft voice begins to sing:

  ‘Lavender’s blue, dilly dilly, lavender’s green.

  When I am king, dilly dilly, you shall be queen …’

  She goes quiet. The arms that hold her are thin, the shoulder against which she lays her head is bony; not like her mother’s, but she feels safe here. She looks up into a narrow, pale face and a lock of hair falls across her cheek. Her mother’s hair was golden. This is more like the colour of polished wood. Voices go on over her head.

  ‘I shall call her Angel. Don’t you think she looks like a little angel?’

  That is not her name. Her name is Amy. She tries to tell them, but it comes out as ‘May-me’.

  ‘She’s trying to say my name! It’s May. Say May.’

  ‘May-me! May-me!’

  ‘There’s a clever girl!’

  Days pass. Sometimes the girl called May is there, sometimes she is not. She is always gentle. She helps her to eat, changes her, plays with her. But when she is not there the woman with the hard hands takes over. She does not like that. She screams in protest. The nights are worst. Alone in the dark, listening to the cries of other children nearby, she clutches her rag doll and cannot help crying; and then she is picked up and shaken and dumped down again.

  One night is different. May takes her with her, up some stairs, into a room where other faces peer down at her. There is a lot of chatter. ‘What have you got there, May? Who is she? Do they know in the nursery you’ve got her? Why have you brought her up here?’ Then she is laid in a bed and May lies beside her and cuddles her close. She shuts her eyes and sleeps.

  She wakes to shouts of alarm and a strange, frightening smell. Someone shouts ‘Fire!’ She is grabbed out of the bed and thrust into unfamiliar arms. There is noise and confusion. She cries for May, but May does not come. Then she is back in the nursery.

  More days pass, but still May does not come. One day, a new face peers down at her. This one is framed in dark hair. The eyes are bright, but not gentle like May’s.

  ‘This one! I want this one.’

  ‘Are you sure, ma’am? She’s over a year old. I thought you were looking for a baby.’

  ‘I don’t care about her age. Just look at that golden hair and those blue eyes. She will be a beauty when she grows up. What is her name?’

  ‘Angela, ma’am. She was baptised Angela.’

  ‘Angela? That’s rather a common name. Perhaps Angelina would be more suitable. Yes, Angelina will do very well. I’ll take her.’

  One

  ‘I won’t! I won’t! Take it away. I don’t like it. I hate you!’ The pretty face was scarlet with fury, the golden curls dishevelled and matted from the struggle.

  ‘Angelina, please!’ The governess’s voice was harsh with desperation. ‘Just try it. You’ve had nothing to eat all day, and your mama has ordered that you are to be given nothing until you drink your medicine. It’s for your own good. The doctor says
it will strengthen you, so that you do not have so many stomach upsets. Now, be a good girl. Drink it up.’

  ‘But I don’t like it. It makes me feel sick.’

  ‘That’s nonsense. It isn’t nasty. I’ll try a sip to show you. There! See? It’s quite nice really.’

  ‘You drink it then. If I drink it, I shall be sick.’

  ‘That will not help, will it? You are the one who needs it. Now, come along. You are not a baby any more. You are eight years old, old enough to understand reason. Stop being so disobedient. Drink!’

  She grasped the squirming child by the back of the neck and held the cup to her lips. For a moment they remained obstinately shut. Then they opened and the draught was swallowed.

  ‘There you are! You see … oh, you little beast!’ Angelina had twisted her head and vomited over the governess’s skirt. ‘You little horror! You did that deliberately.’

  ‘I told you what would happen! I said if you made me drink it I should be sick.’

  ‘What is going on here? What is all this noise about?’

  Marguerite McBride stood in the doorway. The governess scrambled to her feet, trying to wipe the vomit off her skirt with a pocket handkerchief. ‘I’m sorry, ma’am, if we disturbed you. I was just trying to persuade Angelina to drink the medicine the doctor prescribed.’

  ‘And she is still refusing?’

  ‘She swallowed it and then brought it all up again, all over me.’

  ‘Angelina, come here!’ The child moved unwillingly towards her mother. ‘I have had enough of this. You are a naughty, disobedient little girl and disobedience has to be punished. Kneel down at the end of your bed.’

  ‘No, Mama! Please! I couldn’t help being sick.’

  ‘Do as you are told at once! Or it will be the worse for you. Miss Garvey, the rod, if you please.’

  ‘Ma’am, are you sure? Is this really necessary?

  ‘Have you never heard the maxim, “spare the rod and spoil the child”? Give it to me.’

  The governess handed her a thin cane. She pointed to the bed, and Angelina, after a last mute gaze of appeal, went and knelt at the foot. Her mother stooped and lifted her skirts, then raised her arm and administered four stinging blows with the cane. Angelina endured them in silence.

  ‘Get up.’ She got to her feet. ‘Now go to your room and stay there. Your supper will be brought to you on a tray, together with a fresh dose of the medicine. I shall come too. If you take the medicine and keep it down you may eat your supper. Otherwise it will be removed and you will continue to go hungry. Go!’

  Alone in her room Angelina buried her face in the pillow. She did not weep. Crying did not help. It did not explain what was happening to her. Once, it seemed a long time ago, her mother had treated her differently. She had spent hours combing her hair and dressing her in pretty clothes. She had taken her with her to visit friends and they had all said what a lovely child she was and had asked her to sing for them. She thought her mother had loved her then. She never cuddled and kissed her, as she had seen other mothers do with their children, but she had been kind.

  Then something had changed; something had happened, which she could never quite remember. They had been in a shop, and there had been a young woman who called her ‘Angel’ and her mother had been angry and sent her to wait outside. Since then, life had been different. Miss Garvey had arrived and all Angelina’s time had been spent in the schoolroom. There were no more visits and no more pretty dresses, and if she did not do exactly as she was told she was punished.

  Sometimes, just before she fell asleep or as she was waking up, images came into her head. She could not tell if they were dreams or memories. The face of the young woman who had called her Angel came back to her, though when she was fully awake she could not recall it. With it came a sensation of comfort, of being held and cared for; and sometimes, from even longer ago, came the flickering image of another face and long, golden hair, which fell around her and shut off the outside world.

  Angelina got off the bed, wincing at the pain in her bruised and swollen buttocks, and went to a cupboard. It was full of toys – soft woolly lambs and puppies, beautiful dolls with porcelain faces and rich clothes – but she ignored them all. At the bottom of the cupboard was a box filled with a jumble of old toys and torn doll’s dresses. She rummaged through it until, hidden at the bottom, she found what she was looking for – a rag doll, grubby and stained. She took it back to her bed and lay down, holding it against her cheek. It had a faint smell, which she could not name but which brought closer than ever that memory of being held in loving arms. Softly, she began to sing:

  ‘Lavender’s blue, dilly dilly, lavender’s green.

  When I am king, dilly dilly, you shall be queen.’

  Downstairs in the drawing room, Miss Garvey was facing her employer.

  ‘You are telling me that you wish to give notice?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry if it is not convenient, but I cannot remain here under the circumstances.’

  ‘What circumstances?’

  ‘I cannot stand by and watch a child being mistreated.’

  ‘Mistreated! How dare you? Are you accusing me of mistreating Angelina?’

  ‘I feel that you are altogether too harsh on her. She is only eight years old.’

  ‘Old enough to know the difference between right and wrong, to understand the necessity for obedience.’

  ‘There are better ways of inculcating that virtue.’

  ‘So now you set yourself up as better able to judge how my daughter should be brought up, do you? Well, the sooner you leave this house the better.’

  ‘On that point I agree with you. But I am prepared to work out my notice.’

  ‘You will not! You will pack your bags and be gone by tomorrow morning. And you need not expect a reference from me!’

  When her supper was brought to her room, Angelina still refused to drink the medicine. She went to bed hungry. Next morning the maid brought up a tray on which there was a boiled egg, some delicate slices of bread and butter, a dish of honey and a glass of milk. Marguerite arrived at the same time, with the medicine in a cup.

  ‘Well? Are you hungry enough to see sense? Drink this and you can eat.’

  Angelina looked from the cup to the tray. Her stomach rumbled. She reached for the cup. The smell of the contents turned her stomach but she took a sip, and then another. Somehow she managed to keep it down. Her mother smiled triumphantly.

  ‘So, I hope you have learned your lesson. We will have no more scenes like the one we had yesterday.’

  ‘No, Mama.’

  ‘Very good. Eat your breakfast. I want to see you in the schoolroom in half an hour. Miss Garvey has decided that she cannot endure your bad behaviour any longer and has given in her notice. For the time being I shall teach you myself.’

  As soon as the door closed behind her, Angelina pulled the chamber pot out from under the bed and vomited up the medicine. Then she set to on the boiled egg.

  A week passed, during which Marguerite took charge of Angelina’s lessons in a haphazard fashion. She soon tired of the atmosphere of the schoolroom and left her to read and copy out passages from improving books or memorise verses from the Bible. Then, one afternoon, Angelina was summoned to the drawing room. A small woman in a grey dress was with her mother.

  ‘This is my daughter, Angelina. Angelina, this is your new governess, Miss Drake.’

  Angelina curtsied, as she had been taught. ‘How do you do, ma’am?’

  Miss Drake looked her over critically. ‘So this is the young lady who is to learn proper respect for authority?’

  ‘Yes,’ Marguerite said, with a regretful sigh, ‘I fear her last governess was far too lax. She needs a firm hand.’

  ‘Have no worries about that,’ Miss Drake said. ‘I have handled some rebellious spirits in my time. The young are like horses. They have to be broken in.’

  ‘I am sure we shall see eye to eye in that respect,’ Marguerite repli
ed. ‘But I make one proviso. If there is to be any corporal punishment, you will refer it to me. I do not regard it as fitting that an employee should chastise the child of her employer.’

  Miss Drake looked at Angelina with narrowed eyes. ‘Have no fear, ma’am. I do not think we shall need to resort to anything so crude as beating.’

  Marguerite rang for the parlourmaid and instructed her to take Miss Drake upstairs and show her where she would sleep. ‘You can wait in the schoolroom, Angelina, until Miss Drake is ready to begin your lessons.’

  It was some time before Miss Drake appeared and Angelina fidgeted restlessly, first sitting, then wandering round the room. She had a fluttering sensation in her stomach as she wondered what she could expect from this new governess. The expression on her face when she said ‘I do not think we shall need to resort to anything as crude as beating’ had frightened her.

  Eventually the door opened and the small woman came in.

  ‘What are you doing over there? Sit down at once!’

  Angelina scurried to her place at the table and sat.

  ‘I expected to find you usefully employed, not wandering like an imbecile. Have you no sewing to do, no books to read?’

  Angelina shook her head dumbly.

  ‘Speak up when you are spoken to!’

  ‘I … I’m sorry, ma’am. I didn’t know what you would like me to start on.’

  ‘You should not need to wait for me to tell you what to do. You should always have work in hand. Well, I shall make sure that in future you will not have time to sit around in idleness. Now, let us see how far your education has progressed. What is seven times eight?’

  Taken by surprise, Angelina struggled to respond. She had been made to recite her tables over and over but she still needed to repeat them to her herself before arriving at the correct answer.

  ‘Come along, come along!’ Miss Drake took up a ruler and rapped it on the table, making Angelina jump.

  ‘Please, fifty-six,’ she gasped.

  ‘At last! I was beginning to think I was dealing with a half-wit. Nine times four!’

  The questions kept coming; tables, mental arithmetic, then, ‘What is the capital of Poland?’