Workhouse Angel Read online

  ‘Me?’ He looked embarrassed.

  ‘Yes, you. It was all your fault. You made me go in the water after your beastly boat.’

  ‘No, I didn’t. You wanted to play boy’s games. I warned you.’

  ‘Boy’s games?’ Mary gave a screech of laughter that drew eyes in her direction. ‘Oh, Angelina, how unladylike!’

  ‘You’re unladylike, not me!’ Angelina said fiercely. ‘A lady doesn’t go and steal someone else’s partner.’

  ‘Steal him? I didn’t steal him. He doesn’t want to dance with you. Can’t you see that? He thinks you’re a stupid, vain little baby.’

  ‘I’m not! I’m not! How dare you speak like that to me?’

  ‘Why shouldn’t I? You’re not even your mother and father’s real child. My mother told me. You’re just a foundling.’

  The last word ended in a scream as Angelina launched herself bodily at her enemy, sobbing, ‘It’s not true! It’s not true!’

  They went down in a struggling heap on the floor, clawing at each other’s clothes and hair. The gold chain round Mary’s neck snapped and the pendant rolled away and she ran her nails down Angelina’s cheek. Then she gave a howl. ‘She bit me! She bit me!’

  Hands pulled them apart. Mary was sobbing and holding her hand to her cheek. ‘She bit me!’ she repeated. Her mother pulled her hand away and sure enough there was a clear imprint of teeth on the flushed flesh.

  ‘You little monster!’ she exclaimed. Then, turning to Mrs McBride who had arrived breathlessly from the other end of the room, she said, ‘You should not allow this child to come into genteel society. She is like a wild thing.’

  Mrs McBride took Angelina by the shoulders and shook her hard. ‘You have shamed yourself and shamed me. This is the last time you will be allowed out to mix with civilized people. Come along.’

  Angelina felt herself half lifted, half dragged out of the room and down the stairs. Behind her, she heard her father expostulating, ‘Marguerite, for pity’s sake, pull yourself together. You are making a show of us.’

  ‘I? I am making a show? It is this little monster who has made a show of all of us. Get us a cab, quickly. I am ashamed to let people see us.’

  A cab drew up at that moment and Angelina was bundled into it. As they moved off, she managed to recover her voice.

  ‘It’s not fair, Mama! It was Mary’s fault. She said … she said something horrible. She said you and Papa were not my real parents.’

  Her mother gripped her by the shoulder again and glared into her face. ‘She said what?’

  ‘She said you aren’t really my mother. She said I was a foundling.’

  Marguerite McBride sat back in her seat and looked at her husband. ‘What did I tell you? I knew we were making a terrible mistake when we took her.’

  ‘If I recall, my dear,’ her husband replied, ‘you were the one who was set on the idea. I tried to point out the pitfalls but you would have none of it. Bad blood will out. However, we are where we are and there is no going back. We have to consider now what to do for the best.’

  ‘Since you are so far-sighted,’ Marguerite said caustically, ‘you had better take charge. I’ve done my best with her. I’ve no wish to trouble myself further.’

  Angelina shrank into her corner, looking uncomprehendingly from one to the other. The cab arrived at the house and she was unceremoniously hauled out. She expected another beating, but instead Lizzie was called down and instructed to take her to her room and shut her in, and not to let her out on any pretext until given express orders.

  Up in her room, Lizzie looked at her, wide-eyed with alarm. ‘Whatever happened? What have you done?’

  Angelina burst into tears, shaking her head wildly from side to side. ‘It’s not fair! Not fair!’ was all she could say.

  Lizzie calmed her sufficiently to get her undressed and into bed, where she lay exhausted, her face swollen from crying. Lizzie stroked the hair back from her eyes and murmured, ‘Try to get some sleep.’

  She was about to leave but Angelina caught hold of her hand. ‘Lizzie, what’s a foundling?’

  ‘A foundling? It’s a baby who has been left somewhere, on a doorstep or in a church, for someone to find.’

  ‘Left? Who by?’

  ‘Its mother, usually. Some poor woman who cannot look after it, so she leaves it in the hope that someone else will take care of it. Why are you asking about this now?’

  Angelina shook her head and said nothing and after a moment Lizzie said, ‘Say your payers and go to sleep now. Goodnight.’

  She went away, taking the candle with her. Alone in the darkness Angelina tried to make sense of what had been said that night. ‘Bad blood will out’. Did she have bad blood? Was that why she was always in trouble? Her mother had called her a little monster. Was she not a human child at all, but some kind of changeling, the offspring of some ill-intentioned demon? If so, how could she ever be good? She had bad blood, and nothing she could ever do, however hard she tried, would be right.

  On that thought she finally fell asleep.

  Six

  Freshfields

  Rutherglen

  Victoria

  Australia

  December 28th 1867

  Dear James,

  I cannot tell you how much joy the receipt of your letter gave me, when it was redirected here from Croft’s Hotel. It came as the most delightful of my Christmas presents. Of course, my joy would have been even greater if the ship that brought it had brought you instead, but I always knew that was not possible, so I was not disappointed. But I cannot help worrying about the length of time that letters take from the day they are written until they reach here. It is a relief to know you were well when you wrote the letter, but there is no way of knowing what may have happened between then and now. I can only pray, as I do every night, that God has kept you safe.

  I know you will be eager to learn about my journey and what I found on my arrival, so let me begin. I have mixed memories of the voyage out here. The first-class ticket my father had paid for introduced me to a luxury I had never experienced, as you will understand; but there were times when I felt I should have been more comfortable in steerage. My fellow passengers were all ladies and gentlemen of means, accustomed to the kind of food and service provided in first class; but as you know, I am more used to serving than being served, and there were many times when I had to restrain myself from jumping up to clear away the dishes at the end of a meal. At least, having watched how Mr and Mrs Freeman behaved while I worked for them, I knew which knives and forks to use! Most of the others treated me with courtesy and made some enquiries about my home and my reason for travelling to Australia, but these were questions I found it hard to answer, and after a while they seemed to feel it would be more tactful to leave me to myself. I was tempted, once or twice, to tell them that they were dining with an orphan girl brought up in the workhouse, who was once a maid of all work, just to see what their reaction would be; but I thought better of it.

  One thought that disturbed me all through the voyage was the fact that I had taken ship so precipitately that I had had no means of letting Gus and my father know I was coming. No other ship is faster than the Royal Standard, so any letter I might have written could not arrive before me. Accordingly, there was no one to meet me when the ship docked in Melbourne. I remembered that Gus had been working at Croft’s Hotel when he met our father, so I took a cab straight there. I was received with great kindness by Mr and Mrs Croft, who told me that Gus had left with Father immediately after posting the letter asking me to join them. That was over four months ago. However, by the miracle of this modern invention, the telegraph, they were able to send word of my arrival and within a day I had a reply. I was to reserve a place aboard one of Cobb’s coaches, which would take me ‘up country’ to Rutherglen, and Gus would be there to meet me.

  You will not be surprised to learn that I found the prospect rather daunting. To sit on a ship, even when it is tossed by contrary winds, as
ours frequently was, does provide some sense of security, especially when you are surrounded by every luxury. Travelling alone in an unknown country seemed much more frightening. But I need not have worried. Mrs Croft took me to the inn from which the coaches depart and introduced me to three other ladies who were bound on the same journey. They were the kindest people you can imagine and I felt much more at ease with them than with my former travelling companions. The coach was much larger than I had expected, and was drawn by a team of four magnificent horses, who took us at a gallop along the dusty roads. It had a separate compartment for ladies and as we went we exchanged confidences about our lives hitherto and our reasons for being in Australia. Gus is right about one thing. Here no one cares about where or how you were brought up or what work you have done. They take you as you are, for better or worse.

  I will not say it was a comfortable journey. The roads are rough and full of potholes and, even though the coach has some arrangement of straps that evens out the worst of the jolts, it is still very tiring. Every few miles we stopped to change the horses and were able to get out for a few minutes to stretch our legs and take a drink, and in this way we covered a long distance remarkably quickly; but even so the journey took two days. We stopped overnight at an inn in a small town whose name I do not recall. What I do remember is that one of the ladies called me over to look at something in one of the trees that shaded the building. There I saw a grey, furry creature, sitting in a fork of the branches and apparently asleep, quite undisturbed by our presence. They call them koala bears and they live on the leaves of the eucalyptus trees that grow in abundance here and, I am told, spend most of their lives asleep, only waking at night to eat when the weather is cooler.

  Which reminds me – how strange it is to celebrate Christmas, while it is hotter here than on any day in midsummer at home! The heat is rather trying, I have to admit; but at least the sunshine makes everything so much brighter than the grey skies we are used to.

  On the second day I was most thankful when the coach galloped into the little town of Rutherglen, and there, waiting to meet me, were Gus and a man I knew must be the father I could hardly remember.

  We were a little strange with each other at first, but he took both my hands in his and looked into my face and exclaimed, ‘By God, you remind me of your mother!’ Then he kissed me on both cheeks and suddenly I remembered the big, jolly man who used to come home from the sea and swing me up into his arms, and I knew I had found him again. I must admit we both shed some tears, and he said more than once how sorry he was that he had not returned to England to take care of us when he had served his sentence. I suppose if he had done, he would have taken me out of the workhouse and saved me from the hard times I spent in service; but when I think about it, it would have meant my life taking a completely different direction and I should probably never have met you – so I cannot have any regrets about the way things turned out. I said something like that to him and he agreed that if he had returned to England he would never have struck gold and would not have been able to provide the sort of life he can now offer us.

  Which brings me to the point you have probably been waiting for: the description of the place I must now learn to think of as home.

  First of all, did you read the address at the top of this letter? The house my father has built is called Freshfields! Do you remember the day you took me there on the train from Liverpool and we saw the red squirrels? Of course you do. It seems that Papa – how strange it feels to write that – took Mama there when they were first married and it was one of the happiest days of their lives, so he named the house in remembrance of that. Is that not a wonderful coincidence? It is a beautiful house, built like a ship of overlapping boards and painted white, with a large porch at the front and a veranda at the back, which runs the full length of the house and makes a beautifully cool place to sit in the evenings. It stands on a slight rise with gardens sloping down to a lake they call Moodemere, and all around the land is planted with vines, now heavy with grapes. In a month or two it will be time to harvest them and Gus says we expect a good crop. (Gus has taken to this new life with enthusiasm. He spends a good deal of his time with Pedro, father’s Spanish manager, talking about growing grapes and the techniques of wine making. It is good to see him so eager and involved.) Pedro’s wife, Maria, acts as housekeeper. She pretends to defer to me, as ‘lady of the house’, but in truth she is so efficient that I would not dream of interfering. But at least here I do not feel awkward about clearing the table or helping to wash up and we get on very well.

  The countryside all around is very beautiful. I imagined Australia as an arid, desert sort of country, but here we are in a green landscape of gentle rolling hills, rising to distant misty mountains. I am told that this area reminded the first settlers of parts of southern England, which is why many of the small towns have English names like Chiltern and Beechworth, alongside others with strange aboriginal names like Wodonga and Wangaratta. Of course, I have never seen the south of England so I cannot tell if the comparison is justified, but I cannot imagine it could be lovelier than this.

  As well as vineyards, there are farms with cattle and hens and horses. Do you remember how amazed I was the first time I saw a cow? But that is nothing to compare with the animals I have seen here. On the first evening a troop of kangaroos came bounding down to drink at the lake. They bounce along on their hind legs, which they use like springs, and they can cover an enormous distance with one leap. There are little creatures called possums that live in the trees and remind me a bit of squirrels, though they are not so pretty. But it is the birds that I love best to watch. I have never imagined that birds could be so vividly coloured. There are red and blue rosellas, and rainbow lorikeets that live up to their name in shades of green and red and orange, and white cockatoos with yellow crests. Of course, there are less attractive things too. I have been warned to watch where I walk because of snakes, and not to put my hand into hidden corners for fear of poisonous spiders, but so far I have seen neither.

  Rutherglen itself is, or was, a gold rush town, and it is easy to see that many of the houses were thrown up in haste and not intended to be permanent, but it is becoming more settled now and the centre has some solid buildings with some attempt to make them attractive – though after the glories of St George’s Hall they appear very humble. That is the one thing I miss – not being able to wander into some of our great buildings and gaze at the wonderful artwork that went into them. Well, no – it’s not the one thing I miss; but if you were here it would be the only thing.

  It has taken me all afternoon to write this and my hand is aching. I think I have told you enough to give you some idea of life here, and to convince you that I am well and happy. I pray that the same is true for you. I long to hear from you. God speed the ship that brings your next letter!

  Your ever loving,

  May

  Seven

  Angelina spent Christmas and the succeeding days confined to her room, with only Lizzie for company. There were no presents, and no Christmas dinner – no goose, no pudding, no sweetmeats. Instead she received beef broth and bread and rice pudding, which she detested.

  At first she cared little for this deprivation. She existed in a state of suppressed terror, expecting at any moment to be subjected to some violent punishment; but days passed and no one came near her except for Lizzie and she began to think that this confinement was itself her punishment. That being so, her attention focussed on how long it might last. No longer paralysed with fear, she veered between tearful pleas to be allowed out, to go for a walk or to play the piano; or sulky silence, refusing all Lizzie’s attempts to interest or amuse her, sitting cuddling her rag doll and rocking to and fro. Lizzie herself, subjected to the same confinement except for a brief hour every afternoon, became increasingly short tempered and uneasy about what the future might hold for both of them.

  At the beginning of January, Connor McBride received a letter. He opened it at the breakfas
t table and gave grunt of satisfaction.

  ‘I have solved our problem.’

  His wife looked up from her bacon and eggs. ‘Solved it? How?’

  ‘Angelina will go away to school. She will go to the convent of the Faithful Companions of Jesus in Limerick. I have written to the Reverend Mother and this is her reply, agreeing to take her as soon as she can be got there.’

  ‘You are sending her to Ireland? To the nuns?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have you forgotten what they did to me? Forgotten why we fled Ireland in the first place?’

  ‘Do you not think that a dose of that kind of discipline is what she needs? Besides, desperate situations require desperate measures.’

  ‘And this is the man who swore when he left Ireland that he would never set foot in a church again.’

  ‘With good reason. I have no intention of doing so now, but this is the solution to our problem. Angelina will be out of the way of all gossip, unable to make a show of us any longer. She will be looked after and educated. The school is run by nuns from France. She will learn to speak French like a native, but, more importantly, they set great store by proper deportment and behaviour. She will have to learn obedience and self-control, both qualities that she signally lacks at the moment.’

  ‘And how long do you intend her to stay there?’

  ‘Until her education is finished. I have explained that it will not be possible for her to return home during the vacations. By that time, either she will have acquired suitable habits and accomplishments to make her acceptable in polite society or, and this is an outcome devoutly to be wished, she may have been so influenced by the nuns that she will wish to take the veil.’

  ‘You are saying that she will be out of our lives for good – or at least until she is grown up.’

  ‘Is that not the best outcome?’

  Marguerite McBride lowered her eyes to her plate and said nothing for a moment. Then she sighed. ‘I had such hopes of her to begin with. She seemed just like her name, a little angel. But then that girl recognised her and I realised we could never be at ease, that at any moment the secret of her origin might come out. Just lately I had begun to think that my fears were unfounded but her behaviour … You were right. It was a terrible mistake. We know nothing of her parentage and, as you say, bad blood will out. It is better that she should be somewhere where she can do no more damage. And, who knows, it may be the best thing for her, too. When will she go?’