Hope for Tomorrow (14 page)

“
I will write to him now and have the letter sent by special post so that it will arrive tomorrow morning. That should give him enough time to meet your stagecoach in Marchwood.”

Martha only nodded. She was feeling too aggravated by the need to rely on Lucien to be grateful by her acceptance of his wishes.

“
Are you certain that you don't mind looking after Hope?” She asked.

“
She is no trouble and I have ample help in the form of her nanny and governess. We'll be fine, my dear.”

“
Thank you.”

“
I will tell the staff that you are travelling to London to visit an old friend who is ill, that is not too far from the truth. Now, you head home and start packing, you will have an early start tomorrow.”

Chapter Fourteen

Martha had plenty of time to become nervous as she journeyed home so she had brought a few pamphlets of Vanity Fair with her which she had not got around to reading yet. In the event however, she was unable to focus on the story and found herself having to read a page many times before she was able to take it in. Eventually she gave up and put the pamphlets away.

The journey to Manchester didn't take long and Martha called a porter to help her carry her belongings to a hansom cab, which she took to the town hall, where she had been informed that the stagecoach departed from.

The coach was crowded and the ride rough as they left the city and drove on unmade-up roads. Martha much preferred trains to horse-drawn carriages when venturing outside of the city but Marchwood had yet to catch up with the times. The railways would come eventually, she was certain but for now this was her only option.

The ride felt longer than it was and as the coach finally pulled into the market square, she was relieved to get out.

She looked around the square while she waited for her belongings to be unloaded and wondered if the shabbiness that she now observed in the town was as a result of her recent lifestyle, or if it had really been this dilapidated when she was a child.

She saw Lucien striding across the square towards her and couldn't help the fluttering of butterflies that she felt in her stomach. She told herself that it was nerves. His smile widened as he approached.

“
Miss Dawley, how was your journey?”

“
Very good, thank you, Sir.”

“
Come,” he said, holding his arm out to guide her towards his carriage though he was careful not to touch her. “I have made you a reservation at Brown's Hotel.”

“
Thank you.” She made her way over to his carriage as he directed his driver to collect her belongings, which he tied to the rear of the carriage rather than the top since their journey wasn't long. Martha noticed the driver staring at her, obviously she would be the talk of the servants' table this evening.

Lucien held his hand out to help her step up into the carriage and after a brief hesitation she accepted, thinking that it was best to keep their relationship cordial for the time being. He got in after her and sat opposite.

“
Would you like some refreshments when we arrive?” he asked.

“
No, thank you, I would rather go straight to see my family.”

He nodded.

“
The driver will take us to Blacksmith Way but it is not safe for the horses to venture much further.”

“
Not safe?” she asked.

“
Times are tough in this region and many have no choice but to resort to crime.”

“
Why?” she asked.

“
The biggest factor has been the harvests, they have been poor these past three years and although they are expected to be good this year, the damage has already been done. Added to that, the canning factory has moved south to Royston where they have both a canal and a railway.”

“
What about the workers?” she asked.

“
Those who could afford it moved also, those who couldn't are struggling to find work.”

Martha felt bad that she hadn't known any of this, even though there was little that she could do. She knew that much of the town's prosperity had been based around the farming that surrounded it but she had never witnessed a bad harvest as a child, let alone three in a row.

“
What about the woollen factory?”

“
Mercheston is talking about moving if we do not get a railway soon but at the moment his business survives by lowering the wages.”

“
Is the railway really that important to trade?”

“
It is. If we had a railway our businesses could send their products to almost anywhere that they can get a good price for them but as it is, they are stuck dealing mostly with locals who cannot afford to pay very much. The canning factory mainly supplied the army and navy. The canal does go to Liverpool but it is much slower and more costly than the train and shipping their goods to other places around the country was even more costly. Fairly soon those towns who do not have a railway line will be left behind.”

“
Can you not petition for it to be brought to Marchwood?” Martha asked.

Lucien gave a wry smile.

“
They already want to come here but father will not sell them the land they need.”

“
Why ever not?”

“
He is old and stuck in his ways. He believes that the railways are dangerous and just a fad which will fade in time.”

“
Can't you convince him?”

“
I have tried,” he said with a deep sigh. “The working classes are not the only ones suffering, though I know our situations don't compare. Our tenants are all in arrears and our own crops have failed. If we sold the railway the land they want, then that would not only bring money and employment to the town while it was being built, not to mention trade when it is finished, but the estate could ride out the storm and write off some of the money that we are owed from our tenants. Alas at the moment, my only option was to take out a bank loan and hope that things improve.”

Now that she looked at him, she could see that he looked tired around the eyes.

“
I'm sorry,” she said.

“
The only one who should be sorry is my father,” he said, then he looked up and caught her eyes, his expression one of torment. “Sometimes I find myself praying that he will pass on quickly,” he confessed.

“
And then you hate yourself for thinking such a thing.” She knew how it felt to wish a parent dead.

He nodded, glad that she understood him.

The coach stopped outside the hotel a moment later and they headed inside while the driver fetched her belongings.

She had kept her dress simple but compared to most of those that they passed on the way into the hotel, it was still finery. As she approached the reception at the hotel, she noticed the manager's smile widen in appreciation of her appearance.

“
I am Miss Dawley,” she said with as much confidence as she could muster. She saw his eyes widen in shock as he registered her name, clearly he had not expected her to be the fallen woman who had no doubt been the topic of so much gossip in the town. “Please have my bags taken to my room, I will be back later.”

She turned away but he called her back.

“
Miss Dawley, we will need payment up front, I am afraid,” he said, his manner decidedly pompous.

Martha turned back and stiffened her back. She saw Lucien step forward probably to defend her but she didn't need his help and held her hand up to stop him.

“
How very strange,” she said with a slight smile. “Farrance's and
Mivart's Hotels
in London don't require payment upfront, nor do Royal Victoria in Newport, the Bull Hotel in Cambridge, the Crown Hotel in Scarborough or the George Hotel in Edinburgh. But then I suppose they are high class establishments. I do hope that you can provide a good level of service, even if you cannot compete with those hotels.”

“
Of course!” He sounded offended.

“
Very well, how much for seven nights?”

“
Fourteen shillings.”

“
Is that all?” She asked, glancing around. She counted out the money from her purse and placed it on the counter. “I assume you will not mind running an account for my meals and refreshments or will I be required to pay upfront for those too?”

Having had a glimpse into her purse as she paid, he smiled warmly.

“
No, no, of course not, I'm sorry if my request offended you.”

Martha smiled, though it was tight.

“
Good afternoon, Sir,” she turned and walked away with her head held high.

Lucien grinned at the manager then followed her out. He helped her into the carriage once more, then climbed in after her.

“
That was priceless,” he grinned.

Martha didn't look pleased with herself.

“
I thought I was past having to prove myself,” she said sadly. “I have a feeling that my visit is going to dredge up a lot of bad memories.”

Lucien's smile faded but he didn't know how to respond to that.

The carriage drew to a halt a few minutes later and Lucien again offered her his hand to help Martha step down, then she noticed that Lucien reached back into the carriage for his riding crop. They headed towards the Camberwell district of town, which wasn't too far away now.

The further they walked, the more visible the signs of distress became. The people became more gaunt-looking, the clothes hanging from the washing lines which crossed their path were barely rags. The smell also grew worse and Martha gagged a few times and took out her handkerchief (which was scented with lavender) to cover her nose and mouth.

A few times she thought that she saw something or someone moving in the shadows and noticed Lucien raise his riding crop in response. She felt as if she had landed in a Dicken's novel, full of unsavoury people and dangers lurking around every corner. Faintly she could hear the cries of children, the shouts of men and the wails of women.

This wasn't the home that she remembered. The people in this district had been poor and there was certainly a lot of misery and suffering around her but her neighbours had been basically good people and most of them had a friendly smile at the ready. Now though, misery and suffering seemed to be all that remained.

She stopped as she saw the door to her house in the distance.

“
What's wrong?” Lucien asked.

“
I don't know if I can do this,” she admitted.

He took her shoulders and turned her to face him, taking the hand that covered her mouth away and holding it in his. He looked into her eyes and squeezed her hand.

“
You're Martha Dawley; you can do anything.”

Seeing the admiration and belief on his face helped her to believe in herself. So what if she had been sheltered and coddled for a few years, that didn't mean that her old strength had left her. He was right, she was still Martha Dawley at heart.

She looked up at him with the ghost of a smile and straightened her spine. She squeezed his hand slightly then released it. Her pace had been slowing as they progressed but as she turned and started forward again, she literally strode straight up to her old home and knocked loudly on the door.

The door was opened by a girl of perhaps six whose face was barely visible beneath the grime. The girl's expression turned to fear when she saw Martha's finery.

“
Is Lizzy home?” Martha asked.

The girl nodded.

“
Can I see her?”

“
'Oo is it?” called a boy's voice from inside. Martha wasn't in the habit of yelling through doors so she didn't reply. When the girl didn't answer either, he came to the door and opened it wider. He looked to be about twelve and his face was round, unlike the girl, who looked emaciated.

“
John?” she asked. John had been just five when Martha left but she thought that it was his eyes staring back at her.

“
Wot's it t'you?” he asked.

“
I'm Martha,” she said. “Your sister.”

“
The wagtail what got 'erself up the duff?” he asked, taking a long look at her fine clothes.

“
That's the one. I've come to see Mum.”

“
You mean Ma? She can't see anyone, she's not feeling well.” He crossed his arms over his chest, almost daring her to defy him.

“
John Dawley, where on earth did you learn such manners!” She pushed the door fully open and barged past him, Lucien following her inside.

As she glanced around the kitchen she couldn't blame John for trying to keep people out, for the place was truly squalid. Every surface was covered in dirty plates and cups, each surface was itself buried under layers of grime. The flagstones on the floor were barely discernible under the layers of mud and dirt that had been tramped in and there was a nasty, rancid smell in the air.

“
My god,” she breathed. They had never been rich but her mother had always kept a clean house;  in fact she took pride in it.

On a rag in the corner sat a baby, perhaps six months old and next to him or her was an older child who was holding onto the wall as he tried to walk, though he had frozen in place now and was staring at her. At the table sat two children of around four who had also stopped to stare at her and the girl who had answered the door to her joined them. Each child's face was black with dirt and their clothes were soiled with grime.

“
Where are the other children?” Martha asked. Four of them, including Martha were out of the house when she left and Lucien had told her that a further three were now working which by her count meant that there should be nine children left at home; three were missing.