Rich Girl, Poor Girl Read online

  RICH GIRL, POOR GIRL

  www.rbooks.co.uk

  RICH GIRL, POOR GIRL

  * * *

  Val Wood

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Half Title

  Title

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Also by Val Wood

  This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

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  Epub ISBN 9781409080336

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  TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS

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  www.rbooks.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain in 2009 by Bantam Press an imprint of Transworld Publishers

  Copyright © Valerie Wood 2009

  Valerie Wood has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 9780593060223

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

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  2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

  For Peter

  ‘It’s not the falling down that counts; it’s the getting up again.’

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  With special thanks to my daughters, Ruth and Catherine, my grandson, Alex, my editor, Linda Evans, and the Transworld team who through their loving support have helped me through my dark times.

  Books for general reading

  History of the Town and Port of Hull, James Joseph Sheehan, John Green, Beverley, 1866

  The Glorious Grouse, Brian P Martin, David & Charles, London, 1990

  The Victorian House, Judith Flanders, HarperCollins, London, 2003

  CHAPTER ONE

  In the last few days of the year 1860 there was thick ice in the Humber, and for the following two weeks navigation was hazardous. The conditions were unprecedented, the locals said, and all agreed that the whole year had been an extremely difficult one.

  There had been many fires in the old town of Hull that year, but the worst had been in March when at two o’clock one morning a raging fire tore through a wine merchant’s warehouse near the ancient Holy Trinity church, completely destroying the building. Casks burned and bottles of fine wine shattered, and alcoholic vapours shrouded the street.

  In October the steamer Arctic was wrecked with the loss of six lives, and it was the general opinion that it would be a relief to see the end of the year. Surely things could not get much worse.

  On the evening of 23 December it was snowing in the poorer part of Hull. The pristine flakes settled as grey sludge across the dismal courts and alleyways, adding an austere and shadowy gloom to the misery within the dilapidated buildings, which housed the malnourished, the sick and the despairing.

  ‘Fetch Granny Walters,’ Polly’s mother groaned. ‘And tell her to be quick.’

  Sixteen-year-old Polly stared wide-eyed at her mother. ‘You’re nivver up ’spout, Ma? You said there’d be no more after ’last time.’

  ‘Never mind what I said,’ her mother gasped. ‘How to stop ’em, that’d be a fine thing. Now go ... afore I bleed to death.’

  ‘That Sonny Blake or whoever it was’ll kill you,’ Polly shouted as she grabbed a worn shawl and headed for the door. ‘They’ll be ’death o’ you.’

  ‘Tell me summat I don’t know, girl,’ her mother muttered. She staggered towards a metal pail and retched and retched until her insides felt as if they were on fire, her throat was raw and her eyes were burning hot slits in her pinched and pale face.

  Across on the other side of town it was also snowing. The feather-like flakes drifted down and landed so gently that they piled in soft layers, until it seemed that a flimsy white blanket had transformed the elegant houses into a mystical fantasy scene.

  ‘Mama!’ Rosalie gazed out of the second-floor window on to the street below. ‘It’s still snowing! Perhaps we’ll have a white Christmas like the ones on the Christmas cards.’

  ‘Yes. Perhaps we will.’ Behind her daughter’s back her mother grimaced in pain. ‘Rosalie dear, ring for Martha and ask her to send for Mrs Dawson.’

  Rosalie turned to her mother and took an open-mouthed, shallow breath. Mrs Dawson had been coming regularly to see her mother. Rosalie knew perfectly well why she came, but was not expected to comment on the reason, and did not.

  She pulled the bell rope and with gentle concern asked her mother if she wouldn’t like to sit down as she looked a little tired.

  Her mother shook her head. ‘I’d rather walk about,’ she murmured. ‘I feel rather restless.’

  Oh, Rosalie thought in some trepidation. An early sign: restlessness with an urge to nest-build. Some weeks before, whilst searching for a book to while away a wet afternoon, she had found on the top s
helf in her father’s study a volume packed with information which fully explained her mother’s present indisposition. Rosalie’s father was a military man and not due home for several months, so she had taken the book to her room and completed her education regarding the mysteries of the human body and the union of a man and a woman, which had hitherto been an enigma cloaked in secrecy.

  When Martha knocked, Rosalie met her at the door and asked her to fetch Mrs Dawson straight away. Fifteen minutes later Mrs Dawson was directing Mrs Kingston to retire to her room and telling Rosalie to ask Martha to bring up extra sheets and blankets and boil a pan of water.

  ‘Mama!’ Rosalie whispered. ‘Is it not too early? I mean – for a child to be delivered?’

  Her mother gasped and clutched her chest. ‘Rosalie! What would you know? How can you speak so?’

  ‘I know that you are expecting a child, Mama,’ Rosalie said. ‘Of course I do. I’m sixteen.’ She didn’t add that she had worked out how long it had been since her father’s last leave, and knew that it wasn’t yet time to be delivered of a full-term infant. But of course she couldn’t say so, not without giving away the knowledge she had acquired from the book, which she knew her mother would be horrified to hear she had read.

  ‘Tittle-tattling servants,’ her mother groaned as she was led up the stairs. ‘There can be no secrets from them.’

  Rosalie nodded as if in agreement. They would know, of course, but not a word had been breathed in her presence. The servants in this house were very discreet. ‘I wish Father were here,’ she said as she and Mrs Dawson helped her mother out of her dress before drawing her nightgown over her head.

  Both her mother and the midwife drew in a breath of censure.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Rosalie.’ Her mother clutched the bed rail. ‘He’s the last person I would want right now. Now please leave, there’s a good girl. This is no place for you.’

  In the sitting room, Rosalie looked out of the window again. The snow was falling steadily and she was barely able to see beyond the flakes in the dim and eerie gloom from the gas lamp outside the front door. There were a few people about, hurrying along the pavement with their heads down, the men with their coat collars turned up and the women shrugging down into their muffs and furs.

  She sighed. It was going to be a long evening. According to the book she had read it could take until tomorrow morning or even the following night for her mother to deliver. But she was perturbed. Her father had returned to his regiment in the middle of July, and even taking into account that he had arrived home at the end of June ... She flushed. Really! She shouldn’t be thinking of such things. But she also recalled that her mother had been ill only last year and Mrs Dawson had been sent for then as well.

  Rosalie was an only child. She had had a brother, but he had succumbed to diphtheria and died at three years old some six years before. Had there been other pregnancies, she wondered. There was no way of telling. Her mother’s constitution was delicate and the doctor often visited.

  She went up to her room. A fire had been lit and the curtains drawn. The room was decorated in colours she had chosen herself: cream walls, pale green upholstery and rose-coloured cushions. She turned up the lamp and selected a book to read, but she couldn’t settle and after a few minutes got up to open the door so that she could hear any sounds of activity from her mother’s room along the landing. She picked up her book again and drew her chair nearer the fire, but presently the words began to blur and her eyes closed.

  ‘Miss Rosalie! Miss Rosalie!’ Martha was gently shaking her shoulder. ‘Wake up, miss.’

  ‘Oh!’ Rosalie sat up with a start, rubbing her eyes. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Half past nine,’ Martha said. ‘Mrs Dawson’s sent for ’doctor, Miss Rosalie. Your mother miscarried. Do you know what that means, miss?’

  ‘Yes,’ Rosalie said. ‘She’s lost the baby.’ She blinked up at the servant. ‘Is she all right? Mother, I mean?’

  ‘No, miss.’ Martha looked anxious. ‘That’s why we’ve sent for ’doctor. Mrs Dawson can’t stop ’bleeding.’

  Polly had been sitting on the stairs outside their room when Mrs Walters came out. ‘You’d better go in to your ma, Polly. She’s right sick. I don’t know what to do for ’best. We could do wi’ doctor. He’d know.’

  ‘Doctor! Where’d we get ’money for ’doctor?’ Polly trembled. ‘And it’s snowing. He’d nivver come out on a night like this. Not to us.’

  ‘He might.’ The old woman lifted up her lamp as she looked at Polly. ‘I’ll send our Nellie’s lad if you like. But you’ll have to pay him a copper for going.’

  Polly blew out a breath. ‘Wait a bit. I’ll talk to Ma. See what she thinks.’

  The old woman shook her head. ‘She’s in no fit state to think about owt,’ she said. ‘You’ll have to mek ’decision.’

  Polly was scared. What if her ma died? Why hadn’t she told her she was pregnant? Whose bairn was it? She’d suspected that Sonny Blake and her mother might have been lovers in the past, even though he was younger, but Ma had maintained he was just a good friend. This was his doing, Polly decided in her anguish. Rat bag! Lecherous cur!

  ‘Ma!’ she whispered as she went into the room. Her mother was lying under a thin blanket on the mattress in the corner. A stub of candle was burning in a saucer, but there was no other light. The putrid air stank of blood and vomit. She knelt on the floor beside her. ‘Have you lost ’bairn?’

  ‘Yes.’ Her mother’s voice was barely audible. ‘Lost a lot o’ blood.’

  ‘Shall I run for ’doctor? Will he come, do you think?’

  Her mother didn’t answer, then began to weep. ‘I’m bleeding, Polly. She can’t stop it.’

  ‘I’ll run for Dr James. Mebbe he’ll come.’

  ‘No.’ Her mother reached out and Polly took hold of her hand. ‘Don’t leave me, Poll. Ask ... Mrs Walters ...’ Her voice was full of tears.

  ‘Yes.’ Polly scrambled to her feet. ‘I’ll ask her.’ She ran out on to the landing. ‘Fetch him,’ she urged. ‘Tell him to run. I’ll pay him.’

  ‘He’ll want ’money first,’ Mrs Walters told her.

  Polly felt in her skirt pocket. Nothing. She dashed back into the room and ran her hand along the mantelshelf. A coin.

  ‘A ha’penny,’ she said to the old woman. ‘I’ll give him more when I’ve got it. Tell him to be quick.’

  She went back in to her mother and knelt beside her again. ‘I don’t suppose he’ll be long,’ she said reassuringly. ‘He’ll have finished his supper. It’s not that late, I don’t think. I heard ’clock strike nine a bit ago. How’re you feeling now? A bit weak? You rest, then. Shut your eyes and try to sleep.’

  She was babbling, she knew, but she had to talk to stop herself from crying. ‘I’m going to ban that Sonny Blake from ’house,’ she said, only half joking. ‘I’ll tell him when I see him that he’s not to come near.’

  A breathy whisper came from the bed and Polly leaned closer. ‘Not his,’ she heard her mother say. ‘I’ve not ... seen him in ...’

  ‘Then who ...’ Polly began, and then her eyes opened wide. How gullible I’ve been! Or have I not wanted to know that Ma might have been trying to earn money from — She daren’t put the thought into words.

  Her mother was still weeping. ‘Dear God, forgive me ... my sins. I ... needed money, Polly. To buy bread ...’

  As the boy reached the doctor’s house the carriage was pulling away. He hammered on the door. ‘Yes?’ The housekeeper frowned down at the thinly clad caller. ‘Stop that noise. What do you want?’

  ‘Doctor. Can he come? Straight away? It’s urgent.’ He tossed a coin up in the air amongst the falling snow and caught it. ‘Woman’s had a miscarry or summat.’

  ‘The doctor’s out. That was his carriage. Give me ’address and I’ll tell him when he gets back. But I can’t promise; he’s got others waiting for him.’

  The address was off the High Street and she frowned. ‘I
don’t know if he’ll want to go down there at this time of night, not in this weather.’

  ‘It’s all right.’ The boy wiped his nose on the back of his hand. ‘Nobody much about. I’ll wait if you like and show him.’

  ‘Come back in an hour,’ she told him. ‘He should be home by then and we can ask him.’

  ‘All right,’ he said nonchalantly. ‘See you in a bit.’

  ‘Miss Kingston.’ The doctor came out of the bedroom, clasping his hands. ‘I’m afraid it isn’t good news. No use beating about the bush. Your mother has aborted a pregnancy and is bleeding heavily. I can’t staunch it and I’m sorry to say that I have done all I can.’ He shook his head. ‘I fear she has lost too much blood to sustain life.’

  Rosalie heard him as if from afar and she put her hand on the wall to steady herself. ‘What are you saying?’ she breathed. ‘She’s not going to die?’

  Dr James nodded gravely. ‘I’m afraid she is. Sit with her to give her comfort,’ he said. ‘You are young, but not too young to give her solace. Then you must get in touch with your father. He will be given compassionate leave, I’m sure. Unless he is abroad.’

  I don’t know where he is, was Rosalie’s first thought, except that he’s not here. He’s never here! He’s a soldier first and foremost. I’ve heard him say that so often. I daren’t go in! What will I say to Mama? How can I comfort her when I’m so afraid?

  ‘Mrs Dawson will sit with you, my dear,’ the doctor said kindly. ‘I’m so sorry to leave you, but I have many patients waiting for me tonight. I’ll come again as soon as I can.’

  Rosalie didn’t answer but walked past him into the bedroom.

  ‘Come, m’dear,’ Mrs Dawson said from her mother’s bedside. ‘There’s nothing to be afraid of. Just think of your mother going to another life.’