The Orphans of Ardwick Read online

  About the Book

  They thought they had found the warmth and safety of home …

  After a cold, hard winter on the streets, three orphan children are about to give up hope when an unexpected turn of events brings them to the doorstep of a grand house in Ardwick, Manchester.

  Taken in by the firm but kind-hearted cook, the young friends can hardly believe their luck. But behind Bracken House’s impressive facade lies a household steeped in troubles and mystery, with residents above and below stairs battling their own demons and dark secrets.

  Not everyone is happy about the new arrivals, and soon the orphans’ safety is in danger. If they want to stay in the first home any of them has known for years, they must unravel the past and bring hope to the future. Will they succeed? Or will they come to regret ever leaving the mean slum streets they once called home?

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  About the Author

  Also by Emma Hornby

  Copyright

  THE ORPHANS OF ARDWICK

  Emma Hornby

  For my grandma, who had more than a little of Cook May in her. And my ABC, always x

  For each man knows the market value

  Of silk or woollen or cotton …

  But in counting the riches of England

  I think our Poor are forgotten.

  Adelaide Procter, poet and philanthropist

  Chapter 1

  December 1860

  ‘LOOK, SEE? SEE the pictures in the clouds? It’s a cat and horse dancing a jig! Tha sees it, don’t thee?’ asked Pip hopefully.

  The small boy followed her finger towards the darkening sky and squinted at the scudding mist. He sucked noisily on the thumb planted firmly in his mouth. Moments later, he turned his huge blue eyes, shiny with miserable tears, towards her. He shook his head. ‘Hungry, Pip. Terrible hungry.’

  His pitiful cries tore at her. Careful not to put her feet into the stagnant pools of human filth which filled the stinking floor of the communal privy they were crouched in, she eased her stiff legs out from under herself and wriggled her cold toes to coax some life back into them. Then she wrapped her arms around the tiny boy by her side and drew her shawl more tightly around them both. He snuggled into her thin chest and within seconds, the bodice of her ragged dress was soaked with his tears.

  ‘Hungry. Hungry!’

  Pip shushed him softly. ‘Quiet, lad, else owd Betty will hear and we’ll be for it then. Didn’t she warn only last night what she’d do if she found us sheltering in here again?’

  ‘Ram her clog up our arses and kick us into next Sunday, Pip.’

  A wry smile touched her lips. ‘So you see, you must be quiet, like. Try to sleep and in t’ morning, we’ll go and hang around Mr Hoggart’s bakers, see if we can’t persuade someone to take pity on us and buy us a stale bun. What d’you say to that? But it’s late, now, so you must sleep. That’s it, you keep close to me for warmth, there’s a good lad.’

  Half a minute later, the boy’s voice cut through the gloom again: ‘Can’t sleep. Too hungry to sleep. Guts like that, Pip.’ He clenched and unclenched his small fists in imitation of his cramping stomach. ‘It hurts. It hurts.’

  Before Pip could soothe him, a second lad sitting apart from them nearest to the broken door cut through the youngster’s whimpers. ‘Go to kip, Bread, for Christ’s sake. There’s nowt to be done till morning so just you shut up.’

  Pip cast him a frown. ‘Don’t be harsh with him, Simon. He’s only a babby. He feels it more than us. And will tha stop calling him Bread? I told thee from the start, I’ll not address him by that. It’s an altogether stupid thing to call a body. His new name’s Mack. Call him Mack.’

  The dark-haired boy turned his scowling face away and flicked his shoulders in a shrug. ‘Aye, well. Bread, Mack, call him what you will. I ain’t mithered. Just keep him bloody quiet, will thee? He’s getting on my nerves.’

  Silence fell and the three children settled down for another long, cold night stretching ahead.

  The Sunday late hours were empty of sound and for this, they were grateful. Weekends were the devil’s own holidays; the drunken, raucous goings-on of the slum dwellers once their wages were in their eager palms was a battle the children endured with quiet grimness week in, week out. Weekdays were not so bad. Folk had to be up early for work the following day and generally the narrow, cobbled streets and lanes were free of drama.

  Soon, Mack’s breathing steadied into a regular rhythm and Pip released a soft sigh of relief. This life was hardship enough at her and Simon’s ages – though just how old the lads were, she couldn’t rightly say, had never asked – but for the small one beside her, it was torture. Only this morning, she’d had to bite back tears when she’d attempted to check Mack’s feet. He’d been having trouble with them for weeks and when he’d stumbled, wailing in pain and unable to take another step, she’d knelt before him to investigate. The rotten remnants of his old boots, she’d soon discovered, had seemed to become one with him. She’d tugged at the crumbling leather but his screams had halted her attempt and, heartsore for this poor child she’d come to love as a younger brother, she’d had no choice but to leave them be. The boot looked to have fused to his bare flesh and, short of tearing the skin from the bone, there was little she could do. He’d have to try and ignore the pain, and she’d told him so.

  No, a life on the streets wasn’t one they endured easily. Yet what was the alternative? The workhouse? Her lips tightened in determination. Never, never. She’d sooner finish her days all bone and frozen to the marrow in the gutter than pass through those doors. They all would. That place with all it stood for was the scourge of the poor’s nightmares. Man or woman, old and young, fit or weak – each knew how easily their fortune could change and the prospect of the poorhouse could be upon them in the blink of an eye. They would take these grey, filth-ridden cobbles any day, thank you very much.

  ‘Is he asleep?’

  Pip looked over the top of Mack’s fair hair towards Simon. His face was in shadow, hiding the worry she knew would be in his eyes – was always there for this boy they both fretted over, however much Simon tried to hide it. She nodded. ‘Aye. Best get some shut-eye ourselfs. We want to be up and out of it afore sunrise, else we’ll be for it. Betty will have a blue fit if she happens upon us when she comes to empty her chamber pot in t’ morning.’

  ‘Owd bitch, she’s nowt else.’

  ‘Aye, well.’

  ‘I’d like to tip a pot of piss over her ugly bull head as she did to me. See how she’d like that, rotten cow.’

  Carefully, so as not to disturb Mack, Pip felt the air in the darkness until her fingers brushed the coarse material of Simon’s jacket. She pressed his shoulder. ‘Get some sleep, lad.’

  Simon brought his knees up closer to his chest and pulled his too-large cap low over his eyes. His teeth began chattering; cursing quietly
, he folded his arms around himself tightly.

  ‘Shuffle up here against me and Mack. You’ll be warmer that way.’

  After a moment’s silence, he answered her gruffly. ‘Nay. I’m all right.’

  Pip smiled to herself. Within minutes, the older lad’s even breathing matched Mack’s and just as she knew he would, as he did each night, Simon snuggled closer in his sleep. His head found her shoulder over Mack and she brought her shawl around him, encompassing the three of them beneath the woollen folds.

  A chink of grey moon winked down from the inky sky through the holes in the roof, as though watching over them like a caring mother. Suddenly, soft brown eyes and hair to match, framing a pale face, flitted like fog through Pip’s mind, bringing to her chest a drum of pain. With a small sigh, she closed her eyes.

  The morning of Christmas Eve had not yet touched the wintry sky with light when the three children slipped through the tumbledown door and into the bitter coldness of Lomax Street. Sounds of movement, as folk began to rouse for the day in Betty’s lodging house adjoining their shelter, had trickled through to them moments before and, rubbing the sleep from their eyes, they had wasted no time in scrambling up to melt away undetected.

  In less than an hour, the streets were teeming with people and carts and despite the poverty which was their lot, the people of Manchester seemed to have a slight spring in their clogged step this day. Early festivity hung in the sharp air and passing folk greeted each other with more nods and smiles than usual, their normally pallid faces ruddy with cold, their breath hovering in white clouds around their shawl- and cap-covered heads.

  Sprigs of dark green holly dotted with ruby berries adorned shop doors and windows, and even the harnesses of horses passing by, and a thin sprinkling of powdered frost had settled on the stones of the roads. The temperature looked set to plummet further later and the droves of women who would venture out to Smithfield Market tonight to grab knocked-down vegetables and, if they were lucky, a small chicken or goose for the following day’s fare, would be blue with cold by the time they returned, shivering, to their hearths.

  But at least they had a fire to go home to. At least they had a family, a place to lay their head of a night, a sense of belonging. For Pip, Simon, Mack and countless others, Christmas was the same as any other day – stark and empty. Though it did differ ever so slightly from every other day of the year in one sense: it served to heighten their awareness that they were not like the fortunate plenty who, though they suffered terrible hardships themselves in this chimney-choked, smoke-clogged, sad-coloured industrial city, at least had each other. To be alone in the world was the most destroying reality of all.

  Mind, I’m not alone, am I? Pip reminded herself, glancing left to right at the two boys walking either side of her. A smile touched her lips. Not now. Not with these lads of mine. Life wasn’t worth the bother not a few short months past but now – now it is. Now, I face the days easier. And the nights, too … Aye, the nights. They were the worst.

  The horrors involved with destitution were only too real. The bleak outdoors, during both the sunlit and twilight hours, were no place for the vulnerable, particularly children. Threats and abuse were commonplace. Dogs, traffic, not to mention harm posed by the elements, to name but a few of the dangers. Then there were the older kids, and sometimes adults with tendencies to turn vicious with drink, who thought nothing of lashing out at them with words, also clogs and fists, for no other reason than that they existed – even as they huddled in doorways, sleeping. Or they would wake – indeed had more than once – to find they had been spat or urinated on. Such mindless cruelty made no sense to them.

  ‘Bun, Pip? You promised. Bun?’

  She took Mack’s hand, then motioned to the small baker’s up ahead. ‘Aye, look. We’re nearly there, lad. And see, there’s a few kindly looking wenches by the door. You remember what to do?’ she added through the side of her mouth as they drew nearer.

  Mack nodded and, from necessity and practice, instantly developed a perfect rolling limp. Sticking out his bottom lip, he set it quivering expertly.

  ‘Good lad. Come on.’

  Simon, with his usual scowl and hands thrust deep in his trouser pockets, held back. Catching his eye, Pip flushed, sensing his disapproval. Using Mack to garner sympathy didn’t sit easy with him and she shared his sentiments completely, but there was nothing else for it. The youngster reaped better results – his size and obvious need was enough to melt most hearts.

  ‘Spare a penny, missis?’ Holding out a hand palm upwards, Mack thrust it towards the women in turn, whimpering to each as he did, eyes brimming with tears, ‘Please? Please? Please?’

  Pip caught their sorry stares and pitying sighs but it was clear they wouldn’t be in luck. These women looked almost as much in need as they themselves. Their ragged shawls and patched, discoloured skirts looked as though they would crumble to dust from their persons should a strong wind blow their way. Nonetheless, she stepped forward – it didn’t hurt to make sure.

  ‘Please, me and my brother, here, ain’t eaten for days. We’re poor orphans and shall perish if we don’t put summat in our bellies soon.’

  ‘Eeh, lass …’ The tallest of the women looked over them with a shake of her beshawled head. ‘I’ve a houseful of my own back there in the same boat.’ She jerked her chin in the general direction of a row of smoke-blackened houses up the street. ‘They’re wanting, an’ all, and if I can’t feed my own, I sure as bleedin’ hell can’t feed youse.’ Her companions murmured agreement and her eyes softened. ‘Sorry, lass, lad.’

  With a bleak smile and a nod, Pip shepherded Mack around and away.

  The three children huddled by the roadside for a while in silence, looking this way and that, eyeing all who passed, alert to any opportunity. Should a slightly better dressed body cross their path, Pip and Mack would hold out a hand, the practised beseeching slipping from their cold lips, but today it didn’t seem to be doing the trick. Tears dripped down Mack’s grubby cheeks when again their begging, this time of a pair of working men, yielded no result, and biting back tears of her own, Pip drew him against her.

  ‘Don’t fret, now, there’s a good lad. Someone will surely—’ She broke off with a frown as she glanced left at the older boy. Simon was staring intently at a boot mender’s across the road, and following his gaze, Pip shook her head. His attention was on an elderly man counting coins in his hand. When he returned them to his trouser pocket, Simon’s eyes swivelled to meet hers, and again Pip shook her head. Since she’d joined the lads’ company, she’d put a stop to that right away. She’d been raised to know stealing was wrong. Begging was one thing – at least they were asking and folk had the chance to decide whether to part with their brass. To take it from them without their knowledge was just plain wicked. Hungry or not, she wanted no part in that kind of thing.

  Simon made to move forward and she clutched at his sleeve. ‘Nay, lad. Please, not that. Summat will turn up, you’ll see. Not that. It’s wrong, Simon.’

  He turned blazing eyes on to her. ‘Aye? You think, d’you? Does it favour that folk are tripping over theirselfs to hand over a copper or two? Wrong – huh! Don’t talk to me about wrong. This here?’ He motioned to the three of them with an angry flick of his hand. ‘This is wrong. Frozen stiff? Stomachs twisting with hunger? Bowing and scraping to every passing bastard without so much as a glance in return from most, never mind owt else. Nay. I’ll get us some brass, my way. It’s seen me through this far, ain’t it, and kept that one alive the past year, an’ all,’ he added, nodding down at Mack.

  ‘But … that’s not what good people do! And you’re a good person, Simon. You are, I know it.’

  For the briefest moment, his dark eyes softened. Then the hardness returned to them and his lips tightened. ‘Good people stand no chance against a world so bad. The sooner tha realises that, Pip, the better for thee.’ He freed his arm from her hold and crossed the cobbles.

  ‘Spare a penn
y, kind sir?’

  Watching helplessly, filled with sadness as Simon closed in on his victim, Pip barely registered Mack speaking. The deep-voiced answer, however, caught her attention immediately. She turned, hope fluttering in her breast, to face a tall, slim gentleman. And a gentleman he clearly was. The cut of his cloth, tall black hat and shiny gold-tipped cane spoke volumes of his wealth. Yet it was the interest in the pale green eyes as they assessed the youngster that set her pulse racing with excitement. He hadn’t ignored Mack’s plea, hadn’t flapped a clean and manicured hand in dismissal before strolling on his leisurely way. He’d stopped to listen, and he was smiling.

  ‘A penny, you say?’ the man asked in a soft, articulate voice. He reached out a hand and touched Mack’s chin in a slow caress, and his gaze deepened further. ‘I think I can do better than that, boy.’

  Mack’s eyes were as big as saucers. His mouth spread in a dazzling smile. ‘You mean it, sir?’

  ‘I do. However …’ The man patted his breast pocket with a click of his tongue. ‘I appear to have left my purse in my carriage. It must have fallen out during the drive and will be lying on the seat as we speak, you mark my words.’

  ‘Oh!’ The child’s face fell. ‘Oh, sir!’

  ‘Don’t take on so, young one. This small problem is easily rectified. What say you come along with me while I collect it? My driver is waiting but a street away, after all.’ He held out a hand, smiling when Mack responded eagerly, and closed his slender fingers around the tiny ones. ‘Come. You deserve a few shillings, I think.’

  The boy squeaked excitedly. ‘Aye?’

  ‘Oh, at least.’

  Shooting Pip a joyous grin, Mack trotted off happily. With a smile of her own, she followed but after a few short steps, the man turned to look at her. His face showed surprise, as though he’d only just noticed her existence.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I …’ She blinked down towards Mack. ‘He’s with me, sir.’

  ‘Oh. I see.’ He cast her a tight smile. ‘No need for you to trouble yourself, girl. The boy and I shall collect the money ourselves. We shan’t be long.’