A Voice to be Heard

By Dell Brand

The story of two young women determined to live outside the confines of the Victorian Age and who have a lasting impact on the fledgling town of Melbourne.
Florence is seduced by the son of her employer in Leicestershire. Thomas Luxford casts her aside, denying all responsibility for her coming child. Fleeing her former life, Florence’s twins are born illegitimately in Bedford in 1819. Florence is alone and destitute with her infant daughters. Fortunately the twins’ paternal grandfather seeks them out and saves them from the workhouse. Thanks to his benevolence, Joey and Maddy grow up in secluded gentility. However, their way of life changes with the onset of their mother’s consumption and a trip to Brighton to effect a cure.

At nineteen, the twins suffer a double tragedy, losing both their mother and their beloved grandfather. After time in London and on the advice of their solicitor, the girls flee the country to secure the inheritance left to them by their grandfather. They choose to make Australia their new home. The voyage via Rio de Janeiro is not without incident and Joey finds she cannot remain in Sydney with her sister. She travels on to Melbourne, determined to make her life in the young and brash settlement. Maddy joins her there.
In the fledgling town where floods and constant mud threaten to overwhelm, the girls follow through with their plan for their future. Despite the sad plight of the aborigines, an economic depression, labour shortages and personal trauma, they ultimately win through. By 1847, Melbourne grows from a lawless frontier settlement into a burgeoning town, rich on the wealth of wool.
The book follows the lives of these women as they struggle to earn their place in a man’s world. The saga of early Melbourne unfolds through their tragedies and celebrations, two women destined to change the fabric of colonial society and make a lasting impact on the character of Australian life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dell Brand
• Release date: Feb 5, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311714282

Dell Brand

Dell Brand grew up in Sydney, attending North Sydney Girls High School, Sydney University (BEd & MA) and Wollongong University (PhD). She taught in state high schools during her working life, teaching Physical and Health Education. She was recognised with the Minister’s Award for Excellence in Teaching and the Outstanding Achievement in Education Award from the Australian College of Education.She has always had a keen interest in children with challenging behaviours, and worked for a number of years with a wilderness-enhanced program aimed at turning around young people’s lives. This formed the basis of her thesis. As a teacher in this program, she involved herself in many of her recreational passions including abseiling, rock-climbing, wilderness trekking, canyoning and canoeing. In recent years, she has developed a particular interest in family history and history in general.Dell is also a part-time journalist and has been published by a number of editors in Australia and abroad. She wrote her first children’s book, History’s a Mystery, in 2010. Due to its success, three more followed. She uses her own travel experiences to write first-hand about places she has seen and people she has met. Some of these places find their way into her books.Now she is writing adult novels and her first two, ‘A Voice to be Heard’ and ‘Cry to the Wind’ are set in early Melbourne.Dell loves the outdoors, especially the wilderness. In her younger years she was a keen swimmer and an A grade squash player. She now enjoys all outdoor pursuits and tries to play golf regularly. She has a wonderful family, with two grown-up children and five funtastic grandchildren. She lives on the south coast of New South Wales.

Book preview

Part 1

Lutterworth, Leicestershire 1820

Chapter 1

The man stood in the doorway, silently watching for several minutes. What is a servant girl doing in Father’s library? Is she reading? And she is lounging in his favourite chair no less! What cheek! But she is an attractive wench, even in her servant’s garb. Look at those golden ringlets and rosy cheeks. She is so engrossed in her book, she has absolutely no notion that I am watching her. I wonder if Father knows she is in here? She looks very dégagé, as if she does this all the time.

Florence’s favourite place was this old leather chair in the library at Stanford Hall. Soon after coming to work here, she had begun to use it as her refuge, her sole means of escape from her life of drudgery. Today, a rainy afternoon some weeks after her sixteenth birthday, her chores were finished and she decided on another stolen half-hour. Completely engrossed in Jane Austen’s new book Persuasion, she failed to hear the man’s approaching footsteps. When she did finally register his presence, she looked up smiling, expecting to see the owner of the grand house, Sir Robert Luxford, MP for Leicestershire. Instead, a stranger stood before her, a younger and slimmer man, quite unlike her sandy-haired employer. Startled, Florence rose abruptly from her chair, dropping the precious book to the floor. She began apologising once again, exactly as she had to Sir Robert three years previously.

‘Sir, I… I… I am sorry, sir. I was not aware anyone would be using this room today. I, I shall leave at once, sir.’

‘No. Tarry awhile, there is no great rush. Who are you and what is your name?’

‘I… I… my name is Florence, sir, and I am employed here as a housemaid.’

‘Well, I am pleased to meet you, Florence. My name is Mr Thomas and I am the son of Sir Robert. Only son, in fact.’ Smiling down at her genially, his calm demeanour belied his racing thoughts. My God! What sparkling eyes—they are so blue—a man could lose himself in those eyes.

‘How do you do, sir?’ replied Florence, giving a little curtsy and lowering her gaze. She remained very much afraid that her reading times would reach the ears of the veritable ruler of Stanford Hall: the housekeeper Mrs Wellings. In the three years she had been here, her snatched half-hours of reading were a closely guarded secret. Always circumspect in her library sorties, she only ever ventured in here after her daily work was complete. Yet despite her misgivings, Florence felt herself calming as this man stood smiling down at her. Perhaps everything will be all right. He seems pleasant. Perhaps he will not report me. And he is rather comely. Florence blushed as her racing thoughts threatened to belie her outward composure, nevertheless still admiring his coal-black, curly hair and blazing green eyes. What are you thinking, Florence! This is the son of Sir Robert!

God! Look at her fine figure! Even in her uniform she is a beauty. I just might be able to win her if I play my cards right. Though she is rather overly confident for a servant girl. She does not seem terribly discommoded by my company now that she is over her initial shock … But I think I shall pursue her regardless. It may be a good bit of sport. Yes, I must put my mind to it. I wonder how long it will take me? I wager I can do it in four weeks, maybe six. Yes, definitely six. Besides, I have only eight weeks left before I leave. As he stood before her in his fashionable waistcoat and frockcoat with a garish floral cravat in reds and yellows tied neatly in front over his shirt collar, he brought his thoughts back to a more acceptable conversation and began to enlighten her of his recent past. ‘I have been in Oxford reading history for these past three years, which explains why I have not come across you before. Er… Can I ask if my father is aware of your reading in his library?’

‘Oh, yes sir,’ Florence answered at once.

Thomas nodded.

‘Your father, sir, very kindly gave me permission to read here, once I have completed all my work. He also said he would keep my presence in the library away from the ears of Mrs Wellings,’ she added, raising her eyebrows slightly to him as she smiled a little, recalling Sir Robert’s conspiratorial pledge.

‘Then I shall do the same,’ he replied lightly.

As they conversed further, Florence relaxed a little more and answered his questions freely, firstly about herself and then about the book she was reading. ‘It is Jane Austen’s new book Persuasion, Mr Thomas. Your father recently bought it and suggested I might like it.’

‘And do you?’

‘Oh, yes! I am engrossed. Jane Austen’s characters are so true to life.’

‘Do you think so?’ Yes, I shall definitely chase this one. It seems she has some education too. I wonder how she acquired that? It is most unusual in a servant girl. But I shall have to go carefully. I do not want to frighten her.

After further discussion of the book, he decided to tell her his immediate plans.

‘I am home only briefly to see Father, before I begin an extended tour of the Continent.’

Florence found him easy to talk to, as they discussed places he hoped to visit in Europe. She could see he was surprised at the scope of her knowledge and would have had him stay talking, but he soon excused himself, pleading some business matters needing attention.

From that first accidental meeting, however, Thomas contrived many more and a liaison slowly developed. He would happen upon her whilst she was cleaning out a fireplace in one of the drawing rooms or seek her out as she was polishing the silver in the dining room. Twice more he encountered her in the library. On each occasion, he would gaze into her eyes, compliment her in his easy way, and then engage her in a discussion about something literary.

Florence’s head was soon turned. Being both young and naïve and believing him to be sincere, she revelled in his attention. Thoughts of him invaded her every waking moment. For the first time in her young life, a man was enjoying her company. It did not take long until she imagined herself in love with him.

One morning, some four weeks later, after another ‘accidental’ meeting within the house, Thomas asked if she would like to meet him in the grounds on her next free day. As Florence had told him she was accustomed to walking in the woods around the hall on Sunday afternoons when the weather was clement, he knew no one on the staff would think it strange to see her walking out at this time. Thomas assured her that he would be discreet and leave on horseback well after she had departed, so she agreed. As he took his leave, Thomas suggested a place where they could meet.

As Florence walked away from the hall on that Sunday afternoon in June, she wore her summer cape and carried an umbrella borrowed from the kitchen. A strengthening wind delivered a shower of rain and low misty cloud shrouded the nearby hills. Yet the overcast weather did nothing to dampen her mood. She felt more alive and carefree than she could ever remember. Once she had disappeared amongst the trees, she began skipping across the grass, exhilarated and laughing out loud with sheer joy. Slowing again as she neared their point of rendezvous, she felt a momentary unease, asking herself whether he would come as planned. Her doubts proved unfounded.

He was there waiting when she arrived, his horse tethered nearby. It was a small clearing, not too far from the house, and the lush grass sparkled silver with the recent raindrops. She was breathless with anticipation yet her heart was in her mouth as she looked into his eyes and returned his smile. Oh! I am so nervous! I know I should not be meeting Mr Thomas here like this. It is so wrong. Yet it feels so right. I know he loves me. Everything will be all right. We shall be married soon and spend the rest of our lives together.

‘You look beautiful this afternoon,’ he said as he took her hands in his and kissed them lightly.

As soon as he touches me, electric sparks fly up my arms and my body is on fire. Can he feel it? My heart is thudding so loudly in my chest it feels like it is going to explode. Can he hear it? Has he noticed what he does to me? Wholly captivated by his charms, she was his to do with as he pleased. She smiled at him again and they began to walk. The sky darkened and, within minutes, a summer storm was upon them. The light rain became a downpour as lightning flashed and thunder reverberated ominously around the hills. Florence stood beneath her flimsy umbrella that was wholly unsuited to the task while Thomas released his horse, knowing it would return to the shelter of the barn. She was happy to follow his suggestion that they seek refuge in a nearby gardener’s shed, one he said he knew from his childhood. Guilelessly, Florence ran with him through the slanting rain.

Though musty and dimly lit, the shed was a haven from the tumult outside. As they stood panting from their exertions, they shook off their wet capes. Florence breathed in a rich blend of mould and freshly cut hay. Cobwebs hung from the rafters and old tools stood rusting in the corners, yet new straw thickly carpeted the earthen floor. Florence thought this strange and mentioned it to Thomas, but he made light of her observation and abruptly changed the subject.

After shaking the water from her hair, Florence did not resist Thomas as he took her in his arms, her excitement and the flush of first love melding with the innocence of childhood. This secret assignation was both morally forbidden and exquisitely exciting. Oh! I love him so much! He is so handsome and manly and he smells so nice—a mixture of sweat and soap and something else that I cannot quite … Putting aside a momentary unease, she responded hungrily to his first kiss that rapidly became a passionate embrace.

I am guessing she is a virgin. I wonder what she will be like? Wonderful, I imagine. Her lips are delectable and her breasts so utterly delightful. When I enter her, it will be heaven. Probably she will pretend it is painless, just to please me. It will be a moment to treasure.

Florence was as eager as he. No one had ever kissed her like this and his lips were delicious. Swept up in this newfound passion, she found herself lying in the straw beside him, her petticoats hitched around her waist. The most wonderful feeling overwhelmed her as he slipped his hand inside her chemise and, tingling from head to toe, she gave herself up to his caress. A feeling as strong as this cannot be wrong, can it? I am in a fever with wanting him. Oh! He is so wonderful! Please let it be all good! Please let him feel the same way I do! Totally under his spell, Florence let Thomas remove her underwear and then watched in fascination as he stood to unbutton his breeches, letting them fall to the floor. He gently lay on top of her and asked softly for permission to continue. Blushingly, she nodded and kissed him again.

A searing pain enveloped her and she bit her lip to stop from screaming. All the pleasure of the previous few moments evaporated in an instant. It was then that she panicked for the first time. What have I done? Panic soon gave way to shame, though ultimately she calmed herself, remembering that Thomas loved her. Everything will be all right. Mr Thomas and I shall be married and live together in Stanford Hall. Everything will be all right. These thoughts gave her the fortitude to smile through her pain and she resolved to endure this unpleasant part of lovemaking for his sake.

Wholly unaware of Florence’s emotional turmoil, Thomas rolled off her and lay panting on the floor. After recovering, he stood and dressed, then waited while she did the same. He swept her into his arms once more, kissing her and telling her that she was the most wonderful creature in the world and that he could not get enough of her.

She melted once again under the warmth of his embrace. Everything will be all right.

This was her incantation over the weeks that followed. There were four more times when they stole time alone, sneaking away to make love in the gardener’s hut. Each time became a little easier for Florence. As the burning pain became a dim memory, she found she could better respond to his lovemaking and actually began to enjoy it, secure in the belief that she would presently become his wife.

Her world was shattered a week after their last assignation when they met in the library and she naïvely mentioned a wedding.

Thomas looked at her for a moment in dismay before casually dispelling her dreams. ‘What? Marriage? My dear, you cannot possibly be serious! As much as I enjoy your company, I could not possibly entertain the idea of marriage. What are you thinking? You are merely a servant girl while I... Well, I am destined for far better things. I expect I shall marry an heiress or even a countess someday. My father would hear of nothing less. I am sorry if I have misled you. Besides, I leave for the Continent next week.’

Stunned into silence by his words, Florence mustered what little pride remained and walked swiftly from his presence. Numb with shock and with tears blurring her vision, she went straight to her room, where she collapsed onto her bed. She was helpless to stop her world from disintegrating around her. She lay there for hours, not caring whether she lived or died, and certainly not in the least concerned that Mrs Wellings may miss her. Luckily, the formidable housekeeper was out shopping that afternoon and none of the other servants commented on her absence. By the following morning, she had recovered sufficient composure to report for work.

After his proclamation, Thomas did not seek her out again, nor did she see him about the house or grounds. She learned later from Sir Robert that he had left for Europe. Valiantly Florence tried to mask her despair. She continued to work hard, bravely facing each new day and pretending that her world had not fallen apart. Mechanically, she forced herself through her chores and fell asleep each night on a pillow wet with tears.

Sir Robert noted the change and was not fooled by her stoicism. He could see that her heart was broken and rightly suspected that her anguish involved his son.

As Florence continued to grieve silently and to come gradually to a realisation of her folly, she vowed that never again would she let a man dupe her in that way. She would avoid all men and, although completely uncertain of how she was to achieve it, she would somehow live a life free of class distinction and servitude.

Then she discovered she was with child.

Chapter 2

Florence sobbed uncontrollably as disbelief turned to utter despair. How can this be happening to me? What am I going to do? Why is life so unfair? How could Mr Thomas be so cruel? Convinced he had reciprocated her love, she still was not reconciled to his duplicity. His overwhelming lack of concern cut her savagely. She tried to hate him for what he had done, yet found she could not. Mr Thomas laid out all that new straw… It was all part of his grand plan to seduce me. The storm only made his task easier! She could not believe she had been so gullible.

Now she was pregnant, with all the extra grief this entailed.

At times, her good sense overrode her emotions and she settled enough to consider her options. Each was grim and came with its own set of problems. Can I confide in Sir Robert? No. She dismissed that idea as soon as she conceived it. Surely, Sir Robert would side with his son. No, I cannot remain at Stanford Hall.

Can I go back to Aunt Clarice? Instinctively, she knew that she could not return to her home before Stanford Hall. Her elderly, maiden aunt lived in Leicester and had taken responsibility for Florence many years before. Her mind went back to those early days …

Florence had lost her mother and was alone in the world, save for an aunt she had never met. She still clearly remembered the dread that had accompanied her entry into that home. Her Aunt Clarice Powell was formidable and austere. Grieving for her mother, snatched abruptly from her familiar surroundings and entering the grim home of a stranger had nearly broken Florence’s spirit. However, even at the tender age of seven, she was already tough and she had endured.

Over time, she and her aunt had settled into a strange working relationship. It transpired that her aunt was not the dragon Florence had first thought. Although strict, Aunt Clarice was always fair, and despite her aunt’s propensity to mask her true feelings, Florence occasionally glimpsed a friendly response or a small gesture that suggested attachment. Florence’s sharp mind and quick wit often drew a smile from the otherwise taciturn old woman and Florence, in turn, came to appreciate and rely on her elderly caregiver.

Florence could read, write and calculate, all thanks to Aunt Clarice. Recognising her niece’s intellect from the beginning, her aunt had rightly concluded that Florence’s only chance of bettering her present situation in the world would be through education. So every day over the years that Florence was in her house, Aunt Clarice spent hours patiently teaching her young charge. Florence’s enthusiasm for learning had been reward enough. Soaking up knowledge like a sponge, Florence’s consuming passion had been for books.

Coming back to the present, Florence shook her head. No! Aunt Clarice would be unable to suffer such a scandal and I would be unable to face her. I am far too ashamed. No, I cannot return to Leicester.

After much heart-wrenching consideration, Florence knew her only realistic option was to rely on herself. She was a fighter, and she knew she would somehow get through this. Somehow, I will cope but I need a plan. I cannot remain here for much longer. Mrs Wellings would also be scandalised by my condition. Yes, I must leave Leicestershire and go to a place where no one will know me. I shall go south, towards London. I will choose a town at random, leave the coach there and begin a new life. I will find a position and invent a story about my absent husband serving in the navy.

The next weeks were the most challenging that Florence had ever endured. Morning nausea overwhelmed her daily and, pleading a stomach ailment, she avoided breakfast with the other servants. She dragged herself around the house, masking her wretchedness and determined to act normally. Pushing herself harder than ever, Florence rarely sought refuge in the library as she dreaded time alone with her thoughts. When it was no longer possible for her to doubt she was with child, she forced herself to confront the housekeeper.

‘Mrs Wellings, may I have a word with you in private?’

‘Goodness, Florence, whatever is the matter?’ The bespectacled housekeeper looked kindly at the young girl standing meekly in front of her. Florence had never caused her the slightest grief. Always quick and diligent in her work, she was never sick. ‘Come with me into the yard, girl.’

They walked together through the scullery into the cobblestoned yard. Florence was nervous and unable to meet her superior’s eye as she rushed her fabrication.

‘Mrs Wellings, I am afraid I must tender my resignation. My elderly aunt in Leicester is unwell and I have been called home to care for her.’

The older woman frowned and sadly shook her head. ‘Oh, Florence, I am sorry to hear that. And I am very sorry to see you go. You have been such a diligent and trustworthy worker. Have you been happy here, child?’

‘Oh yes, Mrs Wellings, very happy.’

‘Well, of course, I will not stand in your way. But I desire you to know that your position here will always be open for you if, at some time in the future, you can see your way clear to return.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Wellings.’ Though her fear of the housekeeper had diminished a little as the years had passed, she was still concerned that the older woman may see through her lies, so she took her leave before Mrs Wellings could ask further difficult questions. Florence saw no hope of ever returning to Stanford Hall.

Back in the solitude of her bedroom, her thoughts once again ran wild. I know I have to go, but I am so frightened. There are so many unknowns. Where shall I go? What shall I do? Oh! How I wish I could have these last few months over again! I would definitely not fall prey to Mr Thomas’ silky words and soft lips!... Or would I? If I am completely truthful, maybe I would … I would probably do the same all over again. But why do I have to be with child? It is all so unfair! I do not know the least thing about having a baby. That is the most frightening thing—how will I cope? Maybe I will not be able... Maybe I will die. I know many women die having babies. Oh! God! I am so scared. I do not want to die! I must go away and find a place to live where nobody will know me. How am I to do that? Oh, it is all so overwhelming! I am not sure I will cope… If only I had someone to turn to, a person I could trust to help me! But I have no one. There is no one.

Florence left Stanford Hall the next day. It was the end of September. Slipping out unobtrusively and hoping she would not attract the attention of the other servants, she walked the three miles to the London road. Sitting on her shabby bag containing all her worldly possessions, she awaited the next coach. Although she could ill afford to travel this way, she reasoned that she must.

A few hours later, as the coach lumbered over the uneven road towards London, she reflected again on the hard choice she had made. No matter which way I look at it, this seems for the best. I could not remain at Stanford Hall nor could I return to Aunt Clarice. This decision to go south is my best option. It has to be. Yet I am so frightened. I have never been on my own before. And I have never travelled anywhere on my own… But I will get through this. Somehow I will, I know I will.

At Kettering, one of the coach stops later in the day, Florence ventured into an adjacent smith’s shop, there purchasing a plain copper ring. She slipped it onto her wedding finger when she knew herself to be unobserved. From now on, she would be Mrs Florence Gower, slightly changing her old name of Powell. She would endeavour to keep to herself though if anyone should ask, she would say that her husband was away in the Royal Navy. Recalling that her mother had used a similar story when Florence was a little girl, she wondered, for the first time, if this had actually been true.

By the time the coach reached Bedford on its way south, the incessant jolting and bumping had pushed her past all endurance. Pulling her bag wearily from the seat, she decided that Bedford would be her new home.

Chapter 3

Using a little more of her already diminished purse, Florence secured two nights’ lodgings in a boarding house not far from where the coach set her down in Bedford. She was determined to walk the streets of her new town until she found a form of employment, at least for the next six months. After that... Well, I am not at all sure what I will do after that. But one thing at a time. As long as I keep putting one foot in front of the other, I know my determination will see me through. First things first. Find a position.

With these thoughts churning continuously, she wolfed down the gruel and stale bread placed in front of her, the only food she had eaten all day, and then wearily made her way to bed. Despite her exhaustion, Florence found sleep to be elusive and she tossed and turned for most of the night, remaining unsure whether Bedford had been the right decision after all. Her mind kept returning to Lutterworth and the last three years. She could still vividly recall her first days at Stanford Hall…

As the carriage had clattered into the cobblestoned courtyard to the rear of the house, Florence caught the pungent scents of roses, newly turned soil, wet horse and fresh manure. With trepidation, she walked to the back door and knocked, then waited, bag in hand, until a kitchenmaid answered. Fortuitously, it was the one person here whom Florence recognised.

‘Good morning, Charlotte. I am not sure you would remember me, but I am Florence Powell and I have come to work at Stanford Hall. I believe that some time previously you recommended me—as a favour to my aunt—to the housekeeper here. I would like to take this opportunity to thank you for that favour.’ Florence hoped Charlotte would recall.

‘Oh yes, oi remember you. Though you do sound a bit ‘igh and mighty for the sort o’ work you will be doin’ ‘ere. Oi’ll see if Missus Wellings be free,’ answered the slender girl who was no older than herself.

Directed to wait in the scullery, Florence looked about her as Charlotte sought Mrs Wellings. The vast kitchen sparkled beneath an array of shiny pots and pans, all hanging from an iron wheel suspended above a large, well-scrubbed table. On the table sat a plump, plucked chicken, along with carrots, peas and potatoes that must have come straight from the vegetable garden. Beyond the table was the range, with three kettles steaming away on top and already emitting a generous amount of heat. Sinks and benches ran around the rest of the walls.

A little while later, the housekeeper swept into the kitchen, sized up Florence with a glance and introduced herself.

‘Good morning to you, child. I am Mrs Wellings, housekeeper to Sir Robert. You must be the one Charlotte recommended.’

Florence acknowledged that it was so and introduced herself.

‘Well, get yourself upstairs and changed. You will get no grief from me if you do as you are told, work hard and refrain from idle gossip. Charlotte will take you up. When you are ready, you can begin your work. I expect you to be no more than ten minutes.’

Charlotte, who had hovered behind Mrs Wellings since her superior’s arrival, hurried Florence to her room. Leaving the scullery and kitchen area, they climbed a flight of stairs leading straight to the servants’ quarters. Florence saw a starched uniform laid out on what was to be her bed. Thanking Charlotte, she changed and reappeared in less time than the housekeeper had allowed.

After her initial settling in period where she missed her domineering aunt more than she believed she would, Florence found her new life at Stanford Hall agreeable for a time. However, she still yearned for the frequent conversations she had shared with her Aunt Clarice. Life at Stanford Hall was very different for the young girl. Florence soon discovered that the other servants, like Charlotte, lacked her background and education, very much limiting their conversations to workaday chatter. And under the ever-watchful eye of the formidable Mrs Wellings, Florence learned quickly to work hard and speak little.

Nevertheless, despite her best intentions, the work at Stanford Hall eventually became quite tiresome. The hours were long and she was required to complete the same mindless chores day in and day out. She fought hard to maintain her equanimity as she went about her duties. Initially, the grandeur of Stanford Hall was the only thing that saved her. She revelled in all she saw around her, both in the gracious lines of the house itself and in the many priceless treasures it contained. She loved the splendour and spaciousness of the flying staircase that led to the upper level and always paused in her polishing on the landing to gaze into the gilded mirror at the reflected image of the foyer below. She found all the formal rooms enchanting, especially the ornate pink and gold ballroom, with its French windows and pale velvet drapes. The plush drawing rooms and stately dining room were equally as elegant and all held fabulous furniture and bric-a-brac. Yet the room that most captivated her heart was the library. Its wood-panelled walls held over five thousand books and Florence looked in envy at the endless rows of leather-covered spines.

Every day at Stanford Hall, Florence looked forward to only one task and always left it until last. Dusting the library was a means to an end. She had come to realise that the room was mostly unoccupied during the late afternoons, and she reasoned that if it was indeed empty and her chores complete, then she may as well linger for a while, reading the rows of gold-embossed titles on the leather-bound books. Despite knowing that this would hardly meet with Mrs Wellings’ approval, one day Florence decided to risk a snatched half-hour. She took down one of the volumes and began to read. This one day soon became many as she found herself unable to resist the lure of the printed page. Each day—if the room was free—she would give the books a cursory dusting before sinking into the brown leather chair and indulging in some stolen minutes of pure bliss. The soft leather was warm and comforting and she lost herself to another time and place whenever she opened a cover.

Then Sir Robert had discovered her there. Despite her initial anxiety, this had led to many wonderful times when they had shared their love of books. However, she had always remained circumspect in her visits and successful in avoiding Mrs Wellings’ detection. While there had been a few narrow escapes, her visits had remained a secret between herself and Sir Robert. He was a wonderful man…

Florence turned over in her bed in the inn, rousing herself from her reverie. She realised with a start that she missed Sir Robert very much. After looking about the shadowy bedroom, she closed her eyes once more. Finally, sleep claimed her.

Next morning, wrapped against autumn’s chill, she started out early, still a little overwrought and tired, but with the renewable enthusiasm of youth and the sure promise that each new day brings. Walking around Bedford, she began offering herself for work. The High Street was the usual cluster of timber houses with overhanging storeys protruding out over the cobblestones. Growing rather like rampant wildflowers, the homes bloomed higgledy-piggledy, each one propping up its neighbour. Dimity curtains, pulled back to allow in the watery sun, mostly shrouded the small-paned latticed windows. While many belonged to house-proud owners, others showed a blatant disregard for cleanliness and tidiness.

The commercial premises of the town all displayed a profusion of goods jostling for space in their windows. Scythes, reap hooks and sheep shears predominated at the general store, while the cooper’s shop displayed beehives, butter firkins, churns, milking stools and pails. Harnesses and ropes were on show at the saddler’s and carts, wheelbarrows and mill gear at the wheelwright’s. A glover’s shop arrayed hedging gloves, thatcher’s knee-caps, ploughman’s leggings and clogs for sale, while the chemist entreated customers to try his horse embrocations along with his remedies for the common cold, aching joints and other pains. None of this was of much interest to Florence—preoccupied as she was—and none of the shopkeepers answered affirmatively to her offer of assistance. Thus, her first day in Bedford was dispiriting. She found nothing around Silver Street or Mill Lane.

On the second morning, she ventured further out along Wells Street, finally meeting with success. Finding a rather dilapidated establishment called the Goodfellows Boarding House and then knocking upon the door, she encountered an older woman who introduced herself as Mrs Upton. It took Florence only a few minutes to realise that here a mutual understanding might be possible. Mrs Upton was obviously in need of help. Her boarding house was a rambling two-storey affair of twelve rooms or thereabouts, all in need of a good clean in Florence’s estimation. After introducing herself, Florence launched into her offer.

‘Mrs Upton, I am in need of work. I have training as a housemaid and would be willing to work for you in exchange for a small wage and my board and lodgings.’

‘Agh! Ye jist moight be th’ answer to me prayers,’ she replied, sizing up the young girl before her with a grizzled stare. ‘Oi have bin afflicted somethin’ terrible with me gout lately an’ canna seem ta manage as oi use ta. But oi ‘ave no money ta pay ye. Twould be board an’ lodgin’s only, oi am afeared, in exchange fo’ cleanin’ an’ washin’.’

Reluctantly, Florence agreed to this bargain and she followed Mrs Upton to a small attic room at the top of a steep flight of stairs. Once cleaned it would be adequate for her needs. When her new employer had left, she threw open the small window as much as the chilly autumn day allowed, and gazed out over a duck pond, green fields and six cows munching contentedly at pasture. She smiled. Perhaps things will be all right after all.

However, it did not take long for her new employer to show her true colours. The niceties of their first meeting were very soon gone and, by the second day, Florence found herself working for a querulous and embittered old woman. Nothing is ever good enough for her! I shall never be able to please her! Resigning herself to the complaints and taunts, she reasoned: Oh well, at least there is a roof over my head and food to sustain my growing child. And my daily tasks of washing, ironing and cleaning are mundane but are more than adequate to keep me fully occupied.

As the months passed and Florence’s condition became more obvious, Mrs Upton became a woman torn—sympathetic yet suspicious. Usually one to delight in unsavoury gossip, on this occasion she decided to hold her tongue. She could ill afford to lose her newfound help and, unsure whether Florence’s story about an absent husband was true, she decided to remain silent. Five more months went by.

-oOo-

The contraction took hold. Florence screamed, shattering the silence of the cramped attic. In the cold pre-dawn, she believed no one cared. Not the owner of the shoddy boarding house where she cleaned every day and not the grizzled midwife, called from her warm bed to attend the birth. Florence thought she was alone in her pain.

She screamed again as her infant tried to make its way into the world. Torment ravaged her slight frame. Her clammy, blond ringlets splayed across the pillow as she tossed and turned. Brow streaming and with her striking cobalt eyes screwed tightly shut, she clenched her fists. She felt the midwife gently wiping her face and heard her utter soothing words. Perhaps she will help me. But it did little to quell her gnawing fear. Florence was frightened. She did not want to die. Despite the dire turn her life had taken in the last ten months or so, she was hopeful of surviving this trial and determined to succeed in all the troubles that she knew were yet to come.

No one had told her that birthing could be this bad. No one had told her anything at all.

Florence screamed a third time and the midwife wiped her brow again. It would not be long now. Despite her pain, the older woman knew the girl was doing well. Soon her baby would be born and the ordeal would be over. The midwife could see fine black hairs on the head of the coming baby and instructed Florence to bear down with the next contraction. A few minutes later, a healthy baby girl slithered into her waiting hands. Holding the baby firmly by the ankles, the midwife gave her a sharp slap on her tiny bottom and the infant responded with a lusty cry. After drying her with a cotton blanket laid out for this purpose, she laid the infant carefully on Florence’s heaving bosom, taking care to place an engorged nipple into the gaping mouth. The infant started suckling greedily.

Turning her attention back to Florence, the midwife waited, ready to receive the expelled afterbirth with the next contraction. She grunted in surprise as another downy head appeared instead. After informing Florence of her twins, she caught the second baby as it broke free of the womb. It was another girl though, where the first was dark, this one was fair. After repeating the procedure she had used on the first baby, the midwife laid this second one beside the first so she too could suckle.

Florence lay there in a daze. She was exhausted. For the moment, she was simply grateful to be free of the pain that had overwhelmed her for what had felt like endless hours. She glanced at her daughters, now swaddled on her chest and contentedly asleep. Then she slept too. A little while later, the babies stirred. Mrs Upton, demonstrating uncharacteristic kindness, came into the room and helped Florence manoeuvre the hungry mouths onto her nipples. Gazing down upon the pair of tiny heads, Florence experienced a powerful yearning to love and protect these newborn babies. They are so beautiful. So perfect. Fingering their tiny hands and stroking their smooth little cheeks, she vowed to herself that she would—somehow—both keep and raise these babies that she had brought into the world. But exactly how I am going to do this, I have no idea.

Over the next few days, it became apparent that her time at the boarding house was rapidly approaching its end. Florence despaired more and more that her vow might not be achievable. Caring for her babies left her very little time for the washing and cleaning expected of her, and she was finding it difficult to regain her strength. The babies cried throughout the night and her sleep was haphazard. Though Mrs Upton was sympathetic to a point, Florence knew that the time was approaching when she would have to leave.

Chapter 4

What Florence had failed to realise when she abruptly left her employ at Stanford Hall was that old Sir Robert would miss her.

He did, far more than he had imagined. Over the years since he had first found her in his library chair curled up reading a book, he had grown inordinately fond of his intelligent young housemaid and had enjoyed their regular discussions about the books she was reading. His mind wandered back to that first encounter, remembering it as if it were yesterday...

Florence, only thirteen at the time, was so engrossed in her book that she failed to notice him enter the room.

‘My goodness, what have we here?’ he asked in a quiet yet kindly voice.

Startled out of her reverie, Florence dropped the valuable book onto the floor and jumped to her feet.

He smiled gently at her consternation.

‘Sir Robert!’ she stammered. ‘I… I… I am sorry, sir. I did not mean... I… Oh! Sir Robert! I was just reading…’