Pretty Maids All In A Row

By Toni Maguire

Best selling author, Toni Maguire turns her hand to fiction, and the result is a powerful novel set in Victorian England. Agnes, a talented and natural young artist from Saltburn, goes to London to find her sister, whom she believes has been taken into service in a wealthy household. Instead of joining her sister, she finds herself in the dark world of Mary Jefferies, the infamous brothel madame. Beautiful Emily, the daughter of wealthy landowners, is kidnapped especially for Mary Jefferies. Agnes sees her at the brothel, and remembers being stunned by her exceptional beauty once before – when Emily holidayed in Saltburn with her family. The two girls fall in love, and find comfort in each other, until one day, Mary asks Agnes to paint a miniature of Emily, a request that terrifies her for every child she has drawn was never seen again. Real, historical characters such as King Leopold, Queen Victoria’s cousin, and the Victorian reformers who struggled to end child abuse, mingle with fictional characters in an exciting and vibrant story on the backdrop of one of England’s most colourful eras.

"Toni Maguire is very good indeed at creating living backdrops, through beautiful descriptions of the characters' surroundings and of the characters themselves. Mrs Jefferies sent shivers down my spine, as did her appalling and almost unbelievable treatment of the children she buys and sells. This novel truly shows the cruelly grimy underbelly of Victorian society. It’s a brilliant snapshot of the nineteenth century -- the neat contrast between the lives of the rich and the existences of the poor, illustrated in Emily and Agnes: there is an almost inconceivably vast gulf between them." - Hazel Orme, Editor

• Language: English
• Publisher: Toni Maguire
• Release date: Jul 27, 2016
• ISBN: 9780995534704

Book preview

One

Saltburn, 1879

I was nine when my father gave me away. It was a year after the night he’d sold my sister, Hope, to the man from London. He put me on the boat but not to send me, as I believed then, to a better life. No, he wanted to be rid of a witness who might place a noose around two men’s necks. Not for the selling of little girls but the other crime to which I had been an unwitting party, the one that has plagued me with guilt for so many years. Even now, when Emily reassures me that, even without the part I played, it would have happened, I feel the shame of my culpability.

During the months following my sister’s departure I made myself inconspicuous or even, I thought, invisible. I hid in the shelter of boulders, in sand dunes’ shadows and, under the pretext of purchasing gin for my mother, crept into the Ship Inn as I followed my father. That was how I first saw the man from London.

It was that time of day when the sun is at its most blinding. He was standing at the top of Huntcliffe Nab and, with the sun directly behind him, all I could see was a tall figure framed by dust motes. Then he moved forward. I glimpsed a heavy silver chain pulled across a lean torso, and thick hair of a shade that was somewhere between blond and brown.

It was as though a sixth sense told him he was observed. His head turned and for a moment his eyes met mine. They slid away dismissively. He had seen that I was of no importance. I knew that, should I be caught snooping into my father’s business, especially if he had been drinking, his fists would fly before he asked any questions. Even the two youngest children carried the marks of his drunken rages.

But still I wanted to discover who my father met and where they went. It was not curiosity that made me risk his anger. I just wanted to be with my sister. I couldn’t understand why Hope had been sent away when my father had favoured her. The lads will soon be after you, he told her, more than once, and smiled. When his gaze fell on me, he scowled. Never know what way Agnes is looking, he sneered. Boss-eyed brat.

I told myself to take no notice, as the tears splashed down my cheeks. My father snorted and turned away, but not before I’d seen his lips twitch into a very different smile from the one he’d directed at Hope, a smile that told me he took pleasure in my distress.

When my father’s taunts had proved too much, Hope had comforted me. She dried my eyes and stroked my hair, murmuring softly until I calmed. But she never said his words were not true.

It was over those months that I realized Hope was not the only child who had been taken to the city. I plucked up courage to ask him to send me there too. After all, I was only two years younger and used to hard work. He laughed, then said the big houses in London wanted pretty girls. I was so ugly that no one would pay money for me.

Under the cover of the evening shadows I continued to follow him. I was crouching, unseen, when the dark-haired twins from Whitby were passed to him. Their father had brought them – not to our house or to the Ship Inn, but to the rocks just below Huntcliffe Nab. That night, the moon was full. Its silvery light shone on the children and the man who, without a backward glance, left them there. Identical little girls, scarcely older than I, who clung to each other. Tears glistened on their faces. No sooner had their father gone than the man from London appeared. However much I strained my ears, I could not hear what was said, but I saw the glint of gold coins passing from his hands into my father’s. Then he led the children towards where a boat bobbed up and down at the edge of the shore. As they walked away, his coat strained across his back and he held the girls’ hands tightly. I could see they were afraid of him.

I thought then that that must have been how my sister had looked.

Two

Over those months when I watched my father, all I could think about was Hope and the night she left.

It was an evening like any other and except for baby Molly we were all busy with our allotted tasks, my mother stirring the fish stew that was our staple diet, the boys turning tallow into candles, Hope and I mending worn-out clothes. The door opened and there was my father, his face flushed, eyes glittering. Rocking back on his heels, he slurred to Hope, Well, miss, I’ve a surprise for you. I’ve found you a good job in London. Family want an extra pair of hands in the kitchen. You’ll live in a nice house, where you’ll get three meals a day, clean clothes to wear and a warm bed to sleep in. His words fell into a silence, which was broken by my mother.

Oh, no, Will! She’s only eleven, too young to be sent so far from home . . . As she spoke, the colour drained from her face.

My father’s dark whiskers didn’t hide the flush of anger. She, seeing it, raised her hand and clutched her cheeks, as if by holding her mouth shut, she could stave off a blow.

See here, woman, that’s some of her wages in advance, he said, rattling a small leather pouch under her nose. It’ll put food on the table that’s not bloody fish, and whatever you say, I’m not returning it. She’s to leave tonight.

My mother’s face crumpled and she stretched out her hands towards him. Please, Will, she begged.

He moved towards her and the despair on her face turned to contempt when he raised his fist. You’ve sold your daughter for the price of few gins, she said. Hit me if it makes you feel a better man. Then, knowing that nothing she could say would change his mind, she dropped her hands.

My father saw that his eldest daughter hadn’t moved since he had spoken to her. He took two steps towards her and pulled her roughly to her feet. I’ll hear no mithering from you either. Get your things. You’ll be grateful to me when you’re at your new place.

For a moment she stood as pale and motionless as one of the statues in the Italian gardens. Maybe she thought it was a joke, that suddenly he would laugh. Instead he gave an exasperated sigh, placed his hand on the small of her back and pushed her towards the alcove where we slept. Go on with you now. There’s someone waiting to take you to London.

And finally she understood. Like her mother she gave him a look that conveyed contempt and despair. Then, drawing her shoulders back, she gathered up her few possessions. She owned little more than a change of tattered clothes so it took only moments for her to tie them into her shawl.

I wanted to scream at my father, implore him not to do this. My stomach churned and a hot sour liquid rose into my mouth. I swallowed, wiped my lips on my sleeve and tried to find words that might change what was happening. There were none. I wound my hair around my fingers and pulled, as though physical pain might lessen the agony of impending loss.

Baby Molly, not yet a year old, sensing anger and misery, was howling. Three-year-old Jamie, who had suffered my father’s rages before, crept under the stairs where, thumb in mouth, he watched the tableau in front of him. As Hope stood clutching her shawl, the two older boys were pretending that nothing was happening, their heads lowered as they busied themselves kneading tallow.

Have you nothing to say to me, then? Hope asked. They muttered, Good luck. They knew better than to side with their sisters.

Come, my father ordered briskly.

It was then, seeing the tears rolling down my mother’s face, I realized this was not a dream. My body shook as I flew across the room and flung my arms around my sister. I felt her heart racing under her thin dress and heard her whisper that she would be back, before my father pulled us apart.

Then barely allowing his daughter time to bid her mother goodbye, he dragged her to the door, opened it, and she was gone, into the darkness of the night.

Throughout the days that followed I listened to the silence of her absence. The bed I had shared with her was now empty. There was no soft warmth for me to move into, no breath against my cheek and no whispered words in my ears. When morning came, the sounds of children’s laughter, their mothers’ voices calling them, told me that outside the world went on. Weary from lack of sleep, I wriggled out of bed to face the day.

When will we see her again? I asked my mother over and over, but her answer was always a shrug. Eventually I stopped asking.

Not one of the people who lived in the tiny cottages at the base of Huntcliffe Nab could read or write, so no letter came from Hope with news of how her life was. As the weeks went by her name was seldom mentioned. It was as though she had disappeared from everyone’s thoughts and only I remembered her.For months I felt her at my side and heard her laughter when I collected mussels from the base of the cliffs. In the evenings she sat with me while I looked through windows that, like the milky eyes of old women, stared out to sea. From there I watched the waves beating against the shore and listened for our father’s footsteps. On hearing them I crawled onto the straw-filled mattress that had been our bed and burrowed under the pile of ragged blankets. In my imagination my sister and I curled together in a tangle of arms and legs as I told her about my day. It was when my arms stretched out to an empty space that the tears came. There would be, I knew then, no more mornings when I would wake to find my head resting on her shoulder. No more feeling safe.

Three

Alf Barrett received the note early in the evening. A boy of around fourteen brought it – if he’d hoped for a coin to be dropped into his hand by way of thanks, he was to be disappointed: it was not in Alf’s nature to be unnecessarily generous.

He read the few lines on the thick sheet of paper. There was more business to discuss, she had written. She would look forward to their meeting at eleven o’clock the following morning. Too late for breakfast and too early for luncheon, he noted. But, then, he and Mrs Jefferies had never wasted time on pleasantries.

The next day he woke early, dressed carefully and made his way to the address in Kensington. He had visited it for the first time just a few months previously, but since then he had made the journey on several occasions. Her first note had arrived when October was sliding into November. A summons, not an invitation, was how he had seen it. Apparently she had taken for granted that, if not her name, her address would pique his interest. And she had written, intriguing him: There is business to discuss, which will be of benefit to you.

That day an omnibus had taken him as far as Bayswater. From there, he had entered Hyde Park and walked briskly to Kensington. It had been a cold, bleak morning, the whole world washed in shades of grey. The sun was a faint lemon disc almost obscured by a veil of clouds. A sharp wind pierced his coat, cold penetrated his boots and, as he left the park, fat drops of rain fell. But Alf had little thought for his discomfort: nothing, not the weather or his unpaid bills, would dampen his optimism. He was certain that at last his fortunes were about to change.

Now it was late April, and gloomy, austere winter had made way for spring. Flowers lifted purple, pink, yellow and white faces towards the sun. Unfurling leaves cloaked trees and bushes in green, and birds filled the air with their song. The park was already busy: high-stepping horses drew smart carriages to and fro, while small children, with nannies in starched uniforms, tossed bread to the ducks on the Round Pond’s slate-coloured water.

None of that was of any interest to Alf. He was not a man who would pause to admire natural beauty. He felt nothing but scorn for the smiling people standing on the grass verges, trying to glimpse the occupants of the carriages. It was not until he stepped into Kensington’s main thoroughfare that he took an interest in his surroundings. This borough was so different from the busy City such a short distance away. The moment he cast his eyes on its wide roads, he was envious of those fortunate enough to live there. Before, he had thought the tall buildings in Bayswater, with their white stuccoed façades, wrought-iron railings and majestic pillars, were imposing. But each time he crossed the park, he felt he had entered an entirely different world.

The tree-lined streets were free of grime, the pavements felt smoother and, more importantly, were clear of the City’s human scenery of beggars and costermongers. The men who sold from carts, impeding his passage, infuriated him. Their plea Got children to feed, when he spurned unwanted goods raised little sympathy in him.

Should have thought of that when you were poking your wife, was the kindest response he uttered.

Looking around him, Alf saw that, in the shadow of the huge Royal Albert Hall, small armies of men were laying out the bones of new redbrick and terracotta apartments. Walls were being built, gardens dug and wood sawn by men who whistled as they worked. He passed completed homes that were already occupied, and imagined the comfort of living there. Soon, he said to himself.

A few minutes later he was outside a tall hipped-roof residence. Situated well back from the road, it was slightly obscured by low red-brick walls, topped with wrought-iron railings. To the right of the high, ornate gates, a freshly polished brass bell push would bring a servant rushing to let him in. He went through a side entrance, climbed the steps to the front door and raised the heavy iron knocker.

The boy who had brought him the note let him in. Mrs Jefferies won’t keep you long, he said, omitting ‘sir’, as he showed him into the room where he had met the woman before. With its glowing yellow walls, thickly upholstered mint green chaise longues, strewn with silk cushions, and clusters of little chairs, his first impression of it was of femininity. But at a second glance he saw that it was bereft of the small touches with which women seemed to surround themselves. No book left open, no shawl carelessly draped on the back of a chair, no collection of china ornaments, lovingly arranged on a side table, was to be seen. And the scent from the exotic flowers, arranged in pink, amber and red glass vases, failed to disguise the odour of stale cigar smoke, sweat mingled with perfume, and a hint of alcohol.

No, Alf thought. This is where the business of the night commences. In his mind’s eye he saw how it would look in the evening. Young girls in pastel muslin dresses, their hair in ringlets, their faces, bare of powder, enticing to those men allowed through the doors. The candles, their flames reflecting in the glass, would cast a warm glow over the room. A young woman, who had once been a governess, in a diaphanous gown cut low, would play the piano while a maid, carrying crystal glasses on a silver tray, offered champagne and brandy to every visitor. Twirls of cigar smoke floating in the air, flushed faces, coarse laughter and hands, wrinkled or smooth, sliding around the girls’ necks or grasping an ankle before disappearing under the muslin to stroke, pinch and prod the delicate flesh beneath.

And all the time gold coins would slide into Mary Jefferies‘ fingers, then vanish into a hidden pocket. By the early hours of the morning the gentlemen, their clothes crumpled, would don hats and coats, then climb into their waiting carriages. Mary Jefferies, still looking as fresh as she had seemed at the start of the night, would close her doors.

Later, he knew, for he had been to other such places, the sound of soft moaning would carry through the house, perhaps caused by the wind blowing through a chimney or the joists in the roof settling. But if you listened carefully it would take a different form. It was nothing to be frightened of, just the collective sobs of little girls.

Four

Alf positioned himself by the window overlooking the garden, not for any love of nature, but to avoid having to stand up when she entered the room. He knew little more about Mary Jefferies than he had when he’d first met her. Where she had come from and how she had got to where she was remained a mystery that, in the future, he was determined to solve.

When he had prepared himself for their first meeting he had told himself she was just a woman. He had been sure that she would soon be eating out of his hand. That day he had stood in front of the mirror in his rooms for a last reassuring look at himself. He saw a handsome, youthful face, with luxuriant sideboards. He was otherwise clean-shaven – he saw no point in hiding something that more than one woman had told him was perfect. He tipped a little Macassar oil into his palm, smoothed it into his hair, then combed it into place with his fingers. He checked his watch chain to ensure it was just at the right angle to draw attention to his fine lean figure. Satisfied, he had turned sideways to admire the dark blue coat that showed off his broad shoulders.

His clothes, he thought, were indisputably those of a gentleman. The coat and the yellow suit under it had been bought from a shop in Petticoat Lane, where the male servants of rich men’s sons took their masters’ discarded clothes. Most articles, worn two or three times, were as good as new and only a fraction of the original price.

Oh, yes. He had smiled complacently. She’ll be impressed with what she sees, all right.

He couldn’t have been more wrong. With no more than a cursory greeting, she had positioned herself on a high-backed chair. Then, with a flick of a slim hand, she indicated that he should sit opposite her. Let us not waste each other’s time with pointless small-talk and procrastination, Mr Barrett, she said. You know who I am and I in turn know more than a little about you. From what I’ve heard, you may be a man I can do business with.

What do you want from me? he asked, although he knew already.

I want, she replied coolly, young, bright, beautiful girls, with flesh on their bones and round rosy faces. Since that bloody fair-trade agreement, the silk-weaving industry has done nothing but dismiss its workers. The streets are full of whining girls. Either the landlord has confiscated their belongings, which no one but themselves would want, and told them no room is available until they’ve paid the rent or he’s turned his place into nothing short of a brothel, the girls told to service his customers or they’re on the streets.

The men who own those places can make as much money renting rooms by the hour as they did by the week, said Alf, with admiration in his voice.

Indeed, replied Mrs Jefferies. Such silly girls, clutching their belongings in a shawl, thinking their troubles are over when those genial hosts open their doors to them. Off they go, full of hope, searching for work, and find that for every vacancy a queue of girls is waiting to fill it – tough city girls who chase the country innocents away. And every day more come in from rural areas, imagining life here will be easy.

Those landlords must rub their hands with glee every time some little beauty turns up on their doorstep.

I’m sure they do, Mr Barrett. But there is no shortage of girls wishing to sell themselves. Even the brothel-keepers are suffering. It’s a buyer’s market, which must have affected you too, she said. He earned his living by supplying far less salubrious establishments than hers with just what she had described.

He felt her eyes on him and was uncomfortably aware that they were assessing his clothes, taking in that his coat was straining across his back and his trousers were a little too short, small clues that must have told her that although bespoke, they had not been made for him. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

Mr Barrett, my house caters for some of the wealthiest men in the country, and they demand the best – untainted girls with the freshness of youth. You may be the man to find them for me.

Alf sat straighter, his eyes bright now with anticipation of what was to come.

I do not think I need to tell you, Mr Barrett, that I demand absolute discretion from those I do business with. My clients are powerful men, and are not to be crossed. When I say they desire the freshness of youth some among them like the girls very young . . . very young indeed. She looked at him speculatively.

And for that they pay well, I suppose? Alf asked, thus establishing that Mrs Jeffries had been correct in her judgement of him.

A pretty country girl of no more than fourteen, if her accent is not too broad, can fetch twenty guineas. If she is above ten and under thirteen, some men will pay up to fifty for the pleasure of deflowering her. Mr Barrett, your share would be half of that sum.

Alf did his best to keep his face impassive as he calculated that just one girl a week would give him the lifestyle he wanted.

So, Mr Barrett, do you think you can find what I am looking for?

Alf assured her he could. How many?

A minimum of two each week. She rang for the boy to show him out.

At that initial meeting Mrs Jefferies had disclosed nothing further. Alf had wanted to ask more about her clients but something told him he had to prove himself before more information would be forthcoming. He did not know then the identity of her most powerful client, King Leopold of the Belgians.

Five

Small events can have far-reaching consequences. What if I had never been sent to the fishmonger’s with fresh crabs for him to buy? What if I hadn’t found the gulls’ eggs that took me to the Zetland Hotel just as the train, with Emily on it, arrived? What would have happened if she hadn’t smiled at me? And – the one that plagues me still – what if my childish voice had not uttered words in innocence that had fallen into the wrong ears? Without all those events what course would our lives have taken?

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