Aggie's Story

By Ellie Jacobs

A tragic accident on the London docks
A family struggling to survive
And a girl who makes the worst mistake of her life...

In the 1850s, tragedy strikes the Collins family when Aggie’s father is badly injured on the busy London docks. When their mother dies, Aggie and her younger sisters are left to fend for themselves and struggle to make ends meet. Aggie’s father is in constant pain, which is relieved only by his daughter’s skill with massage and regular doses of laudanum.

But laudanum is expensive, and food is scarce. Aggie makes a desperate decision to steal food from the market, but to her horror, is caught and sent to Brixton prison.

After serving her time, Aggie becomes a maid-of-all-work in the Gartrell household. She is forced to work long, hard hours, and the Dowager Gartrell never misses an opportunity to remind her of her past mistakes.
Aggie finds solace in the growing friendship she shares with Viscount Richard Gartrell, the eldest son of the household. Aggie tentatively offers her help with massage to rebuild his body after injuries sustained in the Crimean war, after which their bond deepens. Although Richard is a perfect gentleman, Aggie fears the Dowager will instantly dismiss her if she finds out, for she is determined to see her son marry well and restore the family's fortunes.

Her worst fears are realized. The Dowager mistakes their growing friendship for something more, and Aggie’s future is once again in doubt... but worst of all, she has to admit to herself that she has done what she was trying so hard to avoid.

She has fallen in love with Lord Richard Gartrell, a relationship that is surely doomed...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Blue Gem Publishing
• Release date: Mar 25, 2023
• ISBN: 9781922772480

Ellie Jacobs

Ellie Jacobs has always loved stories about how families managed to survive in Victorian England. In that era there was such a divide between rich and poor; between those who struggled to feed themselves and find shelter so they wouldn’t die on freezing, filthy streets and those who were born into a life of privilege.But this was also the beginning of the industrial age, and while some children suffered shocking conditions working in a factory or a mine for meagre wages, others managed to fight their way out of poverty to some level of comfort in the middle classes. Some did very well.These are the stories Ellie loves to tell: tales about people who refuse to give up, no matter what life throws at them.

Book preview

Magic Hands

The laudanum poured thick and reddish-brown into the tin spoon Aggie held in her steady hand. She swirled the last drop in the bowl of the spoon, going through the motions out of years of practice.

Not today, her father said when she turned from the table with the medicine in hand. Henry Collins was propped up in a rough-hewn bed in the corner of the downstairs bedroom. His face was grey with pain, but he kept his voice light as he shook his head. It doesn’t hurt so badly today.

Aggie pursed her lips. This was a familiar line of rebellion from her father. Your face says otherwise, Papa.

We can’t afford it, he said, wincing. You know we can’t. I see all the wash money you spend on drugs, Agnes Collins. It’s no good.

And I’ve seen how ill you get after your headaches, she retorted, moving with careful ease to his bedside and holding out the spoon. What is money for but to bring life and beauty into our lives? If we have new clothes but a father who’s in agony, what good is that?

Henry looked long and hard at his daughter. It’s about more than new clothes, and you’re well aware of that. Do you think I don’t know that some days you can scarce put food on the table? He struggled to sit in a more upright position to make his point. You might think I don’t see it when you cut your portion down for me and your sisters, but— He stopped, his breath cut short by a spear of pain caused by his movement, and closed his eyes for a moment.

We have more than sufficient, Aggie said firmly, patting his arm. You worry about us too much. Please, take this, Papa. It’s a bad day for you, I can see. 

His body rigid from the effort of hiding the level of his suffering, her father relented yet again, opening his mouth like a child to take the bitter laudanum. When he had swallowed, though, he caught hold of his 15-year-old daughter’s hand and examined it in the dim light. Ah, Aggie… look at how rough and chapped those hands are. I’m sorry for the way things worked out, daughter.

Aggie forced a weak smile onto her face. You surely know how to make a girl feel attractive, she teased. Then, when she saw that her tone wouldn’t coax a smile from her father’s pale face, she sobered and pulled her reddened hands, calloused from work, back into her lap. She stood and turned back to the bedside table, corking the laudanum bottle. You shouldn’t fret so much, Papa. Truly, I’m happy—and the girls are happy.

You always put the best face on it. His voice was melancholy. We were comfortable, back when your mother was alive. Before the accident.

Aggie was glad her back was turned to him for the moment. The pain of remembering that day so few years ago, and how their life had changed since, was sometimes more than she could fight through with a smile. Her father had been working on the docks, a living that served the family well enough to keep them on the edge of middle-class London society, when one day a load had fallen loose of its moorings and struck him. At first it seemed that the worst injury was to his crushed leg, but as the months passed and the leg healed, it became clear that his back and head had received far graver hurt.

Headaches plagued him, so violent and disorienting that sometimes they altered his otherwise docile mood. Sometimes they reduced him to a vomiting invalid. He bore them as long as he could, but inevitably he had to call for help from Aggie or his other two daughters.

Then there was his back. He had waved off concerns about his sore spine at first.

It was a big load that tried to kill me, he’d joke. You can’t expect it to be right in just a few weeks.

A few weeks? Aggie had said gently when he’d made the same offhand comment after months had gone by. She was growing increasingly fearful, trying not to think of what might happen to their little family if her father got much worse. It’s been longer than that, Da.

He dismissed her fears, but he couldn’t hide the apprehension in his eyes as the injured muscles and tendons atrophied. As the months wore on, it seemed they might become so twisted they would never recover.

Inevitably, he lost his job on the docks.

Aggie’s mother kept a roof over their heads and food on the table by working endless hours laundering rich folks’ clothes, but less than a year after her husband’s accident, she died in childbirth.

Grief-stricken, Aggie had buried her mother and stillborn brother. She and her sisters had no choice: keep the laundry business going, or they would be all living on the streets.

The work was hard, and the days were long, but Aggie was determined that they would keep their humble home. Henry’s conscience, however, ate at him when he saw his daughters’ work-worn hands and tired eyes.

Now Aggie took a deep breath and turned around with another teasing smile on her face. Papa, as much as I would love to stand here listening to you worry about things that are out of your control, I think it’s time for a massage. It’s been two days now since I last tended to your spine, and I can see—no matter how hard you try to hide it—that you’re hurting.

He shook his head at her, but rolled over obediently, hiding the pain he was going through as best as he could manage, and Angie pulled up his nightshirt to examine the mottled skin. There was some bruising she hadn’t seen before—likely the result of his attempt yesterday to get up and do some work around the house—and she could see the familiar knots in his lower back. Knowing how much they hurt him, she warmed her hands with some lard and rubbed gently on one side of the spine and then the other. She had always thought of massaging as a sort of puzzle, unravelling what the body needed. You could rub all day in the wrong place and do no good, but five seconds of intense pressure in the right place to bring a world of relief. Aggie didn’t know how she’d learned this. She’d never been taught, but even before her father’s accident, she’d sensed somehow the way to bring relief to those in pain.

After ten minutes of the smooth, purposeful motion, Aggie gradually increased the pressure and, feeling her way, noticed some of the tension fleeing her father.

That’s better, he said into the pillow with a sigh. You’ve got magic hands, Aggie.

That’s what you always say, she said with a smile. It was what some neighbours said, too. She had helped with a few crick necks and bum knees over the years, and always the result was the same: relief in a time and place where people thought they’d never feel comfortable again.

Ten minutes later, she heard soft breathing coming from her father and knew that, as so often happened when the pain finally subsided, he’d fallen blessedly asleep. She removed her hands and pulled a quilt up over his body before taking the tray of medicine into the kitchen. She could hear Dorcas and Kitty outside in the courtyard, working, and smiled at their industrious ways. They were just children, eleven and eight years old, but they’d stepped up as quickly as she had, eager to lend a hand wherever they were able.

Her mother would have been proud.

She settled the tray in the kitchen, tested the fire to make sure it would keep a low enough burn for their dinner of stewed potatoes, and then stepped outside. It was a warmer day than usual; warm enough that the girls weren’t wearing their thick woollen coats. The humidity of the copper wash barrels made their hair curl wherever it peeked from under their bonnets, but Aggie was grateful for the momentary heat. In this business, with hands already cracked and reddened from the lye and water, the added pain of a dry, wintry day could make the entire business of laundering almost unbearable.

The load of washing they’d put up early that morning was already dry, and Aggie saw her sisters folding it and putting it into baskets. Dorcas was painstakingly ironing the lace on a pretty gown, holding the slug iron as carefully as Aggie ever could. It was a dangerous business, handling people’s clothes in conditions where mistakes inevitably meant burnt lace or bleached velvet. Still, she and the girls took care, and loyal customers had rewarded their efforts.

Kitty struggled across the yard with another basket of dry clothes. The lines looping back and forth across the yard were essential to dry clothes on sunny days like this, but Aggie knew that when it grew colder, they’d have to haul all the string back inside to keep the clothes from freezing stiff. She rushed to her littlest sister’s side and took the heavy basket from her, carrying it to the rough wood table where the sisters set about folding the clean, dry clothes.

Did you get anything to eat at midday? she asked, directing her question not just at the weary Kitty but at Dorcas as well.

Yes, Dorcas lied, not looking up from her work.

Kitty was not quite so adept at deception, and when Aggie levelled a severe gaze in her direction, she averted her eyes and mumbled. Uh, not yet, Aggie. We… didn’t have time.

Or food. That was the unspoken truth that hung between the three girls. The pot of potatoes simmering on the hearth was the last of what was in the kitchen. Aggie had hoped that their kindly neighbours might have slipped the girls a crust of bread or a piece of fruit, but this was nothing more than a dream today. The families in their street were sympathetic, but had little to spare.

Well, she said, forcing a smile. That means you’ll have a good appetite for the potato stew tonight. And tomorrow I’ll go out and buy some bread, some vegetables, some cheese ends, and maybe a sheep trotter or two.

Hearing about food was almost as good as eating it. Kitty and Dorcas both looked up with bright eyes. Aggie’s heart ached at the sight of their wan, work-weary faces beneath their dingy bonnets. The Collins sisters all had inherited their father’s dark chocolate brown eyes, but Aggie was the only one with his sable-coloured hair. The two youngest both had their mother’s blond curls, and they looked so delicate and flowerlike standing there in the harsh environment of the laundry that Aggie wanted to take them into her arms and hug the exhaustion away.

But that, she’d learned, nursed weakness, and weakness would be the death of all three if they let it.

Actually, she said, I’ll take the most recent bundle of sheets to drop off now, before dinner, and I’ll fetch a bit of food then. Why eat only potatoes at the end of the week?

Dorcas looked worried, but Kitty nodded with delight in her soft brown eyes. A bit of cheese?

In all honesty, Aggie wasn’t sure. The week’s money had gone on rent, laudanum, and a lucky find of cheap second-hand shoes for Kitty after the soles had worn clean off her boots earlier that week. They were well past being saved by some makeshift lining. 

Aggie had a scant handful of coin left, but she didn’t know where their food would come from next week. A few customers had been tardy with their payments, and that meant meagre fare on the Collins’ table. She swallowed