What the Heart Keeps (3 page)

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Lisa had made a getaway through a downstairs window at the rear of the building. Outdoor clothes for the pauper children were always hand-me-downs donated by charitable people, and she had no fear of being detected on that score as she ran as fast as she could away from the orphanage. It was raining quite heavily, which was in her favour, for it made the March evening darker than it would otherwise have been. Gas lamps threw her shadow before and after her as she pounded along, clutching the small bundle of her possessions. Keeping to the back streets, she passed the clothing factories and the shirt-making sweatshops, an area where she had once lived with her mother and still, in places, familiar from those days. Often entrusted with errands by the superintendent, she knew Leeds well and had a particular destination in mind.

She
was breathless by the time she reached it, the cobbled yard of a brewery that sent its ale far afield. The gates were still open, the men’s long day’s work not yet at an end, and she waited in the shadows as she watched wagons being loaded up with barrels and tarpaulins being tied down. When her chance came, she shot across, unseen to the nearest wagon, clambered up by way of a wheel, and slithered under the tarpaulin into the ale-smelling darkness.

There
was little room, but she made herself as comfortable as possible. Her fast pulse came as much from the indignation that burned within her as from all the running. How dare it be decided for her that she should leave the land of her birth! She saw it as a personal affront to her spirit of independence, as abusive curtailment of her inherent right as an individual to decide her own future within the realms of possibility. A choice. That was what she and the others old enough to make their own decisions should have been offered. A simple, blinking
choice
. Not much to ask. She almost ground her teeth at the injustice and at what it had cost her. Being made to tear up her letter had been the last straw.

Her
long cherished dream had been to become a nursemaid in a large household and work herself up through the hierarchy of the nursery world. It stemmed from the horrific day when she had been separated from her mother, whom she had never seen again. All warmth and security and happiness had seemed centred in a glimpse she had had of a kind-faced nanny pushing a perambulator in a park while a rosy-cheeked child in frilly clothes had skipped trustingly alongside, at the time she was being dragged, kicking and screaming into the orphanage. To this day she could not bear the sound of a door being slammed shut behind her.

The
night was long. The rain did not ease its drumming on the tarpaulin until shortly before dawn. Yet in spite of her being wet and cold, her elation between dozes did not diminish. Somehow and somewhere she would get honest work and prove her worth. Not securing the nursemaid’s post in Leeds was only a setback. One day she would be pushing the babies of the well-to-do through an English park on sunny mornings. On this vow to herself, she dozed again, waking when shouting resounded in the yard.

“
Whoa back! Steady there!”

The
dray-horses were being backed into the shafts of the loaded wagons, hooves clattering heavily on the cobbles. Her wagon creaked and swayed before it moved forward on a thunder of wheels out into the streets and before long into the waking countryside. She raised a flap of the tarpaulin to watch for a signpost to see in which direction she was travelling.

Southwards.
Then she would make for London. There would be plenty of work there. Yet her spirits were not quite so high as they had been. She found herself thinking of the young ones whom she normally looked after in the early morning at the orphanage. How would they react when they found her gone? The toddlers were always desperate for affection, wanting her to kiss and cuddle them. Today they would be shouted at and probably cuffed by whoever was taking her place. Then there were the five- and six-year-olds. Little Sarah could never manage to button her own boots. Amy would weep. Cora, who always vomited if made to eat up a full plateful of gruel, would be given a standard portion instead of the small amount she could digest. As for eight-year-old Minnie, who pined for her mother, and a few others of the same age who, a few weeks ago, were starving and abandoned on the streets, they would run wild without proper supervision and end up being whipped by one of old Mother Bradlaw’s assistants. Lisa groaned inwardly. The young ones had all known that before long she would be leaving the orphanage, for she had prepared them, but every child she had cared for personally would be bewildered and upset by the suddenness of her departure as well as her failure to say goodbye.

She
would write to them. That was what she would do. Just as soon as it was possible. A London postmark could not give away her whereabouts in that vast city. To distract her mind from those she had left behind, she ate some of the loaf she had had the foresight to snatch from the kitchen before her flight.

Twice
the wagon came to a halt during the morning. Both times Lisa feared discovery, but once it was for the horses to be watered and the second time was when the drayman alighted to relieve himself in some wayside bushes. She decided to leave her transport at the first opportunity, for the sooner she severed the last connecting link with Leeds the safer she would be.

When
the wagon slowed almost to a standstill on an uphill pull, she slipped over the back of it to take cover at the side of the road. The drayman did not so much as turn his head and before long was out of sight. She began to walk.

She
spent the night in a derelict cottage. Fortune appeared to be favouring her, for she found a couple of matches that had probably dropped from a tramp’s matchbox and was able to light a fire on the hearth to keep her warm. Only thoughts of the children at the orphanage disturbed her rest.

In
a village the next day, a gentleman on horseback tossed her a penny for darting forward to open a gate for him. It enabled her to replenish her food supply at the local store with a piece of cheese and half a stale loaf. She no longer feared pursuit and kept at an easy pace as she continued on again. It seemed as if fate were walking with her.

It
was nearly dusk when she met a disordered flock of sheep streaming along the road. Waving her arms and darting to and fro, she helped the hefty, ruddy-faced youth in charge to get them back into the pen from which they had escaped. He thanked her, wiping his sweaty brow and neck with a rag from his pocket. It turned out he was the farmer’s son, and he took her with him to the farmhouse. There his mother gave her a hot meal to eat on the back doorstep. The food was good and she ate every morsel, but it was lonely to be shut outside while talk rumbled in the glow of the lamplight indoors.

Yet
how much more lonely Amy and Minnie and Cora and the rest she had befriended would be without her presence in the unfamiliar surroundings of a ship and then in a new land. Dejectedly she pressed her head back against the door jamb by which she sat, all too able to picture their misery. If she believed Miss Drayton to be a kind woman, maybe she would have felt less plagued by leaving them; unfortunately, although the woman had smiled in the beginning, her eyes had been hard. Like glass beads. Then, when annoyed, she had looked quite vicious. There would be no mercy there.

After
a while Lisa sighed resignedly to herself. Her conscience about the children was never going to let her get as far as London, so she might as well cut short her journeying now. She could not begin to consider the extent of the punishment that would have to be faced upon her return to the orphanage. Whatever it should prove to be, she would live through it somehow.

Her
tap on the farmhouse door to hand in the emptied plate went unacknowledged. She left it on the doorstep and went off into the darkness. When she saw the farmer’s barn looming against the first stars, she knew she had found a warm place for the night. Clambering into the hay, she flung herself down and was at sleep at once, fully at peace with herself now that her decision had been made.

She
stirred when light penetrated her lids, thinking it must be morning. Then the hay rustled beside her. She opened her eyes wide and sat bolt upright in fright, blinking into a lantern.

“
I thought you might be ‘ere,” the farmer’s son said in a thick whisper, sitting back on his heels to hang the lantern on a nail and flick it shut. In the blackness he reached for her, even as in terror she began to scramble away, and threw her down again into the hay. His heavy hands pushed up under her skirt to fasten on her thighs and wrench them apart. She screamed, struggling wildly, but he made no attempt to silence her, the barn being out of earshot of the house. There was a terrible thoroughness about his actions. His weight and strength defeated all her panic-stricken attempts to free herself. He handled her breasts as if they were hard apples and his entry was brutal and bloody. Her agonised scream filled every corner of the vast barn.

She
did not know if her shrieking continued as at last she was able to get away from him. Her mind and hearing were blank from shock as she dashed from the barn into the night. How fast and how far she ran she did not know. Having lost all sense of direction, she had no guide to safety except to keep the horizon ahead clear of buildings. She was far into a wood before she realised that it was the thickness of ferns and other undergrowth that was slowing her pace. Slumping against a tree, she heard her own sobs and rasped breathing for the first time. Her legs gave way and she slid down into a carpet of leaves where she remained throughout the rest of the night.

At
first light she found a clear brook and bathed the abused parts of her body; purification in the iciness of the water. The state of her torn underclothing nauseated her and she buried it before leaving the wood to try and get her bearings. It proved impossible for her to recognise a single landmark from the previous day, whichever way she looked. Taking a lead from the rising sun, she simply turned northwards.

She
was never quite sure how many days it took her to get back to the orphanage. She had left what food she had with her bundle of possessions in the barn and had nothing to sustain her except turnips from a field, a cabbage from a kitchen garden, and some crusts she managed to beg. She wore the soles of her old buttoned boots through until they flapped on her feet and had to be discarded. For a while her black stockings, wrapped around like bandages, gave some protection until they in turn fell into ribbons. She tramped the rest of the way barefoot. She was a sorry sight, dirty and dishevelled, when she arrived in the superintendent’s study.

“
I’ve come back,” she said in a croaked voice.

“
So I see,” Mrs. Bradlaw replied drily. She did not add that she had banked on it, everything staked on Lisa’s basic qualities. It was satisfactory beyond measure, quite apart from an over-whelming relief, to have been proved right about the girl. Unfortunately it was a triumph that could not be shared.

“
Have you anything you wish to say in excuse to me?”

Lisa
shook her head quickly. “No, ma’am.”

“
When did you last eat?”

“
I can’t remember. Yesterday, I think.”

“
Go to the bathhouse and get rid of the marks of travel. You shall have some clean clothes brought to you and some salve for your feet. Afterwards there will be a bowl of broth in the dining room. Do not gulp it or you will vomit it up. Take some rest for a few hours and then resume your allotted duties as usual. Dismiss.”

In
a daze, Lisa left the study. No punishment. No storm of recrimination. If it had not been a completely ludicrous supposition, she would have thought that briefly she and Mrs. Bradlaw had shared a mutual respect for each other.

Five
weeks later, Miss Drayton arrived at the orphanage to take her emigration party in tow. Lisa still suffered from nightmares that had followed her ordeal in the barn, although a particular private worry as to its possible outcome had been put at rest. There had been some sad farewells to those being left behind. It was some comfort that a few of the better-natured girls had promised to look after the toddlers as she had done.

In
the vestibule, Mrs. Bradlaw watched the party assemble, the older members helping the younger ones to attach the labels that each must wear, bearing their names and that of the society as well as their destination in Canada. She would have liked to see them depart in new clothes, but the governors were always parsimonious in matters of clothing, believing that donated garments were perfectly adequate. It riled her to see Miss Drayton’s disparaging lift of the eyebrows when she saw how they were dressed. The woman herself was in a handsomely tailored travelling costume in a biscuit colour, which hardly seemed a practical shade in which to accompany children.

Mrs.
Bradlaw began the process of shaking hands with each departing emigrant. When Lisa stood before her she thought, not for the first time, how changed the girl was since her few days of liberty. Yet her spirit was not crushed by whatever hardships she had endured. Whether Lisa realised it or not, she had been strengthened by her conscious decision to give up freedom in order to return to her duties. No adversity would ever break her if she continued to live by her principles, but life would go hard with her for doing it.