Читать книгу Alice’s Secret: A gripping story of love, loss and a historical mystery finally revealed - Lynne Francis - Страница 6

A lice felt the hem of her skirt getting wetter and heavier as she brushed through the bracken. This summer had been damp and it had rained hard last night. The fern fronds continued to grow and unfurl across the path, no matter how many of them passed to and from the mill each day. She hated the feel of the sodden wool against her legs. It would bother her all morning until it dried: the smell of the wet cloth, the chafing. She sighed. She’d be working in the weaving shed this morning. It would feel cold at first with the door open, and no easy way to dry off.

Alice clutched her shawl tighter around her shoulders and hooked the basket into the crook of her arm. She lifted it clear of the foliage, which was still heavy with rain. Her work clogs bounced in the bottom of the basket, along with her lantern, and a crust of bread loosely wrapped in rough cloth. Her mother had pressed the bread into Alice’s hand with a brusque, ‘On your way. You’ll not get through the day without it. We’ll manage.’ Then she’d limped her way painfully to the grate to set the kettle on the hob. Alice’s brothers and sisters would have to make do with tea and porridge until tomorrow.

Tomorrow: Alice shuddered. It was the day that they lined up in front of Williams, the overlooker, as he counted the florins, shillings and pennies into their hands. She thought about how Williams used to look meaningfully at her as he dispensed the coins. He’d close her palm around them, letting his fingers linger just that moment too long. She’d been aware of his eyes following her as she moved around the mill or bent to her machine in the weaver’s shed. He’d made a point of singling her out for praise for her work, so that the other girls had noticed and teased her, making her anxious. Betty Ackroyd had drawn Alice to one side. ‘Alice, you need to watch yourself with Williams,’ she’d warned. ‘He’s got an eye for the young girls here. He don’t take no for an answer.’

Despite Betty’s warning, Alice had been unperturbed when, as she collected her lantern one evening to start the long journey home, Williams had summonsed her.

‘Alice, in here a moment,’ he’d said, holding open the door to the office. She’d stepped into the warm glow of the room, startled when the door snapped shut behind her and she found herself pinned against it. She’d tried to shut out what came next – rough bristles against her cheek and neck, panting, heat, hands fumbling at her buttons, tugging at her skirt.

She’d no idea how she had broken free. She dimly remembered Albert coming into the room by the other door – a muffled shout. She remembered fleeing up the path, no time to light her lantern, and having to pick her way home in the dark. She was stumbling, weeping, horrified –frightened of slipping off the path but more fearful of what lay behind.

After that, Williams had started to lie in wait for Alice: pouncing on her in dark storerooms where she’d been sent on pointless errands, trying to corner her on her way home. For weeks, she’d had to submit to his pestering, sickened by his actions, furious with herself. Then she’d found the strength to fight against him, to threaten to report him, to stand up to him. Williams didn’t take kindly to having his advances spurned. He made a point of picking on Alice: for faults in her spinning, for talking too loudly, for smiling. She’d shrunk in on herself, making sure that she didn’t set a foot wrong, that she left each evening along with Ivy and Betty, parting ways a little further up the path. Williams still found fault. He dropped the coins in her hand on pay day now, glaring at her. He watched her like a hawk, checking to see what time she arrived each morning.

Alice picked up her pace, trying to lift her skirt clear of the bracken. She’d been late twice already this week, her mother too sick to get the children up in the morning. Williams had warned her that one more day’s lateness would mean the loss of her job. This morning, she was late again. It was too dangerous to run, the grey stones slippery after the rain, the surface uneven. She’d reached the Druid Stone, only a short distance to go now. She knew every twist and turn of the path, had names for the landmarks along the way. Just the Packhorse Steps to negotiate now. Maybe Williams would be distracted this morning? Maybe she could slip in, unnoticed?

At that moment, her feet flew from beneath her. It was a hard fall. Alice’s basket bounced down the steps, her lantern smashed, bread flung into the bracken. The rushing tumble of the river over the falls sounded loudly in her ears. Sharp stones pressed into her cheek; cold, damp moss pillowed her neck. Alice lay still.