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Authors: Martine Bailey
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me. A son? A Croxon son? I racked my brain to recall him. He did not frequent the High Street where I shopped, nor drink with my father at the Bush tavern. Michael Croxon. I had a slight recollection of a well-looking, fashionable man, riding an elegant hunter on the lane that led to the Croxon’s new villa. My impressions were favourable; but that in itself filled me with misgivings. As I sat in my threadbare gown with a bruise throbbing at my hairline, Michael Croxon seemed an altogether different manner of person from me. Yet he is a chance, I thought. A chance to escape from Father.
‘Eh, but what about me? Who’ll look after me?’ At the sound of Father’s voice my fingernails dug painfully into my palms. I knew it – he was going to destroy my chance of freedom. Scarcely knowing what I did, I walked into the parlour.
‘Mr Croxon,’ I nodded, praying he would not send me away. ‘Father,’ I added, quailing to see his livid face. ‘I believe I should be present.’
‘Yes – yes, Grace.’ Mr Croxon was quicker-witted than my father. ‘This concerns you very much. Come, sit with us.’
As I sat, my legs were as weak as a lamb’s. Mr Croxon continued speaking, and I tried to follow, but some of it was legal talk, too complex for me. However, the import was quite comprehensible. The Croxon family wished to found a business. The elder son, Michael, was especially enthusiastic, having long held the ambition to make his fortune using the modern means of manufacturing cotton. An arrangement between our two families would bring profit to us all.
‘Michael has had his troubles and now needs a steady wife,’ he said. It was not said in jest, that was clear from his manner. ‘I speak plain, for that’s the best way.’
‘But who will tend to me?’ whined my father.
Mr Croxon turned back to him. ‘Any kin of mine will live decently; do you understand that, Moore? We will hire you a servant.’
‘I’ll not have that,’ my father began. ‘Grace is no expense, like some hoity servant. I’ll not keep a slave—’
‘Listen, Moore. I’ll settle ten pound a year beer-money on you. Well?’
‘You sure he’ll take my daughter?’ my father said, pursing his loose lips as if he tasted bitter aloes. ‘She’d be summat of a gawk beside your fine lad.’
I stared into my lap, mortified.
‘He’ll have Grace – aye, he will,’ replied Mr Croxon, eyeing me somewhat like a dealer at a market. ‘She hides her light beneath a bushel, but a quiet girl will suit our Michael. I’ll get my lawyer to look into it. Shake on it, Moore?’
I heard Father spit in his palm, and saw Mr Croxon’s distaste. I rose and retired to the kitchen, but my hands could not lift a plate for trembling. I slumped on the stool by the fire and raised a glass of ale to my lips. But for the first time I tasted its cheapness, and spat it back into the glass. Everything about me was displeasing – the halfpenny twists of tea on the broken shelves, the smoke-stained hearth, the drab and damp-patched kitchen itself. I scraped the congealed pease and bacon into the fire, where it smoked and spat.
To my astonishment, I understood my morning’s dream foretold a blissful future. I allowed myself to sink into a daydream; of another life opening before me, of respectability and riches, at my shoulder a vague silhouette of a man, as yet featureless, but fashionably clad. Someone kind, civil and – dared I hope? – eager to cherish and love even me.
6
The Thames to Manchester
Summer 1792
~ To Make Virgin’s Milk ~
Take equal parts of Gum Benjamin, a fragrant resin from the meadows of sunny Sumatra, and Storax, the Sweet Gum of Turkey, and dissolve them in a sufficient quantity of Spirit of Wine. The Spirit will then gain a reddish tint and exhale a fragrant smell of tropical balm. Place a few drops into a glass of clear water and by rapid stirring the contents will instantly become milky. The mixture is used successfully
‘Eh, but what about me? Who’ll look after me?’ At the sound of Father’s voice my fingernails dug painfully into my palms. I knew it – he was going to destroy my chance of freedom. Scarcely knowing what I did, I walked into the parlour.
‘Mr Croxon,’ I nodded, praying he would not send me away. ‘Father,’ I added, quailing to see his livid face. ‘I believe I should be present.’
‘Yes – yes, Grace.’ Mr Croxon was quicker-witted than my father. ‘This concerns you very much. Come, sit with us.’
As I sat, my legs were as weak as a lamb’s. Mr Croxon continued speaking, and I tried to follow, but some of it was legal talk, too complex for me. However, the import was quite comprehensible. The Croxon family wished to found a business. The elder son, Michael, was especially enthusiastic, having long held the ambition to make his fortune using the modern means of manufacturing cotton. An arrangement between our two families would bring profit to us all.
‘Michael has had his troubles and now needs a steady wife,’ he said. It was not said in jest, that was clear from his manner. ‘I speak plain, for that’s the best way.’
‘But who will tend to me?’ whined my father.
Mr Croxon turned back to him. ‘Any kin of mine will live decently; do you understand that, Moore? We will hire you a servant.’
‘I’ll not have that,’ my father began. ‘Grace is no expense, like some hoity servant. I’ll not keep a slave—’
‘Listen, Moore. I’ll settle ten pound a year beer-money on you. Well?’
‘You sure he’ll take my daughter?’ my father said, pursing his loose lips as if he tasted bitter aloes. ‘She’d be summat of a gawk beside your fine lad.’
I stared into my lap, mortified.
‘He’ll have Grace – aye, he will,’ replied Mr Croxon, eyeing me somewhat like a dealer at a market. ‘She hides her light beneath a bushel, but a quiet girl will suit our Michael. I’ll get my lawyer to look into it. Shake on it, Moore?’
I heard Father spit in his palm, and saw Mr Croxon’s distaste. I rose and retired to the kitchen, but my hands could not lift a plate for trembling. I slumped on the stool by the fire and raised a glass of ale to my lips. But for the first time I tasted its cheapness, and spat it back into the glass. Everything about me was displeasing – the halfpenny twists of tea on the broken shelves, the smoke-stained hearth, the drab and damp-patched kitchen itself. I scraped the congealed pease and bacon into the fire, where it smoked and spat.
To my astonishment, I understood my morning’s dream foretold a blissful future. I allowed myself to sink into a daydream; of another life opening before me, of respectability and riches, at my shoulder a vague silhouette of a man, as yet featureless, but fashionably clad. Someone kind, civil and – dared I hope? – eager to cherish and love even me.
6
The Thames to Manchester
Summer 1792
~ To Make Virgin’s Milk ~
Take equal parts of Gum Benjamin, a fragrant resin from the meadows of sunny Sumatra, and Storax, the Sweet Gum of Turkey, and dissolve them in a sufficient quantity of Spirit of Wine. The Spirit will then gain a reddish tint and exhale a fragrant smell of tropical balm. Place a few drops into a glass of clear water and by rapid stirring the contents will instantly become milky. The mixture is used successfully
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