Satisfied was how she felt, she decided as she began to drift off to sleep. There were long periods of utter boredom being a lady's maid, and turning a hovel into a home was far more rewarding.

Tomorrow she intended to tackle the dining room. He had a very fine table and chairs, and she'd seen some good velvet curtains in a packing case. The Captain had said he'd be going away for two days; by the time he got back she'd have that room fit for dinner guests.

But her last thought of the evening was of Hope. Nell pictured her running across the meadow to Lord's Wood, as she'd so often seen her do on her afternoon off. Her bonnet would bounce back on to her neck, and her shiny dark hair would break free from its pins. Nell would tut as she watched from an upstairs window, and make a mental note to remind her young sister that only hoydens ran, not young ladies. Yet it had always given her pleasure to see the child's delight in her freedom; she was as graceful as a deer and as beautiful as her surroundings.

'If you are alive, my sweet, write to me,' she murmured.

Chapter Twelve.

1849.

Hope could see Betsy coming towards her along the crowded quayside, but even at a distance of some 300 yards it was clear something was badly wrong with her. She was staggering, bent over as if in pain, for once not stopping here and there as she usually did for a bit of light-hearted banter with sailors and dock workers.

It was late in the afternoon in midsummer and so hot you could probably fry an egg on the quay. During the bitterly cold winter Hope had longed for the heat of summer, but as the temperature had soared in the past weeks, with no rain to wash away the human and animal effluent, the smells had become so evil that it was hard to breathe.

By day Hope could escape up the hill to Clifton where it was clean and sweet-smelling and a breeze blew. People there had drains which took away their waste, they had water piped into their kitchens, and many of their gardens were beautiful. Lately she'd been very tempted to sleep out on the Downs rather than face another steamy night in Lamb Lane. But Betsy and Gussie would have seen that as a kind of defection.

It was while selling kindling during her first winter in Bristol that she managed to beg some work in Clifton. The housekeeper at number 5 Royal York Crescent paid her to scrub the front-door steps and polish the bra.s.s. It wasn't until the next winter that the woman eventually trusted her enough to let her come inside occasionally to scrub floors and help with the laundry, but now eighteen months later Hope helped out there twice a week on a regular basis, for which she was paid three shillings.

Hope had to bite her tongue as she was always watched like a hawk for fear she was going to steal something. The other servants looked down their noses at her, and if she was given anything to eat while she was there, it was only ever sc.r.a.ps. But she had stuck it out, for she needed the three shillings to buy flowers from the market and make them into little posies which she sold on the streets for the rest of the week.

The terrible hardships she endured during her first winter in Bristol were just a distant memory now. Nothing, she felt, could ever be as bad as that again. How she had managed to go out each icy morning at daybreak, walk miles on blistered feet with an empty stomach, her fingers cracking open with the frost, she didn't know. There had been days when every bone in her body screamed agonizingly for rest; the humiliation of people slamming their doors in her face, the torture of hunger and cold, all for just a few pennies a day, made her wish for death.

After that, cleaning and laundry work twice a week seemed like paradise, even if the other servants did treat her like vermin because her dress was ragged and her boots had holes in them.

But today at number 5, Mrs Toms the housekeeper had offered to take her on as maid of all work, living in, for which she would pay her five shillings a week, with a uniform and some new boots.

Hope knew she ought to feel overjoyed; after all, it was the kind of respectable job she'd wanted for so long. It would be bliss to sleep between sheets, never to wake as a rat ran over her, or suffer hunger pains again.

But Hope wasn't joyful, she was torn. For by accepting the advantages of going into service, she knew she would also have to accept the restrictions that came with it, along with her reservations about the Edwards household.

Mr Edwards was a fat, pompous little alderman, and it was said he had made his money by taking bribes to get people contracts from the Corporation. His wife was a nervy wraith who liked to ape real gentry. That aside, they were in Hope's eyes a fairly odious couple who also had no idea of how a household should be run. They relied totally on Mrs Toms, and she was a vicious bully who covered up her own ignorance by blaming the other servants when anything went wrong.

Up until today Hope had watched and listened to what went on at number 5 with some amus.e.m.e.nt, remembering dignified Baines who ran Briargate like clockwork, yet kept the respect and affection of all his staff. She knew he would throw up his hands in horror at her contemplating taking up a position in a household which was managed in such an inept fashion.

Yet it wasn't just the difficulties she might encounter at number 5 that daunted her; she felt it was disloyal to leave Gussie and Betsy. But for their generosity, protection and the survival skills they'd taught her she would not have survived a month in Lewins Mead. Their room in Lamb Lane might be squalid and rat-ridden, but within it she'd felt safe. The meek little Hope Renton who'd slunk away from the gatehouse on Albert's orders had become strong and resourceful. She wasn't even sure she had the ability to be anyone's servant again.

She had lost her respect for the gentry when she saw Sir William in bed with Albert, and since living in Bristol she'd seen and heard about too many other 'gentlemen' who liked boys, or very young girls, to think Sir William was exceptional. As for their ladies, she despised them even more for their hypocrisy. They flocked to their churches in silks and satins and prayed for the poor and the sick, but they never lifted a finger to help those less fortunate than themselves. Hundreds of dest.i.tute men, women and children from famine-ridden Ireland disembarked from ships each week in Bristol, but there was no sympathy for their plight. These poor souls could barely stand, they were so emaciated from starvation, yet the gentry brayed that they should be driven out of the city. As it was, most of them were forced to live like animals in the festering, derelict houses down by the river Frome, and with no food or medical help they were dying like flies.

Hope had heard Mr Edwards remark that if he had his way he would order the military to set fire to these unsanitary places, and that he hoped the people within them would perish too. Could she really work for such a man?

It was Friday today, and on Monday morning she was due back at the Crescent with her decision. Unfortunately she was pretty certain that if she turned down Mrs Toms's offer, the woman was spiteful enough to refuse to give her any further work at all.

But on seeing Betsy so obviously unwell, Hope put aside her own problems and rushed to help her friend. 'What's wrong?' she asked as she caught hold of her arm.

'I feel bad,' Betsy groaned. 'Me belly aches, I've been sick, I never felt this way before, I feel like I'm gonna die.'

Betsy was the toughest person Hope had ever known, she didn't ever complain when she was hurt or sick, so that in itself was enough to make Hope worried. Betsy hadn't been herself last night; she was pale and listless and hadn't wanted anything to eat. She'd insisted it was just the heat. But heat alone wouldn't give someone pain or make them sick, so it had to be something far more serious.

In the last few days there had been talk that there was fever among the Irish, and that if they weren't moved on it would spread throughout the city. Hope had dismissed this as scaremongering, but what if it was true?

She didn't intend to alarm Betsy with such a suggestion, so she put her arm round her to support her. 'I'll get you home,' she said. 'I expect you've eaten something bad. But I'll take care of you.'

'I need a drink of water,' Betsy moaned as they went up the stairs. She was really frightening Hope now for her movements were slow and laboured and she was shivering even though it was so hot.

'I'll make you some cinnamon tea,' Hope said. She had never liked the taste of Bristol water, so she never drank it other than in tea. Putting a stick of cinnamon in boiling water had been her mother's remedy for sickness or bellyache, for she had claimed that giving a sick person cold water upset them even more.

As they went into the room they found Gussie was already there. But he was lying down, and one glance at his white face and heavy eyes was enough for Hope to know he was suffering from the same complaint as Betsy.

'I've been sick,' he said, his voice little more than a whisper. He attempted to sit up but clearly didn't have the strength for it.

A cold chill ran down Hope's spine, for while it was possible that her two friends had shared some food that was bad, their symptoms reminded her of those her parents had with the typhus. Reverend Gosling had told her it was a disease which flourished in dirty, overcrowded conditions and she had always been mindful it could easily strike in Lewins Mead.

It crossed her mind that she should flee at once, but when she looked round and saw Betsy slumped down on the floor, her expression one of agony as she clutched at her stomach, she felt ashamed of such a thought.

She got them both to lie down and covered them with blankets, then lit the fire and put the kettle on it. There was enough water in the pitcher to wash their faces and hands, but she would have to get more from the pump.

It was desperately hot in the room, and it would be hotter still once the fire got going. She stood by the open window for a moment trying to gather her thoughts and remember all the remedies her mother and Nell had always used for sickness.

'I've got to go and get water and some things from the shop,' she told her friends. 'Stay where you are, I won't be long.'

Ten minutes later she staggered back up the stairs, weighed down by two pitchers of water and a flask of vinegar, which her mother had always used to wash things in when there was sickness in the cottage. She had the cinnamon, more candles too, and some mustard to make hot poultices.

Since the winter, when their lodgers left for good, Hope had introduced many items into their room which she considered essential for housekeeping. Some had been bought second-hand, others Gussie had acquired for her, but they now had a broom, a large saucepan, a frying pan, bowls for the stews she made on the fire, some cutlery, and another large bowl for washing up dishes. Recently, Hope had also stuffed the sacks with hay to make mattresses, and she always made sure they had soap too, and plenty of rags for cleaning purposes.

But as she walked back into the room and found Betsy on her hands and knees retching over the slop pail, she knew that trying to nurse two sick people with such spa.r.s.e equipment was going to be very difficult.

Daylight faded soon after Hope had spread the hot mustard plaster on her friends' bellies. She was pleased to see that it did seem to ease their cramping pains, just as the cinnamon tea had calmed the vomiting. They were still shivering, but she had covered them with everything she could find to help them sweat it out and now they were sleeping.

But she could not sleep herself. The room was like an oven, and there was so much noise coming in through the open window. It was never quiet here, but since the hot weather began the noise had grown even worse, more babies crying, more drunks, more fights, and children running up and down the alleys until well after midnight.

Since settling down here, Hope made a conscious effort never to think about the past, but as she stood at the open window wearing only her chemise, dripping with sweat and desperate for air, the stink of human waste a.s.saulting her nostrils, she couldn't help but remember hot summer nights when she was a child. The whole family would sit outside and watch the sun go down, and the breeze would be fresh and pure, scented with honeysuckle.

Even when she'd lived at the gatehouse, she and Nell had often sat on the backdoor step looking up at the stars. She recalled that she had often wished then that she lived in a big town, longing for the excitement of crowds, shops and markets. That wish seemed so foolish now she knew how harsh and unpleasant town life could be. She would give anything to be encircled by Nell's plump arm again, listening to nothing but the hoot of owls and the rustling of leaves.

Nell had surely hardened her heart to her now. Matt's children would be the recipients of all the love and devotion she had once showered on her youngest sister.

Hope lapsed into a pretty daydream of imagining going back there, just to look at Nell. She could see herself hiding behind a tree in Lord's Wood on a Sunday morning, waiting for Nell to pa.s.s through on her way to church. She'd be wearing that pretty blue bonnet trimmed with white artificial daisies that Lady Harvey had given her. Just one glimpse of her would be enough.

Perhaps she'd see Rufus too, for he'd be home for the school holidays now. Maybe he would go down to the pond because he was remembering the good times they once shared? She could jump out and startle him. She would have to pledge him to secrecy of course. But maybe with his help they could think of a way to let Nell know she was safe?

A shouted oath from a drunken man in the alley below acted as a timely reminder of the reality of her situation. Even if it were possible to go back there without Albert getting to hear she'd been, she couldn't bear the thought of anyone she knew seeing her like this. She was the same as all the residents of the rookery now, dirty, thin and ragged even Rufus would turn away in disgust. And anyway, she couldn't explain to him how it all came about, not without telling him his parents' part in it too.

'I hate you, Albert Scott,' she muttered to herself. 'One of these days I'll get even with you.'

As the first light of dawn crept into the room, Betsy was sick again and her bowels erupted uncontrollably. She cried pitifully from the pain in her belly, the cramps in her limbs and the embarra.s.sment of fouling her bed, and although Hope tried to rea.s.sure her that she would start to feel better once all the poisons in her body had been expelled, it was all too reminiscent of her parents' deaths for her really to believe what she said.

A short while later Gussie was in the same state, and Hope was run ragged building up the fire to boil water for more cinnamon tea and darting down the stairs to fetch more water from the pump and empty the slop pail of dirty water. Flies buzzed frantically around the room as it grew hotter and even more foul, and sweat poured from her as she tried to scour the pail and bowls, wash over the floor and keep her friends clean.

By early afternoon, Hope was truly alarmed by her patients' appearance. Their eyes were sunken, their breathing very shallow, and they were no longer really aware of her ministering to them. She knew she must get help, but she had never heard of any doctor coming into Lewins Mead. Miss Carpenter, the schoolteacher, was the only person she could think of who might have enough influence to persuade someone to come.

Hope had only met Miss Carpenter twice. The first time was when she went to the school in St James's Back with Gussie in an effort to encourage him to go to lessons. The second time she had gone to ask the teacher if she could use any help in teaching the youngest children to read.

She admired Miss Carpenter greatly, as almost everyone in the rookery did. Anyone who could be so dedicated to teaching the poorest, most disadvantaged children in the city deserved admiration. She lavished her care and attention on her small charges, cared pa.s.sionately about each one of them, yet for all that she wasn't an easy person to like. She was frosty, she rarely smiled, and there was an intensity about her that was frightening.

The teacher had also seemed very suspicious of Hope at their last meeting. Betsy had claimed it was because Hope was every bit as clever as her, and far prettier. Hope didn't believe that was the real reason. It was far more likely the teacher couldn't understand why someone able to read and write should end up in her neighbourhood. Yet whatever the woman's reasons for being chilly with her, Hope knew she had to try to enlist her help, or Betsy and Gussie might die.

Hope stopped by the pump to wash her face and hands before running round to the school. Three women had just filled their buckets and were gossiping before returning home. As Hope washed, she p.r.i.c.ked up her ears because one of the women was talking about a whole family who had suddenly been taken ill.

'Two days ago they was all fine,' the woman said, a note of alarm in her voice. 'Old Ada went in there to see what she could do, but she soon come out. Said she didn't reckon anyone could help 'em.'

Old Ada was the closest thing Lewins Mead had to medical help. She was responsible for bringing most of the babies in Lewins Mead into the world, and laying out the dead. She was dirty, foul-mouthed and usually drunk, but those helped by her swore by her.

'They ain't the only ones sick neither,' another of the women said. 'I 'eard they got it in Cask Lane too.'

A cold shudder went down Hope's spine, for Cask Lane was next to Lamb Lane. She rushed off towards the school feeling even more frightened.

'Miss Carpenter! Could I speak to you?' Hope called out as she saw the teacher about to leave the old chapel building.

Despite the hot weather Miss Carpenter was still wearing her customary plain grey dress and bonnet, a shawl around her shoulders. She looked round at Hope and frowned. 'Hope, isn't it?' she said. 'I'm afraid I still don't have any work for you.'

'It isn't that,' Hope said breathlessly. 'My friends Gussie and Betsy are sick and they need a doctor. I thought you might know someone who would come to them.'

Betsy had always had a down on Miss Carpenter; she claimed she involved herself in good works because she was a cranky old spinster with nothing better to do with her time. She sneered at the teacher's unfashionable plain clothes, and at her strong religious beliefs. She even suggested the woman got some vicarious thrill out of sticking her long nose into the rookery.

Hope had always laughed at Betsy's jaundiced views, unable to make up her mind whether she agreed or disagreed. But when she saw real concern flash into the woman's sharp, dark eyes she felt ashamed that she'd allowed Betsy to influence her.

'What are their symptoms?' she asked. 'Are they feverish?'

Hope explained how they were and what she'd already done to help them. 'I'm scared it's typhus,' she said finally. 'My parents died of that.'

Miss Carpenter looked very surprised and took hold of Hope's hand, pressing it in sympathy. 'I didn't realize you had been orphaned. I'm afraid I a.s.sumed because you'd been educated that you'd run away from home hoping for some adventure, and that was why I was a little sharp with you. But that isn't important now. I will ask a doctor I know if he will call on your friends, though I can't promise he'll come today as he may be out on other calls. Go home now, keep them warm and give them more fluids. It sounds as if you've been doing all the right things for them already.'

'I haven't got much money to pay the doctor,' Hope blurted out, having no idea at all what a doctor's visit cost.

Miss Carpenter made a little gesture with her hands, implying Hope wasn't to worry about that. 'The good Lord will provide,' she said. 'Not everyone in this world expects payment for their services.'

After checking exactly where Hope lived in Lamb Lane, the schoolteacher hurried on her way. Hope stood for a second or two watching the careful way she picked her way up the narrow alley, holding her skirt clear of the filth underfoot. She thought she must be about forty, yet she was as slight and slender as a young girl. Hope wondered why she hadn't married, for though she was rather plain with her long, pinched nose and thin lips, there were plenty of much plainer married women. Betsy claimed that men didn't like intelligent women, and Bible bashers even less, and perhaps she was right.

Hope had given up on the doctor coming by the time she heard the church clock striking ten that night. It had been an endless, terrible day for as soon as she cleaned up Betsy, Gussie would need washing too, and they both cried out with the pain of the cramps they were suffering. Hope was swaying with exhaustion, dripping with sweat, and beside herself with anxiety. The fluids coming from them now were like rice water, and the pair of them were scarcely aware of their own condition. It was like nursing two large helpless babies, only she had no napkins, sheets or towels to make them more comfortable.

Even more awful was the way they looked. When she held a candle near, their eyes seemed to have sunk into their faces, and their skin was mottled and dark. She talked to them constantly as she rubbed their limbs to ease the cramps, and even though they seemed unable to reply, she felt sure they knew what she was saying.

Raised voices from below suddenly alerted her that a stranger had come to the house. In the eighteen months she'd lived here, she'd grown used to this early-warning system. Anyone coming into Lewins Mead who wasn't known to the residents was treated with suspicion, and by calling out to the visitor, usually quite rudely, they made the stranger's presence known to the whole lane.

Hope opened the door and peered down the dark, rickety staircase. There was the usual cacophony of noise, and more light than usual for many doors were open, but not enough light to see who was there.

'Up the top of the stairs, mister,' someone called out.

A wave of relief welled up inside her, for it had to be the doctor. She nipped back into the room, grabbed a candle and went back on to the staircase to light his way.

The only doctor Hope had ever met was the one in Chewton that she'd been sent to when her parents were ill, so she expected this one to be of similar age and size. So she was somewhat taken aback when a tall young man with fair hair came into view.

'Are you the doctor?' she called down to him.

'I am. Dr Meadows,' he replied. 'And you must be Hope? I'm sorry to say Miss Carpenter didn't tell me your full name.'

'Thank you for coming, and just Hope will do fine,' she said when he reached her. 'I've been so afraid as my friends have become even sicker since I spoke to Miss Carpenter.'

Dr Bennett Meadows had thought himself fortunate when his uncle, Dr Abel Cunningham, invited him to join him in his Clifton practice when he qualified. He had no money to start up his own practice, and he knew that in all likelihood any other doctor offering to take him on as his junior would expect him to work very long hours for a mere pittance.

As a child he'd spent many holidays with his uncle, and he knew that most of his patients were wealthy people, so he imagined that it would only be a couple of years before he'd be in a position to branch out on his own.

But to his disappointment his uncle was no different from any other successful doctor; he kept his best patients to himself and only allowed Bennett to treat the poorer ones.

'Ask for the shilling fee as soon as you arrive at a house call,' Uncle Abel had advised him. 'If you wait until you've treated the patient they'll think you're soft and find an excuse not to pay you.'

Perhaps Bennett was was soft, for he found it impossible to demand his fee before looking at a child in the grip of whooping cough, or a man in agony from a crushed leg. And his uncle was right; he often didn't get paid afterwards. At first this frustrated him, but as time pa.s.sed he came to learn that the poor never called for a doctor unless it was for something very serious. He found he just wasn't callous enough to take their last shilling if it meant the whole family would go hungry because of it, and if he could save the patient, the satisfaction was his reward. soft, for he found it impossible to demand his fee before looking at a child in the grip of whooping cough, or a man in agony from a crushed leg. And his uncle was right; he often didn't get paid afterwards. At first this frustrated him, but as time pa.s.sed he came to learn that the poor never called for a doctor unless it was for something very serious. He found he just wasn't callous enough to take their last shilling if it meant the whole family would go hungry because of it, and if he could save the patient, the satisfaction was his reward.

It was because of his altruistic att.i.tude that Uncle Abel mockingly called Bennett and Mary Carpenter 'Twin Souls'. Abel had been a friend of Lant Carpenter, Mary's late father, but he shook his head in bewilderment that the preacher's well-educated daughter had chosen to devote her life to a Ragged School. When Abel first introduced Mary to Bennett he had smirked and said that they ought to get along famously because they were both champions of lost causes.

Bennett didn't think a free school was a lost cause, and neither was the reformatory Mary had started up in the village of Kingswood. He thought it was marvellous that she'd persuaded the courts to give criminal children into her care, so she could teach them to read and write and learn a trade, and keep them out of adult prisons where they would only be corrupted further. She wanted her scheme to be used everywhere in England, and so far it appeared so successful that it seemed she might eventually get her wish.

Bennett did admire Mary for her compa.s.sion, intelligence and drive, but he wasn't so keen on her impervious manner, or the way she would often browbeat friends and acquaintances into doing her bidding. He had escaped this until tonight; she'd often invited him to fundraising events, and sought his opinion on treatment for minor ailments, but this was the first time she'd pressed him into making a house call.

She said there was something intriguing about the girl called Hope who had asked for her help. 'She is not typical of the young girls in Lewins Mead,' she said, shaking her head as if mystified. 'She is intelligent, well-mannered and very clean. I shudder to think about the conditions she is living in, but she cares desperately about her two sick friends and I felt compelled to do something to help her.'

Bennett wanted to refuse. Everyone knew the rookery was home to the most brutal and depraved people in Bristol. Even the police wouldn't go in there for fear of an attack. Mary insisted that his doctor's bag should be enough protection, and if challenged, he was to say she sent him, but from what he'd heard from other sources, the residents in that neighbourhood would rob their own grandmother for a tot of rum.

He had to agree to go though. If a slight, middle-aged woman was brave enough to go in there daily to teach, it would look very bad if a young and fit doctor wouldn't do likewise to attend the sick.

But his heart had been thumping with fear as he made his way through the rabbit warren of narrow, stinking alleys. He was disgusted by the filth, appalled by the number of drunken men and women slumped in doorways, and horrified that even after dark so many almost naked, malnourished and dirty children were abroad.

His nervousness had increased as he climbed the stairs to the attic room, for although it was too dark there to see the filth, he could sense it, covering his nose to keep out the stench. Raised, angry voices were all around him, and he felt a rat brush past his ankles. This, he thought, was as close to h.e.l.l as a man could get, and had it not been for the sweet voice calling down to ask if he was the doctor, he might very well have turned tail and run away.

Mary Carpenter's description of Hope had formed a picture in his mind of a very plain but kindly girl. But as he reached the top landing and saw her lit up by her candle, he was astounded to see that she was beautiful.

Her grey dress was ragged and stained, she smelled of sickness and sweat, and her dark hair was plastered to her head. But her face! Huge, limpid dark eyes, plump lips and a perfectly formed nose. It was like discovering a rose growing on a dung heap. He was so staggered that for a moment he could only stare at her in amazement.

'Will you look at them now?' she asked, bringing him sharply back to the purpose of his visit. 'I've tried to make them drink, but they aren't taking it any more. I'm so afraid for them.'

Bennett had been into the homes of hundreds of poor people since he came to Bristol, but he had never seen anywhere as grim as this girl's room. By the light of three or four candles, he could see there was no furniture, just a couple of wooden crates which acted as tables, and sacks filled with straw for beds. Hope's friends were lying on two of these and the air was rank with sickness and excrement, yet he could see by the rags hanging to dry by the window that this young girl had done her best to keep her patients clean.