The Wayward Governess. Joanna Fulford
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a consignment of new machinery for t’mill. Seems they were attacked on their way over t’moor. There’s been some killed an’ all.’
‘Heaven preserve us from such wickedness! Wait here! I’ll fetch the doctor.’
Within a quarter of an hour Dr Greystoke had left the house. Claire heard the sound of horses’ hooves as the men rode away, and in some anxiety digested what she had heard. Her limited knowledge of the machinebreakers’ activities had been gleaned from newspaper accounts: here evidently it was far more than just a story of distant industrial unrest. Here the violence was all too real. Could it be true that men had lost their lives? The thought was chilling. What could make men so desperate that they were prepared to kill?
It was a question she put to Ellen when they met in the breakfast parlour some time later.
‘When the war with France cut off foreign trade it caused a lot of hardship hereabouts,’ her friend replied. ‘Even now that Napoleon is exiled the situation is slow to change. The advent of the power looms is seen as yet another threat to men’s livelihoods.’
‘Then why do mill owners like Harlston antagonise the workforce in that way?’
‘They see it as progress and in a way I suppose it is. The new machines are faster and more efficient by far than the old looms. All the same, it is hard to reconcile that knowledge with the sight of children starving.’
Claire pondered the words, for they suggested a world she had no experience of. In spite of recent events her life had been sheltered and comfortable for the most part and although she had lost her parents she had still been clothed and fed and there had always been a roof over her head. Other children were not as fortunate. For so many orphans the only choice was the workhouse. If they survived that, it usually led to a life of drudgery after. For a young and unprotected girl the world was hazardous indeed. Recalling the scene in Gartside, she shuddered.
‘Are you all right, Claire? You look awfully pale.’
‘Yes, a slight headache is all.’
‘No wonder with all you’ve been through.’
Claire managed a wan smile. She hadn’t told Ellen about the incident with Stone and his cronies. She had felt too ashamed; the memory of it made her feel dirty somehow and she wanted nothing more than to forget about it. Yet now it returned with force and with it the recollection of the man who had saved her.
‘Why don’t you go for a walk this morning?’ Ellen continued. ‘I’m sure the fresh air would do you good.’
‘Yes, perhaps you are right.’
‘There is a gate in the garden wall that leads out onto the moor. It is quite a climb, but the views from the top are worth the effort.’
‘I could take my sketchbook.’
Ellen smiled. ‘You have kept up your drawing, then?’
‘Oh, yes. It is one of my greatest pleasures.’
‘You were always so gifted that way. I shall look forward to seeing your work later.’
‘Will you not come with me?’
‘I wish I could, but this morning I have an engagement in town. Never fear, though, we shall take many walks together in future. The countryside hereabouts is very fine.’
Looking out across the sunlit moor an hour later Claire could only agree with her friend’s assessment. From her vantage point she could see the town below, and the mill, and then the wide expanse of rolling heath and the hills beyond. Far above her a skylark poured out its soul in song. Listening to it, Claire felt her spirits lift for the first time and suddenly the future seemed less threatening. Smiling, she walked on, revelling in the fresh air and exercise.
She had followed the track for another mile or so when she saw the figure lying on the path. It was a man and he was lying very still. Claire frowned. What on earth was he doing there? How had he got there? She approached with caution but he did not move. Her gaze took in boots, breeches and coat and the dark stain on the shoulder. It was unmistakably blood. Swallowing hard, she drew nearer and then gasped.
‘Mr Eden!’
In a moment she was beside him, her fingers seeking his wrist for a pulse. For a moment she couldn’t find one and her heart sank. Her fingers moved to his neck and in trembling relief she found it at last, a slow and feeble beat. His face was very pale, the skin waxy where it showed above the stubble of his beard. When she spoke to him again there was no response. Claire gently lifted the edge of his coat and her eyes widened.
‘Dear God,’ she murmured.
Shirt and waistcoat were soaked, as was the wadded handkerchief thrust between. He had been shot. Shocked to the core, she stared a second or two at the scarlet stain. Who could have done such a thing? Unbidden, the memory of their first meeting returned and she heard Stone’s voice: ‘You’ll get yours, Eden, I swear it.’ Feeling sick and guilty, Claire bit her lip. Was this her fault? Had his earlier action brought this on him? There was no time for further reflection; he needed help and soon. She looked around in desperation, her mind retracing her route and the length of time it would take to get back and wondering if she would find Ellen or her brother returned yet. In the midst of these thoughts her eye detected a movement further down the track. Straightening, she shaded her eyes and strained to see, praying it might be a rider. In fact it was several riders and in their midst a cart. Almost sobbing with relief, she waved frantically.
‘Help! Over here!’
It seemed to take an age before they heard her. Then two of the men spurred forwards to investigate. Claire stood on the track and watched them come. They reined in, regarding her with open curiosity. Then they noticed the still form lying at the edge of the path.
‘What’s happened here, lass?’ demanded the first.
‘He’s badly injured. He needs a doctor and soon.’
‘Have no fear. Help is at hand.’
The first rider dismounted and hastened over to the injured man. Then Claire heard a muffled exclamation.
‘Merciful heavens, it’s Mark Eden.’
‘What!’ His companion edged his mount closer. ‘I heard he was missing, believed dead.’
‘He soon will be if we don’t get him to a doctor. Help me get him onto my horse.’
Claire eyed the approaching vehicle. ‘Would it not be better to put him on the cart?’
The men exchanged glances, then shook their heads.
‘Better not, lass.’
‘I don’t understand.’
They gave no further explanation and she could only watch in helpless bewilderment as they lifted Eden and put him on the horse. Then one mounted behind, holding the inert form so it could not fall. They had no sooner done so than the lumbering wagon drew nigh. Seeing what it contained, Claire went very pale.
‘Come away, lass, it’s no sight for a woman’s eyes.’ The man’s voice was gruff but kindly. ‘I’ll take thee up on t’ horse behind me.’
‘Those men in the cart, are they…?’
‘Dead? Aye. Killed last night in the attack on Harlston’s machines.’
Claire drew in a deep breath and then glanced at the slumped form on the other horse, praying they had not come too late.
When Eden came round it was to the sound of voices and hurrying footsteps. Through a fog of pain he had an impression of walls and floor and ceiling. He didn’t recognise the room. It had a strange and yet familiar smell too, something vaguely chemical that resisted identification and yet one he thought he ought to know. He shifted a little and winced as pain knifed through his shoulder.
‘Don’t try to move.’
He