Shadows of the Workhouse by Jennifer Worth Read Free Book Online Page B

had called him ‘Daddy’, but then he thought better of it. After all, women were funny creatures and you never knew what they might think once they got an idea into their heads.
    Lady Lavinia asked what the child was like.
    “Oh, I don’t know. Those damnation workhouse uniforms make all children look alike. I know she had dark hair. That’s all I can say. But one thing I do know for certain: she was the only one to come up and say ‘thank you’ personally.”
    Lady Lavinia smiled fondly at her husband. “It does her much credit,” she said, “and you can be sure of another thing: there is one little girl for whom this will be a day to remember.”

A DAY TO REMEMBER

    Jane waited for nearly two hours in the punishment room. This was because the Master had to accompany Sir Ian to the boys’ section, after which many practical arrangements had to be sorted out. Then the Master wanted his supper, and a chance to discuss Jane’s wickedness with his wife.
    Two hours is a long time for a small child to wait alone in a closed room (Jane was eight years old). She grew hungry and fidgety. She was not particularly worried or frightened, in fact her mind was still buoyant. Her daddy had cuddled her and called her “my child”.
    She heard a key in the lock, and jumped up expectantly, smoothing out her apron and running her fingers through her curls, her face eager. The Master and a male officer entered. Her face fell.
    “Where’s my daddy?” she asked in a little voice.
    The Master was bent on vengeance, and her question only added fuel to his fury. He took two steps across the room and hit her full in the face. She fell against the wall.
    “You wicked girl. I’ll knock that nonsense out of you.” But Jane was a girl of spirit, and now that she had her protector, she wasn’t afraid of anyone. Her eyes gleaming, she faced the Master.
    “I’ll tell my daddy on you,” she shouted.
    The Master hit her again, harder this time. “Sir Ian Astor-Smaleigh is not your father. Do you understand? Now say it after me: ‘Sir Ian Astor-Smaleigh is not my father.’ Say it.”
    Now at this point a very curious thing happened. Curious to an adult, that is, but logical to the mind of a child. Children frequently hear something quite different from what has actually been said, particularly if it is something new and unrelated to anything else in their experience. (For example, throughout her childhood, my daughter thought our telephone number was “fried potato”. She had heard us say “53280”.)
    Jane thought the Master had said: “See a nasty smelly is not my father.” It didn’t make sense. She stared at him in sullen amazement.
    “Say it, say it,” shouted the Master.
    She didn’t say a word, but just looked at him.
    The Master repeated the whole sentence, and demanded she say it, his hand raised threateningly.
    The child continued to stare at him in amazement. “A nasty smelly?” she exclaimed, her tone raised enquiringly.
    “You insolent little bastard,” the man roared. “First you insult Sir Ian, and now you insult me.”
    To the officer: “Undress her.”
    The officer grabbed her and started to undo the buttons of her dress. At this Jane really became alarmed and tried to pull away.
    “Stop it, let me go. I’ll tell my daddy on you, I will.”
    “Oh, the wickedness! Has she no shame?” muttered the officer, and continued to undress Jane until she stood naked before them. She was crying and frightened now, but still she resisted as much as her puny strength would allow.
    “Hold her hands tight and turn her around,” ordered the Master, selecting the leather-thonged whip from the wall. Jane saw him take it down, and screamed.
    “No! No! Don’t! Let me go! Da—”
    The first lash fell across her back, knocking all the breath out of her. Pain like fire shot through her body, and the second stroke fell before she had time to breathe. When the third fell, with excruciating pain, Jane realised what was