Chapter Two
No Daughter of Mine!
“I did not kill him.” Muttered Amy, quietly.
“She has sworn on her Grandfather’s ashes, John! What more do you want?” Demanded Mary Billington, tearfully.
“Be quiet, woman!” Snapped John, and Mary ran from the room, Lucille and Becky following her.
“Do you see what you have done, girl?” Snarled John, “it’s all your fault! As for killing your brother secretly, you are no daughter of mine!”
“But, Pa…”
“Never call me your father again, brat. I am glad that I have no daughter. It will be one less to cater for.”
Jessica had by now returned with a sharp black leather belt in her bony hands.
“You have the belt?” Demanded John, to a sour-looking Jessica.
“Indeed, sir!”
“Then give it to me!” John snatched the belt from Jessica’s hands and pulled Amy by the hair, and ordered her to hold out her hand.
Amy didn’t want to, but John seized her wrist and turned it over. He swiped her palm three times. When he had finished, Amy looked down, and saw that her hand had been split open by the belt.
“That should be enough to make you feel guilty.” Snapped John, and handed the belt back to Jessica.
“I didn’t kill James!” Remonstrated Amy, choking on her tears.
“You did. And you must face the consequences. Jessica, will you go and prepare the spare room in the back wing?” He turned to Amy, without waiting for the maid’s answer. “Girl, you will sleep in the back room from now on. When you are old enough to understand your responsibilities in this society, you will be sent away. That is the punishment for murderesses like you! You belong in the pit of hell-fire, and I hope that God can see what you have done and make you suffer for it.”
Amy said nothing. Jessica, who continued to pack up Amy’s belongings with the help of Samuel, the assistant gardener, and Jake the footman, escorted her to her room. They did not dare to look at Amy as she entered the room, because they believed that she had killed James and was being punished by her father ‘in the best way possible’ said Jessica. Amy went over to her bookshelf, (which had not been cleared) picked up her book of fairytales, a quill, and some notepaper. Her oldest doll was half-hidden under her old tea set, and she took her out.
“Oh, Anna.” She sighed, and took out her grand French Sunday doll. Her silk dress was ruffled, and her shoes smudged, but Amy still loved her.
“I ain’t got time to wait for you to finish,” Grumbled Jessica, throwing all of Amy’s expensive dresses into a cardboard box, “be up with you to the attic, where you’s belong from now on! There’ll be none of your ‘Lady and Miss’ lark, you’re lower than a servant now. All of your clothes will be given to the poor in the village. No one respects you now.”
Jessica seized Amy’s lace collar, dragged her out of the room, and up the stairs to the small room at the back of the attic. She threw Amy down into the room, where Amy began to sob pitifully.
It was a bare, dark, and cold room, with the tower window, and an old bed.
“Poor little James. Still, you got what you deserved, murderess. I ain’t gonna sympathise with you. No one will.”
“Oh, Jessica, you surely don’t believe that I killed James. I didn’t!”
“You did.”
“I promise you I didn’t!”
“Be quiet, you little murdering wretch!” Jessica slammed the door shut, locking it with a key. Amy, feeling lost and alone, crawled over to the bed, and sobbed into her pillow. The memories of happier times flashed in her mind, but she could do nothing to prove her innocence, even her own father did not believe her. She knew that her mother would never believe that her daughter could kill a baby, and yet, her mother had not even come to see her, she had run from John’s accusation. She felt her eyelids slowly droop and soon she was fast asleep. A few hours later, she awoke to the sound of someone creeping up the rickety staircase and a few minutes later, someone knocking at her door. Amy sat up, rubbed her eyes, and walked slowly over to the door. She opened it to see Mrs Brown, the Cook, holding a dish full of beef casserole, and a plate with a cherry bun.
“Thank you!” Cried Amy, happily.
Mrs Brown walked in and closed the door.
“Amy, I don’t believe that you killed your brother, and I am having doubts on Jessica’s story.”
Amy was dumbstruck. Why was Mrs Brown sticking up for her?
“You are a little girl, and I believe that your father has been very unjust. Naturally, I cannot say anything, as it is not my place. But I will say this. God knows everything. He knows the guilt and honesty, and no other.”
Amy nodded.
“MRS BROWN! TEA!” Cried John’s voice from downstairs.
“Well, I have to go now, dearie. Remember, I believe you. Enjoy your supper!”
Mrs Brown closed Amy’s door and Amy heard someone turn the key. “I am sorry, my girl, but the Master wishes for me to lock you in.” Explained Mrs Brown.
The cook’s footsteps died away, and Amy rushed to the door.
She pulled at the latch and handle but it was too stiff, wanting to escape. Why should she be treated like an animal when she hadn’t done anything wrong?
Amy sat down against the door, tears sliding down her face, and buried her face in her hands. She caught sight of a bird sitting on a branch outside the window and went over to it. She leaned out of the window trying to reach the tree where the little bird sat, but it was too far. She pondered whether to climb out onto the flat roof and try to reach it that way, but she was too afraid. Then, as her eyes slowly crossed the area around her, she caught a speck of blue below and leaned further out to see it.
It was a young woman, of about twenty, dressed in a day-dress of hyacinth blue. She was sitting on the swing in the garden and Amy gasped, the woman wasn’t her mother!
Then she saw her father sit down on the swing next to her.
“Won’t your wife mind us talking out here?” Questioned the girl, flirtatiously flicking her neat curls about her face.
“No, she won‘t. And it does not matter in the least should she start complaining.”
Amy opened the window a little wider.
“Anyway, the little girl is safely locked away in the back of the house, and she would never suspect that something was going on.” He kissed the young woman’s cheek.
“Hmm. You never told me why she was locked away.”
“She has only just been. I have denounced her.”
“Why?” persisted the girl, her eyes widening innocently.
“She killed my son. Her own brother.”
The girl’s eyes sparkled.
“She killed your son? Surely there must be some mistake.”
“No, unfortunately. She will inherit nothing. Let her starve and slave for every penny of her guilt.”
“I’d like to meet her, just so that I know her.”
“No, I can’t let you. She would let on to one of the servants.”
“Oh.” Replied the girl, downhearted. John lifted the girl’s chin and kissed her lovingly.
“Oh, Alison, I wish Mary were more like you.” Sighed John.
“What are we going to do? You know that I love you, and we will just have to wait.” Answered Alison, changing her sweet girlish tone to a mature, sleek voice.
“First of all, I’ll send the little girl away. Probably to a work-house, or a discipline school.” Suggested John, eagerly, his face brightening.
Amy’s ears burned with anger. How dare her father try and send her away? However, she listened further.
“And your wife?” Questioned Alison, anxiously.
“I’ll take you away with me, and we’ll get married. After all, I think Mary will want to go to Yorkshire again to her family, she may be going soon.”
The butler came out and announced that there was a call for John, and could he take it? He left the swing and Alison waited until he had closed the door before saying,
“She may be gone sooner than you think,” and took a little bottle out of the pouch she wore around her waist. Amy glared at Alison, and saw her in a whole new light; yes, she was pretty, but her eyes made her look cold and heartless. Her hair, which was auburn, was set in elaborate curls and she wore it loose around her shoulders. She had a heart-shaped white face, dark blue eyes and small thin lips. Her clothes looked very expensive, and she was wearing a diamond necklace around her graceful neck. Her dress, which was patterned with lace and small pearly buttons, was the same shade as her eyes.
Amy was shocked and scared. What did Alison mean? That she was going to poison her mother with whatever was in the bottle? Whatever Alison meant, it didn’t sound good. Maybe Alison had locked her in the room!
Amy looked around for an escape. She had to warn Mrs Brown, and stop Alison poisoning her mother!
Amy grabbed hold of the door handle and pushed the door as hard as she could. She even grabbed a box and threw it at the door. Then Amy had an idea.
Checking that Alison was not in the garden, Amy climbed back onto the drawers, threw up the sash at the top window, and climbed down onto the vines creeping up the wall. It was difficult to find her footing at times, but she finally reached the bottom and ran around to the front of the house and to her horror, Alison was there!
Luckily, Alison wasn’t looking in Amy’s direction, and did not see her creep back around to the back, throw the kitchen door open and rush in, sobbing.
Mrs Brown was there, preparing dinner for her master and mistress.
“What’s the matter, dear?” She asked, stirring a soggy-looking mixture.
“Alison is going to try and poison Mama.” Amy sobbed, collapsing into a chair next to the aga.
“Oh, Amy, shush, shush. There’s a dear.” Smiled Mrs Brown, taking Amy onto her lap.
“But it’s true! I need help! Papa’s going to try and send me away, so that he can marry Alison, but she’s going to try and kill Mama. I just saw her! She’s got a bottle with something in it! I have to stay here!”
“Dear dear, girl. Who is Alison?”
“Papa’s new ladyfriend. She is horrible, evil, spiteful…”
“Shush, dear. Now, I won’t let her do such a thing, I promise.”
Amy wiped her eyes.
“You won’t? Even if I’m sent away?”
“Yes, dear.”
Chapter Three
The Madness of Mary Billington
During the first few months of the New Year, Alison tried every possible means to send Mary Billington insane. Although Amy knew that her mother was ill, she had no idea as to what her father’s evil assistant Alison had planned for her, and was surprised when one rainy and cloudy night, when everyone had gone to bed, she heard eerie childish music coming from nearby.
Amy had been awake for most of the night, tossing and turning under her restless mind, and although she was tired, she could not get to sleep. She heard the creak of the shiny floorboards beneath her, and the sound of the door opening, but thought nothing of it, until she heard the music.
It was a sinister, lilting tune, and Amy knew that her father did not possess any items of music, so she unbolted the door, crept along the passage and down the stairs to the second-floor corridor. It was dark and empty, with a musty smell filling the air. Amy turned the corner and shuffled past the doors of her mother and father’s room and his study, the music still playing on. She saw a doorknob turn and ran back across the corridor and into a small cupboard, where she crouched, leaving the door ajar so that she could see who was awake. However, no footsteps passed her and she became very suspicious of an intruder. She crawled out of the cupboard and tiptoed back towards her room when she saw a white-clothed figure heading in the direction of the music. Amy gathered up her courage, although her heart was thumping madly, and followed the figure towards the nursery where she had once slept. The figure opened the door into the nursery, Amy following, walked over to the crib and let out a piercing scream.
Amy bolted for the door and disappeared around the corner where she crouched on the floor, listening for any sound. There came none.
Mary Billington opened the door into the corridor, and followed the eerie music that continued to play all through the house. She had awoken to the sound of this strange music and dreamily followed it to the back of the house in the left wing, as though hypnotised. It seemed louder as she approached the neglected hallway of the back wing, and as she opened the door into what she thought was the music a voice said, in clear, frightening tones:
“My James, my Papa, all mine! MINE!”
Mary screamed and held a lit candle up to the ceiling. All around her were James’ toys, James’ clothes, his booties, his blanket, and from the corner one large grey eye gleamed at Mary through the darkness.
“You can do nothing to save them,” the voice snarled, “run from me and you shall die a death like your son. I am Amy!”
Mary sobbed silently.
“No, not my Amy! You are not Amy! You are not!”
“I am, and I murdered James!”
The gleaming eye vanished into the darkness, and a candle was lit. The toys were scattered across the floor and in the centre of the room stood James’ crib, the bed that he had died in, and choked out his last breath. Mary’s vision was hazy and as she crossed to it, she believed in her heart that it was James, returned from the dead, however it was a china doll, made to look like a baby, and Mary swung it around in her insanity and it fell onto the floor, its porcelain head shattered to pieces. Mary reached down and crushed the shards in her hand, leaving four deep gashes in her palm and the shards covered with blood. She screamed and sobbed for every last memory of James, and did not see the gleaming eye through a crack in the door, reach out a white hand, and turn the key in the lock.
Amy did not see the gleaming eye and was surprised when no-one returned to the room. She crawled along the corridor to the left wing, and tapped lightly on the door.
“Mama, it’s me.”
“Oh, the shame! The shame! Dearest James, I beg of you, do not die!” She heard her mother sob, “my darling, everything will be fine, you will recover and we shall be happy again…No, please, please, don’t leave me!”
Amy pushed the door but it was locked tightly, and there was no key in the lock.
“Go away! My husband is dying! It is your entire fault, Miss Stevenson! Yours!” Amy heard the sound of things being thrown off the shelves and shoved her shoulder against the door, hoping to break in, but the door wouldn't budge. Although she disliked her father for his accusation, she crept back down the corridor to the master bedroom and knocked loudly.
Her father came to the door, his hair tousled and his pyjamas tight around his waist.
“What the Devil are you doing here? Get back to bed this instant!” He growled menacingly.
“I can’t!” Pleaded Amy, “Mama’s locked herself in the room in the left wing.”
“Ridiculous! If this is some sort of childish joke, I suggest you return to your room before I lash you harshly with a whip!”
“But, it’s true! Mama is locked in the room.”
“How did she get locked in there? Child? You seem to know a lot about your mother’s current position.”
“I didn’t lock her in there! I think she is going mad, sir!”
John Billington looked around before snatching a ring of keys from the dresser and hurrying out with Amy at his heels. When they reached the left wing the door was unlocked, and Mary was lying face down on the crimson carpet of the corridor. Her hands were covered in blood and her eyes were rolling in their sockets.
“Mary, it’s John,” John explained softly. Amy had never heard her father speak so kindly and softly to anyone else, and was somewhat surprised by her mother’s reaction.
“You keep away! He is dead! You killed him! You killed HIM!” Mary pulled herself up and seized John by the shoulders. She shook him violently and smacked him hard.
“Mary, calm down!” Cried John, “calm down!”
But Mary was insane. She pushed John to the floor before leaning over the banisters.
“No, Miss Mary, come.” Began the familiar voice of Mrs Brown, the cook, who had been aroused from sleep by Mary’s screams. Her wide nightdress and cap seemed to glow in the moonlight that shone through the window and made everyone look as though they were coated in light-blue paint. Mary seemed to be calmed by Mrs Brown, who took her left arm and shuffled along the corridor with her to a spare room.
“Amelia, return to bed!” Commanded John, fiercely.
“What about Mama?” Amy asked.
“Never mind now. Go to bed!”
Amy obeyed.
The next morning at breakfast, which he spent with Alison, John decided that Mary should be sent away to a hospital as she was a danger to his precious Alison, and to herself. John wrote a letter to the hospital in Sotting to tell them of his wife’s state of mind and requested that she be taken away to recover.
John also ordered that two of the servants had to stand outside Mary’s locked room so that she could not escape, but they found this very difficult, as Mary’s moods became unpredictable, but no one even thought to find out what had caused her to go insane.
Amy was kept away from her mother, although she knew that she was quite ill, and wouldn’t be the same again. Amy became frustrated that her father occupied most of his leisure time with Alison, and she watched from her window as they wandered around the gardens together, hand in hand, laughing and smiling, despite Alison’s poisonous mind.
Sometimes Mary was quite pleasant and over three weeks passed without her becoming angry and dangerous, so John suggested that the guards be removed and a maid to join her. At once, Alison volunteered, but John refused. He was worried for her safety, but agreed to let her take the food to his wife in the mornings and evenings.
During March, Amy was allowed out of her room because it became very hot in the right back wing of the house, and spent most of her time sitting in the library, which was pleasantly cool, and in the garden, near her smashed rockery, which she tried her hardest to repair.
March passed with little activity, and Alison spent hours with John talking and giggling outside in the rose garden.
Amy had been warned not to visit her mother, for fear of upsetting her, and Mrs Brown was the servant chosen to look after Mary and keep her happy. Mrs Brown knew in her heart of hearts that it was unlikely that Mary would recover, but could not bear to tell the poor little girl for fear of it breaking her suffering heart.
So Amy was kept in the dark, unaware of anything that was going on. But one thing came out of the suffering, and that was that Amy was able to see her mother again, for one more time.
Chapter Four
‘Maggie’
Once, in the summer, Lucille’s daughter Maggie was ‘dared’ by her friends to climb the vines of ivy up to Amy’s window and speak to her.
“Come on Maggie, it’s your turn for a dare.” Jack, Samuel’s son goaded her, as they played around in the Billingtons’ formal garden.
Maggie frowned, her rosy cheeks flushing beetroot in the heat of the sun.
“Oh, but Pickle wouldn’t do her dare, so it’s not really my turn.”
“Pickle’s gone inside. So it’s just you and me. Come on, I order you!” Jack waggled his finger impatiently at Maggie, who was defenceless, so she obeyed him.
“All right. What do I have to do?”
“Hmm,” Jack sighed, deep in thought, and his eyes caught the top window of the house. “I want you to go and speak to the murderer up in the top room, and tell her exactly what you think of her!”
“I can’t!” Shouted Maggie, “that’s wrong, she may not have killed the baby.”
“I’ll go and tell Mr John if you don’t stop whinging. Come on, up the vines!”
“I can’t! Oh, Jack, I’m too scared. What if she kills me?”
“Then I’ll tell your mum that you were playing a silly game and wanted to meet the murderer.” Answered Jack, grinning, and pushing Maggie up the trellis.
“You pig!” Cried Maggie,” You rotten pig!”
Jack laughed as Maggie continued to climb the trellis, and then the vines. She was scared for her safety and Jack didn’t seem to care. ‘He’s a heartless pig,’ thought Maggie as she caught her arm on a spiky branch.
After ten minutes she had reached the top, and sat down on the flat roof, exhausted. Her apron was stained and torn, and her legs were covered in scratches. From the roof she could see for miles. She saw St. Martin’s church and her school, and Hollybrook Farm in the distance.
Down below, Jack seemed like a little pin compared to her, and she wished that she could stamp on him and teach him a lesson. But her ordeal was not over yet. Maggie stood on the flat roof and tapped lightly three times on the window.
“A ghost?” Amy asked herself. She was sitting on her bed reading her fairytale book for the fourth time, and her stomach was groaning for food. She had only had a small egg for breakfast, and some milk, but that was three or four hours ago, and Amy believed that Mrs Brown had been sent out to buy some groceries for lunch.
Amy looked up from her book and her head turned to the window.
“A ghost?” She repeated, “or something else?”
Nothing answered her, so she carried on with her book.
Tap-Tap-Tap on the window…
“It must be something. I hope it’s not a ghost.”
Amy stood up and walked over to the window. She took hold of the window and pulled it down, locking the mysterious visitor out.
Maggie, of course, was horrified. She had no idea whether the little girl inside the room had closed the window on purpose, or whether she had done it absent-mindedly.
She tapped again on the window.
Amy had just settled herself back into the story, when she heard the noise again.
Tap-tap-tap.
“Who on earth wants to see me?” She asked.
She came over to the window and rubbed her sleeve against the dirty glass. She saw a face outside, the face of a child! Perhaps this was the friend she had prayed and waited for? How rude of her to lock the friend out!
Amy unlocked the window and pushed it up. A hand took her wrist. Amy tried to pull away but the grip was too tight.
“Get off I say! Get off!”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to.” Said a voice.
Amy looked around. There was no one on the flat roof, or in the window on the right, so where had the voice come from?
She soon found out. Maggie had tried to reach the skylight of the attic, but found that she was to scared to climb over the roof, so she had been sitting above Amy’s window, waiting for her to come to the window. Maggie jumped down onto the flat roof, and smiled at Amy.
“You’re…how did you get up here?” She asked.
“Oh, it was easy,” Maggie boasted, “I just climbed up the ivy.”
“Oh! How exciting! Oh dear, you have a hole in your dress!”
Maggie looked down, yes; there was a tear in her dress.
“Let me sew that for you.” Offered Amy, and held out her hand to Maggie.
Maggie was reluctant to take it. If she did accept the little girl’s offer, what would Amy do to her when she got inside the room? If she killed her, Maggie, too, who would find her? And when? The little girl in front of her could use her method of climbing to escape!
“Er…could you sew it out here? I don’t particularly like the dark.” Maggie lied.
“Don’t worry, I won’t hurt you. I’m not the murderer you think I am.” Amy assured her, taking her workbasket off the drawer and climbing out onto the flat roof.
“You aren’t? But…what about…the…the…baby?” Maggie asked anxiously, expecting the little girl in front of her to stab her with her needle.
“I didn’t kill him.” Was Amy’s short, calm reply.
“Yea, I can see that. What’s your name, little girl?”
“I’m Amy, Amy Billington.”
“I’m Maggie Fletcher, my mum is Lucille.”
“Lucille stuck up for me,” Sighed Amy, “she was very kind.”
“Yea, I bet she was. I love my mum more than anything in the world.”
“I love mine, too, but I hardly ever get to see her. Oh, it’s so unfair!”
“I know. I believe you.”
Amy gasped.
“You…you believe me?”
“Yes. I do.” Answered Maggie, smiling at her.
“Oh, Maggie! You are so kind! Oh, thank you,” She looked up at the sky, “thank you so much for sending me a friend!”
Maggie smiled, but said nothing; she was not really religious, although she was sent to Sunday school.
“I hope so. He is a miracle-worker, or so my father says. He knows that I am innocent, my father doesn’t.”
“Why doesn’t your father believe you?” Asked Maggie.
“He thinks that I killed James out of spite, to get love and attention.”
“But that makes no sense at all, Miss Amy.”
“I know that. But I can’t prove anything.”
“How awful it must be for you.”
A shout was heard below, and Maggie sighed.
“I have to go now, that’s Jack and Pickle calling me.”
“Pickle?!” Giggled Amy.
“Her name’s Pippa, but Jack calls her Pickle, just as a sort of nick-name. You know. John is going to get what for when I get down there.”
“Of course. Thank you for visiting me, Maggie.”
As Maggie climbed down the ivy, Jack and Pickle were very surprised to see her, apparently wound-less and perfectly healthy.
“What’s she like, Mag? Is she a caged bear?”
“No, she’s just like us. I don’t believe her father.” Explained Maggie, smiling.
“You don’t? But, all the evidence…” Jack protested.
“There isn’t nothing,” Explained Maggie, “it is just an accusation. She’s very friendly, not like those in Bedlam at all!”
“Gosh, you are brave. Here, take one of these.” Jack snatched Pickle’s sweets and held out the bag.
“I didn’t do it for the dare. You keep them, Pickle.”
Maggie walked away, leaving Jack to wonder about the strange girl who had been locked away. Was it possible that the girl was telling the truth? Had she killed her brother?
Maggie, however, fully trusted Amy, and they became great friends.
And so it was, the two little girls happily met each other in secret. Sometimes Maggie stayed for hours on end, other times it was a brief encounter. Maggie, although poor, was always bringing packages to Amy. Amy enjoyed these precious times with Maggie, because she had no other friends and was rarely allowed out of the back wing. She had found, to her utmost delight, a secret staircase leading up to the attic, where the large skylight filled the dark room with golden light. Amy took some of her belongings up to the skylight and hid them behind old shelves and in crates, so that Alison and the others could never find them.
Three months after they had first met, Maggie made a hole in the staircase, by putting her boot through it and caught her apron on the splinters. Jessica found it and went to her master, who was infuriated.
“I warned the servants and their children to stay away from her. Obviously, one of them chose to disobey my orders! Whoever it was, he or she will be dismissed immediately!”
John charged into the kitchen where most of the servants were working, and demanded to know who had disobeyed his orders and their children had met Amy?
“Her name is Maggie, sir.” Explained Jessica, minutes later. John, the footman’s son, had told her this.
“Who in here has a child called Maggie?” He spat.
“I, sir.” Admitted Lucille, shamefully.
“You? Your daughter? I…”
“Sir, I take full responsibility for Maggie. She is very inquisitive. I did warn her to stay away from…well, you know…but she did it by accident.”
“I am not interested in your pathetic pleas, Lucille!” Thundered John, “you are dismissed! Pack your things, and leave. I have no reason to keep a servant who disobeys my orders!”
“I shall go sir.” Agreed Lucille, “but I warn you, someone will punish you for what you have done to that little girl!” She bobbed a curtsey, nodded at John, and left the kitchen through the servants’ quarters. Maggie was told by her mother to come to the front of the house in an hour’s time. An hour soon passed, Amy and Maggie met each other for one last time, and Maggie gave her a scarf that she’d sewn herself. It was a large scarf, almost like patchwork, and quite wide, so Amy stretched it as far as she could and made it into a blanket.
From the window, she waved goodbye to her only friend, and watched her disappear down the lane into the village. Amy cried her heart out for the first day after Maggie’s departure, and was severely punished for conversing with the servants’ children. Her punishment was to scrub the stairs by hand.
Jessica rapped on her door the next morning, and once Amy was dressed in a plain grey dress of wool, took her down to the scullery where the servants were waiting. They were not as kind and sympathetic as Mrs Brown, and shoved the bucket and scrubbing brush into her hands.
“What about her hair?” Asked one, called Dawn, “the master would have a fit if he saw ‘er going round with all those curls!”
“Well, what are we s’posed to do? Try and keep the cap on ‘em?”
“As best as she can. D’you hear that, girl? Keep your cap on for as long as possible!”
Amy was given a white cap and tied her hair up so that it fitted underneath it.
“Right, well Master wants you to do the stairs, all four staircases.” Explained
Jessica, “I’ll take you up to ‘em.”
“I’ll find my way myself.” Snapped Amy, indignantly. She did not trust Jessica at all.
“Ooh, hoity-toity!” Scorned Jessica, tugging at Amy’s dirty white apron. “We aren’t used to bein’ ordered about by the upper-servants, now, are we?”
“No, better shake off some of her airs and graces, Jess.” Agreed the scullery-maid, Jane.
“I will, don’t you worry! Come on, girl.” Jessica took Amy upstairs to the top of the house, and instructed her to scrub the stairs until they gleamed.
Amy knelt down on the top step, took the scrubbing brush, put it in the water and began to scrub hard at the step.
She completed each step rubbing thoroughly at the wood until it shined. As she did so, thoughts crept into her mind, and memories flashed back and forth like waves of electricity.
“Amy, come here…AMELIA! What is the meaning of this?…We should have let you rot away and thrown away the key!…We should have left you to starve, but your dear mother protested against it!…Oh Amy! You’re the best friend anyone could ever have!”
This last memory made Amy throw down her scrubbing-brush and sit against the step. Above the staircase were large Georgian windows, and through them shone beams of light from the sun.
“What a lovely world it is outside this place.” Amy murmured, softly, as she scrubbed the steps absent-mindedly. She began to hum a song that Miss Graham had sung to her.
‘Have no fear, my little one,
Keep safe and warm,
For I will always be here,
Watching over you
Over you.
Have no fear, my little one,
Keep safe and warm,
For I will always be there
Watching over you
Over you,
Like the sun
Shines over the earth
On a summer’s day.’
The song brought tears to Amy’s eyes as she remembered Miss Graham’s cheery face and sweet nature. But wasn’t there someone else who loved Amy very much even though she hadn’t seen her for two years?
“Mama!” Amy gasped. She dropped the scrubbing brush and rushed back down the steps to the first floor where her mother’s bedroom was.
Amy knocked on the door, and when there was no answer, she went in. Her mother was lying in the four-poster bed, her long auburn hair flowing out onto the pillow, and her green eyes, (just like Amy’s) were half-open. She looked very ill. Her face was gaunt and her lips were thin and had a bluish tinge to them.
“Mama?” Amy questioned, walking softly over to the bed.
“Amy,” Amy’s mother whispered, “my girl.”
“I’m here, mama.”
“My little angel, I am very ill.”
“Who poisoned you, mama?”
“No one poisoned me, darling,” Gasped Mary, “I have been like this for some time.”
“Oh, mama! You will get better, won’t you?”
“I don’t know, my dear, but you must be prepared for…” She took a deep breath, “for anything that may happen. I know you are innocent, and I wish your father could see that.”
“Mama, I love you.”
“I love you too, darling. There is something that I want you to have, but your father must not know of it.” She sighed, “you may open it on your twenty-first birthday, and not before. It is something that I have kept for you, and hidden from your father.”
“He is too busy with his mistress.” Explained Amy.
“Do not say such, my little dear. Your mama will miss you. Your father has plans for you.”
“What plans?” Asked Amy, worriedly.
“He is sending you away.”
“But…where? Where am I going?”
“I do not know, my dearest.” She paused, and listened for footsteps. John was coming up the stairs. “Quick, under the bed.”
Amy dived underneath and pulled the cloth that hung over the sides closer to her.
“Ah, how are you, Mary?” Asked John, in a superior tone.
“I am feeling a little better.” Answered Mary, coughing as she spoke.
“I have spoken to Ralph Turner about the child.” John explained, “and he said that he would be delighted to take her.”
“No, John,” Began Mary, sobbing, “she is not going to that dark and loveless place. I have seen the children there. They are as thin as skeletons, and their bones can be seen through their gaunt faces. She is not going there.”
“She is, Mary. I have given word to Lucille that she is to leave in the morning. I will take the child to Turner’s Mill myself.”
“Please, John,” Pleaded Mary, “She will die. I cannot bear it. Send her anywhere else, but not Turner’s Mill.”
Amy listened in horror as her father cursed her mother, saying that he was the master of the house and she would do as she was told.
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