Chapter 28
West Riding, Yorkshire
Thursday 29 August 1833
A two-storey grey stone building housed the Tollstone Academy. In late summer, this wasn’t the cold, damp place Alice remembered.
Not that the present climate was healthier. The chinks and rattling windows let in the moor winds, which carried with them
the aromas of the adjoining barn and stable, the pigs and chickens wandering about through muck, and the nearby cesspit. The
smell was all the more oppressive in the warmth of the day.
Apart from the time of year, all was as Alice remembered.
She and Blackwood had done what they could to appear to be an ordinary couple of the middling classes. They stayed at an inn
several miles away, rather than at Castle Ancaster. There the locals were all too likely to recognize them, in spite of their
attire and the side whiskers and beard Blackwood had let grow during the preceding weeks.
Fortunately, he was unknown in the isolated village housing the Tollstone Academy—if one could call it a village. A few poorly maintained cottages stood here and there. The place boasted a bridge over a stream, shallow, murky, and slow at this time of year. Unlike the environs of Castle Ancaster, this piece of Yorkshire demonstrated what would have happened to Ripley’s villagers had he not spent large sums restoring what his father had let go to rack and ruin.
Alice wore widow’s weeds, veil included. All was of a quality in keeping with her identity: She was the Widow Smithers, saddled
with two orphaned nieces whom she wanted off her hands as inexpensively as possible. Blackwood was her late husband’s friend,
Mr. Rookwood. If people believed that she wanted the girls off her hands so that she could marry, unencumbered, the bearded
fellow accompanying them, all the better. He stood behind her chair, his hands on the back of it. He wore the benign look
he’d practiced for several days.
The office they occupied was elaborately furnished, suggesting luxury throughout the establishment. In fact, the Tollstones
reserved luxury for themselves.
Mrs. Tollstone was expensively if soberly dressed. Under the profusion of lace constituting her cap, a series of stiff rolls
of curls framed her long, narrow face. A large gold watch on a heavy gold chain was pinned to the pleated bodice of her costly
brown satin dress.
Mr. Tollstone was much as Alice remembered, if a few degrees greyer and plumper. A stiff white collar and black neckcloth.
Side whiskers that had seemed to nine-year-old Alice to be made of metal wire. A top-notch tailor had made his dark green
coat.
He gazed benevolently upon the two girls Alice had brought with her. Polly and Hannah, ages nine and eleven, looked very much the worse for wear. This wasn’t entirely because of the long journey from London. Certain cosmetics were involved. They were street children Liliane had rescued two years earlier. She and Alice had chosen them for their intelligence, diligence, and acting talent.
“Promising girls,” Mr. Tollstone said. “Very promising, indeed. But in need of proper instruction, no doubt.”
“Well, as to that, naturally they ought to learn to be useful,” Alice said. “Was my husband alive—bless his memory—we might
put them to work in the shop.” She sighed heavily, drew out her black-trimmed handkerchief, and dabbed under the veil at her
eyes.
“There, there, Mrs. Smithers,” Blackwood murmured. He patted her shoulder. “Courage, now.”
“Indeed, indeed, we do not wish to bring up sad memories,” said Mrs. Tollstone. “Our dearest wish is to help.”
“You are too kind, I’m sure,” Alice said with a sad little sniff. “I have been at my wits’ end what to do with them. With
my dear Mr. Smithers gone, I was obliged to turn to his good friend Mr. Rookwood for advice.” She patted the big hand on her
shoulder. “This gentleman was good enough to look about for me. He assured me that your school would suit.”
“You need have no fears about your girls,” said Mrs. Tollstone. “We’ll look after them like they was our own. You may rely
upon us absolutely. What dear things. Good girls, I’m sure, yes?”
She reached out a heavily beringed hand, put a knuckle under Polly’s chin, and stared deep into her eyes.
She’d looked at Alice in the same way. Impossible to forget. She didn’t want to forget, ever. Those hard knuckles and the
rings and the cold voice.
We make no distinctions here... Do you understand, girl?
“I’m sure they will be,” Alice said.
She smoothed her gloves, the agreed-upon signal.
Polly gave a little cough.
Mrs. Tollstone stepped back.
She was a hard woman, but she had an Achilles’ heel: a morbid dread of illness. When children fell ill—which was often enough—she
kept well clear of them, leaving the staff and other children to look after them. When measles or any other such disease ran
through the place, she took a long holiday at the seaside.
“Pay her no mind,” Alice said. “The child took a chill along the road.”
“Not used to all this fresh air, eh, Polly?” said Blackwood.
Polly coughed some more and rubbed her nose.
“But she was coughing before, Aunt Essie,” Hannah said. “Ever since—”
“Now, now,” Blackwood said.
“These girls,” Alice said. “Spoilt, I’m sorry to say. But they won’t be shirking no more, will they?”
Hannah persisted. “But the doctor said—”
“Hush,” Polly said. “Aunt Essie said not to say.”
Hannah stared at her. “Say what?”
Polly gave her a warning look, then started coughing. “I need to use the privy,” she said. “Now.” She jumped up from her chair. “Where is it?”
“Dobbs!” Mrs. Tollstone shouted.
A young girl hurried in. She was a very little, shrunken child, wearing an enormous, dirty apron and no shoes on her still
dirtier feet. “Missus?”
“Take this girl to the privy, and be quick about it!”
Dobbs grabbed Polly’s hand and dragged her from the room.
“That’s how Amy was,” Hannah cried. “She’s got it, I know.”
“Got what?” said Mrs. Tollstone, eyes wide.
“A trifling chill, no more,” Alice said quickly. “These girls imagine things.”
“Too much time on their hands,” Blackwood said. “Idleness. The devil makes work—”
“She turned all blue, and she was sick horrible!” Hannah shrieked. “Doctor said it was the cholera!”
“Cholera!” Mrs. Tollstone grasped her husband’s arm.
“First Papa, then Mama, then little Amy,” Hannah cried. “Now poor Polly, and what shall I do?” She burst into tears and flung
herself at Mrs. Tollstone, clutching her skirts.
“Get off me!” the schoolmistress screamed. “Don’t touch me!”
“Help me, please!” Hannah sobbed.
“Stop that noise, girl,” Blackwood said.
“Don’t pay them any mind,” Alice said. “It’s all in their heads. They didn’t want to come to school. My brother spoilt ’em
shameful. It’s no more than tantrums.”
Hannah began coughing into Mrs. Tollstone’s skirts.
Mrs. Tollstone managed to pry the girl loose. She looked down at her skirt, where a wet spot was spreading.
Hannah made retching noises and ran out of the room.
“Her face is turning blue!” the schoolmistress screamed. “It’s the cholera, Samuel. They’ve brought it to us, and it’ll kill
us all!”
The Tollstones were gone within an hour. The servants, except for young Dobbs, took their own holiday as soon as master and
mistress were out of sight.
Soon thereafter, Blackwood and Alice met in the Tollstones’ office with a small group of people that Mr. Crade had assembled. These included an apothecary named Overton from nearby Heyshaw, the local squire, and one of the parish overseers.
Mr. Crade had already prepared the way. Rumors had spread of a serious illness at the school, he’d told the group. Complaints
had been made of inadequate care. These rumors and complaints had reached the ears of certain prominent persons who owned
property in the West Riding. At the behest of one of these individuals, Mrs. Smithers and Mr. Rookwood and the two girls had
been employed to look into the matter. They had practiced a small deception in order to allow the group to inspect the premises
without interference or concealment.
Nobody asked who Mrs. Smithers and Mr. Rookwood were, and so Mr. Crade did not tell them. If his little group were suspicious,
they gave no sign. Mr. Crade had chosen them because he believed they would be more sympathetic than others. To many other
locals, this was a school for wayward girls. If they were treated harshly, it was as they deserved.
Even so, in spite of sympathy and a wish to do good, the group expressed doubts that an inspection, regardless of what it
revealed, would accomplish much. Still, they were willing to do what they were asked to do.
Alice and Blackwood had come prepared for skepticism. Moreover, they had one piece of good luck: One schoolmistress had remained.
Miss Nalder was new to the staff. She was not happy with the school, and had recently applied for a position elsewhere. Her
strict conscience, however, would not allow her to abandon her young charges.
She offered an eyewitness account of the way the school was run.
Blackwood and the others got to see for themselves. He thought he’d been prepared. He wasn’t oblivious to London’s impoverished masses. He knew that women and girls suffered most. He’d read Mrs. Wollstonecraft’s book.
All the same, he found it... difficult to accept.
He knew the previous Duke of Ripley had not been right in the head. Even so, it was hard to believe he’d sent his daughter
to this place.
Several of the girls were truly ill. None could be called healthy. Miss Nalder reported a system of insufficient food, clothing,
and instruction, and more than sufficient work and hard discipline.
As the group were leaving the dormitory, he drew Alice aside.
“I ought not to be surprised,” he said softly. “I’ve learnt enough from you. I’ve read the stories. Nevertheless...” He
shook his head. “I remember what you said about going to the Marshalsea. You said you’d found it salutary to see for yourself.
I find this salutary, you may be sure.”
She smiled up at him. “It will be even more salutary if we can put our hands on something truly useful.” Her gaze turned inward.
“You noticed her jewels.”
“I noticed they were unusually well-dressed for schoolmaster and schoolmistress. A Bond Street tailor made his coat, I’ll
wager anything.”
“He didn’t inherit wealth,” she said. “The fees are moderate.”
“Sufficient to clothe and feed these girls a good deal better,” he said. “In which case one draws the logical conclusion.
Well, then, let’s see what we can find. They were in rather a hurry. Did they take time to collect their records, I wonder?”
They did not, it turned out. While the others talked to Miss Nalder, he and Alice searched. They found two sets of records. He found the false ones in Tollstone’s study. She found the alternate set of books in Mrs. Tollstone’s sitting room.
At the end of the day, after leaving Miss Nalder, Hannah and Polly, and two women from the next village, to look after the
schoolchildren, Alice and Blackwood met with the others in the dining parlor of the nearby King’s Arms.
They presented the two sets of financial records, which showed that the Tollstones kept for themselves all but a fraction
of the money intended for the children’s upkeep.
“This does explain how they could afford fine clothes and furnishings and their holiday house at Margate,” Alice said.
“This is shameful,” Mr. Overton said. “The children are ill all too often, and I’m rarely summoned. I hear of it, but I cannot
go where I’m not asked.”
Blackwood turned to the lawyer.
“Glaring discrepancies, beyond question,” Mr. Crade said.
“I am not a lawyer,” Blackwood said, “but I daresay that fraud is not too strong a word.”
Mr. Crade nodded.
There was the crux of it, Blackwood thought. Property was sacred, above all things, including children’s lives.
One couldn’t change this thinking. It was too deeply ingrained.
That meant one must find a way to use it.
“We might expect to prevail in a criminal trial,” Blackwood said. “We ought to find any number of parents and guardians who’ll be outraged about the misuse of their money. On the other hand, they might strongly object to being associated with the poor treat ment of their children. They might worry that their neighbors will say, ‘Why didn’t you look into the place more closely?’ They won’t like seeing their names in the newspapers in a sordid case like this.”
“If you imply that the matter were best not made public,” the squire said, “I agree.”
“Certain questions may prove awkward for us to answer,” Mr. Crade said.
Awkward for a number of people, including the parish overseer. But also for persons like the Blackwoods and their group who’d
pried where some would say they had no business to do so.
“We can’t let the school continue as it was,” Alice said. “We’ve observed the conditions. We’ve heard Miss Nalder’s account
of her experience. We have Mr. Overton’s report.”
A debate ensued.
In the end, thanks to Blackwood’s subtle prodding and Mr. Crade’s equally subtle guidance, the group agreed to keep the school
open, with Miss Nalder appointed headmistress. The parish would provide funds, temporarily, to address the worst of the conditions.
Mrs. Smithers and Mr. Rookwood would apply to their employer to supplement these funds.
In the meantime, Mr. Crade would arrange for the appropriate officials to contact Mr. Tollstone at his seaside refuge and
inform him of the evidence against him. They would invite him to make financial restitution, rather than take his chances
with criminal proceedings and disagreeable publicity. As part of this restitution, he would turn over the Tollstone Academy
to the Heyshaw School ladies, and cease all opposition to their efforts. The present school would be extensively cleaned and
refurbished, to begin a new life in keeping with Minerva Society principles.
The matter being settled to everybody’s satisfaction, the group dispersed.
When he returned from seeing them off, Blackwood found Alice at the window of the dining parlor.
“Dragons dead enough for you?” he said.
She turned to him. Her eyes shimmered. “Thank you,” she said.
“I ought to thank you,” he said. “This was a lesson to me. I haven’t quite taken it in, but at least now I understand—not
merely in my mind, but in my heart—why the work is so important to you. Why you persist, even when your spouse whines about
your not attending to his every whim.”
“You were not unreasonable,” she said. “It’s a long journey, simply to try to right one wrong. And I have been away...
excessively.”
“Your brother, Ashmont, and I have traveled to Yorkshire often enough, most usually for a rest cure at Castle Ancaster,” he
said. “This was more productive. I’m especially glad I had the opportunity to observe your performance as the Widow Smithers.”
“You made a fine Mr. Rookwood,” she said. “And the girls did beautifully.” She smiled. “Little urchins. But good girls, all
the same. Both products of the Minerva Society. That’s what can happen when we find promising children and are able to help
them along. Who knows? After this experience, and meeting Miss Nalder, Polly or Hannah might decide it’s a fine thing to be
a schoolmistress, and teach other children.”
“That would be a fine thing, indeed.”
“All the same, I’m not sure I could have done so much without your talent for machination.”
“All those pranks. Excellent practice.”
“I’m glad I chose you,” she said.
“I’m glad you did.”
What a waste his life had been before. How empty it would have been without her. Marriage wasn’t easy, but it had made his
existence infinitely richer. She had made his existence infinitely richer.
She came to him and set her forehead against his chest. “Affinity.”
He brought his arms about her. “Yes.”
On the following day, Alice and Blackwood set out for London.
They hadn’t traveled two miles when she asked to stop the carriage.
“I want to see it,” she said. “I want to see it differently.”
And so they stepped out into the road and walked to a wall and looked out over the moors. The heather was in bloom, swathes
of glorious purple stretching over the harshly beautiful landscape under a cloudy sky.
“I loved these moors,” she said. “When I was very little, my nursemaid would take me for walks. She’d grown up here. Then
my father sent me to the school. I was a duke’s daughter. It made no difference. I was treated the same as the others. The
Tollstones knew my father didn’t care.”
“Ripley says he had a maggot in the brain,” Blackwood said. “He says your father wasn’t always that way.”
“The man with the maggot is the only father I remember. I can never repay Uncle Charles and Aunt Julia for rescuing me. The Minerva Society isn’t the only reason I put up with the royals. I do it for Aunt Julia, too. And everything you said was true—about the children and being a knight and fighting back.” She looked up at him. “I never told anybody except Cassandra how I truly felt. But I’ve told you. And you listened. It took a while, but you listened.”
“Yes, it took a while,” he said.
He’d taken the trouble to try to understand. And he did understand.
She ought to have realized he would. Perhaps she had. Perhaps in her heart she’d always known she could trust him, absolutely.
She drank in the air, the never-forgotten smell of the heath.
“I didn’t know I was shackled to that school, in my head,” she said. “Now I’m not.”
“In that case,” he said, “may we now live happily ever after?”