Michael had faced many uncomfortable situations in his life; a weeping woman was close to the worst. “Miss Ashman, Miss Ashman,” he said; then, recollecting the clean, white handkerchief in his breast pocket, he pulled it out and passed it over. Lizzie buried her face in it for a few moments, wiped her eyes, blew her nose, and sniffed.

“I’m so sorry, Mr O’Gorman. I don’t know what came over me then. I’ll wash your handkerchief and return it as soon as possible.”

“There’s no hurry, Miss Ashman, I’m glad it was of use. And you’ve had a terrible few days; it’s natural that you should be distressed. I’ve come to walk you home.”

Lizzie thought for a moment about the tongues she would set wagging if she were seen with the Irishman, then decided that she did not care. She nodded, and he carefully tucked her arm into his.

As they walked, he kept a stream of idle conversation going: that was a fine house there; the Parson seemed an amiable man; he wondered how that cottager grew her gillyflowers so abundant. She was grateful for the gentle flow of words which needed little or no response on her part.

They turned into Baker’s Yard and at her house he stooped to examine the stones. “You have some very fine ammonites here,” he said.

“Oh, that was what Mr Smith called them. We know them as snailstones.”

“Strata Smith? Did you meet him? He is a very clever man. He has a theory about how rocks are arranged and has produced a most interesting geological map of the area round Bath. I believe that he is hoping to make one for the whole of Great Britain.”

“I met him when I was a child, and he was surveying for your canal. He came to the house to look at our snails. He stopped to have a cup of cider with Fa.....” A sob caught in her throat.

“You’d better go in, Miss Ashman. I’ll see you again tomorrow.”

* * *

Lizzie was in two minds whether to tell her mother about the encounter but, realising that the story would come to her ears sooner rather than later, decided to make a clean breast of it. She made light of the encounter, merely saying that she had met Mr O’Gorman by chance and that he had escorted her home. To her relief her mother made no comment beyond noting that it was most considerate of him.

The news about the closure of the Manor made more impact. Betty had already heard that Mr Single was looking for staff; to Lizzie’s concerns about working for the coal owner, she countered that he might feel he owed her a position. Betty had spent the day reorganising their few possessions to allow space for lodgers; tomorrow she would go round the village making sure that everyone knew about her new status as landlady. Lizzie asked if she should write some advertisements; but Betty could not read and thought it unlikely that any potential tenants would be able to either. But she was proud of her daughter’s literacy and assured her that her offer of help was appreciated.

“’Tis good that I’ve been able to keep myself busy, mind,” she said. “It helps keep me from fretting. Would you like me to ask about a place at Single’s for you tomorrow?”

“Yes. Yes, do it Ma.” Lizzie knew she had to be realistic. A new establishment could be the best chance for her.

* * *

The last two weeks of her employment at the Manor passed too swiftly. Through the day she cut and sewed with Kitty and Mrs Scammell, trying to concentrate hard enough on the task in hand to keep her mind from turning to that dreadful afternoon at Gants. And each evening, Michael O’Gorman met her in the church yard and escorted her home. They started taking longer, more circuitous routes; once they walked out to Tynings, past the new houses on Vowles Hill, so that Lizzie’s potential future workplace could be viewed. And as they walked, they talked:

“How did you come to England, Mr O’Gorman?”

“I grew up in a town called Waterford, Miss Ashman, which is a great port.” He thought for a moment and smiled. “Well, no, it is a small port – but a port nevertheless. My mother, God rest her, was of Huguenot stock, and when the glass factory came to our town I discovered that some of the trading ships were going to the Low Countries, and I had a great desire in me to see where my mother’s family had come from. So when I was fourteen I got taken on as a ship’s boy and I landed in Antwerp in ‘92 and took off to see the country. Did some labouring to keep body and soul together, learnt a bit of the Flemish language, and got to Amsterdam, which is a mighty fair city. But then news came that the French had invaded and I was fortunate indeed to get on a ship out of Amsterdam. Well, that ship went to Esbjerg, in Denmark, and from there I got another one to Hull, in Yorkshire, and I was making my way over the country to Liverpool where I hoped to get a boat back to Ireland when I heard about the great canal being built in Lancashire – and the good money that was being paid. So I changed my mind and went north. And I’ve been building canals in England ever since; never did get back to Ireland.”

“But you were so young; don’t navigators have to be full grown men?”

“No, no, boys – even some women – work as navigators. You start as a nipper, making tea, fetching tommy (for that is what we call food) and doing light work; then as you become a man you move on to the heavier work, at full pay.”

Lizzie worried that he was working a short day to be able to meet her.

“Our day starts at dawn, Miss Ashman – at this time of year that’s three o’clock in the morning. And even the strongest navigators cannot work more than fourteen hours at a stretch. There’s plenty of time to clean myself up and come up here. What else would I do; pour my money into an innkeeper’s purse?”

“What was your business in Birmingham?”

“Mr Rennie wanted to see me – he is the Engineer for this canal, and also designed the Lancashire Canal – I was able to do some small services for him there, and he has given me to understand that he may take me on as an Assistant Engineer.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful!” Lizzie was not entirely sure what an Engineer was but she understood that this would be a major improvement in Michael’s fortunes.

“Yes, it is a very tempting prospect, although I have had some idea of moving out of the navigation trade and settling down. And if I become an Engineer I will have to travel a great deal. But I would need to remain here for a few years anyway; there is a lock system required at Combe Hay yonder, and its construction will require the most clever management. Although, to be sure, I have great doubts as to whether it will work; it is a Caisson Lock of a type which has not been tested elsewhere and I fear that Mr Rennie may regret its specification.”

Did he miss Ireland?

“Well, the answer to that is yes and no. Both my parents are dead and I have few relatives left in that island. And Waterford is for the most part a Catholic town, and it is a little lonely to be a poor Protestant there; though at least I was able to receive an education in a Charter School. For the schools are run by Protestants, and though Catholic boys may attend I fear that most of them who receive any education at all do so in hidden places, hedges and barns and the like. It is a sad situation, Miss Ashman, where the Protestants fear the Catholics so much that they will not permit a papist to become a schoolmaster, and at the same time the Catholics fear the Protestants so much that they will not permit their children to be taught by them.” He sighed. “But it is a fine, beautiful land, if a little damp...maybe I will return one day.”

He reminisced about his travels through Flanders and Holland. “A very neat, tidy country, most prosperous. I hope the French have not destroyed it. “

“Can you really speak Flemish? Say something in it.”

“Ik zie oe geerne.”

“What does that mean?”

“I may tell you one day, Miss Ashman.”

* * *

Her final day at the Manor was dismal. A ceremony was made for the departing servants, with cider and seed cake, but the mood was sombre. Mrs Scammell surprised everyone by embracing Lizzie and Kitty. “You have been such good girls,” she said. “God give you joy in your new endeavours.” Kitty had already obtained a new position in one of the fashionable houses in Great Pulteney Street in Bath. LIzzie felt a twinge of envy; Kitty’s horizons were opening up, hers had not.

As usual, Michael was waiting for her. They fell into step together. “A terrible sad day for you,” he observed. “When do you see Mrs Single?”

An interview had been arranged for after church the next day. “I dread it,” said Lizzie. “The Manor has been my second home for five years; it will be hard to start anew.”

“It was like that for me when I left Lancashire. I’d been working that canal for seven years. But I was able to bring most of the gang with me, which made the move a mite more tolerable. And there have been – compensations.” He winked.

“What do the Billy Boys say of you coming here, day after day?”

“Nothing.” He scowled. “They wouldn’t dare.”

As they entered Baker’s Yard, he turned to her. “I regret that I shall be away for a few weeks. Mr Rennie has desired my return to Birmingham; the Canal Company is determined to go ahead with the Caisson Lock, though I cannot like it, and I must study the model and specifications with him.”

Lizzie’s face fell – she had grown accustomed to the strength and support of the tall man. “God give you a safe journey and speedy return,” she said, dully.

“Believe me, Miss Ashman, I shall return as soon as I am able.”

* * *

The pew had been given up, the first of Mrs Ashman’s economies. The two women had to stand at the back of the nave, an uncomfortable test of endurance for the full two hours of the service. At last it was over and they made their way the short distance to New Hill House.

The house had been constructed of smoothly sawn Bath stone, quite unlike the rough local lias that constituted most of the other buildings in the village. Accustomed to the Elizabethan extravagance of Everleigh Manor, Lizzie though the house looked plain and cold. Two gates fronted onto the road at Vowles Hill, and a curved carriage drive swept up from one to the front of the house and then back down to the other.

As they walked up the newly raked gravel to the imposing front door a voice hissed at them from behind a group of saplings. “Not there! Round the side! Servants’ door.” Lizzie recognised the gardener, one of the boys she used to run with as a child. She gave him a wave of acknowledgement and mother and daughter made their way towards the back. They rang the bell by the door and eventually it was opened by a large women dressed in purple silk. “Ah. The Ashman girl. Enter. I am Mrs Single.”

They followed her into a large cold room, containing a single chair and table. Mrs Single sat down on the chair. “Your testimonial is...satisfactory,” she said. “As we are still short of house staff I wish you to start tomorrow. You will be provided with appropriate clothing,” she looked at Lizzie’s Sunday frock with distaste, “and you will sleep in the servants’ quarters upstairs.”

“Please, ma’am, may I not sleep at my home? That is what I did when I worked at the Manor.”

“Certainly not! All our servants are required to sleep on the premises. How else may I ensure that your behaviour does not disgrace us?”

Betty looked daggers at Mrs Single. How dare she imply that Lizzie would behave loosely? Lizzie could feel her mother bridle at her side and squeezed her hand; they needed Lizzie’s employment for no lodgers had yet been forthcoming.

“I shall not disgrace you, Mrs Single,” she said quietly. “But please, when may I visit my mother?”

The lady considered. “You may see her on Sundays. You will attend the service at the church with the rest of the household and then you may visit, though you must be back here not more than two hours after the end of the service.”

Well, thought Lizzie, if I had hopes of Michael O’Gorman, that will have put paid to them. As if reading her mind, Mrs Single added, “The maids here are not permitted to have – followers.” She spat the last word out as though it tasted foul.

“I will match the remuneration you received at the Manor,” added Mrs Single, “though I believe it to have been far more than necessary. You will be paid at the end of the month. I shall see you here tonight at seven o’clock sharp.”

“Tonight?” quailed Lizzie.

“Naturally. Your duties will commence at five o’clock tomorrow morning.” She stood, and it was clear the interview was over.

The women made their way back down the drive. “The cheek of it!” snapped Betty. “She’s just the daughter of the draper over at Camerton – you know, Mr Maggs. ‘Twas her mother who egged her on with all them airs and graces. ‘Tis said, you know, that she didn’t let Samuel Single anywhere near her family until he’d popped the question – he thought he was marrying into gentry.” She bristled again. “No followers! Well, she only got the one baby, didn’t she, for no red blooded man would —”

“Ma,” interrupted Lizzie wearily. “I’ve got to work there. I’m just going to have to put up with Mrs Single.”

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