‘I think it could be broken,’ he said at last. ‘There’s nothing I can do about that, but I can give you something for the pain.’ Mary watched as he went across to his vast chest of small drawers and measured out various powders and tinctures into a bottle. ‘Two drops every three to four hours – not in gin!’ he told her. ‘Do you have money to pay?’

‘The gentleman said he would pay.’

Dr Scaife frowned. ‘Did he do this?’

‘No. It were another lass. She were jealous.’

She wasn’t sure if he believed her, but he opened the door for her to go out into the waiting area.

‘What do I owe thee, doctor?’ asked Mr Starkie.

‘A shilling,’ he said and Mr Starkie fished into his pocket and pulled out the coin. ‘Make sure she rests,’ he said. ‘No work for a week at least.’

‘Aye. I’ll make sure of that,’ replied Mr Starkie.

When they got back to the Star, Mrs Hall mixed the drops into a cup of tea and then told her to go upstairs for a lie-down. In her room she saw that the sheets had been changed on the bed and her sponge had been rinsed through and hung up to dry. The package that Mr Starkie had given her was on the chair and she picked it up and put it on the bed to open it. The frock inside was cream, patterned with pale pink rosebuds and trailing green leaves. Mary held it up by the shoulders to shake out the creases and then put it against herself. She thought it would fit fairly well although some of the seams might need altering. She wished that she was still friends with Hannah. She was a much neater seamstress and would have made a better job of altering it, but the hatred she felt whenever she thought of Hannah was still raw. She’d pay her back for what she’d done one of these days, she thought. If Hannah had been fair with her, none of this would ever have happened.

She laid the frock over the back of the chair. The throbbing in her face was lessening but she felt tired and couldn’t think straight. She stripped to her petticoat and lay down on the bed, listening to the sound of the mill engines throbbing in time to the blood pulsing through her ears, and eventually drifted off to sleep.

Chapter Ten

The Feildens were having a supper party and Hannah was busy helping Cook in the kitchen with the food. She was chopping vegetables for a salad and the aroma from the roast chicken and joint of beef that were cooling on the table was making her mouth water. Dishes of pickles, jellies and a sweet custard stood ready to be taken upstairs and Cook was making a salmon pie. It wasn’t as lavish as the suppers that had been served at Woodfold, but the sight of so much food always made Hannah wonder how people could afford such excess when most ordinary folk struggled to buy enough oatmeal and potatoes to keep themselves fed. The image of young John, struggling with the horses on Thunder Alley, formed in her mind. He’d looked in need of a substantial meal, she thought.