The Ribbon Weaver

The Ribbon Weaver - By Rosie Goodwin


This book is for Jack Aaron Yates, a beautiful, much wanted and long awaited baby brother for Charlotte. Welcome to the family, little man. You are a gift after a time of great sadness, especially as you were born on Mum’s birthday!

Also for my Nikki, 18!!!!!!! A proper little lady now,

and for Dan, who looked so very handsome and grown up

on the night of his prom.

I’m so proud of you all and I love you millions xxxxxxx





Prologue



Nuneaton 1830

‘Come on, Molly gel, let’s be havin’ yer. It is Christmas Eve, yer know, an’ some of us have homes to go to.’

Molly grinned as Amos Bennett’s good-natured face poked through the opening into the great attic where she was working.

‘I’m just finishin’ now, pet, I’ll be down in two shakes of a lamb’s tail,’ she promised, barely taking her eyes from the intricate length of fine gauze ribbon she was weaving. Nodding, Amos disappeared back the way he had come.

Slowly, Molly stopped treadling and after placing down the shuttle she skilfully steadied the weight that hung beneath the loom. As the machine came to a creaking halt, she stretched stiffly and glanced up at the skylights that ran the length of the attic. The snow that had been threatening to fall all day was now coming down with a vengeance, and all she could see was a thick white coating of it that covered the glass and cast an eerie glow into the room. She shivered. Apart from herself the huge attic was deserted, the looms silent. The women who worked them had long since scurried away to begin their Christmas preparations with their families. However, it suited Molly to work late. Since losing her husband Wilf almost three years before, she had no one to rush home to, and for her, apart from the loneliness, Christmas Day was much like any other.

She was never short of invitations admittedly, but Molly Ernshaw was known for keeping herself to herself, just as she had when her Wilf was alive. Back then, she had considered she needed no one else but him and now, at the age of forty-five, she felt it was a bit late in the day to teach an old dog new tricks.

Standing, she slowly straightened her back; it was aching from the long hours bent across the loom.

Gazing around the silent ribbon factory, she shuddered. Now that she had stopped working, Molly was suddenly cold and tired. If she had allowed herself, she would also have admitted to being more than a little sad at the prospect of the lonely Christmas before her.

Still, she consoled herself, there were a lot of folks much worse off than she was, and on that thought she pulled her thick woollen shawl more closely about her. Taking up an old tweed coat that was draped across the back of her chair, she pulled that on too. Then, after lifting her bag, she made her way painfully down the crude wooden staircase to the floor below. Amos was hurrying about, turning off the gas lamps and making sure that all the doors were securely bolted.

It was almost like descending into a rainbow. Everywhere she looked stood boxes and spools of ribbons of every shade and hue, all ready to be transported to the hat factories in Coventry, where the majority of them would be used to adorn headgear for the ladies of fashion. There were silk ribbons, satin ribbons, pearl-edged ribbons, finely worked gauze ribbons, and tartan ribbons, all of various widths and colours, and Molly never tired of seeing them. She herself was one of the best silk weavers in the whole factory and proud of it. Her Wilf had taught her all she knew. His old loom now stood silent in the attic of her little cottage, and she could quite easily have worked from there as many of the local people did, but she preferred to work here in the factory for company.

As she picked her way amongst the boxes, Amos hastened across to open the door for her.

‘A Merry Christmas to yer then, Molly.’ He beamed, and she wearily smiled back.

‘And the very same to you and yours,’ she returned, then stepped past him into the almost deserted street. The bitter cold took her breath away. ‘By God above, it’s enough to freeze the hairs on a brass monkey out here,’ she muttered to herself as she pulled her old coat more tightly about her. Head bent, she then began to pick her way across the slippery cobblestones.

The snow was falling in great white flakes, and the few people that dotted the streets passed her as if she was invisible as they scurried along with their heads bent, keen to get back to their firesides and out of the biting cold.

By the time Molly had turned out of Abbey Street and towards the empty stalls of the cattle-market, she was breathless and cursing. ‘Bloody weather,’ she said irritably, intent on trying not to slip on the treacherous cobbles. ‘Why couldn’t the snow have waited till I was safely home?’

All she could think of was her cosy fireside and a good strong brew of tea, and the thought made her press on. The snow seemed to be falling faster and thicker by the minute, and by the time she had left the town centre behind her, it was falling so densely that she could barely see a hand in front of her. She was lost in a silent white world, the only sound being the putt, putt, putt of the gas lamps as she hurried past them. The snow had now risen above her old leather boots, and her feet and the hem of her coarse calico skirt were sodden. Street lamps cast an eerie glow on the thick white carpet, making it sparkle as if it had been sprinkled with diamonds, but tonight, Molly could find no pleasure in the sight. All she wanted was the comfort of her little cottage and her feet immersed in a tin bowl full of nice hot water.

As she approached the Parish Church she decided to cut through the churchyard. There were those that feared the graveyard at night, but the dead held no fear for Molly. It was the living she worried about! There were some that would cut your throat for sixpence in these hard times, as she well knew. Besides, this short-cut could save at least five minutes from her journey and she regularly took it.

The gravestones leaned drunkenly towards her as she hurried as best she could along the pathway, and soon the gas lamps and the little light they cast faded away as the great yew trees that bordered the church surrounded her. It was hard to keep to the path here, and occasionally Molly stumbled on a rock buried beneath the snow, but she ploughed on.

When she finally reached the dark doorway to the church, she paused to catch her breath, leaning against the cold stone wall inside. The wind had picked up now and the yew trees swayed beneath their heavy weight of snow. Here and there, the scarlet berries on the holly bushes shone through, and it was as Molly stood watching them that a noise from the deeply recessed doorway came to her. It sounded almost like a moan, and suddenly nervous, she held her breath for what seemed like an eternity in case the sound should come again. After some time, Molly dared to breathe, chiding herself, ‘You’re goin’ soft in the head, gel, hearin’ noises as ain’t there. Why, you’ll be scared o’ yer own shadow next if you ain’t careful.’

Still unsettled despite her brave talk, she pushed herself from the wall and was just about to set off again when the noise came once more. Molly knew now that she hadn’t imagined it, and her heart began to thump painfully against her ribs. Her eyes sought about for someone to help her, but there was no one – nothing but the snow and the swaying yew trees that stood as silent witnesses to her distress. Even as she stood there, uncertain what to do, she heard the noise again, louder this time … much louder. Someone was in the doorway with her and, if Molly judged rightly, that someone was in great pain.

Chewing nervously on her lip, she stepped cautiously into the deeper darkness. ‘Is anyone there?’ Even to her own ears her voice sounded frightened. Her heart was thumping so loudly that she feared it would leap from her chest, but nevertheless she forced herself to stand there listening intently.

‘Help me … please.’ The voice that finally answered her was so weak that Molly had to strain her ears to hear it.

It was a woman’s voice and so, calling on every ounce of courage she had, Molly edged a few more timid steps towards it.

After the glare of the blinding snow it took her eyes some seconds to adjust to the blackness, but gradually as she peered into the shadows she saw a shape, right at the back of the porch. It appeared to be lying against the huge, heavy wooden doors of the church.

Cautiously she advanced, and as her eyes gradually became accustomed to the inky blackness, her fear was instantly replaced with compassion.

A young woman raised her hand imploringly towards her and without a moment’s hesitation Molly now dropped to her weary knees beside her. Realising at once that the woman was in a bad way, Molly took her outstretched hand and gripped it comfortingly. She was distressed to note that despite the bitter cold the girl’s hand was feverishly hot and she was shivering uncontrollably. Molly’s kind heart went out to her, and her eyes filled with tears at the poor soul’s plight.

‘Hold on, me love, I’ll go an’ get help,’ she promised as she tried to rise, but the girl shook her head and gripped Molly’s hand all the tighter.

‘No, please.’ Her every word was an effort. ‘It’s … too late to help me now.’

Molly’s heart was aching as, fumbling deep in her coat pocket, she pulled out a white linen handkerchief. She could sense that the poor girl was almost at her end and a wave of helplessness washed over her. Leaning, she began to dab at the beads of sweat that glistened in the darkness on the girl’s forehead, searching her mind for words of comfort, but finding none.

The young woman was gasping for breath now and struggling to tell Molly something. Molly leaned closer to try and hear what the girl was attempting to say. She suddenly turned imploring eyes to Molly, and the older woman’s heart skipped a beat as she stared back at her. The girl was breathtakingly beautiful, with tangled auburn hair, a perfect heart-shaped face and huge dark eyes fringed with long dark lashes. Even in her pain, she was easily the prettiest girl that Molly had ever seen.

‘Please … take my baby.’ The girl’s voice was genteel, and Molly’s eyes almost started from her head with shock at her words.

‘What did yer say, love? What baby?’ Molly cast her eyes about the freezing recess, sure that she must have misunderstood what the poor lass had said. The only thing her eyes could pick out in the darkness was a large tapestry bag tucked close to the girl’s side, but there was no sign at all of a baby and Molly guessed that she was delirious.

‘There ain’t no baby here, love,’ she told her gently, but even as she uttered the words the girl was becoming more and more agitated and, with what appeared to be the last of her strength, was trying to push the bag at Molly.

‘Please,’ she begged again as the tears coursed down her ashen cheeks. Molly nodded quickly. ‘All right, all right, me love, calm down now. I’ll take yer baby – I promise.’

The girl let out a sigh of relief. ‘Oh thank you, God bless you.’ She gasped, and suddenly her grip on Molly’s hand slackened and there was only silence, save for the swaying of the yew trees in the wind.

Molly scratched her head in consternation. She had no way of knowing if the girl had lapsed into unconsciousness or passed away. All she did know was that she had to get help – and quickly. Her mind sought about for the best thing to do. There was no way at all that she could carry the girl. That was out of the question. She would have to go and get people to help and bring them back here.

Afraid to waste another minute, she hoisted herself to her knees and then she suddenly remembered the tapestry bag and the girl’s insistence that she should take it.

Reaching down, she grasped the handles and swung it as best she could on to her shoulder. Inside there might be some clue as to the girl’s identity, and if there was, then she could let her next-of-kin know what had happened. With a last worried glance at the poor young woman, Molly stumbled from the shelter of the doorway and back out into the blinding snow.

Within the shelter of the snow-laden yew trees a silent observer drew further back into the shadows, scarcely daring to breathe in case Molly should see him. He had followed the girl for days and witnessed the whole sorry tragedy that had just taken place. But now all he had to do was wait for Molly to leave and then his job would be almost done and he could report back to his master.

In the warmth of the back room in the small tavern, the servant stood twisting his cap in his hands as he faced his master.

‘It is done then?’

‘Yes, sir. Just as you said.’

‘And the child – are you quite sure that it was dead?’

‘Aye, sir. I am. She died trying to bring it.’

‘Then go – and never breathe a word of what has happened this night or it will be the worse for both of us.’

‘Yes, sir.’ The master extended his hand displaying five gold sovereigns but the servant shook his head and backed away. Then turning about, he scuttled from the room like a thief in the night. He wondered how he was ever going to live with himself after what had passed this night. But it was too late for regrets now. What was done was done.

Once alone, the man turned and, leaning heavily against the mantelpiece, he stared down into the fire as tears trickled down his cheeks.

‘May God forgive me for what I have done this night,’ he murmured, but only the snapping of the logs on the fire answered him.