The Village of Ashworthy was large by English standards. Most of it was owned by Mr. Daniel Pickford, the owner of the mill where a high percentage of the population worked. Mr. Pickford demanded much of his employees. He was one of the new rich, part of the an elite group of industrialists whose wealth had multiplied incalculably during the industrial revolution. For those unfortunate enough to work for him, it was a living hell. Fifteen-hour shifts for little pay, six days a week.
Victoria was just eighteen, but she had already been working in the mill for three years. She was by far the most beautiful woman at the mill, and Mr. Pickford had earmarked her for a job as one of his assistants. Mr. Pickford's assistants didn't work in the traditional sense of the word. They waited. It was not their job to turn up at the mill and do a shift with the others; it was their job to go to Mr. Pickord's special cottage and make sure they looked pretty, in case he came to see them. As Mr. Pickford liked to have plenty of choice, he had four assistants. He always chose young unmarried women; he didn't care for husbands. They caused him to look over his shoulder too much. Victoria was next on the list as soon as one of the current incumbents decided to marry.
''You ain't like us,'' Mary had told Victoria when she'd first come to the mill from the village school. ''You're posh.'' Mary was the forewoman and not to be quarreled with. Victoria had been terrified on her fist day, indeed the first week, and the greeting Mary had given her, had done nothing to improve her state of mind. She'd taken comfort in the fact that almost the whole of her school class had come to work there with her. They all thought she was posh too, but they were used to her ways.
''You're far too intelligent to go to the mill,'' Mr. Jameson, her teacher, had told her. ''You should school yourself some more, and be a teacher, or at the very least a governess.''
''But sir, we have very little money, and I'm afraid if I don't work, we may want for food,'' she'd replied. ''My father is not well, and as you know, my mother passed away three years ago.''
Victoria lived with her father in a small cottage for which they paid rent to Mr. Pickford. Her father also worked at the mill and had done so since before Victoria was born. He was well spoken and gentle. The village had been rife with speculation when he'd arrived to live there with his well-to-do wife, for it was obvious that they didn't belong in a small cottage or at the mill. The rumor that held most credit among the villagers was that he'd been disinherited for marrying an Irish woman.
Her parents didn't tell her much about their lives before Ashworthy. All she knew was that her father was English, and her mother Irish. Her mother had mentioned Cork a few times but nothing more. What Victoria did know, was that her mother had an Irish temper. Red haired and fiery, the villagers preferred to keep out of her way.
''You'll be coming to church tomorrow, won't you?'' Lizzie asked as she and Victoria were leaving the mill on Saturday evening after fifteen hours. It was April and almost dark.
''Of course. Since my father became ill, I've never missed a Sunday service. I just hope the good Lord hears my prayers. It's not nice for him lying in bed every day waiting for me to come home.''
The two girls walked together down the hill and into the village. They parted company where they always did at the village green.
''Victoria, can I walk with you?'' It was Jack, the son of the mill foreman. Just eighteen and already six feet tall he looked like a walking coat hanger. He was one of those boys that first shot up in height, and some years later filled out. The filling out hadn't yet taken place.
''I've only got a couple of yards to go,'' she replied, thankful that he'd only caught up with her so close to home.
''Perhaps on another occasion,'' he hung his head and walked across the green, scattering a group of grazing sheep.
Their cottage was on the west side of the green, opposite Lizzie's house. All the cottages were the same on the outside. A front door in the middle, with a window on the left and right. Upstairs two bedroom windows. All had a thatched roof and a small garden at the front.
Victoria looked at her reflection in the window as she walked up the path to the door. She was a tall woman with strawberry blonde hair, a mix of her father's blonde and her mother's ginger. Her feet were aching, and she badly wanted to sit down with a cup of tea. She opened the door and, as usual, took off her bonnet before shouting to her father. Only on this day, there was no reply. He had died in bed twenty minutes before Lizzie got home.