Whispers in the Dark by Jonathan Aycliffe Page B

you?”
    I looked at her in astonishment.
    “Do you know where he is?”
    She smiled and raised her eyebrows.
    “Maybe I do, hinnie,” she said. “Maybe I do.”
    “Tell me, then, tell me. . . .”
    She sat me down at the table.
    “Sit still now, and let us tell you. We were took out two weeks ago, Bob and me. He’s been given work in Gateshead, I was sent here by that old bitch Moss. We spent a couple of days together first, though, on account of our dad.”
    “Your dad?”
    She nodded.
    “They buried him. That’s how come we’re out.” 
    “I’m sorry.”
    She smiled.
    “Don’t be. I hated the old bastard. We’ll be better off without him. Anyway, our Bob says he saw your brother before he went out.”
    “He’s still in the workhouse? But I was told—”
    “No, before your brother went out, I mean.”
    “Did Bob find out where they were sending him?” Annie nodded.
    “A place in Gateshead, just like our Bob. Clark’s metal foundry. Not the place for a lad like him. Bob didn't think he’d stick it. But he never meant to. He told Bob that first chance he had, he was off.”
    “Off? But where to? Where could he go?”
    “He said he was set to go to relatives of yours in Northumberland. They’d take him in, he said, and then send to have you brought from the workhouse. That was his plan.”
    “Relatives?” I looked at her blankly, unable to understand whom she could mean. “We have no relatives, Annie. There’s no one would take us in.”
    “Well, your brother told Bob these were folk with a big house in the country, up near Morpeth. He said they were lords and ladies, gentry, and they’d never stand to see him or his sister starve when all they had to do was open their doors and let you in.”
    My heart shook. Surely he knew, surely he remembered. They had never answered my mother’s letter. Not even Arthur could get through those doors.
    “Was their name Ayrton? Did Arthur say?” I asked.
    She frowned, then nodded.
    “Yes,” she said. “Yes, I think that’s what Bob said. Ayrton.”
    That night I had another dream. I dreamed that Arthur came to me in the night. He had grown older than I remembered him, he was thin and dressed in curious clothes, and his hair had been allowed to grow long. He came to me across the kitchen, stepping through a pool of moonlight that fell across the cold flags, but his feet made no sound. There was no wind outside, not a breath. The house was utterly quiet, huge and brooding all about me. He advanced slowly with his hands outstretched, my little brother, with his mouth open and his eyes wide, like someone wide-awake in sleep. And I heard him speak, but his voice seemed to come from far away, from another place entirely.
    “Help me, Charlotte,” he whispered. “Please help me.”
    “What’s wrong, Arthur?” I whispered. “Mother’s dead, and I can’t help you if I don't know what’s wrong.”
    But he only stood there, his white hands stretched out helplessly, the sleeves of a long shirt falling over his wrists, his mouth open, calling in a whisper for help.
    I woke with a start. For a moment I thought I had not been asleep at all.

CHAPTER 7
    I made my escape the following Saturday. Annie fixed it all for me. The Lincotts suffered nothing more than the temporary inconvenience of losing a scullery-maid, someone whom they never even paid for her labors and who could be replaced from the endless stock of the impoverished and desperate.
    Annie’s father had left her a little money, and out of this she gave me three shillings and sixpence, more money than I had ever had in my life. That’s worth seventeen and a half pence nowadays, and it will scarcely buy you a newspaper.
    “When can I pay you back?” I asked.
    “When you’re a fine lady in that big house.” She laughed. “You can take me on as a maid.”
    “No, you’ll come and live with us. You’ll be my friends, you and your brother.”
    “You’ll forget us when you’re rich. Wait and