17 Dawson Street, Holbeck
18th May, 1885
My Dearest William,
Your letter from the ship reached me yesterday, and I must confess I held it to my breast for the longest time before finding the courage to break the seal. How I longed to hear your voice through those pages, and indeed, I could almost smell the salt air and hear the creaking of the vessel as I read your words. Our little Margaret snatched the letter from my hands – quite improperly, I scolded her – declaring she could “read Papa’s writing better than Mama,” though she managed only to make out your name before I retrieved it.
The children have been asking after you daily since your departure. Young William has taken to standing by the front window each evening, watching for the postman with such earnest attention that Mrs. Braithwaite next door remarked he looks like a little sentry on duty. When I explained that Papa’s letters would come from very far away and might take many weeks, he asked if you were writing from “further than Manchester.” I told him you were sailing to a land where elephants walk the streets and men dig for treasure in the ground, which set his imagination quite afire. He’s been digging holes in Mrs. Patterson’s back garden – much to her irritation – convinced he might uncover gold coins for the family.
Little Margaret has been a proper help to me, though she’s still inclined to daydream. Yesterday I found her teaching her dolls about India, telling them they must “be brave like Papa and go dig for gold to buy bread.” It nearly brought tears to my eyes, William, to hear her repeat the very words I’ve used to explain your absence. She’s taken charge of sorting the mending I’ve been taking in – Mrs. Henderson’s linens and some pieces from the Kellys down the street. Her tiny fingers are surprisingly nimble with the simpler tears, though I must redo most of her work when she’s not looking.
Our youngest, dear Edward, has been rather poorly these past weeks. Nothing serious, mind you – just a persistent cough that seems to worsen in the damp evening air. Mrs. Braithwaite brewed him a tisane of honey and herbs that seems to ease him somewhat, though he still wakes in the night with that harsh bark that echoes through our thin walls. Dr. Halewood visited – I managed the expense by mending three of his wife’s petticoats – and pronounced it nothing more than the spring damp settling in his chest. Still, I find myself watching him closely, and I confess the worry gnaws at me in the small hours when sleep won’t come.
The neighbourhood has seen considerable changes since your departure. Mrs. Henderson has taken in a lodger – a clerk from the railway works who keeps peculiar hours and leaves his boots outside her door each morning, much to the scandal of the street. She’s quite pleased with the arrangement, as it brings in an extra seven shillings weekly, but the man has a habit of singing music hall songs late into the evening. Poor Mr. Henderson, who rises at four each morning for his shift at the foundry, looks positively haggard.
Speaking of expenses, I must tell you that Wainwright, the butcher, has raised his prices again – sixpence more for a decent joint, and even the scraps for soup bones have gone up by tuppence. Mrs. Kelly says it’s because of the troubles with the cattle trade from Ireland, though I suspect Wainright simply knows we’ve little choice but to pay. I’ve taken to walking the extra distance to Crowther’s shop near the market, where the meat is just as good for threepence less. The children complain about the longer walk, but as I tell them, every penny saved is a penny closer to Papa’s return.
The mill where I’ve been hoping to secure work has finally taken me on for two days weekly – Tuesdays and Fridays in the weaving shed. The wages are modest, but they’ll help stretch our savings until your first earnings arrive from India. The work is demanding, standing for twelve hours amongst the thunderous looms, but I find a strange satisfaction in the rhythm of it. The other women are kind enough, though some seem to think I’m putting on airs by speaking of my husband’s adventures abroad. Mrs. Grimshaw, who works the loom beside mine, says I should be grateful to have a man willing to travel so far to provide for his family, as her own husband spends his wages in the public house before she sees a ha’penny of them.
I must share some amusing news that will make you smile. The children have formed what they call the “India Society” with the neighbourhood young ones. They meet each afternoon in the alley behind our row, where they take turns being explorers, elephants, and treasure hunters. Margaret has appointed herself the “Captain of Adventures” and regales them with tales of your voyage that grow more fantastical with each telling. Yesterday she informed the group that you were likely dining with princes and riding tigers by now. I haven’t had the heart to correct her romantic notions, as they seem to bring her such comfort.
The weather has been uncommonly fine this past week, which has been a blessing for drying the washing I’ve taken in. Mrs. Patterson, bless her soul, allows me to use her back garden line when my own small space proves insufficient. She’s been most kind since your departure, often appearing at my door with a pot of stew “too large for just herself and Mr. Patterson,” though I suspect she makes extra portions specifically for us. Pride makes me want to refuse such charity, but the children’s eager faces when they smell her cooking convince me to accept gracefully.
I’ve had a letter from your sister Jane in Bradford, who writes that the textile mills there are cutting wages again due to competition from foreign cloth. She asks if there might be opportunities for skilled workers in India, as her husband Robert is growing increasingly concerned about their prospects. I told her I would mention it in my next letter to you, though I confess I’m not certain whether to encourage such thoughts. The separation is harder than I anticipated, William, and the thought of Jane facing the same loneliness fills me with sympathy.
Our little community has rallied around each other in these trying times. When the Robinsons’ eldest boy took ill with fever, we all contributed what we could – soup, medicine, and prayers. Mrs. Braithwaite organised a collection that raised nearly two pounds for the doctor’s fees. It reminded me that whilst we may lack coin, we’re rich in fellowship. Still, I can’t help but wonder what adventures you’re experiencing in that distant land. Do the people there understand Yorkshire accents? Are the mining methods very different from Middleton pit? Most importantly, are you eating properly and staying well?
The children join me in sending all our love across the ocean. Margaret has drawn you a picture of our house with all of us waving from the doorway – rather fanciful, as we’d never all fit in that small frame, but her artistic intentions are clear. William insists on adding his own message, though his writing remains rather shaky: “Dear Papa, I am being good and helping Mama. Please bring me a tiger tooth.” Little Edward, though still coughing, managed to kiss the paper where I told him to send Papa a kiss.
I pray this letter finds you safely arrived in India and beginning the great work that will secure our family’s future. Write to me of everything – the strange sights, the heat you mentioned fearing, the other miners, and most importantly, your health and spirits. We count the days until your next letter arrives, and I read your ship letter aloud to the children each evening before prayers.
Until the blessed day of your return, know that you carry our hearts with you to that far-off land. Be safe, my darling husband, and remember that your loving family awaits your every word.
Your devoted wife,
Mary Baldwin
P.S. – I’ve enclosed a pressed violet from our doorstep garden and a lock of Edward’s hair, cut during his recent bout of restlessness. May they remind you of the English spring and the children who speak your name with every sunset.
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