Tilly Trotter Widowed (The Tilly Trotter Trilogy) Page 3

  ‘Dead! Don’t be silly, Fanny. Of course not! She’s married.’ Tilly now turned and looked at Biddy and she shook her old friend’s hands up and down as she said, ‘She’s married, Biddy. It . . . it all happened at the last minute. She wasn’t going to stay. You see . . . Oh it’s a long story. After Matthew died I had a kind of relapse and I wasn’t aware of very much for months, and then when I got on my feet my one thought was to come home, and the very day before we left – Katie was all packed, not a word about staying – Doug came to me, Doug Scott. He’s a cowboy. Not like an English farm boy, oh no. Anyway, he told me that he loved Katie and Katie loved him, but that she wouldn’t stay because she felt her duty was to come home with me. Well now, Biddy’ – Tilly dropped her head slightly to the side – ‘what could I do? Could I have said yes, she must come home, when I knew where her heart lay? And what’s more, Biddy, she’d never get a chance again like Doug.’ She turned and smiled at the girls now, saying, ‘He’s a handsome fellow and seems twice her size . . . well, I tell you, he’s six foot three. And Luisa, she’s Mr Portes’ daughter who now owns the ranch, is promoting him and giving him the house that we lived in. We had it specially built for ourselves. She’s very fortunate, Biddy. But the main thing is she’s happy, and she says they’ll come home next year, or perhaps the following one, because Doug’s not short of money.’

  Biddy sighed now, then said, ‘I was looking forward to seeing her, Tilly.’

  ‘I know you were, Biddy, but she would never have got such a chance here.’

  ‘Nobody’d get such a chance as that here.’ Peg’s head was bobbing as she spoke. ‘I wish you had taken me with you, Tilly.’

  ‘Be quiet, you!’ Biddy, sounding her own self, now turned on her daughter, saying, ‘And not so much of the Tilly, I told you all yesterda’. You’ll forget yourselves one of these days, and in front of company.’

  ‘Oh.’ Tilly now flapped her hand towards Biddy, saying, ‘It’s lovely to hear my name again.’

  ‘People should know their place; they’ve been told often enough.’ Biddy now rose abruptly from the settle and went towards the open fire, and Tilly pulled a small face towards the girls and they both grinned at her.

  It was as Biddy bent and lifted the teapot from the brass kettle stand that she said, ‘I was sorry to hear of your loss, lass,’ and her daughters nodded their heads confirming the statement. When their mother passed them and added as she placed the teapot on the table, ‘You seem fated, lass, for sorrow,’ the pain that seemed to lie just beneath Tilly’s ribs stabbed through and she lowered her head and bit on her lip, and when Peg’s hand came on her shoulder it took an effort to stem the tears gushing up from the back of her throat and into her eyes, and she said thickly, ‘I’ll go and have a wash. I’ll be down again later.’

  ‘Aye. Aye.’ Biddy had not turned towards her, and the girls stood silently by as she walked between them, her head still bent, and went up the kitchen, through the long passage and into the hall.

  Seeing the hall empty, she stood for a moment, her hand about her throat, trying to compose herself.

  ‘You’re fated, lass, for sorrow.’ It would seem that Biddy was right; in fact she had merely voiced the thought that had been in her own mind since Matthew died. Oh, Matthew! Matthew! Would the longing for him never leave her? . . . And yet it was little more than four years ago that she had stood in this very hall and said, ‘Oh, Mark! Mark!’ after Matthew’s father had been carried out.

  And then there was that day in the far past when she had run to Simon Bentwood, the farmer, after hearing that his wife had died, feeling that his arms would be widespread to greet her. And what had greeted her? The sight of him naked in the barn consorting with a woman far above his station, and her as bare as on the day she was born. That first love had died as cleanly as if it had been cut off with a knife. Yet it had been love, a love that she had fostered from when she was a child.

  There had followed the twelve years with Mark as his mistress and mistress of this house. And she had loved him too. Oh yes, she had loved him too. But was that love anything compared with what she gave to his son? There was no way to measure love against love. When it was present and filled the time, it was all. But how many times could one love? She didn’t know. What she did know was she had loved for the last time.

  Three

  The days that followed were, in a way, tranquil. She fell into a routine. Three weeks had passed and she had never been outside the gates; nor had the children, but they were content, in fact in their element. The garden had become a world to them. They were spoilt by Arthur and Jimmy Drew and also by the new coachman, Peter Myers. He had taken the place of Fred Leyburn who, with his wife Phyllis and brood of children, had moved to Durham where a windfall of a cottage had been left to Phyllis by an aunt.

  Then there was the stable boy, Ned Spoke. Peter Myers had already threatened him with a beating for running with the bairns and acting the goat as if he were a bairn himself instead of a thirteen-year-old lad.

  It was at this time that Tilly, fearing that the children were beginning to run wild, spoke to Anna about the matter of their education. This she had decided to take upon herself, as there seemed nothing for her to do, for as much as Anna made an effort to let go the reins of the household, the habit of the last few years was strong and when the young matron found herself giving the orders she nearly always ended with, ‘Oh, Tilly, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ until the apologies had become rather embarrassing, making Tilly feel inclined to take the easy way out and say, ‘You carry on as always.’ But then, where would she be? What would her position become in this household? She owned the house, she owned the estate, she owned the mine . . . That was another thing, the mine. She had only a few days ago expressed the wish to go to the mine and this had seemed to shock both John and Anna. The mine was no place for her now, not in her position. In any case, it was being run very efficiently by the manager and his under-manager.

  They seemed to forget, that is if they ever remembered, that she had once worked in the mine.

  And about the under-manager. She thought that in some way Steve might have made a point of coming to the house to welcome her back. Was he not a tenant in her cottage? Yet why should he wish to bring her back into his life? From the beginning she had played havoc with his feelings, not intentionally, oh no, never, for she had made it plain to him that she would never feel for him other than as a friend. And who knew now but that he was married or at least might have someone in his eye?

  She was feeling very unsettled in herself; as Biddy would have exclaimed if she had confessed her feelings to her: ‘You don’t know which end of you’s up, lass.’ And there was Biddy herself. She was the same yet not the same. She still did not seem to have got over the disappointment of Katie not returning, although she’d had a letter from her and one enclosed from Doug. Her only comment on this had been, ‘He seems a decent enough fellow.’ Then she had added in her caustic manner, ‘But I can’t see our Katie on a horse, she’d look like a pea on a drum.’

  But now she was talking to Anna about the children. ‘I’m going to engage a nursemaid,’ she said; ‘someone sensible, young enough to play with them but old enough to keep them in their place when needed. In the mornings I’ll take them for lessons; Willy already knows his ABC, but Josefina doesn’t take too kindly to learning, I’m afraid.’

  ‘They’re so very young yet, Tilly, and they’re enjoying the garden and playing. Must you start them on lessons?’

  ‘I don’t think you can start them too soon, Anna. You know, when I first came here John was four years old and Mr Burgess had him reading nursery rhymes. The first one I heard John read was ‘The Little Jumping Joan’:

  Here I am, little jumping Joan,

  When nobody’s with me I’m always alone.

  And when he finished it he always put his head back and laughed.’

  ‘Did he stammer then?’ Anna’s voice asked the question quietly, and Tilly lied b
oldly, saying, ‘Yes, much more than he does now. Oh’ – she shook her head – ‘much more because now he can reel off sentences without a hitch, and that’s all your doing.’ She inclined her head towards Anna, and Anna replied simply, ‘I hope so because I love him, I love him dearly, and I never forget that I have you to thank for him, Tilly.’

  ‘Nonsense! Nonsense! You would have met up without me.’

  ‘No, we shouldn’t and you know it. When you asked me to come back that day I had intruded on you, hoping like some simpleton that you could give me a cure for my birthmark. I know now your mind formed a plan of bringing us together. John needed someone and I needed someone.’ She leant over and gripped Tilly’s hand. Then after a moment she said, ‘There’s only one thing bothering me, I . . . I show no signs of having a child.’

  ‘Oh, there’s plenty of time, that will come. Remember I was with John’s father for twelve years, well . . . eleven years before it happened to me, so don’t worry your head, just go on being happy.’

  ‘Oh, I am happy, Tilly. I never imagined there could be such happiness in life. I . . . ’

  They both turned as a knock came on the door and it opened, and Peabody was standing there.

  ‘A messenger on horseback has brought this letter for you, madam. He says it’s urgent,’ he said, holding the letter out as he walked slowly towards Anna.

  Getting up, she took it from him and opened it. She read a few lines; then her face showing her concern, she looked at Tilly, saying, ‘It’s from Aunt Susan. It’s Grandma. She has taken a bad turn; I must go at once.’

  ‘Of course. Of course.’ Tilly now looking at the butler said, ‘Tell the messenger to return and say Mrs Sopwith will be there as soon as the carriage can take her.’

  ‘Yes, madam.’ Peabody inclined his head towards Tilly. Then as he went to turn away she stayed him, saying, ‘Order the coach to be got ready immediately, and then send word to the mine and ask Master John to return home as soon as possible.’

  She noted herself that she did not say ‘The master’ because there could be no master of the Manor until Willy took his place, and that would be years ahead . . .

  In the confusion of the next few hours Tilly seemed to step back over the years. It seemed as if she had never been away from the house. The reins were in her hands once more and from the moment she saw Anna and John into the carriage she knew with that strange knowledge that could be termed intuition, or foresight, or even witchery, that they had gone to stay, and that for the first time she could now act as mistress, legal mistress of the house.

  Four

  A fortnight later Anna’s and John’s belongings were taken to their now permanent residence in Felton Hall, beyond Fellburn. The old lady had had a stroke and Anna felt that she should be near her. Tilly was under the impression that John wasn’t too happy at leaving the manor; but wherever Anna was there he wanted to be, and as he said to Tilly, what made her happy satisfied him. John seemed to have matured greatly since he married.

  The day following their final departure, Tilly interviewed a girl from the village. Her name was Connie Bradshaw. She was the daughter of the innkeeper who, so she informed Tilly without much regret in her voice, had died last year, and her mother was no longer at the inn but living in a cottage on the outskirts of the village. She was a sprightly girl, free spoken, as Tilly found out when she questioned her.

  ‘How did you know that I was enquiring for a nursemaid?’

  ‘’Twas round the village, ma’am.’

  It was odd, Tilly thought, how a whisper in the house could travel to the village, and that over two miles away and none of the staff seeming to visit it.

  ‘Have you just left a position?’ she asked the girl.

  ‘Well, not rightly a position, ma’am. I was workin’ in the bar for me mam after me da died, but she gave me no pay an’ then she got slung out.’

  ‘Slung out? . . . Why?’

  ‘Drinking more than she sold, ma’am.’

  ‘Oh!’ The candidness of the girl caused Tilly’s eyelids to blink and she looked to the side for a moment. She only faintly remembered Mrs Bradshaw and had a picture of a blowsy woman, loud-voiced and running to fat, and so she could understand this girl wanting to get away from her parent and to better herself.

  ‘Your name is Connie?’

  ‘Aye, ma am.’

  ‘Well, Connie, I shall take you on trial for a month. Your temporary wage will be two shillings a week. Should you suit at the end of that time then your wages would be ten pounds a year, together with uniform and your choice of tea or beer as refreshment. You will have leave to go to church on a Sunday if you wish, and one half-day holiday a fortnight and one whole day a month.’

  The girl’s face was bright as she replied, ‘Eeh! That sounds good to me, ma’am. I hope I’ll suit. I’ll try any road.’

  ‘I’m sure you will. Good day, Connie.’

  ‘Good day, ma’am.’

  She had interviewed the girl in the morning room and after allowing enough time, as she thought, for her to get along the passage and to leave by the kitchen, which way she had entered, she herself left the room and made for the kitchen, meaning to give Biddy the orders for the day’s meals, but she stopped just before she opened the kitchen door to hear the girl exclaim loudly, ‘I’ve got it! On trial for a month I am. Ain’t there no housekeeper here? She asked all the questions hersel’. Well, I suppose she knew all the answers seein’ as she was in my place once.’

  ‘Get yourself along, miss, and it’ll surprise me if you reign a month.’

  That was Biddy’s voice, and Tilly remained for a while standing where she was before turning about and going back into the morning room.

  She had made a mistake in engaging that girl, yet she had felt sorry for her having to work in a bar for nothing, and then putting up with a drunken mother. But she was from the village, and she should know by now that no villager wished her well, except perhaps Mr Pearson. Yet what had his son done? Appeared out of the blue in the wilds of Texas and exposed her past to all who would listen. But she couldn’t blame Mr Pearson for that; you should never blame the parents for what their offspring did. Look at Mark’s daughter, Jessie Ann. She had been the sweetest child but she had turned out a little Tartar of a woman. What would be her thoughts now, she wondered, knowing that her father’s mistress, whom almost literally she had thrown out of this house, was back in it as its rightful mistress this time? It must be gall to her.

  About that girl. Well, she had only taken her on for a month; she would wait and see. But now she must arrange her days, at least her mornings, in the schoolroom and the first thing she must do was to get suitable books. There wasn’t a book in the library that she could use to instruct Willy and Josefina. At one time there had been dozens in the nursery, but when the second Mrs Mark Sopwith decided to leave her husband and take the children with her they had taken their books along with them.

  But she knew where she could lay her hands on books of instruction for the young, in the attic at the cottage. After Mr Burgess died she had spent days clearing the rooms downstairs and packing the books under the roof; all she had to do was to go along there and select what she needed . . . And risk running into Steve? Well, she’d have to meet him sometime. And why need she be afraid of meeting him? No need whatever.

  She would go along one afternoon between one and three because if he was on the back shift he would likely still be down below, and if he was on the fore shift he would most likely be on his way there. Still, why try to evade a meeting? They were bound to come across each other some time, so the sooner the better and get it over with.

  She left the room and went to the kitchen and the first words Biddy said were, ‘I think you’ve taken on something there, lass.’

  ‘I’ve told her it is only temporary, for a month.’

  ‘That’s just as well. Doubt if you’ll put up with her for a week, she’s all tongue. And you know who she is?’

  ‘Yes,
she’s Bradshaw’s daughter from the inn.’

  ‘A pair if there ever was one. He died of drink an’ she’s goin’ the same way.’

  ‘So I understand, but the girl didn’t seem to want to follow in her mother’s footsteps.’

  ‘She’s got her mother’s tongue . . . Anyway, it’s your business but I’m tellin’ you this, lass, if she starts any of her antrimartins back in the hall’ – she inclined her head towards the wall and the servants’ hall next door – ‘I’ll slap her down quicker than you can spit.’

  Tilly smiled as she said, ‘You do that, Biddy, it’ll save me a job.’ It was odd, she thought, yet comforting how she dropped into the old colloquial way of speaking when talking to Biddy. ‘Now about me dinner, I don’t feel very hungry today so . . . ’

  ‘If you ask me, you never feel very hungry. Now look’ – Biddy pointed – ‘there’s a lemon sole that’ll melt in your mouth. There’s some veal cutlets an’ all. Now I’m gona do those for you and you’re gona eat them. Do you hear me?’

  ‘I hear you.’

  ‘Here.’ Biddy jerked her head, a sign for Tilly to go and stand close to her, and now Biddy’s voice was a mere whisper as she said, ‘Has His Nibs been at you?’

  ‘Peabody?’

  ‘Aye. Who else?’

  ‘No. Why should he be at me?’

  ‘To get his daughter in here as nursemaid. The footman, Biddle, let on about it.’

  ‘He has a daughter . . . Peabody?’