The Black Velvet Gown

by Catherine Cookson

  Four

  Laurence Gullmington would have been both interested and amused if he had witnessed the course education was taking in the very end room of the north wing of The Heights most nights of the week when four heads were bent over a solitary candle.

  It happened that Florrie McNulty had learned of Biddy and Jean’s midnight vigil, not only of learning letters but of story reading. She had risen one night from her bed next door and come into the little room to tell them to stop talking, as she couldn’t get to sleep for the muttering. Florrie NcNulty was thirty-four years old and when she saw what the fifteen-year-old Jean had already learned from the newcomer, she was both amazed and intrigued, and in a hesitant way had asked Biddy if she would teach her to write her name. Of course Biddy was only too pleased to have another pupil, but there was a snag. Florrie shared a room with Sally Finch and Sally Finch always sucked up to Mrs Fitzsimmons, and what the three of them were sure of was Mrs Fitzsimmons would never submit herself to being taught anything by Number Four, or the runabout, as Biddy was known. And, as Biddy pointed out, Sally would go and split on them, but Florrie McNulty said, Oh no, she wouldn’t, because she had something on Sally that would keep her mouth shut, and even persuade her to join the classes.

  So it was that they now had two whole candles a week…and not only two, for part of Florrie’s position in the laundry was being in charge of the candles there, and she was able to save all the butts. What was more, Florrie had the knack of making candles from the melted wax and string.

  The lessons had begun in the New Year, and by Easter three laundry maids could not only write their names, but many single syllable words and almost as many two syllable words. Moreover, Jean and Florrie McNulty could count up to fifty, and Sally Finch to twelve. Sally Finch did not grasp things as easily as the others, yet because she was learning she had, in a way, become a different kind of person.

  They all knew at times that Mrs Fitzsimmons was puzzled by their attitude towards each other: there was no bickering among them, and when they could, without making it too obvious, they would help each other. The laundress wasn’t used to a happy atmosphere. She was a bully by nature and she thrived on discord, but her shouting and yelling seemed to be having little effect on her staff these days, and when she came to think about it, it was all since that smarty miss had come into the laundry. There was something about that one that she didn’t trust. And it was said in the house that Mrs Fulton had been on the point of packing her off but had been warned not to from above. Now why was that? Something about old madam having an interest in the girl. Yet to her knowledge, old madam had never sent for her, nor clapped eyes on her, except at Christmas, when, once again, she had made a show of herself. Every leave day now Biddy took Jean home with her and they would bring back a different book with them. Biddy had taken her little stock of books back home because during one of her weekly examinations of the rooms, Mrs Fulton had seen Biddy’s books on the window sill, and having picked up one after the other as if she was able to read them, she had informed Biddy to get that rubbish out of her room or else it would find itself in the fire.

  There was a plentiful supply of paper and pencils in the library at Moor House, but she only took a few sheets back with her, and each girl hid her work under her mattress.

  Jean being with her on her visits home meant that Biddy had little private talk with her mother, but even so she sensed that she was very lonely, and at times she would say to her, ‘I saw Tol, and he was by himself.’ And only last week she dared to say, ‘Ma, you know something?’ And when her mother had said, ‘What?’ she had added, ‘Tol hasn’t got a woman now. He’s living by himself.’ And her mother’s stiff reaction was, ‘How do you know that? Did he tell you?’ to which she had answered, ‘No, not really, but I know it’s true. It came in a roundabout way. It appears that the mistress got wind of it and he was warned, so the story goes, because the mistress is very pious.’

  It was at this stage that her mother almost turned on her, saying, ‘And he put up with it, sent her packing? He’s gutless. That’s what he is, gutless. What business is it of theirs up there what a man does after his working hours? They want to look to their own men if I’m to believe all that Fanny says. Pious indeed!’

  Biddy had returned to the house thinking that at times she couldn’t understand her mother. She knew for a fact that she wasn’t for Tol having a woman, and yet she was blaming him for giving her the push. There were lots of things that she couldn’t really get to the bottom of. She had learned a lot about life from her reading, yet it seemed a different kind of life to that which went on under her nose. Real life wasn’t so nice or so easy, nor yet, at times, so terrifying as the life she had soaked up from her books, but she knew that the book life was the life the master had led, and it was something apart.

  But you couldn’t live apart in the house, nor could you be unaware of the intrigues that went on, not only whispered but things seen with her own eyes, like what she had come across up the woodland path between James Simpson the first footman and Mary Watts the first housemaid. She was walking up the pathway on the soft snow and they hadn’t heard her, and there they were, standing by the tree in the deep twilight, locked so tightly together as if they were fighting. It must have been Mary Watts’s leave day, because she had her hat and coat on. But the footman was still in his bright uniform. He was very bossy, was the footman, and you had always to give him his place and say Mr Simpson to him. As for Mary Watts, she was haughty, almost as haughty as Miss May. And yet they had been doing that. Life was very strange.

  But Easter was coming and her mother was making her a new frock from some beautiful material out of the attic trunks. What was pleasing her more than anything was, their Davey seemed to be taking a liking for Jean, and Jean was over the moon. He’d often come to the laundry window on a Sunday and talk to Jean as much as he did to her. He had changed, had their Davey, not only in his looks but in his ways. He hadn’t been very ready with his tongue when he was at home, but now he was, and he made jokes. Only one thing he wasn’t happy about, that she was teaching the others to read and write. He had warned her, saying, ‘That could get you into trouble. Deep trouble. They’re funny about that here. For meself, I never let on I can write, I sign me name by a cross.’ And she had turned on him and exclaimed, ‘Oh, our Davey, after all the learning you got!’ And to this he had answered, ‘Well, that doesn’t stand you in any stead in a house like this. Do your work, know your place, eat your grub, and be thankful. That’s what I say, and you’ll be wise if you follow the same line.’

  She would never follow the same line, for she knew there was something inside her that would urge her to protest, no matter what the consequences. At times she wished she didn’t feel like this, and once or twice she’d had to curb the feeling, as when the young master and mistress were out for a game and would come rampaging through the laundry kicking at the bundles of washing and grabbing up ladlesful of dirty frothy water and throwing it over the girls, the while Mrs Fitzsimmons laughed her head off at what she called their pranks.

  Today was her and Jean’s Sunday on. Mrs Fitzsimmons, Florrie, and Sally were all on leave. It was a beautiful bright day, and near four o’clock in the afternoon, and they had just finished putting the staff underwear into a sawn-off tub of cold water and the men’s underwear into a similar tub standing nearby. Drying her arms on a piece of coarse sacking, Jean said, ‘Doesn’t look as if Davey’s gona make it the day, does it, Biddy? Perhaps they’ve made him change his day again ’cos the masters are joining the riders.’

  ‘Oh, there’s plenty of time yet, up till six o’clock.’

  ‘Yes, but he’s nearly always here afore now.’

  Biddy turned to her companion, ‘Well, if he doesn’t come,’ she said, laughing, ‘I’ll march straight along into the stables and say to Mr Mottram, “Where’s me brother? Why hasn’t he come along to see us this afternoon? Now answer me. Quick. Come on now. I’m not having him sent to t
hat Lord Milton’s place with the horses, they can find their own way.”’

  She was mimicking Mrs Fulton, and as Jean doubled up with laughter there came a sharp tap on the window.

  Both girls ran to it. Thrusting it open, they looked bright-eyed at Davey. But Davey wasn’t smiling today. ‘I can’t stop,’ he said immediately; ‘I’ve just come to warn you to look out. Miss Lucy and Paul are on the rampage, carrying on like two kids. They’ve been in the harness room and messed things up, dabbed things with blacking. Mr Lowther’s furious. He told Mr Paul that he would see the master. And Mr Paul called him a stupid old pig. I think you’d better scoot across to the house as soon as possible.’

  ‘We can’t do that, Davey; we’re here till six and there’s quite a bit more to do. If we went across there afore that time and ran into Mrs Fulton, that would be worse than meeting up with Paul and Miss Lucy.’ She smiled now, and he replied, ‘I don’t know so much.’ Then looking at Jean, he paused before saying softly, ‘Hello, there.’ And she replied as softly, ‘Hello, Davey.’

  ‘Well, I’d better be goin’.’ He nodded from one to the other and then slid out of sight. And the girls closed the window and walked back to the middle of the room where Jean asked, ‘What’ll we do if they come in here and start playing up?’

  ‘Well’—Biddy wagged her head—‘if they mess up the sorting like they usually do, I’m going to leave it like that until the morrow morning, and if Mrs Fitzsimmons says anything I’ll tell her that the young master and mistress were in here working yesterday and this is the result.’

  ‘You won’t.’

  ‘Oh, yes I will.’

  And from the look on Biddy’s face and the sound of her voice Jean knew that this mentor of hers would do exactly as she said. Her admiration for Biddy was boundless. She had never met anyone so brave and so clever. Each day she told herself that she loved her.

  It was almost an hour later when the girls let the big wooden-slatted drying horse down from the ceiling. It was a heavy cumbersome affair, especially when as now the five rails were laden with the rough ironing, which had been done last thing the previous night, and consisted of all manner of towels.

  Biddy had just secured the rope around the iron staple in the wall when the laundry door burst open and in marched Paul Gullmington and his sister Lucy. There were both in riding-habit, each carrying a small whip, and as if they were still on their horses they galloped down the length of the long room making whooping noises, until they came to a standstill opposite the two girls. ‘Well now! Well now! What have we here? Two foxes?’ Paul looked at his sister. His eyes were bright, his mouth wide with laughter. Her eyes too were bright, but her mouth wasn’t wide with laughter, she was concentrating her gaze on the skivvy whom Laurence had favoured on Christmas night, and whose face over the past weeks had intruded into her vision more than once, as would have done any face that Laurence favoured. Laurence was her favourite and, she had imagined, she had always been his. She had decided that she would marry Laurence when she grew up, that’s if May didn’t get him beforehand, because he wasn’t her brother. Yet this skivvy here had dared to hold his attention.

  ‘What do we do with foxes?’ She looked at her brother, and he replied, ‘Chase. Chase!’ And now they both started to do a standing gallop, smacking their sides with their whips, and at this Jean turned and ran.

  They did not, however, pursue her but cried at Biddy, ‘Run, fox! Run!’

  When, ashen-faced, she remained standing still, the boy grabbed her by the shoulder and pushed her forward; and when she stumbled he pushed her again.

  Jean was now standing at the far end of the wash-house pressed tight against the wall, and Biddy was being pushed towards it when suddenly she turned round and faced her tormentors, crying at them, ‘Stop it! Both of you. You’re acting like idiots.’

  They stopped abruptly, and their expressions changing, they glanced at each other and the boy said, ‘She called us idiots.’

  ‘Well, she would, she’s very learned. She can write her name and speak French and Latin. Didn’t you know?’ And she now went into French, saying, ‘Que je suis une fille habile.’ And now he, throwing his head back and looking upwards to the ceiling and lifting his hand high in blessing, exclaimed loudly, ‘Gloria in excelsis Deo.’

  The charade might have ended here if Biddy had been able to stay her tongue, but her face scarlet with temper, she cried at them, ‘And both your accents are provincial.’

  This is what the master had continually said to her over the years: ‘Don’t talk like a provincial. This is not patois; you are speaking the French language as you would your north-country English.’

  The effect of her words on the two young people opposite her was to take the grins from their faces. The very fact that this lackey could use the word provincial, and was applying it to them, enraged them both.

  What followed happened so quickly that it brought screams from both Jean and Biddy, for when Lucy Gullmington’s whip came across Biddy’s ear and the side of her face, the echo of it hadn’t died away when she felt herself thrust backwards; and then she was toppling, and for a moment she lay stunned, oblivious of the cold water soaking her clothes, for her head had come in contact with one side of the tub and the backs of her knees with the other. But the ice-cold water did one thing for her, it revived her anger to such an extent that she struggled to rise; but did so only with the help of Jean’s hands. Then she was standing dripping in front of her tormentors and as quick as her young mistress had attacked her she reciprocated, for she almost sprang on her now and, twisting her around, she thrust her against the other tub of men’s underwear and into it. It was all done so quickly that the boy had no power to prevent it happening.

  The strange thing about it was that Lucy Gullmington didn’t scream; but the sounds she was making were like throttled groans, and when her brother pulled her out, her riding habit smeared with the scum from the dirty water, she stood shivering, for the water had penetrated to her skin. Then thrusting her brother’s protective hands from her, she growled, ‘Get her!’ before her eyes, darting from one end of the laundry to the other, came to rest on the lowered drying horse.

  Biddy was now struggling with the young master, writhing and twisting in an effort to get free from his arms which were tight around her. But she was no match for him. Between her gasping she was aware of two voices. Miss Lucy’s giving orders and Jean’s crying, ‘Oh, don’t! Please! Don’t! Don’t!’

  She knew a moment of terror when, lying flat on the stone floor now, the young master sitting on her legs while pinning her arms together, she saw the girl sweep the linen from the two lower rails; but her mind still didn’t tell her what was in store for her, not even when she heard linen being ripped. Then her arms were dragged above her head and her wrists tied together so tightly that she cried out; and her ankles too, were tied, but not close together.

  She screamed out, ‘Jean! Jean!’ but heard only the young master’s voice growling, ‘You make a move and you’ll be next.’

  When they hoisted her to her feet she would have fallen had she not been held up roughly by the back of the collar of her dress. The next thing she was aware of was the creaking of the pulley that lifted the drying horse; then the girl’s voice said, ‘Just there.’ Now she was being dragged under the bottom rail of the horse and her joined hands were tied to it with strips of linen. But still she couldn’t imagine the ultimate until she felt her arms were being wrenched from their sockets and only her toes were touching the ground. Her screams deafened her; then they jerked the pulley rope and she stopped. In the strange silence that enveloped her she looked down at the two faces staring up at her and she imagined she was looking at devils and the last thought she was conscious of was that they had done this before, they knew exactly how to do it, and they were crucifying her like Jesus on the Cross.

  So intent had the two young fiends been about their business that they hadn’t noticed that Jean had escaped by the back do
or and into the yard; and now she was flying helter-skelter towards the stables, crying, ‘Oh dear God! Oh dear God! Oh dear God!’ as she went.

  So intent was she in her rushing and so blinded with her own tears that she bumped into two men. One of them had to put his hand out to save her from falling backwards. And now she was looking up into the faces of Mr Stephen and Mr Laurence. They were both in their riding habits, and she cried at them, ‘They’ve got her strung up. Please come. Come on. Please, come. They’ve got her strung up.’

  ‘What are you talking about, girl?’ Stephen shook her shoulder, and she gulped and the saliva ran out of her mouth before she could say, ‘In the wash-house. Master Paul and Miss Lucy, they’ve strung her up.’ The two young men turned and looked at each other and it was Laurence, his face twisting, who said, ‘Strung who up?’

  ‘Biddy. They’ve strung her up…on the drying horse.’

  Again the men looked at each other. Then turning, they ran together down the stable yard, round the corner of the coach house, and into the laundry yard. But when they entered the laundry they both came to a dead halt at the sight of their brother and sister standing below a girl who was hanging by her arms from the bottom of the drying horse.

  It seemed that Stephen took only two strides before he reached them, and what he did was instantaneous. With doubled fist he felled Paul to the ground, then with open hand he brought it hard across Lucy’s face, causing her to cry out and to stagger back into Laurence’s arms. But Laurence thrust her aside as if his hands had been stung, and then reached up to take the weight of the limp figure in his arms as Stephen lowered the drying horse and then untied the knotted linen. When he pulled it away from the rail, so Biddy’s dead-weight limp body slumped through Laurence’s arms to the floor.