The Slow Awakening

by Catherine Cookson (Catherine Marchant)

  There were deep patterns of shadow in the park. Kirsten walked into one and leant against the bole of an oak. Raising her head slowly she looked up through the tracery of bare, black branches. She was still crying; she felt unable to stop but she knew she must before she entered the house.

  The events of the past forty-eight hours had, in a way, temporarily blotted out the inhabitants of the house. In losing Colum, she had lost so much besides, not only a husband, and children, she had lost her entry into the Abode and the security and love of a ready-made family.

  She knew she had seen the last of the Abode, her future lay in the house. But what future? She brought her eyes downwards and looked through the trees to where the top of the gable end showed pink in the sunlight. Her life might be of short duration once inside; it might be third time lucky for Miss Cartwright.

  A shivering now attacked her whole body; but her tears stopped flowing as if frozen by the thoughts galloping through her mind. What would she try next? She felt herself whimpering like a child in fear. But what was to become of her? All she wanted was a roof over her head, a bite in her mouth, a flame to warm her body. A little hut would have done. That is all she had ever wanted, some little place of her own away from people. Well, not entirely, not away from children…Had the child missed her?

  When she crossed the courtyard Jack Wallace and Billy Stratford, who were cleaning down the coach, straightened their backs and stared at her, but she didn’t look in their direction. ‘And,’ said Billy later, ‘after us being nearly frozen to death searching for her, besides carrying old Art back through that blizzard.’

  She went in by the side door, along the passage, past Mrs Poulter’s room, past Mr Slater’s pantry, past the green-baized door that led into the hall and on to where the back stairs mounted to the first floor and the gallery. She would have to cross the gallery before she could enter the east wing.

  When she opened the heavy door a wave of sound hit her, remembered sound, faintly nostalgic, as if she had heard it in another life. It was the master bawling. His voice thick, yet the words clipped, brought her to a standstill under the frame of a huge portrait. ‘No, woman, no! It’s impossible, I’ve told you. That is final!’ There followed the sound of a door banging.

  She had the strongest desire to run, she wanted to pass through the doors into the east wing before she should see him. In that quarter of the house she was more at home, if that was the word for it, and he seemed different too. But here in the mistress’s part of the house, as she thought of it, she felt chilled, and not only with fear, but with a strange sense of guilt, as if she were the sole cause of the estrangement between the master and mistress.

  She had just reached the double doors that led into the wing when she heard his quick footsteps on the tiled floor. Her hand on the gleaming embossed brass knob, she became still. He had not called her name but she knew he had stopped at the end of the gallery and was looking towards her. She kept her head down until he came to her side, and then she saw the doors pushed open and she was walking down the corridor with his hand on her elbow; and the pressure did not guide her towards the nursery door, nor yet to her own room, but into the studio opposite.

  Inside the room he gently took the shawl from her shoulders and looked into her face for a long moment before his eyes lifted to her scalp, where the hair had been cut away.

  With his finger he traced the three-inch scar. Then looking into her eyes again he said softly, ‘It is good to see you back.’

  ‘Thank you. Thank you, master.’

  ‘Have…have you missed us, the child and me?’

  The right eye flickered slightly but the pupil did not move towards its refuge as she said, ‘Yes, master.’

  ‘You were anxious to return?’

  Even as he asked this he knew it was unfair. He had gauged enough from what Dixon had said to realise that his demand for her return had burst some idyllic bubble over yonder. While waiting for her to answer he watched the eye. It flickered rapidly before its descent, and then her head drooped, and when he felt her body tremble under his hands and knew that she was weeping, he felt, at the same time, both anger and compassion. But he knew that the latter would be more effective, and so he led her to a chair by the fire, saying, ‘You’re weak and need rest, and at the moment something to warm you.’

  He now went to a table at the side of the fireplace and poured from a decanter a generous measure of brandy and, handing it to her, said, ‘Drink that and then we will talk.’

  She was still crying, helplessly now and unable to stop, as she attempted to sip the brandy. She gulped and coughed, and his voice holding a note of impatience, he asked, ‘Why do you cry so?’

  She raised her head and gazed at him through her tears, and as she did so she thought she saw a ray of hope. He was the only person in the world who could prove her innocence to Colum. If he would write to Colum and tell him what he had heard was untrue, then everything would be all right. He was kind, at bottom the master was kind, and he would be the first to want people to know the truth. What was more, she would have to tell him, at least get it over to him in some way, that as long as she stayed in this house she was in danger. She wouldn’t mention any names, she would just say that she was in danger…Oh, why talk so stupid! Her mind turned on her and derided the simplicity of her thinking. You could not tell this man half a story. Ask him to tell Colum the truth? Yes, she could do that, but the other business was best left alone, for there had to be a motive for killing, and if he were to discover Miss Cartwright’s motive he would do murder himself. She had no doubt of that.

  And so when he said, ‘What is troubling you? Come, tell me,’ she began in a small voice, ‘They’re…they’re saying, master, they’re saying bad things about me…and Colum, Colum Flynn, he was going to marry me and then he heard and…and he wouldn’t believe they’re not true.’ She stopped and gulped in her throat.

  The broad face was enveloping her as it moved slowly towards her. She watched the thick lips part as he said, ‘Go on.’

  She made an effort, gulped again, swung her head, then put her hand over her mouth. But the harshness of his voice penetrated her misery and checked the moaning sound that was issuing from her lips. ‘Bad things?’ he was saying. ‘What bad things could you get up to in this house?’ He took hold of her shoulder. ‘You don’t associate with the rest of the servants; that leaves only one man to do bad things with.’ He drew out the word bad and paused before he ended, ‘They have accused you of doing…bad things with me, is that it?’

  She raised her eyes to his and her body became still, and she remained still as he said, ‘And that clod believed them?’ When he released her suddenly the movement was also a push, and she fell back against the chair, and stared up at him as he stood over her now, saying, ‘That is good. I am glad he thinks so. And if you had any sense, girl, you would say it was good too, for it has shown you the calibre of the man you want to marry. On a bit of hearsay he condemns you, whereas if he had any brains in that clod’s head of his he would have said to himself, “What chance had she being in the employ of that great boar down there? It is he who is to blame.” And this is true.’ He now bent his body until his face was within an inch of hers, and from deep in his throat the words came in a thick whisper, ‘What chance would you have had if I had decided to take you, eh? Answer me that. And would it have been so distasteful to you, eh?’ He now gripped her chin tightly, pushing her mouth out of shape in the process. ‘Others in your position would have considered it an honour, and made capital out of it. You could have become known as my mistress, not just a waif whom I used when the urge took me. You could have been well-dressed, finely dressed. Had I taken you to town, London, not Newcastle, you would have been accepted…in some quarters at least; anyway you would have known a life that is different from what you know now. And that’—he lifted his finger and stabbed it to the side of her nose where the pupil lay—‘that, I am telling you, would have been an added attraction i
f only for the fact that they feared the power you possessed through it, for even in the cultured circles superstition is rife; some of them are as ignorant as the pigs on their estates.’

  They were staring at each other again in silence now, and when he straightened his body he asked, in a quiet controlled but stiff tone, ‘What are you going to do? Have you any plans? But’—he raised his hand, the forefingers pointing upwards—‘before you speak let me tell you this. And listen carefully.’ There followed a space of time before he said, ‘I want you…’ His voice had sunk into the deep hollows of his throat again. ‘Do you hear me? I want you. But I cannot offer you the lucrative position of mistress for I don’t know how much longer I shall be able to maintain this house. If things don’t change for the better, and rapidly, I may find myself on a mountainside in Sweden, living as a forester lives here; but if I’m fortunate and that does not come to pass and I remain here I want you to be—’ Now the stiffness went out of his manner and with a quick movement he dropped onto his knees beside her and, putting his arms around her waist and pulling her up to the edge of the chair, he put his chin on her breast and breathed into her face as he murmured, ‘My love, because that’s what you are, Kirsten, my love.’

  She gazed as if hypnotised into the eyes so close to hers. She was enveloped by the broad face, feeling herself swimming in it, lost in its rough attraction and power. She had always known the master wanted her, and that she had wanted him, but not quite in the same way, only now and again; and these moments she had looked upon as madness. The main feeling she had had for him was that which she would have had towards a beloved father. Yet even that wasn’t right. Deep within her she held a great tenderness for him, a great concern, and…it was stupid too to think the feeling might only be like that of a mother for a child, yet she had always wanted to comfort him. The thought lifted her back and she heard Colum’s voice sneering, ‘He only wanted comfort!’ and there shot through her the pain of a great loss, of something as irrevocable as death. The call of youth to youth, playmate which led to mate, was gone. Nowhere in her feeling for Colum had ever been the desire to comfort, for he did not need comfort. She had thought of Colum as a protector. Of no worldly account, he would have protected her in a way that the master never could. With the master she would always be vulnerable to bitter, jealous tongues, envy from those of her own kind, and scorn from her betters. And then there was hate, such as the hate Miss Cartwright bore her. She thought now that even if she consented to what the master was suggesting Miss Cartwright would never let it come about, she would have her life in some way.

  When she shrank back from him, her hands gently pushing against his shoulders, his face hardened and his body stiffened but he kept his voice steady and without harshness as he asked, ‘You don’t dislike me, do you?’

  ‘No, master. I…I like you, very…very much.’

  ‘Then if you like me why do you shrink from me?’

  ‘Because, master—’ She bowed her head and moved it slowly from side to side before ending, ‘I…I love Colum.’

  Her head sank lower and she felt rather than saw him get to his feet. When finally he did not speak, she raised her eyes to see a look on his face that hurt her more than any storm of abuse from him could have done, and when he turned from her and spoke, his next words brought her face stretching as he said, ‘For as long as you are here you will keep strictly to the east wing. I have given orders that the girl, Miller, shall wait on you and keep your apartments and the nursery clean; for the rest, Mrs Poulter, Harris and Bainbridge only shall be allowed access, and Bainbridge shall escort you from a distance when you take the child into the gardens, it is all arranged…Come now and see him, he has missed you.’

  He knew. The master knew about Miss Cartwright.

  In a daze she rose slowly from the chair and went towards him, where he was now standing within the open doorway. She passed him and crossed the broad passage to the nursery door, from behind which came the sound of laughter. When she opened the door her hand went instinctively to her throat. In the room was the child, Rose…and Miss Cartwright. The child was laughing, as was Rose, but it was not Rose who was playing with him, it was Miss Cartwright; she had the child in her arms, tossing him upwards. When she stopped the child leant against her, his arms cuddling her neck. The expression on her face, her whole attitude, was such that she was unrecognisable as Miss Cartwright. She was appearing at this moment as an ordinary woman playing happily with a child, her own child. But the master had only a moment ago said words to the effect that she would never be confronted by Miss Cartwright again; yet here she was, at home, apparently very much at home with the child.

  Konrad too was thinking much the same thing. He stared at Bella. He had never seen her like this before. Was it all part of the new pose, the new self she had presented to him over the past few days? He knew for a certainty that it was she who had struck the girl down, and he knew he was being confronted by a jealousy that would go to any lengths, even to murder.

  After her protest against the news that the girl was alive he had sat long into the night planning what he would say to her the following day. He intended to inform her that he knew she had attempted to kill the girl. He did, for a moment, harbour the thought that he would dismiss her the house, but should he do this Florence would take it as an act of spite against herself, and Florence, he knew, was going to have enough to contend with in the immediate future if she were forced to give up her present way of living, so he decided that what he would do would be to forbid Bella this side of the east wing, for whatever time they remained in the house.

  But his decisions of the night evaporated the following morning when, on entering the dining room, he was confronted by a normal and even cheery Bella, who talked as if she had known no malaise and who, looking him straight in the face, said she was so glad that the girl had been found. So earnest was her manner that he had doubted his own senses and the incident of the previous night. And so he left things as they were, promising himself that nearer the time of the girl’s return he would inform her of her restricted power in the household. And he had done that yesterday, when she had surprised him still further by agreeing amicably, if with a slight stiffness of manner. ‘If that’s what you wish,’ she had said, ‘so be it.’ And she had inclined her head towards him before turning away.

  He had been relieved that she had taken the matter so lightly for he knew that she loved the power she had in his household; it was she, and not his wife, who managed the affairs of his home. But now she had defied him. Here she was, and playing with the child, and both apparently enjoying it. What was stranger still she was acting towards the boy like a mother might.

  He was about to call her name, which would have been in itself a command to leave the nursery, when she came quickly towards them, yet her eyes not on him, but on Kirsten, and looking straight at her she said evenly, even pleasantly, ‘Oh, there you are then. I’m glad to see you are about again. Are you…’

  The child’s voice cut across hers, crying, ‘Papa! Papa!’ Then stopping in his shambling run he looked at Kirsten and ended on a high squeal, ‘Nurse! Nurse!’ He now ran to her, threw his arms about her legs and turned his face up to hers, asking, ‘Have you been on a hol-a-day?’

  There was no need for her to reply, for now he swung his body around to Konrad and with the same gesture of abandoned joy he hugged him, crying as he did so, ‘Oh Papa! Papa! Auntie says we are going for a walk, and if I am good she will put me on a horse.’ He turned his head and looked at Bella, and it was the look in his eyes more than anything else at the moment that pierced Kirsten’s heart.

  How could this be possible? How could her child love this woman? He was part of her. That being so he must, he must be aware of the woman’s wickedness. She closed her eyes for a moment. What did a child know about wickedness? He responded to kindness, true or assumed he had no way of telling. But hadn’t she herself been kind to him? Kindness was a weak word; she had loved him and
protected him all his short life, yet she could not remember him looking at her with such love as he was now bestowing on this dreadful woman.

  She opened her eyes to the sound of Bella’s voice saying to the master, ‘Miller sent for me. The child was fretful, crying, he needed company.’

  Kirsten watched Miss Cartwright turn her head and look towards Rose. She saw that Rose’s mouth was half agape, as if about to speak. Her attention was drawn to the master now. He was putting the child from him, pressing him towards herself, saying, ‘Go to nurse.’ But when the child gave her his hand and at the same time extended his other towards Miss Cartwright she almost cried aloud in protest.

  Bella did not take the small hand but patted it as she said softly, ‘We will have our walk another day.’ Then turning, she went out, followed by Konrad, who banged the door so hard behind him that they all started.

  ‘Eeh! Well! Now I’ve heard everything.’ Rose came running on tiptoe towards her. ‘Did you hear what she said? Eeh, but I’m glad to see you back! Come on, come on up to the fire.’ She took hold of Kirsten’s hand. ‘Come and tell us all about it. Eeh! But that one. If there was ever a liar escaped from hell it’s her. She said I sent for her ’cos he was fretful; we was playing like a couple of bairns when she walked in. I’ve been here every day relievin’ Mrs Poulter, an’ along she comes like clockwork. The funny part about it is’—she nodded towards the child—‘he’s got to look for her comin’. But to say I sent…Are you all right? By! You looked peaked. There was a rumour that you weren’t comin’ back, was there anythin’ in it? But there, there can’t be, ’cos here you are!’