The servants, who gathered in the kitchen at his request, were those he remembered from early days, for the butler and footman employed by Yuart during his early affluence had been dismissed, together with housekeeper, governess, and lady’s maid, at the onset of his recent declension. So it was Cook and the older maids, with Jobe the gardener and Sherard the groom, who stood in a row, with expressionless faces, to hear what Martin had to say to them.
‘I know how you must be feeling about the change of ownership here and it may be that you will find it too difficult to accept. If so, I shall quite understand. But my own personal wish is to make as few changes as possible. Therefore I hope you will stay.’
They looked at him; then at each other; and it was Cook, downright as always, who took it upon herself to speak.
‘It’s true we don’t like what’s happened here. It’s no good pretending otherwise. But Mrs Yuart asked us to stay on and look after you, and it seems that’s what we’d better do, whether we like it or not. Besides, where should I go at my time of life? Who would want an old body like me? I’ve been in this house thirty-four years. I came the year Miss Katharine was born. And I had thought, in recent times, that I should serve her till I died.’ Here the old woman’s lip trembled, but in a moment she recovered herself and went stubbornly on. ‘As it turns out, that’s not to be, but at least I can still serve the house. And if that means serving you, Mr Cox, I give you my word I shall do it to the best of my ability. And so will these girls here.’
Martin then looked at the two men.
‘Ah,’ said Jobe. ‘Same as Cook.’
‘Me, too, ditto,’ said Jack Sherard. ‘At least for the time being, like.’
Martin’s illness had been severe, and as he walked about the house and gardens, he found it difficult to decide whether the queer, light-headed feeling that assailed him every now and then was due to the after-effects of flu or to the not-quite-believable fact that everything he saw was now his. There was the rarefied sense of elation; the feeling that he was not of this world, even though, at the same time, he felt he held the world in his hands. There was the sense of subtle refinement that so often comes with recuperation after illness, when all the perceptions are so delicately heightened that every detail of what is seen is felt to the very depths of the soul and is almost unbearably beautiful.
Pale sunshine, slanting into the great hall, through the leaded panes of the bay window. A Venetian vase set, empty, on a polished table, where it caught the light in its green-crackled glass. A shallow bowl made of beaten copper, filled with dried gourds of the palest colours: melon, yellow, and apple green. And, on the chest by the foot of the stairs, an earthenware jug full of sweet peas, pink, blue, and white, imparting their pure scent to the air.
It was thirteen years since he had last set foot in this house but, excepting only Yuart’s new wing, built in 1849, little was changed. In the great hall, most certainly, the old heavy furniture stood ranged about much as it had always done: the oakboard table and joint stools; the high-backed settle, the wainscot chairs; the court cupboard under the staircase; the tall cased clock on the half-landing: he remembered them all from early days and now, amazingly, they were his. Not only the furniture but the carpets, the curtains, the tapestries; the pictures and portraits on the walls; the family silver, the china, the glass; even the books in the library. All were his.
But with the elation there was also a sadness that touched him through and through with pain, because everywhere, in every room, there were so many things that spoke to him of those who had recently departed. In the drawing-room, especially, the Broadwood piano spoke to him of Katharine Yuart, for the green-covered stool was drawn up to it, the lid was raised from the keyboard, and a piece of music stood on the stand. It was a Chopin étude and Martin well remembered how, hearing it for the first time, played on the piano in the music-room upstairs, he had declared it to be the most beautiful piece of music ever written. Had Miss Katharine remembered that? And was the music left here now as a sign to him of her forgiveness? He thought it was, and received it as such; but it did nothing to lessen the pain; for he was reminded of the ancient custom whereby a victim on the scaffold forgave his executioner.
From room to room he went, following the ghosts of the past, and so out to the rear courtyard, where he stood gazing at the end of the kitchen wing, rebuilt after the fire in which Hugh Tarrant had died trying to save the maid, Alice Hercombe. While Martin was standing there, Cook came out to speak to him. She wanted to ask him about luncheon but, struck by his stillness and his expression, she allowed her question to fade from her lips. She stood in silence behind him; but when he turned she found her voice.
‘If it hadn’t been for that terrible fire, Mr Hugh would still be here, and the house would never have had to be sold. He’d have been master here in time and everything would’ve been as it should. Instead of which ‒’
‘Yes. I know. You have me instead. But let me say … that if I could undo the past, I would. And I mean that with all my heart.’
‘Do you?’ she said sceptically. ‘Even though it’d mean that you wouldn’t be standing here now, lord and master of all you survey?’
‘Yes, even then,’ Martin said.
The old woman looked at him. Her fat round face was sombrely set; her eyes examined him, searching him out.
‘Well, it’s no good talking of that. Nobody can undo the past. We’ve got to put up with things as they are. But, as I’ve already said, Mr Cox, it’ll be hard for us old ones, getting used to a new master, especially when ‒’
‘Yes. I know.’
‘It’s not as if you’re a stranger, you see. It might be easier if you was. But we all remember you as a boy, coming here in your rough clothes, to work with your father, masoning. Then having lessons in the house, a scrawny bean-pole, all skin and bone … I remember Miss Katharine telling me you weren’t getting enough to eat and we’d got to feed you up a bit.’ The old woman paused, her gaze still keen. ‘Seems you haven’t changed much, for all you’re a gentleman these days. You’re just about as scrawny now as you were as a boy-chap years ago.’
‘I have been ill with the flu, that’s all.’
‘Yes. Well. Whatever the reason, Mr Cox, it’s plain you still need building up, so I’ll go and see about getting some luncheon ready for you. And it seems to me you can’t do better than start with some good hot nourishing broth.’
When she had gone indoors, Martin went over to the stables, to see his nag in her stall, and to have a word with Jack Sherard. Nearby, on a heap of straw, two spaniels lay dozing together, but got up and came to him, sniffing at him and wagging their tails. He stooped and made a fuss of them and Sherard said they were called Snug and Quince.
‘Do you remember old Tessa, who was stung by the adder years ago? And her puppy, Sam, who would have been stung if you hadn’t snatched him up so quick? These two are both Sam’s sons. The blue one’s Snug and the yellow one’s Quince. The family had to leave them behind ‒ no room for dogs where they’re living now ‒ and they sleep here in one of the stalls because Mrs Yuart thought perhaps you wouldn’t want them in the house. But you’ll have to be careful about that, otherwise they might nip in. They’ve always been used to it, you see, and of course they’re missing the family.’
‘Yes,’ Martin said, huskily, and just for a moment could say no more. Stooping, he fondled the dogs’ floppy ears, and they gazed at him with furrowed brows. ‘But there’s no need to keep them out of the house. They are welcome to come and go as they please.’
He stayed chatting to Sherard for a while, discussing arrangements for bringing his other horses over from Fieldings that afternoon. Then he returned to the house for his lunch. As he went he clicked his tongue, and the two spaniels followed him in.
Charles Yuart, though he lived in Chardwell, no longer took any part in its affairs. He had resigned from the Borough Council and from all other public bodies and never attended public functions. He went
nowhere, except to his work at Kendall’s Mill, and to get there he walked across the fields, thus avoiding awkward encounters with former business associates. He refused invitations to dine with friends because, as he said to his wife, he could not return their hospitality now that he lived in a rabbit-hutch.
‘But this is our home,’ Katharine said. ‘Surely friends will still visit us, wherever we live, so long as their friendship is genuine.’
‘I have no intention of putting it to the test.’
‘Is it your intention, then, to cut yourself off from the world completely?’
‘The world is getting along perfectly well without me.’
‘But you have so much to give. Your circumstances may have changed but you are still the same man.’
‘To you, perhaps, but not to myself. And certainly not to my fellow townsmen. To them I’m a failure and a bankrupt, reduced to a level scarcely better than that of the mill-hands I supervise. I am not to be sought for in public counsel, nor sitting high in the congregation.’
‘You accept defeat, then?’
‘What else would you have me do? I’ve lost Hainault to the Hurnes and I’ve lost Railes to Martin Cox. And oh, how pleased they must be with themselves! How loud they must crow, the pair of them!’
‘Not Martin,’ Katharine said. ‘He would not think of it in that way.’
‘How do you know what he thinks and feels?’
‘Because I know him better than you do. I knew him when he was a boy of fifteen, eager to learn and improve himself, sensitive to beautiful things.’
‘Yes, and in love with your sister Ginny, if I understood the signs. Well, at least the upstart quarryman’s son has not got everything he wanted! There is some small comfort in knowing that.’
‘I am sorry to hear you say so.’
‘Katharine, I don’t understand you! Do you not mind that Martin Cox is now living in your old home?’
‘I mind very much that we were obliged to leave it, of course, but as far as Martin is concerned ‒’
‘That’s just the point. ‒ We were not so obliged! If we had done as Stevenson suggested, we stood a good chance of keeping it. But you insisted it should be sold! The house that should have been our son’s!’
‘Charles, you still had debts to discharge. Dick understands and accepts that. He knows it’s a question of honesty. And always when we talk like this, you seem to lose sight of the fact that even if we had been able to stay at Railes, we could never have afforded its upkeep. Not on your present salary.’
‘If we had remained at Railes our circumstances might have been different. Men would still have respected me, whereas now that I live in this place, they see me brought as low as low and of course they treat me accordingly. I might, if I still lived at Railes, have been offered a partnership somewhere ‒’
‘Wouldn’t you need money for that?’
‘Not necessarily. I could have worked for it instead. My experience all these years would be worth something, I can tell you, to any decent clothier willing to pay for it. Or I could perhaps have raised a loan, with Railes as my security, as I did once before, when I built the new wing. But now with things the way they are ‒’
Suddenly he turned away; stood for a moment, staring at nothing; then strode out of the house. His supper lay on the table: some slices of cold lean mutton, with cold potato-and-onion pie. Katharine rose and covered the plate and put it away in the meat-safe.
His only relief at times like this was to walk up and over the hills, and often he was gone for hours, returning exhausted, long after dark, and refusing the food she had kept for him.
He hated living in Cryer’s Row, where there was no privacy. His children’s chatter got on his nerves and he was often short-tempered with them. For weeks now he had raked the newspapers, still hoping against hope that he would find his salvation there. But the cloth trade was still slack, and most of the mills in the Cullen Valley were, it was said, merely marking time. Hainault Mill was one of them and although Charles felt a stab of satisfaction, knowing that his rivals, the Hurnes, had bitten off more than they could chew, the news in general only deepened his gloom. For how could he hope to make his way as a clothier again when everywhere in the west country the trade’s very future was in doubt? When, on the markets of the world, good quality broadcloth was universally rejected in favour of cheap worsteds and tweeds such as were made at Kendall’s Mill.
His work at Kendall’s was hateful to him. Everything there was in a muddle, due to a system of ‘making do’. The loom-shop was old and badly lit; the windows had not been cleaned for months; and everywhere the wooden floors were slippery with oil and filth. In addition to all this, he knew that the work-people jeered at him, enjoying the sight of a powerful man reduced to the status of paid employee, barely a cut above themselves.
One day a new man was taken on in the finishing-loft. George Ainley had engaged him. His face, Charles thought, was familiar.
‘I know you, I think?’
‘Yes, sir, you do. I worked for you at Hainault once. But we very soon parted company.’
‘Ah, yes, I remember now. Your name is Hopkins, I believe. I dismissed you for being insolent. Well, I hope you’ve mended your ways since then.’
The man smiled and touched his cap.
‘I hope we both have, Mr Yuart, sir.’
Charles, complaining to George Ainley, received scant sympathy.
‘You’d be wise to ignore that sort of thing. Better still ‒ avoid provoking it in the first place.’
He had worked at Kendall’s almost two months when a bitter altercation arose over some pieces of ‘Belfray Tweave’, which had been through the burling-room, where all knots and lumps should have been removed. Charles was dissatisfied and sent the cloth back to be done again. The burlers complained to George Ainley, who called Charles into his counting-house.
‘My burlers know what they’re doing. They’ve been told not to spend too much time on that cloth. It’s part of a special order for Winterton’s and I’ve promised delivery by next week.’
‘Not much use delivering on time if it only comes back as faulty.’
‘It won’t come back,’ Ainley said. ‘I’ve quoted an extra low price for it.’
‘Low price or not,’ Charles said, ‘I don’t understand how you have the gall to make that rubbish and call it cloth.’
‘At least I sell what I make, Mr Yuart, which is more than you managed to do in your last two years at Hainault. Yes, and all my trade bills are met, too, along with all my running-costs.’
‘If you think I’m staying here to be spoken to in this way ‒’
‘Please yourself. It’s all one to me.’ Ainley looked at him with dislike. ‘I always knew it was a mistake, employing a man who’d been big in his day, especially when that man was you.’
‘You seem to forget,’ Charles said, ‘it was you who approached me in the first instance, saying you needed an overseer.’
‘Yes, but I did it against my better judgement, and only to please a friend of mine, who, as it happens, is also my landlord.’
‘What friend?’
‘Martin Cox.’
‘Well,’ Charles said, in a voice like steel, ‘now you will have to find someone else!’
When he returned home to the cottage, he found the front door open and Katharine on her knees in the doorway, scrubbing the white stone step. The sight of his wife performing this task, where neighbours and passers-by could see her, was more than his present temper would stand, and Katharine, looking up at him, saw that his face was paper-white. In silence she leant to one side, and in silence he pushed past her, into the narrow passageway. There he stood waiting while she wiped up the last of the suds, rose to her feet, and closed the door. He then led the way into the kitchen, and his voice, when he turned and spoke to her, was only barely under control.
‘Why are you scrubbing the floors? Where is the maid?’
‘Ellie’s not well. I sent her home
. Susannah has gone with her.’
‘And can’t the damned doorstep wait till she’s back?’
‘That may not be for a while yet. I think she has the chicken-pox.’
‘Sometimes, Katharine, it seems to me that you take a delight in demeaning yourself. It’s as though you deliberately set out to rub salt into your wounds. Or, more to the point, in mine!’
Katharine looked at him. She, too, was very pale. She had set down her bucket and was wiping her hands on a towel. ‘Something has happened.’
‘Yes. It has. I have had words with George Ainley and have left Kendall’s Mill.’
‘I was afraid of something like this.’
‘You are satisfied, then.’
‘Is there no hope of putting it right?’
‘None whatsoever.’
‘You mean you do not intend to try?’
‘I think I have already sunk low enough without humbling myself further to an ignorant, jumped-up shearman who calls himself a clothier! And if it is what you expect me to do, then it seems you must despise me indeed.’
‘There is nothing despicable in making an honest apology.’
‘Katharine, I’ve had enough of this. Always you put me in the wrong!’
‘Charles, you put yourself in the wrong by speaking of Ainley as you do. He has been very good to you ‒’
‘You know nothing about the man.’
‘This much at least I know,’ Katharine said, ‘that he is in business and you are not.’
‘So, madam wife, there it is at last! ‒ The truth about what you think of me!’
‘The truth of what I am saying is that you are not seeing things clearly. You are not facing facts. And the most important fact is that without the goodwill of those men who are still in business, making cloth, you cannot even hope to begin working your way back into the trade.’
‘How can I ever work my way back when I have been left destitute? When everything has been taken from me and even you have turned against me!’
The Old House at Railes: A heartwarming rags to riches Victorian family saga Page 25