The Parson's Daughter

by Catherine Cookson

  ‘Oh. Oh, cargoes. He would have gone all over the world then.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, sir, he did.’

  ‘Would…would you like a cup of tea, dear? I’ll ring for another cup.’

  ‘No, not really. I’m going to get changed; I’ve had a rough ride.’ He put out his hand and touched her hair, then turned away, giving Mary a brief nod as he did so.

  ‘Would you like to see the nurseries?’

  ‘I would, ma’am.’

  ‘Well, come along then.’ She swung her legs slowly from the couch, and Mary, solicitously now, said, ‘You feel able to, ma’am?’

  ‘Oh, yes, yes; and the exercise does one good.’

  A few minutes later she was leading the way up the narrow staircase at the end of the long landing, and when they reached a further landing she stopped and, drawing in a deep breath, she said, ‘There should be a law passed that all stairs should be shallow.’

  They were now going along a narrow corridor and when it opened out onto another landing, Nancy Ann stopped, saying, ‘This is the nursery floor. But that corridor’—she pointed to her right—‘leads to a maze of other corridors and the servants’ quarters. And the staircase to the right leads to yet another floor made up of attics and storerooms. One can get lost up here, but you’ll soon get used to it, I hope.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course, ma’am.’

  Nancy Ann now led the way into the rooms that had been prepared as a day nursery, a night nursery, and nursery maid’s bedroom and sitting room; also a washroom and a closet.

  After the inspection and out on the landing once more, Mary Hetherington said brightly, ‘It’s a lovely set-up, ma’am, beautiful. Your baby will grow up happy here.’

  ‘I hope so. Yes, I hope so.’

  They were met in the main corridor by the housekeeper, who seemed to be having a hard job to contain herself. And the first thing she said under the guise of concern was, ‘Ma’am, do you think that was wise, all…all those stairs?’

  ‘I’m perfectly all right, Conway, thank you. And I wanted to show Mary…’

  The very use of the young woman’s Christian name seemed almost to make the housekeeper stagger. As she said later, you could have knocked her down with a feather, for if anything could have proved to her that the mistress would never fit in to a place like this, it was this lowering herself to almost hobnob with this new piece who came from one of the commonest parts of the area. What were things coming to!

  Later that night, when they were sitting side by side in the drawing room after dinner, Dennison told her that he’d had a few words with George before the hunt, and he had advised him to go up to London at the beginning of the following week to see Arthur, and he would introduce him to one or two men who could be influential in promoting him as the candidate for Fellburn when the seat became vacant, which promised not to be very far in the future as Bradley, the present member, was known to be in a very poor state of health. He would only be gone a few days, he said. Did she think she would be all right?

  Yes, she assured him, she would be perfectly all right. And if there came into her mind a suspicion that the proposed visit might not be merely political, but have two other strings to it, first, the gaming table, secondly…but she would not allow her thoughts to go further.

  At the moment, she was, in a way, feeling strangely sure of herself, at least with regard to the household. It was as if, in engaging Mary Hetherington, she had won the first round of a battle, for in her she knew she would have an ally, and, as her father had been wont to say, ‘With one staunch friend you can face the devil.’

  Seven

  On the last day in October eighteen hundred and eighty-two, Nancy Ann gave birth to a daughter. Dennison was disappointed at the sex of the child, but did not show it. He had cradled the baby in his arms and, after gazing at her, he had looked at those present and said, ‘I have made a life.’ And there was laughter from the nurse when the doctor added, caustically, ‘With a little help.’

  The birth had been a difficult one, the labour long and hard, and Nancy Ann lay exhausted for some days following it. And such was her condition that the usual fortnight in bed after giving birth had to be extended to three weeks.

  The baby was two months old before it was christened, and then by the new vicar. Nancy Ann was well aware that her father was ill both mentally and physically now, yet she considered he could have made the journey to the church and christened her child, for she knew he often walked the grounds around the house by day and sometimes by night.

  The christening party was attended by only close friends, so it was not all that large, perhaps amounting to thirty guests including Jessica and Peter.

  Over the past months Jessica had very definitely made an impression on the staff of the House; in fact, she made it the first time she entered the place, the day the child was born. She had been driven up in the trap by Johnny Pratt. He had rung the doorbell for her and when McTaggart enquired her business she had thrust him haughtily aside, saying, ‘Out of the way, man! Tell your master Mrs Howard Hazel is here,’ only for McTaggart to intervene quickly and no less haughtily inform her that the master was at present upstairs with the mistress. ‘Then show me the way, man,’ she had demanded.

  Slightly intimidated now, he had been about to designate this service to his second-in-command when she had interrupted with, ‘You!’ and pointed towards the stairs, and he had gone up them without further hesitation.

  And that had been the pattern the servants had adopted towards her whenever she deigned to visit the House, and it was said in the servants’ hall if it had been someone like her from the vicarage with command and dignity who had become mistress of the house they could have understood it, but as far as they could detect there was no resemblance between the grandmother and the granddaughter, not in the slightest. And they were amazed by the dissenting voice of the second footman, Robertson, who said enigmatically, ‘I wouldn’t be too sure of that. I’ve known piebalds to turn out to be dark horses with a cuddy’s kick.’

  The baby flourished under the care of the nursery maid, and if ever the master of the house couldn’t find the mistress, he made straight for the nursery floor.

  Nancy Ann had now fully regained her health and her figure had blossomed out. Dennison was more loving towards her than ever, if that were possible. His trips to London were few and far between, but he did frequent his club in Newcastle. This, however, she didn’t mind in the least. Sometimes he would return at night and throw ten guineas onto the bedcover, saying, ‘There, partner, that’s your share.’ But she knew that whatever he had won it would be much more than twenty guineas, for he did not go in for small stakes. She had no idea of his real financial position, but once or twice lately he had spoken of selling the Scottish estate, because, as he said, getting into Parliament was an expensive business and if he got the seat he would have little time for going up there, and in consequence, it would be a responsibility.

  He had been visiting Fellburn of late too, getting the lay of the land, as he put it; and his verdict after his first visit had been that it would be a difficult borough to hold; being three parts heavily working class. He also had told her that as soon as there was definite news of Bradley’s retirement, she must accompany him and be seen round about the town as if they were taking an interest in people and things. She had wanted to remark on the implication ‘as if’, but she had refrained, for she had learned that he didn’t like his ideas questioned, and certainly he wouldn’t have been at all pleased if she had probed his meaning …

  It was in March of ’eighty-three that she fell pregnant again, and this time she promised him a son. It was about this time, too, that she discovered a happening on the nursery floor of which she had been unaware.

  It should transpire this day that she was about to go into Fellburn with Dennison and was actually in the hall when Johnny Pratt came to the door and delivered a letter.

  It was from her grandmother to say that James had come
and apparently for only a very short visit. Would she come across?

  Dennison had said, yes of course she must stay, and he would go to Fellburn as arranged for he was to meet members of a committee there.

  She was dressed for town and so she went back up to her bedroom and changed her outer things. Then, being unable to resist another look at the baby, she went up to the nursery again, and when she pushed open the door of the day room she became still, for there, sitting on a low stool with her child on his lap, was the boy.

  In springing up, the lad had almost dropped the child, but Mary took the baby from him and she, turning now with the child pressed close to her, said, ‘I…I’m sorry, ma’am, but I can explain. It’s my fault.’

  ‘’Tisn’t her fault, ’tis mine…ma’am. I’m…I’m up there.’ He thumbed towards the ceiling. ‘I…I heard the baby crying, an’…an’ I only come when I’m sent up to change.’

  Nancy Ann stared at the boy. It was months since she had last seen him, and then she had just glimpsed him that day on her first and only visit to the kitchen. He had grown much taller and, what was noticeable, the brown streaks in his hair were just at the ends now, the rest of it was of a golden fairness. His face was thin and pale, but his eyes were dark, large and deep-socketed. He ended now on a low note, ‘I wouldn’t have dropped her.’

  Nancy Ann’s hand went to her throat: she wanted to reassure him saying she knew he wouldn’t, but the thought came to her that Dennison might have come up and found him, not only in the nursery, but holding his child. He would, then, more than likely have laid hands on him. And this she voiced now by looking at Mary and saying, ‘If the master had come up…’ But her words were checked by the boy muttering, ‘I never come when he’s in the house. I see from the yard when he’s gone.’

  She noticed that he did not use the word master, and also that the fright and fear had gone from his face, although it showed some tightness. She wondered if he was aware of his relationship and, being aware, did he understand the implications, and why he was made to work in the boot room. He had often been on her mind, more so whilst she was carrying her first child: she couldn’t help but think then that when it was born there would be in this house a cousin to it, illegitimate, but nevertheless, a cousin by blood.

  She said quietly, ‘Go along; it will be all right.’

  The boy looked from her to Mary now, then back to her again, saying, ‘She won’t get wrong, will she?’

  ‘No’—Nancy Ann moved her head slowly—‘she won’t get wrong. Go along.’

  After hunching his shoulders almost up to his ears, the boy hurried from the room; and Nancy Ann looked at Mary, who was standing with her head bowed, still holding the child tightly to her, and she said quietly, ‘You shouldn’t have let this happen, you know.’

  ‘I’m…I’m sorry, ma’am, but…but he’s a lonely lad, and…and when I first saw him, he stood in the doorway there’—she inclined her head—‘and…and he said, “Can I see it?” And when he put his hand out the child gripped his finger, as is usual you know, ma’am…babies do, and the boy looked up at me and his face…Well, I’d been used to children all me life, as I said, but I’d never seen a look on any boy’s face like there was on his. I can’t explain it. I’ve got no words in me to explain it, but…but when he asked if he could slip in at changing times if… if, that is, you and the master were out, I said yes. I didn’t think it was all that wrong, ma’am.’

  Nancy Ann went towards her and took the child from her arms and sat down on the wooden chair near the square table in the centre of the room; then looking down on her daughter, she said softly, ‘I…I suppose you know the history of the boy?’

  There was a short space of time before Mary answered. ‘Well, yes, ma’am, bits and pieces, from down below. I have spoken with his mother. But not about him,’ she put in quickly, ‘only everyday things. She’s…she’s a nice woman. But I must say it, not treated right, ma’am.’

  ‘What do you mean, not treated right?’ Nancy Ann looked up at her.

  ‘Well—’ Mary bit on her lip and looked first to one side and then the other before saying, ‘she’s not given her place, ma’am, they keep her down, the housekeeper and most of them.’

  Nancy Ann wanted to say, ‘Well, she’s at liberty to move on to another position and take her son with her,’ and she had thought this very same thought often, but she could see the woman’s reason for staying: her son really belonged to this household, and likely there were hopes that, in some way, somehow and at some time he would be recognised. Poor soul; she didn’t know the futility of her dreams if she so dreamed.

  At times she wondered what Dennison’s reaction would be when the boy grew up into a man and, should he become so minded, try to openly state his claim to recognition. Yet, what could he hope to gain from that?

  Her thoughts were interrupted by Mary’s saying softly, ‘I’m sorry if I vexed you, ma’am, but I’ll promise not to let him hold the child again. But…but what will I do if he wants to see her?’

  Nancy Ann rose to her feet and, handing her daughter back to Mary, said, ‘Let things remain as they are, only please be careful. Do any of the staff know about his visits?’

  ‘Oh, no, ma’am. If he hears anyone on the stairs he scurries out the far door. By the way, ma’am, have…have you seen where he sleeps…he and his mother?’

  ‘In the servants’ quarters, I suppose.’

  ‘Oh no, ma’am; they’re in the far corner of the roof beyond the boxrooms.’

  ‘Beyond the boxrooms?’

  Mary nodded.

  Besides the unmarried servants’ quarters up on the attic floors, there was a roof space crossed by beams that ran over most of the house. When she had first come to the house and had been alone one afternoon, she had made a tour of inspection of the warren of rooms above. She had walked for some distance under the roof and was amazed at the trunks and cases and pieces of odd furniture that were stored there. But she had never travelled the whole area.

  Mary was saying now, with the liberty that was a natural part of her character and seemed in no way out of place, ‘It’s enough to freeze you under that roof in the winter, ma’am, and boil you in the summer. And that’s where, I understand, the lad spent most of his early days, that is, afore you came, ma’am…I hope you don’t mind me speaking like this?’

  ‘No, Mary, not at all. I’m grateful to you.’ And after a moment she touched the smiling face of her daughter and said, ‘I must go now; my elder brother is paying a fleeting visit home. But I won’t be all that long; I’ll be back before it’s time for her bath.’

  ‘I’ll hold it until you return, ma’am. She won’t mind.’ And she gently rocked the child backwards and forwards.

  A few minutes later Nancy Ann made her way out of the house, across the drive, through the ornamental gardens, and on to the wood path which led to the river. But a few yards along it, she branched off and zigzagged her way through the wood until she came to a small gate in the drystone boundary wall that separated the estates.

  Graham had been kind enough to have this gate made in order to make it easier for her to visit the Dower House. In the ordinary way she would have had half an hour’s walk from the house into the village, then on to the old coach road; or it would have meant getting the carriage out and keeping it waiting until she made her return. But this way, she could pop through the wood most days to visit her father and grandmama, now happily ensconced in the Dower House. She often asked herself what would have happened to them if Graham had not made this offer, for had they gone to live in a village or a town her father’s wanderings would have become a source of worry, especially to her grandmama.

  The house lay about two hundred yards from the boundary, bordered on two adjacent sides by stretches of lawn, and on the other two by domestic outhouses. The comfort of the house given off by its furniture and carpets was like a palace compared with that of the vicarage. And even with its smoky chimneys, and they did indeed sm
oke, it was warm. And even when the well dried up in the summer the girls would laugh about this as they went to the river for the washing water. If any were more happy than the others in the house, they were Peggy and Hilda, for they had never had so much food to deal with. Every day there was a fresh supply of milk from the farm and every week butter and eggs, together with vegetables and fruit, in season. Graham’s farm was small and kept solely to provide for the estate.

  Nancy Ann pushed open the front door, and even before crossing the hall could hear raised voices. When she opened the sitting-room door her father and James and her grandmama looked towards her.

  Rising quickly from his chair, James hurried to her; and then they were holding each other tightly. After a moment he pressed her from him and she was amazed at the change she saw in him: his face looked haggard and drawn; his clothes looked anything but smart, in fact they looked rumpled.

  Her father’s voice separated them as he cried, ‘I am glad my Rebecca has gone; such a family would have broken her heart: one marrying into a house of sin, another stooping to court a warden’s elderly daughter, and now another running away from his responsibilities.’ He glared from one to the other, then turned and shambled up the room, pulled open a French window and stalked out into the garden.

  When Nancy Ann made to follow him her grandmama called, ‘Stay. Stay. It’s no use. You won’t get him to think otherwise. He’s a changed man.’ Then she added, ‘Sit down and listen to what James has to say. So far’—she turned and looked at the tall figure of her grandson—‘you’ve only been able to get out that you’ve left your family, and that was two days ago. Now let us have the reason.’

  James lowered himself slowly down onto the couch by the side of his grandmother and held his hands out to the fire, and remained like that for some time before he said, ‘It was a mistake from the beginning, but I didn’t know how much until she…she told me that she was to have a child. From then she slept in another room. In my ignorance, I thought it must be the habit of all women. When William was four months old she came back to me. Then the pattern was repeated. By that time I was no longer ignorant. She had told me openly that marriage was mainly for—’ he wetted his lips and turned his head further away from them as he said the word, ‘procreation.’