Tibbie’s hands went very still and her voice became quiet as she asked, ‘You’re going away?’
Emma Jane turned back from the fire and patted her on the shoulder. ‘Not for good, Tibbie, certainly not. If you’ll still have me, I’ll come back when the thaw sets in. I didn’t know I’d have to leave so soon, but a letter arrived at the site this morning from my Aunt Louisa saying that my mother’s not well and there’s trouble over our house. I’ve got to go and this is a good time because today we stopped work. It’s so cold there’s no point in trying to build. We’re ahead of schedule, so that’s all right.’
‘I’ll miss you,’ said Tibbie softly. Since Hannah’s death she had lost weight and her face looked much older, but at last her depression was beginning to lift. The company of Emma Jane had proved to be a great solace to her. Their relationship had developed gradually and almost without either of them noticing, but now it was strong, a genuine friendship between different generations, a loving sympathy between women.
This had started the day after Tim went away. In the morning Emma Jane had got up and told Tibbie, ‘I’ll leave – I’ll find other lodgings. I can’t impose myself on you.’
But Tibbie had looked so frightened, for she was in deep sorrow and dreaded being alone for hour after hour with only her thoughts for company. She clutched Emma Jane’s arm in entreaty. ‘Don’t go. I’d value it if you stayed,’ she said.
So they had worked out an arrangement between them. Emma Jane paid a modest but fair sum for her lodging and the food which was provided in such lavish quantities. As the weeks passed it became a pleasure for Tibbie to see how sleek and healthy-looking her lodger was becoming, in spite of the hard work she did and the many miles she walked every day.
When Emma Jane said she was going back to Newcastle, Tibbie’s heart sank at the prospect of day after day without her companion. The girl sensed what she was feeling and told her, ‘I’ll come back as soon as I can, but there’s things I must see to in Newcastle. Believe me, I’d rather not go but I have to.’
‘Of course you do. I’m just being silly. I’ll have to be on my own one day, but you’ve been a real comfort to me, lass,’ said Tibbie. ‘Come on, I’ll help you pack your bag.’
As they bustled about stuffing clothes into the portmanteau, Emma Jane diverted Tibbie by telling her the events of the day. This was something she always did when she came home, and her landlady looked forward to the recital, adding comments of her own or giving advice if she thought it helpful.
Emma Jane gave a little laugh when she described the scene at the camp soup kitchen. ‘The lady in charge thought Robbie and I looked hungry and she gave us soup. It was good as well, but not as good as yours of course,’ she said to Tibbie.
‘Didn’t she know who you are?’
‘Oh, I didn’t mind. Why should she know me? Robbie said she was Colonel Anstruther’s daughter-in-law. She was only being kind and she’s done a very good job with the soup kitchen. A lot of people in the camp really needed it.’
Tibbie nodded. ‘Aye, that’ll be young Mrs Bethya. Hannah used to talk about her. She said she’s awfu’ bonny but a bit flighty. She’s got a French maid with a funny name.’
‘She didn’t have a maid with her today,’ said Emma Jane, ‘but you’re right, she is lovely. She was wearing the most beautiful cloak I’ve ever seen, all lined with grey fur. It made me feel warm just to look at it.’
‘Oh, that’s another thing Hannah said. Mrs Bethya was aye sending to London for fancy clothes. They came up by the cartful but nobody blamed her because they thought she needed some comfort, being married to that Mr Gus. He’s a terrible man, apparently.’
Emma Jane was interested. ‘In what way? What’s wrong with him?’
Tibbie was pushing a last piece of clothing into the bag and attempting to snap the lock. ‘He drinks like a fish, he’s never sober. And they don’t live together, if you know what I mean. Folk do say he’s one of the kind that takes up wi’ other men.’
‘What a pity,’ sighed Emma Jane, remembering Bethya’s beautiful and glowing face.
‘You never can tell what people’s lives are like from the outside,’ Tibbie warned her sententiously.
‘You never can tell what people’s lives are like from the outside…’ Those words echoed in Emma Jane’s head as she sat in the lurching train carrying her from Maddiston to Newcastle. ‘I wonder if anyone could possibly guess from my appearance that I’m building a bridge?’ she asked herself with secret pride and glee, smoothing down the cloth of her black skirt. She was once more wearing her stays and the hated travelling clothes, black bonnet and all, which felt strange and constricting after weeks of freedom going bare-headed and clad in Big Lily’s voluminous skirt, with its generous drawstring waist. She wished she could have travelled in the mixed compartment next door, for it reeked of tobacco from cigar-smoking men. The smell reminded her of the navvies, who smoked strong black cheroots between arduous bouts of work. She liked the scent of those cheroots and sometimes longed to smoke one herself. That would not have been proper behaviour for a respectable young woman, however, and neither would travelling in a train compartment with strange men! Here she was, confined in the ladies’ compartment with a prim woman whose pursed mouth indicated that she suffered from a dyspeptic condition. She did not reply to a remark from Emma Jane about the terrible weather, and not a word was uttered between them for the whole journey.
As they approached Newcastle, close-packed streets of workers’ houses could be seen through the window, and Emma Jane’s heart sank progessively deeper. Her old doubts and worries took over. She felt guilty at having been happy in Camptounfoot, for while she had been so busy, she had almost laid aside her grief about her father’s death. It was not that she had forgotten him – more that she had not been obsessed by grieving. But now sorrow engulfed her; her legs ached and her head began to throb; her whole outlook changed. She was afraid that all her new lightness of heart and optimism would disappear, and hopelessness would creep up on her again if she stayed at home too long.
Haggerty was waiting at the station, for she had sent a telegraph message to say she was coming. His face showed such astonishment when he saw her that she demanded in a panic, ‘Is everything all right, Haggerty?’
He nodded. ‘Yes, of course, miss. It’s just that you look different, somehow. I almost didn’t recognise you. Imagine! And I’ve known you since you were a bairn.’
She made no comment about that but next asked, ‘How is Mama, Haggerty?’
He turned in his seat beside the driver on the box. ‘She came back from Harrogate yesterday with your aunt, miss. She doesn’t seem much better if you ask me. They’re waiting for you now.’
Inwardly Emma Jane groaned and sat back in the seat with her eyes closed. Haggerty observed her anxiously. ‘She hasn’t changed so much after all,’ he thought. ‘Poor lass, she looks tired and drawn.’
Though it was late and past their normal bedtime, Mrs Wylie and her unsmiling sister Louisa sat on opposite sides of the drawing-room fire with lace caps on their heads and open prayer books in their hands. Aunt Louisa had also been recently widowed, and since her husband’s death had indulged herself in a fervour of piety with which she had infected her impressionable sister. Arabella had always done what Louisa told her.
Now it was Louisa who rose to embrace Emma Jane when she came into the room. ‘Your mother’s not able to get up. She’s very weak,’ she whispered, but loud enough to be heard by the invalid who raised suffering eyes that swam with tears as she looked at her daughter and held out beseeching hands.
When they had embraced, Mrs Wylie asked in horror, ‘Oh my dear Emma Jane, what’s happened to your face?’
The girl put a hand to her cheek in surprise. ‘Has something happened to my face, Mama?’
‘It looks terrible – it’s all freckled! What on earth have you been doing? You must wash in lemon juice or you’ll be ruined for life.’
Emma Ja
ne walked up to the looking glass that hung over the fireplace and stood on tiptoe to peer into it. What her mother said was true – a thick scattering of brown freckles covered the bridge of her nose and the tops of her cheeks. She had not noticed them before because the only looking glass in Tibbie’s was a tiny square, not big enough to see your whole face in, and she had been too busy for staring into mirrors anyway. She smiled as she turned and said, ‘Oh, they’ll go away. It’s just because I’ve been working outside.’
‘Without a bonnet?’ asked her aunt in horror. Emma Jane decided not to answer that question and wondered what their reaction would be if they could see her working boots, crossed shawl and thick skirt. This thought made her giggle inside and she began to feel a little less oppressed.
Her mother’s voice sounded fluttery as she asked, ‘You’re not going on with this nonsense much longer, Emma Jane, are you?’
The girl turned to stare at her. ‘What nonsense, Mama?’
‘This bridge nonsense. You’ll hire a man to do the work for you now, surely?’
‘Oh no, it’s not nonsense, Mother. It’s very serious. Both of our futures depend on what I’m doing.’
‘Oh, darling. You could hire a man, an engineer or something. Men are better at that sort of thing. It’s not work for a woman. No decent man will ever marry you if you labour outside like a farm-woman. Your aunt and I have been talking about it. Who’s going to look after me if you’re up in Scotland for months on end?’ Her hands were shaking as she held them out to her daughter in entreaty.
Emma Jane shot a look at her aunt who was nodding grimly. Louisa had been fostering and feeding her mother’s worries, she knew. ‘I won’t have to stay in Scotland forever, Mama, only till the bridge is finished next summer – and it’s going very well,’ she said reassuringly.
Her mother sobbed, ‘What if I lose you, just like I’ve lost James and Christopher? What will I do then?’
Emma Jane said firmly, ‘I’m stronger than I look Mama. You’re not going to lose me.’
Her mother tried again. ‘But I’m lonely. I need your company, my dear.’
‘I’ll hire you a companion, Mother,’ Emma Jane offered.
The sisters stared at each other in horror ‘A companion! When your mother has an unmarried daughter whose duty it is to take care of her. What a scandalous suggestion!’ snapped her aunt.
‘I have something else to do. I’ve to build the bridge,’ said Emma Jane calmly.
‘I think you’ve gone mad. I’ve been telling poor Arabella that she should call a doctor to you,’ said her aunt angrily as Emma Jane’s mother began weeping into her cupped hands.
Emma Jane kept calm and tried to reason with them. ‘Aunt Louisa, I want to finish Father’s bridge and I know I can do it. If I don’t, my mother will be penniless. I don’t think you appreciate how bad our financial position is.’
Louisa was furious. Her cheeks were flaming red as she turned on her niece. ‘And that’s another reason why we had to come back here in this terrible weather. That is why I sent for you to come home. Your mother has had a letter from that awful Amelia asking what furniture she wanted sent over to the cottage. She said you’re selling this house and your mother will have to live in the cottage in future. I’ve advised your mother to consult her lawyer about this. You can do nothing without her agreement. Remember that, young lady.’
Exasperated and angry, Emma Jane turned to walk from the room. ‘I’d be only too glad for you to discuss the matter with Mr Johnstone. You might listen to what he has to say,’ she called back angrily.
Next day, she went to see Amelia who had arrived in the cottage to clear it of her own effects. ‘I didn’t know you’d written to Mother about moving out of Wyvern Villa,’ she said to her sister-in-law.
Amelia looked up from packing curtains in a big box. ‘The lawyer said I should. Apparently the bank’s pressing for their money and Wyvern Villa will have to be sold soon. I thought it would save moving costs for you if, when I moved out, Dan brought your mother’s things in. I only wrote her a little note but it seems to have caused all sorts of trouble. I’m sorry.’
Emma Jane shrugged. ‘It can’t be helped, ’Melia. We’ll just have to try to soothe things down, but Aunt Louisa’s set on making as much trouble as possible.’
Amelia grimaced. ‘She’s a bitch, is that Louisa. I never liked her and she’s not improving with age!’
Mr Johnstone, the lawyer, arrived next afternoon for a consultation and brought Munro the banker with him. Both men sat solemnly on the spindly chairs of the drawing room and listened while Mrs Wylie, urged on by her sister, talked about how peculiarly her daughter was behaving by driving her out of her home and attempting to sell it over her head.
At the end of her speech she leaned forward in her seat and said to Munro, ‘Mind you, I don’t really blame the poor girl. It’s not her fault – she’s only trying to do her best. My daughter has some sort of fixation about finishing her father’s bridge. Her aunt thinks she perhaps slightly deranged.’
Munro raised his eyebrows and glanced across at a silent Emma Jane, who was sitting very still staring down at the folded hands in her lap. ‘That seems a rather extreme opinion, Mrs Wylie,’ he said. ‘Miss Wylie has taken on the contractual responsibilities left by your late husband and I wouldn’t describe her as deranged, far from it.’
Aunt Louisa sat forward and hissed, ‘Not deranged? Selling her father’s house without her mother’s leave! Telling her she’s got to go to live in that miserable cottage, going off to build a bridge with a gang of navvies who don’t even speak the Queen’s English. Do you seriously think that’s normal conduct for a sensible girl?’
Munro fixed his eyes on her face. ‘It may be rash and very unusual, but it’s also rather noble. And anyway, Miss Wylie is not selling this house. My bank is selling it because it owns Wyvern Villa, lock, stock and barrel.’
At that moment Emma Jane lifted her eyes and looked at him with gratitude, then she glanced across at her mother, whose face had gone a worrying shade of grey. ‘Are you all right, Mother?’ she asked.
‘No. No, I’m not,’ was the mumbled reply. Louisa was immediately at her sister’s side, chafing her hands, and Emma Jane rose to go to her as well.
‘Mother,’ she said, bending over the chair. ‘Listen to what Mr Munro has to say. I’ve been wondering how to tell you about this. Now you must listen.’
She turned to Munro and gave a small gesture to encourage him to go on. He did so with admirable clarity, detailing all Wylie’s debts, telling his widow about the restrictive contract, and leaving absolutely no doubt about the family’s financial position. ‘It is only through the goodness of heart of your daughter-in-law that you have a house to move into, Mrs Wylie,’ he ended up by saying.
That was the last straw. Arabella Wylie burst into hysterical tears and the men withdrew in embarrassment. Emma Jane saw them to the door and, as he shook her hand, Munro said, ‘I’ve heard what you’ve been doing up at the bridge and I’m most impressed, Miss Wylie. I hope you succeed.’
‘But you don’t think I will, do you?’ she asked solemnly.
‘Let me say that I hope against hope that you do, even though my colleagues would not be pleased to hear me telling you that,’ was the banker’s reply.
Emma Jane stood very still in the hall when the door closed on the visitors and a mutinous look came over her face. ‘Just wait and see, wait and see,’ she whispered through clenched teeth.
She longed to be back at her bridge, back at Camptounfoot with the knowledge that when work was done she would be received by the peace of Tibbie’s cottage, but first there were things she had to do. She raised her chin and walked back into the drawing room.
‘Now, Mama,’ she said, ‘we must decide which pieces of furniture you want to take to the cottage with you, and tomorrow I’ll go into Newcastle to an employment agency and find a companion to live with you while I’m in Scotland.’
Her Aunt
Louisa looked up balefully. ‘That won’t be necessary, Emma Jane. Your poor mother will come back to Harrogate with me. At least I won’t abandon her. How can you possibly expect her to accept the charity of that terrible girl who was married to your brother?’
Emma Jane sighed. ‘Aunt Louisa, Father bought the cottage and gave it to Amelia because he was afraid this would happen…’ The face that looked back at her was stony, however, and she could see that no matter what was said, Louisa had closed her mind to facts and would persuade her sister into the same way of thinking. To argue with her was like battering against a stone wall. The girl walked to the window and stared out at the orderly garden. It would be a relief, she realised, to get out of Wyvern Villa for ever.
‘When I’ve built the bridge, Mama, you’ll be able to buy another house,’ she said placatingly.
Her mother moaned, ‘Oh, what’s to become of us? Why did Christopher die and leave us in this mess?’
Her sister fluttered round her, saying, ‘Christopher was always too taken up with his work. I’ve often said he didn’t consider you enough, Arabella.’
To hear her father criticised for dying at the wrong time made Emma Jane furious. She turned round stiff-faced and asked, ‘When are you returning to Harrogate, Aunt Louisa? There’s a lot to do before I go back to Scotland and it’s time I got started.’
* * *
‘That goes, this stays… That goes, this stays.’ Emma Jane was walking from room to room in Wyvern Villa putting little tickets on the things that were to be taken over to the cottage. Surprisingly, she found that she was enjoying the task. Every now and again the work was interrupted by her Aunt Louisa who would say, ‘Your mother will want to keep the escritoire. Don’t send away the davenport – it’s so comfortable for Arabella’s poor back… and on no account must you sell the needlework carpet.’ She walked along behind Emma Jane, lifting the tickets and questioning her decisions. Rather than argue, Emma Jane found it easier to nod and then do exactly as she pleased after her aunt had gone away, which was usually quite quickly, for her stamina and enthusiasm did not last long.
A Bridge in Time Page 46