A Dream of her Own

by Benita Brown

  Polly put the tray on the table by the window as she’d been instructed and then hurried back to the kitchen to fetch the small kettle. Master John’s wife looked up and smiled weakly when she returned. Polly took a fire iron and pulled the hob forward before placing the kettle on it.

  ‘There,’ she said. ‘The water’ll heat up nicely, and when Master John comes home you can push it back and boil it up.’

  ‘Thank you, Polly. Now off you go. I won’t need you any more tonight.’

  ‘Right oh. But ...?’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Mrs Edington, she’s been coughing.’

  ‘Yes, I heard her. I thought that you must have gone up to her.’

  ‘No. I was going to but then she stopped. If she’s sleeping I don’t want to disturb her.’

  ‘I understand. Don’t worry, I’ll listen out for her.’

  Polly hesitated. ‘Her medicine’s on the table. But will you be able to ...? I mean have you ever ...?’

  ‘I’m used to invalids, if that’s what you mean. My mother died in the wor—I mean when I was younger.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ Polly started to walk towards her but Mrs John shook her head and waved her away. The poor lady obviously didn’t want to be reminded. ‘Right, then. Good night, Mrs John.’

  ‘Good night.’

  Once back in the kitchen, Polly pulled the truckle bed out from under the table, and tugged the chain that turned off the gaslamp. She knew it was daft but she never took her clothes off until the room was dark. At home there were so many brothers and sisters that modesty required all kinds of shifts and turns, but here there was no one to spy on her or make cheeky comments and yet she still could not bring herself to strip off with the light on.

  Not that she stripped off exactly. She didn’t own a nightgown so she slept in her underwear and, if it was cold like it was tonight, she kept her woollen stockings on too. Then, the same as every night, she hung her dress over the back of a chair and slipped beneath the blankets on the truckle bed which she’d pulled right across in front of the fire.

  Usually she fell asleep as soon as her head hit the black and white striped ticking of the pillow, but tonight she found that her head was spinning with strange thoughts.

  She couldn’t help thinking about Master John and his pretty little bride and what they would be doing tonight when he came home. Polly squirmed as she felt a stab of feeling at the pit of her stomach. It didn’t hurt but it was uncomfortable and yet strangely pleasant. Polly knew what men and women did - she couldn’t help knowing, growing up the way she had, with her mam and her dad and all her brothers and sisters sleeping so close together shared out between two tiny upstairs rooms.

  When her oldest brother, Geordie, got married and brought his lass, Ida, home, they’d had to share with the younger children until they got a couple of rooms of their own. But by the time that happened, Ida was six months gone.

  Master John would be no different from her dad or Geordie, she supposed. And that was probably why he hadn’t come home yet. No doubt he was out on the town with that swell friend of his, getting drunk as a boiled owl.

  Polly was glad that she wouldn’t have to deal with him if he did come home blotto. She could stay here until the morning, warm and snug in her own narrow bed, with the kitchen smelling pleasantly of good food and the glow from the hearth to comfort and reassure her.

  Yes, she worked hard but life here was good compared to the life of her sisters and her mother. Perhaps she would never get married. It might be better to remain an old maid rather than have to be some man’s drudge and be worn out having baby after baby year after year.

  But if she didn’t get married she wouldn’t be a bride, she wouldn’t have a wedding day. She could imagine herself walking down the aisle of the church carrying a beautiful bouquet of flowers. Just before she drifted off to sleep, Polly sighed as she found that the young man waiting for her at the altar was Albert Green ...

  waited until the sound of regular breathing from the other bed told her that Alice was asleep. Then, pushing the bedclothes back, she swung her feet over the lumpy mattress on to the bare wooden floor. It was cold, the draught under the door was like a howling gale, and Nella reached for her shawl and pulled it over her shoulders.

  The Sowerby house might be grand, Nella thought, but these flamin’ attics are like the most miserable hovels on earth. In summer it’s boiling hot up here under the eaves and in winter it’s like ice.

  In the cold light coming through the dormer window Nella glanced at her new roommate. Alice was sleeping like a baby. Well, she was a baby, wasn’t she? And that was probably why she had cried herself to sleep. Nella had heard the muffled sobs but she had lain still, pretending to be asleep. She could have comforted her, Constance would have wanted her to, but she had something else to worry about.

  Now, satisfied that the new skivvy was sleeping the blessed sleep of exhaustion, Nella moved her aching limbs painfully across the floor towards the chest of drawers. She groped for the matches, pulled the candle in the saucer forward and lit it. The flame wavered and then steadied; Nella turned to see if the slight scraping noise the match had made had woken Alice but it hadn’t.

  Nella’s clothes were hanging over the rail at the bottom of her bed. She reached into the pocket of her dress and took out the small golden coloured heart. She held out her hand and examined the heart in the light of the candle. There they were, the two letters engraved on the front, C and N entwined. The first letters of their names. This was the wedding gift she had given to Constance.

  Very early, when she’d gone out to the coalhouse and had found a broken chain and she had hoped against hope that it was not the chain she had given to Constance. And, if it was, then she had imagined that one of the links must have been weak. But she had not found the little heart. Not until later that day.

  Nella grew even colder with horror when she remembered the scream she had heard the night before. So she hadn’t been imagining it: it had been Constance who had cried out for help and there had been no one to go to her aid. No one to help her when he had attacked her.

  Oh, how she hated him!

  She remembered the moment after breakfast when she had been cleaning the grate in his bedroom. He had been lying in bed, snoring like a drunken pig, and she had set the fire, lit it, and tried to get out before he woke up. In her haste to leave the room she had stumbled over the clothes he had left strewn about on the floor. She would have left them there and hurried out but something was glinting in the turn-up of one of the legs of his trousers. She crouched and pulled it free - and felt like seizing a fire iron and beating him over the head.

  She was crouching there, feeling sick with shock and rage when he spluttered and stirred. She turned her head to find him staring at her. Startled, she thrust the golden heart in her pocket and fled.

  Whenever she had had a moment throughout the day she had taken the golden heart from her pocket and stared at it. Then she had put it back into her pocket where she could almost feel it burning through the thin stuff of her dress and branding her skin.

  She wished she could brand him!

  She would have to see Constance and find out what had happened. Perhaps her friend had been able to fight him off. He was big and hefty, but if he’d been drinking - and he probably had been - a nimble lass would have been able to outmanoeuvre him, knee him where it hurt and dodge away.

  Would Constance know about that? Where to hurt a man? Any woman would, wouldn’t she?

  Poor Constance. What a thing to happen on the night before her wedding!

  She would have to go and see her at the first opportunity.

  Constance will tell me whether Gerald Sowerby has hurt her, Nella thought, and if he has - if he has - I’ll find a way to kill him!

  ‘Constance ... Constance, sweetheart ...’

  She stirred and opened her eyes. John was standing over her. She moved her head and found that her neck was aching. She frowned
, but as soon as he saw that she was awake, he smiled and kneeled down beside her. He took her hand.

  ‘You’re cold, I’m sorry...’

  ‘Sorry?’ Constance turned her head to look at the hearth. A few embers glowed amongst the ashes but the fire was past saving. How long have I been sleeping? she thought. She glanced up at the clock. Midnight!

  ‘John!’ She turned to face him and he reached for her other hand and held them both tightly against his chest.

  ‘I know, I know - and, Constance, I’m so sorry,’ he said.

  ‘But, John, why? This is our wedding day...’

  ‘There - there was so much to do, so much to talk about-’

  ‘Talk about? With Uncle Walter? Have you been talking business all this time?’

  ‘I ... I don’t know what to say. The time just flew ...’

  ‘I don’t understand. Your uncle promised that he would send you home in time for us to have supper together. Polly has left everything ready for us ... there on the tray.’

  ‘You haven’t eaten?’

  ‘No, I waited for you!’

  Constance realized that her voice was shrill and she also realized that she couldn’t care less about missing her supper. It was the fact that John could do this tonight of all nights that upset her. Surely he should have wanted to hurry home to her?

  He rose to his feet, bringing her up with him. ‘Do you want something now? Shall I ring for Polly and tell her to make you a hot drink?’

  ‘Polly is asleep. I told her she could go to bed hours ago.’

  John released Constance’s hands and stepped back. ‘Then I shall make you a cup of tea.’ He had seen the kettle in the hearth and was about to kneel and put it on the trivet when Constance reached out a hand to stop him.

  ‘John, it doesn’t matter. I don’t want anything. I just ...’

  She could feel the tears pricking at the back of her eyes and, the next moment, John had taken her in his arms.

  ‘Oh, my poor darling,’ he said. ‘I have been thoughtless. Will you forgive me? Please say you’ll forgive me!’

  ‘Yes ... but why? Oh, John ...’

  He caught her open mouth with his, and between kisses he murmured against her lips, ‘Hush ... my sweet ... We mustn’t start our life together with a quarrel ... must we?’

  ‘No, but...’

  His lips were moist, his kisses gentle, tender, sweet ... Constance found herself responding, melting against him. But there was something on his breath. Was it wine? Had he been drinking? Had he and his uncle been celebrating his marriage? If that were so, it was only natural ... but to come home so late!

  She stiffened and made a moan of distress. He pulled away and held her face in his hands. They were warm and soft and his touch was sure. He held her so that she had to look into his eyes.

  ‘Hush, sweetheart.’ He pulled her forward and kissed her brow. ‘Come, my darling ... come up to bed.’

  Polly must have banked the bedroom fire up well for it was still glowing and the room was not too cold. John, murmuring something about respecting her modesty, went to his old room to undress. Constance was grateful that he had not chosen to light the lamps; there was something reassuringly comforting about undressing by firelight.

  She felt a little lost and uncertain. She realized that in spite of the romance of their courtship she hardly knew her husband. They had so seldom been alone together. But she had been sure that John loved her as much as she loved him. Otherwise why should he marry her?

  Why had he stayed out so late tonight?

  Had he really been unable to refuse his uncle’s hospitality? He hadn’t really answered her but then he had seemed so ashamed, so regretful, so eager to make up with her ...

  Constance lay the last of her undergarments on a chair. She shivered. Where was her nightdress? Oh yes, under the pillow. She should hurry; John would be returning soon.

  John ... I love him so much, she thought, and he is here with me now and he is right, we should not begin our life together with a quarrel.

  She took her nightdress from under the pillow and suddenly wished that she had been able to afford a new one. She wondered what Polly had thought about the numerous darns. Well, at least the mends were neat. By the time John returned she was in bed.

  There had been so little intimacy between them that Constance hardly knew what to expect. Once in his arms, she surrendered herself to his kisses and they were infinitely sweet. To her delight, she felt her body beginning to respond to his feathering caresses. A tremulous pleasure began to build up inside her and suddenly she became possessed of an urgent desire to be as close as possible to him, for the two of them to become one. Then, just as he was about to enter her, she had a moment of terror.

  Would John be able to tell that this was not the first time for her?

  She must have drawn back and tensed up because John whispered, ‘Don’t be frightened, sweetheart. The last thing I want to do is hurt you. Try to relax.’

  But she couldn’t relax and she could feel her muscles resisting him as he pushed his way in. This is my husband, she had to remind herself, he loves me and I love him. I must not let the evil that Gerald did spoil my wedding night.

  John held her and soothed her as he moved inside her. Her terror faded as she succumbed to the joy of being in his arms but the pleasurable feelings had gone - died away. She was left with a puzzling sense of disappointment.

  After it was over there were traces of tears on her cheeks. John found them there and kissed them away. Constance could have sworn that he had been crying too.

  Chapter Eleven

  December

  ‘There’s a woman at the door what wants to see you.’ Polly sounded cross - no, not exactly cross, put out and a bit unsure of herself. Constance looked up from her mending; the girl was scowling. Constance held her patience.

  ‘Who wants to see me,’ Constance corrected her, ‘and what is her name and what does she want?’

  ‘I dunno.’

  Constance was vexed. In the weeks since she had been here, Polly had behaved herself well enough. The two of them had achieved an uneasy truce, but now she hadn’t even remembered to knock; she had barged in and was giving every sign of being in a proper fret. Perhaps it was because of all the extra work over Christmas. Constance glanced at her; at least the girl had remembered to put on a clean white apron before going to the door. Constance decided to exercise patience.

  ‘Did you ask her what her business was?’

  ‘Yes. She just said she wanted to see you.’

  ‘And her name? You did ask her name, didn’t you?’

  ‘Of course I did. It’s Miss Nicholson.’ With a raise of her eyebrows Polly conveyed that this was very unlikely.

  Constance frowned. ‘I don’t know a Miss Nicholson.’

  ‘Right.’ The girl looked relieved. ‘Then I can send the little witch on her way.’

  Polly was out of the door before Constance had time to rise to her feet. Dropping the socks and the darning wools, she called out, ‘Polly! Come back!’

  ‘Yes?’ The girl popped her head round the door. ‘She’s still standing there, mind, and there’s a fair old draught from the door.’

  ‘Show her in.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Show Miss Nicholson in - and for goodness’ sake, try to be polite!’

  Polly raised her eyebrows and pursed her lips together sulkily but she did as she was told. Constance heard her say, ‘This way, Miss Nicholson,’ and a moment later her guest entered the room.

  ‘Nella!’ Constance exclaimed.

  ‘Constance - ee, Constance!’

  They hugged each other, then stood back and stared for a moment before they both exclaimed at once, ‘How nice you look!’

  ‘And you smell lovely,’ Nella said, ‘like a rose garden!’

  ‘Attar of Roses,’ Constance told her. ‘John bought it for me when I told him that I liked it.’

  ‘Mind, you really suit that colour,’
Nella said. ‘It’s like cornflowers - matches yer eyes. And velvet - that’s not cheap. Been shopping, hev you?’

  ‘No, we made it.’

  ‘We? You and yer ma-in-law?’

  ‘No. I’ll tell you later. But look at you - such a smart skirt and jacket!’

  ‘It’s not a jacket, it’s a bolero. Isabelle gave it to me - and the skirt and blouse. She helped me alter them to fit. And that was a fair puzzle, I can tell you.’

  ‘That was kind of her.’