Without a Mother's Love

by Catherine King

  ‘I told you to be quiet.’

  Harriet sank back in her chair and sipped her ale.

  ‘Go on, Olivia.’

  ‘After dinner I learn about history and geography and nature.’ She paused. ‘And, I am reading Cousin Hesley’s books.’

  ‘That’ll please your aunt Caroline.’

  ‘Is she coming to see me?’

  ‘Not if I can help it,’ he growled.

  Mrs Cookson brought in soup, made from leeks thickened with potatoes, and a plate of bread. ‘The birds are about ready, sir.’

  ‘Good.’ He reached across for bread and took up his spoon. ‘Continue, Olivia.’

  Olivia sat very still and silent.

  ‘Well?’

  Harriet took a deep breath. ‘Olivia has been saying grace for several weeks now, sir.’

  He grunted and chewed some bread.

  Harriet smiled and nodded. Her pupil was word perfect and she wished she could have kept her eyes open to watch the master’s reaction.

  When Mrs Cookson came in with the meat, he exclaimed. ‘At last! I’m starving.’

  He doesn’t know what starving means, Harriet thought. She did. Starving was being unable to satisfy your hunger at any meal. Starving was being frightened to start eating because if there was not enough it only made you more hungry when what you had been given was gone. She watched him eat and drink noisily, with appetite.

  She had eaten a lot when she had first come here, but not so much now: she no longer had that constant hunger and was confident that the next meal would be substantial. She would not have to let out her old gown again.

  However, she enjoyed the roast fowl, bread sauce, the carrots, potatoes and greens that went with it. Olivia behaved as Harriet had taught her, and Harriet was pleased that the child’s table manners put her uncle’s to shame. Mrs Cookson came in with a bowl of pears and some walnuts.

  ‘Shall we leave you now, sir?’ Harriet suggested.

  He grunted and waved her away with his tankard.

  She stood up and nodded to the child.‘Olivia, you ay bring a pear with you.’

  When they reached the door the master called Harriet back. ‘Come to the candles, where I can see you better,’ he said.

  She hesitated, wanting to be out of the room and away from him. The meal had gone well and he seemed pleased with Olivia’s progress. But she did not wish further discussion with him. He had been drinking ale before and throughout dinner, and Mrs Cookson had advised keeping out of his way when he was drunk.

  ‘I have schoolroom work to do, sir.’

  ‘That can wait. Or would you rather come back . . . later?’

  His tone alarmed her. His speech was slightly slurred and his question had made her uncomfortable. Olivia had left quickly, no doubt as anxious as Harriet to be away from him.

  Reluctantly, she moved back to the table where the candles gave more light. His unshaven chin moved up and down as his eyes travelled over her. There was no mistaking his meaning. It was as though he were sizing her up at a hiring fair and she felt embarrassed by his invading stare.

  ‘Turn around,’ he ordered.

  ‘Sir, I must protest!’

  He stood up so quickly, knocking over his chair, that she jumped. He kicked aside another chair and reached across the table for the candelabrum, which he held near as he walked around her. He stopped in front of her. The candles cast weird shadows on his lined features, making him look fearsome and quite menacing.

  ‘Good living becomes you, Miss Trent,’ he said.

  She did not reply. She was clenching her fists and holding her breath, wondering what he would do next. Then he dismissed her with a jerk of his head towards the door. ‘Go and prepare your lessons, then.’

  She was out of the room in a second, but lingered in the darkening hall to allow her heart to slow. How could he treat her like that? As though she were one of his - his women! She was a governess in this house, responsible for the moral well-being of a child! She went into the kitchen where Mrs Cookson was stacking crockery on the dresser.

  ‘Does the master take pleasure in humiliating all his servants?’ she asked.

  Mrs Cookson gave a half-smile. ‘Only the young females as a rule. It’s just his way.’

  And perfectly acceptable to his housekeeper, Harriet thought. She took a few deep breaths to calm herself, then asked where Olivia was.

  ‘I sent her upstairs. Something’s up with the master, mark my words.Things haven’t been right since that ruck at the pit.’

  ‘Is that why he has come back?’

  ‘Matt told me he got rid of the troublemakers and that quietened things down.’

  ‘But did he not need all his men to mine the coal?’ It was not the miners’ fault that the coal seam was poor and it must take just as many men to dig it out. ‘With fewer colliers, won’t there be less coal to sell?’

  Mrs Cookson looked at her sideways with an expression of puzzlement. ‘That’s nowt to do with you. This is summat different, though. The carter told me last week that the town bank was in trouble and the master would never have left his shooting and rode all the way on horseback if it hadn’t been serious.’

  ‘Oh.’ Harriet had nothing to do with the bank so she could not comment.

  Mrs Cookson went on, ‘Will you help me carry hot water up to the landing? The master will take a bath before he goes out.’

  ‘Of course. Shall you need help when he’s finished?’

  ‘One o’ the farmhands’ll see to it. But you could clean his riding clothes for me.’

  ‘Bring them into the schoolroom. I’ll show Miss Olivia how to do it.’

  Mrs Cookson nodded. ‘Wear your new gowns every day while the master’s here,’ she added.

  Harriet was teaching her pupil how to use a flat-iron on woollen cloth when she heard a horse on the cobbles outside. She crossed to the window and saw Matt taking a letter from the rider. A few moments later, she heard his boots on the stairs, then a shout of rage from the master. He was on the landing and she heard him quite clearly:‘Tell him I’m going to the mine now,’ he yelled.

  Harriet watched as Matt returned to the messenger in the yard, then led out one of the hunters from the stable. Minutes later, the master emerged, dressed smartly in a fine dark coat and high hat. For a man of his advancing years he was still quite agile and sat well in the saddle.

  She watched him ride away into the fading light and was aware of relief washing over her. She had not liked the way he had scrutinized her in the dining room. His return to Hill Top House had unsettled her more than she cared to admit.

  Chapter 4

  Jared Tyler watched quietly from the back of the crowd. Dusk was falling and the Mexton miners had not gone home after their shift. Instead they were hanging about in groups at the back of the Navigator Inn by the canal. Some were already shouting but few had been drinking for most were feeling the cut in wages earlier that year.

  ‘It’s not right and we’re not standin’ fer it!’ someone called out. He jumped up on to the back of a cart, waving his hands in the air. ‘We’ve done t’work an’ we wants us pay!’

  ‘Aye!’ the gathering crowd yelled in agreement.

  A lone voice responded: ‘Well, ’e can’t do that wi’out money from t’bank, lads.’

  ‘Thee shurrup. Owd Mexton can allus find money for ’is drink and ’is women. We know that.’

  ‘Tha can bet ’e’s ovver at his whore’s house now!’

  ‘Aye, while our wives and little ’uns’ll go wi’out their dinners!’

  ‘Aye, an’ winter just round t’corner.’

  ‘Manager said he wa’ working summat out,’ the lone voice responded.

  Jared stretched his neck to see who it was. It was a brave man who went against a crowd like this. Or a stupid one.

  At sixteen Jared was tall for his age and had learned how to fist-fight at school. He enjoyed the cross-country runs and games that filled his Wednesday and Saturday afternoons and
missed them when he was home for the holidays. His father’s forge further up the canal in town was doing well. One day he’d be running it for him. He couldn’t wait. His father had promised him his own horse for his next birthday.

  But Jared knew something was wrong when Father had sent word that he would not be home for his tea as he had to see his bankers. He should have stayed with his mother and sisters but he didn’t. He had gone down to the canal and followed a group of ironworks men to Mexton, where the miners were gathering.

  ‘Work summat out?’ another voice repeated. ‘Like ’e did when we got to that slack? He worked summat out then!’

  ‘Aye! Cut us wages, ’e did, and got rid o’ them that complained!’

  ‘Aye, an’ ’e’ll do t’same again!’

  ‘Shurrup, thee.’

  ‘Shurrup, thissen. Who says we all go to t’ pit’ead now, an’ ’ave it out wi’ ’im?’

  ‘I do!’

  ‘Me an’ all!’

  ‘Come on, then, lads. Let’s see what ’e ’as ter say this time.’ The man jumped down from the cart, took up a heavy stick and led the way.

  Jared felt alarmed. Although he didn’t like Hesley Mexton any more than the next man, this crowd was baying for blood. He stayed back, skirting around to get to the pithead first. But there was no way he could reach the mine office before the other men. Lamps glowed from a couple of windows in the stone and slate building, and a couple of horses were tethered at the side. He kept his distance, watching the crowd grow in size. Someone lit flares, which made the scene even more sinister.

  Jared recognized one or two of the ironworkers joining the march. They knew that pit problems also meant trouble for the furnaces and forges that paid their wages. Besides, they were supporting their kin. Fathers, sons, brothers and cousins, whole families depended on coal and iron in this part of the Riding. The crunch of their heavy boots blended with their mutterings and shouts.

  Jared stayed out of sight. His mother might not have much to do with old Hesley Mexton, but she was his half-sister even though she was thirty years younger. Jared’s grandfather, old Samuel, had died soon after his mother was born and his grandmother, Samuel’s second wife, had been ill-provided for in Samuel’s will. She had been shunned by Jared’s uncles and had taken her infant daughter back to her own family in town.

  No one liked Hesley Mexton around here, and some in this crowd might know Jared was a relative, even though it was distant. As he surveyed the men, he was glad he was a Tyler.

  His father was more tolerant of Uncle Hesley than his mother was. Mexton’s coal was cheaper than Swinborough’s at Kimber Deep and had been just as good until recently. Tyler’s Forge had had to refuse a bargeload from Mexton Pit because it was mostly slack and his father had had to buy his furnace fuel elsewhere. But this trouble was about something else, Jared thought. Something that had caused his father enough worry to make him visit the bank, and seemed to be affecting the whole town.

  One of the men holding a flare tried to reason with the crowd. He was soon shouted down by an angry mob who, without their wages, would not be able to pay their rent or buy food for their children. As the men pushed nearer to the blackened stone pithead buildings, a few picked up stones and threw them at the manager’s office where a light glowed from a window. The sound of breaking glass raised a cheer, and the tension heightened. Jared saw a door open and Hesley Mexton stepped outside. His manager was close behind him, carrying a lantern. The crowd quietened in anticipation.

  ‘I can’t pay you without money,’ Hesley shouted. ‘The bank’s closed down. It’s failed.’

  ‘Don’t give us that! Banks don’t fail!’

  ‘It’s true,’ the manager added loudly. ‘The furnaces can’t pay us for the coal we’ve delivered ’em.’

  ‘What are we supposed to do for us rent, then?’

  ‘Every man will get half of what he’s due,’ the manager replied.

  ‘Aye, an’ what we’re due is on’y half o’ what we’re worth!’

  This comment started up the muttering and grumbling again and more stones hit the building. Hesley turned aside, shielding his head with an arm, but a rock hit him squarely on his side. He cursed and stepped behind the manager as more missiles landed at their feet.

  ‘It’s all we’ve got in the safe,’ the manager added desperately. ‘It’ll pay your rent.’

  ‘Aye, an’ what about bread for us bairns?’

  Neither Hesley nor his manager had an answer for that. Jared’s attention was drawn to the horses tethered in the shadow of the office building. The noise of the crowd had frightened them and they were restive.

  Suddenly the men lost control.They surged forward, shouting and throwing stones, breaking more windows and splintering wood. Jared realized that the pit office would offer no protection for Hesley or his manager.This was a serious business and not only for the pit. His father had reason to worry. His forge relied on regular coal supplies. Also, he used the same bank and his workers wanted their pay too.

  The horses whinnied and reared. Hesley and his manager, struck by flying rocks, turned and ran, grabbing the reins of their horses and mounting quickly, spurring the animals to a gallop. A brick caught Hesley full in the back. He yelled and flopped forward, but rallied and urged his horse on. The two men rode away in different directions, faster than any man on foot could catch them.

  The mob, angry at their escape, vented their frustration on the buildings and wagons lying around the pithead. Flares were discarded as men rejected them in favour of stone and anything that would serve as a heavy cudgel.

  One of the flares landed on a fodder cart for the horses. A bundle of straw smouldered and caught light, spreading to sacks of oats and hay. As it burned, the cart was jostled and began to move, rolling steadily towards the gin-house, containing the steam engine and pit-shaft winding gear.

  Cold fear ran through Jared. There’d be coal in there. And grease for the engine, probably oil for the office lamps as well. If that lot went up, the mine would be out of action for weeks! Jared darted around the mob towards the moving cart as the flames took hold. He’d never stop it on his own.

  ‘Take the shaft and heave! Swing it round!’ Another man had seen the danger and was running with him. Jared registered an unusual accent but no more as both men leaned for all they were worth to change the wagon’s course. It turned slightly and headed slowly towards the army of angry men.

  ‘Fire! Fire!’

  The warning spread as quickly as the blaze and the men scattered.The flaming cart rolled gently towards the mine office and toppled, spilling its burning straw and sacks onto the ground. A couple of miners took off their jackets to beat out the flames, but most could only stand and watch as bedding and food for the carthorses were destroyed.

  ‘It’s too late! Get back!’ The man who had come to Jared’s aid stood in front of the fire, facing the crowd. The leaping flames behind him cast his face in darkness and gave his gesticulating form a demonic appearance as he shouted, ‘Enough! None of this will help your wives and children. Listen to me!’

  ‘Why should we?’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘My name is Tobias Holmes and I’m from County Durham.’

  ‘Nay, I’ve bin there and tha dun’t sound like it ter me.’

  ‘I was in America until recently.’

  This seemed to impress and still a few of the rebels. There were stories in the taverns of riches to be made in America. Jared raised an eyebrow. So that was where the accent came from.

  ‘You made a fortune to gi’ us, then?’

  ‘No, but I can help to feed your families until this business is righted.’

  ‘Oh, aye? How?’

  ‘I’ve taken a lease on the old farmhouse. I’ll have soup and bread for your wives and children in the barn at dinner time tomorrow.’

  There was quiet as the crowd took in the stranger and his offer.

  ‘You from the poorhouse, then?’

 
‘Aye, well, we don’t want your charity, we want us pay.’

  ‘I’m a Wesleyan,’ Tobias Holmes shouted. ‘I’m setting up a mission in Mexton.’

  ‘One o’ them preacher types, are you?’

  ‘Like them that live at the Dissenters’ House?’

  ‘We’re church folk ’ere. We don’t want no radical preachers stirring up our womenfolk.’

  ‘I’m not a preacher,’ he declared, ‘and it’s not charity. It’ll cost a farthing for each family. Go back to your wives and tell them there’ll be dinner in the old barn tomorrow for a farthing.’

  The men muttered but the offer was not to be spurned, and they retreated to their homes. Jared licked his lower lip and tasted blood from a cut. His boots and trousers were scuffed and his good jacket dusty. He looked around for his cap and found it trampled in the mud.

  Tobias Holmes came over to him and held out his hand. ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Jared nodded. His grasp was firm. ‘It could have been nasty. I’m Jared Tyler. Are you serious about a mission here?’

  ‘Yes. Do you know of us?’

  ‘I learned about Wesleyans at school.’

  ‘You have been to school?’ Tobias Holmes stepped back to look at him in the dying firelight. ‘Yes, I see now that you’re not a miner.You speak well and your coat is cut from good cloth.’

  ‘My father is an ironmaster.’

  ‘Then he will know of the bank’s failure. A bad business. The rich will suffer as well as the poor.’ Tobias Holmes grimaced. ‘But I care only for the poor.’

  ‘The Methodist chapel in town has a growing following.’

  ‘Give us time and we shall set up missions with poor funds in every pit village in the Riding.’

  ‘I wish you well.’

  ‘Thank you.Will you not join us on Sunday? I hold a meeting in the barn at the old farmhouse.’

  ‘I might.’

  Jared’s mother and father were church people and he was expected to worship with them. He noticed the last of the miners hurry away as a rider approached. It was the constable from town. He slowed and picked his way carefully through the debris of stones, broken glass and charred wood.