Tilly stood at the bedroom window, one hand held tightly across her throat, not to stop any flow of tears – these she had spent during the long sleepless nights – but in order to quell the long moan that was bent on escaping and which, she felt, given rein, would increase into a wail similar to those vented by the Irish women in Rosier’s pit cottages at the news that yet another of their men had been taken by the coal.
The hearse was standing opposite the front door and behind it to the left and reaching to the end of the house and round into the courtyard was a row of carriages, the blinds of the windows drawn, the horses black-draped. To the right, where the drive wound its way for almost half a mile before reaching the main road and for as far as the eye could see, were more carriages. These were already occupied and were being arranged along the verge in some form of precedence to follow those that were to hold the relatives and associates of the deceased.
At the head of each pair of horses stood a groom, black streamers hanging limply from his high hat.
The whole scene was a picture of black and white. The frost had not lifted, and the only break in the black-garbed figures were the faces, some very white, some pink, some florid red. All the hands were covered in black gloves.
The coffin was being borne down the steps towards the hearse, and as Tilly’s eyes followed it her mind did not whimper, ‘Goodbye, Mark’; because she knew that in that elaborate box there lay only his crippled body; his spirit was strong about her in this room where he had lived, where they had both lived for the last twelve years. A short while ago she had thought she would be happy if when having to leave this house she could take this room with her, but she was wise enough to know that once she was gone from the place time would erase the essence of it until it became merely a faint imprint on her mind, and with the fading the pain in her heart would ease. In this moment she longed for the power to leap years ahead into age, deep age with which would have come tranquillity, for age surely earned tranquillity.
The thought conjured up her grandmother and grandfather, who had acted like parents to her from when she was five years old. Loving, caring, tender parents, too tender, too loving, for their care hadn’t prepared her for the onslaught of animosity that had attacked her from all sides since she was fifteen and was with her to this day for there, going down the steps now, was the epitome of it, Jessie Ann. She couldn’t associate her with the fancified name of Mrs Dolman Cartwright. She didn’t look a Mrs Dolman Cartwright. Even in her elaborate black she looked fussy, plump, a little matron who as yet had acquired no knowledge of what was expected of a real matron, a real mistress.
She was followed by Luke and John. They stood at the bottom of the steps while the hearse moved slowly forward, then they entered the first carriage. When this moved on there came a second carriage, and a third. Fourteen carriages passed by the window before the courtyard was cleared and those waiting on the drive could join the cortège. Half the county seemed to have come to pay its respects. And all the mourners were male, with the exception of Mrs Dolman Cartwright.
That Jessie Ann had insisted on attending her father’s funeral was, Tilly knew, merely in order to give point to her position. There had, years previously, been a great deal of talk when their grandmother had attended her grandson’s funeral. Gentlewomen did not attend funerals whether the deceased be male or female, it was unseemly.
When the last carriage passed from view Tilly turned her face from the window and brought her eyes to rest on the big four-poster bed. She walked slowly towards it and placed her hand gently on the near side pillow, and her fingers stroked it as she murmured ‘Mark. Mark.’
She had half turned away from the bed when she stopped again and looked down on the square bedside table. It was this very table he had knocked flying one night when, in the depths of his loneliness, he had used its crashing noise and the breaking of the water glass and the spilling of the carafe to bring her scurrying from her bed to him. Yet that night she had refused him, for, young and silly as she was, she had imagined her heart was still with the farmer, Simon Bentwood. She’d had a lot to learn, and dear . . . dear Mark . . . dearest . . . dearest Mark had taught her.
It would be two hours before those invited would return to the Manor to gorge themselves on hot soup, warm fresh bread and the cold victuals laid out in the dining room: hams, pressed tongue, boiled capons, roast ducks, pasties, pies and an assortment of sweetmeats and cheeses. She had seen to the last of the preparations this morning and it was all finished before Mrs Dolman Cartwright put in an appearance and, as Tilly had expected, found something to criticise, not only something but the whole layout.
‘There should have been a hot meal ready for the mourners. See to it!’ she had said, and Tilly had enraged the little lady still further by answering quietly, ‘This is what I have ordered and like this it will stay.’ She had no need to reiterate what she had said earlier: ‘I consider myself mistress here until this afternoon; then we shall see who it is who will legally take over,’ because the look in her eyes was speaking plainly for her.
She went slowly from the room, along the wide corridor, across the gallery and down the shallow stairs into the hall. The whole house was dark and gloom-filled, the drawn blinds shutting out the meagre light of the sombre day. Only in the kitchen were the windows bare of heavy black drapes.
Biddy, as usual, was at the table. She was preparing the meal for the staff, a plain roast with suet pudding, but she stopped and, wiping her hands on her apron, turned to Tilly and, like a mother addressing a daughter, she said, inclining her head towards the stove, ‘I’ve made a fresh pot of tea and if I were you I’d lace it with a drop of whisky, ’cos I fear you’re going to need it, lass.’
‘Yes, I think you’re right, Biddy. Yes–’ Tilly nodded her head in small jerks – ‘I feel I’m going to need it.’
A few minutes later, sitting on the short wooden settle placed at right angles to the corner of the great open hearth, she sipped at the whisky-laced tea and stared towards the hanging spit from which was suspended a sirloin of beef, the fat dripping slowly into the iron receptacle below. Automatically she leant forward and, gripping the iron handle, turned the spit, after which she sat back and looked at Biddy Drew, the woman who had been as a mother to her and whom she loved as a mother, and she said, ‘I’m not only anxious about myself, Biddy, but I’m now worried about you all because if that little madam takes over she’ll take it out on you, merely because I was a means of bringing you here.’
‘Don’t you worry yourself about that, lass. With the steady wage we’ve had all these years and nowt to do with it except buy our Sunday best we won’t starve. We’ll manage until the lasses get set on some place, an’ the lads an’ all.’
‘But it’s the lodge, you’ve made it such a comfortable home, and the girls love it.’
‘Aye, I know that, and I admit it’ll be a wrench if we have to go. There’s no doubt about that. But God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb, and we’ll find some place; as long as you’ve got the money in your pocket you can always rent. And as I said to the lads last night, they’ve had it easy for a long time now and their characters must be gettin’ soft, there’s nothin’ like trouble and turmoil for pickin’ out the men from the lads.’
‘Aw, Biddy!’ Tilly closed her eyes and turned her head to the side as she said, ‘The lads and all of you have worked like Trojans in this place. In the ordinary way it would have taken twice their number to keep it as it is; they’ve put their whole heart and soul into it, they couldn’t have done more if the place had belonged to them.’
‘Aye, yes, I suppose they have worked. We’ve all worked because we were grateful.’ Biddy’s voice sank as her hand came out and gripped Tilly’s knee. ‘God! lass, you’ll never know how grateful we were to be taken out of that stinkin’ hole and brought here, never! I’m not a prayin’ woman ’cos I suppose up till you appeared there was little to thank Him for, but there’s never a day gone by these past years but I
’ve said to Him, “Thank you for creating Tilly Trotter” . . . Aw, lass . . . lass, don’t. I didn’t mean to make you cry . . . Aw, don’t, give over.’
Tilly got abruptly to her feet and, swallowing deeply and her lids blinking rapidly, she said, ‘And I don’t want to cry, Biddy, not now, not today . . . I’m . . . I’m going to put a coat on and walk round the grounds, blow the cobwebs away.’ She smiled now, and Biddy nodded at her but said nothing; not until Tilly had gone from the room, when she looked upwards and whispered half aloud, ‘Make it right for her, please. Do that, don’t let her be downed again.’
Four
Mr Blandford’s buttocks were poised on the edge of a Louis XVI chair and as he read each name from the parchment in front of him he rocked forward bringing the back legs of the chair off the carpet. He was a nervous man, by nature retiring, that’s why he always left the business of the court proceedings to the junior partners in Blandford, Coleman and Stocks. Even dealing with wills affected him, especially, as now, the reading of them to relatives, because almost never did he face a family group without encountering dissension, animosity, and even venom, causing his left eyelid to twitch and the flesh to wriggle on his bones as if bent on leaving its support.
Today, he was finding, was no exception; in fact, there was a mixed tension in the room. Such was his nervous system that it picked up the separate emotions and anxieties from those sitting to the right facing him. These were all members of the staff, while the small group of three to the left of him represented the immediate family. He had no doubt in his mind that it was from his late client’s daughter that the vexatious vapour was emanating, while interest . . . keen, yet remaining merely interest, were the feelings being expressed by the sons.
In a seat by herself in front of the staff sat the young woman who had for some years held a precarious position in this house. That she could have been its legal mistress any time during the past four years he was well aware, for Mr Mark Sopwith had made no secret of this when he made his last will two years ago. That he had perhaps intended to alter it was more than a surmise, but his message had come too late. He had himself answered the letter from Mr Sopwith which had said he required his presence here at the Manor as soon as was conveniently possible. But on his arrival it was to find the master of the house dead.
He had already read the usual preliminary statements about being of sound mind and such, and had delivered the fact that the estate would go to his eldest son, Matthew George Sopwith, who was now residing in America. And here he paused, wetted his lips, rocked twice backwards and forwards on the chair before proceeding in a voice devoid of emotion or even inflexion as he read, ‘I have very little money to leave any of my children but this can be of no great concern to them as I understand their grandparents have left them considerable amounts of money, that is with the exception of my youngest son, John, and to him I leave my three per cent consols due to mature in 1853.’ Here Mr Blandford paused and the twitching of his eyelid increased as he looked at the plump young figure in black who was staring at him as if he were to be held personally responsible for her being omitted from sharing in any part of the estate. As for her older brother his reaction was to purse his lips. He could not see what expression was on the youngest son’s face because he had his head lowered. He liked that young man, he was the nicest of the family.
He took a deep breath, rocked himself once again as if preparing himself for another effort, then continued. ‘To Matilda Trotter, who has acted, not only as my nurse, but as my wife for many years and brought me great comfort, I should like to be able to say I leave all my possessions including my estate because she has earned it, and if I could have been successful in persuading her to become my wife, which attempt I have made many times, things would have been much more straightforward at this moment, but because she did not wish to embarrass my family, a matter which I may say did not trouble me, she would not consent to such an arrangement, so, therefore, to my dearest Tilly all I can leave her is two sets of shares, five hundred East Indian stock and five hundred in Palmer Brothers and Company, Jarrow shipyard, hoping that they will both rise to procure security for her in later life . . . ’
When the daughter of the house made a quick movement on her chair, which caused her younger brother to imagine she was falling and to put out his hand to steady her, all other eyes in the room turned towards her. But Mr Blandford only allowed his glance to pass over her for her bristling indignation was causing his nerves to jangle. Clearing his throat once more and again bringing the back legs of the chair from the carpet, he went on, ‘Now to my staff, an odd assortment, having been miners, both men and women, all their lives with no domestic experience until they came into my home, from which time they have worked like no others, I leave each the sum of ten pounds, and moreover because my dear Tilly wished it, I bequeath to Mrs Bridget Drew the North Lodge, together with an acre of land taking up three sides of it and excluding the drive. And I would trust that my son, Matthew, would be happy to keep them all employed, together with my dear Tilly in her capacity of housekeeper. Lastly, to Mr Herbert Vincent Burgess I bequeath fifty books of his choice from the library; and to Fred Leyburn, my coachman, the sum of £30.
Signed this 14th day of March, 1851.
Mark John Henry Sopwith.’
Tilly was the first to rise to her feet and, turning round, she put out her hand and helped Biddy up, because that woman seemed too stunned at the moment to move. The rest followed, Katie, Peg, Fanny, Bill, Arthur, and Jimmy Drew, and lastly Fred Leyburn . . .
Luke and John were now standing in front of the table looking down at Mr Blandford who was busily and fussily arranging his papers, and it was Luke who said, ‘Thank you, sir.’
Mr Blandford did not answer him but looked past the young men to where their sister was still sitting, her back straight, her hands gripped tightly on her lap, and what he said now was, ‘I don’t make wills, I merely take down my clients’ wishes. The late Mr Sopwith, I may say, was most insistent that his should be expressed in his own words.’
‘I understand, sir, and . . . and I think my father was . . . well, he was very fair. And it’s true my sister and I don’t really need money. Of course’ – he gave a shaky laugh – ‘it’s questionable that one can have too much.’
‘’Tis, ’tis’ – the solicitor nodded at him – ‘it’s questionable, but it’s no good thing. Speaking from experience, ’tis no good thing.’
‘No, sir, perhaps you’re right. But I’m glad my father thought of John.’ He turned now to his brother.
John, his face pink-hued, said, ‘V . . . very good of F . . . Father. S . . . sur . . . surprised. ’Twas very thoughtful of him.’
‘Yes, yes, indeed.’ The solicitor was nodding at him. Then rising from his rocking seat, he took up his case and moved from behind the table and paused for a moment in front of Jessie Ann and suffered her malignant gaze on him as he said, ‘Good-day, madam.’
She gave him no answer, merely stared unblinking at him; but as Luke escorted him from the room she turned her head slowly in their direction until the door had closed behind them. Only then did she get to her feet and, like an army sergeant who had been maddened by some indiscipline, began to march up and down the room.
As she passed John for the third time he dared to commiserate with her, although he really did not know why she should need sympathy. ‘I’m s . . . sorry, Jessie A . . . ’
‘Shut up will you! Shut up!’
Stung to retort, his mouth was wide open in an effort to bring out the words when the door opened and Luke entered the room again to face the brunt of his sister’s fury.
‘It’s damnable, damnable! Not even to be mentioned. Did you know anything about these bonds? That woman! That . . . ’
‘Oh, give over, Jessie Ann; anyone would think you were on the stage acting a part. Lord! you don’t need the money, it’s as Father said.’
‘That isn’t the point.’
‘What is then?
You tell me.’ His voice was flat, cool; it was the soldier speaking now, not her brother, and for a moment she was nonplussed. Her mouth worked, her nose twitched before she brought out, ‘The point is, he put that woman before us, his own flesh and blood.’
‘And . . . and wh . . . what had we done for him? I ask you. John pointed his finger directly at his sister. ‘Don’t you dare tell me to sh . . . shut up again because if you d . . . do I won’t be answerable for my re . . . re . . . reactions.’
There was a quiet smile on Luke’s face now as he looked at his younger brother, a smile which seemed to say, Good for you, and it made Jessie Ann pause but did nothing to direct her temper away from its objective, for now she cried, ‘She’s not staying here!’
‘Father’s wishes were that Matthew keep her on as his housekeeper.’
‘But, my dear Luke, Matthew is not here, is he? And we have to act for him in his absence. Now it should be you who takes over, but you are returning to your regiment tomorrow, aren’t you? And John here’ – she thumbed towards her brother – ‘is going up to London with you for a time, so I am the only one free to take charge and I’m going to tell you something now. One thing I was certain of in the will was that Father couldn’t leave the estate away from Matthew, and as I knew he couldn’t get here in time I wrote to him and told him that I’d be pleased to keep things going until he arrived to take charge himself.’
‘You little bitch!’ Luke’s words were brought out on a laugh half-filled with admiration at the duplicity and foresight of his sister; then more soberly he added, ‘You do hate her, don’t you?’
‘Well, if I haven’t made that evident by now I’ve underestimated your intelligence, brother.’
‘I . . . I d . . . don’t think she’ll want to stay anyway.’
Tilly Trotter Wed (The Tilly Trotter Trilogy) Page 4