‘What do you say, lass?’
‘Do you think he knows, Biddy?’
‘Who, lass?’
‘Mark . . . the master.’
‘He’ll know all right, lass. He’ll know. Now I’m just gona tidy you up, then off you go to sleep because if I know anything you need it. An’ that fellow there’s gona be at you afore you know where you are.’
‘Thank you, Biddy. Thank you.’ There was no strength in the clasp of her hand now . . .
The daylight was coming through the small window and in the light she could see Biddy holding the child out towards her. She took it into her arms and when it nuzzled her breast Biddy said, ‘Now you know you’re a mother, lass.’
She looked down on her son and was surprised to see that he had hair, and more surprised still to see that his face was an almost exact replica of his father’s every feature in miniature. She gazed in wonder at the small hand kneading her breast. It was broad, the fingers square. She laughed as she looked up at Biddy, saying now, ‘If he doesn’t change there won’t be much trouble in identifying the father.’
‘No; you’ve said it. Even Katie remarked on it right away.’
‘Will he change much?’
‘Oh, he’ll change, they all do, yet at the same time remain the same, if you know what I mean.’
‘No, I don’t’ – Tilly laughed gently – ‘but I follow you.’
‘Master John’s been along.’
‘So early?’
‘Well, it’s on seven o’clock now.’
‘How are they managing up there?’
‘Oh, we’ve got it all arranged. He said we had to see to you, so I’ve fixed everything. Arthur’s trotting us back and forward in the wagon. Then in a few days’ time when you’re feeling more like yourself Phyllis’ girl, Betty, she’s coming over to stay with you until you’re nearly on your feet. She’s a sensible lass.’
‘But I thought she was over at the Redheads?’
‘She left when her bond was up. Couldn’t stand the cook. Sixteen hours a day was a bit too much for her, for anybody, but for a ten-year-old, well her legs were swollen as big as a porker’s hock. Master John said I can take her on and start her in the kitchen . . . ’
It was later that day Tilly heard a knock on the door and when, later, Biddy came upstairs but didn’t mention who had called, she asked, ‘Who was that at the door?’
‘Oh, just some lass. Got the wrong house I think.’
‘Wrong house? Someone starting service?’
‘No, no.’ Biddy was busying herself at the wash-hand stand tucked into the corner under the sloping roof. ‘Gentry, I’d say; come on her horse.’
‘Who was she looking for?’
‘Somebody . . . oh, somebody of the name of Smith.’
Tilly’s brows came together. ‘Smith? There’s no Smith round here, not that the gentry would visit. And they wouldn’t be living in a cottage like this, would they? Now who was it, Biddy?’
Biddy turned to her. ‘I’ve told you. As true as I’m standing here it was a young girl on a horse, but she had come to the wrong house. You don’t believe me?’
‘It’s very strange.’ Tilly shook her head.
‘There’s lots of strange things happen in the world and that to me isn’t one of them. She’s just a lass, or a lady if you must have it, who mistook a house. Likely she was visiting a dependant or some such. I hope that when I’m in my dotage you’ll come and visit me at the lodge.’
‘Oh, shut up.’ Tilly turned her head to the side and Biddy, making use of one of her boys’ jocular retorts, said, ‘I would if I had a shop, a music hall, or a coal mine.’
All Tilly could reply to this was a huh! accompanied by a shake of her head with closed eyes, which she opened quickly at the sound of a heavy tread at the bottom of the stairs. They looked at each other, and Tilly said, ‘Go and give him a hand, Biddy, he’ll break his neck one of these times.’
‘The quicker you’re downstairs the better, lass.’ Biddy jerked her head. ‘This is the third time since last night an’ I’m puffed out helping him through that hole in the floor.’
As Tilly watched Biddy lower herself gingerly on to her knees and extend a hand through the open hatchway from which the stairs descended, she marvelled at the compensations life offered one; for every two enemies she had she had a friend, and as Mr Burgess was always quoting, one ounce of good outweighed a pound of evil. If only that ounce of good would outweigh the void inside her, fill it up and take away this great sense of loneliness, for even the child as yet had not entered the void.
What if it never filled the void; what if time would offer no replacement? Time erased all pain, they said.
‘There you are, my dear.’ Mr Burgess was bending over her, smiling down on them both, and as he so often did he seemed to pick up her thoughts, for he said, ‘You’ll never be lonely again. He’ll bring love into your life. You’ll see.’
Eight
The child was three months old. He was a lusty infant, good-tempered, crying only when he was hungry, when it was more of a whine than a cry. He gurgled at every face that hung above him, particularly that of Mr Burgess whose sparse beard had an attraction for his fingers.
The old man seemed to have lost the new life that came in with the spring and he now spent most of his mornings in bed and his afternoons dozing by the fire.
Tilly had to keep the clothes basket, which served as a cradle for the baby, well out of his way, for in his sudden spurts towards his books on the shelves he was apt to stumble over anything in front of him that was not any higher than his knees.
Sometimes she could go almost a week without seeing anyone other than Mr Burgess, the child, and a quick visit from Arthur bringing some dainties from the kitchen. But on this particular day she had three visitors.
The first one came in the morning and he was Tom Pearson. When she opened the door to him she could not hide her surprise. She had not seen anyone from the village, except the children, for years. The Manor had protected her like a fortress. And she had no need to go through the village ever; whenever she went into Shields, or as far away as Newcastle, she went by coach along the main road.
‘Mr Pearson!’
‘Aye, Tilly. It is a long time since we met.’
‘Yes, yes, it is.’ She did not invite him in because Mr Burgess was still asleep, but she stepped towards him, drawing the door closed behind her, and as she did so he said, ‘You’ll be wondering why I’m here, or why I haven’t come afore.’
She was puzzled for a moment until he added, ‘My young ’un . . . I only heard yesterday of what he got up to some months back. He let slip something and I whacked the rest out of him. I’m sorry, Tilly.’
‘Oh, it’s all right, Mr Pearson. I should say I’m used to it by now, but somehow I feel I’ll never get used to it.’
‘’Tisn’t likely. So unfair. I’ve said that all along, ’tis so unfair. But they’re ignorant an’ they breed ignorance. That young McGrath is a chip off the old block, and I’ve warned my Tommy that if I catch him runnin’ round with him again I’ll take the skin off him. Anyway, how are you, Tilly?’
‘I’m very well, thank you, Mr Pearson.’
‘An’ . . . an’ the bairn, can I ask after it?’
‘Yes, and thank you. And he’s very well too.’
‘I’m glad to hear that.’ He sighed now. ‘Bairns . . . well, they’re a blessin’ and a curse, all in the same breath. My eldest, Bobby, he’s heading for America next week.’
‘Really!’
‘Aye. All happened through gettin’ into conversation with some fellow on the quay at Newcastle last year. The fellow was off to join his brother, who was working in some factory picking up money like nuggets he said. I’ll believe that when I see it, but you can’t stop them once they get something in their head like that.’
‘Well perhaps he will make his fortune and then send for you.’
‘Not me, Tilly, not me; I’m past
pipe dreams, me. And I can’t get his mother hardly over the doorstep, never mind America. She’s even afeared of the few horses and carriages an’ the like in the village.’
Tilly merely nodded now. She had heard years ago that Mrs Pearson was afraid of anything that moved on the roads, and that she wouldn’t even let the children have a cat or a dog in the house in case they came to harm.
‘Well, I just thought I’d come and tell you, Tilly, it was none of my doings or with my knowledge he came along pesterin’ you.’
‘No, I’m sure of that, Mr Pearson.’
‘And while I’m at it I can tell you that I’m sorry for your plight.’
‘There’s no need, Mr Pearson, I’m quite comfortable.’
‘But it can’t be the same, lass, not like up there.’ He jerked his head and his hand at the same time in the direction in which the Manor lay. She made no answer to this, and so, after shuffling his feet on the rough path, he said, ‘I’ll be off then, Tilly, an’ good luck always in whatever you do.’
‘Thank you, Mr Pearson. And thank you for coming.’
‘Aye. Aye.’ He bobbed his head at her, then went marching off down the road.
He’d always been for her, had Mr Pearson. She remembered the couple of rabbits he had left outside in the shed before the cottage was burned down. At first she had thought Steve had put them there . . . Steve. She didn’t know what had happened to Steve; she only hoped he was happy and had found a nice girl and settled down. He should have married Katie. Katie had liked him, more than liked him.
The second visitor was more surprising still. The baby had come to the end of its midday meal and was lying contentedly in her arms, its pink cheek against her warm breast, when she heard the sound of a horse being brought to a stop. Quickly she put the child in the basket, covered her breast, buttoned up her blouse, then went to the window, there to see a young lady walking towards the front door.
She let her knock before she went and opened it, and she stared at the young person who stared at her, and they both showed surprise. It was the visitor who spoke first. ‘I . . . I must have made a mistake again, but . . . but they told me that this was the cottage, a . . . a Mr Burgess’ cottage.’
‘Yes, that’s right. Do you wish to see him? He’s not very well at present.’
‘No! no!’ The young lady shook her head so vigorously that the feather in her velour hat bobbed up and down.
When she did not go on to explain whom she wished to see, Tilly’s eyes narrowed as she stared at her. She could be pretty. She had a round heart-shaped face and warm brown eyes; her lips, although wide, were well shaped, but the face missed prettiness because of its expression. She guessed that the girl was around eighteen years old but the look on her face, given off by the expression of her eyes and the drooping corners of the mouth, was that of someone deeply aggrieved, not angry, but hurt. She was speaking now, her words hesitant, ‘I . . . I don’t know what to say but . . . but perhaps it is your mother I am looking for.’
‘My mother?’ Tilly’s gaze narrowed even more now. She repeated. ‘My mother? My mother has been dead for many years.’
‘Someone called Trotter, a Tilly Trotter.’
‘Well, you have found Tilly Trotter because that is my name. Why do you want to see me?’
‘You!’ The girl seemed for a moment as if she was about to step backwards; then shaking her head, she said, ‘I’m sorry; they must have been mistaken.’
‘Who are they?’
‘Oh, well, it’s hard to explain.’
Tilly’s voice was stiff now as she said, ‘Well, try. I would like to understand why you wish to see me. And who sent you here?’
‘No . . . no-one sent me here, but I heard them talking. It was the maids.’
‘Whose maids?’
‘My grandmama’s and aunt’s. My grandmama is Mrs McGill of Felton Hall, and I am Anna McGill.’
‘Felton Hall?’ Tilly’s eyes now opened wide. Felton Hall was all of eight or nine miles away, beyond Fellburn, beyond Gateshead. She had heard, as everyone in the county had, of Felton Hall because Mrs McGill’s only son and his wife had been lost at sea last year. This girl must be their daughter.
She said quietly, ‘And what had your grandmother’s maids to say about me?’
The girl now hung her head as she said, ‘There . . . there must be a mistake, I must have misunderstood them. I . . . I suppose it was because I . . . I felt so desperate, I became stupid and . . . and clutched at any straw.’
Tilly continued to look at the now bowed head for some seconds before she said, ‘Please come in.’ When the girl hesitated, she said again, ‘Please.’
Once inside the room and the door closed, Tilly moved her forward with a motion of her hand to the easy chair set to the right of the fireplace. Mr Burgess was not in his usual place on the couch, not having yet risen from bed.
Seating herself on the couch opposite the girl, Tilly said, ‘Why are you in need of help and why did you think that I would be able to afford you that help?’
Unblinking, the young girl stared at Tilly; then slowly her hands, going up to her neck, swung aside the white silk scarf that almost reached one ear, and as she unfolded it she exposed the deep purple stain running from the lobe of the left ear, under the chin and almost to the middle of it, then spread downwards until it disappeared into the collar of her riding jacket, and as she turned her head slightly so she showed where it covered her neck right up to the hairline. Her voice almost a whisper now, she said, ‘It . . . it goes down to the top of my breast and halfway across my shoulders. I . . . I cannot wear an evening gown or . . . or go out like . . . like other young people.’
Tilly looked into the eyes before her. She seemed to draw the sorrow into herself and in this moment and for the only time in her life she wished that she was a witch and had the power to erase the hideous birthmark. It was no use offering polite platitudes to this girl whose face had aged well beyond her years.
She watched the girl winding the scarf about her neck again and listened to the murmur of her voice as she said, ‘It wasn’t so bad when I lived in Norfolk. I met so few people there. I had a private tutor and I rarely went out beyond the grounds. My parents did not entertain and they took their holidays alone. But now, this last year coming to live with Grandmama, there is so much going on, so much activity, coming and going, she says I should accept it. What cannot be cured must be endured is her slogan. One night she made me come downstairs in an evening gown, my shoulder bare. Everyone was embarrassed, except her. That . . . that was the night I tried to jump out of the window. My Aunt Susan caught me. She understands, my aunt, but not my grandmama, and so when I heard this maid talking about—’ She shook her head now and bowed it deep on her chest.
‘About me being a witch?’
The head was slowly raised and the eyes looked into hers for a moment before she said, ‘Yes; but . . . but you’re not, are you?’
‘No, I am not.’
‘I can see that; no witch could look like you.’
‘What was the name of the maid who said I was a witch?’
‘Short, I think, Maggie Short.’
‘It would be.’ She smiled at the girl now. ‘You see, I was the means of getting her aunt, who was cook at the Manor, dismissed because of her thieving, and apparently she and her niece, Maggie, still follow my career, hoping for my complete downfall . . . What did you expect me to do for you?’
‘I don’t know. Touch me perhaps and it would disappear.’
‘I take you to be an intelligent girl; you know that couldn’t happen.’
‘Yes, one part of me knows but the other part, the painful part, keeps hoping for miracles, or just one miracle. They . . . they said it would fade with the years, but it seems to get deeper.’
‘You know what I think?’
‘No.’
‘I think in part your grandmother is right. Oh please!’ She lifted her hand against the look on the girl’s face. ‘I don�
�t mean that you should wear evening dress and expose your shoulders, but there is no need to cover up your neck. You see, a moment ago when your head was level all I saw of the mark was the stain coming from your ear down on to your neck, I didn’t see it under your chin because you’ve got quite a broad jaw-line. You could wear clothes, at least daytime clothes, that would almost cover up the defect, a boned lace collar, a starched frill, so many things.’
‘Do you think so? I mean, you don’t notice it so much if I keep my head level or slightly forward?’
‘Yes, that’s what I mean. And you must smile more. You’re very pretty, you know.’
‘Oh no! My . . . my mother said that I was un . . . ’ She stopped and turned her head away, and Tilly now put in, ‘I don’t know what your mother said but I’m telling you you are very pretty. You also have a very good figure, and have some way to develop yet I imagine. How old are you?’
‘Eighteen . . . and a half,’ she added as if giving a weight to her maturity. Then as if taking her mind off herself she looked about her and said, ‘I’ve never seen so many books except in the library at home, and then they were mostly in glass cases. These look very used.’ She smiled faintly now.
‘Yes, my friend Mr Burgess, who was tutor at the Manor for some years, is a great reader. At the moment he’s in bed. He doesn’t rise very early because he’s getting old and isn’t too well, but I’m sure he would have been very pleased to meet you. He’s a highly intelligent and amusing man, also a very discerning one . . . Would you care to come again?’
‘Oh . . . yes . . . yes.’ The words were drawn out. ‘So kind of you. I . . . I’ve never felt so good, I mean . . . well, so happy – and no, that isn’t the word – comforted perhaps is a better word . . . before, ever.’
Tilly rose to her feet now, saying, ‘Well, shall we do things in the proper manner? Would you care to come for tea on Saturday, Miss McGill?’
‘I . . . I should be delighted, Miss . . . Mrs Trotter.’ The hesitation had come as the girl glanced down on the sleeping baby whose presence until now she had pointedly ignored.
Tilly Trotter Wed (The Tilly Trotter Trilogy) Page 8