‘You were right first time, it is Miss Trotter.’
They were both walking towards the door when the young girl turned sharply towards her and asked, ‘Would you do something for me? Would you touch my neck, put your fingers on it?’
The brightness went out of Tilly’s face and her voice was stiff as she said, ‘No, I will not touch your neck, Miss McGill, for I have no power in my hands, the only power I have is in my mind. And that’s no more than the power you have in yours. What I can do you can do equally; the only way I can help you is to suggest that you tell yourself to face up to this affliction, adopting an attitude of confidence. Tell yourself that you are a whole woman and that some day you will meet a gentleman who will take you for what you are. Tell yourself that some day you’ll meet a man who will put his lips to that stain. Believe this and it will come about.’
The girl now said simply, ‘Thank you.’ Beyond the door she turned and, looking at Tilly once more, she said, ‘I’ll never forget this day. As long as I live I’ll remember it. Goodbye.’
‘Goodbye,’ said Tilly.
When she entered the room again she leant with her back against the door and, looking upwards, she murmured, ‘Poor soul! Poor soul!’ To be afflicted so in youth. Yet that stain would not be erased when that girl’s youth stepped into maturity, that stain would be there until the day she died. Would she ever find a man big enough to bear with it? Men were strange creatures. Not so often afflicted with illness themselves, rarely did they bear such in women except through compassion. But that girl needed more than compassion, she needed love, because by the sound of it she had never known it . . .
It was around teatime when John rode up, and he almost ran up the path in his excitement, opening the door even as he knocked on it.
Tilly hadn’t heard the horse because she was in the back room settling Mr Burgess down to his tea in bed, for he had shown a disinclination to get up at all today.
John hurried in towards her, saying, ‘M . . . M . . . Matthew is c . . . c . . . coming. He should be l . . . l . . . landing next week. I received his mail only this afternoon. Oh, I am so looking f . . . forward to s . . . seeing him. Once he’s here we’ll g . . . g . . . get everything fixed up and you’ll come back.’ She now held out her hand, palm upwards towards him for some seconds before she said, ‘I think I’ve told you before, John, I couldn’t possibly leave Mr Burgess.’ Her voice sank low. ‘He’s not well at all. He’s fading; slowly but surely he’s fading. He could last a few months or perhaps a year, but . . . but no matter how long I must stay with him.’
‘Matthew w . . . w . . . would have him up at the house.’
‘He wouldn’t want to go, he’s lived here too long. There’s a thing, you know, about dying in your own bed.’
‘Oh, Tr . . . Trotter, that was half the f . . . f . . . fun, half the pleasure in Matthew c . . . c . . . coming back that you would once again be over w . . . w . . . with us at the house.’
‘John’ – she pressed him gently down into the seat opposite her – ‘you make all these plans but you know I shouldn’t have to point out to you it’s Matthew who is head of the house and his ideas, if I remember Matthew aright’ – she now turned her head to the side and slanted her eyes at him – ‘never ran along the same lines as yours, or Luke’s, or, thank goodness, his sister’s. No, I think we had better wait until he is home and settled before we start planning. Do you know’ – she shook her head from side to side – ‘this has been a day of events, you are the third visitor I’ve had. I wonder who’ll be next?’
‘Who . . . who were the others?’
‘Mr Pearson, you know from the village. He’s the painter and odd jobber.’
‘Oh yes, yes, I remember. May I ask wh . . . wh . . . what he wanted? You don’t often have v . . . v . . . visitors from the vill . . . vill . . . village.’
When she had finished telling him the reason for Tom Pearson’s visit he nodded his head and said, ‘He seems an honourable man.’
‘Yes, he is, he is.’
‘And your other v . . . v . . . visitor?’
‘Oh’ – she shook her head slowly at him – ‘here lies a tale. It was a young lady, a beautiful young lady.’
Now why had she said that? Well, she supposed the girl could look beautiful, at least full-faced and at the right side.
As she watched him now put his head back, his mouth wide as he endeavoured to repeat her words, a beautiful young lady, there crept into her brain an idea. But once it had become an idea it no longer crept, but leapt into a scheme, and she could again hear his voice saying, ‘No young lady is going to put up with me.’ And she saw the girl with sadness imprinted on her face by the handicap that she must bear alone for all her days, and so, leaning forward, she said, ‘Will you do something for me, John?’
‘Anything, Tr . . . Tr . . . Trotter. You know that, anything.’
‘Will you come to tea on Saturday?’
‘Tea?’
‘Yes, to tea to meet the young lady I’ve just mentioned.’
‘Oh.’ His face fell. ‘No, no, Tr . . . Trotter, don’t ask me. You know wh . . . what I’m like with strangers. I’m b . . . b . . . bad enough with you and you put me at my ease more than anybody else that I know of.’
She leant forward and caught hold of his hand, saying now, ‘Be quiet for a moment and listen. If you saw someone in great distress and they were very lonely and you knew that by even looking at them, smiling at them, you could alleviate that loneliness, what would you do, walk away?’
‘I . . . I don’t . . . f . . . follow you, Trotter.’
‘Well, it’s like this, John. This young lady has a handicap. She is beautiful.’ And she had no doubt that when Miss McGill came to see her on Saturday she would look beautiful.
‘Beautiful with a ha . . . ha . . . handicap? Is she a cripple?’
‘No; her body as far as I can see is perfect. Her features are good; she has lovely eyes and lovely hair.’
‘B . . . b . . . but she has a h . . . handicap?’ He now lowered his head and looked at her from under his eyebrows and he said, ‘Don’t t . . . t . . . tell me, Tro . . . Trotter that she st . . . st . . . stammers.’
She burst out laughing at this, and shook her head; then raising her hand to his ear, to his amazement she began to trace her finger along his jawbone, then down over his throat to the top of his collar, and when her finger stopped there she said, ‘She has a birthmark; it is about there where I’ve drawn with my finger. Apparently she has always been made aware of it until now she is a sad and lost young girl. And you know why she came here today?’
He shook his head.
‘She heard one of the maids who used to be at the Manor telling another maid about a witch by the name of Trotter.’
‘Aw no! Aw no! How awful for you.’
‘But how much worse for her when she was so desperate she had to come in search of this witch.’
‘And you ha . . . have asked her b . . . b . . . back to tea?’
‘Yes; and I would like you to come and help me prove to her that people will not spurn her because of her birthmark.’
‘But she’ll want a fellow, a m . . . man who can talk to her, Trotter. I’m not the one to do it. T . . . t . . . talking of handicaps, I have m . . . m . . . my own and I would exchange it for hers any day in the w . . . w . . . week.’
‘Well, I hope that you’ll tell her that some day.’
‘Oh, Trotter.’
‘Please, John. I don’t think I’ve asked anything of you before, have I?’
He stared at her blankly. Then smiling ruefully, he said, ‘G . . . G . . . God help the poor girl if she’s expecting a s . . . s . . . saviour in me. I’ll not be able to get one w . . . w . . . word out, you’ll see.’
‘Yes, I’ll see.’
And Tilly saw, but not until she had given up hope of seeing either of them for it had poured hard since early morning, and now at half-past three in the afternoon she’d had to l
ight the lamp. Looking towards Mr Burgess, who was dressed in his well-worn velvet jacket that she had brushed and sponged down yet again for this occasion, she said, ‘It won’t surprise me if neither of them turns up.’
‘Give them time, especially the young lady; as you say, she’s got all of eight miles to come through this.’
It was John who arrived first, and his relief was evident when he knew he was to be the only visitor. But he had hardly taken off his wet cloak and said, ‘I’ve taken B . . . B . . . Bobtail round the b . . . b . . . back, it’s more sheltered there,’ when Tilly, glancing out of the window, said, ‘And you’d better put your cloak on again, John, and go and take Miss McGill’s horse to keep Bobtail company. Good gracious, she looks drenched.’
‘Oh! Tro . . . Trotter.’ He almost grabbed the cloak from her and he put it on as he went down the path.
She watched from the open doorway as he took the reins from the young girl’s hands without saying a word and then led the horse around the side of the house.
When the girl came into the room she looked quite strained and said immediately, ‘The young man, who is he?’
‘A friend of mine; he just happened to pop in. Here, let me have your coat and your hat, you’re drenched.’
‘I . . . I shouldn’t have come, I mean if there had been any way to let you know. Oh dear! my hair.’ As she pulled the long pin out of her velour hat the coil of her hair became unloosened and fell on to her shoulder, and she had her hands above her head pinning it back into place when John came hurriedly through the door, only to stop and stand with his hand behind his back holding the iron ring of the latch staring at the girl.
She, patting her hair into place now, looked from one to the other, saying, ‘I’m . . . I’m afraid I mustn’t stay long, my . . . my horse is very wet, and . . . and I have no cover.’
‘I’ve s . . . s . . . seen to that; I took some s . . . s . . . sacks’ – he was looking at Tilly now – ‘from the w . . . w . . . woodshed, Tr . . . Tr . . . Trotter, and put over them both.’
‘That was sensible. Come along now, both of you.’ She went to turn away, but then said, ‘Oh dear me, I’m forgetting my duty. This is Mr John Sopwith. . . . Miss Anna McGill.’
‘How do you do?’ The girl inclined her head towards him, and he, bowing slightly from the shoulders, answered, ‘A pl . . . pleasure to meet you.’ Then they all turned towards the voice coming from the fireplace, saying, ‘And I am Herbert Vincent Burgess and nobody cares a hoot that I’m dying for my tea, and that my horse is champing on its bit in the bedroom waiting to gallop me to London Town, there to have supper with a man called Johnson and his friend Boswell, and from where in the morning I shall set sail for France, there to have breakfast with Voltaire; and the following day I shall return to the City, although I have refused my Lord Chesterfield’s invitation because, do you know, his lackeys expect to be tipped as you leave his house . . . ’
‘Oh! be quiet. Be quiet.’ Tilly laughingly pushed him gently. ‘Behave yourself, will you? Nobody understands a word you say.’
‘I do.’
Tilly turned amazed to see the girl smiling widely, and when Mr Burgess held out his hand to her, saying, ‘At last, at last. Come here, my dear. A soulmate at last, at last. Would you believe it, Trotter?’
They all started to laugh, and when young William, unused to the strange noise, let out a high gurgle the laughter mounted and there was nothing for it but that Tilly should pick the baby up to be admired and cooed over. The ice was broken.
An hour later, from the window she watched John leading the horses on to the road, then helping Miss McGill to mount, before taking his place at her side and riding off, not in the direction of home but towards Gateshead.
She was still watching from the window when Mr Burgess’ voice,tired-sounding now, brought her swiftly round as he said, ‘They’ll be married in a year or so, thanks to your witchery.’
PART TWO
THE HOMECOMING
One
They had finished dinner, they had drunk their port and smoked their cigars and were now making their way towards the library, not the drawing room as one would have expected, for since his return Matthew had shown an open aversion to sitting in the drawing room in the evenings.
The library was a long room with a plaster-panelled ceiling. The circular motifs in the triangles had long since lost their colour of rose and grey, taking their tones from the smoke that every now and again billowed out from the open hearth whenever a gust of wind roared down the chimney.
Matthew coughed and blinked his eyes before pointing to the fireplace, saying, ‘When was that last swept?’
‘Couldn’t s . . . say, Matthew, b . . . b . . . but it doesn’t often smoke. It’s the wind, it’s a howler tonight.’
‘It’s a howler every night if you ask me.’ Matthew now seated himself in the leather chair and, stretching out a leg, thrust the end of a burning log further on to the iron fire basket, then lay back and looked about him.
The room was as he remembered it, and as he had pictured it so many times over the past few years, yet it was different, though not smaller, not shrunken as houses and places kept alive by memory alone appeared when viewed in reality. If anything it seemed larger, but that likely was due to comparing it with the homestead.
He couldn’t exactly put his finger on the change, not just in the room or the rest of the house, but even in the land outside and the people on it everything was alien to him. It was as if in leaving America he had left home, and over the past days he had asked himself many times why he had come back. It wasn’t an enormous estate he had to manage, and there was no industry connected with it that would need looking into. It might have been different if the mine had been working . . . The mine. He’d go there tomorrow; he’d have to do something, this stagnation would drive him mad.
He started slightly when John, picking up his thoughts, said, ‘You’re . . . you’re finding everything ch . . . ch . . . changed, Matthew. You d . . . d . . . didn’t w . . . ant to come back, did you?’
‘No, you’re right there, John, I didn’t want to come back. And there’s nothing to be done here, the place is dead.’
‘Yes, r . . . r . . . round here, but not in the towns. You were in N . . . N . . . Newcastle today, there’s plenty g . . . g . . . going on there. Now you c . . . can’t say there isn’t.’
‘Yes, there appears to be plenty going on but’ – he leant forward now and looked into the fire – ‘it seems to me that all the enterprises, shipping, factories, mines, the whole lot could be put into a teacup.’ He turned now and held both hands out towards John, saying, ‘You see, for the last three years I’ve been used to space, admitted mostly empty space, thousands of miles of it, but when you did get into a township the activity . . . well, it was incredible. In Newcastle today I had the impression that everybody was marking time, whereas in a similar town over there, although there are no towns similar to Newcastle, I admit, with regard to buildings, but the difference is those in America are making time, they’re using it to the full. It’s a different world, John. No talking, no explaining can give you the picture of it, you’ve got to be there . . . Oh, let’s have a drink.’ He put out his hand to pull the bell rope to the side of the fireplace, but stopped, and his square face taking on an almost pugnacious look he said, ‘I hate ringing for women. If I’m to stay here there’ll have to be menservants again. No house can be expected to run efficiently without a butler and a footman, the very least.’
John got to his feet, saying now and almost as irritably as Matthew had spoken, ‘I’ll b . . . b . . . bring the tr . . . tray; and the house has been r . . . r . . . run very well for years without menservants. Anyway, father c . . . c . . . couldn’t afford them and we wouldn’t have had the c . . . c . . . comfort we have had, had it not been for Tr . . . Tr . . . Trotter.’
There, he had said her name again. Well, a man should speak as he found, and Matthew was unfair to Trotter. He was
n’t in the house twenty-four hours before he had said, ‘Look, I don’t want to hear anymore about Trotter. As for having her back, no! definitely not.’
The brothers stared at each other. Matthew, his head pressed against the high back of the leather chair, looked steadily up into the thin, long, sensitive face above him. The black hair lying smooth across the high dome of his brother’s head was in sharp contrast to his own fair matt. He’d had his cut and trimmed quite close a week ago but already it was aiming to become a busby again, and he ran his fingers through it as he said, ‘Dear, dear; I fear that if Father hadn’t fallen on his face his youngest son might have; after all, what does eleven years matter when one is in love?’
‘Matthew!’ John’s shocked indignation came over in the name that was spoken without a tremor. ‘How dare you! Tr . . . Tr . . . Trotter’s been like a m . . . m . . . mother to me . . . Damn you! M . . . M . . . Matthew. D . . . D . . . Damn you!’
Matthew was on his feet now holding John by the shoulders. ‘I’m sorry. Really I am. It’s only that she’s . . . well, she’s disrupted so many lives.’
John was gulping in his throat now, the colour was seeping back into his face which a moment before had looked blanched, but his tone remained stiff as he said, ‘I . . . I don’t agree with y . . . you. You c . . . c . . . couldn’t blame her for what F . . . F . . . Father did in the first place. And I think she was a k . . . k . . . kind of saviour to Father. He would have gone insane without her.’
‘Perhaps you’re right.‘ Matthew turned towards the chair again. ‘Anyway, don’t let it raise an issue between us. Look.’ He turned his head towards John now. ‘Tomorrow I’m going to the mine; I have an idea I might open it again.’
‘Open up the m . . . m . . . mine! It would take a small fortune.’
Tilly Trotter Wed (The Tilly Trotter Trilogy) Page 9