Lydia Trent

by Abigail Blanchart

  “I hope now to give a fuller account of my early life and my unhappy marriage. Yes, dear sister,” - for Adeline looked amazed - “I was once a married woman. But let me begin at the beginning.

  “I spent my early life in the village of Houghton, in Yorkshire. Of the first few years of my life, I have none but happy memories, for my mother – I should say, Adeline, our mother – was alive. Sadly, due to a disastrously managed confinement, she lived only long enough to say goodbye to the infant daughter she had brought into the world but an hour before. That daughter was you.

  “It was as if a light had been extinguished, and we did not know how dark the world could be without that brightness. I, only five years old myself, was left to care for my infant sister, whilst our father turned to drink and low company for his consolation. All too well I remember sitting by the fire, which was burning very low as the coal scuttle was empty, with baby on my knee, waiting up anxiously for father to come home. Sometimes he would come home in high spirits, having won money at cards, and would dance me round the room and kiss me and call me his good little Kitty. Sometimes he would come home maudlin, and cry on my knee – imagine that, a grown man weeping in the lap of a five-year-old girl! Other times he would be in a thunderous temper, and hurl the fire-irons at me for daring to let baby cry or letting the fire go out, or any other real or imagined reason. Or he would be so fuddled by drink that I had to undress him and put him to bed just like baby, or he would not come home at all, and I would sit up all night and cry for my mamma.

  “Less than a year after our mother's death, father married again. If I had entertained the slightest hope that his second choice would stand in the place of a mother to us, I was sadly mistaken, and sore disappointed. I do not remember ever hearing one single word of kindness from her. Indeed, I struggled to understand just why she had married our father, as she betrayed not the slightest sign of interest or affection toward either her husband or her stepdaughters, or the most slender inclination to make our house in any way a home.

  “It was no great surprise, therefore, when after but a year of marriage, she disappeared from our house – but it was a shock indeed when it was discovered that she had taken you, Adeline, with her. Though a surprise, it did not seem to be a great blow to father, and I do not think he ever made much search after either wife or daughter.”

  At this point in the narrative, there was a slight interruption, as the party reached the station where they were to board the London train. There was a brief discussion, when all at once Alfred decided the matter by walking up to the ticket office and taking four tickets.

  “For having been seen in the streets as a woman, you cannot go back to being the Captain again at Allingham,” said Alfred simply, “and so you may as well come with us. I daresay the girls' uncle will receive you, you being Adeline's sister – or else you can resume your male disguise and stay at an inn. I'll stand the blunt, if you brought none away with you.”

  Lydia and Adeline were eager in approbation of this plan, and thus it was that the London train carried away four, not three, passengers toward the great metropolis.

  “Now we are quite comfortable,” said Lydia, “pray do go on with your story.”

  “Oh, yes, do!” cried Adeline, “”You had just got to the part when Mamma – I mean our stepmother – ran away.”

  “Ah, yes. Well, there is nothing much interesting to tell of the next eight or nine years, life went on in the same way as it had during my father's widowerhood, except as time went by he drank more, gambled more, and grew deeper in debt. From time to time he would win some money, and some, though never all, of the bills would be paid, but he always deluded himself into thinking that each win was the start of a run of good luck, would live extravagantly for a while, and dig himself deeper into debt.

  “By the time I was in my teens, we were living in a debtors prison. Though life was just as hard there as in the outside world, it had at least this advantage – although when my father was in funds he could get hold of drink, he at least could not gamble to any great extent.

  “It was about this time that father, desperate to find a way to get out of prison, began to apply to our more distant relatives for aid. One of these, a cousin, Martin Parrish, came to visit us. It seems he took a fancy to me, for his visits became more and more frequent, until at last he hatched the plan that was to be my undoing.

  “Mr Parrish proposed that he would pay my father's debts, and bestow upon him sufficient funds to start a new life in a different country, if I would marry him. Knowing that, at barely fifteen years of age, I would not begin to entertain the thought of being married to a man twenty years my senior, not even for the sake of filial duty, he instead devised a fiendish plot.

  “Mr Parrish paid off the worst of the creditors, freeing my father from prison. On his release, we set off to make a tour of Scotland, father's excuse being that he had been so long imprisoned that he pined for light and air. Mr Parrish was to join us in the highlands.

  “One day, though the sky was threatening rain, we were to cross the moorland to the next town on our route. It was a wild and lonely journey of about thirty miles, with only one inn en route, and barely a human habitation beyond a shepherd's hut to be seen. Father contrived some business in the town which would delay him a couple of hours, but he urged us to start upon our journey at once, saying he would catch us up. Of course, when we were halfway there, it began to rain heavily, and we were obliged to take shelter at the tiny inn, after two miles very wet ride.

  “We dried our outer clothes over the coffee-room fire, but the rain showed no sign of ceasing that evening, and it began to grow dark. Mr Parrish decreed that we must remain there for the night, for it was by then too wet and too dark to see our road, and it would be all too easy to lose our way. Alas, the room boasted but one set of rooms, consisting of a bedroom and a sitting-room. 'We will have to tell them we are man and wife.' said Mr Parrish, “I will take the sitting-room, leaving you the bedroom, and your father will be along shortly to make all right.'

  “Fool that I was! I complied, thinking that as there were two rooms, though in a single suite, that this would be a simple and practical way out of our difficulties, and only found out the next morning, when my father arrived, what a trap I had fallen into. For under Scottish law at the time, a couple could be married, tightly and legally, simply by stating that they were man and wife in front of witnesses. It is a law which has saved the honour and reputation of many a young maiden, but now, unwitting, that same law was the undoing of this one.

  “And so I found myself an unwitting and unwilling bride at fifteen. I was miserable, but not cast utterly into despair, for a little voice whispered that at least I was away from my father, who treated me only with contempt and neglect. This man must surely love me, to have gone to such lengths and expense (though I only found out about the money later, when it was cast in my teeth how I had been bought and sold), which was more than my father did, and so I resolved to be as good a wife as I possibly could at so young an age.

  “Alas, it was not love, but a passing fancy. While I was out of reach, Martin Parrish wanted me. Once I was his, he lost all value for the toy he had so craved, and before I had been married three months I found I had superadded jealousy and cruelty to contempt and neglect. He drank more constantly even than my father, though gambling was not a besetting sin with him. No, his addiction was violent control over another human being.

  “I will not attempt to describe all I suffered in the three years I remained with him. One or two examples will suffice to show the character of the man. One evening he was on his way out with some of his friends. I had neglected to put out a clean neckcloth – he flew into a fury and half-choked me with the dirty one. A minute after he had thrown me on the ground with a vile curse, leaving me struggling to breathe and unable to rise for full half-an-hour, I heard him laughing heartily and easily at a joke of one of his drinking-mates, though but a minute earlier he had been purple with
rage. On another occasion he dragged me about the house by my hair because he was displeased with the way I had dressed it that morning. Everything I did was wrong, and an excuse for some act of violence or base cruelty toward me. He would vanish for days at a time, yet beat me if I was out of his sight for ten minutes which I could not account for. At other times he would be tender and loving, though he reeked so of drink that I found these times more of a trial to my spirit than the violence.

  “We had been married for more than two miserable years, when I became filled with a new hope, that very soon I should at least have one human creature on Earth whom I could love, and who would love me – who would depend on me and yet not despise me. Alas, that was not to be. One night, just a few weeks before I was due to be confined, my husband came home having heard that I had been seen (Oh sin of sins!), talking to the milk-man. In a jealous rage, he beat me and threw me down the stairs. Later that night I was brought to bed of a stillborn son.

  “As soon as I could walk, I waited until the dead of night, when my lord and master was sound asleep – or rather dead drunk, and crept away. But where could I go? How could I hide so that he might never find me?

  “I hit on the idea of disguising myself as a boy – my recent confinement made this difficult at first, but by binding my body tightly and cropping my hair short, I believed I could pass for a boy, if I made myself a little dirty – one of those ragged boys nobody looks twice at.

  “I tramped for many days in this guise – I had no money but managed now and then to beg a bit of bread or earn a penny holding a horse. Somehow I ended up at Whitby, where I encountered a press-gang, and joined the Navy. I believe my secret was safe all these years – though I was called 'the parson' because I was modest in my habits, and spent my shore-leaves reading and exploring, rather than in low taverns. I had had almost no education, and I burned to make up for the deficiency, so how I devoured every sight and sound of those foreign lands! I covered both my 'oddities' by affecting to be much more strongly religious than I actually am, and so after a while I was let alone, especially as I had also earned a reputation for bravery. Why should I not be brave? My heart was in the grave of my poor little one, I valued everyone's life above my own. And so, what with my reputation, my thirst for knowledge, and the careful hoarding of my prize-money, I was able to rise, in seven years, to the rank of Captain. I hope I was a just and wise captain – I believe the men thought me so, for though when I was injured they of course discovered my secret, not one man among them betrayed me, and they contrived to get me back to England without a soul suspecting my identity.

  “And it seems all this was for nothing – the man from whom I was hiding was dead all the time, I am to discover but this morning. How I longed to reveal myself to my sister, but believed it was not safe!”

  Catherine's narrative ended. Alfred was sitting with his face turned stolidly away, so as not to betray the tears sliding stealthily down his cheek. Lydia hid her face in a handkerchief, while one hand blindly sought Catherine's, and, finding it, clutched it as if she would never let go. Adeline had buried her face in her new-found sister's shoulder, and sobbed quietly. As Catherine ceased speaking, the tender-hearted girl flung her arms around her, crying out “Oh, we will love you! I will love you – Dear Catherine, dear sister, I love you already!”

  Chapter the 23rd

  Catherine's story, though harrowing, did have this to say to it – that in listening to and sympathising with Catherine's woes and wrongs, their thoughts had been directed from their own sorrows as they left the house which had been their home since they could remember.

  Nevertheless, they were in tolerably poor spirits when the cab drew to a stop outside a pleasant townhouse in the district of Bayswater. It was a deep, narrow white building, separated from the street by an 'area' and a broad half-flight of stone steps, bounded by neatly burnished iron railings. It was situated in a respectable, rather than a 'smart' square – in the middle of the square, surrounded by railings and guarded by a gate to which each resident had a key, was a bit of garden, with a smooth lawn, some bright flower beds, and a couple of spindly trees.

  Alfred sprang lightly down from the cab to hand out the ladies – or rather, to hand out Adeline, for Catherine was more accustomed to Alfred's role, to being he who assists rather than she who is assisted, and Lydia was not only of an independent nature, but also far too conscious of the danger to her own heart, should she take that hand, lean on that arm, while her emotions were in such a fragile state. Alfred therefore turned back from helping Adeline to find that both ladies had got themselves out under their own steam, as the saying goes.

  The door opened whilst they were still engaged with paying the cab-driver, shaking out their dresses, and settling their bonnets, and there stood the gentleman of the house himself, for, having glanced out the window when he heard the cab draw up, and perceived the young ladies getting out, he had run down to open his own front door and be the first to welcome his nieces.

  How pleasant a sight was his solid figure in the lamplight, and the genuine smile of welcome on his honest face, and the avuncular hand which he stretched out to each of his nieces.

  John Trent was a rarity in his profession – the stockbroker had spent his commercial life speculating, in daily contact with large sums of money, yet neither staggering profit or crushing loss, terrible risk or dead certainty, had ever yet had the power to rob him of either his honesty or his good humour. He had had a good mother, who had brought up both her sons to be everything that is truly expressed by the word 'gentleman'. On her account, he was a great respecter of the feminine sex in general, but had remained a bachelor, having never yet met the one woman which he felt his happiness could depend – or who he might make truly happy. He sometimes joked that his brother had got the one good thing in that line, in the shape of his first wife, but this was generally understood to be a delicate compliment to his sister-in-law, not an expression of concealed wishes.

  After showing them to a room where they could take off their things, the good gentleman ushered his four guests upstairs to a pleasant sitting-room, red-draperied and turkey-carpeted, rang for hot tea and steaming buttered toast, and a man to take the girls bags upstairs, pulled cozy, cushioned chairs to the fire with his own hand, and bid the tired travellers to make themselves comfortable.

  “Now then, my dearest girls, tell me what brings you to me in such haste? For Lydia's telegraphic message did not, I am afraid, leave me much the wiser.”

  In a very few words, Lydia attempted to sketch the history of the last few days.

  “And, Uncle,” cried Adeline, kissing him fondly, “We have but today discovered my elder sister, Catherine. Please be kind to her – she is in sore need of it.”

  “Well then,” said Mr Trent, “You are perfectly welcome to make your home with me for as long as you wish. I daresay my company will be quite as dull as you can bear, but I am very glad to have you, nonetheless. Today has been a fortunate day for me, I think, as it has not only brought me some very pleasant houseguests,” patting Adeline's arm, for she still hung about him, “but has also brought me a third niece. Welcome, my dear, and I hope you will consider this as much your home as do Lydia and Adeline.”

  “Oh, Sir!” stammered Catherine, turning almost crimson, “I – I cannot, I must not – there is no blood relationship between us...”

  “For shame, for shame!” cried the gentleman, looking genuinely hurt at this rebuff, “No more is there between Adeline and I, yet I regard her as my niece all the same – and if you are her sister, so must you be.”

  His forthright manner, the pleading expression on that kindly countenance, and the genuineness of his wish to be of service to the young lady were impossible to resist, and Catherine was fain to submit.

  And so the matter was settled, and the three sisters took up their residence in Bayswater. Alfred stayed at a nearby inn that night, and contrived the next day to secure moderately comfortable lodgings, which though the
y were somewhat mean and dingy, and a trifle expensive, were within half-a-mile of John Trent's townhouse.

  The next morning after their arrival, Lydia found herself sick, weak, and barely able to rise from her bed. Indeed she did attempt it, but was soon glad to sink back among the pillows. The various alarms of the past two days, the fatigue of the journey, her strained and sleepless night watching over a madwoman, added to the wound in her arm, which pained her more than she cared to admit, made her low and feverish.

  “Do not worry yourselves about me,” she said, when Adeline expressed concern, “I shall be right as ninepence by tomorrow.”

  But the morrow found her worse, and for many days Lydia was actually very ill. By about the fourth day, she was very feverish, and wandered in her mind. Catherine and Adeline nursed her together, and their shared concern for their step-sister bound the two sisters closer together. When the fever broke, at the end of a dreadful, anxious week, and the doctors pronounced Lydia out of danger, the reserved Catherine actually hugged Adeline for joy, and the two shed happy tears over one another and their patient.

  Lydia's recovery was slow, and for several weeks after her illness she was almost confined to the house, with only an occasional airing in a closed carriage, well wrapped up, or later on, one or two slow turns about the square's meagre garden-ground, to vary the scene.