What these needs were, the book hadn’t explained, and none of the girls in Sophy’s year had any idea what they consisted of. Belinda Wynford had said she thought if you kissed a boy on the lips it made a baby – but when Charlotte had commented that couldn’t be true because what about male cousins and brothers? – Belinda had admitted she didn’t know. It was all very confusing. And Amelia Middleton had caused them all to become silent when she had whispered that her eldest sister who had been married for some years had told her there was a personal side to marriage ‘in the bedroom’ that was highly distasteful and far too embarrassing to talk about, and if she had known what it entailed she would have chosen to remain a spinster all her days.
‘Sophy, dear?’
A gentle hand at her elbow caused her to come out of her reverie and glance up into the sweet face of her favourite teacher, Miss Bainbridge’s sister. It wasn’t just that this Miss Bainbridge taught dancing and drama, her favourite subjects, but she was the only teacher to unbend enough to call the girls by their christian names.
‘I understand you are travelling by the stagecoach to Sunderland where your uncle is meeting you? It is due in five minutes so I suggest you go downstairs and wait in the vestibule.’ Primrose Bainbridge smiled into the face she likened to that of an angel. She had said the same to her sister once, and her sister had come back with the remark that no angel had eyes the colour of Sophy’s, nor her mass of Titian, flame-coloured hair either. Which was probably true. Primrose had always tried not to have a preference for one pupil, but she had failed with Sophy. And to see the girl when she was reading poetry or dancing or acting in one of the little plays the school put on was sheer delight; she had a natural talent the like of which Primrose had never come across before. She would miss this girl. She now pressed a little box into Sophy’s hand, saying, ‘This is just a small memento to remind you of the happy times we’ve had in class, my dear. Think of us sometimes, won’t you?’
‘Oh, Miss Bainbridge. Thank you, thank you.’ For the second time in as many minutes Sophy was close to tears.
‘Now get yourself downstairs and make sure the coach driver provides you with a rug for the journey; it’s very cold.’
‘Yes, Miss Bainbridge.’ Sophy picked up her valise and then on impulse leaned forward and kissed the teacher on the cheek before making her way out of the refectory. She left Primose Bainbridge staring after her with moist eyes. Yes, she would miss Sophy Hutton more than a little. Her classes wouldn’t be the same from now on.
For once the coach had been a little early, and after Sophy had climbed aboard and wished the other three occupants a good morning, she settled back in her seat by the window and opened Miss Bainbridge’s box. It contained a small silver brooch in the shape of a ballerina, and she immediately pinned it to the lapel of her winter coat, her heart full. She felt as though she was leaving her home and travelling into alien territory, rather than the other way round, which perhaps wasn’t too far from the truth.
It wasn’t only the school she would miss, she had enjoyed living in the fast-growing, thriving town of Newcastle too. Miss Bainbridge’s establishment was situated in central Newcastle, and Sophy had found the life and vigour of the town fascinating. At the weekends the girls were taken in small groups to places of interest now and again, after which they had to write reports describing the background to what they had seen. She knew that the medieval town of Newcastle had grown up around the castle, the first wooden castle being built by the son of William the Conqueror, and that when in the fourteenth century a wall had been built around the town, it had constricted the growth of Newcastle for the next five hundred years. But it was the present town which excited Sophy, the noise and bustle, the wealth of churches and monasteries, the music halls such as Ginnett’s Amphitheatre and the People’s Palace, as well as Hancock Museum in Barras Bridge where the girls had had to write an essay on the large collections it housed from the Natural History Society and Mr John Hancock himself, a world-renowned naturalist. Charlotte had had the class in fits of laughter when she had – quite inn ocently – described Mr Hancock as a naturist, and Miss Bainbridge had had to explain, with scarlet cheeks, the different meaning of the two words.
Sporting pursuits were catered for by a riding school, a racquet court in College Street and a number of tennis courts and bowling greens. There was also a swimming pool, but the young ladies of Miss Bainbridge’s Academy were not allowed to partake of anything so vulgar; however, they were encouraged to walk in the parks the town contained, two-by-two, in a long line, with a teacher at either end of the crocodile. Leazes Park and Brandling Park were nice enough, but it was Exhibition Park – formerly known as Bull Park because bulls had once been kept on this part of the town moor – that Sophy liked the best. An exhibition had been held there for Queen Victoria’s Golden Jubilee nine years before, and at this time the reservoir had been turned into an ornamental lake, with a bridge over it. According to Miss Bainbridge, who always relayed the history of everywhere they visited, no matter how many times they had been before, the bridge was a reproduction of the Old Bridge which had spanned the River Tyne at Newcastle for upwards of five centuries. Sophy didn’t care so much about that, she just enjoyed watching the wildlife on the lake and the families with small children playing by the edge or sitting having picnics on the grass.
She would find it hard to settle in the small confines of Southwick after the bigness of Newcastle, she thought, as the coach trundled its way southwards through the mucky streets made slushy by the wheels of carriages, carts and horse trams. She had never felt overwhelmed by the size of the town; on the contrary, she had embraced it wholeheartedly, feeling as though she belonged somehow. Of course, she had never visited the areas such as Sandhill or Pipewellgate, slums which held such grotesque squalor there had been talk of clearing them for years. One of the housemaids Miss Bainbridge employed lived in Pipewellgate, and although Gracie was always as neat as a new pin, she lived in a house which contained eight other families and was right next door to one of the slaughterhouses. Charlotte, who inevitably returned to school after the weekends with a generous amount of chocolate and sweets from her doting parents, always made sure Gracie went home with most of the confectionery.
It began to snow again when they reached Gateshead, thick starry flakes falling from a sky which had turned from mother-of-pearl to an ominous pale grey. One or two of her fellow travellers expressed anxiety about getting home safely, but Sophy wished the journey could continue for ever. She wouldn’t mind if they got stuck somewhere. Anything was better than the vicarage and her aunt. And the kitchen was no refuge now. Bridget and her parents had been replaced by a cook, Mrs Hogarth, who was as thin and disapproving as her aunt, and a maid called Molly who seemed a bit simple and wouldn’t say boo to a goose. A man from the village came once or twice a week to see to the garden and any odd jobs, which had meant Patrick’s mushroom house and his lovely greenhouse were sadly neglected, although the vegetable patch still produced vegetables for the household and the fruit trees yielded a good crop each year.
Fortunately, just after she and Patience had gone away to school, John had started work in the office of the Wearmouth Colliery and had now risen to the position of Under-manager. Matthew had been studying at law college but had left in the summer and was now training to be a solicitor with a very respectable establishment in Bishopwearmouth.
When Sophy was home from school she was expected to work for her keep, although she now ate with the family in the dining room rather than taking her meals in the kitchen with the servants. Her sleeping arrangements had changed too. She occupied a corner of Patience’s bedroom, a narrow single bed having been moved in there once she was well enough to leave the guest room.
All this left her in no-man’s-land inside the vicarage, emphasising, as it did, that she belonged neither in the servants’ camp, nor wholly within the family circle. If it wasn’t for John, Matthew and David, and – to be fair – Patience,
too, these days, her life would have been unbearable, because her aunt never lost an opportunity to belittle her and make her feel the poor relation. Not that she minded working hard at any number of household jobs, she didn’t, but she did mind that her aunt talked to her as though she was less than the dirt under her shoes. She was sure the writer of the manual in her valise, had she been asked to comment on the situation, would have advised displaying a sweet and submissive spirit to her aunt as befitted a well-brought-up young lady, and that was probably right and proper. She just didn’t think she could do it – even to keep the peace. She didn’t want to do it. She wanted— oh, all sorts of things, but mainly to escape the confines of the vicarage and that of the village also.
The coach stopped at an inn in Washington, a large colliery village west of Sunderland. The travellers were told it would be the last stop before they moved across country to Sunderland, which was the most tedious and difficult part of the journey due to the fact they would be using country lanes and narrow by-roads. The coachman advised everyone who was continuing with him to partake of a hot toddy to keep out the cold. The journey from Newcastle to Washington had already taken an extra half-an-hour longer than usual, due to the worsening weather, and he couldn’t guarantee that the next leg wouldn’t be worse.
Everyone trooped obediently into the inn parlour where Sophy tasted the first drop of alcohol of her life in the form of the innkeeper’s rum toddy. She didn’t like it but she sipped it slowly and found it warming, and she was glad of it once they began the journey once more. The snow was coming down thicker than ever and the poor horses, their heads down, plodded laboriously through what was fast becoming a full-blown blizzard.
Twice the coach driver and a youngish man who had joined their party at Washington had to dig the wheels free, and all the time one of the passengers, a middle-aged lady who reminded Sophy of her aunt, lamented the fact that she had not made the journey by train. Everyone else silently lamented that she hadn’t done so too.
They arrived in Bishopwearmouth in an early winter twilight, and the coach driver wasn’t the only one who breathed a sigh of relief that they’d reached their destination. He was anxious to get the tired horses settled in their stables at the back of the Maritime Alms Houses between Crowtree Road and Maritime Place and hurry home to the hot meal his wife would have waiting. Sophy knew she’d have to walk the rest of the way, crossing the Wearmouth Bridge into Monkwearmouth and turning west into Southwick. Normally she would have enjoyed the freedom of being out by herself, but with the atrocious weather and having to carry her heavy valise, it wasn’t such an adventure. When Patience had still been at school with her, her uncle had taken and fetched them every time, but as soon as she had been on her own this convenience had stopped and she had been dispatched to and from the vicarage by courtesy of public transport. Again, she hadn’t minded this, since anything was preferable to spending time in her uncle’s company, but tonight it would have been nice to have made the journey in comfort, door to door.
Once she had said goodbye to her fellow travellers, however, she squared her shoulders, picked up her valise and began to trudge through the snow which now reached the top of the neat, above-the-ankle button boots which all Miss Bainbridge’s young ladies had to wear. She had left Crowtree Road and turned into High Street West and then Bridge Street, and was approaching the bridge, when a voice calling her name caused her to turn and blink through the snowflakes.
‘Sophy, I thought it was you.’ Matthew came panting up behind her, his face beaming. ‘Here, let me take that,’ he added, whisking her valise out of her hand before hugging her. ‘You’ve picked a good day to come home.’
‘Matthew, what are you doing here?’ She was so glad to see him; the walk to the vicarage had appeared a huge battle just moments ago. Now it was fun.
‘We’ve all been sent home early because of the snow.’ He tucked her arm through his. ‘Frightful, isn’t it? Everyone’s saying it’s going to be a bad winter, but then they always say that and it mostly is.’ He grinned at her. The snow had settled on his hat and overcoat, but he looked every inch the young gentleman, and she was suddenly aware he wasn’t Matthew the schoolboy any longer but a grown man earning his living. She couldn’t have been more proud of him if he was her brother.
‘Come on,’ he said cheerfully. ‘You can tell me all you’ve been doing and I’ll fill you in on the latest at home. Did you know John is courting and it’s serious? Her name is Flora Irvin and she’s a miner’s daughter.’ His voice hardened. ‘Mother’s throwing a blue fit but John’s determined she’s the one, and Flora’s a lovely girl.’
A miner’s daughter. Sophy could imagine how that had gone down with her aunt. She was forever parading the daughters of her friends in front of the boys, listing their pedigrees as though the girls were cows at the cattle-market. Superior cows though. ‘How long has John been seeing her?’
‘Ages, apparently, but he had more sense than to let on. One of Mother’s friends saw them at the Palace a few weeks ago though, and the game was up. I’d told him it was only a matter of time.’
‘You knew then?’
‘He told me in the summer when I left law college. I’ve been his alibi a few times.’
He grinned at her again and although Sophy smiled back, part of her was saddened. John and Matthew, probably David too, didn’t like their mother. She’d known it for some time. Worse, they didn’t love her either. She would have given the world for her own mother to have been alive, but then, her mother wouldn’t have been like Mary Hutton. How could anyone love her aunt? But her uncle must have done at one time or else he wouldn’t have married her.
‘Flora’s got a sister,’ Matthew added, deadpan.
‘Matthew?’ Sophy stopped dead, staring at him.
‘Verity’s her name and she’s seventeen years old and just . . . perfect. I haven’t mentioned her at home yet, though. I thought I’d let the heat over John die down a bit first.’ Matthew started walking again, drawing her along with him. ‘What do you think?’
‘I think whenever you tell your parents I’d rather not be around, if it’s all the same to you,’ said Sophy, and she was only half-joking. Whatever her aunt’s reaction, she would bear the brunt of it somehow or other.
‘So, tell me what you’ve been doing,’ Matthew kept her tucked into his side as they marched on. The cobbled road across the bridge was deep in snow by now, the evidence of horses clear enough in the furrows left by cart and coach wheels and the odd steaming pile of horse manure. Most folk had wisely retired indoors, and the normally bustling town was hushed and still. Even the river was quieter than usual, the sound of the paddle-wheel blades on the tugboats beating the water muffled, and the smell of industrial smoke suppressed by the falling snow.
They talked all the way to the vicarage, slipping and sliding once or twice and convulsed in giggles when one or the other of them nearly went headlong. Somehow they reached home without mishap, both of them flushed and bright-eyed as they scraped the ice and snow from the insteps of their boots on the mat of the porch before Matthew opened the front door and they stepped into the warmth of the hall, just as Mary came out of the drawing room. Her eyes flashed from Matthew’s laughing face to Sophy’s, and then back to her son’s as she said sharply, ‘What are you doing home at this hour?’
‘Mr Routledge closed the office early due to the snow.’ Matthew bent down to place Sophy’s valise on the floor before helping her off with her coat. Neither of them were surprised that Mary hadn’t acknowledged Sophy’s presence in spite of it being four months since she had left for her last term at school. ‘I met Sophy near the bridge and we’ve walked home together.’
‘I can see that.’ Mary moved closer, sniffing, her long thin nose practically quivering. ‘Have you been drinking?’
‘Drinking?’ Matthew said in surprise.
‘Alcohol, boy. Alcohol.’
‘The innkeeper made us all a hot toddy when we stopped for a while
at Washington,’ Sophy said quietly. ‘The coach driver said it would keep the cold out.’
Matthew, no vestige of laughter remaining and red in the face from being called ‘boy’, spoke stiffly. ‘You shouldn’t have had to travel by McCabe’s coach, Sophy. Father should have come and collected you. It’s not right, a young lady journeying by herself.’
Mary opened her mouth to speak, took in her son’s angry face and thought better of it. But she would privately reprimand Matthew later for speaking to her that way in front of the girl. Sophy had now been elevated from child to girl in her mind, and with her maturing, the fear which had begun years ago when she had seen how beautiful her niece was becoming had been magnified a hundred times. She wanted the girl out of this house and out of their lives as soon as possible, but due to Jeremiah’s ridiculous interference she was on the horns of a dilemma. She had always intended to put the girl into service in the kitchens of a big house, somewhere miles from Southwick, but that was no longer possible with the education she had received. And she was too young to take the post of a governess somewhere. But something would have to be done.
Matthew took his cousin’s hand, drawing her past his mother as though she didn’t exist as he said, ‘Come into the drawing room and sit by the fire and get warm. I’ll ring for Molly to bring us some tea and cake – it’s a while until dinner.’
Mary stood where she was until the drawing-room door had shut behind the two, her body rigid but the sick panic she felt every time Sophy came home to the fore. John seemed to be out of the equation now, although he would marry that miner’s girl over her dead body. She couldn’t believe John had stooped so low as to entertain such a thing, but it wouldn’t happen. She would make sure of that. But Matthew was still fancy free and young and silly enough to act rashly if he imagined himself in love. Look at the way he had championed the girl this evening and the way they had been laughing when they’d come into the house . . .
Break of Dawn Page 9