Tilly Trotter Widowed (The Tilly Trotter Trilogy)

by Cookson, Catherine

  The woman now half turned away and looked about her. She saw the two men standing at the entrance to the stable yard, she saw the faces at the hall windows; then eyes lifting slowly upwards she saw the lone figure outlined against one of the narrow windows that bordered the top of the house and, recognising it, her anger returned and she rounded on Biddy again, crying now, ‘Aye, well, about this ’ere last business, I’ll deal with Connie. But there’s one thing she hasn’t done yet, she hasn’t stood without her shift on cryin’, Come on, Tom, Dick or Harry, this way, this way. ’Tis a whorehouse she should be in, your missis. Worn hersel’ down to skin an’ bone with it, she has. All in together, girls, never mind the weather, girls. Shameless bitch, bringin’ her black bastard here.’

  Biddy was down the steps facing her now and crying, ‘Shut your mouth and take your trip!’ the while pointing down the drive. ‘Now get goin’ or I’ll do what I promised first off.’

  ‘Aw, to hell with you! An’ the lot of you. You’ll sizzle in hell’s flames. Drink’s one thing, but loose livin’s another. I’m no loose liver, never have been. Nor me lass. Stealin’! Don’t believe a bloody word of it.’ She shook her head before she turned about and shambled away, her voice receding with her steps.

  Biddy waited until the woman was lost to her sight round the bend in the drive; then, beckoning her sons to her with a jerk of her head, she said, ‘Take a dander down there and see she gets out. And I’ll have a word to say with you, our Jimmy, as to how she got in. Those gates should be locked.’

  ‘They are locked, Ma. She must have got over the wall down by the wood; it’s no more than four foot there.’

  Biddy shook her head. ‘Well, go on after her,’ she said; ‘and see she goes out the same way she came in.’

  Her sons hurried away to do her bidding, but she did not return to the house by the way she had come out; instead, she walked slowly through the courtyard and so into the kitchen, and there, looking at her daughter, Fanny, she said, ‘I wonder what next. At her very door! Aye, I’ve said it afore and I’ll say it again, that lass draws trouble towards her as a flower draws the bee. She never goes out to meet it, it just comes to her. Like the season that brings God’s little apples it comes to her.’

  ‘You’re right there, Ma. You’re right there.’ Fanny nodded. ‘I’ll make a fresh pot of tea, and I’ve set her tray. Will I take it up?’

  ‘No; I will.’

  ‘Well, I’ll carry the tray up the stairs for you.’

  ‘Aye, you can do that, for of a sudden I feel tired, sapped.’

  Fanny picked up the tray and preceded her mother out of the kitchen, along the passage, across the hall and up the main staircase, but when they reached the gallery, Fanny turned and whispered, ‘Will I put it in her bedroom or take it straight up to the nursery?’

  Biddy thumbed upwards, and by the time she reached the nursery floor she was panting and so she stood and inhaled a number of deep breaths before following Fanny into the day room.

  Tilly was alone, the children were having their afternoon rest, and when Fanny put the tray on the table and went to pour the tea out, Biddy shooed her away with a wave of her hand.

  Neither of them spoke until Biddy, taking the cup of tea to Tilly, where she was still standing in front of the window, said, ‘Here, lass, drink this.’

  But Tilly did not turn to her and take the cup from her, she raised her arm and, leaning it against the edge of the deep frame of the window, dropped her head onto it and began to sob.

  Quickly putting the cup down on the ledge, Biddy turned her about and, holding her tightly in her arms, murmured, ‘There, lass. There, lass. Take no notice, she’s scum. They’re all scum in that village, every blasted one of them. The devil’s run riot through their beds for years, for every one – man, woman and child – in that damn place has got him in them. Come on, lass, come on. There, dry your eyes. Look.’ She pressed Tilly away from her and with her bare fingers rubbed the tears from her cheeks, saying loudly now, ‘You’re the lady of the manor, lass, you’re above the lot of them. You can buy and sell them; with the money you’ve got you could buy the whole damn village and turn them out on their backsides. Just think of that now. Here, come on, sit down and drink this tea.’

  Tilly sat down and she drank the tea, and after a moment or so she looked at Biddy and said, ‘How am I going to live down this latest, Biddy?’

  ‘Be yourself, lass. Go out and hold your head high. Take them both with you wherever you go. If you’ve got nowt to be ashamed of, it won’t show in your face.’

  Tilly became still as she looked straight into Biddy’s eyes and said slowly, ‘Josefina isn’t mine, Biddy; she is the offspring of a Mexican Indian girl, a very young girl, and a white man.’

  ‘A white man?’

  ‘Yes, I said a white man.’

  ‘Somebody you knew?’

  Tilly’s gaze did not flicker, she made no movement for almost thirty seconds, and then said, ‘Yes, someone I knew, Biddy.’

  Slowly Biddy’s gaze fell away from hers and, picking up the silver teapot, she poured out another cup of tea, and when she handed it to Tilly she said, ‘You’ve got nothing to be ashamed of, lass. If you ask me, much to be proud of. You’ll win through. You’ll win through.’

  Seven

  On the following morning Tilly had another visitor and his presence caused a greater stir than had that of Bessie Bradshaw.

  She’d had a disturbed night and had slept late – on Biddy’s orders no-one had attempted to waken her – and it was almost ten o’clock when she came down to breakfast, but not before she had visited the children in the nursery.

  The morning was soft. She looked towards the long window at the end of the breakfast room. It gave on to the side terrace and the sloping lawn that led down to the lake. She could just glimpse the sheen of the water and she thought how peaceful it all looked, but empty, solitary; yet she realised that this was but a reflection of her inner feelings.

  Last night she had lain for hours pondering on her life, a life that could be said to be uneventful looked at from the outside, but which underneath the surface had been filled with tragedy since she was a child: her father dying in strange circumstances; her mother fading away afterwards; then herself being brought up by her grandparents on stolen money that had lain hidden for years; her persecution by the villagers, through which, inadvertently, she had been the cause of the death of two men; her succumbing to the love of the owner of this manor, and her constant attendance on him for twelve years until the day he died; then her bearing him a child, and finally marrying his son.

  She had fallen asleep before her thoughts had begun to revive memories of this last episode in her life; and for this she would have been thankful, for what she tried not to think about at night were those short years spent in America because then, just as her husband had had nightmares about frogs, so she would have nightmares about Indians and mutilated dead people and a child’s brains splattered about a post.

  There was a tap on the door and Biddle came into the room, almost scurrying towards the table in his haste, and in a voice little above a whisper he said, ‘Madam, there . . . there is a visitor.’

  ‘A visitor? Who, Biddle?’ Her voice was flat.

  Biddle swallowed. ‘It is Lord Myton, ma’am,’ he said.

  She rose to her feet, repeating, ‘Lord Myton!’

  ‘Yes, ma’am, and . . . and I think you should be prepared for the fact that, that he is . . . he is not quite himself, ma’am.’

  She was moving towards the door as she said, ‘How did he arrive?’

  ‘By coach, ma’am.’ Biddle seemed to spring forward now and open the door for her. And then she was in the hall looking at what she termed an apparition, for there stood an old man dressed in a heavy riding coat which covered a long blue nightshirt. On his feet were bedroom slippers and on his head a high riding hat. His face was unshaven and his wrinkled chin and cheeks showed a stubbly bristle of some days’ growth. H
is eyes set in deep dark hollows appeared bright but their light was lost as he screwed them up when inclining his head towards her and doffing his hat, which showed his pate to be quite bald. But what caught Tilly’s attention more than his appearance was the gun he carried under his left arm.

  ‘Ma’am . . . sorry . . . to trouble you . . . ma’am.’ His words were spaced. ‘My card.’ He fumbled in the breast pocket of his coat; then looking to the side, he said, ‘Howard. My card for . . . for the lady.’

  Stepping forward and playing up to the situation as if he had practised it daily, Peabody said, ‘Madam has your card, my lord. She would like you to come this way.’ He looked at Tilly, his eyes wide, and she, making a small motion of her head towards him, said, ‘Yes, of course.’ And now holding out her hand to Lord Myton, she directed his shuffling walk into the drawing room.

  ‘Kind of you, kind of you.’

  ‘Not at all. Do please be seated.’ Tilly indicated an armchair, then watched the old man slowly lower himself down into it. He still held his hat in one hand and the gun under his other arm, and when Tilly said, ‘May I take your hat, sir?’ he handed it to her, muttering, ‘Yes, yes.’ But when, without speaking further, her hand reached out to the gun he pressed it tightly to him, saying now in a high squeaky voice, ‘Oh no! Oh no! Not that. Not that. Sit down. Sit down.’

  She sat down opposite to him, and she remained quite still as he peered at her. Then seeming to have come to a decision in his mind, he said, ‘You’re all right; don’t look like a whore. She’s one. Oh aye, all her life . . . is she here?’

  ‘I don’t know to whom you are referring,’ Tilly lied now.

  ‘Her, of course, me wife, the bitch. Always a bitch, but gone too far this time. My God! Aye. Aye.’ He now leant towards her and, his voice dropping to a hissing whisper, he said, ‘Trying to put me away. D’you know? Trying to put me away, insane.’ He bobbed his head once more, then repeated, ‘Insane. And you know’ – again he bobbed his head – ‘I must have been all these years – insane. But I laughed. Didn’t matter, didn’t matter . . . long as she was at t’other end of table, amusing, made me laugh. Oh yes—’ He drooped his head, and it was some seconds before he repeated, ‘Made me laugh.’ Raising his head again, he grinned at Tilly now as he added, ‘A sense of humour. Bawdy, aye, like a man, bawdy. That’s why I took her, good company, bawdy.’ Again his head fell forward and now he muttered, ‘I was no use to her. Didn’t matter, didn’t matter . . . No. No; but not with a pit fella. Aw, now, not with a pit fella!’

  The last words had ended on a shout and he repeated, ‘Pit fella, lowest form of life. Sunk to that, pit fella . . . Kept tag of her amours. Aye, yes. An earl ’n’ a guardsman in town. Gentlemen. Gentlemen. Always gentlemen in town. But here. God Almighty! Like a stag in the rut. Sopwith first one . . . Your man, wasn’t he, your man? Mistress to him. Kitchen slut they said you were . . . come up. Don’t look it. Don’t look it. He did a damn good job on you if you ask me. Then the farmer. Oh aye, the farmer. Then Turner and Drayton and on and on.’ He turned his head to the side and looked around the room and, his mind diverted for a moment, he said, ‘Nice . . . nice. Taste here. Good taste.’ Then bringing his watery gaze onto her he said abruptly, ‘You do this?’

  It was some seconds before she could answer. ‘Just the upholstery and drapes.’

  Again he was looking around him. ‘Very nice. Very nice. But her. Yes, her, aye.’ He nodded at himself as if recollecting his thoughts; then pointing his finger at her, he said, ‘John Tolman. Yes, John Tolman. His wife, you know . . . you know Joan?’

  Tilly shook her head.

  ‘She nearly tore her hair out . . . Agnes’. Scrapped like fishwives. Yes, aye, they did.’ He began to chuckle now. ‘Then Cragg, Albert Cragg, you know. You know what?’ His body began to shake with his chuckling and he bent almost double but still keeping his eyes on her as he said, ‘She must never have looked at faces. God, no, ’cos you know Cragg?’

  Did she know Cragg? And did she know Tolman? Yes, she knew them, but more of their wives, the women who had looked upon her as if she was mire beneath their feet.

  ‘Three good stable lads. Aye, three good stable lads I lost. But what matter? Menials are there to be used. What’s good for the goose is good for the gander.’ His body was again shaking. ‘Should be what’s good for the gander ’tis good for the goose, eh? . . . Eh?’

  Suddenly becoming still and his voice issuing in a growl from his throat, he said, ‘Where is she? She’s here!’

  ‘No, I’m afraid she’s not, milord. Your wife is not here.’

  ‘Don’t lie to me. She knew I was after her ’cos she had sent for those damned fellows again to have me barred up. Burton said she had ridden off to the pit fella’s cottage, but when I got there they were gone. Lad said he had seen them riding towards here. Now, don’t you hide ’em. It’s the finish, I’ve stood enough. Disgrace, a pit fella!’ He drew saliva into his mouth and looked for somewhere to spit, but after a moment he fumbled in his pocket and drew out a green silk handkerchief. Having spat into it, he made an attempt to pull himself to his feet. But Tilly was already standing in front of him and, her voice soothing, she said, ‘Lord Myton, please listen to me. I can assure you on my word of honour your wife is not here, and I can assure you too that you are mistaken about . . . about her association with the . . . the pitman.’

  ‘No? No?’ His lower lip curled so far over that she could see the stumps of his diseased teeth in the side of his gums.

  ‘I swear to you, Lord Myton.’

  He looked up at her now for some seconds before asking in a childlike voice, ‘Well, where can she be?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘I’m dry.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I should have offered you some refreshment. What would you like?’

  ‘Brandy.’

  ‘Brandy it shall be.’ She hurried to the fireplace and pulled at the bell rope, and as if Peabody had been standing outside the door it opened and she said to him in a voice that appeared calm, ‘Would you please bring the decanter of brandy?’

  ‘Yes, madam.’

  It all sounded so normal, and the normality was continued when a few minutes later the butler placed a tray by the side of his lordship and poured out a good measure of brandy which he handed to the old man. Lord Myton gulped at the brandy, and after he had emptied the glass he shivered, smiled a weak smile and said, ‘My drink, brandy.’ He handed the glass back to Peabody who looked at Tilly, and she made a small motion with her head towards the decanter and he again poured out a good measure, but this time he left the glass on the tray. Looking at it, the old man did not pick it up immediately but he said, ‘Good. Good.’

  The butler was turning away when he hesitated as there came the sound of voices from the hall. They had caught Tilly’s attention too and she, looking hard at Peabody, said, ‘Will you please stay and attend to his lordship for a moment?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘Excuse me.’ She bowed towards the old man, and he, picking up the glass of brandy, said, ‘Yes, yes.’ At the moment he seemed oblivious of where he was except that perhaps he thought he was at home, for looking at Peabody, he muttered, ‘Should be a fire in the grate.’

  ‘It’s warm outside, milord.’

  ‘It ain’t warm inside, not inside me t’ain’t.’

  By the time Tilly had closed the drawing-room door behind her he had already thrown off the rest of the brandy.

  In the hall stood Biddle, Peg, and the visitor, who should be none other than Steve.

  Walking towards her and, straight to the point, Steve said, ‘Is the old man here?’

  ‘Yes.’ And she added in a whisper, ‘And where is she?’

  ‘When I last saw her she was haring back home to Dean House where she expected to find the doctors. Apparently she sent for them first thing this mornin’. The old fellow had been on the rampage all night looking for her. He had a gun.’

  ‘He st
ill has and he’s in a very odd state. Come in here a moment.’ She turned abruptly and led the way into the dining room, and when she had closed the door on him she said immediately without any lead up, ‘He suspects you and her.’

  ‘Me!’ He screwed up his face at her.

  ‘Apparently you are her latest choice, and she has made it pretty evident, hasn’t she?’

  ‘Now look here, Tilly; you believe me, there’s nothing . . . ’

  ‘You needn’t protest, Steve; I believe you, but the old man’ll take some convincing. Have you met him?’

  ‘Never. Never set eyes on him.’

  ‘Well, that’s one good thing because . . . well, I really think he means business if somebody doesn’t get that gun away from him.’

  ‘What brought him here anyway?’

  ‘From what I could gather he understood that she and you were making for here.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘That’s what he said. One of his men told him that she had gone to your place. He must have got it out of the man at gunpoint I should imagine. Anyway, when he didn’t find you or her he questioned a boy on the road, who said he had seen you both riding towards here.’

  ‘I rode with her as far as the coach road and I told her plainly I wasn’t accompanying her any further but I’d have a look round for the old fellow on my own. The last time I saw her, as I said, she was haring back towards Dean House, and it was as I was making me way roundabout like to the mine, ’cos I’m on turn in an hour, that I met Richard McGee and I asked him if he’d seen anything of the Myton coach. He said he had passed it not fifteen minutes gone heading for here; at least it was on this road and so I put two and two together . . . Look, Tilly, as he doesn’t know me, do you think I can persuade him back into the coach, because I can’t see you handling this on your own.’