by Maggie Hope
Through the long sleepless night the only shred of comfort Hetty had been able to muster was that Elizabeth Fortune would understand. Elizabeth and she were friends rather than mistress and servant, she would know Hetty wasn’t the hussy that the master had called her. He had roared it out, there on the first landing, had fairly danced with rage until Richard had laid a restraining hand on his arm.
‘Father, you’ll wake everyone,’ he had said.
‘I don’t bloody care if I wake the dead! There now, what do you think of that?’ Havelock had answered and shook his arm free. ‘A whore, that’s what she is! Don’t think I haven’t seen her making sheep’s eyes at you either, and now she’s after Matthew. Well, she’s not getting either one of my sons, I’ll see you both in hell first, I swear to God I will.’
The words had burned into Hetty’s brain and she’d lifted her head and taken a step forward. ‘I didn’t do anything,’ she cried. ‘I don’t want—’
‘Get out of my sight or I’ll throw you out on to the moor in your nightgown,’ Havelock interrupted.
‘Matthew, tell him I didn’t do anything,’ she pleaded. But even as she said it she knew that there would be no help from him.
‘Not this time, more’s the pity,’ he said, and grinned. His father took hold of him by the shoulder and, big as Matthew was, threw him down the stairs so that he cannoned into the wall on one side and back to the banister which he grabbed hold of and by some miracle arrested his fall.
‘Get out of my sight!’ yelled Havelock. Matthew opened his mouth in protest but thought better of it and went into his own room, banging the door behind him. Havelock turned back to the girl, standing with her arms crossed over her thin nightie, trembling with shock and humiliation.
Hetty looked at Richard, praying he would say a word in her defence. Surely he knew none of this was her fault? But the scene in the courtyard of the Moorcock that afternoon flashed through her mind and she could tell that he too was thinking of it. Turning, she walked back to her room. There was nothing more to say.
‘I’ll see you in the morning, girl,’ Havelock shouted after her.
So here she was standing before his desk like a schoolgirl in the headmaster’s study, and she knew there was nothing to be done at all. She held out her hand for the envelope. It was very light. For a moment panic struck her. She had three weeks’ pay due, was she not even to get that? Havelock interpreted her expression correctly and smiled sardonically.
‘Don’t worry, there’s two pounds in there. I don’t want you hanging round here because you haven’t the fare home. And don’t forget to leave your uniform when you go. I made a mistake asking you to get another girl, she’s likely to be no better than you are. But she’s coming now and she can have a month’s trial. I’m a fair man, I’ll say that.’ He rose to his feet and walked over to the door, holding it open. ‘That’s all. I don’t want to see your face again.’
Hetty walked past him, her head up, determined not to let him see how hurt and humiliated she was. She went up to her room without looking back and packed her straw box. She took off the uniform and laid it on the bed. One last look round the attic bedroom and she was ready.
There was no one about when she went down the stairs. She hesitated a moment before taking the main staircase to the front hall. There were sounds in the kitchen, voices talking, the men were in for their mid-morning break. She could go through the kitchen and out of the back door, past the stable and on to the Olivers’ cottage. Mrs Oliver had been good to her, maybe she would understand. But no, she didn’t want to get the Olivers into trouble with the master.
Hetty thought of going into the village and seeing Ethel but she couldn’t, not when it was just the morning after her wedding. She would write to her. But write from where? Where could she go with only two pounds in her pocket? She thought of the letter she had written to her gran, written but not posted. She thought of home, Morton Main. But even if home had been as it always used to be, she couldn’t go back there, shame her mother and father before everyone.
Hetty had put her box down on the floor at the bottom of the stairs; now she picked it up and took it to the front door. The door was unlocked and she slipped out, closing it behind her.
As she walked through the orchard to the side of the property, Richard came out of the stables and suddenly they were face to face. He stood still, his face set, and gazed at her. He hadn’t been able to put her out of his mind since that scene on the staircase, he couldn’t believe it had been what it seemed. Yet she had been in Matthew’s arms, dressed only in her nightgown, he could see no sign that she was struggling against his brother. The thought brought a sense of depression and loss which was almost physical and it swelled within him now.
Hetty shrank into herself when she saw his face, so cold, so condemning, she thought. ‘Richard …’ she faltered and looked about her, desperate to get away so she didn’t have to see it. She could feel her face flush, her limbs trembled.
Richard read her feelings. ‘You may well look away, can’t face me, I suppose,’ he said bitterly.
‘No!’ she cried. ‘It’s not like that! I didn’t do anything! It was Matthew who …’
He laughed and the sound wasn’t like Richard at all, but something which reminded her of his brother. A spark of anger lit in her and she flung her head up and shouted at him. All the pain and humiliation, the shame and degradation she felt she had suffered at the hands of his father and brother was there in her voice.
‘Don’t believe me then, I never expected you to! You are a Fortune after all, why should you be different from the rest?’ Turning, she ran to the gate and out on to the moor. She ran, humping her basket box so that it slapped painfully against her legs until she could run no more. Richard took a step after her, almost called out to her, worried about where she would go, if she had enough money. But he stopped. She had family after all, she would be all right. He crossed the yard to the kitchen door, the sad, lost feeling which had filled him since the night before, overwhelming him. He stopped at the back door. Maybe he wouldn’t go in to breakfast, he wasn’t hungry anyway.
Hetty walked along the track, head up, looking straight ahead. She would go to Saltburn, she thought suddenly, Saltburn-by-the-Sea. Surely she would get work there, in among all those hotels and boarding houses? Though she didn’t have a reference, she reminded herself with some misgiving. Still, she would do anything: kitchen skivvying, casual work. At least she had some money in her pocket, enough to get her a bed for a while.
The thought of the jewel streets radiating out from the station to the cliff top beckoned her. Maybe she could start again there? And when she was back on her feet she would get in touch with the family, try to make it up to Mam for Cissy. It was only a couple of hours later, when she came to the main Guisborough to Whitby road which ran across the moor and she was tired and cold and hungry, that she remembered that this was the off-season in the seaside resorts. She would be very lucky indeed to find work in a hotel at this time of year.
Matthew Fortune strode across the moor, his hands thrust deep in his trouser pockets, his overcoat open and blowing behind him in the wind. His trilby hat was pulled down over his forehead and below it his face glowered out at an equally glowering sky. A few spots of rain spattered down, the beginnings of a storm, but Matthew ignored the weather.
‘My God, I need a drink,’ he muttered to himself and stopped walking to glance around, hardly knowing where exactly he was. That was the trouble, he thought, that girl had got right under his skin. Why the hell could she not have just given him what he wanted? Maybe then he could have gone on his way, forgotten her like all the others.
He would never have thought of her if it hadn’t been for the fact that there was no other choice at all on this wild moor, forsaken by God and man. If only the old tyrant would be more forthcoming with the wherewithal he would never have to go back there again. What was a fellow to do when there were only the maids to play with? Jenny, now
, she’d been willing enough. Pity she hadn’t been more careful, silly bitch. She’d thought she could trap him, though. Not likely!
Matthew decided on a path which he thought led to an inn he knew, one where the landlord took no heed of licensing laws. That’s what he needed, a warm pub and a glass or two of brandy. The rain was coming down in sheets now, the wind gusting from all quarters, or so it seemed. Oh well, he reckoned it could only be a mile or so to the Fox and Hounds.
Sitting by the log fire in the bar, watching the steam rising from his coat which was flung over the opposite chair, Matthew stretched out his long legs under the table and sipped from his brandy glass. He let his thoughts wander as the spirit trickled down his throat but they always returned to Hetty Pearson and how she had felt, soft in his arms, with nothing between his hands and her flesh but the thin material of her nightie.
Just another lass, he told himself, slipping from the elevated English he had learned at school and Oxford into the local idiom. But who would have thought she would have changed so much in only a few years? He remembered the thin, pale, scrap of a girl she had been when she first came to Fortune Hall. That was just after Jenny … Matthew finished his brandy and shouted for another. The pub was empty but for a crony of the landlord’s who was sitting at the bar discussing football with him. Both men stopped talking and glanced at Matthew then at each other. The landlord poured the brandy and brought it over to the table.
‘That’ll be two and a tanner,’ he said, standing unsmiling waiting for his money.
‘All right, all right,’ Matthew snarled and fumbled in his trouser pocket for the money, bringing out three shillings. ‘Keep the change.’
‘Best not. You might be in want of it one of these nights,’ the landlord said smoothly, and sauntered back to the bar.
Matthew glared after him. Who the hell did he think he was talking to? Maybe he had been short once or twice but the man had always got his money, hadn’t he? But really, he wasn’t in the mood for a fight, and anyway, there were two of them. He picked up the sixpence change from the table and put it in his pocket.
Hetty. Oh, she was a witch, that one. He got into a fever just thinking about her, that dark hair and those eyes. He remembered the feel of her lips: soft, enticing. Except that she had twisted away from him, he thought. Did she like that farm lad Sam better? He couldn’t believe it. Yet she had been fastening her dress when she came out from behind the wall of the pub courtyard, hadn’t she? Maybe she was just playing hard to get, like that one in Oxford, the one who had been the cause of his being sent down. Funny, he couldn’t even remember her name now …
Matthew sipped his brandy, staring moodily at the smouldering log in the grate. He supposed there would be hell to pay when he got back to the Hall. When Father came back from Whitby at least. There wasn’t much chance of getting the old man to pay his debts now. He’d just have to stay in Yorkshire until he could get himself back into his father’s good books.
There was still Mother, though. Did she have any money left of her own that Father hadn’t yet got hold of? The thought was interesting anyway. Galvanised by it, Matthew threw back the last of his brandy and got to his feet. Reaching over the table, he took his topcoat and pulled it on, damned uncomfortable though it was, being still so wet.
The landlord and his friend watched as he strode out of the pub without so much as a glance in their direction let alone a goodbye.
‘Arrogant bugger, isn’t he?’ said the friend.
‘Arrogant nowt, that’s what he is,’ said the landlord.
It had begun to rain, coming down in buckets, soaking Hetty to the skin and her box too. But she was close to the turn-off for Moorsholm. If she could get there, surely she would get shelter, maybe something for her dinner at the village shop? She walked down the road, little more than a track, her feet squelching in the puddles it was impossible to avoid. A car was coming down the lane. Hetty looked about her; the track was so narrow she had to go on to the grass and press against the stone wall of a field to allow the car to pass. It wasn’t until it was almost up to her and slowing down that she recognised it. Matthew’s car, she thought dismally, the MG in which he roared about the roads, usually to and from Harrogate or Whitby.
She turned and pushed past the car, catching the wing mirror with her arm, almost taking with her the indicator finger which was jutting out and blinking yellow. She was in no mood for him, no mood at all. Besides she no longer worked for the Fortunes; she didn’t have to talk to him, be civil to him.
Matthew stared at her, the water dripping from her, her hair covered by a sodden scarf, her clothes plastered to her body. She was wet enough to have been fished out of the sea just a mile or so to the east. He couldn’t believe it when he saw her. He had been driving around aimlessly in the rain. It suited his mood somehow. He’d tramped home after he’d left the pub and changed into dry clothes, made a sandwich of the crab salad Mrs Peel had put out for him in the dining room. His mother was asleep, he found, when he went up to her room. It was impossible to waken her. Damn, he’d have to try later. He’d drunk some whisky from his father’s decanter and then had gone out again and jumped into his car.
Bedraggled she was, he thought, half smiling. Yet in spite of it she was beautiful, her cheeks red with the cold, her eyes sparkling through the rain. Sparkling with anger, he thought, his grin widening, anger at him because he hadn’t defended her before his father, told the truth. She had some spunk, that one, he thought, feeling an almost proprietary pride in her. He leaned over and opened the door on the passenger side.
‘Get in, Hetty, I’ll give you a lift,’ he said. She did her best to ignore him. He called again: ‘Hetty!’ After a moment he got out of the car and went after her.
‘Come on, Hetty, you’ve made your point. I’m sorry I didn’t say anything to my father. But I’m in trouble enough with him, you’ve no idea how he went on after that business in Oxford—’ He stopped abruptly as he realised that telling her about his escapade with a girl in Oxford was not going to help his cause. ‘Anyway, come on, get in the car. I only mean to take you wherever it is you’re going.’
He took hold of her arm and she stopped walking. At that moment the rain redoubled its ferocity and the wind howled through gaps in the hedge, blowing muddy water in waves across the road and spattering them both with dirty brown splashes. Hetty looked down at her coat. What a sight it was! How would anyone even consider hiring her to do anything at all, looking a scarecrow as she did? It was the final straw. She began to cry for the first time since this nightmare had begun, tears running down her cheeks and vying with the raindrops.
‘Come on, Hetty, sit in the car. At least the hood’s up and the seat is dry.’ Matthew felt a rush of unaccustomed tenderness, surprising himself. He put an arm around her shoulders and led her to the car, sitting her down and closing the door after her. Hurrying round to the other side, he climbed into the driving seat and set off, before she could change her mind and get out.
Hetty’s mind was numb, she couldn’t think straight. She searched in her pocket for a handkerchief, finding only the small scrap of one she had hemmed and embroidered herself, sending away to Woman’s Weekly for the embroidery transfer which was on offer. It was for show, not for use, she thought ruefully, it was sopping wet in no time. But soon Matthew was handing over a large white square, one of those she herself had washed and ironed. Ages ago, it seemed now.
Hetty looked at him. ‘Why are you helping me?’ she asked, the bluntness of her question matched by the suspicion in her eyes.
He smiled. ‘Why not?’
They were coming up to Moorsholm, the first cottages were just around the next bend. ‘Let me out here, I want to get out,’ she demanded.
Matthew looked down at her. ‘Don’t be a silly girl now,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing here for you. Where are you heading, anyway?’ He drove straight through the village. She watched the post office go by, there wasn’t a soul about the place. Oh we
ll, she thought. He owes me something. But if he thinks he’ll get what he wants in return for the ride, he’s sadly mistaken!
Chapter 8
They drove through Brotton and on to the Saltburn road, the water streaming down the windscreen and splashing up on either side of the car and the wheels ploughing through puddles as Matthew swerved from side to side, his eyes more on Hetty than the road ahead. He laughed softly as he showed off his driving skills, watching her to see her reaction, the effects of the spirits he had drunk earlier in the day making him falsely sure of himself and his ability.
Hetty was oblivious to it all, lost in her own miserable thoughts, until, as they swerved along the narrow road and dropped steeply down to the left-hand turn where the road ran parallel with the sea wall and the waves came pounding up the beach to meet them, the surf rose high and roared so that she was jerked into awareness of the danger.
‘Matthew! Slow down or we’ll be into the sea!’ she cried and pushed back in her seat as though she could restrain the car with her own strength. Just in front of them a brewery van trundled along the beach road and she had a brief glimpse of the driver as he turned his head and stared up at them and then was obscured by the rain.
‘Matthew!’
The van was almost on top of them, green-painted it was, she saw as in a dream, and then it was past and Matthew had swung round it sharply left, missing the road and mounting the kerb of the promenade, coming to a halt inches from the sea wall.
He laughed. ‘Had you worried there, girl,’ he said. ‘I bet you thought we were for it, eh? Though I say it myself, I’m a hell of a driver, aren’t I?’
Hetty didn’t reply, for the minute she hadn’t the breath. She sat up straight and looked out of the side window at the front of the Ship Inn. The van driver had stopped and was climbing out of his cab. He lifted his fist and shook it at the MG, mouth opening and closing as he took a few steps towards them before halting as though unsure whether to come on or not. Whatever he was shouting was drowned by the roar of the sea and the wind and the pounding of the surf. Carefully Hetty opened the car door and got out, standing for a moment as she braced herself against the wind. She reached for her box and pulled it out. Matthew put out a hand to stop her but she was too quick for him.