The Servant Girl

by Maggie Hope

  Matthew’s smile slipped. He crossed his legs, still trying to appear uncaring, nonchalant.

  ‘You’ve been back here for weeks after your disgraceful behaviour at Oxford. I’ve waited for you to do something with yourself, I’ve given you every chance, but you seem to think the world owes you a living. You’ll get no more money from me, I have decided.’

  Matthew’s eyebrows lifted. ‘My allowance comes through Mother, from my grandfather,’ he reminded Havelock, and his father went purple.

  ‘And when did you live on your allowance from your grandfather? You live here, in my house, dependent on me, and don’t you forget it, lad. I can throw you out any time I wish to and, I don’t mind telling you, I’m beginning to think about it.’

  Matthew was silent, his confidence seeping away. He had complained often and bitterly about the old man but knew he would do badly without him now, in spite of his allowance from his grandfather. He thought of the forty pounds in his pocket, all that was left from his mother’s cheque. It wouldn’t get him very far and certainly wouldn’t pay off any of his debts.

  ‘I was in a hurry this morning, Father, sorry,’ he tried on a conciliatory note.

  ‘Hmm.’ Havelock stared at his elder son, not in the least mollified. Nothing but a waster, he thought bleakly. But, by God, the lad would mend his ways or he would disown him, he swore he would. ‘I’ll tell you what you must do if you don’t want to be thrown out on your ear,’ he said. ‘I want no argument from you either. You will do as I say from now on.’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘Now, I have invited the Hunters and their daughter Joan here for dinner tonight and I want you to be present. I not only want you to be present, I want you to let them all know you are attracted to Joan. Don’t say you can’t do it, I know very well what you can do with a young girl if you get the chance. You can make her believe anything. Well, you’ll have to convince her parents too, for you’ll marry this one. I tell you you will.’

  Chapter 16

  Charlie had the measles. For the time being, Hetty forgot about Matthew and everything else except the little boy. He had been fretful all day, hanging round her skirts, more like a two year old than four going on five.

  ‘Have you had the disease yourself?’ asked the doctor, looking at her over his spectacles. She seemed so young in her enveloping floral pinny, he thought, like a girl playing at house.

  ‘Yes, Doctor,’ she answered. Her mind flitted back to the time she and little Cissy had lain together in the double bed in the front bedroom at Morton Main. It was her parents’ bedroom, the largest one and airy, and from the window opposite the bed she could see the hill rising up to Shildon on the summit, the bankside wooded and green. Then her mother had drawn the curtains against the light.

  ‘It’s bad for your eyes,’ Maggie had explained when Hetty had protested.

  In Overmans Terrace, the view was restricted to the side of the ravine which closed in the village. Still, it was green and wooded too. Charlie had not protested when she had drawn his curtains, though.

  She gazed anxiously at him, his little face bright with blotchy spots. He had fallen asleep before his father left for Saltburn and when he awoke there were the spots. He was feverish, his eyes half-closed against the light even though the curtains were drawn.

  ‘Plenty of fluids,’ said Dr Gray. ‘Do you know if the other children have had the measles?’

  Hetty had to admit she didn’t. Of course, there was the question of quarantine. Luckily it was Saturday, and the children weren’t at school. But though Audrey was sitting on the top stair just outside the door, waiting anxiously, Peter was out on the beach with his friends, searching for shellfish.

  ‘Well, don’t worry. If they’re going to get it they’re probably infected by now. But try to keep them away from the other children for a few days.’ Dr Gray closed his Gladstone bag with a snap. ‘Where’s their father?’

  Gone to Saltburn to see his mother,’ said Hetty. Wouldn’t it just be a Saturday evening? Oh, why hadn’t she called the doctor earlier, when Mr Hutchins was still at home? It had been no good consulting him, he had just said she should use her own judgement.

  ‘It’s likely something he has eaten, you know what children are like. He’ll be better by this evening.’ Mr Hutchins had been distracted, his mind already on his mother who was suffering from the arthritis which usually plagued her more in the spring than the wintertime.

  Now Dr Gray pursed his lips. ‘I would have thought he would have stayed at home when the boy was out of sorts. He must have been off colour earlier. When did the spots appear?’

  ‘Only after Mr Hutchins had gone. He goes every Saturday.’

  ‘Well, is there anyone you can send down to the surgery? I’ll give you some tablets for him.’

  As Hetty was assuring him she would find someone the door burst open and Audrey came in, stopping short just inside the room. She looked suddenly guilty, knowing she had let it out that she had been eavesdropping.

  ‘I’ll go,’ she offered nevertheless. ‘I’ll run all the way there and all the way back.’

  ‘Little girls who listen at doors hear things they don’t want to hear,’ observed Dr Gray. But he smiled at her. ‘Come on then, I’ll give you a lift down then you only have to run all the way back. I bet you like to ride in motor cars?’

  After they had gone, Hetty brought in some tepid water and sponged Charlie down. He was fretful and wanted to hold her hand. She gave him one of the tablets when Audrey returned and after a while, looking a little cooler, he dropped off to sleep. Going to the window, she drew the curtain aside slightly and looked out on to the road and the hill beyond. Should she alert Mr Hutchins? she pondered. But after all, he would be back tomorrow and there was little he could do for now.

  Then she noticed the car parked not quite out of sight along the road out of the village. Was it Matthew’s? She opened the window and leaned out. It was Matthew. There he was, sitting at the wheel; he saw her and waved, smiling cheerfully. She withdrew her head sharply and closed the window. Glancing at the bed and seeing Charlie was still asleep, she went downstairs and locked the front door.

  Audrey was sitting at the kitchen table, colouring in a picture she had drawn of the sea with some unlikely-looking boats and stick children playing in the waves.

  ‘Why did you lock the door, Hetty?’ she asked, blue pencil poised. ‘My dad never locks the door until it’s night.’

  ‘I don’t want Peter to bring his friends in,’ said Hetty, thinking fast. ‘If he has to knock, I’ll let him in on his own. We don’t want to spread the measles all over the village, do we?’

  Audrey looked puzzled, as though she was going to say more, but in the end she bent over her colouring book again. Hetty sat down by the fire, expecting a knock on the door at any moment. But Matthew did not come. After about half an hour she heard his car engine start up and go off, the sound dying away up the road.

  Audrey brought her picture for Hetty to see and she admired it and pinned it on the wall. Then she went upstairs and fastened an old towel round the light fixture. It was growing darker already and a bright light would hurt Charlie’s eyes. She resolved not to think any more about Matthew, she had enough to do. She made some barley water and flavoured it with sugar and a few drops of lemon essence for she had no fresh lemons. Peter came to the door and she let him in, explaining about his brother and the measles. She made the children’s suppers and they went to bed – and all the time she listened for the engine of Matthew’s car approaching in spite of her resolution to forget him.

  Hetty went up to check on Charlie and then sat for a while, over tea and Welsh rarebit she had prepared and now found she couldn’t eat, then she too went to bed. Her night was disturbed, not only by dreams of Matthew chasing her along the cliff top at Saltburn but by the waking nightmares which plagued Charlie. He would cry out for her and she would get up and change his damp nightshirt and sponge his face with cool water and give him
barley water to drink.

  ‘You don’t look well yourself,’ observed her neighbour. Hetty had washed Charlie’s nightclothes and was hanging them out to dry in the back garden. Mrs Timms, the neighbour, came nearer to the fence. ‘You don’t want to let Mr Hutchins catch you washing on a Sunday,’ she said. ‘Not hanging it out, anyway.’

  ‘Well, they have to be washed and I can’t hang them in the house when they dry so quickly in the garden.’ Hetty was tired, her arms felt heavy as she lifted them to peg out the nightshirts. At the moment she didn’t care what Mr Hutchins thought about her breaking the Sabbath.

  Her dreams of the night before were still vivid in her mind. She was racing along the cliff at Saltburn, looking back fearfully over her shoulder as Matthew drew nearer and nearer until she got too near the edge and fell, rolling over and over down the almost vertical slope, crying out as she neared the boulders at the bottom with the angry waves smashing themselves to pieces on them.

  ‘Da!’ she had shouted in her dream. ‘Richard!’ But when she awoke and sat up in bed, trembling, it was quiet, Audrey slept soundly in her little bed in the corner and grey light was just beginning to enter through a gap in the curtains.

  Mr Hutchins came home. ‘Another time you should ring Alice from the callbox,’ he said, but mildly. ‘Still, you did the right thing calling the doctor.’ He went upstairs and sat with Charlie, releasing Hetty from the need to stay near and listen for the boy. She walked up the cliff path and sat on the grass, far from any chance of hearing Matthew’s car.

  Matthew himself was walking sedately around a small copse on the estate of their neighbours, the Hunters, in company with their daughter Joan. He looked sideways at her now; her normally pale complexion showed spots of colour on her narrow cheekbones and her light blue eyes sparkled. He held her arm as they came to a rather steep part of the path and could feel the tremor just beneath her skin. She was beginning to be fat, he thought, the flesh bulged under the puff sleeves of her pink flowered dress. She had a large bust, though, startlingly large even for her round, solid body, surprising against the narrowness of her face and small head.

  They came to a stile and he climbed over first and held out his arms for her gallantly. Joan giggled as she put her hands in his – hands which were tiny, like her face. Her short pink dress blew high as she jumped down, showing a paler pink petticoat and an expanse of plump thighs.

  ‘Oh, you’re so polite,’ she breathed. He held on to her hand as they walked on; it amused him to do so.

  ‘To think you’ve been home all these weeks and last night was the first time you have had dinner with us,’ said Joan. Matthew had his answer ready.

  ‘Well, you know, I like to dine with Mother when I can. It’s the highlight of her day.’ He sighed. ‘Poor Mother.’

  ‘Oh yes, how is Mrs Fortune? She has been ill for a long time, and it’s such a shame. Mother asked to see her, of course, but we quite understand that her condition prevents her from mixing with people.’ She hesitated. ‘What exactly is the matter with Mrs Fortune? I’m afraid I never really knew.’ Joan stopped walking and looked up at Matthew, a direct gaze.

  Phenobarbitone and codeine, prescribed by Father’s friend, the village doctor, was the answer which came to mind, Matthew thought. Amused, he allowed himself to laugh into those repellently light eyes and Joan fell even deeper under his spell.

  ‘She has been an invalid since Richard’s birth,’ he said, allowing the smile to slip into sadness. ‘I’m not sure of the precise term … a woman’s thing.’

  ‘Oh yes, of course,’ said Joan, nodding her head as though she understood very well when in fact she was mystified. They walked on for a few minutes in silence. At least she didn’t chatter, thought Matthew.

  When the men were left alone to their port the previous evening, Mr Hunter had been quite open about Joan’s prospects.

  ‘She will get the lot when I go,’ he said. ‘Not that the lass needs it, she has a fair inheritance from her grandfather. He was a mill-owner over Bradford way.’ He had looked directly at Matthew.

  ‘Yes, anyone who weds my girl will find she doesn’t come empty-handed. Though most of it’s tied up pretty well – I’m old-fashioned about women and money. They need someone to look after it for them.’

  Oh, I could do that for her, thought Matthew. But he couldn’t help comparing Joan with Hetty, amazing himself yet again that he should even hesitate when Joan had all that money.

  ‘You’ll be comfortable enough there,’ said Havelock as their guests departed. ‘Just as well her money’s tied up, though, or you’d be through it in a year. I just hope to God Hunter doesn’t hear more of your wretched reputation before the knot is tied.’

  Perhaps he had heard something, Matthew mused, that could be the real reason that Joan’s money was tied up. He wouldn’t mind guessing that he wasn’t Hunter’s first choice for her. But it was obvious that she wanted him and the old man couldn’t deny her anything. Oh yes, it would be easy to manipulate Joan Hunter to his own ends and desires.

  He squeezed her hand gently, almost imperceptibly, and she turned to him eagerly. Drawing her to the side of the path, into the shade of an oak tree, he pulled her to him and kissed her. Her breasts pushed into his chest, the brassiere she wore tight and restraining, almost like armour. Blast the things! Whoever invented brassieres wanted shooting, he thought. Her lips were soft and wet and primly together. Experimentally, almost clinically, he put the tip of his tongue between them. Joan drew back.

  ‘Don’t do that,’ she said. ‘Why, we hardly know each other! I don’t think a girl should permit any liberties at all until she’s engaged. Men don’t respect a girl if she does.’

  ‘It was just a kiss,’ said Matthew.

  ‘One thing leads to another,’ declared Joan. She walked on a few paces and looked back provocatively. ‘You’re not angry with me, are you?’

  Matthew did his best to look disappointed though in truth he was relieved. Her mouth had tasted slightly of the onions she had eaten for lunch, and something else, something sour. Though he would have to get used to that if he was going to marry her. He felt depressed, suddenly.

  ‘Shall we turn back now?’ he suggested.

  ‘Oh, but I thought we would walk over to Fortune Hall. I would love to see it, I haven’t seen it in daylight since I came home from finishing school.’

  Finishing school! Matthew wondered how much old Hunter had paid for that. Whatever, it was too much. He smiled at her, widening his eyes, flicking his head so that a lock of hair fell over his forehead. He knew it affected the women. Hadn’t he proved it over and over again? Like putty in his hands they were.

  ‘I’m sorry, Joan. Perhaps at the weekend? I have some urgent business this afternoon. I meant to tell you earlier … I’m not going home now, I have an appointment with a colleague.’ Thankfully she didn’t ask any more questions, though she pouted.

  ‘Oh, very well,’ she said. ‘I know you men are always rushing off on business.’

  They walked back to her house where Matthew had left his car. He was filled with an overpowering desire to escape, it took all his willpower not to leave her standing, to run back to his car and drive off. He managed to see her into the house and promised to telephone her later to arrange something for the weekend.

  ‘Now don’t forget, will you?’ she said as she closed the door.

  Matthew was at last free to go and roared away down the drive and out on to the open moor. At first he hardly cared where he went so long as it was away from Joan Hunter but inevitably he found himself taking the small byroad which led to Smuggler’s Cove. He parked on the bend once again as he had done every day for four days. There was no one about. It was the middle of the afternoon and no doubt the men were at work and the women in their houses for the previously sunny day had turned overcast and there were a few spots of rain already falling.

  Hetty. She was the reason why he was here. He was trying to wear her down, get her to see he w
as not going to give up so she might as well give in to him. It was part of his plan, he told himself.

  Bloody Joan Hunter! he thought savagely. He wouldn’t touch her, he’d be blowed if he would. He remembered the taste of her mouth with disgust. He felt like washing his own mouth out. Felt like a drink now he came to think of it, a couple of whiskies would do the trick. But he didn’t want to go back to the pub on the main road, neither was there anywhere to go in Smuggler’s Cove, not without making himself conspicuous. Still, he could use Joan’s money. The girl was loaded, or her father was. Spoilt rotten too. She obviously thought that anything she wanted was hers for the taking and she wanted him, Matthew Fortune. He should be flattered. Instead he badly wanted to march up to that cottage in – what was it called? – Overmans Terrace, that was it. He would march up to that mean front door and kick it in and drag Hetty out by her hair.

  He became lost in an erotic dream. He would keep her in a place on the cliff edge, miles from anywhere else, somewhere where she couldn’t get away until she was well and truly his slave. And she would be, he had no doubt about that. He supposed he could marry Joan Hunter, keep his father sweet, get all the money he wanted from her, for she was besotted with him, he knew that now. And he could still keep Hetty, at least until she had lost her looks, and then when the witch lost her power over him he would throw her out, get his revenge.

  ‘What are you doing? You’re blocking the road. Don’t you know this is a working mine?’

  The irate voice brought him out of his reverie and he looked up, startled. ‘What? I’ll park where I damn’ well like. Who the hell are you to tell me what to do?’ Matthew soon recovered from his surprise and spoke with all his natural arrogance. He climbed out of the car, ready to argue the point.

  The man frowned impatiently. He wasn’t a common workman, Matthew saw now, but some sort of official, probably the mine manager.

  ‘You’re blocking the entrance to the mine, man! Now come on, shift this car or I’ll have it shifted.’