‘Aye, it’s sad for us all,’ Kate blurted out. ‘I’ve been that happy working here.’
The older woman eyed her in surprise. ‘Aren’t you staying?’
‘No, ma’am. Not needed now the house is being closed up.’
‘What will you do?’
Kate’s shoulders drooped. ‘Gan back to Jarrow and look for work.’
‘Is that where you’re from?’
Kate nodded.
‘Isn’t that strange?’ Emma declared. ‘The earl’s family had a connection with that town. His Lordship’s cousin Edward was the rector of Jarrow for several years. Perhaps you’ve heard of him, Canon Liddell?’
Kate shook her head, then remembered. ‘There’s a dispensary named after a Liddell, mind.’
‘No doubt that was for Edward - such a kind, dear man. He came to our wedding. Was very frail by then. They say Jarrow killed him - worked himself into an early grave. Such a nice wife too.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Kate said, feeling in some way implicated. ‘Jarrow’s a hard place. Me own father died young too.’
‘Poor girl!’ Emma exclaimed, her delicately boned face creased in concern. Suddenly she made up her mind. ‘You can’t go back to that town - I won’t allow it! If they don’t need you here, you’ll come and work at the castle. Yes, you’ll brighten up all the long faces with your singing! Promise me you’ll sing while you work?’
Kate gawped in astonishment. Was she really being offered a lifeline at the last moment? Or was this just another of Her Ladyship’s whims that she would forget by nightfall?
‘I’ll sing as much as you want, ma’am,’ she said quickly.
Lady Ravensworth laughed. ‘Splendid! I’ll speak to Miss Peters now - she can arrange it all.’ She waved her cloak in the direction of the hall. Kate followed, stuttering her thanks.
As an afterthought, Her Ladyship asked, ‘What is your name, child?’
‘Kate, ma’am,’ she smiled proudly, ‘Kate Fawcett.’
Two days later, to the resentment of some servants who thought her a brazen upstart, Kate began at the castle as a housemaid, cleaning out fires and carrying pails of water with Hannah. She ignored the callous comments about her lowly origins and smothered her Jarrow accent as best she could, aping the more refined speech of the parlour maids. And she hummed and sang as she worked.
The following month, she got word from Suky that she was working at the inn at Lamesley, as Cook had indicated. They met up on Kate’s day off and swapped news. Suky was courting a lad from Kibblesworth. Kate was struck by how alike their friendship and conversation were to hers and Sarah’s. It was months since she had last gossiped with her older sister and walked arm in arm sharing secrets.
Kate knew then that she could not put off going home any longer. Now that she was working at the grand castle, she was keen to see her mother and tell her the news in person. For the first time since leaving Jarrow she had a rush of homesickness. She longed to see her mother and Jack, and catch a glimpse of Sarah. She even missed Mary.
Next month was Mothering Sunday. She would go home for that. Kate wrote to Rose the following week. As the days grew longer and daffodils sprang from the hard earth around, Kate was filled with sunny optimism. Maybe even her stepfather would be pleased to see her.
Chapter 9
Alexander gazed out over the grey, choppy waters of the Gulf of Bothnia, breathing in the sharp air. The coast here was low-lying, a lacework of waterways and islands, dark fir trees growing right to the water’s edge. Dotted among them were wooden houses and churches, the smoke from their stoves hanging over the trees like a blanket.
After three frantic months of travelling the countries of the Baltic, always keeping on the move, he had wintered in Uppsala, north of Stockholm. Constant ferry journeys, cheap hotels and touting for business had left him jaded and it had been a relief to see the winter draw in and the lakes freeze over. The eastern Swedish ports had become ice-bound and the steamers marooned, the flotilla of foreign ships slipping away.
He had taken rooms close to the lofty-spired cathedral, among Uppsala’s students, and hibernated. The furthest he went each day was to cross one of the five bridges over the icy Fyrisa River to spend the short afternoon in the public reading room, flicking through the foreign newspapers. In the evening he would keep warm in a cafe, drinking arrack and eating a smorgasbord of herring and relishes, discussing literature and art with students. They argued about politics and whether Sweden should break away from Norway; they talked of workers’ rights.
Alexander was impressed with conditions he found in the mining towns of Sweden. He had stayed with Baron Tamm in the forests of Osterby and been taken to view the mines and iron works of Uppland. Close to the baron’s mansion and parks was a purpose-built town of streets and canals radiating out from a central square. The workers’ dwellings were rows of one-storey houses, each with a garden, byre and stable, with plots of cultivated land behind.
‘Every family has at least one cow,’ the baron told him proudly. ‘Everyone should be able to feed their children.’
Alexander had nodded, reminded of dim childhood memories of Jarrow, a town of shipbuilding and iron works. How closely the baron’s words echoed those of his beloved cousin Edward, the local rector. He remembered the damp and filth of the houses they had visited. He would cling to his cousin in fright on entering the dark cottages with the stench of excrement from the open middens making him gag. He could not remember anything growing in Jarrow, let alone gardens and smallholdings for the workers.
How Edward would have wept to see the comparative paradise of these Swedish labourers. All he had been able to give the people of Jarrow was cocoa in the cold of dawn and the comfort of companionship and sharing their plight. Alexander felt angry every time he thought of Jarrow -the town that had stolen his cousin’s health and so robbed him of a loving family home. Not that Jeremiah had been unkind. But he was widowed and childless and had taken on Alexander as a commercial transaction as much as an act of charity. He was helping out his powerful employer at Ravensworth and training up a ‘son’ to carry on his business.
But Alexander was practised at banishing unhappy memories and had soon put thoughts of Jarrow from his mind. Instead he had enjoyed his stay with the baron and his family, especially the company of their daughter, Anna, who was lively and keen to practise her English. Alexander had spent a month hunting elk and shooting duck with the baron, and falling in love with fair-haired Anna.
Then letters had begun to arrive from Jeremiah, ordering him back to England, and Alexander had disappeared to Stockholm. There he had sent a message from the telegraph office of the Grand Hotel that he was ice-bound for the rest of the winter. He followed it up with a longer letter telling how he had secured a lucrative contract with Baron Tamm. The Swedish iron magnate needed a plentiful supply of British coal. While here he would seek out a ready supply of cheap timber for their North-East pits.
Alexander slipped north to Uppsala. But his money was spent (Jeremiah had stopped his allowance until his return) and he could no longer barter for food in the cafes with his sketches, or cover his rent by giving drawing lessons to students. Besides, spring was stirring in the deep black forests and the groaning sound of ice cracking broke the quiet.
Now here he was in the port of Gefle watching the newly arrived ships queuing at the quayside to load with timber. This rapidly growing manufacturing town, with its large shipbuilding wharfs, reminded him of Newcastle. Like Newcastle, the whole of the quarter on the north bank had been destroyed by fire a generation ago and its quayside was now laid out with broad streets and solid buildings lapped by the dirty waters of a bustling harbour.
Alexander felt a sudden rush of desire to be home. He wanted to smell the oily, fishy mouth of the Tyne, to step on the crowded quayside and hear the harsh cries of the brightly skirted fishwives. He thirsted for the taste of dark beer in the snug of a Newcastle pub, and yearned to ride out on the dun-coloured moors as
the snows melted and the rivers roared with spring torrents.
He thought longingly of Ravensworth and the final ride he had taken with Polly De Winton. He’d hardly thought of the squire’s daughter in months, but he recalled how nimbly she had mounted her horse and ridden for hours without tiring. He would pay her a call on his return.
Ravensworth! He conjured up the bare trees sticky with new buds and the carpets of daffodils dancing in the March wind. Lady Ravensworth would be pleased to see him and demand to be told of his adventures. He would bask in her interest like the welcome spring sunshine.
Two days later, Alexander took the train back to Stockholm and then the long trail to Gothenburg in the west. He was too impatient to wait for the steamer that would edge its way across the massive central lakes, but all he could afford was third class on the local goods trains (which his worn copy of Baedeker warned him to avoid). The journey seemed endless as they rattled over viaducts spanning foaming waterfalls, constantly lurching to a stop at small villages and weaving towns.
For once he did not want to linger in the pleasant, elegant city of Gothenburg with its canals and wide avenues. He had no money for the harbour restaurants, and the pleasure gardens and open-air swimming baths were still firmly closed.
Alexander went straight to the Stora Bommens Hamn where the large sea-going steamers moored, and booked a passage home. He telegraphed his father, who grumblingly pledged to cover his fare. Five days later, after a stormy crossing that left him sick and cabin-bound, Alexander stepped shakily but thankfully back on to Newcastle’s quayside.
Chapter 10
When Kate rose on the morning of her journey home it was still dark, but Peter gave her a lift on his cart down to the station at Lamesley and young Alfred insisted on coming too. The small boy missed having Kate living at the cottage since she had moved into the castle to work. But all the household staff lived in, for their hours were long and the housekeeper and head butler wanted them under their rule.
Kate had packed jars of jam and pickled onions from Lizzie and had kept her Christmas soap from the Liddells for Mary, remembering her sister’s plea to bring something back for her.
‘We’ll pick you up tonight,’ Peter offered.
‘No, I can walk up the hill no bother,’ Kate insisted. ‘Don’t know which train I’ll catch.’
Her uncle nodded, but Alfred cried in alarm, ‘You will come back, won’t you?’
‘Course I will.’ Kate ruffled his hair in affection. ‘I love it here.’
All the way to Tyneside, her excitement at seeing her family mounted. She craned for a view of the river as the draughty train clattered along downriver from Gateshead. Was Jack stoking up the fire to heat the oven? Was her mother preparing a piece of brisket in thick gravy, knowing it was her favourite?
Her heart hammered as she stepped out on to the platform at Tyne Dock. It seemed an age since she had left last summer, shedding tears at leaving Jack and Mary at the last moment. Kate scanned the crowds at the barrier, family members waiting to welcome home girls in service like herself for Mothering Sunday. She clutched her parcel of presents and the posy of flowers she had picked fresh that morning.
Through the barrier, the crowds quickly melted and she was left alone. No one had thought to come to meet her. Kate swallowed her disappointment. They would all be busy doing jobs. She must get home as quickly as possible to help out.
Outside the station, Kate was overwhelmed by the cram of buildings and the milling of traffic, even on a Sunday morning. There were horse-drawn carts and bicycles to dodge. She stood on the kerb, suddenly paralysed. Kate had forgotten how noisy the town was. It clattered and hissed and roared like a beast. Everything seemed so large, so soot-blackened, so hemmed in.
She had grown used to wide open skies, the smell of cut grass or wet autumn leaves. The busiest place she had been to in the past eight months was the village of Kibblesworth - a few tight-knit streets and a pithead tucked in below the fell with a handful of shops. She felt like a country girl, frightened by the size and noise of the town, not knowing how to cross the road.
Kate stood there feeling foolish, finally galvanising herself to move one foot in front of the other. What was wrong with her? She knew these streets blindfold, had begged around them as a child, knew every hard inch of them. But she was no underfed girl with sores on her bare legs now, she told herself proudly. She was healthy and well-dressed, and worked in mighty Ravensworth Castle. Fortified with the thought, she made her way swiftly out of Tyne Dock and up the hill towards Simonside and Cleveland Place.
To her right she could see Jarrow’s thicket of housing and church spires peeping through the haze of chimney smoke. Below lay the gantries and cranes of Palmer’s shipyards and the tidal mud flats of Jarrow Slake. The tide was in and the sludge-grey water bobbed with planks of seasoning timber. As a small child her father had told her how the pitch-smeared body of a martyred pitman had been hanged there in a gibbet, a grisly sight swaying in the wind to strike fear into rebellious miners. But his friends had conjured away Jobling’s body and lived to fight on for workers’ rights.
Her mother hated that story and had forbidden Kate and her sisters to play near the treacherous Slake when they were young. Kate had shivered in frightened delight at the telling, but the mention of Jobling or the Slake had always earned her a sharp slap from Rose or John, though Kate never knew why.
She hurried on up the bank away from the clutter of housing until the road turned to squelching mud. Ahead she could see the signal box and the uneven roofs of Cleveland Place. Wisps of smoke were wafting from the cottage chimneys. Kate broke into her loping run, not minding that the mud splattered her boots or the hem of her skirt.
She banged in through the wooden gate and up the uneven brick path, one of Jack’s hens flapping out of the way in alarm.
‘I’m home!’ she cried, flinging open the door and rushing inside.
For a moment she could see nothing in the gloom. The light that trickled through the tiny windows was sepia, the fire smouldered and spat with dross. The place was empty.
‘Mam?’ Kate called in concern. ‘Mam!’
Just then the back door swung open and a bulky figure came panting through. It was Rose, struggling with a bucket of potatoes. She looked up and caught sight of her daughter. The bucket clattered to the floor as Rose held out her arms.
‘Mary, Mother of God! What a fright you gave me!’
‘Mam!’ Kate rushed forward, dumping her parcels on the table and throwing her arms about her mother. They hugged fiercely. ‘I’ve missed you, Mam.’
For a moment Rose could not speak. Then she pushed her gently away. ‘Here, you take these.’ Rose thrust the bucket of potatoes at her.
‘You shouldn’t be carrying them!’ Kate remonstrated. ‘Where is everybody? Where’s our Jack?’
‘The Devil knows,’ Rose panted. ‘I’ve given them a scrub - you peel them for me, hinny.’
‘Aye,’ Kate said, feeling a niggle of disappointment. It was as if she had never been away and there was nothing special about the day. ‘I brought you a bunch of flowers, Mam,’ she brightened, nodding at the splash of yellow daffodils on the table. ‘You should see them at Ravensworth - growing everywhere!’
Rose smiled at her daughter. ‘Let’s have a proper look at you. Are they feeding you enough?’ She turned Kate’s face to the light. ‘You’re looking bonny,’ she conceded in a rare compliment. ‘How’s our Lizzie and her lads?’
‘Grand, Mam.’ Kate blushed with pleasure. ‘And I’ve some’at special to tell you. I’m not working at Farnacre Hall any more - the old lady died. But Lady Ravensworth’s started me on at the castle - saw to it in person! I’m a housemaid now, Mam, not in the laundry.’
Rose gasped. ‘You’re working for Lord Ravensworth himself?’
Kate nodded. ‘And once I was laying the fire in Lady Ravensworth’s bedroom and he came in and spoke to me! Lady Ravensworth told him I came from Jarrow and he sai
d his cousin, Edward Liddell, was rector there at one time.’
‘Canon Liddell?’ Rose said hoarsely, gripping Kate’s arm.
‘Aye, did you know of him?’
Rose nodded, her breath catching in her throat. ‘Used to work for him and Mrs Liddell when I was young. A real gentleman and a true Christian. Did His Lordship say how he was?’
‘He died, Mam - few years back, I think he said.’
‘Dead?’ Rose’s thick legs buckled beneath her. Kate grabbed her and pushed her into a chair. ‘Mam, are you all right? I’ll fetch a glass of water.’
‘No,’ Rose gasped for breath, a hand clamped to her chest, ‘it was just the shock ... that poor man ... tried his best for Jarrow.’ She sighed deeply and whispered half to herself, ‘Took us to Ravensworth one summer - me and the bairns - your two dear sisters.’
Kate tensed. She knew when her mother spoke in that wistful tone she was talking about Margaret and Elizabeth, those shadowy elder sisters who had died when Kate was small. She half-remembered them as bossy and loving, with strong arms always picking her up and cuddling her, warm hands clutching and pulling her along. She had a bitter-sweet memory of racing down the street after Elizabeth, waving goodbye until she was long out of sight. It was the last time she saw her alive.
‘Elizabeth was just a babe in arms,’ Rose continued, ‘but Margaret ran about like she’d found her legs for the first time. A day in paradise, it was. And thanks to Mrs Liddell our Lizzie went to place at the castle and met Peter.’ She glanced at Kate, her look briefly tender. ‘So it’s thanks to the Liddells that you’re there an’ all, I suppose.’
Kate looked at her mother in wonder, amazed that she could have known such important people. ‘Were they like friends to you, Mam?’ she asked quietly.
Rose nodded slowly. ‘I suppose they were, in a way. It didn’t bother them that we were Catholic. They were kind to everyone they met.’ Her dark-ringed eyes looked sorrowful. The Reverend Mr Liddell was full of principles -just like your father. They were very alike.’
Jarrow Trilogy 02 - A Child of Jarrow Page 9