The Glass Virgin

by Catherine Cookson

  Three steps from the broad staircase Mrs Page was waiting. Her grey serge was impeccable, her goffered cap was set straight on top of her head, of which there wasn’t a hair out of place, but the fingers which clasped each other in front of her waistband moved nervously over the chatelaine which was hanging there, and the lid of her right eye was twitching.

  During years of saying little, and looking and listening much, Rosina had learned to observe such things.

  ‘I hope that you’ve had an enjoyable day, Madam, and that the journey hasn’t been too much for you?’

  ‘The journey was more pleasant than usual, Mrs Page, thank you. Miss Annabella, she’s quite well?’

  There was the slightest pause before Mrs Page answered . . . ‘Yes, Madam. She’s about to take her bath, and I’m sure she’s anxious to see you.’

  Rosina inclined her head towards her housekeeper, then mounted the stairs, followed by Alice Amelia Piecliff.

  Alice Piecliff was always addressed to her face by the staff as Miss Piecliff. Having, from governess, taken on the position of lady’s maid to Rosina’s mother, Mrs Constance Conway-Redford, then devoted the same two services to Rosina herself, she was a person to be reckoned with in Redford Hall. She had power far above that of Harris, and as for the next in the hierarchy, Mrs Page, she could floor that formidable lady with a look.

  Alice Piecliff was seventy years old; she was thin and her face showed no wrinkles, only grey skin stretched over protruding bones. She wore black silk without variation, and when she went abroad she donned a black bead bonnet and matching cape that came well below her knees. She believed firmly in God and beheld Him each night from her knees as a gigantic figure in white flowing robes, and always He had His hand held high admonishing her to prepare herself for the life to come. She had two weaknesses which caused her often to explain to her forbidding God that they in no way detracted from her love and fear of himself. The weaknesses stemmed from the same source: she adored milady, as she called Rosina’s mother, and she loved Rosina with a love that she would have given to her own child had the creation of such a being not been denied her on account of it being connected with man, and sin.

  Her relationship with the mother and daughter to whom, one or the other, she had given all her working life, was unique, for she was the confidante of both, and perhaps because she had brought them up, so to speak, she could talk to them in a fashion that was indeed privileged, for this was the age when most servants were considered just a grade higher than animals, and at best could rise only to a position of authority over their own kind; this was the age when the desire to read made a man or woman suspect by their employer. Of the forty-five servants on the estate and farm not one of them could read or write and no-one showed any inclination to alter the situation because each knew his place in life and kept it. Anyway, why should they bother their heads about learning; it got you nowhere, only into trouble, as was proved by those who started the strikes in Rosier’s Pit and in the Jarrow Shipyard.

  All the employees at Redford knew they were well in. The Redfords had looked after their people for as far back as three hundred years, and although Edmund Lagrange was master now there was still a Redford on the estate, a Redford who counted, a Mistress Constance Redford. But still, as some said, it wouldn’t make all that difference when she was gone because Lagrange was a good master, free with his money . . . or her money, whose it was didn’t matter; he spent, and there was always plenty for everybody, and always the opportunity to make a bit on the side. Live and let live, that was the motto that got you by, so why bother your brain by wanting to read or write. Do a modicum of work, have a full belly and silver in your pocket at the end of the year, this was life, and you’d have this life as long as you kept your place and had no fancy ideas. This policy of the staff was well known to Alice Piecliff and because of it she considered them as much beneath her as did her mistress.

  When they entered the dressing room, she ripped off her cape and bonnet and dropped them on to a chair; then going to the assistance of her mistress she helped her off with her grey silk dustcoat, then unpinned her large, pale blue straw hat which was trimmed with a single ribbon and had only one flower lying on its brim. Then flicking her fingers here and there she pushed the hoops of her skirt into place so that she could sit down before the dressing table.

  ‘Something’s happened, Alice.’ Rosina looked through the mirror, waiting for a reply, but Alice took her time as was customary with her. First of all she took a pad of cotton wool and liberally sprinkled it with eau-de-cologne; then standing behind her mistress she dabbed at first one temple and then the other before saying, ‘Well, you’ve always had a nose for such things and it’s never led you astray yet.’

  ‘Didn’t you feel it . . . the tension?’

  ‘Yes, I felt something. Mistress Page, I saw, was uneasy.’

  They now stared at each other through the mirror; then Rosina said softly, ‘She said the child was all right. I . . . I must go and see her.’

  ‘There’s plenty of time. Rest yourself a while, she won’t run away . . . ’

  It was as Alice finished speaking that the cry came from above and caused them both to look sharply upwards. Before it came a second time Rosina was at the door. She did not run along the corridor to the stairs because she never ran, but her steps were so rapid that they left Alice far behind. Before she reached the nursery door she heard her daughter shouting as she had never shouted since she was a small child, having in the meantime learned to control her emotions, but now when she entered the nursery she was amazed to see her standing in her stays and bodice and using her hand in a smacking motion towards Watford.

  ‘Annabella!’

  ‘Oh, Mama.’ The child turned and flung herself against her mother’s wide skirt. Her arms spread across it, she lifted her tear-stained face upwards, crying over and over again, ‘Oh, Mama! Oh, Mama!’

  ‘What is this, Watford?’

  ‘I . . . I don’t know what’s come over her, Madam, I don’t. She just won’t have the blindfold on. She’s never been like this afore.’

  ‘She won’t have what on?’

  ‘The blindfold, Madam.’

  ‘The blindfold?’ Rosina’s hand became still on top of Annabella’s thick auburn hair; then her tone still even she said, ‘What are you talking about? Please explain. What blindfold?’

  Now Watford, her mouth in an elongated gape, was looking from her mistress to her mistress’ maid, and not until her mistress said, ‘Well, I’m waiting,’ did she close her mouth and mutter, ‘She’s always blindfolded afore I take the last of her things off to get into the bath.’

  ‘She’s always blindfolded?’ Now Rosina’s voice was spiralling. ‘You mean to say . . . Who gave this order?’

  When Watford again looked towards Alice, Rosina turned her head slowly and met the gaze of the woman who was closer to her than her mother, or even her child; then after a moment she turned back towards the agitated nursemaid and, holding out her hand, said, ‘Give that to me.’

  When Watford handed her the blindfold she stared at it before adding, ‘Never, never do you hear, do such a thing again.’ Then pressing the child from her, and attempting to still the anger she was feeling, she said, ‘Have your bath now, my dear, and I will return and see you when you are in bed.’ She paused, looking down at the upturned face, then added with tenderness, ‘Dry your eyes, there’s a good girl, dry your eyes.’

  In her room once again, she stood stiffly as she looked at the old woman and – her voice, her only real attraction, now overlaid with incredulity and anger – she said, ‘How could you do such a thing, Alice?’

  Alice stared back into the pale-skinned, long, plain face. Then, her chin tilting, she walked to the window. It said a great deal for the tenure of her position that she could do this before she answered – ‘I did it to kee
p her mind clean; she’ll come to know sin soon enough.’

  Rosina was left speechless for a moment as she followed her maid’s reasoning; then she said, ‘Hiding her body from her will only arouse curiosity in her mind.’

  ‘What the eye doesn’t see the heart doesn’t hanker after.’

  ‘Don’t be foolish, Alice.’

  ‘All right, Madam, I’m foolish.’ When Alice used the term Madam in private, it meant she was upset.

  After a moment Rosina sat down heavily on a chair and, joining her hands on her lap, she stared ahead as she said, ‘Imagine what would have happened had . . . the master found this out.’ And Alice’s answer to this was, ‘It’s a habit that some people could take up with advantage to their souls.’

  ‘Oh, Alice.’ The words were almost a deep groan and Rosina dropped her head on to her chest, and within a second Alice was by her side. Her shaking hands resting on Rosina’s shoulder, she muttered, ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I asked God to show me the way to keep her pure and it came to me; it just came to me like an answer.’

  At this moment the sound of a distant laugh brought them both taut and straight; then getting up from the chair, Rosina went to the dressing table and began smoothing her hair with a comb, while Alice, going to the huge wardrobe that took up almost the whole length of one wall, said in a voice that was still trembling, ‘What will you wear?’ As Rosina replied, ‘The blue taffeta,’ there came a tap on the door. Almost simultaneously it opened, and Edmund Lagrange entered the room.

  Stopping for a moment he looked towards his wife’s back and said, ‘I didn’t hear the carriage or I would have been down.’

  Rosina didn’t look at her husband through the mirror, she didn’t look at him at all, but she turned her head to the side and in his direction as she said, ‘We have only been in a few moments.’

  ‘How did you stand the journey?’ He was limping towards her, leaning heavily on his gold-headed stick.

  ‘It was very agreeable, more so than usual.’

  ‘Oh, I’m glad, I’m glad. It’s been a beautiful day.’

  ‘How is your leg, Edmund?’

  ‘Much better, my dear, so much so that I’ve decided to go downstairs to supper this evening. I sent word to Harris. I’m sure you’re ready for something.’

  ‘I’m not very hungry, we had a very good dinner, but I’ll be down in a little while.’

  She looked through the mirror now and found his eyes waiting for her. There was a question in them and she could have answered it with a slight shake of her head but she did not wish him to erupt in front of Alice. Not that that would be anything unusual but she preferred the battles, the dreadful soul-searing battles, to be fought in private whenever possible. Yet she well knew there was little privacy in this house; every door had its listener, and she sometimes visualised the kitchen as an assembly of parliament when the whole serving household got together and put forth their opinions as to the rights and wrongs of the running of the establishments, Mr Palmerston being ably represented by Harris, for like him her butler could move from one party to another as the circumstances warranted. Harris had been the devout supporter of her father’s principles as long as her father was alive, but now that her husband was in charge he, as devoutly seemingly, supported his principles, and there had never been two men so opposed in what they stood for.

  She knew that she had inherited part of her father’s strength, and his principles, but when she dared bring these traits to the fore life became a living hell. But she would have endured this hell and eventually gained release from its perpetuation if it were not for one thing, the child. Nothing held her to this house, to this man, to this existence of mental torture but the child, and the child was Edmund’s weapon, the only weapon he possessed against her. And should she not comply with his wishes he could use the weapon like a knife at her throat.

  ‘How long will you be?’ His voice; soft and deep, would have given an outsider the impression that he was asking this question because he was eager for her company; and in a way he was eager for her news, because so much depended on what she had to say and it being favourable. But when she replied, ‘About fifteen minutes,’ he thought to himself derisively, fifteen minutes! Another woman in her place would have said an hour, or more, but his Rosina did not dress, she merely changed her frock; not for her the touching up of her eyes and lips, the powdering of her skin, the scenting of her oxters and nipples. No, she washed her face with soap and water and instead of pomade on her hair she used a brush covered with a piece of silk that made it look like a shining wet-tarred cap.

  Through the mirror Rosina watched him limping towards the door and even at this stage of her life and knowledge of him she could understand how women fell before his charms. With all his excesses his body had up till now remained thin; there was no flabbiness of neck or chin or cheek, only in the yellowing white of his eyes could there be detected the reflection of his way of life. There were few people who knew him as a really evil man; her mother, Alice, her Uncle James and Aunt Emma. They knew of his ways, but then only to a certain extent; she, and she alone, knew that in Edmund Lagrange there was an accumulation of many evils, some so subtle as to be unspeakable, untranslatable into speech. If there had been words to explain them she would, before now, have surely unburdened herself to Alice, or her mother. But there are certain things forbidden through speech. Her mind, she felt, had created this barrier to save herself from madness.

  ‘What will you do?’ Alice was whispering the words as she hooked up the crinoline dress, and as softly Rosina answered, ‘I don’t know. One thing’s certain, he won’t believe I tried, and I did, Alice, because begging from Uncle is preferable to begging from Mother.’

  Alice finished the last hook on the bodice, then patting the back of the embroidered collar she came round and stood before her mistress. As she adjusted the points of the collar, she said, ‘It’s got to end somewhere; if you lose the factory it’ll be the finish.’

  To this Rosina made no reply, but she thought to herself, I wish it was. But for one thing I wish it was.

  As she made for the door she said over her shoulder, ‘I shall say goodnight to Annabella before I go down’; then turning her head she added, ‘Don’t wait up, you must be tired. Have your meal and go to bed, I can manage. I . . . I may be late.’

  Alice made no reply to this, and they both knew that she would not obey the order.

  The meal was ending and the servants were departing. Edmund Lagrange, in spite of his impatience, had enjoyed his food; the stuffed mackerel had been delicious and he couldn’t have bettered the curried lobster in any club in The Mall. The saddle of lamb had been rather ordinary but the goslings had made up for it and the gooseberry pudding, as the saying went, melted in the mouth.

  He had drunk a bottle of wine and now with a brandy in his hand, which he swirled expertly round to the very rim of his glass without allowing a drop to spill over, he looked at his wife at the other end of the table and thought, My God, she gets plainer every day. Even the candlelight that was kind to most people, and now was being enhanced by the deepening twilight, was not kind to her. He turned his gaze away and rose from his seat. He did not go to assist her from her chair; he knew that she would sit through what she had to tell him, good or bad, and it was characteristic of her that her face gave no indication of what news she had to impart. Her power to hide her thoughts had always irked him.

  ‘Well! How did it go?’

  She moved the solid silver dessert knife back and forward between her finger and thumb before she replied, ‘Uncle could not see his way clear to loan me the money.’ She did not say us, or you. She heard him swallowing but did not look at his face, and went on, ‘He reminded me that we are still ten thousand pounds in his debt.’

  ‘He picks up the bloody interest, doesn’t he?’

  It was
beginning again. She sat up straighter in her chair and pressed her shoulders tightly against the back of it.

  ‘Did you tell him we could lose the works?’

  ‘I inferred so much.’

  ‘Well then?’

  ‘He reminded me that the five thousand you borrowed from him four years ago and the added mortgage you placed on the house did not save the candle factory, as the previous five thousand did nothing to help the pottery or the pipe factory.’

  He was standing at the end of the table again, gripping the back of the seat he had vacated and glaring at her. ‘The pottery was finished, you know it was. As for the pipe factory, it had been losing money for years, long before I came on the scene.’

  She raised her eyes and returned his infuriated gaze with a calm stare. ‘That isn’t so. The pipe factory always paid its way: its profits did not fluctuate to heights as those of the glass works were apt to do, but its returns could be relied upon. Father . . . ’

  ‘Blast your father! Do you hear me? Blast your father!’ His voice was low and thick and even his breath seemed to exude hate on the word ‘father’. ‘Your father had as much foresight as a pig’s arse, or he instead of Swinburne would have taken over Cookson’s years ago.’

  She couldn’t bear it. She was tired, exhausted, mentally and physically exhausted; she couldn’t bear this tonight.

  ‘And when Cookson started on his sheet glass in ’37 did your father have the sense to copy him then? No; he was as blind as the buggers who thought that there’d never be a steel collier and that the Palmer brothers were mad. What your father couldn’t see or wouldn’t see was that sheet glass was the stuff of the future, that anything could be made with glass, anything. Doors, furniture; yes, furniture. And why not floors? Anything. No; he had to go on with niggling little shades, bottles, candelabra, and encourage them to make their footling glass fiddles, windmills and spinning wheels so they could carry them in their processions, dressed up, aping their betters in swallow-tailed coats and top hats . . . Pah! your father!’