The Glass Virgin

by Catherine Cookson

  It was half-past eight the same evening when Rosina stood in the same room and faced the woman, the trollop, the wanton, as she had named her hundreds of times over the past years. In her mind’s eye she always saw the creature with a smile on her painted face, a superior, all-knowing smile. But the woman who confronted her now was an agitated creature that aroused neither her jealousy nor her scorn; but neither did she arouse compassionate concern. She was gabbling. ‘Mary Ann, one of my . . . women, she had left her only a few minutes. Jimmy, he was out in the back, and I was upstairs gettin’ into me clothes, I live up top. And then Mary Ann comes runnin’ up to say she can’t find her. She had vanished like into thin air. The front door’s heavy but none of them heard it open or shut, and Katie and Lena were knockin’ about, they were.’ She bowed her head at this point, then shook it from side to side, adding, ‘What odds. What odds; she’s gone, and God knows where, an’ it gettin’ dark. And around this quarter!’ She now stared at the tall, stately, plain looking woman before her and added meaningfully, ‘She could be eaten up. You understand that? She could be eaten up.’ She bounced her head forward on the last word and Rosina, finding herself hardly able to speak, murmured, ‘Have . . . have you sent anyone out looking for her?’

  ‘Aye, yes, of course. Jimmy’s been runnin’ hell for leather along the entire quay right to The Gut, and into the market; the lasses have been out an’ all. I tell you it’s a bloody, dirty trick he did, and that’s swearin’ to it, an’ I don’t care if me words offend your ears, Ma’am.’ The title was not spoken in a deferential sense at all, and she went on, ‘You know what he is, he’s a bloody, spiteful bugger. But I’ve no need to tell you that ’cos he’s put you through the mill if I’ve known owt. Mind, it wasn’t my idea that he should bring the coach down this way all those years gone; she was being well brought up and that was enough for me, but he kept sayin’ that I should see her. Not that I didn’t want to see her, I was dyin’ to see her, but I was afraid that once I saw her I’d want her back. An’ I did the first time I clapped eyes on her. But then I knew it was no use, not for her it wasn’t, she’d had ten years set in your ways, she was your bairn; she still is. When she comes back to her senses she’ll know that. Me, I’m just somethin’ that has almost turned her brain, somethin’ to be deeply ashamed of . . . oh, aye, I know . . . an’ I’ve got that big-headed bugger to thank for it. But I’ve potched him. Oh aye, I’ve potched him. As I told her he’ll come crawlin’ back and wantin’ her once he gets over his mad bout, but I’ve put paid to him where she’s concerned. And—’ she considered Rosina for a moment, ‘It’ll be news to you an’ all, but you might as well know now, I’ve told her, you see, he’s not her father, never was. I led him on to think so ’cos it suited me. Her father’s Jimmy, who let you in. He acts as me houseman an’ chucker-out, when things get rough, and . . . ’ She stopped as Rosina exclaimed below her breath, ‘What did you say?’ Her head was bent forward, her eyes wide, her nostrils were moving quickly in and out as if accompanying her heartbeats.

  ‘I said your man’s not me girl’s father. He set me up, Lagrange did I mean, and then he went off sportin’ in London and when he came back, well, I’d fallen an’ I told him it was his ’cos I wanted security. I’d the taste of a bed that wasn’t flea-ridden and I meant to keep it.’

  ‘You’re saying that my husband isn’t Annabella’s father?’

  ‘Aye, that’s what I’m sayin’. Look, do you want to sit down?’ She pushed a chair forward, but Rosina waved it aside with a slight movement of her hand, and at that moment the door opened and the big man entered; and the woman turned to him quickly and said, ‘Well?’ and he shook his head and answered, ‘Not a sign of her, and no-one seems to have clapped eyes on her.’

  The man was staring at Rosina and she at him, and the woman said, ‘This is Jimmy. This is her da . . . father.’

  Rosina looked at the enormous man, at the big, bruised face. This man Annabella’s father? There arose in her the most odd feeling; it was a triumphant feeling, a feeling of elation, a feeling that urged her to laugh, which at this moment and under the circumstances would have been most unseemly. Her daughter – and Annabella would always be her daughter – was lost. Her mind unhinged by the shock, she was alone in this low quarter of the town, and night coming on. This was no time for laughter, this was no time for elation, that would come later. Ah yes, she would give it full rein later. This was one emotion she would not bury, this was one emotion she’d enjoy to the full.

  She now brought her eyes back to the woman and said, ‘If you find her will you send word to the House and I will come immediately.’

  ‘Aye, I’ll do that.’

  ‘Will you please see that the message is delivered to me and to no-one else? You . . . you understand?’

  ‘I understand all right.’ Now they each made a movement with their heads, one was a nod the other a slight inclining, and they stared at each other, not enemies, never friends, but two women connected with the one man. One who had been used by him and one who had used him, they were both in this moment hating him equally.

  Rosina now turned away from the woman, then went on past the man who was gaping at her, and out of the room. There was another woman standing by the front door and she opened it, all the while keeping her eyes riveted on the visitor.

  As Rosina stepped into the carriage, the door of which Manuel held open for her, she said under her breath, ‘She’s not there. Please drive around the town, and quickly, before the light goes.’

  Over the last seven years Manuel had got to know Shields very well, especially this quarter of the town during his monthly leave. So now he drove the carriage furiously up narrow street after narrow street, but always returning to the waterfront; he even tied the horses to alley posts and dived up the alleys, disturbing drunks and whores at their business. He ran here and there and questioned people, but always when he returned to the carriage he looked at the face peering at him and shook his head.

  It was almost dark when he drove into the market place; he stopped the horses and lit the lamp and, going to the carriage window, he said, ‘We can do no more here the night, Madam, and I was thinking she might have made her way back home.’

  ‘You think so?’ Rosina looked into the groom’s face. Next to herself and Howard, this man had had more to do with Annabella than anyone else. Years ago she had been stupid enough to be jealous of him. Telling herself that it was quite beneath herself to be jealous of a servant brought no ease to her feelings for Annabella could not restrain her pleasure when she knew that she was riding out with Manuel, or when Manuel was up on the box.

  She used to think, at first, that there was something odd about the dark-visaged young man, some power that wasn’t quite normal. She had broached the subject to Howard, diplomatically of course, and Howard had at first said that he had an enchanting way of telling Irish tales and that he was a most unusual man, quite superior to the ordinary run of servant. Then something happened that changed Howard’s opinion of the groom, for from showing eagerness to accompany Annabella when she was having her riding lessons she had begun to make excuses, such as having a painful instep, or a sprained wrist, always something that would prevent her riding. It was Alice who told Rosina the real cause of the change in the governess. Apparently she had not been averse to the attentions of a groom, which in her position she should have considered beneath her, until she had found that his attentions were not being bestowed because of her attraction but only in order that she should teach him to read and write.

  She herself had been even more suspicious of the man after this. A groom desiring to read and write, a groom who cut himself off from the rest of the staff, except from Armorer and the stable boys, and a groom who disappeared during his accumulated leave they knew not where. For Alice had said that Mrs Page had said, that Harris had said that no-one, not even Armorer, knew where he spent his time
; only one thing they could be certain of, it wasn’t in a monastery.

  And yet here he was now searching for her daughter, and the only one besides herself she was sure who was really and truly concerned. Howard was no longer with them, and her own mother would say, without hesitation, good riddance. And those in Weirbank? Would they care, really care?

  She had returned from Durham earlier in the day after a disastrous, dreadful, shame-filled visit in which her Uncle James had told her that he had informed Stephen many years ago about the condition of Annabella’s birth, and that Stephen’s attention to her had been affected by his compassion for her. He had always tried to show her that she was a sister to him . . . Sister indeed!

  Then when she had reached home they were all waiting to tell her that Annabella had gone. They said they had searched the House and the grounds and there was no sign of her, and her whereabouts were a mystery until the carrier had called and remarked that he thought he had seen Miss Annabella on the road to Shields. But then, he said, he must have been mistaken.

  She had stood for a moment and looked from Harris to the group of servants at the top of the steps, and then she had turned and looked at Manuel, and he, without waiting for an order, mounted the coach again and she entered it, and he had raced the two tired horses without stop to the town.

  She said to him now, ‘But if she hasn’t returned home, Manuel, what are we going to do?’ and he replied promptly, ‘First of all, I’ll take you back, Madam, and then I’ll ride down again. I’ll be able to get round better on me own, you understand?’

  She moved her head slowly twice, then sat back in the carriage, and he mounted the box and turned the horses for home.

  The house was a blaze of light when he drew up before the door. Harris and Reeves were immediately in attendance and they answered Rosina’s question with, ‘No, Madam, Miss Annabella has not returned.’

  After moving one lip tightly over the other she asked of Reeves, ‘Is the master in?’

  ‘No, Madam; he hasn’t returned either.’

  She now looked at Manuel who was standing at the horses’ heads and he said, ‘I’ll change and go right back, Madam.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  As she went up the steps and into the house Manuel, handing the horses to Armorer, said quickly, ‘Saddle Dizzy will you? And get me something to eat, anything. I must get out of these.’ He patted his wet cape. ‘I’m drenched to the skin, but I’ll be no more than five minutes. You’ll see to it?’

  ‘Aye . . . No sight of her?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Where did the mistress go?’

  Manuel looked first to one side then the other, then muttered under his breath, ‘Crane Street.’

  ‘Name of God!’

  ‘Aye, name of God; I’ve heard of houses fallen, but man alive, you can hear the crunch of this one go right through your head.’

  Armorer, leading the coach horses into the stable yard, said dolefully, ‘I hear we’ve all got the axe, all except Harris,’ and Manuel called back to him, ‘The world’s wide’; then running up through the loft to his room, he changed into dry things and fifteen minutes later he was galloping down the drive again and into Shields.

  Three

  It was nine o’clock the following morning when Rosina watched the groom ride up the drive and, when a few minutes later he stood before her, she looked at him without question, and he made no verbal answer, only shook his head. After a moment she said, ‘Go and rest and I will send Armorer in to inform the police.’

  He said now, ‘I talked to one or two, unofficial; they could tell me nothing.’

  When she made no comment on this he turned away, his head bowed, and he had reached the door when she said, ‘Do you think she would throw herself in the river, Manuel?’

  He remained with his back to her, his head still bowed. She had voiced the thought that had ridden with him all night as he had travelled the waterfront back and forward from Tyne Dock to the piers. The question now acted like a punch in his stomach, bringing an actual pain and causing his muscles to tighten into knots. But she had to have an answer, and he couldn’t tell her what was in his mind, and so, turning, he asked her a question, ‘Is there anyone at all she could go to, Madam?’

  Rosina hadn’t to think before she shook her head slowly, for whom could she have gone to? Whom did she know outside these gates except the family in Durham? And they were the last people she would go to. She had been as isolated most of her life as if she had lived in a convent, and she knew there was no-one to blame for that but herself. She had hedged the child in with proprieties; she had kept her from associating with families in the county that would gladly have accepted her, since most of them had young male members, because she had been determined to keep her for Stephen . . . and herself. No. No, there wasn’t a soul outside these gates that she could turn to . . . except that one person who had given her birth.

  If only she herself hadn’t gone rushing off yesterday to Durham. But even seeing the announcement in black and white she could not believe it was anything but a great mistake. Stephen, she would have sworn, was the soul of honour, and would not have played fast and loose with Annabella’s affections; and she found that he hadn’t.

  All the way home she had told herself that she wasn’t of this world, of this time, she must be living in some bygone age of knights and their honourable intentions. What label did a man tie to affectionate actions so that they could be distinguished as brotherly?

  She was alone some minutes before she realised that Manuel had gone. Alice came to her now and said, ‘You must eat something; you’ve never had a bite or a sup since yesterday. I’ve just come from across the park and the mistress would like to see you as soon as possible.’

  Rosina didn’t answer Alice for a moment, but went and sat by the window and, looking out on to the drive once more, she said, ‘I’m not moving out of the House, Alice, until I have news of her. Take that message to Mother.’

  Alice stared at her mistress, her mouth slightly open. It was the first time she had known this daughter to disobey a request from her mother, a request that was always an order.

  For most of the day Rosina sat by the window, only leaving it at the sight of the policemen riding up the drive. They hadn’t come to bring her news, only to ask for particulars, and the Chief Officer could only marvel at the white-faced woman who asked him coolly if he thought that her daughter could have drowned herself. He was at a loss for a moment before replying, ‘Well, if she did, Ma’am, she would likely go out with the night tide, the four o’clock one.’

  It was forty-eight hours later when Lagrange returned home. Alice woke Rosina from a doze to give her the information. Sitting up in a chair in which she had slept during the past two nights, she said thickly, ‘A wet cloth Alice.’

  Alice brought a bowl of cold water and she wrung out a cloth, sprinkled some eau-de-cologne on it, then held it to her mistress’ face. As she did so she said in a trembling voice, ‘Now go careful, you’re in no fit state to confront him, you’ve never eaten for days. Look, let me get you something first.’

  ‘There’ll be plenty of time for that later, Alice.’

  ‘Well, let me change your dress.’

  ‘No, Alice; once this is over I will lie down and rest.’ She sighed on the last word and, taking a towel, she dried her face, while Alice drew a comb through the top of the straight hair and tucked a strand in here and there.

  Getting slowly to her feet, Rosina said, ‘He should have my message by now. He may be here at any minute, you’d better go.’

  Reluctantly Alice left the room. If there was one time she would have dearly loved to stay with her mistress it was now, because if anything would bring the devil low, it would be what she said to him in the next few minutes . . .

  But it was a full half-hou
r later when Lagrange entered his wife’s room. When he saw her standing silhouetted against the light of the window the change in her was immediately apparent to him. Her face was still white, still plain, but her eyes seemed to be on fire and her whole attitude was different. She was no longer controlled by that calmness that always maddened him; he couldn’t put a name to either her manner or her expression, he only knew that he had never seen her like this before.

  He himself felt dreadful. He had been drinking hard for two days and two nights and had only partly slept it off, but he was sober enough now to hate himself for having revealed Annabella’s identity; not that he was worried by the effect on his wife, but what did affect him was the breach that would surely open between himself and his daughter.

  His mind was brought alert by Rosina saying in a voice that was little above a croak, ‘Have you seen the news-sheet, it should be in today? They said her body could have gone out with the tide.’

  ‘What are you talking about, woman? Whose body?’ Even as he said the last two words a fear gripped him and had the effect of almost closing his windpipe.

  ‘Whose body? Whose body would I be talking about but Annabella’s, of course.’

  He stared at her as he felt the blood draining from his face; then he demanded, ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘You don’t know? Of course you wouldn’t, you’ve been about your business, your entertaining business.’ She held out her forearms, her palms upwards. ‘Well, you may remember you told Annabella to go to her mother, didn’t you? And she did just that. She went to her mother, to the house in Crane Street. Now that shouldn’t surprise you, but what should surprise you is that I also went to see her mother in that house in Crane Street.’ She paused now as she watched the blood seep back into his face, turning it almost purple; then she went on, ‘But I was too late to catch Annabella. She met her mother, and she also met someone else.’