The Glass Virgin

by Catherine Cookson

  When he reached the cottage Amy was bending over the fire stirring something in a pan. She turned her head and straightened her back and said, ‘You’ve been long in coming.’

  ‘I couldn’t get away, he’s on the rampage. How is she?’

  ‘She’s herself, in her mind that is, but she’s far from well.’

  ‘Can I go in?’

  ‘Aye, of course. I told her you had been an’ it didn’t distress her.’

  The heat of the room met him as he opened the door. It was a heat that would bring the blood to the surface, but the face on the pillow still had the plaster look about it. He slowly lowered himself on to his hunkers by her side and looked into the eyes that were like wells of sorrow.

  ‘Manuel.’

  He nodded his head at her a number of times before he could speak, and then because he couldn’t think of anything to say at the moment he asked, ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Better, Manuel. I . . . I’ll be quite well soon. Amy is . . . very kind.’ Her speech was halting; she seemed to have to drag each word up from the depths of her and force it out.

  He said, ‘We’ve been worried.’

  ‘That’s . . . that’s kind of you, Manuel.’

  ‘Oh, not me alone.’ He smiled at her. ‘Everybody. The mistress has been demented . . . ’

  His mention of the mistress acted like a blind being dropped over her eyes. She was still looking at him but as if she wasn’t seeing him, and she began to cough now. It was a harsh racking sound and her whole body shook with its force so that when it ended she was gasping. Then half apologetically she said, ‘I’m sorry, I’ve . . . I’ve caught a little chill. What day is it, Manuel?’

  ‘Monday, Miss Annabella.’

  ‘How long have I been here?’

  ‘I think you came on Friday night.’

  ‘Friday?’ she repeated, her mind groping back at the past events.

  He said now under his breath, ‘Where did you get to? I searched that waterfront for two days and nights.’

  She was looking at him again. ‘That was kind of you, Manuel; I’m sorry I put you to so much trouble.’

  ‘Oh tish,’ he said; ‘it was nothing. It was only that . . . I was worried.’ He did not say we, now.

  She was silent for some time, her head turned away from him, looking in the direction of the window, and then she said, ‘Do you know that little cave you once showed me on the side of the green tor, well I woke up in there and the sun was shining on me. I can’t remember when I left the town, but—’ she nodded once, ‘I knew I was making for here. It’s strange, isn’t it, that I should make for Amy’s?’

  He shook his head slowly and smiled softly at her as he said, ‘Not strange at all; Amy’s a fine woman, a good woman.’

  She moved her head again and said, ‘Yes, she is, but one thing worries me.’

  ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘I have no money to pay her.’

  His voice was loud. ‘Pay Amy? Don’t be silly, she’ll want no payment.’ He now leant over her and smiled and said, ‘You’re a godsend to her, do you know that? She’s been dying to have someone to practise her herbs on for years. You never liked her ginger beer did you?’

  The question brought not a vestige of a smile to her face and she replied, ‘I am sorry. It’s very good beer but not to my taste.’

  The smile left his own face and he stared at her and thought, Always the polite, ladylike reply. God, but she’s going to find it rough. She’d have to build up a number of skins on herself if she was going to survive. He got slowly to his feet, saying now, ‘Just rest, I’ll be in later. If not, I’ll be across first thing in the morning.’

  ‘Thank you, Manuel.’

  He made for the door; but there he stopped when again she spoke his name. ‘Manuel?’

  ‘Yes, Miss Annabella?’

  ‘You won’t tell them?’

  He paused before he said, ‘It would be the best thing because you’ll have to go back in the long run.’

  ‘NO! No!’ She was resting on her elbow now. ‘I won’t have to, never. You . . . you don’t know what’s happened, Manuel. I . . . I can’t go back.’

  ‘Now, now.’ He came towards her again. ‘Don’t fash yourself, rest now. Don’t worry, I won’t say a word till you get on your feet and then we can talk about it again.’

  ‘I . . . I won’t change my mind, Manuel, when I’m better. I can never go back there. You don’t understand, I don’t belong . . . ’

  ‘Now, now.’ He lifted his hands and patted the air above her head as if he was touching her, saying soothingly, ‘I understand, I understand right enough. What you don’t understand is that you are in a very low state at the moment. You rest for a few days longer and then we’ll see what’s to be done.’

  She started to cough again and he said, ‘There, see. Amy will give it to me for upsettin’ you. Now rest easy. I’ll say nothing until I have your leave, how’s that?’

  She was gasping when she said, ‘Thank you, Manuel.’

  As he went out of the room he thought, What’s to become of her if she doesn’t go back? And he voiced this to Amy where she stood pouring some gruel into a basin, and her answer was, ‘Leave it. Leave it; God has a way of working things out, slow but sure. We’ll take one thing at a time. But she’ll be lucky if she gets over this with nothing more than a cough; lying soaking on the fells for two nights would kill a horse.’ She added now, ‘I saw himself go galloping up the road a few minutes ago and I thought how strange it was them searching the countryside for her and her not a kick in the backside, so to speak, from their own back door.’

  ‘Lagrange went past . . . on the main road?’

  ‘Aye. Aye, in the direction of the lodge.’

  ‘Well, wherever he’s been it’s short and sweet,’ he said. ‘It means I’d better be back, and soon, or else the mood he’s in he’ll try for my scalp. I’ll be over around dawn again, Amy.’

  ‘All right,’ she said.

  He paused before going out and, putting his hand on her shoulder, he added, ‘You’re a good woman, Amy,’ and she gave a hic of a laugh as she replied, ‘I am as God made me; I’m good to those I like and I curse those I don’t, and I do both well.’

  They laughed together understandingly; then bending forward he kissed her hastily on the cheek, and went out leaving her red in the face as if she were a young lass.

  Four

  Most of the servants were gone; there were in the house now only Harris, Mrs Page and Constantine, and outside only Armorer and Manuel. All that remained of the farm staff was the blacksmith because the stock had been sold. The only place that wasn’t changed on the estate was the stable yard; it still housed all the horses, and Lagrange, seeming to become stranger every day, haunted the place.

  When Armorer had pointed out to his master that it would be nigh impossible for him to see to all the animals after the morrow when Manuel left, the reply he got was, ‘Manuel isn’t going, he’s staying; he’ll stay as long as I want him.’

  When Armorer had conveyed this to him, Manuel had looked at the older man and said quietly, ‘I’m not staying, George. I’d give me life for the animals, you know that, but I’ve got a feeling I must get out of this, just a feeling. Somehow I think he means me no good. Can you understand this?’

  Armorer had shaken his head. He couldn’t, not really, because the master had always shown leniency towards the young fellow. Even after he had refused to box for him and told him so to his face, he hadn’t sent him packing with a horsewhip around his shoulders as he would have done any other of them. He had just champed on his bit and flew at everyone around him, but strangely not at the one who had aroused his ire.

  Lagrange had told no-one what his arrangements were, but it was plain to those left in
the House that he intended to stay in the Old Hall because he had sent most of the staff scampering a fortnight before their time was up. He had paid them full money but, as he had said to Harris, they weren’t going to sit on their backsides eating the cellars bare, and thereupon he had ordered most of the food from the House cellars into those of the Old Hall.

  But now this was the last day of the month and all of them would be gone tomorrow, except Constantine, Harris and Armorer, because Armorer had said, pay or no pay, he couldn’t go until the horses were disposed of.

  Manuel had been working from dawn all through the hot day with a dead weight on his heart because everything he did he knew he was doing for the last time, and the horses seemed to sense this too, for one after the other they nudged him with their heads and played for his attention; even Dizzy pushed her muzzle into his hand without him having to placate her first.

  He knew he was deserting a sinking ship and that in principle he should stay on with Armorer if only for the sake of the animals, yet some stronger force countermanded his sympathy and told him to be gone.

  However, the weight inside him was not created alone by the situation in the stables, but by the more dire situation in Amy’s house. He couldn’t get Annabella out of his mind. It was worse than when he thought she was lost forever, for then there had been no future to think of. The plan she had in her mind, and about which she had spoken to Amy, was to turn governess, until cool reason told her that mistresses didn’t take strangers into their homes to look after their children without references. He himself had suggested to her that she should write one out herself, and this had shocked her, and he had thought she was going to get bigger shocks than that before she was much older, that is if she was thrown on to the world by herself.

  He had kept his promise to her and not mentioned her presence to a soul, but tomorrow he’d be on the road going God knows where, and he couldn’t take with him the thought of her being adrift, for of all things she had now got it into her mind to make her way to London, there to get a position of waiting on in one of the dress establishments she had visited as a customer.

  Amy had said to him on the quiet, ‘She doesn’t know what she’s talking about; the staff of those places live like rats underneath those shops, and they’re fed scarcely better. I had a cousin who was a seamstress and she came home to die, and the tale that she told me was almost unbelievable. But for her being a God-fearing girl I’d have taken her story as ravings.’

  At last it was Annabella’s determination to make for London that decided him that promise or no promise he was going to tell the mistress where to find her daughter, for he imagined the woman would always think of Annabella as her daughter. The best thing to do, he thought, was to bring them face to face, surprise her like, and that being accomplished there was no doubt but that something would be worked out. And that done, he’d leave easy in his mind.

  In his room, he bundled up his few belongings so that he’d be ready in the morning. There was an extra pair of trousers, an old coat, two shirts, a pair of boots, some small clothes, stockings, and odd cooking utensils. Having put them into a bag that he made from two sheepskins with loops at the ends to go over each shoulder and make it easier for carrying, he looked around the room, then rubbed his hand around his middle, where, in a flannel belt, he kept his money, then went down the steep stairs into the yard. He was crossing towards the pagoda walk when Lagrange’s voice came at him, saying, ‘Where you going?’

  He turned and looked over the distance at the bloated face and bleary eyes and answered quietly, ‘Just for a stroll, Sir.’

  ‘What’s this I hear about you leaving tomorrow? Sneaking off, eh? Well, you’re not going, do you hear? I’ll break your neck if you go outside those gates without my leave, understand?’

  He remained quiet; he didn’t want to argue with the man, all he wanted was to put distance between them; it wouldn’t be long until tomorrow morning. He had been paid, with the rest, a week ago. There was no possible chance of getting the remainder that was owing to him but that didn’t matter; all he desired was to get away. It was unreasonable he told himself, but that’s how he felt.

  ‘You heard what I said?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Well, pay heed.’

  Lagrange turned away, and Manuel turned away but kept his step even all the way through the park just in case Lagrange had taken it into his head to follow him, and when he came to the broken wall he leant on it for a moment as if enjoying the warm evening. He listened for telling sounds in the undergrowth of the copse to the right of him, but there was nothing, only the chattering of the birds and so he went on towards the cottage.

  As he went up the broad, grassy path he saw Annabella sitting on the wooden seat outside. Her face had lost its chalky pallor, but her features still retained the stiffness of hardened plaster. She looked as if she had never smiled, or would not know how to. The eyes were still lying deep in sadness and the voice was listless when she said, ‘Hello, Manuel.’

  ‘Hello, Miss Annabella. Hasn’t it been a lovely day?’

  ‘Yes, Manuel, it has.’

  Yes, she supposed it had been a lovely day, yet it was only at this moment that she had become aware of it, for all day her thoughts had clouded her vision. Tomorrow Manuel would be gone; she would never see him again. What was she to do? She couldn’t stay on indefinitely with Amy although that kind woman had said she’d be happy for her to stay as long as she wished, and today she wished she could go on living here forever, for it was so peaceful and no demands of any kind were being made on her. She didn’t know what was going to happen to her, she couldn’t think clearly. Only one thing was prominent in her mind at present, tomorrow Manuel would be gone.

  But now, looking at him, she told herself, as Rosina would have done, that she must take herself in hand and not rely upon this kind servant. Yet Manuel was no longer a servant, not to her. He still addressed her as Miss Annabella, in fact he had called her Miss Annabella more times these last two weeks than he had done since the day of their first acquaintance, that day seven years ago when he had stopped the horses from running away. It was on that day, too, that she had first kissed Stephen. Her head jerked, as if she had acquired a tic. She must not think of Stephen. She must not even recall his name. If she did she knew that the pain in her body would dissolve into tears. She could cry in the night when there was no-one to see, but to give way to her emotions before these two very dear people would be unthinkable.

  In one breath she would tell herself that she was different, she was no longer Miss Annabella Lagrange, she was just an ordinary girl who would now in some way have to earn her living, yet in the next she would be acting and thinking in accordance with her training of seventeen years, showing consideration which was nevertheless threaded with condescension.

  As she stared up at Manuel a feeling of panic attacked her every nerve and she realised in this moment that without him she would be adrift, she wouldn’t know to whom to turn. There would be only one thing left for her to do, go back and throw herself on the charity of the woman she called mama, the woman who in her hour of greatest need had left her alone. Had she on that awful day insisted on seeing her and offering her comfort she doubted whether she would have made that journey to Crane Street; but after tapping on her door and merely asking to speak to her she had left her alone, and she had sat there in silence for hours and no-one had come near her, not even Alice or the servants. A bitterness had entered into her when Rosina’s continued absence forced her to the conclusion that her adoring mama had found the exposure too much to bear. She could look upon her as her ‘darling child’ only as long as the dark shameful secret of her birth remained a dark shameful secret. Her mind, she realised, had been slightly deranged on that day, but even now, when it had returned to normal, the bitterness still remained against her mama’s defection.

 
She could not prevent herself from saying now, ‘Must you go tomorrow, Manuel?’

  Before answering, he bowed his head. ‘I’m afraid so, Miss Annabella; I want to look around and get myself fixed for the winter, then come the spring I’ve got an idea I’ll go and see Spain.’ He lifted his eyes to hers, and she looked into the dark warm depth and said quietly, ‘That will be very nice for you, Manuel; it’ll be nice to see the country of your ancestors.’

  He put his head back now and laughed, saying jocularly, ‘Ah, Miss Annabella, thereby hangs another tale.’ But his laughter did not bring forth even a vestige of a smile to her face, and he turned from her, saying, ‘Is Amy about?’

  ‘She’s up in the attic I think.’

  He went in to the main room, then looked up the ladder and through the hole in the floor, saying, ‘Are you there?’ and when her face appeared above him she said, ‘Aye, come on up.’

  He couldn’t stand upright under the eaves so he crouched on his hunkers watching her taking clothes out of an old wooden box.

  ‘There’s a piece of stuff in the bottom,’ she said; ‘it’s good serge. Harry brought it back from sea to make me a dress but it was really too good, the material, so I thought she could make herself a skirt, because wash as I might I wasn’t able to get the mud stains out of her clothes . . . You’re about ready then?’ She didn’t look at him as she asked the question, and he answered, ‘Yes, Amy; me bundle is fixed for the road.’