Forever Yours

by Rita Bradshaw

  It was an uneasy silence. Matt seemed uneasy, which was a first. Normally he was teasing her or ribbing her about something or other, or else asking her about her week. But then he knew she’d supposedly been ill, so perhaps he thought there was nothing to say. Which was true enough.

  ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’ She glanced at him as she spoke and his eyes were waiting for her. She’d always loved his eyes. Not so much because of their colour or even his black lashes which were thick and long for a man, but it was the softness in their depths, the kindness, and the way fine lines radiated from their corners when he smiled, which was often. She watched him compress his lips for a moment before they formed words, and then he was speaking hesitantly.

  ‘I’ve hardly seen you in the last little while. Oh, I don’t mean since you’ve been bad, but before then. Times was when you’d never be out of Mam’s kitchen.’ He smiled but it didn’t cause the fine lines to crinkle.

  The longer she looked at him the more she ached inside, and it was to combat this weakness that she moved quickly, saying, ‘Things have changed since Christmas when I left school,’ as she placed the kettle on the fire. ‘I have to help Miss Newton clear up once the bairns have gone home and we talk about what has happened during the day and what we’re going to do the next day, things like that. It’s usually too late to call in your mam’s when I leave.’

  ‘Do you like working at the school?’

  ‘Oh aye.’ She’d spoken from the heart and too eagerly in view of what might happen in the coming days.

  ‘You’re good with bairns. Me mam was saying the same thing the last time you were at ours.’

  She’d kept her back to him while they’d been speaking; now she felt compelled to turn and look at him again. His eyes never seemed to have left hers. She felt nervous and slightly afraid, but not in the way Vincent McKenzie had made her afraid. ‘Was she?’ she said weakly. ‘That was nice of her.’

  He nodded. ‘You can do no wrong as far as Mam’s concerned.’

  She wrinkled her nose. ‘My grandma’s the same about you.’

  For the first time since he’d come into the kitchen they smiled normally at each other with the old easy warmth, but the moment was deceptively natural. Almost immediately their shared gaze intensified and lengthened, and now there was a note of bewilderment in Matt’s voice when he murmured, ‘Constance?’

  The knock at the back door and Tilly’s voice as she’d called, ‘Hello?’ on thrusting it open had acted like a bucket of cold water over Constance’s head, much as Ivy’s did now as her great-aunt brought her back to the present.

  ‘Don’t you worry, hinny,’ Ivy said fondly, her plump face flushed with the excitement of what she’d heard. ‘We’ll have you far away from him in no time. He won’t be able to find you, believe you me, and even with the most ardent of men, out of sight is out of mind. They aren’t like us, constant and true. Not the majority anyway.’ She cast a glance at her sister. ‘Your Art and my Seamus being the exceptions that prove the rule, of course.’

  Constance stared at her great-aunt before her eyes turned to the sad, torn countenance of her grandma. She laid her head on her arms and began to cry, slow painful tears. The dream wasn’t hers to share. It was Tilly’s; he’d made it so. She must leave Sacriston. It was settled.

  Chapter 5

  ‘What do you mean, she’s gone?’ Vincent ground his teeth as he glared into the thin, precise features of the schoolteacher in front of him, and something of his desire to put his hands round her scrawny neck and squeeze it until her eyes popped must have shown in his face because Miss Newton had backed away until she was pressed against the classroom wall.

  ‘I’m only repeating what I was told, Mr McKenzie. Miss Shelton came to see me and said she was leaving the village for a position in service, and I understand her great-aunt collected her and they left yesterday morning.’

  ‘You told me she was recovering from a chill.’

  ‘Which is what I was told.’ Miss Newton had recovered her poise and with it her courage. Her nostrils flared, she bit out, ‘I suggest you take this matter up with her grandparents, Mr McKenzie. Not myself. I am not responsible for the girl.’

  ‘And you have no idea where she has gone?’

  ‘She did not divulge her intended whereabouts and I did not press her. I confess I was disappointed by her decision.’

  Disappointed. For a moment a red mist swam in front of Vincent’s maddened eyes. He’d been sewn up like a kipper. All the time he’d been telling himself to proceed circumspectly the little scut had been making plans to skedaddle.

  But no, he told himself in the next moment. It wouldn’t be the lass who’d instigated this, it’d be the old couple who were behind it. Hannah’s mother had never liked him, even as a bairn – she’d never said but he knew. And Art Gray was a miner. What miner had any time for the weighman? They all hated him. The lass must have let on what he’d proposed and this was their answer. In spite of all he could give her, the fact she’d be sitting pretty and want for nothing the rest of her life, they’d rather force her into service than have her associate with him.

  ‘Mr McKenzie, the children will start to arrive soon. I must ask you to leave.’

  For answer Vincent surveyed the bristling figure a moment more and then turned away without a word. He had made up his mind the night before that if Constance wasn’t at the school in the morning, he would go round to the house and demand to see her. It had been a full two weeks since she’d supposedly been taken ill, but no chill he’d ever heard of lasted that long. If she was still sick he would fetch the doctor to the house himself and ascertain what was wrong. If she wasn’t sick . . .

  He strode down the path of the school, an impressive figure in his fine clothes and polished leather knee-high boots, but inside he felt like a young lad again – humiliated, debased and in a sea of aloneness. They wouldn’t get the better of him. His face set, he walked towards the colliery, passing St Peter’s Church and the graveyard before walking over Blackburn Bridge. He didn’t turn into the colliery gates, however, he wasn’t due in for another hour. Instead he continued along Edmondsley Lane, and he didn’t pause until fields stretched either side of the roadway and the only sound to be heard was the birds twittering in the hedgerows.

  He would find her. He gazed unseeing over the rolling meadows where patches of white here and there indicated the last of the snow. He would find her and bring her back and to hell with them all. There weren’t too many big houses round about, and the old ’uns wouldn’t want their precious ewe lamb so far away they couldn’t visit her and she them. And this great-aunt the dried-up crone of a schoolteacher had spoken about, he’d find her and all. With some persuasion, gentle or otherwise, he’d get the whereabouts of Constance out of her. They wouldn’t beat him; he wasn’t a boy any longer to be scorned.

  There were primroses and wood anemone scattered in the grass verges either side of the lane; the arrival of spring was late this year but new life was blooming nonetheless. The air was icy cold still but the morning was bright and a beam of sunlight through the trees picked out the delicate white flowers of the anemone which appeared to dance in the slight breeze. He gazed down at the pure ethereal beauty and then savagely ground the flowers under his heels before almost immediately stopping and dropping to his knees where he attempted to lift their broken heads, cradling them in his big hands. He groaned, the sound coming from the depths of him as he stood up, his hands going to his face. He leaned against the stout trunk of an oak tree, the tears dripping through his fingers as he gave vent to the sobs tearing him apart.

  Constance had been travelling all day. Her bottom was sore from being bumped up and down on the hard wooden seat of her great-aunt’s trap, and the many ridges and pot-holes in the roads and lanes had rattled her bones and jarred her head. They had left Ivy’s house in Durham before dawn in order to arrive at Grange Hall for three o’clock, but once they had reached the swelling moorland and wooded valle
ys which made up the wide landscape of Yorkshire, the beauty of Constance’s surroundings had caused her to forget her aching body.

  Although the snow had all but gone in Durham it was still banked up either side of the roads on some of the high fells here; to the right and left of the horse and trap, a white wilderness spread out with just the odd isolated farm dotted here and there.

  Constance didn’t think she’d ever inhaled such pure air, and its quality was all the more enhanced after spending the night in the town. Not that her aunt’s house wasn’t bonny, she told herself quickly as though the thought had been a criticism, and as clean as a new pin. And her uncle had turned out to be a jolly fellow the size of a brick outhouse, his bright red face and massive muscled arms a by-product of his work. He had shown her round his huge smithy with evident pride, and she had even stroked two of the horses waiting to be shod, although she was frightened of their teeth and hooves, but overall the busyness of the town and the smell and dirt of the crowded streets had repelled and overwhelmed her.

  They had eaten the bread and cheese her aunt had packed for their lunch sitting in the trap watching a waterfall cascade into a rocky stream beneath it, the fast-melting snow sparkling in the sunlight, and then travelled on. There were drystone walls everywhere carving man-made patterns into the landscape, but as they drew closer to the outskirts of Harrogate where Grange Hall was situated, the scenery – magnificent as it was – ceased to work its magic and keep Constance’s mind from the ordeal in front of her.

  It had been agreed that, should she have to face the ignominy of making the return trip with Great-Aunt Ivy, she would stay with her in Durham until she could obtain work. But she didn’t want to go back to the city with its filthy, muck-strewn roads and pavements, numerous snotty-nosed, barefoot urchins and constant din which went on day and night. She hadn’t slept a wink the night before for the noise outside her window; even at two in the morning there’d been carts trundling over the cobbles and people shouting and carrying on. Her aunt had said she’d get used to it and wouldn’t notice it after a time, but she didn’t want to get used to it. She had to get the job as scullerymaid, she just had to. She wouldn’t mind how hard she worked or what she did if they’d give her a chance.

  The horse and trap arrived at the gatehouse to the estate at exactly half-past two. The gatekeeper came through a narrow side gate and enquired as to their business before opening the huge black wrought-iron gates that stood eight foot high with the family crest covering half of one of them. Ivy appeared to take it all in her stride, thanking the man in a dignified fashion before following the long winding drive which led to the huge turreted house in the far distance. The drive was wide enough to take three carriages side by side, but as they grew nearer it divided, a narrow road snaking away from the main one. Ornamental privet hedges, sculpted trees and meticulously tended gardens stretched away as far as the eye could see and Constance’s mouth had fallen into a gape. She had never seen such splendour.

  Ivy had taken the narrow road and now Constance became aware that they were effectively hidden from view from the house by a row of densely planted evergreen trees which had been cut to provide an impenetrable screen of green. ‘Close your mouth, hinny,’ Ivy murmured quietly at the side of her, a touch of laughter in her voice. ‘They’ll think you’re simple if you look like that. And don’t forget what I’ve told you. You don’t talk unless you’re spoken to, you proffer no opinions about anything, and you keep in mind that as a scullerymaid you’re the lowest among the servant hierarchy.’

  Constance’s mouth snapped shut and she nodded, her stomach churning. Ivy had told her the family were very well-to-do and employed a large staff of indoor and outdoor servants, but she had found the pecking order of their ranking difficult to remember. The house steward was responsible for the overall running of the household and was at the top of the tree, she knew that. And after the steward came the butler and Sir Henry Ashton’s personal valet and the housekeeper, but the pyramid-like structure of lesser servants under these exalted ones was confusing. The cook and coachman and lady’s maid were near the top, along with the nanny, but then there were footmen and housemaids and nurserymaids and kitchenmaids and grooms, along with gardeners and stable-boys and others she couldn’t recall. And all for a family of three, although she understood that Sir Henry Ashton’s wife was expecting their second child. They already had a daughter who was four years old.

  The horse and trap emerging into a stableyard, Constance now realised that the road they’d taken had skirted round the back of the house. Ivy was pointing in the opposite direction to the house as she said, ‘Beyond the stableyard are the glass-houses and walled fruit and vegetable garden – you’ll likely be fetching bits and pieces from there if you’re set on. And there’s a peach-house, a vinery, a rose-house and the dairy, of course, and a mushroom-house and thatched fruit-house and—’ She caught sight of the girl’s terrified face. ‘Oh, don’t worry, hinny. Give it a week or two and it’ll all be second nature,’ she said quickly.

  As she had been speaking, a young stable-lad had scurried up to them. Ivy smiled at him as she climbed down from the trap. She handed him the reins, saying, ‘I’m Mrs Banks, the cook’s mam. You’re expecting us, aren’t you? See the horse has a good rub-down before you settle him for the night, he’s had a long journey. I’ll be leaving in the morning after breakfast so I want him ready for eight o’clock.’

  Constance was full of admiration for the way her aunt was handling herself, but the stable-lad didn’t seem to share her awe. He grinned at them cheekily, winking at Constance as he said, ‘Oh aye, I know about you. You’re the new scullerymaid.’

  ‘Not yet she isn’t.’ Ivy’s voice was sharp and she wasn’t smiling any longer. ‘And I’ll thank you to see to the horse.’ Taking Constance’s arm she ushered her across the stableyard and through an arch which led into another courtyard beyond which was the house itself. ‘You don’t fraternise with the likes of that one, do you understand me, Constance? Everyone will be well aware of your family connection with Florence, and anything you do or say will reflect on her. She has a high position here and has always conducted herself with absolute decorum. I expect you to do the same.’

  Constance couldn’t have answered if she wanted to. She was concentrating on remaining upright on the slippy cobbles beneath her feet, but fully aware the moment was upon her and she was about to enter Grange Hall. If she secured the post of scullerymaid, this place would be her life for the forseeable future. If she didn’t . . .

  But she wouldn’t let herself think of failure. Her granda had always said if you wanted something badly enough, you could make it happen. She didn’t know if she agreed with that, but Grange Hall was another world and one so far away from Sacriston she wouldn’t be able to run home when the ache in her heart became overpowering. Already she was so homesick she felt chewed up inside and she wasn’t foolish enough to think it would get better in the next little while. She wanted to see her grandma and granda, to soak up the sweet normal-ness of their lives in Cross Streets. She wanted to sleep in her own bed and hear the owl that came and perched on Mr O’Leary’s roof each night at exactly eleven o’clock, come rain or shine. But Sacriston held other folk too, and here she wasn’t thinking of Vincent McKenzie but a tall, laughing-eyed lad with hair the colour of hazelnuts and the pert miss who had stolen his heart. They all seemed to think the world of Tilly back home, but she would never like her and she’d rather work her fingers to the bone and suffer whatever befell her here than have to pretend to be glad for Matt and watch them together. The way Tilly had sailed into the kitchen and dragged him off with hardly a by-your-leave at their last meeting had been downright rude, and he’d gone with her with barely a protest. That’s what had hurt.

  ‘Here.’ Ivy stopped outside the kitchen door and adjusted her niece’s hat, brushing Constance’s coat and pulling it straight. She was carrying the carpet bag which held the sum total of Constance’s personal posse
ssions: a change of clothes along with her Sunday best frock, her hairbrush and some spare pins for her hair, the little New Testament Miss Newton had presented all the children with when they left school and the linen pads with ties she used for her monthlies. The bag was not heavy.

  Ivy gazed into the deep blue eyes looking at her so anxiously, and not for the first time reflected that such beauty in one of Constance’s class was not a good thing. It made the girl noticeable, made her stand out, and following on from this thought, she said, ‘Your grandma has told you that men, lads, will take advantage of a lass if she lets them, hasn’t she, but now you’re here you’ve got to be even more on your guard. If you get set on there’ll come a time when you might come to the attention of visitors to the house. Male visitors. Do you understand what I’m saying, hinny?’

  ‘I – I think so.’

  ‘If that should happen and the man won’t take no for an answer, you open your mouth and yell wherever you are. That’ll show him you mean business. Some . . . gentlemen think servants are fair game for a spot of dalliance and that’s been the ruin of many a poor lass, I’m telling you. And there’d be no help if there were consequences, you can be sure of that. You’d find yourself dismissed without a reference and then the only place would be the workhouse for you and the baby. So however charming or persuasive the gentleman is, just remember you’d mean less to him than his favourite dog or horse. They don’t see us as real people, the gentry. That’s when they see us at all. All right, hinny?’

  Constance gulped and nodded. If anything could have made her feel more terrified than she already was, her aunt’s little talk had done the trick.

  ‘That’s a good lass.’ Ivy smiled fondly. ‘Come on then.’

  Ivy’s knock at the door was answered by a young girl with a pimply face wearing a dress with the sleeves rolled up and a huge holland apron. Her hair was plaited and put up neatly under a cap and she had on her feet the ugliest thick boots Constance had ever seen. ‘We’re here to see Mr Rowan,’ Ivy said, then pushed past the girl, adding briskly, ‘Come along, Constance,’ and as they stepped into a room which to Constance’s gaze seemed endless, Ivy called, ‘Hello, Florence, we’ve arrived at last.’