Forever Yours

by Rita Bradshaw

  Constance knew exactly how the three felt. She could hardly fail to notice their disapproval, but with Enid and Florence backing her and Estelle and Sidney on her side she ceased to worry about it after a while. The master and mistress were for her. She knew it and the rest of the household servants knew it, and in the long run that was all that mattered. Master Edmond could be a bit of a handful at times and she longed to see more of her grandma – Ivy had brought her a few times since Constance had been promoted but it was never enough – but on the whole she was happier than she had ever expected to be away from the village and Matt. Indeed, that life – and even Matt too – had faded into little more than a pleasant memory. The girl who had fallen so hopelessly in love was a different being from the woman she was now. Grange Hall was real. Travelling to Italy and Bath and Scotland with the family was real. Sitting in with Mr Wynford, the young tutor who was employed to prepare Edmond for preparatory school when he was a little older, was real. Already she knew a smattering of Latin and French, and she had been able to converse sufficiently well in Italian to make herself understood since her second visit there. Mr Wynford had informed her that she had a natural aptitude for languages. Some people had it and some didn’t, he’d told her, and she definitely had a propensity that way.

  She glanced at him now as she listened to Edmond stumbling through his French verbs. He was a nice young man, good-looking in a slightly foppish sort of way, but when he had asked her to call him Nicholas when it was just the two of them and Edmond in the room, she’d known she had to make it clear she wasn’t interested in him in ‘that’ sort of way. It wasn’t that she didn’t like him or find him interesting, she could listen to him for hours when he was talking about literature and the Classics, but there was no spark. Nothing that made her heart beat faster.

  She glanced out of the schoolroom window. The day was hot, the odd fluffy white cloud sailing in the blue sky. Green velvet lawns, bathed in sunshine, stretched away into the distance, neatly manicured flowerbeds and sculpted trees adding to the charm of the grounds. Through the open window the sweet heavy scent of full-blown roses drifted into the room now and again on the warm breeze, The outer walls of Grange Hall were covered with the carefully cultivated flowers, along with rare honeysuckles and other creepers in bloom.

  Constance stretched surreptitiously. They had only recently returned from Italy after their two months at the Morosini villa, and it wasn’t only the children who found it hard to adapt to being home, especially when the weather seemed determined to remind them of long hot days watching the wild birds on Lake Garda and eating fish drawn straight out of the water and cooked to perfection by the Morosinis’ excellent chef.

  Not that she was complaining, she told herself in the next moment. Not a bit of it. She was only too aware that the kitchen staff would be toiling away in the bowels of the house with barely a shaft of sunlight falling on them, whereas shortly she and Edmond would be free to take a walk in the grounds until teatime.

  When the schoolroom door opened and Estelle beckoned her, Constance made her apologies to Mr Wynford, told Edmond to be a good boy until she returned and then followed Estelle into the narrow corridor. ‘Lady Isabella wants to see you in the drawing room,’ Estelle said quickly, ‘and Connie, your aunty is with Cook in the kitchen. I think it might be bad news from home.’

  Constance didn’t wait to hear any more, fairly flying down the corridor and on to the landing. There she remembered herself and forced her feet to walk down the winding staircase when she really wanted to run, but none of the senior staff would behave in such an undignified way. When she tapped on the door and entered the drawing room, Lady Isabella was standing in front of the fireplace and Constance saw immediately that she was troubled.

  ‘Come in, Shelton, and sit down.’ Lady Isabella sat down herself as she spoke, indicating a chair opposite hers with a wave of her hand. ‘Has Upton told you your aunt has arrived unexpectedly?’ And without waiting for an answer: ‘Yes, yes, of course she would have done. I’m afraid your aunt’s the bearer of grave news. It appears your grandmother is seriously ill.’

  Constance’s body slumped for a moment before she pulled herself straight. Seriously ill. That meant she was still alive. For a moment she had thought the worst.

  ‘Your aunt is prepared to escort you home at once. I understand she is partaking of some refreshment but then she will be ready to leave. And you must stay as long as you are needed, my dear. I know that is what Sir Henry will say when he returns from Town. I’m sure seeing you will do your grandmother good.’

  ‘But – but Master Edmond, my lady?’

  ‘He will miss you, of course, but you have trained him well.’ Lady Isabella smiled and Constance forced herself to smile back. ‘Nanny Price will see to him, and Miss Charlotte and Miss Gwendoline will do their part – they are very good with him. You may tell him that you are leaving for a short time and why, but I suggest you give no specific date as to your return or he will be counting the days as only he can. Please give your grandmother my best wishes and tell her we hope she will soon be fully recovered. And Constance’ – it was the first time Lady Isabella had called her by her Christian name but Constance was too het-up to notice – ‘please take this to help with any expenses you might incur.’ She pressed a small velvet purse into her hand.

  A little dazedly, Constance murmured, ‘Thank you, my lady, but there’s no need . . .’

  ‘It’s a trifle, that’s all. Now go and collect your things and I’ll have your aunt’s horse and trap brought to the front steps.’

  Even in her deep anxiety Constance knew such an action would cause Mr Howard to become apoplectic. ‘Thank you, my lady, but I’ll go to the kitchens and say goodbye to Cook before I leave, if that’s all right, and go from there.’

  ‘As you wish, my dear, and do try not to worry too much on the journey home. It may not be as serious as your aunt fears.’

  Once Constance had left Lady Isabella, she sped up to the schoolroom to make her goodbyes to Edmond and Mr Wynford, then she hastily threw a few necessities into her big cloth bag, changed out of her uniform into a summer dress and jacket and hurried down to the kitchen. The normal bustle and chatter was subdued, and Florence was sitting with her arm round her mother’s shoulders when she entered. Constance looked at her great-aunt’s red-rimmed eyes. ‘It’s bad?’ she said weakly, her heart pounding.

  Ivy nodded. ‘A stroke, hinny. Out of the blue, so your Uncle Edwin said. One minute she was laughing at something or other Molly had said, and the next. . .’ She shook her head. ‘Molly sent Edwin to tell me and asked if I’d bring you as soon as I could. I left straight away, and if you’re ready we’ll go now.’

  Florence stood up, fetching a basket one of the kitchenmaids had just placed on the table. ‘There’s food and drink for the journey,’ she said quietly, handing it to her mother before awkwardly patting Constance’s arm. ‘Try not to worry, lass.’

  Funny, that’s what Lady Isabella had said. Try not to worry. But how could she not worry? Constance thought as she and Ivy walked across the courtyard and into the stableyard where the horse and trap were waiting.

  The birds were singing in the trees bordering the drive as the trap bowled out of the grounds, the flowerbeds a mass of scarlet, crimson, blue, yellow and orange-a picture, as her grandma would have said. How could her grandma be so ill on such a beautiful day as this one? Fear gripped Constance, stark and gut-wrenching. It was such a long journey back to Sacriston – what if they weren’t in time? What if she didn’t get to say how much she loved her grandma? She hadn’t said it enough.

  They had been travelling for some time and the sun’s rays were losing much of the fierce heat of the day when Constance remembered Lady Isabella’s purse which she had stuffed into the pocket of her jacket. She drew it out, pulling the cords apart and reaching inside. It contained a number of large white pound-notes. A trifle, her employer had said. She was so kind, Sir Henry too, and on her visits
to Italy the Morosini family had made far more of her than they would a normal servant. On her first stay at the villa five years ago, Lady Isabella’s father had taken her aside and personally thanked her, most profusely, for saving the life of his grandson, and he’d had tears in his eyes.

  She blinked, knowing she mustn’t let herself break down. Suddenly her new life was unimportant; she’d gladly give it up and everything that it held for a few precious minutes with her grandma. Life had a way of bringing you back down to earth when you least expected it, she thought wretchedly.

  Chapter 13

  Everything was the same. The Boer War had started and finished since she’d been away; Queen Victoria had died after forty years of mourning her beloved Prince Albert, and Edward VII had been crowned King; there had been earthquakes and assassinations and famines in all parts of the globe, and yet Sacriston was unchanged. Constance stared at the silent houses as the horse clip-clopped down Front Street in the dead of night. And then, when they passed the Cross Streets and continued into New Town before turning into Blackett Street, she bit hard on her lip. Things were different. The home she’d known for the first thirteen years of her life had other folk living in it now, her granda was gone and her grandma . . . Oh, her grandma.

  The horse was weary. When Ivy tied the reins to a lamp-post he gave a soft whinny as though asking where his stable was. ‘All right, Ned, don’t fret.’ Ivy briefly stroked the velvet muzzle. ‘I’ll see to you in a minute, old lad. There’s a nice stall left open for you at the smithy tonight, it’s all arranged.’

  Molly opened the front door before they had a chance to knock. Constance stared into her tear-ravished face and couldn’t say a word, so great was her fear. And then Molly was drawing them inside, saying, ‘She’s sinking fast but it’s as if she’s been waiting for you, lass. We told her you were coming and she knew – even the doctor said she knew. Come on up, hinny, don’t delay.’

  Constance didn’t delay. The door to the second bedroom was open and Edwin was sitting by the bed, but he rose immediately to his feet, saying, ‘Look who’s come to see you, Mam. Didn’t we say she was coming? Well, here she is.’

  Constance moved to the bedside, her eyes fixed on the small figure under the covers. It had only been three months or so since she’d last seen her grandma. Ivy had brought her to Grange Hall shortly before they had begun packing for Italy in the middle of June, but in that short time she seemed to have shrunk to half her size, and her face wasn’t her face any more. Knowing she had to hide her horror and distress as best she could, Constance knelt by the bed and kissed the contorted mouth gently.

  ‘Grandma, it’s me, Constance. I’ve come home and I can stay and look after you. I love you, Grandma.’

  One side of her grandma’s face was so twisted the eye was closed, but as Constance spoke the other eye opened and looked straight at her. Then the hand on that side made a feeble movement and immediately Constance took it in hers, holding it against her chest as she whispered, ‘I’m not going to leave you, Grandma. I’m here now. Aunt Ivy is here too. I’m going to stay until you’re better, all right? I love you, Grandma. I love you so much.’ Putting her arms round her, she pressed her cheek to that of her grandmother’s, murmuring all the time, ‘I love you, Grandma, I love you. I love you all the world.’

  It was only when the crick in her neck forced her to straighten after a minute or two that she realised what had happened. Death had smoothed out the distorted features and brought peace to the face that was utterly her grandma’s again. She looked as though she was sleeping, and for a desperate moment Constance tried to believe that was so, but even before Molly’s broken voice whispered, ‘She’s gone, hinny, she’s gone. I told you she was waiting for you,’ she knew.

  ‘She’s back.’

  ‘What?’ Matt had just got in from a double shift and he was dog tired. Too tired to play any of Tilly’s games. All he wanted was a wash, his dinner and bed, in that order.

  Tilly had got the bath ready for when he walked in and now he sat down in the warm water, his knees on a level with his chin. He had kept his drawers on, as his father had always done and as he’d been brought up to do when there were women and bairns about, but his work trousers, shirt and jacket were on the floor in the scullery where they’d remain until Tilly took them outside to bang the worst of the coaldust out of them ready for the next shift. Lathering himself with the blue-veined soap which never gave of its foam easily, he’d begun to wash himself before she said again, ‘She’s back. Mabel Gray collapsed the day before yesterday. A stroke, your mam said, and she died last night, and that aunt who lives Durham way went and fetched her.’

  Aware of her eyes tight on him, he made himself continue with what he was doing but it was a moment before he could say, ‘Constance, you mean?’

  ‘Aye, Constance. Of course Constance. Who else?’

  ‘Did she see her grandmother before she passed away?’

  ‘So Molly said. She went round to see your mam this morning so she didn’t hear about Mrs Gray second-hand.’

  Matt nodded. He was surprised how the news of Mabel’s death had affected him. He hadn’t seen much of Constance’s grandmother in the last few years, but he felt a sense of loss as though one of his own family had died. ‘When’s the funeral?’

  ‘Next Monday.’ Tilly handed him the bucket of warm water.

  Matt stood and sluiced himself down with it to get rid of the black scum from the surface of the bathwater, and then picked up the towel warming on the clothes horse next to the range along with a fresh pair of drawers. He then went upstairs to get dressed while Tilly disposed of the bathwater and hung the bath back in place on its peg on the scullery wall. Once in their bedroom he sat down on the bed, his head spinning. Constance was here. His heart was thudding so hard against his ribcage it actually hurt. He’d dreamed of seeing her again one day so many times that he couldn’t actually believe it, now that day had dawned. But he was sorry about Mabel Gray, really sorry. She had been a nice woman and a good friend to his mam, who would be very upset.

  Mechanically he stood up and opened the wardrobe, taking out his trousers and shirt and clean socks.

  It had been eleven years since she had left. She would have changed, as he himself had done. What would she think when she looked at him now? He stared at himself in the thin long mirror attached to the back of the wardrobe door. His whole body was a pack of hard tight muscle, but it was the ‘buttons’, the healed-over wounds on his shoulders and arms and hands that had coaldust in them and were quite blue against his white skin that caught his gaze. All the miners had them and they’d never bothered him before, but suddenly he was seeing himself through her eyes – the man he had been before she went away and the man he was now – and he found himself wanting. There was grey in his hair now and lines on his face which hadn’t been there eleven years ago. He was thirty-four years of age but he looked older, a good deal older.

  He pulled on his clothes, so many thoughts and emotions tearing at him he felt physically sick. Once dressed he steeled himself to go downstairs.

  Rebecca had come in from school while he’d been upstairs, and as he walked into the kitchen she flashed him a quick smile but said nothing. She’d clearly picked up on the fact that something was wrong; likely she thought they’d had another row. That was the only time Tilly and he normally spoke – to row. The rest of the time they existed in a state of mutual loathing which took the form of cold silences and monosyllabic utterances when absolutely necessary.

  He smiled back at the child who was so like her mother in looks, but sweetness itself in nature. He didn’t know quite when she had wormed herself into his affections, but for some years now he’d acknowledged that his life was the richer for her being in it. Quietly, he said, ‘How did the competition go?’

  Rebecca had informed him the night before that her teacher had asked them all to write a story about a mythical creature with magic powers for homework, and that there would be a s
mall prize for the best one. Before she’d gone up to bed she’d shyly shown him what she’d written. The creature had been something between a dragon and a bird which could fly to a land beyond the sun, and carry with it anyone who was tired of life on earth.

  It had bothered him. It still did. For a long while he had known that Rebecca was aware of how he and her mother felt about each other, and he felt that the story, along with her drawings centred mainly upon birds flying high in the clouds and winging their way far above civilisation, was a statement that the child was not happy. He’d said as much once to Tilly, suggesting they should make an effort to be civil in front of the bairn, but she’d been so vitriolic in reply he’d had to accept that the time for civility between them had long since passed.

  Rebecca’s smile widened as she bent down and rummaged in her schoolbag, bringing out a small slim volume bound in leather. ‘It’s a book of poems, Da.’

  ‘You won?’ He beamed at her, genuinely delighted. ‘Well done, hinny. I told you it was a cracking story.’

  ‘Aye, and Miss Newton read it out loud to everyone. I didn’t want her to but I couldn’t very well say no.’

  ‘You won, you say?’ Tilly entered the conversation, her voice sharp. ‘You didn’t say when you came in.’

  Some of the light died in Rebecca’s face. ‘You were busy.’

  ‘Let’s see.’Tilly took the book from her daughter, flicking over a few of the pages before handing it back. ‘It’s not new.’ Her voice was disparaging.