Forever Yours

by Rita Bradshaw

  ‘You said you’d marry me. I know it wasn’t your fault they made you go away, but there’s nothing stopping us now.’

  ‘I didn’t say I’d marry you, I never said that. I don’t want to marry anyone. I’ve only come back for the funeral, that’s all. Now leave me alone and go away.’

  ‘You don’t mean that, and you don’t have to worry about folk—’

  She cut him off. ‘I do mean it.’

  ‘No. Wait, Hannah.’ Again Polly saw him clutch at her.

  ‘My name’s Constance, not Hannah, and if you don’t let go of me, I’ll scream.’

  The girl’s voice had been shaky but now it was angry, and although Polly was so close she could have put her arm through the bush and touched Vincent, she couldn’t hear what he said next, so low was his voice. But she heard Constance when she said, ‘Well, I’m sorry but I don’t love you. I hardly know you and you don’t know me either, so how can you say you love me?’

  When Constance walked away Polly still didn’t dare move. Vincent was standing with his back to her staring after the girl and even when Constance left the cemetery in the middle of a big group of family and friends, he still remained where he was. It wasn’t until Father Duffy came up and tried to engage him in conversation that he walked away, his face grim and tight.

  Once she was sure it was all clear Polly emerged from her hiding-place and joined the last stragglers leaving the graveyard. Outside the low stone walls she looked about her. No one had spoken to her, not even Father Duffy, but she was still glad she’d come and not only to pay her respects to the woman who had shown some kindness to her. She had been thirteen years old when Vincent McKenzie had brought her to the cottage from the workhouse: she was now thirty-seven, and apart from his physical needs, she knew as little about her employer now as she had done then. He was capable of great cruelty – the way he’d watched his mother die inch by inch was always at the back of her mind – and even though she hadn’t been with a man other than him she knew the depravity he subjected her to wasn’t natural, but Vincent himself was a mystery and one she’d been content to leave well alone. But here he was declaring himself in love with Mrs Gray’s granddaughter, that beautiful young lass with the face of an angel.

  Polly began to walk swiftly; she knew a short-cut to the cottage down Staffordshire Street and past the coal depot where the wagonway ended, and then over the fields to Fulforth Wood. She had to get back before Vincent came in and realised she’d been out. The mood he’d be in, it wouldn’t take much for him to go for her. It never did at the best of times.

  She was sticky and hot by the time she got home, but to her great relief Vincent wasn’t there. She’d left their dinner – a thick rabbit stew – gently cooking in the oven, and there was stottie cake fresh from her baking that morning to go with it, so once she had changed into her old skirt and blouse she was free to go outside and work in the vegetable plot at the back of the cottage; although she didn’t regard it as work, not on a day like today when the sky was a cloudless blue and the air was sweet with the smell of the ripe juicy blackberries which grew in the hedgerow bordering the garden from the wood.

  Once she was sure it looked as though she had been in the garden for a while, she sat back on her heels and thought about what she’d heard at the funeral. Him,Vincent, thinking he could have that beautiful young lass, that she’d look the side he was on. Polly’s thin lips curled back from her teeth at the thought of it. He must have been mad to imagine such a thing, especially the way he was now.

  When she had first come to the cottage she had thought him handsome in an austere sort of way, ‘a fine figure of a man’ as one of the girls at the workhouse had said when they’d seen him waiting in the vestibule while she collected her things from the dormitory. Even ten years ago he had still been presentable, but since he’d started the drinking his face had gone red and flabby, and his belly had swelled. He still had a good shock of thick hair, she’d give him that, but it was grey and brittle-looking, and when he took off his hat indoors it stuck up from his head like horns either side, except where it had been flattened. And it might well be horns because if ever there was a devil in human form, it was him.

  Polly closed her eyes for a moment, tilting her head backwards and letting the hot sun beat on her eyelids and colour the world golden. Since he’d taken to the bottle his demands on her were less though – sometimes two or three weeks would elapse between the nights he called her into his room, although every evening she lived in dread of it.

  She had long since ceased to pray that he would die, although in the early days she had lived in hope that one or more of the men who hated him would wait for him one dark night. But, ‘the devil looks after his own’. One of the women at the workhouse used to say that, when she was grumbling against the hardships the matron used to heap upon them, like giving them broth with all the consistency of dishwater while the matron and her crew sat down to lamb or beef with roast potatoes and a nice pudding to follow. They had used to laugh at old Beattie but she’d been right, although the matron wasn’t a patch on Vincent for heartlessness. And now he wanted to get his hands on Mrs Gray’s granddaughter. Imagine, a dirty old swine like him touching a lovely young lass like her.

  But Constance had certainly told him what was what. She’d sent him away with a flea in his ear, and good on her.

  Polly opened her eyes, pulling her straw bonnet more firmly on to her head as she continued with her weeding. She suspected she might well suffer as a result of Constance’s treatment of Vincent but she was glad nonetheless, and not only for the lass’s sake. She would have hated for Vincent to get what he wanted.

  Constance left Sacriston with Ivy that same day. Ivy had stabled the horse with the blacksmith overnight and Constance arranged to meet her at his premises in the late afternoon. She was terrified that if she left from the house,Vincent would be watching. Now she thought about it, she was convinced it had been him hiding in the hedgerow the other morning, and for that reason she exited Molly’s house by the front door rather than the normal back way, keeping her eyes peeled as she walked the dusty streets to the smithy in Plawsworth Road south of New Town.

  She had told Ivy what had occurred with Vincent at the cemetery and why it was necessary to leave quietly, and when she reached the smithy the horse and trap were waiting. Ivy was all of a dither until they had left Sacriston behind them, constantly turning in her seat to check the road behind and peering to the left and right until it seemed as if her head was rotating on her neck. Constance felt the same but she tried to keep calm. Nonetheless she was glad of the reassurance of the long heavy stick her aunt had secured from somewhere and slid along the back of the seat where they sat.

  It was only when they were well on their way to Durham that Constance allowed herself to dwell on her last goodbye to Matt. He and his parents had come back to Molly’s along with family and other friends for a bite to eat after the funeral, and although Molly’s front room and kitchen and even the backyard had been full of folk talking and eating and drinking, she had known exactly where Matt was at every moment. She was glad Tilly hadn’t accompanied him but she was disappointed not to meet his daughter. It would have been painful, knowing Rebecca was part of Tilly and him, but she would have liked to see her nonetheless.

  He had already spoken to Molly and Edwin before he’d taken her aside, looking uncharacteristically smart in his Sunday suit. When he’d reached for her hand her fingers had quivered in his for a moment before she could control them, and his brown eyes with their thick lashes hadn’t been smiling. They’d stared at each other for a moment before he’d said,‘I’m sorry your grandma has gone, lass. She was a fine woman with a big heart and she’ll be missed. I’m sorry you’re not staying longer too.’

  Considering how she was feeling inside, her voice had been remarkably steady. ‘I’m afraid I can’t.’

  ‘Aye, I know, I know.’ His eyes had covered her face before he’d murmured, ‘Do you ever wish yo
u could go back in time and change things, Constance? See clearly what you’d missed first time round? I do.’

  As his eyes had done, now hers followed the bone formation of his face. From somewhere – she still didn’t know where – she had found the strength to gently remove her hand from his and say lightly, ‘My grandma always used to say hindsight was like bairns, a mixed blessing.’

  He had smiled for a moment. ‘As always, she was right.’

  She had feasted her eyes on him one last time and her voice hadn’t reflected her inner turmoil when she’d said, ‘Goodbye, Matt. I hope everything goes well for you in the future.’

  And then he had kissed her. Just a fleeting touch of his lips on her cheek, but for a brief wonderful moment she’d been close to him, close enough to smell the faintly astringent soap he used and the barely discernible odour of pipe tobacco which clung to his clothes. It was like coming home.

  ‘You all right, lass?’ Ivy brought her back to the present with a jolt as she patted her arm. ‘Not long now. My, it’s been a day and a half, hasn’t it? But I tell you one thing, lass. If ever you needed proof you did the right thing in getting away from the village, you had it today. Your grandma always used to say there was something funny about that Vincent, even when he was a lad trailing after your mam. But to expect you to take up with him like that, it isn’t decent. You’re well rid of that one. Still, with your grandma gone there’s nothing tying you to Sacriston any more, is there?’

  ‘No,’ Constance agreed dully. ‘No, there isn’t.’

  ‘You can get on with your own life – and what a life, eh, lass? Your goings-on have been the talk of the village for years. Who’d ever have guessed you going into service as a scullerymaid could lead to such things. But you deserve it, lass. Saving that little bairn an’ all. Aye, you deserve it. But still, you’re a lucky girl and no mistake. A very lucky girl.’ Ivy smiled warmly at her. ‘What do you say, lass?’

  Constance moved her lips in a smile. ‘Yes, I’m lucky, Aunt Ivy. Very lucky.’

  PART THREE

  Roots

  1910

  Chapter 16

  Constance stared in open amazement at Sir Henry Ashton before looking to Lady Isabella, who said, ‘Oh my dear Shelton, don’t look so shocked. Surely you sensed this might happen one day, and by your own admission there is little to hold you in England.’

  ‘My wife’s health is so much improved here we really can’t put off the move any longer.’ Sir Henry glanced at his wife as he spoke, his voice soft.

  ‘No, no, I see that, sir, my lady. Of course I do.’ Constance nodded as she spoke. The three of them were sitting in easy chairs on the terrace of the villa at Lake Garda. Below them in the harbour Edmond was helping Roberto gut the fish they had caught earlier, and she had been standing looking on until a maid had summoned her to the terrace where her employers were sitting enjoying a glass of wine as the sun set. Edmond was now thirteen years old and her duties within the family had changed once he had gone away to boarding school three years ago. During termtime she became Miss Charlotte’s and Miss Gwendoline’s personal maid-cum-chaperone, Nanny Price having retired some years before, but in the holidays when the boy was home it was accepted that he would claim much of her attention, simply because he liked being with her. But now Sir Henry had rocked her world. The Ashtons were going to live permanently in Italy and the move would be accomplished before the winter; moreover, they fully expected she would accompany them.

  Lady Isabella now leaned slightly forward, her voice hushed although there was no chance of anyone hearing them: ‘Miss Charlotte would like to get married from here and they intend to set a date for early next summer. There are some pieces from England she wishes to have for her own house.’

  Charlotte had become engaged the year before to a distant cousin from a branch of the Morosini family in Florence. She and her sister were staying with her fiancé’s parents for a few days, but Edmond had asked to remain at Lake Garda where he could fish and swim to his heart’s content.

  Thinking of her charge, Constance said, ‘But Master Edmond’s schooling, my lady?’ Like most of the young boys in the circle in which the Ashtons moved, Edmond’s place at public school and university had been mapped out shortly after he was born.

  Lady Isabella’s voice was a little stiff when she replied, ‘There are excellent establishments here in Italy which equal anything England has to offer.’

  ‘Oh, of course, my lady. I didn’t mean . . .’ Constance’s voice trailed away. She didn’t know what she meant, only that the thought of leaving England for ever made her feel she couldn’t breathe properly. But Lady Isabella was right, there was little to hold her to the country of her birth. Since Ivy had fallen and broken her hip four years ago, her visits to Grange Hall had stopped, although she enclosed a little note for Constance now and again when she wrote to her daughter. Molly wrote with news from home once in a blue moon, the last time being eighteen months ago or more. By her own admission Molly hated putting pen to paper. She was a talker, not a writer, she’d declared more than once.

  ‘Think over what we have said,’ Sir Henry said into the silence which had fallen. ‘Lady Isabella and I think very highly of you, but the decision has to be yours, of course. However, we would be sorry – very sorry – if you feel you cannot leave England.’

  ‘And not just us, I think.’ Isabella smiled archly. ‘Signor Menitto will also be disappointed.’

  Constance knew her cheeks were burning as she excused herself and left the couple, who were smiling benignly at her.

  Giuseppe Menitto, the family’s estate manager in Lake Garda, had made no secret of his regard for her over the last few years and persisted in his attentions even though she’d made it clear she looked on him only as a friend. The trouble was, she liked Giuseppe. She had grown to like him more and more the better they’d become acquainted. But liking wasn’t love.

  At forty-five, Giuseppe was fifteen years older than her but being tall and lean and very fit he didn’t look a day over thirty-five and was handsome in a rugged, Latin sort of way. Altogether a very masculine man. His position as estate manager was a powerful one, and he was wealthy enough to enjoy a good standard of living, owning a large house complete with housekeeper and maid. But besides all that he was a kind and gentle man, a true gentleman, and charming.

  Constance smiled to herself as she walked down the wide stone staircase to the basement of the villa where a door opened on to more steps leading to the shore of the lake. Oh yes, Giuseppe was charming all right. She had teased him the other night when they had walked together along the shoreline that he could charm the birds out of the trees, and he had agreed with her, saying any true Italian was the same.

  She paused with her hand on the door knob. If she left England and came to live here, Giuseppe would ask her to marry him, she knew that. And she also knew that they would have the Ashtons’ blessing. She would live in a beautiful house with servants of her own, and Giuseppe’s considerable extended family of sisters and brothers and nieces and nephews would accept her as one of them because she was Giuseppe’s choice. She would be able to have children of her own, become a wife and mother. The ache in her heart which grew stronger with each year that passed caused her to press her hand against her chest. She longed to hold her own child in her arms, to have a baby to love and cherish. And Giuseppe wanted a large family: from what she’d seen, all Italians were the same. Her children could grow up healthy and strong in this safe, tranquil place, blossoming in the sun like precious flowers.

  Again she gave a rueful smile at the poetic path her thoughts had taken. But it was true. It was all true. The chemical works and iron foundries, the stinking factories and mines of the north-east of England were as far removed from this place as heaven is to hell. This morning she had woken up to find her room bathed from floor to ceiling in a brilliant orange glow, the sunshine having been filtered through the sail of one of the boats out on the lake. She had pulled bac
k her curtains and sat gazing over the still and limpid water for some time, not really thinking of anything, just being.

  It would be madness not to embrace what could be the perfect life because of someone in England who had probably forgotten all about her by now. Someone who had loved and married another girl, who’d had a bairn by them. Someone who wasn’t and never could be hers. She would always be grateful to Matt for saving her life, maybe she’d always love him in a private room in her heart, but she was thirty years old and she wanted more in life than caring for other people’s children and living in someone else’s home. And that wasn’t wrong, it was natural.

  The heartaches of the past, along with the spectre of Vincent McKenzie, who still featured in the odd nightmare from time to time, would be banished if she made her home in Italy. And Giuseppe was a good man. She liked and respected him and she would grow to love him. There was nothing not to love.

  She opened the door and walked out on to the top of the steps, but she didn’t immediately descend. Instead she stood looking over the water which the setting sun had turned into a blazing lake of red and gold. She could be content living in this spot, she told herself, as the warm wind caressed her face. Giuseppe had told her that in the morning the wind called the Vento blew from the north whilst in the afternoon it was the Ora from the south, but it made no difference to her. Even when the winds whipped up the waters of the lake into violent storms they were nothing like the bone-chilling savage winds of home. Everything was gentler here, softer.

  Edmond turned and saw her, raising his hand before returning to his grisly work with Roberto. His blond hair had already been bleached a couple of shades lighter since they’d been here, and Constance was insistent that he wore a long-sleeved shirt when he was out sailing with the boatman, for fear he’d be burned by the hot Italian sun. She loved Edmond dearly and she knew the boy didn’t regard her as a servant but more as one of the family. If she married Giuseppe she would be able to stay close to Edmond and the rest of the family and still share in their lives to some extent.