Forever Yours

by Rita Bradshaw

  He should have died instead of Tilly. The sudden thought startled him and caused his eyes to narrow.

  Tilly had wanted to live. Although her body had given up the fight, her mind and spirit had been strong. Whereas he felt it was more painful to carry on than to slip into a place of . . . what? Endless joy for some and endless torment for others, if Father Duffy was to be believed, or maybe – just maybe – the Hereafter might be a place of eternal, dreamless sleep. Whatever, it was infinitely preferable to anything in the here and now.

  Tilly had known how he felt about Constance. He took his cap off, raking his hand through his hair and enjoying the touch of the icy wind on his scalp before he pulled it on again. And the knowledge had hurt her because of the feeling she’d apparently had for him. He couldn’t, as yet, term this feeling love because there was only so much remorse he could shoulder at one time, but the truth of what she had told him had been plain to see in her face since she had known she was dying.

  The waste, the futility, the pointlessness of it all swept over him anew and he drove his clenched fists against the solid oak handrail of the bridge. It was only when his knuckles were dripping blood that he could focus on the pain rather than the blackness in his mind.

  He had to get control of himself. There was Rebecca, she needed him. She’d just lost her mam and he couldn’t go to pieces. He’d acted a part all his married life and most folk had been none the wiser; he could do it now he was a widower. And once the funeral was over he would pay a visit to Rupert Wood and show him what he thought of a man who’d carry on with a young lass who worked for him. Tilly had begged him not to go, and rather than upset her he had fallen in with her pleading, but she had gone now and he’d see the scum got a little of what was due him. He owed it to Tilly as well as to himself.

  The grey November light was briefly illuminated by the flash of a pheasant’s iridescent plumage in the far distance as it strutted out of the hedgerow and made its way across a frozen ploughed field. He watched the bird until it took fright at something or other and rose squawking into the sky, and then he saw what had disturbed the bird as the reddish-brown body of a fox slunk into view. It crossed the field rapidly, and once it had reached the safety of the hedgerow, it howled a sharp triple bark. Matt knew what that meant.When he’d been a young lad working in the fields at the weekend for Farmer Todd, the farmer had taken a shine to him and would often spend his lunch-hour talking to him about the farm and the countryside. Farmer Todd had said November was the time the dog fox sought out a vixen to be his partner. Once the pair had enlarged a rabbit burrow, they’d make a den for protection against the worst of the winter, and the cubs would be born at the end of March. Sure enough, a moment later an eerie, wailing scream rang out – a female answering the dog fox’s call.

  Job done. Matt smiled bitterly to himself. For supposedly dumb animals they certainly had the advantage over the human race in matters of the heart. He called, she answered – and a few months later there’d be four or five more foxes in the world. No long-drawn-out courtship, no pretence, no lies. And no getting it wrong and living the rest of your life regretting the loss of something you never had in the first place.

  Oh, to hell with it! He straightened, stuffing his smarting hands in the pockets of his trousers. He had no one to blame but himself for the way his life had turned out, and he hated whingers. He would carry the weight of Tilly to his grave, but that was something he would have to come to terms with. It was either that or go under, and he couldn’t afford that luxury, not with Rebecca depending on him.

  Nevertheless, as he looked across the bleak, empty countryside, it reflected what he could expect of the future and he shivered, his footsteps heavy as he turned for home.

  Chapter 19

  ‘But I don’t understand, Shelton.’ Isabella Ashton was clutching her husband’s arm as she spoke, her evident agitation confirmation of just how upset she was. Isabella had been brought up to believe one should never show one’s emotions in front of the servants, even one as close to the family as Constance was. ‘It is all arranged. We leave next week.’

  ‘I know, my lady.’ Constance stood wringing her hands in the middle of the drawing room at Grange Hall. This room, along with others in the house, showed signs of the exodus which was to take place shortly. In the hall, a number of trunks and cases stood ready to be shipped to Italy the next day. Some had already gone the week before and more would follow, once the family had left. The servants who were to remain in England and who were being kept on by the friends of the Ashtons who had bought Grange Hall, had a list of instructions to observe before the new family took up residence after Christmas.

  ‘Then what has changed your mind?’ Isabella’s voice was calmer and she motioned for Constance to be seated as she sat down herself. Sir Henry remained standing in front of the fireplace where a roaring fire glowed and crackled. It was the last day of November, and outside the window the grounds were frozen solid with the thick white frosts which had held the north in a relentless grip for a week. ‘I thought you had made your decision and were looking forward to coming with us?’

  ‘I was, my lady, and it’s not that I don’t want to come, not really, but . . .’ Constance’s voice trailed away helplessly. How could she explain that one letter had turned all her plans upside down? She hadn’t heard from Molly for months and then this morning a letter had come. She had been busy packing Miss Charlotte’s trousseau all morning – Charlotte had insisted on buying everything she needed in London and hadn’t trusted any of the maids to take sufficient care with the exquisite and wildly expensive items of clothing – and so she hadn’t opened the letter until lunchtime. It had begun with the usual apology for not writing sooner and then listed how each member of the family was doing, but it was the postscript which had caused her heart to race.

  Molly had written in her large round handwriting:

  PS: Nearly forgot to tell you. Tilly Heath, Matt’s wife, passed away at the beginning of the month, poor lass. Growth of some kind in her belly and her only thirty-five. He’s took it hard, well, you would, wouldn’t you, but the funeral was well attended and at least he’s got Rebecca to see to things in the house. Like I said to Edwin, you never know what’s round the corner.

  She had read the words over three times, a tumult of emotion surging in her breast, not the least of which was guilt for the immediate stab of wild elation that Molly’s news had brought. But it was awful, awful for Tilly to have died. She had never wished for that, not once, and as Molly had intimated, Tilly had been a relatively young woman. She had sat clutching the letter to her, and when she raised her eyes it was to see Florence staring at her. ‘What’s up, lass? Bad news from home?’

  ‘Some— someone’s died. A woman I know.’

  Florence had clucked in sympathy. ‘A friend of yours?’

  ‘Not exactly, but she was only five years older than me so it’s a bit of a shock.’ She couldn’t explain, not right now. Ridiculous, but she couldn’t have spoken Matt’s name.

  She had reached for her cup of tea then and Florence had taken the hint and said no more, but once they’d left Mr Howard’s room, Constance had gone to Charlotte’s quarters to stand staring at the swathes of tissue paper and the filmy wedding veil made of gossamer-thin French lace which she still had to pack.

  Nothing had changed, not really, and yet everything had. Italy was still the sensible choice to make; Giuseppe had made it quite clear before she had left how he felt, and she knew she could expect a proposal of marriage if she made her home in Italy. She could look forward to a life of ease and comfort in that beautiful country, a life with children and grandchildren to enrich her days. If she stayed in England there was no guarantee that Matt would ask for her, none at all. He was grieving for his wife and could do so for many years. Even if he still had some feeling for her it might not be the same, and all the time she was getting older and the chance of children was fading. In Italy she would be surrounded by people who
loved her. She would see Edmond grow up, and Charlotte and then perhaps Gwendoline marry. She would still be a part of their lives. She was sure of a future full of blessing and love. It would be madness to give all that up. Absolute madness. That was what she had told herself.

  Lady Isabella’s voice brought her back to the present when she said quietly, ‘What is it, Constance? What’s happened?’

  It was only the second time Isabella had addressed her by her Christian name, but like the first time they were both too het-up to notice. Constance stared into her employer’s dark eyes. She couldn’t tell her the truth. How could she say she had received news that the wife of the man she loved had died, and so she was going home hoping that one day in the future he would ask for her? It wasn’t decent. Helplessly, she murmured, ‘I’m so sorry, my lady, but now the time is near I realise I can’t leave. Italy is wonderful and I know my life there would be equally wonderful and I’ll probably regret this for the rest of my life, but . . .’ Again she couldn’t go on.

  ‘Roots.’ Sir Henry spoke for the first time, and as his wife and Constance stared at him, he repeated, ‘Roots. That’s what’s at the bottom of this. Not everyone can leave the country of their birth, but you do understand there will not be a suitable position for you with the Stewarts, Shelton? Mrs Stewart has her own lady’s-maid and as yet they have no children.’

  ‘I understand that, sir.’

  ‘But Edmond will be heartbroken.’ Isabella’s voice caught in her throat. ‘And he has so many new circumstances to contend with already. A new school, new friends to make . . .’

  Constance could not reply to that, but as her colour rose it was Sir Henry who came to her rescue again. ‘He will survive, m’dear. There is going to be much to occupy him, and young boys are very resilient. This will be character-building in the long run. It won’t do him any harm.’

  Lady Isabella’s glance at her husband told him exactly what she thought of this male logic.

  He turned to Constance again. ‘There is one thing I would ask of you, Shelton, and that is to take a little more time to think this over. We leave next week but there is no reason why you couldn’t follow at a later date, if you change your mind. There will be no cause for you to leave here until the New Year, when the Stewarts take up residence.’

  She couldn’t give them or Edmond false hope. ‘I won’t change my mind, sir. I’m sorry, I’m truly sorry.’

  ‘Ah well, so be it.’ Sir Henry walked across to his wife and put his hand on her shoulder. ‘You have every right to do as you wish, and the last thing Lady Isabella and I would want is for you to be unhappy. We are very aware that but for your courage all those years ago, our son could have been killed or maimed, and our lives would have been very different. Isn’t that so, m’dear?’

  He squeezed his wife’s shoulder and it seemed to bring Lady Isabella to life. ‘Yes, oh yes.’ She smiled a little tremulously. ‘It is so. And my husband is right. We want you to be happy.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Constance was blinking hard but still the tell-tale moisture seeped from the corners of her eyes. She didn’t want to leave them and she knew if the letter hadn’t come she could have made a life for herself in Italy. But the letter had come – and now the pull of home was so strong she could almost taste it.

  ‘Where will you go when you leave here?’ Isabella asked softly. She had seen the tears. ‘Is there family you can stay with until you decide what you want to do?’

  She hadn’t had time to think things through, but she knew she wouldn’t stay with Molly, kind though her aunty was. Nor could she live with Ivy; Durham was too far away from the village.

  ‘There is family, yes, my lady, and I know they would be happy to have me, but I think I would like to rent somewhere of my own with a garden.’ She had always imagined a house with a garden when she had been growing up in a sea of backyards.

  ‘Why not buy somewhere?’ Sir Henry smiled at her. ‘That way, you are beholden to no one.’

  Buy? She had never thought of buying, but why not? The Ashtons had paid her handsomely over the years and once her grandma had gone she had saved most of it. There were hundreds of pounds in the old carpet bag on top of the wardrobe in her room, more than enough for her to buy a small cottage and live comfortably for a few years until the future sorted itself out, one way or the other. And she would like to be her own mistress. A dart of excitement pierced the turmoil and sadness. To be able to rise when she wanted to, eat when she chose and go where she wished.

  She smiled back at him. ‘Yes, I could do that, sir. I’ve plenty saved but I wouldn’t know how to go about it.’

  ‘Don’t worry your head about that, Shelton. I can give you the name of a solicitor who will take care of things for you. With whom do you bank?’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir?’

  ‘Your savings? Which bank are they deposited with?’

  Constance stared at him blankly. ‘I – I keep my money in a bag, sir. On top of the wardrobe.’

  ‘On top of the wardrobe? In your room here?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good grief.’ But Sir Henry rallied almost immediately. ‘I can see we need to have a chat, but that will wait until another time. Miss Charlotte is anxious for you to assist her with the remainder of her packing.’ Looking down at his wife, he added, ‘Is there anything you wish to say to Shelton, m’dear?’

  ‘Only that we will miss you.’

  Constance looked into the great dark eyes, and fresh tears spurted. ‘Oh, my lady.’

  It was the morning of the family’s departure and Sir Henry had been as good as his word. Over the last days he’d spent time with Constance in his study and she now had a better understanding of what was needed to survive financially out in the big bad world. Her savings had been deposited with a trustworthy building society in Chester Le Street – since Sacriston and the other villages thereabouts did not boast more than a post office – and she had the name of a good solicitor in the town. Moreover, Sir Henry had engaged the services of an estate agent in the area to look out for a suitable cottage close to the village. She had also become conversant with the house telephone over the last week, a dreaded appliance which only Mr Howard and Mr Rowan had hitherto answered, and which filled the rest of the staff – Constance included – with apprehension. However, Sir Henry had insisted this means of communication was fast coming into its own and that over the next weeks before she left Grange Hall for good, she would have need of it, if only to discuss with the estate agent what he had found for her. It had been decided that Constance would spend Christmas at Grange Hall and leave in the middle of January, shortly before the new owners took up residence.

  The servants who were remaining at the house, Florence included, were lined up in the hall to say goodbye to the master and mistress and the family after breakfast was finished, but Sir Henry called Constance into the drawing room once they were ready to leave. Charlotte and Gwendoline were doing a tearful tour of the house where they had been born, saying goodbye to each room, and Edmond was down at the stables making an equally tearful goodbye to his favourite horse, so it was just Sir Henry and Lady Isabella waiting for her.

  ‘Remember what we have said, Shelton. If you would like a holiday in the sun you would be very welcome at any time.’ Sir Henry smiled kindly at her. ‘There will always be a place for you.’

  ‘Thank you, sir, my lady.’ But she wouldn’t. She felt she had burned her bridges in that regard. She had written to Giuseppe explaining her changed circumstances and it wouldn’t be fair on him to make an appearance, even temporarily.

  ‘My wife and I have taken the liberty of making a small deposit into your new bank account.’ Sir Henry handed her a piece of paper. ‘Here is the receipt.’

  Constance stared in disbelief at the noughts on the paper. Two thousand pounds. Two thousand pounds. It was a fortune, riches beyond her wildest dreams. ‘I – I don’t know what to say.’ She looked at them helplessly. ‘Thank you. Thank you, Sir Hen
ry, my lady, but it’s too much.’

  ‘What price a son?’ Sir Henry said gruffly, clearly embarrassed. ‘And frankly, I’ve seen certain gentlemen lose as much in one evening on the roll of a die. If you invest it wisely, and the solicitor I recommended will know the people to help you there, you will have a steady income for life. It will mean you living fairly frugally, of course.’

  Frugally? Constance stared at the receipt. Hardly. Oh, how her grandma would have loved this, although it would have been all round the village in two minutes flat. She hadn’t expected anything, they had been so good to her already . . . She gulped hard. ‘Thank you,’ she said again. ‘I can’t believe it.’

  ‘Let’s hear no more about it.’ Sir Henry’s voice was suddenly brisk. ‘It is little enough but it will smooth the way. Ah, here they are,’ he added as the door opened to admit Charlotte and Gwendoline. ‘And still in tears, I see. I fear it is going to be a long journey to Italy.’

  The next hour was difficult, especially when Edmond clung to her as though he would never let her go, insisting he would write to her every week and demanding that she did the same. But then the family were gone, along with Mr Howard, Sidney Black – Sir Henry’s valet – and Estelle Upton – Lady Isabella’s personal maid.

  Constance had been charged with packing the last of the family’s clothes and personal belongings and seeing that they were sent on, among other duties, but when she wandered into Edmond’s room she stood looking out of the window until lunchtime. She felt deeply disturbed even though she knew she had done the right thing – the only thing possible – once she knew that Matt was free again. Nevertheless, she was aware that she had placed herself in an almost impossible position.

  The heavy blue-grey sky promised snow, and the frozen grounds outside the warmth of the house intensified the strange feeling that had taken hold of her once the Ashtons’ carriages had drawn away. Here, in England, she was in no-man’s land, she thought sadly. Her years sitting in with Edmond when he had his lessons before he left for boarding school meant she was educated far above what the village school had been able to offer. She knew some Latin, could speak Italian very well and had a good understanding of basic science and chemistry and other subjects. Charlotte and Gwendoline had delighted in teaching her to play the piano and paint on glass and do tapestry – accomplishments they themselves, as wealthy young ladies, had learned from a young age. And that was fine for them, right and proper, but she wasn’t a young lady with a titled background. She was just a lass from the north-east who, due to pure chance, had been lifted out of her ordinary environment into an extraordinary one.