She waited for a reply, but Findlater had taken her question as merely rhetorical.
"Who?" she repeated. "You know and I know, but Mrs. Metcalfe doesn't."
"Mr. Stevenson," Findlater admitted reluctantly.
"And I think Mrs. Metcalfe should know it. She should know what sort of
man Mr. Stevenson is. My brother had no such employer and he is now in Van Dieman's Land. He left me without money or house or any support for two children, younger than these two, and a young brother. It is memory of those days brings me here. Not Mr. Stevenson's bidding."
Defeat was in the very way he nodded. "I owe you an apology, ma'am. I was too hasty—and too ignorant…I knew nothing of all this, of course."
"Of course," Nora echoed, enjoying his humility. Gentlefolk could be very harsh when they were the high and mighty ones; but they had weaknesses so great as to be potentially fatal. Their sense of honesty and of fairness, for instance—that was an area always soft enough to let the knife slip through.
He continued: "Then may I ask not why you are here but whether you had reached any decision and whether or not you or Mrs. Metcalfe would welcome help from Mr. Metcalfe's other friends?"
Nora pondered before answering. Mrs. Metcalfe looked at her in growing anxiety and was on the point of speaking when Nora said: "I'll tell you. I had come here prepared to support Mrs. Metcalfe and the children. But I find a strong, healthy woman and a fine, strapping young daughter, who'll have no difficulty getting work—at Fielden's if nowhere else. And a boy able to look after himself well enough I dare say. It's encouragement and cheer they'll need—not money."
"The boy," Mrs. Metcalfe sighed and shook her head. "It's young Tom's the problem for me. 'E's that lively no one's willin' to…"
Nora patted her arm encouragingly. "We can solve all that when the gentleman's gone," she said. "There's nothing to detain him here when he's finished that cup."
Findlater, by now a little accustomed to Nora's extreme bluntness merely looked at her and smiled slightly. "I'd heard tales about you, Mrs. Stevenson, but until today I did not believe them."
"Now there, you are the very opposite of Mrs. Metcalfe," Nora said calmly. "She had heard the most stupid tales—and believed them, too, until today. Now she no longer believes them—do you, my dear?"
"No!" Mrs. Metcalfe said with alarmed eagerness, as if any other answer would carry the death sentence. "No. I'm sure I don't. No."
"Perhaps in the few moments he can spare us, Mr. Findlater will tell us what hope for an early release his petition may hold out for us."
And poor Findlater had to admit there was no hope of curtailing the sentence but that this work would keep alive the issues for which Tom Metcalfe had been martyred.
"I'm sure that will be a great comfort to Mrs. Metcalfe," Nora said. And Findlater was now so embarrassed that he had to rise and take his leave. Even then Nora did not pull the hook from his gills. When his hand touched the latch she added: "At least we all have one thing in common—we are all helping to keep something alive."
And with a nod he was gone, almost falling over the water pail, which the children had placed by the door before returning to their twice-interrupted game.
The two women heard him say: "Hello. You are Beth and you are young Tom. Your father has talked to me of you. I am the Methodist minister of Smallbridge."
They heard Tommy's serious little voice: "And are you more evangelical than the parson, sir?"
"Bless my soul!" the minister said. "What a very strange question to be sure!"
But, having had enough of solving puzzles and finding no answers to his satisfaction, he left without pursuing his inquiries further.
The problem, Mrs. Metcalfe explained, was young Tommy. The dame school in Littleborough wouldn't have him for he could already read better than Elizabeth Ede, who taught there. He was too lively to just leave at home, for he only got into mischief. She had tried getting neighbours to take him and had even offered fourpence a week, but one by one they tried and withdrew. He was too much of a handful.
"We must think about this," Nora said. "You have enough by you to keep body and soul together, so we have a few days in hand to solve this problem."
She already knew the solution she was going to propose but she would have to talk it over with John. Before she left, she noted down the title of the little book with all the good ideas for saving money: Cottage Economy by William Cobbett. "That's going to be very useful, is that," she said.
Chapter 30
You see, in much of December I'll be over at Rough Stones at least part of the day. I want to wash everything through and get all the furniture in and everything properly set before we go over on Boxing Day," she explained to John. "And there's a thousand things the boy could do—clean windows, scrub floors, paint, sweep. And he could do his studies for part of each day, for though he reads so forward, I doubt he writes well. I could give him hooks and links to copy…what do you say, dearest?" He opened his mouth to speak but she went on: "And when I start the tommy shop"—she laughed—"tommy shop! I hadn't thought of that. He could help there, weighing out things and adding and keeping things tidy and sweeping. He could make himself useful there, too. And learn in practical things—as I did when I was seven. He might earn thirty pence a week. And I'd only charge his mother fourpence to look after him."
John laughed. "You'd charge her?"
"Of course I will." Nora was surprised at his laughter. "She's no call to look for charity from us. And fourpence is what widow Ede charges at her dame school, because I asked. I'd not want to take more than that. And if the three of them are bringing home over thirteen shillings a week, what do you say?"
"What do I say?"
"Aye."
"You mean it's my turn now?"
She grinned and leaned her forehead on his chest. "I'll be silent," she promised.
"I say it's a topsy-turvy world. When a mother and two children can go out and in fifty-eight hours earn more than a farm labourer in seventy. The age of the independent female is at hand."
"Be serious," she said to his buttons, still not lifting her head from his chest.
"It's not what I had in mind. Not by any manner o' means."
She stood upright again. "They'll thank us more for this. If Metcalfe's any sense, they'll stop at work and put the children to it in their time. In ten years they could save the best part of £500. He'd not need no bloody union then. 'E could 'ave a business of his own."
"Or partner us in some small contract and add a hundred or two in a month. Eay, I hope he learns sense in yon penitentiary."
"So you think we may—I may."
"We'll give it a try."
"Eay!" She hugged him hard in her delight. "'E's a lovely little lad," she said. "You'll see."
Since she had left the little outhouse behind the anonymous Acorn she had pictured young Tommy again and again, reading so fluently—and that knowing little look of his when she asked him if he understood what he had read. There was something in him of Sam, her younger brother. That same impishness.
She had missed Sam this year. He was so good at observing people and could imitate them so that you had to laugh—not just the way they talked but how they stood or stroked their chins or wagged their fingers or scratched their hair. He could do it all. And he could always see the funny side of things; you never saw him coming, but you made a welcome for him in you. She hoped Mr. Sugden would soon write back with news of his whereabouts.
Next day Nora was just about to leave for The Acorn when she saw Arabella Thornton come riding up from the direction of the church; she must have come from Todmorden by the turnpike. They had met no more than a handful of times over the last few months and Nora had still taken no particular liking to the engineer's wife. She envied the way she spoke—though she also thought it effete. John had talked of her strength of character but Nora saw no sign of it; more likely it was her pretty blonde curls and light blue, almost violet eyes that softened
his judgement. She also envied her that horse, and again she wondered if John had meant his promise.
Arabella, too, had her own private reservations about Nora. The way she meddled in her husband's affairs and—by all accounts—ordered people about was very unbecoming. Walter went on about how well connected the family had been, but really she was no more than a servant girl. Bright—almost too bright, but…jumped up. Still, there was no choice but to ride this way today and talk with her. Mr. Stevenson had asked Walter if she, Arabella, would be kind enough to take Mrs. Stevenson under her wing and teach her some of the duties and graces fitting her newfound station, and Walter, in passing on the request, had made it clear that Stevenson was destined to a position of some importance in the world—and one of great importance in the career of any rising engineer.
Their greetings were superficially warm but brittle.
"Mrs. Stevenson! Good morning. I hope I find you well," Arabella called.
"Ye do," said Nora. She held the horse's head while the other slipped to the ground. "Will you come in for a glass of ale?"
"No. I thank you." Arabella smiled. "I don't wish to detain you. Were you walking? May I go with you a little of your way?"
"Gladly," Nora said, wondering what had prompted this sudden interest. "I was on my way up the Calderbrook road. I'd be glad of a little company to lighten the walk."
"How delightful. I was intending to return by that road myself." She took the bridle as Nora released it and together they walked up the street.
They made an odd pair. There was fashionable Arabella with her striking black beaver hat trimmed with ostrich feathers and a free-flowing veil of green gauze, and her dark-green zephyr-cloth habit, embellished with wine-coloured buttons whose curved rows accentuated her tiny waist and swelling bosom. And there beside her walked Nora, in the plainest brown dress, covered with a mantle of dark blue Botany worsted, and crowned with a bonnet of the same material.
Arabella thought: We must look like a lady and her maid.
"It's not often we see you riding over this way," Nora said.
"No. To be candid, I have come here of a purpose."
"Oh?"
"Yes. I have been thinking over your and Mr. Stevenson's kind invitation to spend Boxing Day with you. In our delight and eagerness, Mr. Thornton and I overlooked the inconvenience to you."
"You must put such thought from you. I'm sure our walk through the tunnel, and our afternoon and evening together afterwards, will complete this year very nicely."
"You are very kind to say so, Mrs. Stevenson. Yet I am sure you would find it more convenient—and Mr. Thornton and I would be doubly delighted—if you and Mr. Stevenson would spend the night of Christmas Eve and all of Christmas Day and night at Pex Hill. In short, from Christmas Eve to Boxing Day morning."
"Oh yes," Nora said. "That would be champion, Mrs. Thornton. We'll do that with pleasure. Thank you indeed."
Arabella was taken aback. "You mean you can say so now? Without first asking Mr. Stevenson?"
"Oh, of course. As to his business, I'm sure it's indifferent to him. But as to our preference—to spend Christmas in an inn or with two such good friends— I'm sure there's no comparing them. And"—she brightened still further—"you are in Yorkshire. I could never feel easy spending Christmas in Lancashire, not with Yorkshire in full view."
That made Arabella laugh. "Well—that's settled then. I am glad."
"Do you like our northern ways better now? Last time we met I fancy you were uncertain."
They had to pause here and pull into the side of the lane to let a wagon load of big square-cut timber take the bend into the gate of Hare Hill house. Nora watched with admiration as Harper the carter managed his four pairs of drayhorses without rein, trace, or whip—entirely by variations in his calls to them. "That's Romany talk," she said.
"Is he a gypsy?" Arabella asked.
"I don't know. They call him Master Harper hereabouts. I know a travelling bootseller who says he'll never buy one of this man's horses. They've only to hear his voice, however distantly, and there's no controlling them."
When the timber swung through the gateway they resumed their walk.
"How are you settling then?" Nora repeated.
"It's very hard for a southerner. When I first came, I was sure people didn't know how to behave at all. Now it is quite clear they know full well what ought to be done but are determined not to do it."
"Aye, that's very possible…" Nora began.
"My neighbour, for instance—there is a field between us and their place—he is the office senior at Lovenden's mills and very well connected. Skellhorne their name is. I believe they are a cadet branch of the Duke of Ripon's family. Well, only yesterday, when I was leaving home to go down to the stables, I was in the drive and I heard her shouting up to me: Yoo hoo! Yoo hoo! Could she send a girl up for a jug of sugar because they had run short and the misses Dawson were coming within minutes? And so I, of course, have to shout to all the neighbourhood that I've only the red dirty kind of sugar left because it's my day for provisioning. And she shouts that'll do for the misses Dawson and why don't I join them and forget my riding for a day because they always have such champion fun! Really—I almost swooned with embarrassment at it. I dare not describe such goings on in my letters home."
They had reached the corner of the Calderwood road. A squall of wind, heralding a shower already over Rochdale, ruffed the puddles on the road and spread the tails of a flock of chickens as it bowled them along. Nora, who kept one eye on the dark cloud, estimated she would reach The Acorn just as it broke overhead.
"Does no one behave in such ways where you come from?" she asked.
"No one. Well—perhaps one or two elderly and eccentric members of the aristocracy—but only those with no position to keep."
"I suppose," Nora said idly, "taking a sensible view of our likely future, Mr. Stevenson's and mine, I should know these southern ways. There's no chance to learn them here."
Arabella's eyes shone with eagerness. "May I tell them to you?" she asked. "It would be such a kindness if you let me. I am afraid I shall quite forget them unless I have at least some cause to remember."
As soon as she heard these words Nora guessed with fair certainty that Arabella had come this way with the express purpose of suggesting such an arrangement. Which meant that Thornton must have asked her. Which meant that John must have asked him. It must all go back to her casual remark to John the other evening. She looked at Arabella, smiling so eagerly, waiting for an answer. One would think for all the world that the idea had just that very minute occurred to her. Nora realized that she was, in a way, getting her first lesson in finer behaviour, and she felt warmer toward Arabella than she would ever have thought possible.
"I'd be very grateful of that, Mrs. Thornton, and more than grateful."
"Good," Arabella said. "Good."
Each stood smiling at the other, uncertain what to say next.
"Do you not think…" Arabella began diffidently but Nora had turned, involuntarily, at the sound of an approaching horseman—if that was quite the word for what now hove into view.
A morose man, dressed in an outfit that had seen its best days in the years before Waterloo and a wig of the same vintage, sat awkwardly astride a spavined nag, which trotted with an uncertain lurch and at a pace slower than most horses manage to walk at. Only the man's long nose and grim mouth were visible beneath his broad-brimmed, low-crowned hat. Nora, when she had first seen him some weeks earlier, had taken him for a quaker preacher.
When he drew level with them his mouth split in a smile even grimmer than it had seemed in repose. He lifted his hat and said, without appearing to see them, "Good morrow, ladies."
His wig sprang away from his head as if forced to it by some magnetic repulsion; instantaneously his skull seemed to shrink and to rattle inside the wig like a ripe nut in its shell.
They nodded graciously in response, neither daring to trust her voice, and he da
wdled past in that same unhappy trot.
When he was well out of earshot the two girls, hidden behind Arabellla's horse, fell laughing upon each other for support.
"Who could it be?" Arabella said as she caught her breath.
Nora, dabbing her eyes and standing straight again, said: "It's that lawyer from Rochdale…his name'll come to me in a minute…Huxtable. Lawyer Huxtable. He goes over to see a Lady…someone, over Todmorden way. You've never seen him?"
World From Rough Stones Page 44