by Maggie Hope
‘Careful,’ he said.
Ina was affronted. ‘I’m not a baby,’ she declared.
‘Indeed, you are not,’ he replied gravely. He looked over her head to her mother and smiled. ‘Perhaps I could call to see you tomorrow,’ he said, surprising her.
He rarely came to her little house nowadays. In fact, it must be months since he had. She felt as confused as a young girl asked out for the first time, which was quite ridiculous. But then, perhaps it was in the line of business he was coming; she shouldn’t read anything into it. Though she usually saw him in his office in that case.
‘Of course,’ she replied. ‘I’ll be home about ten. We’re staying to see the new year in at Eliza’s tonight.’
‘I’ll call at eleven. I’m looking forward to it.’ His smile enveloped and warmed her. ‘Now,’ he continued, ‘the pony and trap are just over the bridge at the blacksmith’s yard.’
They walked over the bridge, swinging Ina between them, just like any parents with a young child might. It was as though the intervening years had never been, thought Lottie; yet she couldn’t put her finger on what exactly had changed between them.
They drove up to the home of Peter and Eliza with Ina between them chattering away, complaining again that girls couldn’t go first-footing and it wasn’t fair but then she forgot about that particular injustice as she told Jeremiah of the doll Father Christmas had brought her with eyes that opened and closed. He nodded or shook his head and grunted at the appropriate moments, which was all she seemed to need or want.
It was but a short journey until the pony was stopping outside Eliza’s house and Jeremiah got down and swung both of them to the ground, leaving Lottie breathless and Ina giggling.
‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ he said again. ‘Happy New Year!’
They stood by the gate as he climbed back on to the trap and handed down Lottie’s basket. He picked up the reins and was off, back down the hill and up the opposite side to the marketplace.
‘Mr Scott is a nice man, isn’t he?’ said Ina. ‘Is he someone else’s daddy?’
‘No, he isn’t,’ her mother replied. Ina gazed after the pony and trap until it was out of sight. It wasn’t hard to tell what she was thinking. ‘Howay, Ina,’ Lottie said sharply. ‘Come on in, your grandma’s waiting.’
Jeremiah drove back to the blacksmith’s at the bottom of Silver Street, hung a nosebag of hay around the pony’s head and turned him over to the care of the blacksmith’s boy, before walking up the steep road which led to the marketplace. He was lost in his own thoughts, barely noticing the thinning crowd, the shops already putting up their shutters.
In the last few years, he had managed to keep his feelings for Lottie pretty well bottled up. He did not admit them even to himself. After all, they were not fitting when his wife was so recently dead. There had to be a decent period of mourning for Harriet, he owed her that. But seeing how Ina had grown, he had realized that that time of mourning must be coming to an end in anyone’s eyes.
Only that morning, his father had asked him if he knew when Lottie’s new novel was coming out and he had had to say he did not. ‘Though it surely cannot be long now,’ said Jeremiah.
‘Lottie must be earning a fair income from her books by this time,’ Mr Scott senior had speculated. ‘I wonder she still finds time to write articles on local current affairs for a newspaper such as ours. What do you think, Jeremiah?’
‘I have no idea how much Mrs Mitchell-Howe earns,’ Jeremiah had replied stiffly.
‘Perhaps she just likes our people here?’
‘Perhaps she does.’
The elder Mr Scott gazed at his son. ‘And that is all you have to say? Righto then, that’s all right.’ He had walked over to the window and stood gazing out at the Durham plain, which was just visible, rising over the tops of the houses. ‘I will wait until you have something to say.’
‘Father, I don’t know what you are talking about.’
‘No, of course not. But it is almost five years since poor Harriet died,’ his father said, before quickly leaving the room and going back down to the front desk.
Had the way he felt about Lottie been obvious after all, at least to his father? Jeremiah wondered as he strode to the top of the narrow medieval street, and up to the bank where he had said he would meet his father.
It was almost as if the meeting with Lottie and little Thomasina was meant to be. Though it was just a coincidence of course, he told himself. But he had at last come to the place where he could ask Lottie to marry him. Today he had finally believed that she might feel for him as he felt for her.
The next day Lottie was up early, even though they had stayed up until midnight to see in the new year and she had spent the night tossing and turning in her bed, unable to sleep. For no matter how many times she told herself that he most likely wanted to discuss a new article he wanted her to write, the wild hope that it was something more personal he wanted to talk about would not go away. She tidied and cleaned the little sitting room and had the kettle singing on the hob in the kitchen so that she could offer him tea.
‘Why are we wearing our best dresses, Mam?’ asked Ina.
‘Because it is New Year,’ Lottie replied. ‘Mind you keep yours clean now. Go on upstairs and play with your new dolly. We’ll go for a walk this afternoon, if you like.’
Ina pulled a face but went upstairs anyway to find her doll, while Lottie sat down before the fire and gave herself up to daydreaming. Whether it was the warmth from the fire or the lack of sleep the night before, the next thing she knew she awoke with a start and jumped up, as she realized there was the dark outline of a man between the window and herself.
‘Who’s that?’ she cried, completely disoriented, then, ‘Oh, Jerry, it’s you.’
‘I’m sorry, Lottie, I knocked but you didn’t hear and as the door was unlocked I came in. I should not have startled you, but you looked so sweet sitting there with your glasses falling off your nose and your cheeks pink from the fire that I just stepped forward to watch for a moment.’
He caught hold of her hand and held it to his chest. ‘Lottie, I did wrong by you all those years ago but now I have come to put it right. I was not free before, but now …’ He paused, realizing that had not been what he meant to say. ‘I don’t mean that is the reason I am asking you to marry me, Lottie, oh no it is not.’
‘You are asking me to marry you?’
Lottie left her hand in his as she gazed up at him. She couldn’t make out his expression, not properly, until she realized it was her twisted glasses and put up her other hand to straighten them. Oh, his eyes were such a deep blue and his expression so open and honest. He was a straightforward man – a lovely man, as Thomas had never been.
His hand tightened on hers as he took a deep breath and said, ‘I am. Yes, I am. Though of course you don’t have to answer me yet, I don’t want to rush you …’
‘I will. I will, of course I will. I thought you wouldn’t ask, I thought it was too late for us, I really did. Oh, Jerry! I love you.’
He gathered her up in his arms, knocking her glasses askew once again, and kissed her, a long and lingering kiss. From behind her came Ina’s voice.
‘Mr Scott, if you marry my mammy, will you be my daddy?’ she asked.
‘I will, Thomasina, I will,’ he replied fervently.
Chapter One
January 1878
It was cold in the lane behind Railway Cottages, so cold even the stink from the netties wasn’t so bad today. But Meg and Jonty didn’t feel the cold. Both were wrapped up warmly with mufflers tied round their heads and necks, criss-crossed around their chests and tied at the back. They were playing in the middle of the lane, they were playing house. Meg was standing inside a circle of stones which was the house, rocking the baby in her arms, and Jonty was striding down the lane with Uncle Jack’s cap on his head. He was coming home from his work on the line.
‘Now then, Meg,’ he said as he stepped through the
gap in the stones which was the doorway. ‘Is the dinner ready? I’m starved.’ He did his utmost to deepen his voice to sound like a man but at three years old, going on four, only succeeded in making himself cough.
Meg pursed her lip and shook her head in imitation of her mother.
‘You’ll be wanting some butter and sugar and vinegar the night, to cut that cough,’ she said reprovingly.
‘Meg! Jonty! Howay in now, I want you to get ready to go up to the Hall.’
The children dropped their make-believe and looked over the frost-covered lane to Meg’s mam, standing in her back doorway. They moved close together. Meg took hold of Jonty’s hand, feeling it tremble. She held the baby, now just a peg dollie, by its head, dangling it by her side.
‘We don’t want to go to the Hall, Mam. Jonty doesn’t like it,’ said Meg, speaking for them both.
Hannah Maddison came out of the house and walked awkwardly towards them, the bulk of her late pregnancy lifting her apron high at the front.
‘I know, pet, I know. But Jonty has to go, and you don’t want him to go on his own, do you?’ She put a gentle hand against each child’s head, Meg’s so fair and Jonty’s so dark, caressing them both.
‘Look, hinnies, it’s Monday, I don’t think Jonty’s da will be there. You like Jonty’s grandmother, don’t you?’
‘I don’t think she is Jonty’s grandmother,’ Meg declared stoutly. ‘If she is, why’s she not mine an’ all? Me and Jonty, we’re twins.’ Meg had heard Mrs Hart say they were just like twins so she had asked Da what twins meant, and he said it was when two bairns were born at the same time to one mam. So she knew she and Jonty were twins.
Hannah smiled, but still she led the children firmly into the house to clean them up for the visit to the Hall.
‘No, Meg, you and Jonty are not twins, you’re cousins.’
But Meg was not convinced. Later on as they walked over the fields to Grizedale Hall, Meg held on to Jonty. She was his twin and if Jonty’s da was there she wouldn’t let him touch Jonty, no, she wouldn’t.
Jonty was quiet. He scuffed the frost with his boots, making long trailing marks, and Meg knew he was frightened, just in case his da was at home after all.
Mrs Grizedale, Jonty’s grandmother, was waiting in the hall to greet them. She must have been watching out of the window. Meg rushed straight in but Jonty hung back, casting fearful glances around at the closed doors. Meg came straight to the point, even before saying hello nicely like Mam said she should.
‘Is Mr Grizedale in?’
The old lady shook her head, smiling down at the little girl standing so fiercely before her cousin, ready to do battle for him.
‘No, dear, John Thomas’s father isn’t in, he’s gone to Darlington today on business.’
Meg relaxed and stood aside, allowing Jonty to move forward to be kissed by Mrs Grizedale. ‘Hello, Mrs Grizedale,’ she said belatedly, ‘are you well today?’
‘Yes thank you, dear. Now, come into my sitting-room, both of you. I’ve ordered hot milk and Cook has baked some gingerbread men.’
Gingerbread men! Meg’s eyes glowed in her rosy face. And it was weeks since Christmas. It must be somebody’s birthday if they were to have gingerbread men. She waited impatiently while Mrs Grizedale loosed the knot in her muffler and unwound it, then did the same for Jonty.
Soon they were sitting before the fire in the sitting-room, drinking milk and eating the bicuits. Meg sat quietly, giving all her attention to picking out the currant eyes and eating them first then nibbling at the legs, bit by bit, making it last as long as possible. She was not really listening to Mrs Grizedale who was talking to Jonty, asking him questions. Was he well? Was his Auntie Hannah well? And Jonty was smiling and saying little, just keeping close to Meg and following what she was doing so that his biscuit wouldn’t be finished before hers.
‘Come, Jonty, talk to your grandmother,’ Mrs Grizedale pleaded at last. Meg heard that all right and decided she would get this question settled once and for all.
‘You’re not Jonty’s grandmother. How can you be his grandmother if you’re not mine?’ she demanded. ‘She’s not your grandmother, is she, Jonty?’
Jonty shook his head. He knew better than to disagree with anything Meg said.
‘Oh, but I am, dear,’ protested Mrs Grizedale.
‘But me and Jonty, we’re twins,’ insisted Meg.
‘No, dear, cousins, that’s what you are. Your mother and Jonty’s mother were sisters.’ Mrs Grizedale looked at Meg’s indignant little face, the biscuit poised in one hand, forgotten for the moment. ‘Jonty’s mother passed away, dear, so your mother took him to live with you. Then, when he’s old enough for school, he will come back here to live.’
‘He won’t!’ asserted Meg. ‘Eeh, no, he won’t. Jonty’s going to live with us for ever and ever.’
Mrs Grizedale gave up the argument, there was plenty of time yet, Jonty was not yet of school age. She changed the subject.
‘Hurry up and finish your gingerbread men,’ she said, ‘then you can go up to the old nursery and play with the rocking-horse. You won’t make too much noise, will you? Grandfather is in bed today, he’s not feeling well. Later on perhaps, you can go to see the horses in the stables. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Jonty?’
He smiled and carried on with his biscuit, carefully watching Meg, synchronizing his eating with hers so that they finished the last crumb together. Mrs Grizedale watched them, a faintly anxious expression on her face.
‘Oh, I do hope I did the right thing taking you down to Hannah to nurse,’ she murmured, almost to herself. ‘I hope you won’t find it too upsetting when you have to come here.’ Luckily, her murmurs were too low even for Meg’s acute hearing.
It didn’t take Meg long to lose interest in the rocking-horse.
‘Howay, Jonty,’ she said, sliding down from the painted wooden saddle. ‘Let’s go out to the stables and see the real galloways.’
‘I haven’t had a go yet,’ he objected.
Meg sighed. ‘All right. You get on the daft thing and then we’ll go to the stables.’ She went over to the nursery window and looked out between the bars, over the stables and outhouses and beyond to the frost-covered, sloping fields of Farmer Teasdale’s farm. The rocking-horse squeaked and groaned as Jonty energetically rode it behind her.
‘Howay, Jonty,’ she said impatiently. ‘Hurry up, man, I want—’ Meg forgot what it was she wanted when out of the corner of her eye she saw a horseman emerge from the trees which lined the stream at the bottom of the slope. She clung to the bars and hauled herself up higher, the better to see. He was coming up to the Hall all right, up by Farmer Teasdale’s hedge, but on the inside, not on the track which the hedge bordered.
‘Jonty! Come and have a look.’
He slid down to the ground obediently and went over to the window.
‘What is it?’
He climbed up beside Meg and peered out.
‘What’re you looking at, Meg?’
‘Over there, by the hedge. Look, can you see?’
The horseman had dismounted and was leading his horse up the field, but the two children had no difficulty in recognizing him immediately.
‘It’s me da!’
Jonty’s cry was panicky; he began to tremble all over. He dropped down from the window bars and turned to run.
‘Howay, Meg, howay!’
But she was thinking hard. She knew they couldn’t just run home, Mam would make them go back and say goodbye to Mrs Grizedale properly. No, the best thing to do was find a safe place, somewhere Jonty’s da wasn’t likely to find them.
‘We’ll go to see your grandfather,’ she decided, and led the way down a flight of stairs and along the upper hall to the door at the end which led to the master bedroom. She knocked hard on the door and Jonty knocked too, but no one said to come in and Jonty was getting more agitated by the minute. Meg reached up and turned the handle and went in.
It was a large
room with tall windows which faced on to the rolling parkland at the front of the house. Meg found time to admire the lovely thick carpet on the floor and the gleaming wood of the furniture. By, she marvelled, it was grand. But the middle of the room was taken up by a large bed, an impressive four-poster, and in the bed, propped up on pillows, was Jonty’s grandfather, dressed in a white nightshirt and covered with a huge, puffy eiderdown quilt. He had his eyes closed.
The children walked over to the bed and stood watching him gravely. He was breathing slowly and deeply and Meg stared, fascinated, at the tiny bubbles appearing at the corner of his mouth every time he breathed out.
‘Go on, tell him good morning,’ she urged Jonty. After all, it was Jonty who should wake him. He was Jonty’s grandfather, wasn’t he?
‘Good morning, Grandfather,’ said Jonty.
‘You’ll have to say it louder than that,’ pointed out Meg, ‘or he’ll never hear you.’
‘Good morning, Grandfather.’ Jonty raised his voice almost to a shout and the old man stirred but did not wake. And in the silence they heard footsteps approaching along the upper hall, a man’s footsteps, and the sound sent terror coursing through them both. If Jonty’s da came in and his grandfather didn’t wake up, Jonty would be in trouble. His da would hit him again.
He always hit him whenever he saw him and said nasty, nasty things to him. And it was too late now to seek out Jonty’s grandmother for protection, she was downstairs somewhere.
Quick as a flash, Meg ran for the wardrobe, tugging Jonty after her. She thought she would never get the key turned in the lock but in the end she did and the door swung silently open. She pushed Jonty inside among the clothes and jumped in herself. She couldn’t manage to close the door from the inside but she pulled it to and held it by the rail on the inside which held ties and things. Behind her, Jonty buried himself behind the clothes. Her poor Jonty! She wouldn’t let his da get him. No, she wouldn’t.