Tilly Trotter (The Tilly Trotter Trilogy)

by Catherine Cookson

  Oh dear, dear, the boy was going to cry, the tough devil-may-care Matthew. He mustn’t, he mustn’t; he just couldn’t bear it if the child cried. ‘Now, now! We are not little boys any more, are we?’ He put his hands on both their shoulders and he forced himself to smile as he said, ‘I’ll make it my business to see that you spend all your next holiday here, and in the meantime I shall write to your mama and talk things over with her.’

  He watched Matthew blink rapidly and swallow deeply before saying, ‘Thank you, Papa.’

  And Luke, now smiling, said, ‘Oh, thank you, Papa. And Jessie Ann and John would love to be back too.’ And bending forward, he whispered almost in Mark’s ear, ‘They are like suet dumplings.’

  ‘Suet dumplings?’ Mark raised his eyebrows in enquiry and Luke, his smile broader now, nodded, saying, ‘All of them at Grandmama’s, Grandpapa, Phillips, all the servants, suet dumplings. That’s what Brigwell calls them. Sometimes he says they are stodgy pud.’

  Mark looked into the bright face and thought, He’ll get by, he’ll ride the storms out; but what about Matthew? Matthew wouldn’t sit and ride the storm out, he would fight it, even when full of fear he would fight it.

  ‘Go now,’ he said, ‘and be good boys; and we’ll meet very shortly.’

  ‘Goodbye, Papa.’

  ‘Goodbye, Papa. You will write to Mama, won’t you?’

  ‘Yes, Matthew, I’ll write to your mama. Goodbye, my dears.’ When the door closed on the children he turned his chair towards the broad window sill and, leaning forward, rested his arm along it and laid his head down in the crook of it.

  After eight hours during which he hadn’t rung, Tilly ventured to tap on the door. When she opened it she saw him sitting in the dark by the window gazing out into the starlit night. He didn’t turn at her approach and when, her voice soft, she said, ‘I have brought you a hot drink, sir,’ his head made the slightest movement of dissent. The room being lit only by the reflection from the landing through the open doorway, she now put the tray down and lit the candle in the night light; then after closing the door, she returned to his side, and there she put her hand gently on his shoulder.

  The touch brought him round to her and, looking up into her face in the dim light, he said, ‘Why? Can you understand it, Trotter? Why him of all people, on the verge of life, to be killed by a dray horse?’

  She was unable to answer his why, and after a moment he said, ‘We were just getting to know each other. I now feel buried under a load of guilt because I neglected him for years. There were the others. He must have felt it because . . . well, you saw how he was, bright, jolly, that was because they were no longer here. Nor was she.’

  All Tilly could do was to go hurriedly into the dressing room, pour out a glass of brandy, bring it back to the tray, then pour it into the hot milk. He was partial to brandy and hot milk. When she handed him the glass in the silver holder he said, ‘Thanks, Trotter,’ then added, ‘Go to bed; it’s been a long day.’

  She hesitated now, saying, ‘I’m . . . I’m not tired; I’ll stay with you a while, sir.’

  ‘Not tonight, Trotter. Thank you all the same. Goodnight.’

  ‘Goodnight, sir . . . ’

  The days moved into weeks and the master showed no further inclination to be taken downstairs. He seemed to have lost interest in most things. Mr Burgess told him of a new author he had come across by the name of William Makepeace Thackeray who had written a book called The Yellowplush Correspondence. It was very good reading and would the master like to pursue it? The master thanked him and said ‘Yes, yes, sometime, Burgess.’

  The master’s lethargy was worrying the whole household. Biddy demanded what was the use of cooking for him, it was a waste of good food; not that anything that was returned from the first floor was ever wasted. But then, as she pointed out, workers, like hens, could do on roughage, but she didn’t see the point of stuffing them with food made from butter, eggs and cream.

  On the evening of the day she said to Tilly, ‘Can’t you think of anything, lass, that will bring him out of himself?’ they were sitting, as they sometimes did last thing at night, in the kitchen. The house was quiet, the others had all gone to their beds. The fires were banked down. The lamps turned low, with the exception of the main one in the kitchen. And now Biddy rose and, going to it, lifted up the tall glass funnel, turned the flame down low, nipped at the black edge of the wick with her finger and thumb, rubbed her fingers on the seat of her dark serge skirt, then said, ‘Well?’ and to this Tilly answered briefly, ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well then, what you going to do about it?’

  ‘What do you think I should do?’

  Biddy replaced the glass shade before saying, ‘’Tisn’t for me to guide you. I haven’t got your mind, or heart. You know how you feel . . . and the whole house knows how he feels. Whichever way you look at it it’s a big step. But, it could be in the right direction for you in the long run.’

  ‘Lots of folks think it’s already happened, Mrs Forefoot-Meadows most of all. She wanted to get rid of me.’

  ‘Well, that being the case, if you were to live up to the name you haven’t earned, that would potch her, for he’d never let you go. And that, lass’ – she turned now and looked straight at Tilly – ‘is what you’ve got to face up to, there’d be no other man for you, no respectable marriage.’

  They stared at each other for a moment, then Tilly rose slowly to her feet and without saying anything further went from the kitchen.

  Up in her room she washed herself down in warm water from head to foot, using the scented soap from the master’s closet. She put on, for the first time, a new nightdress. It was made of a piece of fine lawn that she had come across when looking through one of the boxes up in the loft. There were a lot of boxes up there holding old gowns, and one had lengths of material in it, and she had felt no compunction in taking the smallest piece of lawn which measured about four yards. It had provided occupation for her hands over the months and the final herringboning of the front had pleased her mightily.

  She now smoothed it down over her knees. Then looking at her hands, she held them out under the lamp. They had grown soft, there were now no dark lines under her nails; the rim of flesh bordering the nails was no longer broken. The backs of her hands were almost as white as the fronts. She now put her hand up to her head. She washed her hair every week, and every night, that is if she wasn’t too tired, she brushed it well before plaiting it.

  She now pulled the plaits to the front of her shoulders. They reached to below her breasts and felt silky to the touch. She was clean and smelt sweet. Her body was ready but she had her mind to deal with. What she was aiming to do was likely to alter her whole life, as Biddy had hinted. What if she had a bairn? Well, what if she had a bairn? She wouldn’t be the first. And if it were his, and it would be no other’s, he wasn’t a man to throw off his responsibilities.

  But before that eventuality came about, if it did, did she really want to do this just in order to give him comfort? Or was there any other reason? Yes, there was another reason, but her mind would not allow her to dwell on it, it was too private. Apart from that, did she like him enough to do this off her own bat?

  She looked down at the palms of her hands again and nodded towards them. Yes, oh yes, she liked him enough . . .

  The dressing gown round her, a candle in her hand, she now tiptoed out of the room, along the landing and into the dressing room. There was a clock on the mantelpiece and it said the time was twenty minutes to twelve. Would he be asleep? Well, if he was she wouldn’t waken him.

  Opening the communicating door, she stepped quietly into the room. It was in complete darkness except for the light from her own candle. She lifted it high above her head, and it showed him propped up on his pillows, his eyes wide and staring at her. His face looked pale in the light, his hair showing no grey at the temples looked black. He pulled himself slightly upwards and said, ‘Trotter . . . What is it?’

  ‘I .
. . I have come to keep you company, sir.’

  He was sitting bolt upright now, and after a moment his head drooped forward and he ran his fingers through his hair muttering as he did so, ‘Oh, Tilly! Tilly!’ When he slowly raised his head and looked at her again, he said, ‘You’re sorry for me?’

  ‘It isn’t only that, sir.’

  ‘No? You really mean that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He held out his hand now and when she placed hers in it he said, ‘On top of the clothes or underneath?’

  She was pleased to hear a slight jocular note in the question and, turning slightly from him, she placed the candlestick on the side table, then deliberately with her free hand she turned the covers back and, taking her other hand from his hold, she turned her back on him, dropped her dressing gown to the floor, sat on the edge of the bed, and slowly lifted her feet up and got under the bedclothes. And now sitting side by side with him, she turned her head slightly towards him but didn’t look at him as she said, ‘You think me overbold?’

  ‘Oh, Tilly! Tilly! Oh, my dear.’

  She was in his arms now and so quickly had he grasped her that they both fell back on to the pillows. And then they became still.

  ‘Oh, Tilly. Tilly.’ His fingers came up and touched her chin. ‘I never thought, never dreamed you’d make the first move yourself. I . . . I thought I’d have to cajole you, manoeuvre you, and doubtless I would have at some future date even when my need of you wasn’t as great as at this moment. Thank you, thank you, my dear one, for coming to me.’

  His fingers now moved up and followed the bone formation of her face and his eyes followed his hand, and when his fingers touched her lids, he said, ‘You have the strangest, the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen in a woman. Do you know that, Tilly?’

  There was an audible sound of her swallowing her spittle before she said, ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Don’t call me sir any more, Tilly . . . Do you hear?’

  She was looking at him now.

  ‘Don’t call me sir any more, at least not when we’re together, like this, and at other times omit it as often as, what shall we say, decorum allows. My name as you know is Mark. Say it, Tilly, Mark.’

  ‘I . . . I couldn’t. If I . . . ’ She gave the smallest of laughs here and repeated ‘No, I couldn’t, sir.’

  ‘Tilly, Tilly Trotter, this is an order, you will in future give me my name. How can you love someone you call sir? . . . Tilly—’ He waited for a moment. Then, his voice thick and from deep in his throat, he asked, ‘Do you care for me, just . . . just a little?’

  She did not hesitate. ‘Yes. Oh yes, yes I care for you.’

  ‘Thank you, my dear. Thank you. Now I’m going to tell you something, Tilly, and you must believe me . . . It’s just this. I love you. Do you hear? I love you. The feeling I have for you I have never experienced in my life before, not for my first wife or my second wife, or for my children. From the first time I became aware of you I think I knew I was going to be bewitched.’ When she gave a slight movement he pulled her tightly to him and murmured, ‘The day I offered you the post in the nursery I had the feeling then because I just wanted to keep looking at you, and I wanted you to look at me. I didn’t recognise it as love, but that’s what it was, Tilly, love. I love you . . . I love you . . . Oh Tilly, I love you.’

  When she shivered within his embrace, his voice changing now, he said, ‘You know what you’re about to do? It may have consequences and I may not be able to give you my protection, except in a monetary way. You understand that?’

  She eased herself slightly back from him till she could see his face half reflected in the candlelight and she said, ‘I understand very little at this moment. All I know is that I want to make you happy.’

  ‘Tilly, my dear, my dear. Oh, you’re like a gift from the gods. Do you know that? You, so young and beautiful, I . . . I find it hard to believe you’re here. Tell me, does . . . does my condition not repel you?’

  ‘You . . . you mean, the accident, your feet?’

  ‘Just that.’

  ‘Aw . . . w!’ The common exclamation had a sort of trill to it, and then she added quietly, ‘Not a bit. Not a bit. To me you’re a wonderful man, all over.’

  And a moment later she proved her words, for when the stump of his leg gently eased itself between hers, she did not shrink either outwardly or inwardly, but now of her own accord she put her arms about him and when his mouth covered hers and his hand moved down over her hips and she responded to him he moaned his joy, and it was in this moment that her love for him was born.

  The End