His Brother's Wife

by Val Wood

  Mrs Tuke’s mouth twitched irritably. ‘Aye, well, women are supposed to be mind-readers where men are concerned. Haven’t you found that out yet?’

  ‘No.’ Harriet swung the kettle over the fire. ‘But I’m learning.’

  ‘What did she say?’ Mr Tuke leaned forward, screwing up his face.

  ‘She didn’t say owt, Mr Tuke,’ his wife answered. ‘At least not to you.’

  Mr Tuke continued to stare as Harriet made a large pot of tea and cut a slice from a cake that she found in a tin in the pantry. By the time she’d put them on the table, the door was opening and Noah was stepping inside.

  ‘Boots!’ Mrs Tuke said forcibly, and Noah sat down on a wooden chair by the door and took them off. He glanced at Harriet and sat down at the table opposite his father.

  ‘Why’d you bring a woman home?’ Mr Tuke said.

  Noah took a bite from the cake. ‘I told you, she’s my wife,’ he muttered. ‘Not just a woman. It was time I was wed,’ he added. ‘We need sons here.’

  ‘I’ve got sons,’ the old man said, and Harriet, watching them all, was taken aback by the sudden look of hostility on Mrs Tuke’s face, directed not only at her husband but at Noah too.

  ‘Aye, so you have.’ Noah took a slurp of tea. ‘But we’ve to prepare for ’next generation.’

  So I’m a breeding machine, Harriet thought. But I wonder why there are only two sons? Did the Tukes lose bairns at birth or to illness? I’ll find out in time, I suppose.

  ‘You might not have sons,’ Mrs Tuke muttered at Noah. ‘There’s no guarantee.’

  Noah gave a mocking grin. ‘We’ll keep on till we do.’

  His father sniggered. ‘Best sleep at ’back of ’house then, so’s you don’t disturb ’rest of us.’

  Harriet turned away and headed for the stairs, disgusted by the way the conversation was heading, but Mrs Tuke, in a burst of fury, exclaimed, ‘That’s enough from ’pair of you. I’ll not have such talk in my house.’

  ‘Your house?’ her husband snarled. ‘Since when has it been your house?’

  She leaned towards him and answered in a sinister whisper. ‘Since as long as I was married to you.’ She pointed a finger at him. ‘And don’t forget that it’s not yours either, but belongs to Master Hart.’

  Harriet paused in the doorway. This was not really about her, she thought. This was an old festering sore and since her arrival it had suddenly burst open.

  She was about to leave the room when the kitchen door opened again and Fletcher came in. He sat on the wooden chair and began to unlace his boots, his gaze travelling from one person to another as if assessing the situation.

  ‘Is there a chance of a cup o’ tea or shall I go out and come back in when ’storm’s abated?’ he asked.

  ‘There’s tea in ’pot,’ his mother said. ‘Might as well have it while it’s hot.’

  Harriet wasn’t sure what to do, to stay or to leave. Would it be better if she weren’t there so they could discuss the situation and clear the air? No, she thought. Why should I leave? If they’re talking about me then I want to be here to find out why. She went to stand with her back to the range and glared at the three men.

  ‘I seem to have caused some discord in this house,’ she said. ‘And I wouldn’t have agreed to come if I’d known that; but I’m here, for better or worse as I agreed in ’marriage ceremony, so I reckon we should have this out in ’open.’

  Mrs Tuke looked away, avoiding her gaze, though her husband watched Harriet with an expression she couldn’t quite read; he seemed to be sizing her up, appraising her like a recently acquired piece of property or livestock. She held his gaze until with a wry grin he dropped his eyes.

  Noah said nothing, just sat back in his chair and watched her with a smirk on his face.

  Fletcher cleared his throat. ‘You might not think it, but this has nowt to do wi’ you. We’d probably have had a row about something else entirely; that’s ’way it is in this household.’ He paused, and then said, ‘Just so that you know what we’re like, Noah and me are allus at each other’s throats; we have been since we were young lads. I can’t remember how it started or why, but as soon as we were big enough to fight, then that’s what we did. Da encouraged us and Ma did nowt to stop us.’

  Harriet glanced at the parents of these wayward sons. Mr Tuke was tipped back in his chair with his arms folded and looking as if there was a bad smell beneath his nose, but to her astonishment Mrs Tuke seemed to be holding in some emotion. Whether it was anger, frustration or simply unhappiness, Harriet couldn’t tell, but her lips were pressed tightly together and her hands held by her side were clenched so hard the knuckles showed white.

  ‘I don’t understand why you fight,’ Harriet said, her voice strained. ‘I’d have thought that living out here in ’middle o’ nowhere you’d have relied on each other for companionship, that you’d have pulled together to make life bearable. That’s what my mother and I did. We had no one else, so we needed each other. I wouldn’t have left her alone to get married, not for a fortune, I wouldn’t.’ Her voice trembled and then broke. ‘If she hadn’t died, I – I wouldn’t be here. As for Noah not telling you his intentions,’ she looked towards where he was sitting, wearing a smug expression, ‘I can’t explain that.’

  ‘I’ll tell you why he didn’t say owt to us,’ Fletcher broke in. ‘He wanted to be sure he’d found someone first. If he’d announced it and then it hadn’t happened, he’d have lost face and been laughed at; he’d have been told that nobody would want to marry him.’

  ‘That’s no way to talk about your brother,’ Harriet protested.

  ‘No?’ Fletcher raised his eyebrows. ‘And is a bet ’best and proper way to find a wife?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, sister-in-law,’ Fletcher’s eyes flashed, ‘that your husband was determined to find a wife because whichever of us had bairns first would have first claim on ’farm. Never mind that I’m ’eldest son and should have prior right to it; he bet me the price of a young heifer that he’d find a wife afore me and tek over.’ He stood up. ‘So that’s what happened, Mrs Noah Tuke.’ He towered over her. ‘You’re here because you were a prize in a wager and the loser would owe ’price of a heifer.’ He raised a finger. ‘But I’ll tell you that I never agreed to it. I never said yes to such a scheme, but he went ahead anyway, so ’onny way now to resolve this issue and clear the air,’ he turned to his brother, ‘is for us to decide in our usual way, and that’s outside in ’yard.’

  Noah got up from the table, slamming back his chair so hard that it toppled over with a crash. ‘That’s fine by me,’ he bellowed. ‘Let’s sort it out now once and for all.’

  The two men grabbed their boots, both hopping and almost falling in their attempt to be the first to put them on and get outside.

  ‘Stop!’ Harriet cried out. ‘Please. Don’t.’

  Fletcher turned, hesitating at her voice, but was jostled forward by Noah and then by their father who hustled them both out of the door.

  Mrs Tuke put her hand on Harriet’s elbow. ‘Leave them be,’ she muttered. ‘They’ll not settle it otherwise.’

  ‘But how can you bear it?’ Harriet cried. ‘They’ll hurt each other.’ Tears began to stream down her cheeks. ‘I want to go home!’

  ‘Apparently, this is your home now,’ Mrs Tuke said. ‘What was it you said? For better or for worse?’ Her words were cutting. ‘And what would you be going back to?’

  Harriet sat down and wept as if her heart would break. It seemed that she had gone headlong from one desperate situation straight into another. She shook her head. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know.’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  It had been such a long day, Harriet reflected as she turned back the bedcover that night. Not a good start to married life.

  She knew she could never love Noah, that she would only ever tolerate him. He was a boor, devoid of manners just like his father. But I’ve made my bed, she thought as she climb
ed into the one that was now hers, and must lie on it.

  Wide awake, she waited for Noah to come upstairs. No point in trying to sleep, for she was certain he would wake her. Her thoughts went to her mother-in-law. She seems to have a chip on her shoulder, but once she’s used to me being here in her house we’re sure to find we have something in common.

  The brothers had fought out in the yard; she and Mrs Tuke had sat silently on either side of the range, unwillingly listening to their shouts, and the crashing of wheelbarrows, iron buckets and metal spades that were knocked over as they fell on to each other in their chase around the yard. They could also hear Mr Tuke roaring his encouragement as they battled.

  Then the porch door had opened and a minute later closed again; Mrs Tuke took a deep breath and murmured, ‘Nearly over.’

  Harriet had cast an enquiring glance towards her but then almost jumped out of her skin as the crack of a rifle shot rang out.

  She’d gasped and stood up. ‘What’s that? What’s happened?’

  Mrs Tuke had shaken her head. ‘Nowt to worry about,’ she said calmly. ‘It’s over. They’ll be in for their dinner in a minute.’ She rose from her chair and, taking a cloth, lifted the lid from a simmering pan hanging over the fire. An aroma of soup filled the room.

  Harriet sat down again. She was trembling. A vision of the death of one of the brothers or their father, the idea of a pool of blood staining the muddy yard and the marching feet of the constables, filled her with fear. Never in her life had she or her mother known trouble such as this. Poverty and hardship, yes, but never the fear of murder or the hangman’s noose for a perpetrator.

  But then the men had returned to the kitchen, Mr Tuke first, triumphantly it seemed, with his shotgun in his hand, which Mrs Tuke ordered him to put away immediately. He’d grinned and propped it up in a corner. Then Noah and Fletcher had come in, both with bloody noses and each sporting a swelling eye. Noah’s bottom lip was bleeding profusely.

  They’d sat down in their places, saying nothing until their mother had portioned out bowls of soup and put a loaf of bread in the centre of the table. Harriet had vaguely wondered when she had made the soup or baked the bread, for she hadn’t seen her do it.

  ‘Sorry, Ma,’ Fletcher said, picking up his spoon. ‘It was necessary.’

  Noah glanced at him and then at his mother but remained silent, merely tearing off a hunk of bread and dropping it into his soup.

  After they had eaten, Harriet asked if she could bathe their wounds. Noah laughed. ‘Think this is an injury, do you?’ he grunted between swollen lips. ‘Think I want namby-pambying? Ask Fletcher; he’s more likely to succumb to a woman’s soft touch, hey Fletch? Just like you did when you were a bairn!’

  Noah had gone out again and Fletcher had asked his mother if she had a piece of raw beef and Harriet was sent to get it from the pantry. Fletcher put his head back to place the meat on it, but Harriet suggested that the eye should first be bathed with warm water; Mrs Tuke had given her a clean soft cloth and Harriet had poured lukewarm water from the kettle into a small bowl. She gently bathed his swollen eye and washed away the blood from his nose, and in the seconds before placing the raw meat on the swelling he’d opened his eyes and gazed searchingly at her.

  That unnerved me, she thought now, as she lay in bed; what was he looking at? What was he thinking? And why didn’t his mother bathe his injuries, and Noah’s too?

  She heard Noah’s footsteps on the stairs and turned over, pretending to be asleep. The bed creaked as he sat on it to pull off his woollen socks; she could smell his sweat and the muddy earth he’d been ploughing. It creaked again as he stood up to take off his shirt and breeches, but he kept on his undergarments as he had the night before, grey buttoned combinations of long pants and vest.

  ‘You awake, Harriet?’ he asked as he got into bed. He shook her shoulder when she didn’t answer. She turned towards him and gave a sleepy grunt. ‘Mmm?’

  ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Wake up. Come on top. I’m dead beat.’

  ‘Go to sleep then,’ she murmured.

  ‘I want a son,’ he muttered. ‘An’ then I’ll mek his life a misery, just see if I don’t.’

  Harriet sat up. ‘What? Your own son!’

  ‘No, daft bitch. Fletcher! He’ll rue this day.’

  The next morning Harriet woke to yet another dreary wet day. She washed and dressed and made their bed, and heard Mrs Tuke in the adjoining room. She put her head round the partition and saw her stripping the bed of sheets and blanket, pillow and counterpane.

  ‘Is it washday?’ she asked. ‘How will ’bedding get dry?’ Harriet and her mother used to go to the washhouse on a wet day if they had money to spare.

  ‘Not washday.’ Mrs Tuke didn’t look at her. ‘Fletcher’s moving to ’box room.’

  Harriet felt her cheeks flushing, but was also aware of huge relief. ‘Can I help you? Are you moving ’bed as well?’

  ‘Aye, ’whole lot. Fletcher says he’ll move ’bed at dinner time. He said you’d be better having extra space where you can put your things.’

  I don’t have any things, Harriet thought, but I’m grateful anyway.

  ‘There’s a spare chest o’ drawers in ’box room that we can move over,’ Mrs Tuke went on. ‘There’s nowt much in it. Onny bits o’ linen and suchlike.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Harriet said. ‘It’s good of Fletcher to give up his room.’

  ‘Aye, it is.’ Mrs Tuke stood for a moment, contemplating, gazing vacantly out of the window. ‘Still, I suppose we’ve to be prepared,’ she muttered. ‘You might need ’extra room eventually.’

  Harriet didn’t answer. They might, she thought. If Noah was so determined to have a son they would be having a nighttime ritual until she conceived.

  ‘How would you feel about having a bairn in ’house, Mrs Tuke?’ she asked quietly.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she answered brusquely, and then looked up, frowning. ‘Why, surely you’re not—’

  ‘No.’ Harriet smiled. No sense in telling her that Noah had seduced her that night in Hull when he had walked her home. ‘Of course not. There’s hardly been time yet.’

  Mrs Tuke looked away. ‘Sometimes it onny needs just once,’ she muttered. ‘That’s all it teks.’ She seemed to gather herself together. ‘Come on then, tek that end of ’mattress and we’ll shift it to ’other room.’

  As they were moving it down the narrow passage another bedroom door opened, revealing Mr Tuke in crumpled grey combinations, his hair and beard dishevelled. Harriet averted her eyes.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he rasped. ‘Can’t a man be allowed to sleep?’

  ‘Go back to bed, Mr Tuke,’ his wife said. ‘It’s not yet seven, and besides, you’re not half decent.’

  When Harriet lifted her eyes again, he leered at her. ‘Reckon there’s nowt she hasn’t seen afore.’

  ‘Get back to bed!’ Mrs Tuke screeched so loudly that Harriet jumped, and Mr Tuke stepped hastily back into the room and closed the door.

  Mrs Tuke’s face was like thunder. ‘Damned heathen,’ she muttered, and she heaved on the mattress with a superhuman strength that sent Harriet staggering.

  The box room was very small and she wondered how Fletcher would manage. She reasoned that he would only need to be in there to sleep, but then worried if the bed would fit.

  ‘If it won’t,’ Mrs Tuke said, when Harriet mentioned it, ‘then he’ll have to sleep on ’mattress.’ She seemed indifferent, as if she had given up caring what any of them did.

  When they went downstairs, Harriet helped herself to the gruel that was set on the shelf at the side of the range. She added a pinch of salt but was surprised when Mrs Tuke put a jug of cream on the table.

  ‘I’ve never had it with cream,’ she said. She gave a little laugh. ‘I don’t ever remember having cream.’

  ‘Try it, then. It’s not to everybody’s taste. It’s too rich for mine.’

  Harriet dipped the tip of a clean spoon in the jug, t
hen touched it with her finger and licked it. ‘Mmm,’ she murmured. ‘Not sure. Where’s it come from?’

  Mrs Tuke stared at her. ‘From ’cow, of course. Where else?’

  ‘Shouldn’t ’calf be having it?’

  ‘Calf’s long gone from its mother,’ Mrs Tuke said. ‘That’s why we’re having it.’

  Harriet paused with the spoon in her hand. ‘You mean it died?’

  Mrs Tuke continued to stare at her, and then shook her head in disbelief. ‘No,’ she said. ‘He’s in ’top field, grazing on what bit o’ grass we’ve got. When he’s older we’ll sell him.’ She frowned. ‘You know nowt about farming or husbandry, do you?’

  ‘No,’ Harriet agreed. ‘I don’t. When I was looking round yesterday, Fletcher said mebbe I could milk ’cows; could I, do you think? I’d like to be useful. I’ve allus worked.’

  The older woman sat down across from her. ‘How would you feel about getting up at four in a morning to feed ’em, and then going back an hour later to milk? Then letting ’em into ’field and later in ’day going back out to milk again?’

  Harriet expelled a breath. So that’s when she makes her bread and prepares the meals, in the early hours after feeding and before milking and before anybody else is up.

  ‘I’d give it a try,’ she said. ‘You’d have to show me.’

  ‘I’m onny milking one at ’minute. Other one, Dora, hasn’t calved yet,’ Mrs Tuke told her. ‘By ’time she does, Daisy will be dried off and her milk, what’s left of it, ’ll be given to ’pigs for fattening. Then when Dora has calved, we’ll use her milk.’

  ‘Won’t her baby want it?’

  Mrs Tuke gave a sudden smile and Harriet mused that her mother-in-law looked younger than she had initially thought. She must have been pretty once. Her skin was weathered now, but her grey eyes were large; her hair was hidden beneath her pleated bonnet, with only a few strands showing.

  ‘Calf,’ she corrected Harriet. ‘We don’t call ’em babies in case we get fond of ’em.’

  ‘But you give them names?’

  ‘Aye,’ she nodded. ‘Milch cows, I do. They’re allus Daisy and Dora.’