Tilly Trotter

by Catherine Cookson

  She liked to feel his fingers going through her hair, she liked to feel him fondling her hands, even stroking the pale skin of her arms inside the elbows; but never did she allow his hands near her breasts, she was an invalid now and mustn't be distressed in that way. Had she not borne him four children? Was he not satisfied? He was forty-three years old and she thirty-eight. Good moral people should be past that kind of thing. It went with the begetting of children and Mark knew only too well she had begot all she intended to beget.

  But as yet on this day it wasn't she who was the main issue.

  He always breakfasted alone. The

  breakfast-room, he considered the cosiest room in the house. It was in this room he had tasted his first meal downstairs, but that hadn't been until he was twelve years old and had been attending boarding school for four years.

  He breakfasted light, never more than one egg, one slice of bacon, and a kidney. He had never been able to stand fish for breakfast. He was sitting back in his chair wiping his mouth on a napkin but his mind was three miles away ... no five, away in the mine where the weak spot was. He must get Rice along there this morning and look at that stretch himself. The pump was having a job to clear it of water. One of the women had nearly drowned there last week; and he didn't want that again, it gave the pit a bad name. They hadn't had an accident now for three years, and even then it had really been nothing, only two dead; not like the Jarrow lot, a hundred odd at one go. Twenty-two colliers had died at Rosier's pit last year.

  He wished to God he didn't need the mine, the worry of it was beginning to tell on him; his grey hairs were thickening at the temples and his face was becoming lined. Agnes had tactlessly pointed this out to him the other day.

  Agnes. There was another worry; he hadn't seen her now for three weeks. They had parted with hot words. He really didn't care if he never saw her for another three weeks, or three months, or ever, but he doubted if she'd let him go that easy.

  She was like a leech, that girl... that woman, for she was no girl, she was a hungry, devouring, bodyconsuming woman. He had met a few women in his time, intimately so, but never one like her. The saying that you could have too much of a good thing applied to everything. There might have been a time when he would have doubted this, but not any more.

  He rumpled his table napkin, threw it on the table, and as he rose to his feet the door opened and Simes said, "There's a gentleman to see you, sir."

  "A gentleman! at this hour. Who is it?"

  "Mr Rosier, sir."

  Mark did not repeat the name Rosier, but his brows drew darkly together and he paused for a long moment before he said, "Where've you put him?"

  "In the library, sir."

  "I'll be there in a minute."

  "Very good, sir."

  When the man had closed the door, Mark stood rubbing the cleft below his lower lip with his first two fingers. Rosier at this time in the morning! now what would he be after? Well, there were only two things that interested Rosier, his mine and his money. Which could have brought him here? He had understood he was still abroad taking his tall, stately, socially ambitious wife on a tour of America.

  He moved his head slightly back and forwards before straightening his cravat and smoothing down the pockets of his long jacket; then he left the room, crossed the hall and entered the library.

  George Daniel Rosier had been gazing at the portrait hanging over the empty fireplace and he turned abruptly when the door opened. He was a small man, his complexion was swarthy, his hair was thin with just a touch of grey here and there. His nose was long and protruding, it was the largest feature of his face. He looked a common man; three generations gone, his people had been mill workers. The stigma was still on him, and he fought it by bluster. How he had come to be chosen by a daughter of the landed gentry was a puzzle to everyone. Well, perhaps (not everyone, certainly not to Agnes Rosier for she was already past the choosing age when he married her, and she was tired of refined poverty. Within a year of the marriage she had borne him a son who was now four years old.

  She had also almost trebled the servants in his household and nearly driven him mad, not with the fact that she wanted to entertain those in high places, but with the cost to his pocket for such entertainments.

  His mine was a good one as mines went, but being the taskmaster that he was, he drove his overseers and they in turn drove the men and women under them, with the result that his mine became noted for unrest among the workers. Time and again he had threatened to bring the Irish in but had been sensible enough, as yet, to withhold his hand in that direction. But with this latest business of education rampant among the scum, he could see himself bringing a ship-load over. Yet he wanted to avoid the trouble and expense this would cost him, and that was why he was here this morning.

  "Good-morning." It was Mark speaking, and to this Rosier replied briefly, "Morning."

  "What is the trouble, something happened at your place?" "No, there's nothing happened at my place, not as yet; and there's nothing happened at your place as yet; but you go on enticing my colliers away and something will happen."

  "What are you talking about?" Mark's voice was stiff. "Now! now!" Rosier turned his head to the side and looked towards the window; then jerking his chin back he glared at Mark as he said,

  "The three fellows you took on recently, the three my overseer dismissed."

  "What about it? I took them on because I needed men. Your overseer broke their bond, not them.

  Apparently he didn't want them on the job."

  "You know as well as I do why they were dismissed.

  Look, Sopwith, as man to man--" Rosier's nose twitched, his lips pursed and he brought his shoulders almost up to his chin as he said, "You let these fellows get reading and writing and you know as well as I do that'll be the beginning of the end."

  "I don't agree with you."

  "Aw, don't be so damned naive, man."

  "I'm not damned naive, and I'll thank you not to infer that I am. You've got a rule that your men don't learn to read or write, well, I have no such rule in my pit and if I need men I'll take them if they come asking for work whether they can read or write or not."

  "You will, will you?"

  "Yes, I will!"

  "Well"--Rosier gave a broken laugh now--

  "by what I hear, things are not going too brightly for you. You had water below before I went away but now I understand they are up to their necks in it. You had to close one road, how many have you left open?"

  "As many as you have."

  "Never! never!" Now the laugh was derisive.

  "You only need your pump to stop and you'll have your men and horses floating out through the drift."

  Mark stared at the small man. He was raging inside but endeavoured not to show it; and so, keeping his voice as level as possible, he said, "Why precisely did you come here this morning?"

  "I told you, just to warn you that you're a bloody fool if you let them get away with this reading and writing business. But there is one thing more... .

  Well, seeing that you're up against it and are hard pressed for money... . Oh! Oh! Oh!" He jerked his head with each word. "Rumours travel even as far as America. Anyway, I came with a friendly gesture and I give it to you now, if you need money I'll be willing to advance it."

  "You will?"

  "Yes; I said I will and I will."

  "May I ask what guarantee you'd like?"

  "Oh well, that could be gone into."

  "No, no, no; let's get down to business straightaway. I presume you would like a share in the mine. Is that not so, say a half share?"

  Roster's eyebrows moved up, his nose stretched downwards, his lips pursed again, his shoulders once more tried to cover his jawbone andwitha nonchalant air he muttered, "Why yes, something along those lines."

  Mark stared at the man for a moment; then turning slowly about, he went to the door and, opening it, said,

  "Good-morning, Rosier. When I need your help I'll call upo
n you, and at a respectable hour."

  "'Huh! Huh! Well, take it like that if you will but I'll tell you something." He was now facing Mark in the doorway. "I bet you a shilling it won't be very long before you're swallowing your words.

  You'll see." He bounced his head towards Mark and again he said, "You'll see."

  As Rosier stamped across the hall, Robert Simes was standing waiting at the door.

  Mark stood where he was until the door had closed on his visitor, and he remained there until he heard the sound of the carriage going down the gravel drive; then he turned and went back into the room and over towards the fireplace where he took his fist and beat it hard against the edge of the marble mantelpiece, saying as he did so, "Damn and blast him to hell!"

  He had never liked Rosier; his father had never liked the elder Rosier, in fact his father had never recognised the man, looking upon him as an upstart.

  But everything George Rosier had said was right. He was up against it, he needed money badly, and if his pumps went his mine would go too.

  The thought spun him round and seemingly as if his mere presence at the mine would be enough to hold back the water and so avert final disaster, he hurried out of the room, calling to Simes to tell Leybum to bring round his horse immediately, and without paying his usual morning visit to his wife, he went to a cupboard at the end of the hall, donned his cloak and hat and hurried out.

  Jane Forefoot-Meadows was a lady in her own right when she married John Forefoot-Meadows.

  He, too, had been born and bred in the upper class, so when their only daughter Eileen said she wished to marry Mr Mark Sopwith, if they didn't actually scowl on the affair, their frowns were evident. True, he came of an old well-known family, but he was a widower with a young son; that he was a mine owner didn't carry much weight with them, for from what they gathered it was a drift mine employing not more than fifty men and thirty women and children at the most. There were mine owners and mine owners. Moreover, Mr Mark Sopwith lived north of Durham and that was such a long, long way off, it would mean that they would hardly ever see their dear daughter during the winter, the roads being what they were and themselves no longer young.

  Jane Forefoot-Meadows was a possessive mother; it was doubtful if she would have welcomed any man for her daughter's husband, but from the beginning she had disliked Mark Sopwith and never bothered to hide her feelings for him. Whenever they met she managed to convey to him how she pitied her daughter's existence in Highfield Manor, in a house that wasn't properly staffed, and the children being brought up without capable nursemaids or tutors. But unlike her daughter, she hadn't been aghast at Mark sending his sons to boarding school; at least, so she surmised, there they would have proper grounding.

  Truthfully she knew she wasn't fond of any of her grandchildren, she only suffered them because her daughter had given them birth.

  After John was born and her daughter took to the sofa, she'd had a talk with Doctor Fellows, in fact it had been at her instigation that Doctor Kemp had called in Doctor Fellows. It was from Doctor Fellows's guarded replies to her questions that she guessed there was nothing seriously wrong with her daughter, that she was merely using the weapon of many such women in her position. Her decline was a fence against her husband's sensual appetite, and she was with her in the erecting of such a barrier. She'd never had to erect such a barrier herself for her husband wasn't an emotional man, and she thanked God for it. In fact she often wondered how she had conceived a child at all. She would not put the term impotent to her husband, she just imagined him to be not inclined that way, and that suited her.

  But her son-in-law was very much inclined that way if all rumours were true, and the rumour that had brought her flying to the Manor this particular day was no rumour.

  Oh no, it was no rumour. She had been so incensed by what she had heard that she had wanted to start out on the journey last night; only the fact that she was afraid of the dark had stopped her, but the coach had been ordered at first light this morning, and here she was now springing a surprise on the whole household, not least of all on her daughter, for when she marched into the room Eileen

  almost jumped from the sofa, crying, "Mama!

  Mama! what has brought you?"

  "You may well ask. But don't excite yourself." She held up a hand. "Here Price, take my bonnet and cloak," she called, then turned her back towards the maid, and Mabel Price, as much astonished as was her mistress, sprang forward, relieved the tall, dominant figure of her cloak and bonnet, then with a free hand pulled a chair to the side of the sofa. Without even a word of thanks or a glance towards her, Mrs Meadows took the seat; then stretching out her arms, she held her daughter, making a sort of soft moaning sound as she did so.

  "Is there anything wrong with Papa?"

  "No! no!" Jane Forefoot-Meadows straightened herself. "Not more than usual. His gout is worse of course, and he coughs louder each day, but he still goes on. No, no; nothing wrong with him."

  "Then... then what has brought you? Are you ill?"

  "Now do I look ill, my dear?" Jane Forefoot-Meadows raised her plucked eyebrows high and touched lightly each rouged cheek with her fingers.

  "No, no, Mama, you look extremely well, and I am so glad to note this."

  "Well, I wish I could say that you look extremely well too, my dear, for I'm afraid that the news I have to bring you"--she now turned her head and for the first time looked at Mabel Price and, her voice seeming to come out of the top of her nose, she said briefly, "Leave us."

  Mabel Price hesitated only a moment before turning sulkily away and going out of the room.

  "Now, my dear--" Jane Forefoot-Meadows tapped her daughter's hand which she was still holding between her own and asked softly, "How are you?"

  "As usual, Mama. The slightest exertion tires me and I do miss the boys. Not that I saw much of them admittedly, but I knew they were there above me." She raised her eyes to the ceiling. "And at times I heard their laughter; it was so refreshing.

  Now very little sound comes from above, and Matthew hates the school. But Mark is obdurate." Her face tightened. "This is a point he will not budge on. I've begged him. Mama, I've begged him... ."

  "Mark! Mark!" Jane Forefoot-Meadows tossed her head to the side now; then bending forward, she looked straight into her daughter's eyes as she asked, "Do you know a person by the name of Lady Agnes Myton?"

  "Oh yes, Mama, she's a neighbour, she visits at times."

  "She what?" Mrs Forefoot-Meadows drew herself away from the sofa as if she were stung by this latest news, and she repeated on an even higher tone,

  "She what?"

  "As I said, Mama, she's a neighbour, she visits... . Lord Myton took Dean House.

  You know Dean House, well he took it last year."

  "Yes, I know Dean House and I have heard a little of Lord Myton. I've also heard a lot of his wife, and that she should dare to visit you ... well!

  my dear."

  Eileen Sopwith now pressed herself back into the satin pillows of the chaise-longue and, her face straight and her words coming from her almost closed lips, said, "What are you meaning to infer, Mama?"

  "Well--" Mrs Forefoot-Meadows now rose to her feet and, throwing one arm wide in a dramatic gesture, she said, "Do I have to explain further?"

  "Yes, I'm afraid you do, Mama."

  ""Tut! Tut! The very fact that I'm here should be explanatory enough. You can't be aware, I presume, that she and Mark are having an affair.

  And this is no new thing; apparently it started when she was hardly settled in the house. She is his mistress and she makes no secret of it."

  Eileen Sopwith was now holding her throat with her hands, and her face had gone a shade paler than its usual tint. She tried to speak but words wouldn't come, and so, looking at her mother who had again sat down, she listened to her saying in a low excited whisper, "You remember Betty Carville, Nancy Stillwell's daughter who married Sir James? Well, apparently she and Agnes Myton were at the same Lad
ies' Seminary and Agnes Myton was over there visiting last week and, being the trollop that she is, she regaled Betty Carville with the story of her amours. And not satisfied with your husband, apparently she has her eyes set on someone else too, a workman of some sort. Can you believe it? a farm worker. I couldn't get the gist of all Nancy Stillwell had to tell me because I was so shocked at hearing about Mark. Nancy said that Betty said that Agnes Myton said she was having the time of her life; it was much more fun than London ... and you know what happened in London." Mrs Forefoot-Meadows again rose from her chair, adding as if in answer to a question, "Well... no, no; it is better that you don't know. Disgrace that was, utter disgrace. Myton's an imbecile else he wouldn't stand for it. Yet I understand, but I don't know how far it is true, that he went for one of her swains. Was going to run him through with a sword or shoot him or something. So when he finds out about this, if he doesn't already know--" She turned again and looked at her daughter; then, her voice dropping to a warm sympathetic tone, she rushed to the sofa and enfolding Eileen's stiff body in her arms, cried, "Oh my dear! my dear!

  Don't... don't upset yourself... . Now I've got it all worked out. You're coming back with me, you can't possibly stay here, and you're bringing the children.

  No! no! don't argue." She shook her head even though Eileen had neither moved nor spoken. "I know I'm not very fond of gambolling youngsters, but your happiness comes first. Oh my dear!

  my dear! that this should have come upon you. Didn't you know this was going on?" Releasing her hold, she stared at her daughter; but she, to her mother's surprise, pushed her firmly aside as she slowly swung her legs from the couch and sat on the edge of it. She then stood up and walked somewhat unsteadily towards the window and looked out.

  Had she known this was going on? Hadn't she suspected something from the first? Perhaps; but her suspicions had been allayed because she had seen no change in him, no elation ... no despondency.