Turning his head towards her, he almost growled,
"My son is dead, my first-born, and she hadn't even the decency to come to his funeral. What was she afraid of, I'd have her chained up?"
"She is not well. The journey would have been too much, and... ."
"From all I hear she's still well enough to take jaunts. You may have your informants here who take the news back to Scarborough; well, it's amazing how my friends are desirous of bringing the news from Scarborough to here."
"There is life in Scarborough, things to do, entertainments. There was nothing such here."
"God in Heaven!" He threw his head up. "The times I've tried to get her off that couch and into a coach and go to the city, to a concert or a play, but no, she was always indisposed, too ill. Hell's flames! when I think of the game she played, how she deceived me... ."
"Oh, Mark! Mark! think. I shouldn't bring that word into the conversation if I were you."
"Look, Mother-in-law--" He now bent towards her and, his voice quiet, he said, "There are various forms of defection and the worst of them isn't having a mistress."
"Perhaps we don't see eye to eye on this matter, nor do I think did Eileen. And while we're on the subject of news going backwards and forwards I am not going to beat about the bush with what I am about to say, and that is, you should get rid of that girl."
"What girl? Trotter?"
"Which other girl is there who looks after you?"
"Will you give me one good reason why I should get rid of Trotter?"
"I could give you several but the main one is your name is being coupled with her."
"Oh! my name is being coupled with her? Will you go on and describe in which way?"
"Don't be silly, Mark; you don't need me to put it into words."
"Oh yes, I do, Mother-in-law. Oh yes, I do. Trotter acts in the capacity of my nurse, also as housekeeper, and she does both very well... ."
"You should have a male nurse, you know that."
"I have one, Burgess; but I also like to have a woman about me to attend to the niceties of life, my life such as it is. Now the main capacity you are referring to is the part of mistress.
Well, there, I must disappoint you for as yet she hasn't taken up that position."
When he broke off and they stared at each other, Jane ForefootMeadows realised from the look of him that he was speaking the truth; but then he added, "I hate to receive any favour that I haven't really earned, so please tell my wife that I will do my best to see that Trotter complies with the main duty in future."
"I...I was only putting you on your guard."
"Thank you for your concern."
"People will talk, the girl is young and ... and... ."
"Yes, Mother-in-law, what were you going to say, beautiful?"
"No, I wasn't."
"Then what?"
"Oh, it doesn't matter. Only personally, I don't like the girl; there ... there is something about her. And what's more, she doesn't know her place."
"Has she been rude to you?"
"No, she hasn't, she scarcely opens her mouth."
"Is that to be held against her?"
"There is a way to be silent and a way not to be silent. The look of the girl. Anyway, I would advise you, Mark, and I do this in all sincerity, I would advise you to get rid of her."
"And in all sincerity, Mother-in-law, I must tell you, and you can also convey the message to my wife, that I have no intention of getting rid of Trotter, ever. If she leaves this house it will be of her own wish because she has been of more help and comfort to me than anyone in my life before. Now you tell that word for word to my wife. And also tell her I shall never forgive her to my dying day for not being present with me at this time. I knew well enough that she was never fond of Harry, in fact she disliked him, but out of respect and as a matter of courtesy she should have been at my side today. In the eyes of the whole county I am being treated like a leper; not one of them will believe that she has left me simply because of the Myton affair. I am sure they think I was a monster to her. What else would have kept her away at this time?"
It was some moments before Jane Forefoot-Meadows spoke again, and then, her voice small, she said,
"She sent her condolences; you had her letter."
"Oh yes, I had her condolences, I had her letter, a letter that was so formal she must have copied it from a book headed: Appropriate letters to be sent to the relations of the deceased. There is such a book, I have read it and laughed over it."
There followed another silence before she spoke.
"You must remember that she brought the boys from school out of respect."
When he closed his eyes and made no answer, she went on, "Speaking of the boys; there is a little matter I think I must bring up. Matthew has had to be moved to another school."
"Why?" His enquiry was sharp.
"Because he apparently didn't like the school he was at, and he misbehaved. This ... this other establishment is very expensive and ...and... ."
"You want me to foot the bill?"
"Well, Eileen would be grateful if you... ."
"Tell Eileen from me she is getting all I am able to give her. If she can't afford to keep the children, send them back home; they'll live much cheaper here, schools included."
She stared at him, her eyes hard now, before she said, "You should have sold the mine when you had the chance."
"What do you know about the mine and me getting the chance? Oh. Oh, your informant of all my doings.
I wonder who it is."
"It is public knowledge that Mr Rosier is willing to buy."
"And, Mother-in-law, let it be public knowledge to the effect that my mine will lie there and rot, which it is doing now admittedly, before I sell it to Rosier or any of his kin."
"You're being foolish. What good is it as it stands now? You haven't the money to... ."
"No, I haven't the money to set it going again, but I am bloody well sure it's not going to be set in working order by Rosier. I hate the fellow and all he stands for."
"You are a very trying man, you know that?"
Mark looked at his mother-in-law. She had now risen to her feet. He was about to make some tart retort, but checked it as he thought yet again that she was an old woman and she had made this long journey to be at his side at this particular time, yet he knew deep in his heart that were the journey twice as long and twice as hard she would have tackled it rather than let her daughter come back to him. The possessive mother had her daughter to herself once again. What he did say was, "Thank you for coming, Mother-in-law."
And to this she answered, "It was as little as I could do"; and when she added, "I am very sorry for you, Mark," he was surprised at the sincerity of her tone. Then quite astonished when she added, "Would ...
would it be any help to you if I left the boys for another week or so? You could send them back in the care of Leyburn. I... I would explain to Eileen."
He stared at her for a full minute before saying,
"That's very kind of you, but ... but no, take them back with you, there ... there would be no pleasure, no joy for them here at the moment." He couldn't add that he didn't want to see his sons at this particular time. He couldn't really understand the feeling himself but their boisterousness, which they wouldn't be able to subdue for as yet death had no real meaning for them, and even their voices, muted as they would be coming from above, would rub salt into the wound that was gaping wide at this moment.
"I understand but I thought it might help you."
"I am very grateful and will always be grateful for your suggestion."
"Well now, I ... I must be away.
Phillips has packed. I shall send her for the boys, they will likely be in the nursery. You will, of course, wish to see them?"
"Oh yes, yes, of course."
"Good-bye, Mark."
"Good-bye, Mother-in-law. And again please accept my thanks for coming."
She inclined her head to
wards him and walked out.
After a moment, during which he lay back in the chair and closed his eyes tightly, while at the same time gnawing on his lip, he leaned forward and pulled the bell rope... .
Five minutes later Tilly showed the boys into the room, then left them. They stood one each side of Mark's chair and he, looking from one face to the other, smiled at them. Matthew, he noticed, had since he had last seen him changed the more. He was taller and his fair hair seemed to have darkened somewhat, but it was his eyes that showed the biggest change.
Where they had looked merry and mischievous, devilish in fact at times, there was now in their depths a look that puzzled him; in an older person he would have named it misery, not untinged with fear, but Matthew was a spirited boy, so the look must have another explanation. Luke, for instance, had hardly changed at all, his round dark eyes were bright, and his mouth still had the appearance of constantly hovering on a smile. But as different as they looked, they were both of one mind, and this they confirmed within a few minutes.
After greeting them he went on to say that he hoped they would have a good return journey, and he thanked them for coming. But before he had finished speaking Matthew put in, "Papa."
"Yes, Matthew?"
"I ... I should like to ask you something. We ...
we would both like to ask you something, wouldn't we, Luke?" And to this Luke nodded and said firmly,
"Yes, Papa."
"What is it you would like to ask me?"
"We ... we would like to return home."
Again Mark closed his eyes, and now he lowered his head as he said, "I'm afraid that doesn't rest with me entirely, Matthew; it is for your mama to decide. If you could persuade her to return and... ."
"She ... she won't listen to us, Papa. If
... if you could talk to her, write, and I promise you if you let us come back I wouldn't cause
any trouble, I mean not to the servants, I'd be good, we'd both be good, wouldn't we, Luke?"
Again Luke nodded and said, "Yes, Papa, we would be good."
Mark swallowed deeply and as he tried to find words to answer his sons, Matthew started again: "We've ... we've talked it over with Trotter. Trotter would like us to come back and ... and we promised her, too, we wouldn't get up to any tricks. And ... and I'll go to school from here, Papa. I could go into Newcastle."
Mark now put his hand gently on Matthew's shoulder and he said, "I'm sorry, my dear boy, very sorry. There is nothing I would like better than to have you all back home, but as I said, it ... it depends on your mama. If you can persuade her, all well and good. You see, to run a house like this is difficult at any time, but when there are children, four in fact, well it needs... ."
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."
"Good-bye, Papa."
"Good-bye, Papa. You will write to Mama, won't you?"
"Yes, Matthew, I'll write to your mama.
Good-bye, 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.
Good-night."
"Good-night, 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 straigh
t 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 tip-toed 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.
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