Harry swapped another empty pail for a full one, stepped forward and launched the water. They were making progress.
He cursed Martha for insisting on weaving here. Aye, he knew they couldn’t yet manage on his wage alone, not with a growing family, but still. Barraclough was getting on now; Harry couldn’t see him yet and wondered if he’d managed to shuffle down Church Lane to help out.
He’d have to ask for a raise. He did most of the work now anyway, forty years of working the chisel had left the old man’s scarred hands with a never-ending tremble, and he stuck to facing the stones, while issuing a stream of advice to his protégé.
Harry threw another bucket load. Blasted woolcombers! This shed, shack really, had been a fire waiting to happen for years. The combers stoked their charcoal fires till they could have forged new combs, never mind heating their existing ones so they slid easier through the greasy wool fibres, pulling at noils and neps to leave the long fibres needed for spinning into worsted yarn.
‘Leave shed, leave shed,’ Stutterghyll’s shout penetrated Harry’s thoughts. ‘It’s gone. Save cottages!’
Harry redirected the path of the water he was throwing on to the stone wall of the first weaver’s cottage.
Not afore time, he thought, as steam rose from the stone of his neighbour’s home, before being overcome by smoke.
He took a few steps to his right, to better direct the flow of water, and flung his next bucketful.
He noticed more folk had joined the firefighting effort, including Barraclough, and more and more buckets and ewers were being emptied on the cottages. There was barely anything left of the woolcombing shed now, and the steps leading down the stone wall from the gallery were open to the sky for the first time in years.
‘Harry, Harry!’
He turned and stared at Edward Stutterghyll. The ironmonger jerked his head, indicating Martha, standing and staring at her workplace, Edna on her hip. Safe and well the pair of them.
‘Praise the Lord.’ Harry raised his eyes skyward, thrust his bucket at Edward, and rushed to take his wife and child in his arms. Whatever else had been lost this day, he still had them.
3.
‘After three,’ John Brown said. ‘One, two, three, heave!’
Harry and the sexton bent their backs to the altar gravestone. It shifted three inches.
‘And again. One, two, three, heave!’
Six feet long and three wide, the heavy memorial shifted another few inches, and the two men strained their backs to lift it enough so that they could slide it on to the neighbouring slab.
‘Thanks for giving me a hand, Harry,’ John panted while they took a breather.
‘It’s nay bother, glad to help,’ Harry replied. ‘It’s that busy with the smallpox, I may as well just set up shop in churchyard, especially now Barraclough’s succumbed an’all.’
‘Aye, there’s half a dozen graves left open after funerals with so many ill. Can’t be shifting these things backwards and forwards every time the pox takes another, not when there’s whole families taken out at times.’
‘I reckon some of graves’ll need to be dug deeper,’ Harry said. ‘And I’m running out of space to add names on the older ones.’ He indicated the older, lower part of the churchyard, abutting the Black Bull.
‘How do, Miss Emily,’ the sexton called. ‘Watch thy footing there, there’s open graves by path.’
‘Will do, Mr Brown, thank you. Morning, Harry.’
Harry returned Emily’s greeting and watched her pick her way down the path from the parsonage, the graves so close, her skirts brushed the flat stones clear of dead leaves and twigs. The cleanest graves in the churchyard were those regularly swept clean by Brontë skirts.
‘She’s a rum ’un, that lass,’ John said. ‘Can’t get two words out of her normally, in a world of her own she is, but her and her sisters have been out every day taking food and water to the worst-hit families.’
‘Aye, I just hope they don’t catch it themselves.’
‘Aye, our Tabitha has them burning their gloves at end of day, and she’s constantly washing gowns. The Reverend’s torn; it’s their duty to call on the sick, but he don’t want to lose any more daughters. He ain’t even complaining about buying so many gloves, though they’re making do with shoddy.’
‘They won’t be bothered about that, not them lasses,’ Harry said, nodding after Emily. ‘They’ve got more important things going on in their heads.’
‘What, poems and them tiny magazines they make? Have you seen ’em then?’
Harry nodded. He still didn’t quite know what to make of Emily and her siblings’ fascination with Branwell’s toy soldiers, or why they wasted their time making inch-long ‘magazines’ for the toys to ‘read’.
‘So have you moved into Barraclough’s cottage?’ the sexton said as he indicated they should resume lifting.
‘Aye. Martha’s burnt every scrap of fabric and scrubbed every surface, but at last she’s happy and Edna’s allowed out of her basket.’ Harry laughed. He hadn’t wanted to move in quite so quickly after Mr Barraclough’s passing, he thought it unseemly, but Martha had waved aside his objections.
‘And how’s new bairn coming on?’ John asked, puffing after another heave.
Harry frowned. ‘Martha’s not carrying this one so well,’ he confided. ‘I don’t mind telling thee I’m concerned about her, but Martha won’t ruddy listen.’
John grimaced and shook his head. He’d had his run-ins with Martha Sutcliffe over the years, he knew exactly how forthright she could be. ‘Here she is now,’ he warned, spotting the newly large figure making her way into the churchyard.
‘Lord above, what now?’ Harry muttered. ‘Let’s take five, John.’ He turned to meet his wife.
‘I’ve just seen that Emily Brontë,’ she said before he had chance to greet her. ‘Rushing off with her baskets, doing God’s work, that ruddy dog at her heels.’
Martha hated Emily’s new pet, an enormous mastiff called Keeper. And to be fair, he was a beast; Emily was the only one able to control him.
‘Well she’s Reverend’s daughter,’ Harry said, trying to mollify her. ‘She has pastoral duties.’ He winked at Edna, who had just peeked out at him from behind her mother’s skirts. She hid again as soon as she’d seen her father take notice of her.
‘Pastoral duties?’ Martha screeched and Harry winced as he realised his mistake. ‘Thee’s been talking to her again, hasn’t thee? Using her fancy words!’
‘Martha, calm down. It’s unavoidable, she’s been helping people sort funerals and what wording they want on stones.’
‘Hmph.’
‘Martha, love. I keep telling thee, thee’s nowt to worry about.’ He winked as Edna peeped out a second time. She ducked behind Martha again with a giggle.
‘That had better be true, Harry Sutcliffe. God help thee if it ain’t.’
‘Martha!’ Harry was shocked she’d cursed him out in this of all places, and in front of the sexton too.
‘Aye, well,’ she said, embarrassed, but too proud to take it back. ‘Anyroad, I’m off to see Sarah Butterworth.’
‘Nay! I’ve told thee afore, Martha. Thee’s not to visit any house where there’s smallpox.’
‘I’ll be all reet, Harry.’
‘Nay, thee won’t. I won’t have thee risking thyself nor our child.’ Harry stroked her belly and she softened.
‘Thee does love me, don’t thee?’
‘Aye, ’course I do, thee daft apeth.’
Harry ran his hand around her waist, and squeezed. Her answering squeal told him he’d won this one, at least. ‘Now get thee back home and get the weight off thy feet. I’ll be late with all this work on, but I’ll be home as soon as I can.’
‘Aye, all reet then. I’ll make sure there’s some supper left for thee. Come on, Edna, say ta ta to thy papa.’
The little girl peeped again from her mother’s skirts, face be
aming. Harry picked her up, swung her round, carefully, then sent her on her way with her mother, both his girls receiving a pat on the rump in farewell.
Harry watched them go, concerned. Martha was hiding it from him, but he knew her too well, and the child she was carrying was paining her; far more than Edna, or Baby John before her. He swallowed his grief for his firstborn, buried just two rows over, and was overwhelmed with concern for his wife and next-born.
Would she tell me if owt serious were wrong? he thought, Or just refuse to believe it were happening?
4.
Martha clung to Harry’s arm as they negotiated the treacherous lane. Half-frozen slush and leather soles, her first pair of proper shoes rather than her usual wooden-soled clogs, did not mix well and she’d nearly been over three times already, even on this short walk homeward from the church.
Harry’s hobnailed boots, which she was now glad he’d insisted on wearing to early morning Christmas Mass, were far better suited, and he was as steady on his feet as a newly shod horse.
They still had to hurry though, slush or no slush. It was their first Christmas in the big house. Well, it’s small next to the parsonage, Martha thought. But bigger than any I ever had any reet to expect. She blessed Mr Barraclough yet again for making Harry his heir, then her thoughts returned to the day ahead. Most of her family and Harry’s were coming to be fed and were expecting a Christmas feast.
She shuddered at the thought of all the coins and notes she’d handed over to the butcher in exchange for ham and beef. Not to mention the raisins and brandy for the Christmas pudding. But Harry had insisted on ‘doing things proper’.
Haworth’s winter had been terrible, upwards of four hundred folk dead of the smallpox on top of the usual winter maladies, and there wasn’t a family in the Worth Valley who hadn’t lost someone. A couple of families, the Hardys and the Slaters, had been wiped out; there was simply no one left to continue the name.
Those that were left were in a right state: one minute grieving, then euphoric for those left alive, then remembering once more. Harry was determined that today, at least, the Sutcliffes and the Earnshaws would be celebrating. And he could afford to with all the work he had on.
He was looking at taking on another apprentice too. Martha’s nephew, Charlie, couldn’t keep up, and Harry’s own nephew, Georgie, was coming up to an age where he could be of use.
I could do with an apprentice in house, she mused. Or an housekeeper. She smiled up at her husband; she was still working on that one, but was confident she’d get a kitchen maid at least. Especially once the new babby was here.
She put a hand to her belly and winced.
‘Aw reet, love?’
‘Aye, I’m fine. Just a twinge, probably just the cold air.’
‘Aye, well. Happen thee’s got too much on today.’
Martha said naught.
‘That’s why our Mary’ll be joining us a bit later.’
Mary was his elder sister’s girl. Nice enough, but a bit lazy, Martha judged.
‘What does thee mean?’
‘She’ll be giving thee an hand. And living in an’all; she can have the small room next to the kitchen.’
‘Thee means—’
‘Aye. Merry Christmas, love. We have an housekeeper.’
‘Oh Harry!’ Martha swung into his arms, nearly knocking them both off her feet in her joy. She’d soon cure Mary of her sloth.
***
Martha looked around her dining table and could have cried. This was the first time both families had come together since her wedding three and a half years before.
Despite the latest additions, Edna amongst them, they were less than half in number. She and Harry had grieved each and every death, but the sum total of their losses hit her.
She looked across at Harry and knew he felt the same, as did everyone around the table; those of an age to understand, anyway.
Both her and Harry’s parents had gone now, as had near half a dozen of their own generation, plus twice more little ones. All in three years.
It felt too much to bear at times, and now she did not feel like celebrating this Christmas after all.
Harry brought out the crowning glory of their feast, a huge joint of roasted beef, to a round of diminished yet still heartfelt applause. He picked up the carving set, then put them down again. He looked around the table, tears in his eyes, and Martha knew without doubt that he felt the same way as she.
‘It’s aw reet, love,’ she said, placing a hand on his forearm in a rare public gesture of affection. ‘We all know, we all understand, and we all miss them.’
‘Hear, hear,’ Thomas, Harry’s sole remaining brother, said, raising his glass. ‘Truer words may not be spoken.’
Harry lifted his own glass. ‘To them no longer with us, may thy spirits soar, and thy memory live long.’
The Sutcliffe-Earnshaw clan drank as one, and a rare silence descended over them, deep enough to include even the youngest members; then, as one, conversation broke out: compliments about the house and feast; enquiries over the various trades represented around the table; and news of a more homely nature.
Harry reclaimed his carving knife and meat fork, then dropped them once more as Martha screamed in agony.
***
‘Reet then, lass, that’s the last of ’em gone home. Gave ’em all a reet scare thee did.’
‘I scared mesen, love. Thought me insides were ripping apart.’
‘So where’s pain?’
‘Round me hips and in front.’
‘But babby’s not coming?’
‘Nay, not yet. Pain’s been coming on awhile, but nowt as bad as that afore.’
‘Thee should have said, love. Thee’s been overdoing it. Thee should have been resting.’
‘Too much to do to rest.’
‘How’s thee really feeling though?’ Harry did not want to start arguing, not now.
‘I’ve been better, Harry, and that’s the truth, but pain’s lessening now.’
‘Lizzie says it happens sometimes if babby’s lying wrong.’
‘Hmm. Lizzie’s no midwife,’ Martha pointed out.
‘Nay, but she’s had bairns of her own.’
‘So have I.’ Martha glanced at the ceiling where, in the room above, Edna had finally been put down to sleep after watching her mother’s collapse and the near hysteria of her relatives.
‘I’ll be reet,’ she said, her voice softer. ‘Don’t take on so, Harry.’
He perched on the side of her armchair and chucked her under her chin. ‘Don’t ask the impossible, love. I’ll allus fret over thee.’
Martha leant her head against his strong shoulder. ‘Lizzie does have a point though,’ she allowed. ‘Plenty of women have pains like this in run up to a birth. I’ll just have to take it easy, tha’s all.’
‘Well, thee can now that Mary’s here. She’s moving in tomorrow.’
‘What? On Boxing Day? She’ll have to sort all Christmas boxes out. Thee’ll have to make sure she gives reet ones to butcher and baker, we can’t have them getting mixed up.’
‘Aye, we’ll sort it, Martha. Thee needs looking after, lass, and she’s family, she’s happy to do it.’
There was silence for a moment, then Harry rose, crossed to the sideboard and awkwardly poured himself a brandy. After only three weeks in this house, it still did not feel like his, and nor did the style of life that went with his new position.
‘One for thee an’all, Martha?’
‘Aye, it’ll dull pain a bit,’ she said and held out her hand for the half-full glass.
5.
Harry dropped his chisel with a curse as another scream from Martha speared through the cottage wall and into his workshop. She’d been at this for hours already and the shrieks had only increased in their intensity.
He listened but heard no more, so picked up his chisel and examined the stone. It pained him that there was nau
ght he could do for his wife at present, but that was the truth of it and he had to accept it as did every other father-to-be.
Uttering another oath, he ran his hand over the F in WIFE. Or what was supposed to read WIFE. It looked more like a P now. He offered the late Florence Butterworth a heartfelt apology, knowing it would be the living he would have to answer to for the grave error. Her son, Robert.
Poor woman; it was bad enough her name did not appear on her own memorial stone, now it read: RICHARD BUTTERWORTH AND HIS WIP with only the husband’s dates below.
He would do what he could to correct it, and he chiselled away the offending stone to inscribe the correct F, deeper than the other letters, but at least her station in life would be spelled correctly. He pondered whether Robert Butterworth’s wife, Martha’s friend Sarah, would suffer the same fate.
Martha would not, he knew that, and once more he stared at the wall in the direction of their bedchamber as the volume of her screams rose again. If, God forbid, she did not survive this birth, he would ensure she’d be named properly, her name on their family memorial clear for all to see.
More likely, ’twill read MARTHA SUTCLIFFE RELICT OF HENRY SUTCLIFFE, Harry thought with a stray smile. Despite her current distress, she was strong, much stronger than he, and apt to outlive him. Would she be proud of me enough to be known as my relict, my widow? Or would even that be an indignity too far for her?
More screams prevented him from answering his own question, and he threw down his chisel before he could make any more errors upon the Butterworths’ gravestone.
‘Harry.’
He looked up to see Emily at the door.
‘It don’t sound as if the child comes easy.’
‘Nay, Emily, ’tis a hard birthing for sure. No surprise considering how hard she’s been carrying this bairn these past months.’
‘If anyone can do it, Martha Earnshaw can.’
‘Sutcliffe.’
‘Aye, of course. I meant nothing by it.’ Emily stepped aside and returned the harsh glare of the new arrival.
Parliament of Rooks Page 20