Children Of The Tide

by Valerie Wood

  ‘No? Well, I shall tell him. I shall tell him that he’s sent a young girl to her death.’ Tom reached for his coat which was hanging over the back of a chair.

  ‘Tha’ll go nowhere.’ His father’s voice was firm. ‘Not until I say so. I’m still master here, even though I’m tied to this chair. There’s more to this than we’ve been told. George! Is Reedbarrow still in ’mill?’

  George nodded, he looked with frightened glances from one to another.

  ‘Then fetch him inside,’ his father demanded, his grief superseded by impotent anger. ‘And let’s get to ’bottom of this.’

  Sammi pressed Tom’s arm as she and her mother went into the kitchen to organize Jenny to make tea for everyone, but there was no response, it was as if he didn’t see her or know she was there. They heard a cry of anguish from Luke as he was told of Betsy. There were sounds of raised voices, of anger and weeping, recriminations and apologies.

  Presently they went back into the parlour and Jenny handed round a tray of tea. She had put a teaspoonful of whisky in Thomas’s cup and extra sugar in George’s, and gave him a look of sympathy as she handed it to him.

  Luke sat, his big body bowed. ‘I would have done ’decent thing,’ he mumbled. ‘But she never said! She said she didn’t want to get wed. Nor did I. Not yet any road, but I would have! And I onny ever wanted Betsy. ’Other lasses meant nowt to me.’

  ‘Aye, lad, all right,’ Thomas said wearily. ‘We’ll believe thee. She was fond on thee I don’t doubt. Sup tha tea, Tom, and then get off to Hull with Billy. I’ll not rest till she’s brought home. Spare no expense,’ he said abruptly. ‘In spite of what’s happened, she’ll have ’best that money can buy, even though she’ll not be here to see it.’

  Luke raised his head and looked at Billy. ‘But where’s she been?’ It was as if comprehension was only just filtering through. ‘Tha said she was found in a cellar, but she can’t have been there since August when she left home. She’d have lost babby if she had been!’

  Billy flushed and swallowed. ‘She, she was staying with a friend.’

  ‘Aye, she told us that in her letter,’ Thomas said. ‘We knew that.’

  ‘But who was the friend?’ Tom’s voice was harsh. ‘What kind of a friend would let a pregnant woman wander alone in the streets?’

  Billy looked pleadingly at Tom, silently beseeching him not to ask the question.

  ‘Who was it, Billy? You know, don’t you?’ Tom’s eyes, cold as steel pierced into Billy’s. ‘Who was it? Was it a man?’

  Billy looked down at his feet. ‘Yes,’ he said nervously. ‘It was Charles Craddock.’

  Johnson was waiting for them, his manner stoical. He had lived all of his life in Holderness and most of his working years had been with the Rayners. He had known all of the young people at Garston Hall and their cousins since they were children, and he was as upset as anyone over Miss Betsy, and would have waited all night if necessary. But he didn’t have to wait long as Tom charged out of the house, followed more slowly by Billy and George.

  Luke opened the big wooden gate for the carriage to pass through and as the team picked up their heels in the lane, he suddenly flung himself on board and climbed up beside Johnson.

  Tom saw him through the window and put his head out, calling to Johnson to stop. ‘Where do you think you’re going, Reedbarrow?’ he yelled. ‘There’s no need for you to come.’

  Luke put his head down towards him. ‘Need or not, I’m coming. I’ve a babby to collect and a score to settle.’

  Tom considered. The same thoughts were going through his head. He, too, had a score to settle. He remembered that braggart Craddock from Gilbert’s wedding. Betsy may well have gone willingly to him, but it would give him infinite pleasure to crack his jaw. ‘You’d better go back, George,’ he said. ‘There’s no sense in all of us going.’

  George climbed down, relief showing on his face. ‘I think tha’s right, Tom.’

  Tom called up again to Luke. ‘You can come inside if you want.’

  ‘No thanks. I’ll stop on top. I know my place,’ he muttered and Johnson raised his eyebrows and cracked the whip.

  * * *

  Billy stayed downstairs with Gilbert and Harriet while first Tom and then Luke went upstairs to sit by Betsy. Tom came down looking white and shaken, but Luke’s face was flushed with anger, his eyes wild and wet with tears, and he demanded to know if Gilbert knew where this Craddock bloke lived.

  ‘He might be at his club at this time of night.’ Gilbert spoke quietly. His face was drawn but he was composed and calmer than he had been.

  ‘Can tha tell me where it is?’ Luke’s manner was not impolite but neither was it complaisant.

  ‘Do you not want to see the infant?’ Harriet spoke up softly. ‘She’s sleeping, but I’ll take you up.’

  ‘Not yet, ma-am.’ His brusque attitude changed deferentially as he spoke to Harriet. ‘Thank you. I’ve a bit o’ business to attend to first. Then I’ll see her.’

  Gilbert went to the door. ‘Come on then, I’ll take you.’

  Harriet opened her mouth to protest, but he quickly said, ‘We won’t be long, Harriet. They can’t get in without me. You have to be a member.’

  The snow was coming down thick and fast as they went outside, and the four men piled once more into the carriage to be driven to the gaming club in the heart of the town.

  ‘You’d better wait outside, Gilbert,’ Tom said as they arrived at the lamplit door in the dark side street. ‘You might be banned from coming again if there’s trouble.’

  ‘It’s all right.’ Gilbert nodded to the doorman and ushered the others in. ‘I’m resigning anyway.’

  They all stood in the doorway of the gaming room, looking round at the tables through a blue haze of cigar smoke. Gilbert, tall and broad, Billy, long and slim as a reed but with his patient face set and determined; Tom even taller, his frame strong and muscular, and Luke towering over them all, his shoulders and large head filling the doorway.

  They were mostly men who were gathered around the card tables, though there were a few women, women garishly overdressed and beribboned, some smoking cigars and with wine glasses in their hands; Tom shuddered and wondered if Betsy had ever been brought here.

  ‘There he is,’ Gilbert murmured. ‘At the table over in the corner. The fellow with the red braces and smoking a cigar.’

  ‘Right!’ Tom muttered to Gilbert. ‘I want you to take Billy and leave. This isn’t your concern and you have your name to think of. You’ve both done enough. Now go.’

  His words were cut short as Luke barged past them and through the milling crowd towards Craddock’s table. He dashed after him as Luke was saying, ‘Is thy name Charlie Craddock?’

  Craddock looked up in amusement, his eyes narrowing as he blew out a circle of smoke. ‘Depends who wants to know,’ he drawled. ‘If I owe you money or have seduced your lady friend, then no.’ He glanced round at the table anticipating general laughter, but as he discerned none he turned around, only to have a large hand clutch his shirt collar.

  ‘Wait. This is my business.’ Tom placed his hand on Luke’s arm and felt the iron strength beneath it as he was pushed away.

  ‘Ah! Don’t I know you from somewhere?’ Craddock’s eyes lit on Tom as he tried to pull away from Luke’s grip. He blustered. ‘Little Betsy’s brother, aren’t you? How is the little dumpling? Been delivered of her bastard yet?’

  His feet didn’t touch the floor as Luke hauled him out of his chair and his face reddened as his grip tightened about his throat.

  Tom pulled back his fist and aimed it fairly and squarely on Craddock’s nose. He felt no satisfaction in the blow. He would have preferred to be outside in the open and without the help of Luke Reedbarrow, who was holding Craddock up with one hand like a rag doll.

  Luke dropped him and Craddock scrabbled to his feet, his nose bleeding and hatred etched in his eyes. ‘You’ll pay for this,’ he glared at Tom. ‘You and your whore of a sister
.’

  ‘She’s already paid!’ Tom spat out. ‘She’s dead. And you killed her, you dunghill rat.’

  He drew his fist back once more but was stopped by Luke who pushed him to one side and with a mighty thrust of his fist punched Craddock in his stomach.

  ‘That’s for my Betsy,’ he snarled. He lifted Craddock’s doubled-up body by his chin and aimed again between his eyes. ‘And that’s for my babby who’ll never know her ma.’

  He turned round and, pushing Tom ahead of him, he elbowed his way through the watching crowd and marched out of the club into the darkness of the night.

  ‘Spare no expense,’ Betsy’s father had said, and so they didn’t. Betsy was put to rest in the churchyard next to her mother, the polished hearse pulled by a team of glossy black horses with black plumes nodding as they carried her on the short journey from her home.

  The York Rayners’ absence was barely missed, and though Mildred came with Gilbert and Harriet, Anne didn’t, and some of the villagers stayed away to show their disapproval of the miller’s fallen daughter; but most came for the final departure of the young girl they all had known, whilst others came out of curiosity to observe the united gathering of the Fosters and Rayners.

  Tom, George, Luke and Billy carried the coffin on their shoulders down the churchyard path into the church, the soft black crêpe around their top hats floating behind them in diaphanous veils.

  Sammi, shrouded in black as she sat in the pew with her family, watched Tom’s straight, relentless back in front of her and wished that she could comfort him. She thought of that night when he had gone to bring Betsy home. Uncle Thomas had insisted that her mother return to Garston Hall. ‘Tek ’trap and get her back home, William,’ he’d said. ‘That bairn, Victoria, needs her more than me. Sammi will stay, won’t you, lass? She’ll give me comfort.’

  She’d said she would, and later had climbed the stairs and looked into Betsy’s room. She had turned away in grief and couldn’t sleep alone in the room which she had so often shared with her cousin and friend.

  ‘Why don’t you sleep in Master Tom’s room, Miss Sammi?’ Jenny had detected her reluctance. ‘Sheets are all clean,’ she added. ‘I changed them all just afore Christmas.’

  ‘Yes,’ Sammi had said. ‘I will. Tom won’t mind.’ And she had slept in his bed and guiltily felt his presence; felt the hollow of the mattress where he had lain and the pillow where he had put his head, and, conscience-stricken, she wept as she realized that he was in her thoughts as much as Betsy was.

  In the morning she had lifted his working jacket from the hook behind the door and pressed it to her face, smelling the grain, the grease from the mill, the very essence of him, knowing for sure that she loved him.

  She had gathered evergreens, the white and purple Christmas rose, golden winter jasmine and early snowdrops, their green sheaths not yet unfurled, but which showed tips of white as they opened in the warmth of the house, and had made a garden within Betsy’s room to await her.

  As the relatives took their leave of Uncle Thomas after the funeral feast, Gilbert took her to one side. ‘Harriet and Mother and I are going back to Garston Hall with your mother and father. Will you come with us?’

  She was going home anyway, to leave the Fosters to their sorrow, for it seemed to her that she could do nothing more to help them. Uncle Thomas was coping in the manner of one who had contended with grief before, George seemed to be totally bewildered by events, and Tom was barely speaking to anyone, and as she took her leave, he said good-bye as if she was a stranger leaving his house.

  She glanced up at Gilbert. He looked so solemn. ‘What is it? Nothing else is wrong?’ she began.

  ‘No. On the contrary. I think you will be pleased.’

  He’s confessed! He’s told Harriet! But what about Aunt Mildred? Thoughts tumbled through her mind, but Gilbert refused to be drawn as she hesitatingly questioned, mindful that Harriet was within hearing distance.

  The family were already gathered in the drawing-room when they entered. Her father’s face was flushed and angry, though her mother looked composed and relieved. Aunt Mildred sipped nervously on a glass of sherry, Victoria had been sent upstairs and Richard and Billy sat together talking quietly.

  ‘I have been told, at last, that you are Adam’s father.’ Sammi’s father spoke directly to Gilbert without any preamble. ‘No-one thought fit to inform me previously,’ he said, with a meaningful glance at his wife and Sammi. ‘Had anyone done so, the matter might have been resolved earlier.’

  Sammi’s mother folded her hands together, but said nothing as he continued, ‘I will not give my opinions on how I regard your past behaviour towards your mother, your wife and particularly to your brother, let alone your aunt and Sammi,’ he went on, ‘because it will not alter the situation as it now stands.’ He then proceeded to air his estimation of Gilbert’s conduct, his foolishness that was past comprehension, his letting down of the family name and his late father’s standing in the community. ‘However,’ he drew breath and softened, ‘as my wife constantly reminds me, the young do make mistakes – and I might add not only the young; and as your father’s brother, I take it upon myself to support you in your commitment now, for you will need all the strength we can offer. It will not be easy for either of you.’

  Commitment? What commitment? Sammi grew tense with apprehension as she waited for a subdued Gilbert to speak.

  ‘I accept all that you say, sir. I have no excuse to offer. None but that of not wanting Harriet to discover my lapse. I was so afraid that she would hate me for it; she in her innocence,’ he reached out and held Harriet’s hand, ‘thought I was as flawless as she undoubtedly is.’

  Sammi felt her eyes prickle as Harriet drew close to Gilbert and spoke in defence of him. ‘He was afraid that I would cancel our wedding,’ she said softly. ‘I wouldn’t have, but my parents would have made me. I wouldn’t have had a choice in the matter and, and I would rather have Gilbert as he is than be without him.’

  ‘You will write to James? I must insist on that,’ William said sternly. ‘This cloud must be removed from his shoulders, then if he wants to return—’

  ‘I was the one who sent James away,’ Mildred broke in. ‘I will write to him again and explain, but – but—’ her cheeks became pink, ‘—Gilbert’s actions cannot be excused, nor mine either, but the effect of James leaving home has contributed to proving his worth. He has found his own kind amongst the arts. He has become whole. He knows himself at last.’

  They all looked at her, only partly understanding, then Gilbert spoke. ‘No. I will write, Mother. I can’t shirk my responsibilities any longer. I have caused enough havoc.’ He squeezed Harriet’s hand. ‘With Harriet by me, I can do anything.’

  Sammi went to fetch Adam from the nurse and dressed him in his outdoor clothes, pressing his plump little body close to her and murmuring in his ear, ‘You are going home, Adam, to where you belong. But don’t forget me, will you? I was the first to love you and I always will. I’m your Godmother so I will always have a special claim on you.’

  She carried him downstairs and handed him to Harriet. ‘Will you come with us, Sammi?’ Harriet asked. ‘I would like to meet the woman who nursed him.’

  Sammi blinked away her tears and nodded.

  ‘I want to thank her,’ Harriet said softly.

  They returned again to Tillington. Mildred, Gilbert and Harriet with Adam on her knee, in their carriage, and Sammi in front driving the trap pulled by Boreas.

  ‘Mrs Bishop,’ Sammi began diffidently, ‘Adam is to leave us at last to go to his home in Hull.’

  Mrs Bishop looked from Sammi to Harriet and then to Gilbert. ‘Why – can I see ’likeness of his da?’ she beamed. ‘That’s a Rayner head o’ hair if I’m not mistaken, sir.’ Then she shook her head and commiserated. ‘And now there’s another poor babby come into ’world, and I’m right sorry that I can’t nurse her like I did this one. Folks’ tongues ’ll have summat else to chew over now,
Miss Rayner.’ She smiled at Sammi. ‘’Reckon tha’ll be forgotten.’

  Harriet stepped forward, holding Adam in her arms. ‘I wanted to thank you, Mrs Bishop,’ she said, interrupting her flow. ‘Miss Rayner has said how kind you have been to our son.’ Mrs Bishop’s brows shot up in her rosy face. ‘I wanted to thank you in person for taking care of him.’ Harriet lifted her chin. ‘Things haven’t been easy for my husband and myself, but now we are able to take him back home where he belongs.’

  Gilbert gazed humbly at Harriet. How strong she had become since he had confessed. No censure of his behaviour, only regret that he hadn’t trusted her enough to tell her before, and demanding assurance that he did indeed love her. And now, by tokenly admitting motherhood to Mrs Bishop, she was freeing Sammi from any misinterpretation which might have arisen over Adam’s parentage.

  Sammi waved them good-bye and turned for home. She felt empty, part of her torn away as the carriage carrying Adam bowled away down the road towards Hull. She glanced back at the mill. The skies were darkening above it, the white canvas sails at rest. No milling today while the miller and his kinsfolk mourned.

  She flicked the reins. Fortunately Boreas instinctively knew the way and didn’t need her directive, for she could no longer see the road for her tears.

  49

  Doctor Sheppard had arranged a wet nurse for Betsy’s baby, and she thrived under the supervision of the doctor; but three weeks after Betsy’s funeral, Jenny answered a knock at the door and found Luke and his mother standing there.

  ‘My ma wants to speak to ’Master,’ he said brusquely. ‘Mr Foster, not Master Tom.’

  ‘I’ll speak for myself.’ Luke’s mother was quietly determined. ‘Get back to thy work now.’

  She addressed Jenny. ‘If Mr Foster is well enough, I’d like a word.’