A Child of Secrets

by Mary Mackie

  At first Jess spent her free afternoon tidying her room and doing sewing and mending, and as the weather allowed she took Gyp out for a run in the snow. Without Lily, the poor little creature was lonely. Neither Reverend Clare nor Miss Peartree had time for him, though Dolly took care of him at night, keeping him quiet so as not to disturb Eliza.

  One Tuesday, Dolly invited Jess to come and have tea with her crippled mother and fourteen-year-old sister Susan, who acted as their mother’s nurse. Mrs Upton had fallen into a millrace when Susan was ten and Dolly only eight; her husband, trying to rescue her, had been killed by the wheel, which had broken both her legs and left them twisted. Another woman might have been bitter because of it, but Mrs Upton believed God had a purpose in everything. After all, she said, she was fortunate to have two good daughters in Susan and Dolly, and good friends and neighbours, and a benefactor in Sir Richard Fyncham who, as owner of the mill and her husband’s employer, had awarded her a pension that kept her out of the workhouse. Her ability to see good in everything made Jess feel humble.

  ‘Why don’t you come to chapel with us on Sunday?’ Mrs Upton asked. ‘You’d enjoy it, Jess, and you’d be made very welcome. It’s a good way of making friends.’

  Jess knew that was true. But she made excuses, fearing that the Lord might strike her down if she dared step inside a house of his.

  She enjoyed her visit to the Uptons’ cottage; it was as neat as any home on the Fisher Fleet and the warmth among the little family reminded her of how her own home had been, everyone drawn closer after Dad was drowned in the wreck of the SARA GIRL. More bitterly, she recalled that there’d been the light of faith there, too – that was another thing Merrywest had desecrated.

  She felt she could become firm friends with Dolly and her family, but with Eliza Potts there remained a coolness. More and more this appeared to have something to do with the gamekeeper, Reuben Rudd.

  As the cold weather continued, Rudd was a frequent presence at the rectory, bringing a brace of pheasant, or passing on a message from some villager, or simply looking in because he was passing. Whether he also called on Eliza at night Jess couldn’t decide; she never heard or saw anything – which wasn’t strange because generally she was so tired she slept like a wreck buried deep in mud.

  One fresh morning when the earth lay frozen under a sky of hurting blue, Rudd turned up with a small step-up he’d made out of a crate. To Jess’s amazement, the step-up was a present for her – to stand on at the sink or the table, whenever she needed the extra few inches nature had denied her. It was light enough to be easily pushed aside, out of the way, when not needed.

  Disconcerted by the trouble he’d taken, all on her account, she muttered, ‘I was alluss the runt o’ the litter.’

  ‘Best things come in small parcels,’ Rudd told her with a smile, enjoying her surprise. ‘Look, I’ve carved your initials in the side, so you’ll know it’s yours.’

  Jess gazed unhappily at the neatly cut letters, seeing them like an accusing finger, pointing at her guilt – ‘J.S.’ of course, when by rights it should have been ‘J.H.’ It made her feel bad about lying, though he wasn’t exactly honest himself, was he? Carrying on secretly with Eliza while making overtures to other women. The trouble was, Jess couldn’t help but like him. If only he’d been the man he appeared to be on the surface things might have been different. But he was a deep one, this, a great dissembler. If she hadn’t, with her own eyes, seen him coming to the house that night, with Dash at heel, she might have believed his blandishments were sincere.

  When Eliza saw the step-up which Rudd had made for Jess, she flared her fine nostrils. ‘We shall be fallin’ over that now,’ she complained. ‘As if there wan’t enough hazards in this kitchen.’ She took to calling the platform ‘Sharp’s pulpit’, and whenever she had the chance she tucked it away where Jess had trouble finding it.

  Eliza was jealous, right enough. But if she exercised her temper on Rudd in private he gave no sign of it; he went right on paying attentions to Jess every time he visited the rectory. She began to wonder what sort of hold he had on Eliza, to keep her so tame.

  There came a day when, having amused Jess and Dolly with a tale about Dash’s antics, Rudd said softly, ‘Why, Miss Jessie, I was beginning to think I’d never hear you laugh,’ and she realised she’d forgotten everything else but her enjoyment of the moment. ‘It sounds good,’ he added. ‘You should do it more often.’

  From the doorway, Eliza said tartly, ‘Nothin’ better to do than listen to old tomfoolery, Jessie Sharp? And what’re you a-doin’ of in here, Dolly? I told you to polish them silver pieces in the drawin’ room.’

  ‘That’s your job,’ Jess put in. ‘Dolly have her own work, she can’t be alluss at your beck and call.’

  ‘She’re here to help out in any way needsome,’ Eliza replied, slanting a look at Rudd. ‘Anyhow, I’ll say what she do. I’m senior here. Housemaid comes higher than kitchenmaid – and at least I don’t need a pulpit to do my job. I’m not as fond o’ preachifyin’ as you be. Pour me a cup o’ that tea, if there’s any left. I’m spittin’ feathers. And Dolly – go you now and do that polishin’.’

  As Dolly departed, cloth in hand, Eliza settled herself in the chair across the hearth from Rudd, chatting with him in her usual half-flirting, half-challenging way. Rudd replied in kind, now and then tossing a remark to Jess to assure her she wasn’t forgotten. They both played the game to the hilt. Jess had tried to tell herself she might be mistaken over the identity of the night visitor, but whenever Rudd and Eliza were together those sparks told their own tale. Something was going on between them. Something from the past, something presently in flood, or something building for the future: Jess couldn’t tell, she only knew it was there.

  She affected to be too busy to notice the interplay, though. She was glad when Rudd finished his tea and got up, wrapping his scarf around his neck and chest.

  ‘Well, I’d best be off. Got to make sure the birds are fed and watered before nightfall. In this snow they find it hard to forage. Thanks for the tea, Miss Jessie.’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ she said crisply, not looking at him but aware of a burning in her cheeks. As he left, she glanced at the window and saw snow pouring down in thick sheets driven by the wind. She hoped he could find his way safely home in all that weather.

  ‘Gettin’ notions about Reuben Rudd, then?’ Eliza asked slyly. ‘Tek you care not to set your cap too high, Jessie Sharp. He ’on’t look twice at the likes o’ you. He want a strong woman, who’ll bear him strong sons.’ She got up and stood with her feet apart, her hands on her hips - child-bearing hips, sure enough, wide and rounded. ‘You’re so little you’ll have trouble bearin’ a child for any man. I know about that sort o’ thing. My mother, and her mother afore her, have delivered plenty around here – screamin’, stillborn and strangled. And Rudd want sons. Well, any man do. He ’on’t marry a woman as can’t give him children.’

  ‘And you think he’ll wed you, then, I suppose.’

  Eliza tossed her head. ‘Huh! I wun’t have him. Even if he did ax. When I come to wed, I’ll have somethin’ better than a gamekeeper in mind.’

  Jess couldn’t fathom it. What was going on between those two, then? ‘I thought you wanted to be a lady’s maid.’

  Eliza’s smile told nothing, except her contempt. ‘You’ll see,’ was all she said before taking herself away.

  Smarting, Jess stared at the window. It was blowing up a real raw blizzard out there.

  Seven

  The snowstorm swept on southwards, its outriders reaching Cambridge as Lily was leaving church after choir practice that evening. Crisp white flakes drifted down into cobbled streets where smoke from many chimneys hung on the cold air, haloing gas street-lamps.

  Heading homeward through the dusk, Lily was just one among thirty girls, pupils of Miss Waterburn’s Academy for Young Ladies, all dressed in capes and skirts of deep blue serge, with plain blue bonnets. They moved briskly in do
uble file, bound back across the river Cam to the mansion which housed the school.

  The acrid bite of the smoke and the quickening of an iced wind made Lily draw her muffler closer, to protect her throat. Her head was full of music, full of memories of the organ swelling and her own voice aiding the fullness of sound. Certain phrases in the harmony thrilled her, sending shivers down her spine as she recalled the way the notes soared towards the ornate roof bosses of the ancient church.

  Beneath a group of bare trees which formed an island in the road, a band of young men sported, climbing on walls and swinging from branches, shouting and jeering at passers-by. They appeared to be undergraduates, in the loose, checked coats, cravats and slouch hats favoured by the fashionable young men of the university. More than one of them held a bottle which he drank from, or waved in the air as he hooted and called.

  ‘Hurry, girls!’ The order came from Miss Green, who was walking abreast of the column. ‘Keep together. Eyes front. Swiftly, now!’

  The young ladies quickened their pace and the wind did the same, gusting along the street, swirling among the thickly falling snow.

  The young men mimicked the mistress’s voice: ‘Hurry, girls! Come along now. Quick march back to school, one-two, one-two.’ One of them darted across the path and leapt to hang on a railing, swinging there as he doffed his hat and leered through the dusk, greeting teachers and pupils alike with scandalous familiarity: ‘Hello, darling. Give me a smile, then. Like to come in a punt with me, eh?’

  His companions laughed, adding comments that made the girls walk even more swiftly. Lily felt oddly light-headed, excited and repelled all at the same time. She drew her muffler even closer and kept her gaze on the ground for fear of fresh taunts if they saw her eyes.

  And then, as she passed him, the young man hanging from the railings changed his note, saying in surprise, ‘Well, hello!’ and to her utter horror she heard him whistle and call loudly, ‘Lily! Hey, Lily! Lily Vee!’

  The other students took up the chorus, making the street echo amid the dusk and falling snow, while their ringleader came running after the column of girls. Though Miss Green tried to prevent him, he evaded her, peering at averted faces, calling, ‘Lily! Don’t you know me, my duck? Oh, Lily Vee, sweet Lily Vee! Meet me tonight. By the river, as usual, yes?’

  Lily thought she might explode. No longer half-exhilarated, she felt her face burn, her spine alternately chilled and fevered. How could this be happening? She did not know the young man. She had not made the acquaintance of any undergraduates – who could, when the Academy kept its pupils so well guarded? Yet this man knew her, by a taunting nickname that Dickon Clare had coined. Distress strained the sinews along her throat as she fought with her disbelief and dismay.

  Then one of the other students, apparently less far gone with wine than his fellows, grasped the loud one’s arm and pulled him away. Two constables were approaching at a run, their boots heavy on the cobbles. The students scattered, leaving the swirling snow, the swift trudge of buttoned boots, the hiss of gas lamps, the clop of hooves – and a pulse in Lily’s throat that beat like a trapped bird.

  Around her, curiosity buzzed in whispers and stifled giggles.

  ‘Well, I must say!’ Ellen Pargeter breathed. ‘Who on earth is that person? Where did you meet him?’

  ‘I’ve never met him!’ Lily denied frantically.

  ‘Then how did he know your name?’ Ellen demanded. Lily took a breath, trying to calm her unsteady heart. ‘I don’t know. Truly, I… I didn’t know any of them.’

  From behind her, Clemency Clare said, ‘Oh, come, Lily, you certainly knew at least one of them.’

  ‘And he knew her!’ another voice added, causing more giggles.

  Lily’s face burned ever more painfully. Her stomach churned as she twisted round to look at Clemency but, before she could say more, her arm was grasped in pinching fingers and Miss Waterburn snapped, ‘No talking! Be silent, all of you! Lily Clare, not one more word. Not one word!’

  * * *

  Being unable to provide an explanation for what had occurred, Lily was sent to spend the night in meditation in ‘the turret’, a curious excrescence built above the central part of the house, a place used as a punishment cell. Lily was conducted there by a maid bearing a lamp.

  The turret comprised a single small room under a bell tower. It was meanly furnished with a plank bed, a deal table, and a cane-bottomed chair. On the table lay a Bible, no doubt intended to aid uplifting thoughts and penitence, and on the hard bed one single scratchy blanket was provided. An enamelled chamber pot reposed under the bed.

  ‘Oh, please…’ Lily began as the maid moved away, taking the lamp with her. ‘Please leave the—’

  The maid didn’t even look at her but went away and closed the door.

  Lily hated the dark. Monsters loomed up in her mind and she retreated to the bed, to crouch there listening to strange scrabblings in the ceiling. Rats! Oh, dear heaven… To bolster her courage, she began to sing John Bunyan’s hymn ‘To Be A Pilgrim’. It did help. It made her think that one day soon, when her real father came for her, all the people who had been unkind to her would be sorry.

  After endless hours, dawn came grey against the high, narrow window that gave the only light to the room. Stirring herself, Lily set the chair beneath the window and climbed up to peer out across a roof where frost glittered on the surface of a soft counterpane of snow which had settled on all the world – on the trees in the school grounds and on nearby meadows, on church towers and rooftops with smoking chimneys, and on the pinnacles of college buildings which lifted above humbler structures. A scatter of snow drifted past the window as, with a flutter of wings, a couple of pigeons took flight from somewhere over her head.

  Pigeons. Not rats. Lily sighed in relief, chiding herself for her vivid imagination.

  A maid brought her a meagre breakfast, but all the town clocks had chimed nine before more footsteps presaged the arrival of Miss Rattray. Tall, thin, with eyes set close over a beaked nose, she was, inevitably, nicknamed Rat-face, though Clemency said she was all squeak and no nip.

  ‘You’re to come with me, Lily Clare.’ As ever, she avoided meeting Lily’s eyes as she spoke. Few people could face that pair of lovely, freakish eyes without some sign of disquiet. Many, like Miss Rattray, dealt with the problem by refusing to look directly at her at all.

  She was made to wait outside in the hallway, staring at the print which portrayed an angelic young man on his knees by an altar twined with ivy. The picture was entitled, appropriately enough, ‘Repentance’ – Miss Waterburn’s notion of softening the hearts of delinquents, no doubt. All it did for Lily was remind her of Ashton Haverleigh, because the man in the picture resembled the unattainable object of her dreams.

  At last the study door opened and she was summoned, to find Miss Waterburn seated at her desk.

  ‘Well, Lily? Have you anything to say to me?’

  What was there to say? ‘No, Miss Waterburn.’

  ‘You still maintain that you did not know any of those young men?’

  ‘Oh, Miss Waterburn, honestly and truly…’

  The principal perused Lily’s face, her own expression hidden by the light that hazed her; then she said, ‘The other young ladies appear to be of the same opinion. You should be grateful to have such friends.’

  Lily let out the breath she hadn’t known she was holding. Friends? What friends? Had some of the girls spoken up for her? Which girls?

  ‘I may have been hasty in my judgement,’ Miss Waterburn conceded. ‘I have never found you to be untruthful, Lily Clare. Over-imaginative, and over-impulsive, with many other faults that you must seek to amend, but… I cannot believe you to be mendacious. If I’m wrong – if you are lying to me – then it’s clear that you are so far gone down the path of wickedness that nothing can redeem you. I trust you will reflect on that.’

  ‘But I’m telling the truth!’ Lily cried. ‘Truly—’

  ‘Then we
must seek another explanation for what occurred. Your name was not plucked at random from the air. Tell me, do you know a young gentleman by the name of Haverleigh? The Honourable Ashton Haverleigh?’

  Thoughts and emotions tumbled helter-skelter in confusion. ‘He… he is a friend of my second cousin, Dickon Clare – Clemency’s brother.’

  ‘And did you not notice him among that ill-mannered band who accosted us last evening?’

  Lily shook her head, numb with disbelief. ‘I did not. Was he there?’

  ‘It would seem so. Clemency Clare recognised him, so she informs me. I believe he is somewhat of an unruly young man. Given to practical jokes.’

  ‘Is he?’ Prickles of disquiet traversed Lily’s spine. Surely it was Dickon Clare who liked to play unkind jokes? It was because of his behaviour that Dickon had been sent down last year. Ash had already graduated, but she had heard that he was considering undertaking post-graduate studies. Was he, then, in Cambridge? Had he been in the street last night? Out with companions, in drink and looking for amusement, had Ash seen his friend’s freak of a cousin among the crocodile of girls? Had he told her name for his friends to hoot down the street?

  According to Miss Waterburn, Clemency and her clique of close friends had pointed out that Lily was an industrious scholar, that during the day she was at her studies and at night she was safe in her bed. They had reminded Miss Waterburn that no girl of the Academy, even if she had a mind to mischief – which no girl of the Academy ever would! – no girl had any chance for illicit meetings with men: none could escape the vigilance of Miss Waterburn’s benignly protective regime.