Don’t be daft.
She was standing now with her hands flat on the table, her arms stiff and her body bent over them.
He won’t marry you.
It was as if her sensible grown-up self was admonishing the romantic girl who still resided somewhere within her. You can argue as much as you like that he’s not a gentleman born, but he’s master now of a gentleman’s house, and the land and farm. And people have short memories; they’ll now recognise that he’s the boss, whereas all the while she was alive they looked upon him as a hired man. But now he’ll get out and about, an’ the women, who have the shortest memories of all, they’ll be after him.
What about Mrs Rowan’s daughter?
Aye, what about her? She’d likely come running now. And what if he were to meet her halfway?
She straightened her back. What would she do if that happened? She’d go. Oh aye, she’d pack up her bags and walk out, for such was the feeling within her that she couldn’t stay in this house now with him if he took another woman to be its mistress.
Four
He was acting like a man who had suddenly and surprisingly come into his inheritance; he was young again; he looked handsome and full of vital life. Last night, in this very kitchen, he had taken her by the shoulders and there was a suspicion of moisture in his eyes as he had cried, ‘Emily! Emily! I’m free. Do you understand that? I’m a free man. I can roam the world, jump over the moon if I like, or just stay here…here, which is now home, and enjoy it all. Oh, Emily!’ He had shaken her vigorously twice, and when her cap bobbed on the back of her head she had put up her hands to it and laughed with him as she said, ‘Well, you can leave me cap, I’ll be needing it.’
She hadn’t intended the remark as a cue, but she saw immediately that it could be such. And his answer to it could have been to rip it off her head and say, ‘You’ll never need that again in your life, Emily, not as long as I’m alive…’ Sep would have done just that, but her master didn’t. What he did was to turn from her and walk up and down the kitchen, all the while speaking of his plans.
Abbie was to go. Well, she knew he would do this but she was sure he wouldn’t send him out empty-handed. Then he was going to negotiate for the spare land that ran down to Wilber’s Brook, and that was almost a third of a mile away. He was going to extend the byres and enlarge the herd with Galloways which sounded more like pit ponies to her than cows, because that’s what they called the horses down the pit. And he wasn’t going to forget about inside the house. He had overruled her idea of spring-cleaning by declaring he was going to have the whole place redecorated right from the top to the bottom. And lastly, he was going to get her a modern kitchen range with dampers, and ash box an’ all.
At eleven o’clock last night she had left him here in the kitchen still planning what he was going to do.
Having said, ‘Well, I’m off to bed, else I’ll fall asleep on me feet,’ she had stood for a moment longer by the dresser looking at him; and he had risen from the table and come towards her and, touching her cheek with his fingers and smiling softly at her, had said, ‘Goodnight, Emily. A new day’ll begin tomorrow…or the next day.’
She had blinked at him, nodded and turned away. It had sounded a sort of promise, for tomorrow was to be the day of the funeral, and the following day they would really start a new life. But would they? She was still uncertain in her mind of what that life might hold for her.
And now she was waiting for them to return from the funeral. The table in the dining room was laden with food. ‘Make a good spread, Emily,’ he had said. ‘There’ll be only six of us, but make a good spread.’ Besides himself, there were Mr and Mrs Rowan and their daughter, and the solicitor and his clerk.
She glanced at the wall clock. If she reckoned the time right she had about fifteen minutes in which to change her frock and apron and make herself decent.
Today was the day of the funeral, and as he had said yet again this morning, tomorrow would be the beginning of the new life. Standing before her in his handsome new black suit, he had looked deep into her eyes as he said quietly, ‘I’m not going to be a hypocrite, Emily; I’m so full of joy at this moment I could sing. You understand, don’t you? Yes, of course, you do.’ He had cupped her cheek with his hand and it was then he had said again, ‘Tomorrow begins a new life for all of us.’
As she ran up the stairs she had a desire to burst into song, but she checked it. In her room, she took off her thick serge skirt and striped blouse and got into a print dress. It wasn’t very warm but it looked smart. She pulled the straps of her wide-bibbed apron over her shoulders, crossed them at the back and buttoned them to the waistband, then she picked up her mob cap and looked at it. She wished she hadn’t to put it on again, it covered most of her hair; and anyway, mob-caps were old-fashioned. Her hair looked bonny this morning. She had washed it last night and the deep waves had bright brown lights in them which the mirror reflected back to her. It seemed to heighten the colour of her skin, and to make her lips look redder and her eyes darker, almost like the colour of the hair itself; but the white mob cap, she considered, caused her skin to appear pasty.
Reluctantly, she pulled the cap on to her head, peered at herself once more in the mirror, opened her lips wide to see that there were no pieces of food adhering to her teeth, for since scrubbing them with soot and salt as she did every morning, she had eaten her breakfast. Then she went from the room and almost skipped down the attic stairs, across the landing, and down the main staircase.
Coming to the foot of the stairs, she paused for a moment and looked around the hall. It was a beautiful place, she’d never before really looked at it like this; but then she’d never had time to breathe before, had she?
As the big black kettle spluttered in the heart of the fire she heard the carriages rolling onto the drive and she pulled it quickly onto the hob, smoothed down her apron, adjusted the two truant strands of hair behind her ears, then ran from the kitchen to the front door.
When she opened the door Mrs Rowan and her daughter were just stepping from the first carriage; Mr Rowan followed; the master was already on the gravel holding the carriage door ajar.
From the other carriage two men alighted. One was a stocky man in his fifties, the other a younger man, thin, with slightly stooped shoulders.
The two women were the first to enter the house; and she noted that Mrs Rowan’s daughter was now taking stock of her, staring into her face as if she were weighing her up.
Emily, in turn, merely glanced at the woman, but even so she could tell she was her father’s daughter.
When Larry went to help her off with her coat and she said, ‘I’ll keep it on, we won’t be able to stay long,’ her voice sounded ordinary, even coarse. Then turning about, she looked at Emily yet again before leading the way towards the dining room as if she were already in charge, already the mistress.
Larry came into the kitchen. The cold air had whipped colour into his cheeks; his eyes were bright. He looked excited, but under the circumstances was doing his best to subdue it, at least for the moment; but she could imagine that once the house was clear and the will business over, he’d whoop round the place like a dray horse let loose in a field.
‘They won’t want tea,’ he said, looking towards the spluttering kettle and the teapot; ‘just serve the soup. The men are having spirits, the ladies wine.’
She said nothing but she thought it a funny arrangement. They could have spirits and wine at a funeral in Shields too, but it was always accompanied by tea.
‘You did make soup, didn’t you?’
‘Aye, yes; it’s on the side hob.’ She nodded to the big black pan. ‘I can bring it to the boil in a minute.’
‘Good.’
Once again he put out his hand and touched her cheek and they smiled at each other. But even as they did so she was still seeing Miss Lizzie Rowan marching towards the dining room ahead of the others.
The meal was over, the Rowans were just going. George
had brought their trap from the stables to the front door; Emily had handed Mr Rowan his hat and coat, and the man had not even said ‘Thank you’. But what he did do before going out of the door was to turn and look slowly around the hall before his head made two almost imperceptible nodding motions as if he were giving himself a satisfactory answer to something. Mrs Rowan had smiled at her and said, ‘It was a good meal, girl.’ And it seemed to Emily that the little woman had laid emphasis on the word girl, conveying not the idea of youth, but of maid or servant.
Then Larry emerged from the dining room accompanied by Miss Lizzie Rowan. He was smiling at her, and taking her arm at the door, he guided her across the gravel to the trap. Perhaps it was because the wind was still blowing…and perhaps it wasn’t. Then when she was seated he looked up at her and said something. But it was lost on Emily, as also was her answer. But when Mrs Rowan cried, ‘We’ll be expecting you,’ her words were loud and clear; and as the trap moved off he raised his hand and nodded as if in acceptance.
The solicitor and his clerk now came out of the dining room and she turned to them and said, ‘Will you come this way, please?’ and as they entered the drawing room Larry banged the front door closed behind him and hurried across the hall. At the drawing-room door he stopped to allow Emily to pass out of the room, but he didn’t look at her; and when he shut the door behind her he banged this one too.
She stood and looked at the door for a moment. If he didn’t give rein in some way to his excitement he would burst. He looked as if he was about to take off into the air. It wasn’t, she thought, quite seemly, not gentlemanly like. Granted the missis had been a wicked woman, but a gentleman, a real gentleman, would have hidden his feelings; at least until tomorrow. Oh! Why did she keep yarping on about him not being a gentleman? Her way of reasoning was stupid, for the one thing she should be thankful for at this moment was that he could lay no claim to being a gentleman because, if he was, her chances of staying on here would be slim, wouldn’t they?’
She was about to pass the front door when she stopped and she saw beyond it the picture of him looking up at Miss Lizzie Rowan; but more vividly did she see the picture of Miss Lizzie Rowan looking down at him. Slowly, she walked on into the kitchen. And now her mind dwelt on the fact that it was strange but only once had he mentioned Miss Lizzie Rowan’s name to her, and that was last night here in the kitchen when he was telling her how many to lay for the funeral tea. She remembered now that he was looking into her face as he said, ‘She’s a fine woman, you would like her, Emily. And she can run a farm as good as any man, and better than some.’ But she hadn’t read anything into the words then, for he had immediately touched her chin gently with his fingers …
She had just finished clearing the dining-room table. She had the last tray of dishes in her hands and was thrusting her buttocks out against the kitchen door when the drawing-room door opened and the thin clerk came hurrying towards her. He put out his hand and pushed the kitchen door wide to allow her to pass through before saying hurriedly, ‘Would you go and tell the farmhand, Mr Abel Reading, to come please?’
‘Abbie?’ She put the tray on the table and turned to him.
‘Yes.’
She did not go immediately to do his bidding, for she was wondering why the master himself hadn’t called her to tell her to fetch Abbie, but she supposed it was all right, clerks were for doing this kind of thing.
‘All right.’ She turned from him, grabbed a shawl from the back of the door, put it round her shoulders, and ran out.
She found Abbie in the harness room. He was sitting on an upturned tub before the boiler. He was looking a picture of dejection until she said to him, ‘You’re wanted over at the house; the solicitor’s man said you’re to come. They’re in the drawing room.’
‘Me?’ He was on his feet as if he had just been injected with life. ‘The solicitor’s man said I had to come?’
‘Aye.’
He picked up his cap from the saddle rack, buttoned his coat, dusted down his trousers, made an effort to straighten his back, then marched out into the yard.
He went into the kitchen without wiping his feet, and she wanted to shout at him, ‘Look at my floor!’ but she stood watching him until he disappeared into the hall, and as she slowly pulled the shawl from her shoulders and hung it up again she thought to herself, She’s left him something …
It seemed that Abbie had hardly got into the room before she heard the shout. But when she glanced at the clock she knew ten minutes had passed, and during that time she had got all the dishes into the sink. She hurried up the kitchen now and opened the door and looked across the hall. There was someone shouting and she hadn’t to ask who it was; it was as if he was up in the room above the kitchen again yelling at the mistress.
She sprang back and closed the door as she heard the drawing-room door burst open, and she was busying herself at the sink when Abbie entered the room again. As she turned she looked at him and her hands became still in the water. As with the master, the years seemed to have dropped from him, but in a different way; his face was full of merriment, glee, like that of an imp. He came to her with a step that had a spring in it, and with his doubled-up fist he punched her on the shoulder as he cried at her, ‘God’s slow but He’s sure! Always remember that, girl. God’s slow but He’s sure. How are the mighty fallen!’ he said, and he meant it. ‘This is the happiest day of me life, girl. This is the happiest day of me life.’
Slowly, she pulled up the hem of her coarse apron and dried her hands on it and, taking a step back from him, she said, ‘What’s happened?’’
‘He’s got his deserts, that’s what’s happened. I’ve always told you, haven’t I, one day he’d get his deserts? An’ by God, it’s come about this day! Aye, aye, it has that.’
‘What’s happened?’
The tone of her voice took the smile from his face, and he thrust his wrinkled countenance towards her as he cried, ‘This is what’s happened lass. The missis has left me two hundred pounds. Do you hear that? Two hundred pounds! An’ she’s left me in charge of the whole lot. The whole lot!’ He threw his arms wide.
‘Left you in…ch…charge?’ She couldn’t get her words out straight. ‘What do you mean? What’s happened? The farm’s the master’s, like the rest of the place.’
‘You think so? Huh! You think so? Well, I’ve got a surprise for you, girl. You’ve always been on his side, haven’t you? He’s had you on a string, he’s used you. I’ve seen it all the time. If things had gone as he thought you’d have been out on your arse and Miss Lizzie Rowan would have been installed here, an’ her father wouldn’t have raised any objections now. Oh no, not now, not with a farm and property like this he wouldn’t. When his lordship was merely a drover old Rowan kicked his backside off his place more than once, but now…’
‘Tell me what’s happened.’ She had him by the shoulders now and she had the desire to throw him against the wall, him and his spewing vindictiveness.
With a heave he pushed her away, and none too gently, and as she staggered backwards he said, ‘Aye, I’ll tell you what’s happened. The mistress left everything to her husband.’
Emily was standing with her side pressed against the stone sink; one arm was gripping her waist, her other hand was across her mouth. She said nothing but she screwed up her eyes and peered at the old man and watched him toss his head from side to side, his glee evident again as he spluttered, ‘Did you hear what I said? I said, left it to her husband. She was married afore. What do you think of that? It turned out that on that trip to America she married a young bloke who got himself jailed for ten years for killin’ another fellow. He would have got life but it came out he was defending his wife. It’s all there signed and sealed, marriage certificate, newspapers about the case an’ all, the lot. And I’ll tell you something else, lass.’ He was now stabbing his finger at her. ‘Those headlines in those papers’ll mean nothing to the headlines here when this gets about.’ He paused and stared into
Emily’s gaping face, then went on, ‘By! How she must have hated him all these years, practically from the start. An’ she was clever…cute. Aye, she was that, for what does she do but go to another solicitor an’ get a will made, an’ gives her name as Mrs Stuart, as it legally was, an’ then seals it an’ delivers it to her own family solicitor with the instructions that it’s not to be opened till she dies. That was thinking ahead, wasn’t it? By! They’ll have a bonfire in the village when they get wind of this. Aye, they will that. An’ I’ll be the first to put a light to it.’
‘You’re a vindictive swine! That’s what you are, Abbie Reading; you’re as cruel as she was. And…and I don’t believe a word you say. It couldn’t happen.’
‘What you mean to say, lass, is, you wish it couldn’t ’cos you had your eye on him, hadn’t you? But let me tell you, you hadn’t a chance in hell, hinny. You hadn’t a chance in hell. Warm his bed…oh aye, aye, he would have used you for that, but make you mistress of this place? Huh! Huh! you couldn’t have really thought he would have been as daft as that, or as decent.’ His eyes narrowed and his lip stuck out as he repeated, ‘Or as decent. No, not him, because, lass, at rock bottom he’s a swine. All right, you can say it as well as look it, I’m a swine an’ all, but I’m out in the open an’ I keep me place, I’ve never aimed to be above meself. But him. My God when I think of how he came here beggin’ for work, just like Georgie back there’—he thumbed over his shoulder—‘and how he toadied and sucked up to her, how he worked her up, tempted her with his manhood. Aw, the things I saw. She would have been happy to have had him up in the loft, but no, he made her pay the price for her satisfaction. An’ the price, as he saw it, was this house and farm…But oh, isn’t God just, eh, lass? Isn’t He just?…Aye, I would sit down.’ He nodded at her now. ‘It caused him to sit down, too, after he had almost throttled the solicitor man. The way he got up from the chair and bounced at the fellow, a spring-heel Jack couldn’t have been quicker. A week she’s given him to get out of the place, a week. An’ what else? As much as he can get on a flat cart. Ha, ha! God! That I should live to see this day.’
The Tide of Life Page 28