Wild Heritage

by Wild Heritage (retail) (epub)

  It was only a short distance from the café to her studio but she felt incapable of making it alone. Clutching at him she said in a slurred voice, ‘Walk with me to the corner. I’m afraid I’ll fall down if I go alone.’

  He did not argue but tucked his apron up into his trouser waistband, winked to his friends and took her arm. ‘Lean on me, Mademoiselle,’ he said sympathetically.

  At the street door of the studio he helped her put the key in the lock and tried to slip into the hall with her.

  She pushed him away and told him, ‘Go back to the café.’

  He was angry and shouted insults at her through the door but she did not care. Safe behind the closed door, she laid her forehead against the wall and wept.

  Chapter Eighteen

  After Marie went to Paris, Tibbie was depressed. Nothing could cheer her until the day Tim, Emma Jane and Christopher turned up in Camptounfoot to take her by surprise.

  When the first flurry of excitement was over Emma Jane said, ‘We heard that Falconwood House is for sale and Tim decided to come north before we started on the London project to see if he could make Mr Raeburn an offer for it.’

  Raeburn, Falconwood’s owner, had been one of the directors of the railway company that hired Emma Jane’s father to build the bridge across the river Tweed. Since then he had frittered away his fortune and was known to be in need of money.

  ‘We only want the house and its park,’ said Tim. ‘We don’t want the farm but it should be easy enough to sell on. Laidlaw, Raeburn’s steward, wants to buy it and he and I’ll probably do a deal if I get it.’ Tibbie gasped and clasped her hands. ‘Imagine! You came here all those years ago as a navvy and now you’re going to buy Falconwood!’ Emma Jane and Christopher stayed with Tibbie while Tim drove off for a meeting with Raeburn. He was gone for two hours and when he came back, he was jubilant.

  ‘I think we’ll come to an agreement. He’s asking too much but his wife’s a sensible woman. She’ll talk him into selling. They’re going to let us know soon, so we’ll sit it out till then.’

  Next morning, news came that Raeburn had accepted Tim’s offer. He was delighted and waving Raeburn’s letter of acceptance he cried, ‘We’ve got Falconwood. It’ll be ours at the end of the summer. Raeburn says we can have a tour of the property tomorrow. Y ou must come with us.’ Though she’d lived almost in the shadow of the big house for her whole life, Tibbie had never even been in its garden, far less across its threshold.

  The next day was brilliantly sunny and Falconwood looked its best as they drove through the gates and up the long, straight drive. It was a Georgian house, built of weathered pale yellow sandstone, unenlarged and unchanged by Victorian fashion because Raeburn never had enough money for rebuilding.

  The façade was two-storeyed and long, with a pillared door in the middle and two well-proportioned wings stretching out at each side in a u-shape. Because it was built on the side of a hill, the kitchen premises and staff rooms were below the façade level, at the back, looking out across the river valley.

  Its park stretched in front of the house to the south, dotted with old trees, oaks and beeches, maples and chestnuts, that gave shelter to the sheep and cattle grazing in their shade. There was a walled garden on the west side with a little turret-like teahouse in one corner and it was full of fruit trees and old cottage-type flowers that had been established there for over a century.

  Tactfully the Raeburn family were not in evidence when the new owners were shown around by the housekeeper, who turned out to be an old schoolfriend of Tibbie’s. Because of their acquaintance she was a good deal more informative than she would have been to strangers and did not hesitate to tell Emma Jane which chimneys smoked or which rooms were bitterly cold in winter.

  The house was beautifully proportioned and not large. It opened off to the east and west from a large central hall with pale-grey-and-white marble pillars and a black-and-white-tiled floor. On one side ran the drawing-room that opened into a smaller salon and a dining-room; on the other was a library, a parlour and a room that Raeburn used as an office, dominated by a huge rent table with drawers around its circumference. The bedrooms were all at the back looking down over the sweep of the river.

  Emma Jane wandered around with her eyes dancing, not afraid to enthuse over the magnificent plaster ceilings and finely carved marble fireplaces which, the housekeeper informed her, were the work of the famous architect William Adam, who had also had a hand in designing the house.

  Everything had been allowed to fall into disrepair, however, for there were greenish damp marks on the walls, soot marks above the chimney pieces and in the shut-up drawing-room a lovely old Chinese wallpaper was hanging in loose and forlorn strips.

  Emma Jane was glad that she and Tim had husbanded their money carefully and would be able to give this jewel-box of a house the care it required. She had no ambition to modernise it, or to cover the pale pastel colours of Adam with the heavy wood stains and embossed wallpaper that were currently in vogue. She’d rehang the Chinese paper, repaint in the original shades and try to re-create the sort of life that had been lived there long ago.

  Tim broke into her reverie by saying, ‘Come and look out of this window, my dear.’ Taking her hand he guided her to an eastern-facing window at the end of the dining-room and when they stood together in its embrasure, he pointed out.

  There, in magnificent outline and bowered in trees, the bridge they had built together stretched over the tranquil river. It was a view of their creation that they had never seen before and they gazed at it entranced.

  ‘Doesn’t it look wonderful?’ they said together.

  * * *

  A few days later Kitty received a letter from Tibbie which fascinated her, especially the bit about Falconwood.

  She could think of nothing more suitable than that her hero Tim Maquire should own that lovely house which she knew well from her wanderings as a child.

  She wondered if he would take over the farm as well, and what would happen to all the people she knew there: Laidlaw, MacPhee, the horrible Liddle? She still did not know if Walter Thompson was alive or dead.

  Thoughtfully she folded up her letter and stuck it behind a china ornament on the mantelshelf. She was going out with Freddy and had to get dressed up in her best.

  They were very happy together. They stayed in bed most of the day, then sallied out grandly to go shopping or to visit fashionable restaurants where Freddy picked at lettuce leaves and smoked cigars while Kitty sampled the menu. No matter where they went people knew him and he was greeted by claps on the shoulder and shaking of hands.

  Marriage was not discussed between them. Kitty did not care because she did not want children. Freddy never asked about her precautions and she never told him. It was something she preferred to keep to herself, like lots of other things, including details of the bank account into which she paid the money she earned from the Excelsior Club and anything Freddy gave her when he came home flush with cash after a successful outing to the races. Sometimes he would come back with a leather satchel stuffed full of money and throw it on the bed with a whoop, crying out, ‘I won today.’

  His success grew till it seemed that any horse with Freddy on its back was a guaranteed winner and owners vied with each other to get him to accept their horses as his mounts. The public loved him and would have backed him if he turned out to race on a rocking-horse.

  When he walked out with Kitty, the acclaim of the people on the street, who recognised him from drawings and sketches in the popular press, for he had an easily caricaturable long face, roguish eyes and a wide, wry mouth, sometimes made getting about difficult.

  He loved his fans and distributed generous tips to any street sweeper, flower seller or poor beggar who greeted him on his way. Because of his generosity, his reputation with the common people grew even more.

  Kitty was slightly piqued that he never asked her to accompany him when he went off to ride but that was something else they did not t
alk about. They kept parts of their lives separate. It suited them that way.

  As the start of another racing season approached, he had to go to Newmarket to try out horses and they were separated for several days at a time. In his absence, Kitty took the omnibus to Whitechapel and sat at her old desk catching up on Mrs White’s paperwork. It was often dark by the time she returned to the Strand.

  One night she went back to find Freddy sitting in the dark parlour with a glass in his hand. He had been drinking and was in a foul mood, glaring when she entered the room and snapping angrily, ‘Where the hell have you been to this hour?’

  She took off her hat and stared at him in surprise. ‘I’ve been at the club,’ she said. She had never seen him so aggressive before and guessed it was the drink that had done it.

  He stood up. ‘Doing what? Entertaining the clients were you?’

  She turned away from him. ‘Of course not. I went to tally up Mrs White’s accounts. You know perfectly well I do that.’

  He put a hand like iron on her shoulder and whirled her round to face him. ‘I don’t want you going there. I want you here when I get back at night.’

  She shrugged her shoulder in a vain attempt to dislodge hjs grip and told him. ‘You don’t own me. If I want to go to Whitechapel, I’ll go. I was late because there was more work than I expected. Get your hands off me!’

  He kept hold of her and shook her hard as he said through gritted teeth, ‘How much does she pay you?’

  ‘One pound a week.’

  Freddy laughed. ‘That’s nothing! I give that to the man who blacks my boots. You don’t need money. I give you anything you want.’

  This time Kitty made a determined effort and wrenched herself out of his grasp. Her shoulder hurt where he’d been holding it. ‘I want my independence. I like having my own money. It makes me feel free,’ she told him.

  He lunged towards her, eyes blazing. ‘I don’t want you free. I want you to be mine.’ He raised his hand and slapped her across the face, a stinging slap that sent her head back. She reacted immediately, for her old practice in the boxing booth still stood her in good stead and Grandma’s training had not been forgotten. With a swift jab to the chin she put him on his back. He lay at her feet, hand on his chin, looking up at her in astonishment.

  ‘You knocked me down,’ he gasped.

  ‘And I’ll do it again if you ever slap my face like you did just now. Nobody hits me.’ Kitty was blazing with a rage that sobered him.

  He clambered to his feet and put his arms round her. ‘Aw, Kitty, my lovely Kitty, I was mad with jealousy. I thought you’d run off with another man. I’ve had a bad day. I never rode a single winner and I was sitting here burning up with anger when you came in. I didn’t mean to hurt you, I really didn’t. Forgive me, say you forgive me, please, please,’ he pleaded.

  He kissed her face, he kissed her hands, he crooned in her ear and of course she forgave him. They made up their disagreement in bed but in spite of Freddy’s blandishments, Kitty would not promise that she’d stop going to the club. She was more determined than ever to keep her independence.

  The thing about their life that really annoyed her was that Peg and her family still turned up regularly and it was obvious from their talk that they went to race meetings and watched Freddy in action. Kitty always stalked into the bedroom when those conversations began, for she could take no part in them.

  May was warm but the beginning of June was hotter. Freddy rose early one morning to say to Kitty, ‘Let’s go up West to buy you a hat for the Derby.’

  She gaped at him from the bed. ‘For the Derby?’

  He was knotting his stock. In defiance of the trend for ties that had come in with fashionable men, Freddy still preferred stocks. They were more horsemanlike.

  ‘Yes, I’m riding in the Derby of course and it’s next week. Don’t you want to see me?’ he asked.

  She sat up excitedly. ‘Of course I want to see you. What’s your mount called?’

  He laughed. ‘Five Per Cent.’

  ‘Will you win?’ she asked.

  He shot her a sharp look. ‘I could. It’s a good horse. It all depends.’

  ‘On the other horses, I suppose,’ said Kitty.

  ‘On more than that,’ Freddy told her.

  Fie crossed to the bed and tickled her. ‘Come on, get up. I want to buy you a hat that’ll stop the old Prince of Wales in his tracks. I want him to say, “Who’s that lovely woman?” and his equerry’ll reply, “That’s Freddy Farrell’s lady, Your Highness!”’

  She laughed. ‘You’re silly. All right I’ll get up, but I’ve fifteen hats already. I don’t need any more.’

  Freddy’s face was unusually solemn. ‘But this is to be a very special hat. This is to be a lucky hat. I want it to be the best and biggest hat in the crowd.’

  They went out arm in arm and had a wonderful morning shopping for hats in Bond Street and Piccadilly with Kitty pirouetting in front of mirrors and Freddy admiring her while all the shop-girls admired him. Eventually he bought an immense hat of beechleaf-green straw with big cabbage roses around its brim and pale green ribbons fluttering from the back. It would not have been Kitty’s own choice but Freddy had his heart set on it.

  It was so heavy that Kitty had trouble perching it on her head and the effort of keeping it in place meant that she had to sail along with her back very straight, as erect as a dowager.

  The effect delighted him. ‘No one’ll miss you on Derby Day. You’ll be the best-looking woman on the course,’ he cried.

  To go with the hat, they also purchased a cream-coloured silk gown with fine voile ruffles round the neck, the wrists and on the skirt. The narrow waist was encircled by a sash of green the same colour as the hat. This ensemble was completed by a pair of ivory-coloured shoes and a silver-handled cream parasol with a ruched frill. When Kitty was arrayed in this outfit, she had to admit that she did feel like a queen.

  On Derby Day Freddy was up at five, more nervous than she had ever seen him. He ate no breakfast, for he had to keep his weight down for Five Per Cent’s light weight and he bustled about from first light, getting his things together, packing and repacking his leather satchel.

  When she eventually emerged from their bedroom in all her finery, he stopped, stared and exclaimed, ‘Aw, Kitty my love. That’s wonderful. I want you to show yourself off today. I’m really proud of you.’

  It was overcast but dry and Freddy, wrapped up in a thick overcoat so that he could sweat off another few unwanted ounces, drove them to Epsom in a high dogcart with a Hackney gelding between the shafts.

  Though it was still early, not yet nine o’clock, in Piccadilly and along by the Elephant and Castle, traffic was flooding like a river into the streets… carts, vans, shandrydans, dashing drags and donkey carts, omnibuses and phaetons. It seemed like all of London was heading for Epsom.

  The carts and carriages jostling for position in the streets were full of shouting people, some wearing false noses, paper hats or feather boas and waving paper streamers. Men, women and children were out to enjoy themselves and when they caught sight of Freddy they cheered him.

  As they dashed along the Surrey Road, they saw many crashes and collisions. In front of them a four-horse phaeton turned upside down and deposited its cargo of two men and two women in the dust but none of them was seriously hurt, though their picnic hamper burst open and bottles of wine, a huge ham and lots of fruit went rolling along the road, to be gathered up by urchins who were cheering as they bore off their unexpected booty.

  Kitty sat forward in her seat, loving the thrill and excitement. She greatly admired the way Freddy handled his horse, for he could make their equipage nip in and out of the traffic, overtaking everything in their way.

  She clung to his arm and laughed. He looked at her and grinned back. ‘This is our big day, my darling,’ he told her.

  When they arrived at the course, there were already hundreds of people on the ground. Some of them had camped overni
ght and Kitty saw sideshows and clusters of showmen’s tents in the middle of the Downs. The strains of an oom-pah-pahing band drifted across to her ears and she gasped, ‘I’m sure the boxing show’s here. I must go to see if I can find Grandma and Sophia.’

  But Freddy scowled and said, ‘No, no, I don’t want you wandering off. I want you near me all day. Don’t wander off onto the Downs or you’ll get lost. I want to see you all the time.’

  She was perfectly well aware that she wouldn’t get lost but she did not argue with him because she could see he was very keyed-up.

  ‘Where are you going?’ she asked.

  ‘To Stamford’s stables. That’s where the “crack” is, but I’ll come back to see you. I’ve a job that I want you to do later,’ he told her.

  She humoured him, patted his arm and said, ‘I’ll do whatever you say.’ Proudly he took her hand and strode with her into the Grand Stand where he installed her in a reserved seat overlooking the course and the Royal Enclosure.

  ‘I’ll come back as soon as I can. Stay here,’ he told her.

  There was plenty to see, for the sun had come out from behind the clouds and was shining brightly. Under its beams throngs of people were arriving on the other side of the course and she could see buses and charabancs by the hundreds; coaches and gigs; flat-topped carts and donkey carriages all disgorging their human cargoes of men, women and children, bent on enjoyment.

  The distant band began calling to her again… She wanted to see Grandma and Sophia very much.

  There was no sign of Freddy. If she hurried, he wouldn’t even know she’d gone. Gathering up her lovely skirts, she left the elegant stand and ran across the course to the part where the touts and tipsters, the loose ladies and their gentlemen friends, the families with children, the costers and the Cockneys were all gathering.