‘I…I don’t know. Why look at me like that? I don’t know. How should I?’ Her voice was trembling and she looked terrified as he bent over her.
‘You have taken them for a loan, eh? Perhaps to pay dear Cousin Gerald’s debts?’
‘Konrad. How can you! How monstrous!’ She spread her two white hands over her breasts, and her own voice high now and hysterical, she cried at him, ‘I have never been out of bed for weeks. Oh! This is too much, too much. I can’t bear any more.’ She flung herself round in the bed and began to wail, beating the pillow with her small white fists the while.
Konrad now moved back from the bed and slowly looked about him, towards Bella, who for once was bereft of words, then from one object to the other in the room as if they would give him some explanation, before tossing his head and spitting forth a string of oaths, which began with ‘Damnation! Bloody hell!’ Then he burst from the room, his voice echoing through the house and causing feet to fly as he yelled. ‘Harris! Harris! Slater! Come here! Where are you, you tykes? Where are you?’
Kirsten had the child on her lap when she heard the first bellow, but before the mistress had stopped screaming she had placed him in the cradle and was standing within a yard of the door leading into the bedroom with her ears strained while her body trembled.
It sounded as if the master were doing murder. Then his voice came to her from the landing, then the stairs, and then the hall. His bellowing seemed to be rocking the very foundations of the house.
She opened the door onto the landing, and now his voice filled her head. He was swearing as she had never heard anyone swear. He was using a different language, but even so she knew he was swearing. In between the words she heard feet flying across the hall; then she saw Mrs Poulter come rushing onto the landing and Mary Benton and Jane Styles almost pushed down the main stairs.
There came a moment’s silence during which there seemed to be no sound in the house at all; then it was broken by another bellow and a string of unintelligible words. What was happening? What was happening? She kept repeating the question to herself. Had the master gone mad? Perhaps they had to tie him up. Perhaps they would take him away. Oh no! Oh no! She had seen them tie a man up and throw him into a cart one day when she was on the road with Hop Fuller. They said he had fits and were taking him to the workhouse, where they would put a collar on him and fasten him to the wall.
Now joining the spasmodic bawling came the mistress’s weeping from the bedroom. Then, as if picking up the note of disaster, the child started to cry and she hurried back into the room and grabbed it up into her arms and stood rocking it.
As she walked noiselessly about the room she heard the mistress’s broken words coming through her weeping: ‘Bella, Bella. How, Bella? But Bella, why did they leave the rings? Bella, he can’t blame me, can he? He can’t. Fancy saying that about Gerald. Monstrous. Monstrous.’
And Miss Cartwright saying, ‘There now. There now. Don’t worry, don’t worry, he’ll get them back. It’s someone in the house, it must be. No thief would have got past the dogs.’
‘But there’s only the one key for the library safe, Bella. It’s…it’s special, he told me, very special.’
Kirsten kept walking, padding softly up and down, rocking her body and shaking the baby the while. At intervals a roar would rise from below and engulf the upper floors.
Time passed and, weary of walking, she was about to sit down when she heard Mrs Poulter’s voice next door, saying, ‘Miss, the master says will you come down and bring the girl with you.’ Then Miss Cartwright’s answer on a high note, ‘Go down? Certainly…’ She did not add ‘not’ but after a moment said, ‘Tell the master I cannot leave my mistress at the moment, you take the girl down.’
When Mrs Poulter entered the room, Kirsten had placed the child in the crib and as Mrs Poulter, her round face white, her eyes staring, said briefly, ‘Come on, hurry,’ she scurried towards her, and Mrs Poulter, clutching at her arm, muttered under her breath, ‘Not that you’ll know anything about this affair. I said as much, but…but they think you might have acted as a contact, you understand?’
No, she didn’t; but she wasn’t allowed the time to speak for Mrs Poulter was almost dragging her along.
As they descended the stairs Mrs Poulter said rapidly but kindly now, ‘Don’t worry, don’t worry, it’s just a matter of course, sort of; everybody’s being questioned. But the fact is somebody must have known the ins and outs of that safe, and they’ve worked it out it must have been done when the master was away, for with the excitement of the child coming he never put the keys back. He had a drawer for the keys, a special drawer, secret.’ Her head was bobbing like a cork on water.
They entered the library. Kirsten being pushed through the doorway by Mrs Poulter and into a room that seemed packed with men. There was Slater, and Bainbridge, and Riley, and the valet, and Mr Dixon, Mr Hay and the stable boys, and pacing back and forward between the two main windows was the master. He had been speaking, but now he stopped and looked down the length of the room at her, then said grimly. ‘Come here, girl.’ And again Mrs Poulter pushed her forward. Then she was facing, not only the master, but all the men.
Konrad looked at the girl for a long moment before speaking. He saw that her eye had dropped completely into the corner and he saw too that she was very afraid, and his voice was tempered to a slightly lower note when he asked, ‘Tell me, girl; how long were you in these parts before the flood?’
She moved her head in a small circle, gulped deeply, then answered, ‘Two days, sir. No, three…No…’ She shook her head; she couldn’t remember now whether it was two days or three.
‘Your man, the tinker, did he come selling at this house?’
‘I…I don’t know, sir.’
‘They tell me he did.’
Kirsten stared as if hypnotised into the wild-looking face and the pale eyes that now seemed filmed with red.
‘When you went into towns, did he meet men, trade with men, other than with pots and pans?’
Again her head moved in a circle before she could stammer, ‘I, I don’t know, sir, I…I was with him only n-nine months, an’ in the towns he kept me in the cart most of the time, because of…of—’ Her head drooped and she left the sentence unfinished. She felt weighed down to the ground with the eyes upon her, but more so with another terrible secret that she’d have to carry for the rest of her days. She was well aware that were she now to tell where the missing jewellery was no-one would believe but that she had been party to Hop Fuller’s thieving, and she could be put away, deported likely.
‘Are you sure the man is dead?’
Now she could answer without hesitation: ‘Oh aye. Yes, sir. I…I saw the plank split his skull open, and then he went under the water.’
‘Oh! This is ridiculous.’ He was pacing up and down again. ‘This isn’t the work of a tinker, this is the work of an expert, someone with brains.’ He was now walking in front of his servants like an angry general before his staff. ‘You all knew where the keys were kept, nothing is a secret from servants. One of you had a copy made, hadn’t you? Hadn’t you!’ There was a pause while the echo of his booming died away. ‘Now I warn you’—his finger stabbed at one man after another—‘I’ll find that man, and by God it’ll be a sorry day when I do, for I promise him he’ll be glad to go to Botany Bay. And those who are shielding him too. So instead of hiding what you know, think twice. As I’ve told you I’ll give you till tomorrow morning to bring me the information I want. Whoever does this will get off scot-free…That is all. Get out. Get out the lot of you! You eat and drink at my expense; you’re clothed at my expense; only through me you exist; and what do I get? I cannot leave my house for a week but you allow it to be riddled. Well, things will be different from now on, I’m warning you…And you!’ He stopped Kirsten with a pointed finger as she was about to follow Mrs Poulter and the men, and she came to a trembling standstill and held her breath as he shouted, ‘Don’t you get agitated or yo
u’ll sour the milk.’ Then the arm still outstretched, the finger flicked upwards in dismissal and she was once again going up the staircase, willing herself now not to be sick until she got into her room, and Mrs Poulter was saying, ‘He’s right; you mustn’t get agitated, it’ll affect the child.’ They had reached the corridor when she added, ‘Thank God for the child; it’s softened him somewhat.’ And this remark brought Kirsten’s head jerking towards her. If that was the master softened then God prevent her from ever witnessing his anger.
The child cried a lot during the next few days and when it had diarrhoea Mrs Poulter warned Kirsten that she must stop worrying or the master would get angry…or more angry.
There was a lot of coming and going in the house. Two men came from London, and there was more questioning. It was whispered that the missing jewellery was valued at ten thousand pounds, and the voices were hushed when they spoke of this sum. Kirsten herself had no idea of the extent of the amount; if it had been ten pounds she would have recognised it as a great deal of money, twice the amount she had in the bundle under her mattress, but ten thousand meant nothing to her.
Only twice did she catch a glimpse of the fine ladies and gentlemen who came up to the bedroom to see the mistress, for at such times Miss Cartwright would lay the child on a large satin cushion and carry it into the bedroom herself. The first ones she saw were Lord Milton and his wife. Lord Milton was tall and thin and his voice sounded tall and thin too; his wife was small and round and pretty and she had a lisp. Kirsten thought of it as being tongue-tacked. Lady Milton commiserated with the mistress on losing her jewels, and she heard his lordship say to the master that the theft was on the same pattern as those which had occurred at Hexham over the past three years or so. He was of the opinion that it was a very experienced locksmith who did the work, that he was not only a craftsman but likely a gentleman with access to the homes he robbed, which had caused the master to come back with the only light words he had used in days: ‘Well, Henry, don’t tell me I’m to suspect you.’ And at this Lady Milton’s laugh had tinkled through the room.
Then she saw the Bowen-Crawfords. They were both fat, and the lady looked funny for she wore a high shiny black straw hat with a bright pink band around it and streamers trailing from the back. From snatches of conversation she gathered that two years previously they had sustained a similar loss and apparently it could have been the work of the same man for here, too, not all the jewellery was taken, the cases having been emptied but the open trays left. It was a very clever trick, it delayed suspicion for weeks, even months perhaps, for one didn’t examine every case every time the safe was opened, said Mr Bowen-Crawford.
Kirsten began to have nightmares in which she was scraping out great holes with her hands. Sometimes she fell into them and they were so deep she couldn’t climb out again …
The christening was not held on the second Sunday in Lent, it was not held until the fourth Sunday in Lent, and Kirsten wasn’t allowed to attend. She fed the baby and dressed him, in all but the christening robe and the lace shawl which had been sent over from Sweden and which had draped Knutssons for generations.
It was Bella, stiff and with hooded gaze, who arrayed the child in the outer robes and it was she who carried him down to the carriage, while the master supported his wife, himself helping her up the steps and laying the rugs over her voluminous skirt, and taking hold of her hand when he took his seat.
When they returned from the church the child was Oscar Eric Karl Knutsson and when he was held up for the guests to admire him he gurgled as if he were happy to be present on the occasion, and this amused everyone, except his mother, who was still feeling far from well, having demonstrated the fact by almost fainting in the church at the moment the child was named.
Just as Bella had put on the baby’s gown and shawl, so she later took them off; she did it without making any comment at all, and not until she had laid the two garments across her arm and was about to depart did she look at Kirsten, and then she said under her breath, ‘From now on you will call him Master Oscar.’
Kirsten picked up the child from the day bed and, holding him in her arms, she looked at him. Oscar, Master Oscar. A queer name to give a child; she had never heard the like of it before. He smiled at her. He looked bonny when he smiled, really bonny. She always wanted to hug him to her when he smiled, but now she resisted the temptation and placed him in the cradle, and there he lay gurgling. It was as if he were talking to himself.
It was later that evening, after dinner, when the mistress came upstairs accompanied by a young man. Kirsten was startled when they walked into the night nursery. The mistress, as usual, did not take the slightest notice of her but walked across the room as if it were empty of all but the child. She stood at the foot of the cradle with the young man by her side and they both gazed at the child, and Kirsten gazed at them, and what struck her forcibly was the resemblance between them. They could have been brother and sister, twins; the only difference was, the young man was taller than the mistress, but he had the same kind of face, delicate—she did not think of it as weak. After a few moments the mistress turned to the young man and said, ‘There! Oscar Eric Karl Knutsson,’ and the young man continued to stare at the baby until she said, ‘Come,’ and they walked out, the mistress still ignoring Kirsten’s existence. But the young man, when he reached the door, turned his head and gave her a fleeting glance, one which encompassed her from head to toe.
When the door closed she stood looking at it. She knew who the young man was, he was the mistress’s cousin, the one she was always talking about to Miss Cartwright, the one named Gerald. She looked to the side as if trying to piece something together, something that was visible to her gaze; then she turned about and walked back to the cradle, and as she looked down at the child the pieces in her mind fitted into place and she felt her body start as she thought, He knows. She’s told him, he knows. But no. She rejected the idea. She wouldn’t be so mad, she was a lady and therefore sensible. But if she had? What if she had? She said aloud, ‘Eeh! Dear God, the master!’
Four
It was Easter and the child was two months old. Konrad Knutsson had driven his wife over to Lord Milton’s for the day. It was the first time she had been out visiting since the child was born, and in their absence the house seemed to breathe freely for the first time in weeks; the tension since the robbery had been felt in every part of the house, but now it was lessened and everybody had unbended a little, all except Miss Cartwright. Miss Cartwright never unbent; but when Kirsten had fed the child and put him to rest for the afternoon Miss Cartwright said to her, ‘You may take your walk today.’
Kirsten, deferential as always, said, ‘Thank you, miss,’ and without further ado picked up her shawl and went out, letting a long sigh of relief escape her as she did so.
Miss Cartwright, she knew, was counting the days until the child should be weaned, and since the nurse had left she had centred her whole attention on herself. She watched her every move. She would come upon her unexpectedly when talking to Mrs Poulter and stare at her until her spit dried in her mouth. At times Kirsten felt tempted to say something to assure her on the matter of her silence, but then Miss Cartwright wasn’t a person who demanded reassurance, only obedience.
It seemed now that her main work in the house was not attendance on the child but the thinking out of ways and means to prevent Miss Cartwright finding any fault with her. It was strange, Kirsten thought at times, that it should be Miss Cartwright she wanted to please and not the mistress. The mistress she rarely thought of because she rarely saw her; most of the day for weeks past she had been divided from her by a single wall and she was intimate with every cadence of her voice, but the woman herself, the girl herself, for she thought of her as a girl, she acted like a girl, didn’t seem of importance somehow in the household. The two important people in the household were the master and Miss Cartwright.
Of late, she had wondered what she would do when she left here; buy
ing a horse and cart didn’t seem the answer now somehow. If it wasn’t for her affliction she could have gone somewhere as a nursemaid, but as it was such a situation was out of the question. The best thing would be for her to save enough money to get by on until she could get into some sort of service.
She had six pounds fourteen shillings in her bundle now, but time and again her mind would move towards the other shaft and what it might hold, and so today she decided to go to the tree and to try and pull the broken shaft down. That is if it were still there; very likely there had been scroungers about. But no, they couldn’t get onto this part of the river, it was private land. Except that Mr Flynn; he could come over by the steppy stones; but then, she thought, the debris would have no interest for Mr Flynn.
But there she was mistaken. She went through the park, skirting the small grave, and it was as she came to the top of the meadow that ran down to the river that she saw a strange happening. A small boy was stumbling across the steppy stones towards the farther bank, and across his arms he was carrying part of the yellow cart shaft.
As she went quickly down the meadow there came running down the bank on the other side of the river the figure of Mr Flynn, and so quick was his running that when the boy stepped from the last stone up onto the bank Mr Flynn was in front of him, and his voice carried to her as he shouted, ‘I told you not to go over there, didn’t I! Do you want to be had up for stealing? For that’s what would have happened as quick as knife if they’d found you at it.’
The boy’s voice came to her now saying coaxingly, ‘It’s only a bit of wood, Colum man; it would go rotten lyin’ there. They haven’t been down to the pile since the flood; I’ve popped down every day to see; nobody wants it, man.’
The Slow Awakening Page 12
