The Slow Awakening

by Catherine Cookson (Catherine Marchant)

  He had walked to the table on which her book lay and had picked it up, and now he turned and looked at her over his shoulder, saying, ‘By all means. By all means.’

  Yes, she could have her jewels, the replicas of those that had been stolen. Yes, for what they were worth, she could have her jewels.

  His eyes returned to the book and he was forced to smother a snort as he read: A Young Lady’s Book: A Manual of Elegant Recreations, Exercises and Pursuits. His lips curling, he flicked the pages. Under the heading of ‘Conchology’ there was a chapter on shell collecting. Another on the toilet; another on embroidery. There was also a chapter on entomology and mineralogy giving the bare outlines of the subject as a tutor would to a six-year-old boy. And this was his wife’s reading! This was the woman who was the mistress of this house and estate, and the mother of his son, whom to his knowledge she had never looked upon in months, except perhaps if she had espied him from the window. What had his lust brought him? No, no, he would not be that unfair to himself. What had his desire for a son brought him? Pray God the boy would have few of her qualities, far rather had he inherited the strength and determination and even the looks of Bella. Strange, but this wasn’t the first time he had thought along these lines of late, even while his mind was on the girl. The mind, he thought, was a disconcerting piece of mechanism.

  ‘But I cannot go to the ball without an escort.’ Her statement sounded as if it were the continuation of a discussion on the subject, and he turned to her and said, ‘Well, how do you expect me to arrange that? Shall I hire you an escort?’

  Her chin went up and her small head wagged.

  ‘I could ask Gerald down for the weekend.’

  He stared at her. He did not like that young fellow; but there again he did not dislike him. He was just an inane creature, a drawing-room tea man, full of small talk and anecdotes that made the ladies titter. She liked him, he knew she liked him. But what odds? Let her have her Gerald and a few hours of tittering, for what had she in life of any value? Her only aim seemed to be the preservation of her face, and her mind couldn’t rise above the heights of A Young Lady’s Book of Elegant Recreations.

  He was about to walk from the room without giving her an answer, but he stopped at the door and, turning to her, said, ‘On one condition, that he rides neither the Rover, Prince, nor Boss, and I shall leave orders to that effect.’ On this he left her.

  When he was crossing the landing he saw Bella coming towards him from the direction of the stairs and he thought she looked tired, as if the climbing of the stairs had exhausted her; moreover she appeared worried. He could always tell when she was worried. When he stopped in front of her he asked bluntly, ‘Is anything wrong?’

  ‘Wrong? What could be wrong?’

  ‘You look tired; why don’t you take a holiday?’

  ‘I don’t need a holiday; life is just one long holiday.’ Her tone did not confirm her words.

  They stared hard at one another for a moment before he said, ‘She wants her jewels for the Miltons’ ball; come, and I will give them to you.’

  ‘Why?’ Her eyes were wide. ‘That isn’t until next Friday.’

  He was walking towards the stairs with her slightly to the side of him when he said, ‘I’m leaving this afternoon for Newcastle. I go to Sweden tomorrow; my grandfather has died.’

  They were in the library before she spoke again. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘You were very fond of him, weren’t you?’

  From the safe door he cast a glance at her as if in gratitude for her words and said, ‘Yes, Bella, I was very fond of him.’

  Carefully he lifted the necklace and the tiara from their cases, held them up to the light, replaced them, then closed the lids. From the trays he selected only four rings and, placing them on a piece of black velvet, handed them to her. When she looked inquiringly towards the tray in the open safe, he said, ‘Four is quite enough for any woman to wear; she doesn’t want to appear another Anna Bowen-Crawford, a walking battleship of accoutrements.’

  As Bella smiled one of her rare, rare smiles that could, if she had allowed it, have developed into a laugh, he smiled at her in return, and in a spontaneous gesture for which he could not account, even later when he dissected the motive that may have prompted the generosity, he said, ‘I’d like to give you something, Bella, something of value. I’ve never given you a real present.’ And on this he stepped quickly back to the safe, brought out the tray, held it towards her and said. ‘Take your pick.’

  ‘No. Oh no,’ She moved away from him saying, ‘They’re…they’re Florence’s, they belong to…’

  ‘They’re not Florence’s, they don’t belong to Florence, they are mine. They were my mother’s and her mother’s, they’re not Florence’s. Take your pick. Come on, do as I say.’

  She held his eyes for a moment longer; then stepping slowly forward she picked up a plain gold ring with a single stone set in a circle of tiny pearls, and he exclaimed quickly, ‘Why did you pick that one? It’s of the least value. Look, here.’ He thrust towards her a heavy gold ring bearing two half circles of diamonds, each enclosing a flower of rubies.

  ‘No, no, that’s the most valuable; she’s…she’s very fond…’

  ‘Take this ring, Bella.’

  Some seconds elapsed before she took the ring from his fingers. Then looking into his eyes she asked quietly, ‘Why?’

  ‘Why? No reason, other than I said, I have never given you a present. You have served her for years and what have you got? Less than me I should say.’

  ‘Konrad!’

  ‘Yes, Bella.’ He watched her face working. First her lips, then the muscles of her jaws, then her blinking lids. He watched her close her eyes tightly until the sockets were a bed of wrinkled flesh, and he said in some concern, ‘What is it?’ He watched her open her eyes, swallow deeply, shake her head slightly, look down and away from him and onto the ring as she murmured, ‘Nothing, nothing. I…I just want to say thank you. But…but you know I won’t be able to wear it; I…I couldn’t tell her.’

  ‘Please yourself about that, but it’s yours.’

  He had closed the safe door before she spoke again, and then she asked, ‘When will you be returning?’

  ‘In three weeks or so. It will depend on the weather, and sailing, and of course how quickly I can get things settled over there.’ But this thought bringing into his mind the many commercial interests of his grandfather, he added, ‘I may be cutting the time fine, it could be four.’

  When he turned to her again she was looking at the ring, and now he said quietly but abruptly, ‘Bella, leave things as they are in the east wing, will you?’

  It was some seconds before she raised her eyes to his and looked straight at him, and he felt his colour rise as he thought, She thinks it’s a bribe. And perhaps it was. Perhaps that’s why he had given her the ring, to make her a little less hard towards Kirsten, and at the same time a little softer towards his son, and he asked himself, too, at this moment was it his hope that Bella would take the place of Florence in the child’s mind, because every child needed two parents? But then hadn’t his son a substitute mother as good as, if not better than, any mother could be? No, let him face the truth, he wasn’t asking of Bella that she should be a substitute mother, but that she should be kind to the young mother in his absence, not persecute her as she had done of yore.

  As she went towards the door he addressed her back, his tone tense now. ‘I expect to find things the same on my return as I leave them, Bella, you understand?’

  At the door she turned. The two black cases were resting in the crook of one arm; her other arm was bent at the elbow and her hand was closed over the ring. Opening her fingers and extending her palm slightly towards him, she said. ‘Thank you for your gift,’ and on this she turned from him and went out.

  Bella! He shook his head. Bella was an enigma. She had more power and strength than most men he knew, and she was hard, inflexible, yet at the same time loyal. Look at her year
s of service to Florence. But why did she hate Kirsten so much? The girl had come into her life bare, owning nothing, yet Bella directed towards her a hate that one only levelled against an equal.

  In a similar equation, was that upstart young Flynn his equal then? Oh, he thrust the question aside with the thought that the situations were entirely different. But the man having come to his mind, told him he must see Kirsten …

  The child greeted him as soon as he entered the nursery with the cry of ‘Papa. Papa.’ He had been sitting on a rug in the middle of the room. Now with a firm twist of his body he got onto his bow legs, attempted to run, managed three shambling steps, fell over, then with another expert twist, sat down, his body bent forward, his hands flat in the crescent of his legs and his face bright with laughter. ‘Papa, look, horsey, horsey.’ Like an eel he now wriggled round and crawled back to the rug and pointing to an open picture book he looked up at Konrad who, dropping to his hunkers, said, ‘Indeed. Indeed, horsey.’

  ‘Papa’s.’

  ‘Yes, Papa’s.’ Konrad’s face was as bright as the boy’s and his eyes flashed up at Kirsten in pride.

  ‘Papa’s-horsey.’ Now the child twisted round again and stumbling to its feet and falling and rising again, in this way reached the window and there, clutching the low sill, pointed downwards in the direction of the stable yard, crying, ‘Papa’s-horsey. Papa’s-horsey. Papa-ride-horsey.’

  Konrad did not answer the child but, still with his eyes on him, he motioned Kirsten to his side with a lift of his hand and said under his breath, ‘Did you see that? They’re gaining in strength. The main thing now is to get them straight.’ He paused for a time before adding, ‘I am leaving for Sweden today. There’s a man in Stockholm I have heard of who does good work in cases like this; I’ll talk with him, perhaps persuade him to come over.’

  ‘You’re leaving today, master?’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ He turned to her. ‘My grandfather has died; there are things I must attend to.’

  ‘Oh! I’m sorry about, about your grandfather, master.’

  As he looked into her face a warmness crept over his body, and his heart seemed to pump just a little faster. She was sorry he was leaving; she was the only one who had shown any real emotion at his going.

  ‘I have left orders,’ he said, ‘that you are not to be disturbed in any way. Also’—his tone stiffened now—‘I am giving you an order when I say that you must not leave the boy until I return, you understand? You will have no recreation time until I am back in the house.’

  It was a matter of seconds before she answered, ‘Yes, master.’

  ‘I do not know how long I shall be away, but you will stay closely with him until I return.’

  It would be a test if he were away for two or three months. He thought foolishly at the moment of making it so in order to prove her loyalty, but that would be cutting off his nose to spite his face.

  ‘Papa. Papa.’ The child was pulling himself up against his legs and when he was balanced on his feet he pointed to some blocks on an oak table by the side of the rug and cried, ‘A…B…C…D…alp…bet, Papa, alp…bet.’

  ‘Indeed alp…bet. A, B, C D. Come along, what is next?’

  ‘E, Papa, E.’

  ‘And next?’

  The bright laughing eyes in the round face flashed up to Kirsten, then towards the bricks and said, ‘Fuh…fuh.’

  ‘F, F, say F.’

  ‘Fuh…fuh.’

  At this the child threw back its head and laughed and the sound was high and merry and Konrad laughed and Kirsten laughed; and then she said softly, ‘It’s most difficult for him to say F, master.’

  ‘Don’t worry; don’t press him, it’ll come. He’s doing wonders…And you are doing wonders.’ He had one of his hands on the child’s head steadying him, and now he put the other out and cupped her chin and asked quietly, ‘Do you like Voltaire?’

  There was a slight flush in her cheeks when she answered, ‘Not…not very much, master.’

  ‘Why?’ He gripped her chin now and shook her head; then she laughed guiltily as she said, ‘I don’t understand him, master. He…well, what I mean is, he tries to make you think bad is good, and good is bad.’

  His head went back and he laughed, but softly, then he said, ‘Well put. Well put. But that is not quite his meaning. Still, you have formed your own opinion of him and that is something. We must talk about him on my return. I will leave you a book of essays by Addison. He was a man born in the seventeenth century. Come, give me a date in the seventeenth century.’

  She thought for a moment, wetted her lips and said, ‘Sixteen hundred and sixty-two, master.’

  ‘Good, good. You know now that the seventeenth century does not begin with seventeen hundred, that is good. Many so-called ladies don’t know that; would you believe it?’

  ‘No, master.’ She shook her head.

  ‘Now then, Addison. Well, early in the eighteenth century this man wrote for a paper called the Spectator. It has now become a sort of magazine; I will leave you some modern copies together with his essays. You must read them and when I come back we will discuss him too, eh?’

  ‘Yes, master.’ He ignored the lack of enthusiasm in her voice but, stooping, hoisted the child up into his arms. The boy hugged him tight around the neck and his soft mouth pecked kisses over the broad face; then, his hands moving up into the fair hair, he gripped it and straining back he looked Konrad in the eye and cried joyfully, ‘Papa’s boy.’

  ‘Papa’s boy indeed!’ They were hugging each other again, like two children; but his mood changing swiftly he put the child to the floor and admonished him, ‘You must be a very good boy. Papa is going on a journey, you understand? And you are to be a very good boy until he returns. Do as nurse tells you, always.’ Again he said, ‘You understand?’ and the child, after gazing at him, his mouth agape, nodded his head and said, ‘Yes, Papa.’

  ‘Good. Good.’ He patted the round cheek, then went towards the door, Kirsten following him at a respectful distance. With his hand on the knob he turned and looked at her and said solemnly, ‘One never knows what may happen on a journey, especially crossing the sea. Before I leave I shall write a letter to the effect that should I not return you are to remain my son’s nurse until such time when he can be sent away to school, and, should his health not permit this he will continue to be taught by a tutor. In any case you can remain in this house as long as you wish, and besides a salary you will be well provided for.’

  She had her fingers tightly over her mouth as she muttered, ‘Oh, master! Master! Don’t talk such; you will come back safe.’

  ‘I hope so.’ His voice dropped deep in his throat as he asked, ‘Would you miss me if I didn’t come back at all?’

  Her eyes held his pleading stare and she answered truthfully and from her heart, ‘Oh yes, master, and very much.’

  His hand came out and touched her hair, moved over her brow and came to rest gently on her eye, closing the lid. He let it remain there for a second before saying. ‘With that I am satisfied. Goodbye. And remember what I have said, stay by the child.’

  ‘I will, master, I will. Goodbye, master…goodbye, master.’

  Two

  Konrad hadn’t left the house an hour before Bella made her way to the nursery. This wasn’t unusual, for never a day passed but in the course of her daily round of the house she made it her duty to visit the east wing; yet not once, on any of her visits, had she addressed Kirsten personally. Time and again when the child was smaller she would look at him and if the lifting of his outer garments displayed a wet napkin would exclaim, ‘Disgusting! Disgusting!’ or she would examine the baby food on the table, perhaps picking up a pap bag, then slapping it down and again nearly always with the term, ‘Disgusting! Disgusting!’ Not once had she visited the nursery when Konrad was present. And never, never had she sat down in the room, and the fact that she did so now startled Kirsten; also that she held out her hand to the child and helped him to his feet and
towards her knee.

  Kirsten stood some distance away, to the side of the window, and she wondered, as she had done so often before, why the child liked this woman, this bitter, hard woman, this lady who still treated her as if she were a pig in a sty. But right from the time Oscar had been able to recognise people he had always put out his hands towards the tall stiff figure with the unsmiling face. But it was rarely that she touched him, rarely, that is, until recently when twice, as if unable to resist the temptation, she had placed her hand on the boy’s head.

  Kirsten listened to him now addressing the straight grey-clad woman by the name of Auntie Bella. It was the master who first had taught him to say that. They were on the drive one day and he picked the child up and held him in front of Miss Cartwright’s face and said, ‘This is your Auntie Bella. Say Auntie Bella.’ The child had not complied there and then, but some time later he had surprised Kirsten by repeating the name over and over again as he played with his beads, saying as he pushed each bead along the abacus, ‘Aunt-ie Bell-a. Aunt-ie Bell-a.’

  Miss Cartwright was now looking towards her; and then she spoke to her and what she said made Kirsten gape at her. Miss Cartwright was telling her to sit down in her presence.

  She sat down on the edge of a chair, two arms’ length away, and, her eye flickering back and forward, she gazed into the dark eyes hooded by the thick brows and saw that for once their look was not steel hard, nor the voice when it spoke commanding or disdainful, but in quiet tones it said. ‘Tell me, are you…are you betrothed to the young man…the Flynn young man?’

  Kirsten’s eye now flickered rapidly. No-one had asked her this question before, no-one in the house knew of her promise to Colum unless, that is, he had told Mr Dixon. But Mr Dixon had not been across the river for a long time. He had rheumatism in his back and it took him all his time to carry out his duties, but he always gave her a pleasant message to take up the hill when he saw her going out on her leave day. Her head drooped slightly and she looked down to her joined hands lying in her lap as she said stiffly, ‘There is an understandin’.’