The Old House at Railes: A heartwarming rags to riches Victorian family saga

by Mary E. Pearce

  Chapter Two

  It was a fine summer that year and often during June and July lessons were held out of doors, sometimes on the stone-paved terrace, sometimes in the summer-house, and sometimes in the Tudor garden, depending on the time of day and whether Katharine and her pupils went in search of sunshine or shade.

  The Tudor garden, enclosed by stone walls, against which vines and fig-trees grew, was a favourite place with the young Tarrants, and was also known as the knot garden. It was laid out in criss-crossing paths between which were beds, geometrically shaped, planted with York-and-Lancaster roses; with old-fashioned herbs such as bergamot and balm; southernwood, hyssop, and sage; lavender, rosemary, rue, and germander. At the centre of this garden grew a mulberry tree, around which was a wooden seat; and there were many other seats placed at intervals here and there close against the surrounding walls, between the vines and the fig-trees.

  For Martin, to whom everything at Railes was a new experience, these various parts of the grounds became inextricably linked with the things he learnt in those early weeks. His introduction to algebra meant the loud buzzing of bees in the lime-trees behind the summer-house. Charting the travels of Marco Polo meant the scent of new-mown grass as Jobe the gardener, with his scythe, mowed the lawn below the terrace. And the names of the kings and queens of England, recited aloud from memory, were always to be mixed up in his mind with the cooing of doves in the mulberry tree.

  Sometimes, at Katharine’s suggestion, Hugh took over the teacher’s role, especially in mathematics, and as this was a subject for which Martin had a natural aptitude, he was, within a few weeks, not only solving the problems Hugh set him, but propounding problems of his own. Once the two boys were absorbed in this way for more than an hour, and Ginny, at the far end of the terrace, engaged in sketching a portrait of Katharine, who, in turn, was sketching her, kept glancing towards them impatiently.

  ‘The rule for lessons has always been half an hour for each subject, but ever since Martin Cox has been coming, the rules are all at sixes and sevens. And they are only playing games. They’re not really learning anything.’

  ‘Martin is.’

  ‘Well, Hugh is not.’

  ‘Never mind,’ Katharine said. ‘It’s good for him to have a boy to pit his wits against for a change.’

  ‘Why is it,’ Ginny asked, ‘that you always side with Martin Cox?’

  ‘Why is it,’ Katharine countered, ‘that you always do the opposite?’

  ‘I haven’t forgotten what he said about Papa not paying his bills.’

  Ginny herself took no direct part in Martin’s education, but liked to point out the mistakes he made, whether in speech or in general behaviour. Often she stored these corrections up until some moment occurred when she and he were alone together.

  ‘It isn’t mischeevious ‒ it’s mischievous. And it’s different from, not different to. And when my sister leaves the room, you should rise and open the door for her.’

  ‘Anything else?’ Martin said.

  ‘Oh, yes, dozens of things, but judging by the look on your face, you would rather not hear them.’

  ‘I daresay you’ll tell me, anyway.’

  ‘Only if you wish to learn.’

  ‘I reckon I’m learning plenty from you.’

  ‘And what do you mean by that?’

  Martin shrugged and looked away. He could never keep up these exchanges for long ‒ not when he was alone with her ‒ and sooner or later he was obliged to take refuge in stubborn silence. At first he felt this to be a weakness, and in one sense it was, for her darting remarks fretted him; caused a scattering of his wits; but in another sense it was his strength because Ginny, like all spoilt young people, could not bear to be ignored. Hobbledehoy he might be: she craved his attention all the same; and sometimes he would smile to himself, despising her for her vanity and enjoying a moment of sweet revenge.

  Such moments did not last long; he was awkward in her company and knowing that she watched him so critically served to make matters worse. He found himself saying things back to front, such as ‘kissamore’ for sycamore, and often a dialect word would slip out, such as ‘quarr’ for quarry and ‘stwoon’ for stone. He was awkward physically, too, and once, stepping out of her way on the stairs, he trod on the spaniel puppy, Sam, who gave a terrible high-pitched yelp. Ginny picked the puppy up and made a tremendous fuss of him. She rounded on Martin in a rage.

  ‘Great clumsy, lumbering thing! Why don’t you mind what you’re doing?’ she said, and when Martin put out a hand to fondle the puppy, she stepped back a pace or two, hugging it to her protectively.

  ‘I didn’t do it on purpose,’ he said.

  ‘Didn’t you? I’m not so sure!’

  Sam was now wagging his tail, squirming ecstatically in her grasp, and reaching up to lick her face.

  ‘He doesn’t seem too badly hurt, anyway.’

  ‘You wouldn’t care if you’d killed him,’ she said, ‘seeing that you don’t care for dogs.’

  ‘Who says I don’t care for them?’

  ‘It’s obvious from the way you behave.’

  ‘I reckon I like them well enough, though I wouldn’t make such fools of them as you are doing with that pup.’

  ‘No, you’d sooner tread on them! And what are you doing here, anyway, tramping all over the house in those great heavy boots of yours?’

  ‘I’m going up to the schoolroom to fetch a book Miss Katharine wants.’

  ‘Yes, and that’s another thing! I wish you wouldn’t call my sister “Miss Katharine” as you always do.’

  ‘Why, what should I call her, then?’

  ‘As she is my father’s eldest daughter, she should be called “Miss Tarrant” by rights.’

  ‘But nobody ever calls her that. Not Cook, nor the maids, nor anyone else. They call her Miss Katharine, all of them.’

  ‘I know perfectly well what they do, but I thought your father sent you here to learn a few of the social graces, and if you wish to be correct, you should call her Miss Tarrant as I say. If, on the other hand, you choose to copy the servants instead, that of course is up to you.’

  ‘Yes. It is. And as Miss Katharine herself never seems to mind none, I think I’ll stick to calling her that.’

  His attendance at Railes was irregular and depended on his father’s decisions which, more often than not, were sudden and unpredictable.

  ‘I shall need you at Buckley’s in the morning, my son, to help me raise those chimney-tops. You can go to Railes in the afternoon.’ Or they would have an order for stone and delivering it, one load at a time, would take three or four days in a row. ‘Never mind. It can’t be helped. You can have extra lessons next week instead.’

  Martin hated these sudden changes. He felt the rudeness of such behaviour, as it must appear to the Tarrants, and it made him hot with embarrassment. Miss Ginny, of course, disapproved strongly and told him so without mincing her words; but Miss Katharine, as always, was kindness itself.

  ‘You must come when your father can spare you,’ she said. ‘It won’t inconvenience us in the least.’

  She always made things easy for him; quietly, without any fuss. If he was there at lunch-time, a place was always laid for him, and if he came too late for lunch, she would always ring for the maid and have some cold pork pie brought for him, or some slices of cold roast beef, often with potatoes and salad. Martin at first was extremely reluctant to accept this extra hospitality, but Katharine overrode his objections and, in addition to the meals he was given, there was always a package to take home for Nan: the last of a boiled bacon joint, or a cold mutton pasty with vegetables. He had never eaten so well in his life as he did on these days at Newton Railes, and some of the food was new to him.

  ‘What, never eaten lettuce before?’ Ginny said in astonishment.

  ‘No, never.’

  ‘Do you like it?’ Katharine asked.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It tastes like rain.’

  Lunch in
the dining-room at Railes, although it made him nervous at first, proved such a simple, informal affair that he soon lost the worst of his fears and was able, by watching and listening, to pick up all he needed to know of correct behaviour at the table, at least so far as it prevailed in this gracious but easy-going household.

  John Tarrant was a large-minded man of liberal outlook and encouraged his children to air their views on whatever subjects interested them, especially on current events, as reported in the newspapers. Martin at first took little part, because such discussions were new to him, and he was less ready of speech than the twins, but sometimes Tarrant would turn to him and ask directly for his opinion, as when they were discussing the Chartists, much in the news at that time.

  ‘What do you think of the matter, Martin? Would you say their demands are reasonable?’

  ‘Yes, sir, I would.’

  ‘So you think all men should have the vote?’

  ‘Yes, every one of them ‒ Thread and thrum.’

  ‘And why do you think so?’ Tarrant asked.

  ‘Because I hold it’s only right that all men should have some say in running their lives.’

  ‘I agree with you,’ Hugh said.

  ‘Well, I do not,’ Ginny said, ‘because most common working-men wouldn’t know how to use the vote even if they were given it.’

  ‘They would know well enough,’ Hugh said, ‘if only they were educated.’

  ‘And who is to educate them, pray?’

  ‘Those of us who are lucky enough to have some education already.’

  ‘The stupid ones would still be stupid, whether educated or not.’

  ‘Oh, my dear girl!’ Hugh exclaimed. ‘There are plenty of very stupid people even among the upper classes.’

  ‘Yes, that’s true,’ Martin said, ‘and some of them sit in Parliament.’

  Hugh and his father laughed at this; so did Katharine, at Martin’s side; and the way they all looked at him brought a warm flush to his face, of pleasure mixed with embarrassment. Only Ginny remained aloof, looking at him appraisingly, as though the reddening of his face were a good deal more amusing to her than his quiet rejoinder had been.

  ‘I suppose, as you are a Chartist,’ she said, ‘you would like to see revolution here?’

  ‘No, indeed I would not,’ he said.

  ‘What, don’t you want to see the heads roll?’ she asked in exaggerated surprise.

  ‘Well, just one or two, perhaps.’

  Later that day, when lessons were over, Ginny met him in the great hall.

  ‘What is that book,’ she asked, ‘that you are taking out of the house?’ And when he showed it to her she said: ‘Paradise Lost. Good gracious me! And what do you expect to make of that?’

  ‘First of all I shall have to see what the author makes of it.’

  ‘You consider yourself a fit person to pronounce judgement, then, it seems.’

  ‘I can have an opinion, I suppose.’

  ‘Did my sister say you could borrow that book?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, I hope you will take care of it. It is a particularly fine edition and if any harm should come to it ‒’

  ‘No harm will come to it. I’ll make sure of that.’

  Katharine had been lending him books right from the very beginning and he valued her trust too highly ever to risk losing it. Always, on getting home, therefore, he would hide these borrowed books away, under the pallet of his bed, where they were perfectly safe. He would scrub his hands punctiliously before attempting to read them and was careful never to leave them about where his father might perhaps toss them aside or spill his tea over them.

  Nan knew where the books were hidden and sometimes, when alone in the cottage, she would, with Martin’s permission, steal half an hour from her day’s work and spend it in reading, always guiltily alert for the sound of her father’s return. For although Rufus had decided that his son needed some education, he did not for one moment consider that his daughter had any similar need. Men had their way to make in the world; women merely stayed at home; and Rufus frowned on Martin’s attempts to share his new learning with Nan.

  ‘It won’t do that girl a morsel of good, filling her head with all this stuff about history and whatnot. It’ll make her discontented, that’s all. If you and her have got time on your hands, there’s plenty of work for you both outside.’

  When Nan’s chores in the cottage were finished, she was expected to work in the quarry: dressing the stone and stacking the blocks; tending the lime-kilns; splitting tiles; even sharpening and setting the saw, a job requiring great patience and skill. She had worked like this since the age of nine and took it as a matter of course, but Martin was often indignant for her, especially in the wintertime, for then her hands, badly chapped by cold winds, became unbearably painful to her as the limestone dust, caustic and rough, got into the cracks in her skin, forcing them open until they bled. Even in summer it was bad enough; her hands were always tender and sore; and Martin felt bitterly angry that his father should make her do such work. These days, especially, when he compared Nan’s life with that of the girls at Newton Railes, he was even more indignant for her, but whenever he spoke of it to his father, he received the same rough reply.

  ‘And what would she do with herself all day, if she didn’t give a hand with the stone?’

  ‘There are plenty of things she might do if only she had the chance,’ Martin said. ‘Handling stone is a man’s work. She ought not to do it. It’s heavy and hard and ‒ unsuitable.’

  ‘Has she been grumbling about it to you?’

  ‘No, but ‒’

  ‘Then it seems to me,’ Rufus said, ‘that you may as well get on with your own work, my son, and leave your sister to do hers.’

  But if Rufus would not hear the complaint that Martin lodged on Nan’s behalf, neither would Martin hear his father’s complaint that teaching her was a waste of time.

  ‘If I’m not allowed to teach Nan, I won’t go for lessons myself,’ he said. ‘Besides, talking to Nan about what I’ve learnt helps me to remember it better. It drives it further into my brain.’

  ‘H’mm,’ Rufus said, sceptically. ‘I will say this for you ‒ you’re good at thinking up reasons for doing what you want to do.’

  But although he continued to grumble about it, he did not forbid it outright.

  It was perfectly true that talking to Nan helped to fix information in Martin’s mind. It also served to clarify things which, until then, were only half grasped. But above all else was the sheer pleasure of sharing his new experience with her, and this applied not only to lessons but to everything connected with Railes.

  ‘Is the house as lovely inside as you always imagined it to be?’

  ‘Yes, and it’s full of lovely things. A whole library full of books. Beautiful paintings everywhere. Carpets and rugs on all the floors. Silver spoons and forks to eat with, and knives with ivory handles on them. Oh, I can’t tell you what it’s like! And yet the Tarrants think themselves poor!’

  ‘Do you still feel angry, then, about their owing father money?’

  ‘Well, I still think it’s wrong, but how can I be angry when they are all so good to me? All except Miss Madam, that is, and I don’t take too much account of her.’

  ‘Why does she treat you as she does?’

  ‘To keep me in my place, I suppose.’

  ‘Perhaps she’s a little in love with you, and that’s why she behaves like that.’

  ‘Now you’re talking plumb foolishness.’

  ‘Just think ‒ if you and Miss Ginny Tarrant should one day be married!’ Nan exclaimed, stopping her work to look at him.

  ‘Ah, just think of it!’ Martin said. He gave her a dark, sardonic glance.

  ‘You’re quite a good-looking boy, you know.’

  ‘No, I don’t know.’

  ‘Of course you do.’

  ‘Well, I’d have to be something more than that before Ginny Tarrant would marry me. Yes,
and she’d have to be something more than she is before I’d consider marrying her.’

  ‘You’re not in love with her, then, pretty though she is?’ Nan said.

  ‘No, nor I don’t intend to be, and that’s all-about-it,’ Martin said. ‘She’s a spoilt, vain, spiteful mommet and goes out of her way to make me feel small. Well, so she may, and be damned to her! She’s not going to make a gowk out of me.’

  But then, only a few days later, a small incident occurred at Railes and lo, amazingly, out of the blue, Ginny Tarrant’s attitude to him was changed utterly and forever.

  It was a morning in late July, sunny and warm, and lessons were being held on the terrace. Katharine and Martin sat at a table, discussing an essay he had written, while the twins sat some distance away, testing each other on passages learnt from Cymbeline. Suddenly there was a loud barking down in the garden below: a barking so urgent, so full of distress, that it brought the young people to their feet; and when they looked over the balustrade they saw the spaniel bitch, Tessa, some fifty yards away, down on the lawn, attacking something close to the hedge. As they watched, she darted forward with a quick, angry snap-and-snarl, causing a flurry under the yews. Then she recoiled with a yelp of pain and they saw her rubbing her face with her paw.

  ‘Tessa, what is it?’ Katharine called. She turned to go down the terrace steps.

  ‘Watch out, it’s an adder!’ Martin said. He had seen something writhing on the grass. ‘Don’t go too close, Miss Katharine, please!’

  He leapt clean over the balustrade, into the flower-bed below, and ran across the lawn towards the dog, who was now crying piteously, trying to rub her face on the ground. Before Martin could reach her, however, Tessa’s puppy, Sam, appeared, and, seeing the adder on the grass, went scampering boldly up to it, yapping and snapping and clicking his teeth, and making threatening feints at it. The adder, already injured by Tessa, lay writhing and squirming on the ground, its forked tongue flickering, glistening silver-green in the sun. But the puppy, now doubtful, had drawn back in time, and before he could scamper forward again, Martin had descended on him and was scooping him up out of harm’s way.