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

by Mary E. Pearce

  ‘Well, he has some money put by,’ Nan said. ‘He has always told us that.’

  ‘Yes, but how much? And what is it for? Where’s the use of putting it by if we never get any good from it?’

  ‘Father says we shall some day. But we’ve got to guard against the hard times.’

  ‘Hard times!’ Martin exclaimed. ‘When have we known anything else?’

  ‘Father must surely know best,’ Nan said.

  ‘Do you think so? I’m damned if I do! Promises! That’s all we get! And that’s all Mother ever got. He promised her a decent house and all she got was a box in the ground!’ He walked in silence for a while and then: ‘Sometimes I think he’s got so used to scrimping and scraping all these years that now he just doesn’t know how to stop.’

  ‘Let’s not talk about Father,’ Nan said. ‘Let’s talk about something else.’

  ‘The Tarrants?’ he said, with a teasing glance.

  ‘Yes, and the house and everything, and what it looks like at this time of year.’

  So he told her about the great hall and how it was decked for Christmastide.

  ‘It’s the largest room in all the house, and although it’s so grand, it’s homely too. There’s almost always a fire in the hearth ‒ even in summer, if the day is damp ‒ and there are settles and chairs and stools round the fire, and all manner of other furniture round about, some of it as old as the house itself. The whole of one wall is all mullioned windows, including a great square bay, which rises to the very roof, all glazed with small leaded panes of glass. They stood the Christmas tree in the bay and when we had got it all decked out … Oh, I wish you had seen it, Nan! … The green branches all hung with delicate gold and silver baubles … with tinsel ribbons strung on it in loops … yes, and small wax candles in different colours, though they won’t be lit, Miss Ginny said, because Mr Tarrant is nervous of fire. The whole of the hall is decked out with holly and ivy and mistletoe and there’s a musical box playing carols …’

  ‘Do you wish you’d gone to the party last night?’

  ‘In some ways I do. If I could have been invisible, now …’

  ‘Oh, but surely you’d want to take part? To talk to people and dance with the girls?’

  ‘Yes, if I had the right clothes to wear, and wasn’t worried all the time about doing and saying everything wrong.’

  ‘I wish you had gone. Then you could have told me about it.’ Nan looked at him and laughed. Her hair and eyebrows were flecked with snow. ‘Whatever did we find to talk about before you began going to Railes? And whatever shall we do with ourselves when the time comes for you to stop?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Martin said. ‘I don’t like to think about that.’

  They turned back towards Scurr, and the wind hurried them down the hill.

  In fact he thought about the future only too often, and because the ending of his lessons at Railes would be like the ending of life itself, he was all the more determined to make the most of them while he could.

  At this time he lived two lives, each the antithesis of the other. On the one hand, his life at Scurr: a mean habitation, comfortless, drab. On the other, Newton Railes: richness and colour wherever he looked; a quiet, unhurried feel to the days; and yet a kind of excitement too, because, through his lessons and the books he read, the world was opening out for him, in his imagination at least. Every hour that he spent with the Tarrants brought some new discovery; something to start a train of thought; to stimulate his own ideas and create a sense of wonder in him. In part it was the companionship; the endless argument and debate, sometimes serious, sometimes not; but always of a quality that made him feel he was really alive.

  It was a strange relationship that he enjoyed with the family. Seeing so much of them as he did, in the intimacy of their home, he had come to know them very well, and felt he was sharing a part of their lives. It was just an illusion, of course, because his life and theirs were poles apart, and when the lessons came to an end, his friendship with them would end, too. It would soon be forgotten, on their side at least, ‒ that, he knew, was inevitable ‒ and he warned himself against the danger of becoming too strongly attached to them. He knew he would have to see to it that he made an independent life of his own, though what that independent life would be, he had as yet no idea. All he had was a firm resolve to arm himself against the loss of those things which, at present, made his life worthwhile.

  Meantime, whenever at Railes, he stored its riches away in his mind: impressions; incidents; scents and sounds: every detail was precious to him and became engrained in his memory. Sometimes it was the lessons themselves: Miss Katharine’s quiet voice explaining the structure of a sonnet, or Miss Ginny’s excitable one quizzing him on the emperors of Rome. Sometimes it was a little scene, creating a picture in his mind: the two girls in the music-room, observed through the half-open door, Miss Katharine at the piano, Miss Ginny singing; and with the picture, inevitably, went the songs they played and sang together: ‘Greensleeves’, ‘The Oak and the Ash’; ‘Afton Water’ and ‘Robin Adair’.

  The music Martin heard at Railes had been a revelation to him, for as well as the old familiar songs, there was music of a kind that he had never heard elsewhere: the delicate sonatas of Haydn; the measured preludes and fugues of Bach; and, touching him even more closely, a Chopin study which Miss Katharine played occasionally. Surely such music as this must have come from another world? He could scarcely believe it had been composed by men who had lived mortal lives on earth.

  Ginny enjoyed his astonishment and liked to try out ‘new’ pieces on him.

  ‘Which did you like best ‒ the Beethoven or the Villeuse?’ she asked once.

  ‘I liked them both in different ways but ‒ I think the Beethoven has more soul.’

  ‘All music has soul, silly. It wouldn’t be music otherwise.’

  ‘Yes, you are right,’ Martin said. ‘I stand before you in a white sheet.’

  ‘Oh, goodness!’ Ginny said. ‘You are beginning to talk like Hugh.’

  Chapter Three

  In April he had his sixteenth birthday and a few weeks later the twins had theirs. It was then Whitsuntide and the Tarrants were away on holiday, staying with friends in Pembrokeshire, but soon after they returned, there was talk of a party at Railes; a belated birthday celebration, to be held on May the twenty-first, and, ‘This time you must come,’ Ginny said. She brushed aside all his objections. ‘If you haven’t any suitable clothes, well, you must get them, that’s all. As for not being able to dance, the party is not for a week yet. That’s plenty of time for you to learn.’

  His sister Nan was also invited ‒ that of course was Miss Katharine’s idea ‒ and Martin, in a state of excitement tinged still with nervous dread, carried the news home to Scurr.

  ‘A party at Railes, eh?’ Rufus said. ‘With company and dancing and that? Yes, well, I think you should go.’

  ‘We shall both need new clothes,’ Martin said. ‘Evening clothes. And special shoes. We can’t go in the clothes we’ve got.’

  ‘Your sister will not be going, my son. You will go alone. It will cost me money enough, fitting you out with all you need, but at least there is some point in that, cos you’re a young man and got your way to make in the world.’

  ‘And what about Nan?’ Martin cried. ‘Surely she deserves the chance of getting some pleasure for a change?’

  ‘Martin, hush,’ Nan said. She laid her hand hard on his arm.

  ‘No, I won’t hush! I will have my say!’ He turned back to his father and said: ‘If Nan is not allowed to go, I will not go myself.’

  ‘As to that, you may please yourself. It’s just about all-as-one to me.’ Rufus drank the last of his tea and set down his mug. He rose from the table and reached for his cap. ‘You are not dictating to me, my boy, over this or anything else, and the sooner you swallow that fact, the better we shall get on, you and me.’

  Grimly, he stalked out of the house. Martin and Nan looked at each
other.

  ‘You shouldn’t have spoken to Father like that. It was bad of you.’

  ‘I meant what I said all the same.’

  ‘Martin, you’re being silly, for I would not have gone, anyway. It is kind of the Tarrants to ask me but I wouldn’t be happy going there. It’s different for you ‒ you’re used to them. But I shouldn’t know what to do or say. I’d be all at sea, like a pea in the pond.’

  ‘Come to that, so shall I, seeing there’ll be such fine folk there, all of them strangers to me, excepting just the Tarrants themselves.’

  ‘Well, go for my sake, if not your own. How else shall I ever know what an evening party at Railes is like?’

  Persuaded by Nan, he decided to go, and Rufus, on hearing of his decision, took him that very evening to be measured by Dunne, the Bridge Street tailor, for a suit of clothes appropriate to the coming occasion. And if the cloth for tail-coat and trousers was perhaps on the coarse side, being the cheapest on Mr Dunne’s shelves, he did not, even by a flicker, betray surprise at his customer’s choice. And if, as Rufus insisted, coat, waistcoat, and trousers, were all cut on the generous side, to allow for a young man’s growth, nevertheless, when made and fitted, they were without argument the most impressive suit of clothes Martin had ever worn in his life. Guided by Mr Dunne, he was outfitted with further essentials: a white shirt, with butterfly collar; cuff-links, studs, a fine white tie; a pair of black dancing-pumps and a pair of white wash-leather gloves.

  ‘I think you look very handsome,’ Nan said, when she saw him in his finery.

  ‘I don’t feel very handsome. I feel as though I’m nothing but clothes.’

  ‘You won’t be nervous on Tuesday evening? I’m sure you have no need to be.’

  ‘It’s easy for you to say that. Now if you had been going with me ‒’

  ‘I shall be with you in spirit,’ she said.

  ‘Then I hope your spirit will watch over me and keep me from making a fool of myself.’

  The evening of the party was fine and warm; so unusually warm for May that all the casements were open at Railes, letting in the strong sweet scents of lilac blossom and new-mown grass. Even in the great hall, high and spacious though it was, doors and casements were open wide, for here most of the guests were assembled and here, in due course, they would dance. The carpets had been taken up from the floor, revealing the smooth yellow flagstones, and most of the furniture had been removed. Up in the minstrels’ gallery, five musicians, seated on small upright chairs, were playing softly and quietly a medley of old traditional tunes. The dining-room and drawing-room doors were open and through them Martin caught a glimpse of tables spread with eatables. In the background, the maids went to and fro, and once he saw Miss Katharine talking to Jobe, who, in dark green livery, was acting as butler for the evening.

  Just inside the main door, the twins stood receiving their guests, but Martin, disliking the thought of arriving with the carriage-folk, had entered the house from the stable-court and gone first to the servants’ quarters, there to brush away the dust which, in the course of his three-mile walk, had whitened his trousers to the knees, and there to change into his dancing-pumps. Now, from choice, he stood alone in a quiet corner of the great hall, a glass of wine-cup in his hand, trying hard to master his nerves as he watched the gathering of the guests. Most of these were in their teens: the sons and daughters of local gentry or of notable Chardwell families. Some were known to him by sight because his work had taken him to their homes, but although one or two of these nodded to him in passing, there was no recognition in their eyes, for who, in this well-bred gathering, expected to find a stonemason set down in their midst?

  As more and more guests filled the hall, so more and more glances came his way, until Martin was left in no doubt that he was the object, not only of speculation, but of puzzled amusement too. At home, when he had looked in the glass that Nan had held up for him, the tailed coat and breasted waistcoat, the pleated shirt and white neck-tie, had seemed to him absurdly fine; he had felt the pretension of wearing such clothes; but here in the hall at Newton Railes, watching the girls in their gossamer gowns, the young men supremely elegant, he realized how clumsy and countrified his own evening dress appeared. And with this dawning realization, he felt his face begin to burn.

  One small group nearby ‒ a youth and two girls ‒ were passing remarks quite openly. The youth, aged nineteen or twenty, his curls sleek with bandoline, his shirt-front resplendent with pearl buttons, stared at Martin for some seconds, raking him over in an insolent way, with a faint smile and a lift of the brows. He then turned back to his two companions, making a drawling remark that brought a splutter of laughter from them.

  ‘No, I’ve no idea who he is. The fellow’s a total stranger to me. And so is his tailor, I’m glad to say.’

  The three young people moved away, to join a group at the foot of the stairs. Martin looked into his glass, at the candied violet floating in it, and swirled it round and round in the wine. When, in a while, he looked up again, Ginny stood smiling in front of him.

  ‘So this is where you’ve been hiding yourself. You didn’t come in through the entrance hall. I suppose you sneaked in at the back. What’s the matter? ‒ You’re as red as turkeycock.’

  ‘It’s a warm evening.’

  ‘Fiddle-de-dee!’

  ‘Yes. Well. If you must know, I overheard somebody enjoying a joke at my expense, with particular reference to my clothes.’

  ‘Male or female?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  Ginny laughed in huge delight.

  ‘Come, now, tell me who it was.’

  ‘The dandified sprout over there, with black curls, sweetly scented, and the kind of face you see in a spoon.’

  ‘Better and better!’ She laughed again. ‘I don’t need to look to know who that is.’ But she turned and looked all the same. ‘Yes, I thought so. It’s Sidney Hurne.’

  ‘One of the Hurnes of Brink End Mill?’

  ‘Yes, he’s Oliver Hurne’s eldest son. But you mustn’t heed what Sidney says. They are terrible snobs, you know, some of these clothiers’ families, and Sidney is an odious youth, altogether too full of himself.’

  ‘If you think him odious, why did you invite him here?’

  ‘Oh, because if we did not, we should never be invited to Aimbury House. Besides, Sidney can be quite amusing sometimes, in his spiteful way. But he had no right to be rude to you and I’ve half a mind to tell him so.’

  ‘I’d rather you didn’t,’ Martin said. ‘I prefer to fight my own battles.’

  ‘Well, finish your drink and come with me and I’ll introduce you to some other guests.’

  At that moment they were approached by a tall, burly young man whose fresh, open countenance Martin recognized instantly.

  ‘Ah, here’s someone you already know,’ Ginny said. ‘You remember George Winter of Chacelands? You met him here one day last summer when he called with his sister and grandparents.’

  ‘Yes, I remember, of course,’ Martin said.

  ‘And so do I.’ George Winter’s gaze was steady and frank. ‘Have you killed any more adders since then?’

  ‘Not here at Railes. Only up at the quarry, that’s all. We’re often troubled with them on the hill.’

  ‘My sister Leonie is here somewhere. She will enjoy meeting you again.’ George, turning, looked all round the room, but Leonie was nowhere to be seen. ‘She’s probably out on the terrace with Hugh.’ He turned and addressed himself to Ginny. ‘I hope I may have the pleasure of dancing the first dance with you ‒ if you are not already engaged.’

  ‘For the first dance? I’m afraid I am. I’ve promised it to Martin here.’ Ginny opened the tiny card dangling by a ribbon from her wrist. ‘I’ll write you in for the second instead.’

  George bowed and went away. Martin looked at the smiling girl.

  ‘This dance you say you’ve promised me ‒’

  ‘Don’t worry. It’s just a quadrille.
Well within your abilities.’

  ‘And favouring me is part of your scheme for keeping George Winter on a string?’

  ‘I suppose it hadn’t occurred to you that I might prefer dancing with you?’

  ‘No. It had not.’

  Up in the gallery above, the musicians were playing a series of chords, their signal that dancing was about to begin, and a moment later the leading musician, coming close to the balustrade, called down to the guests below, asking them to form their sets. Laughing and talking, the guests complied, and the band struck up with the opening bars of ‘Belle and Beau’. Five sets took the floor and this meant that the great hall, spacious though it was, only barely accommodated them. For the couples in one set, indeed, the figure was made difficult by the lower part of the staircase, the curtail-step of which jutted out in a wide curve. Martin and Ginny were in this set and there was much merriment as two of the couples, in swinging round, were obliged to mount the lower stair.

  ‘You look very fierce,’ Ginny said, as they stepped down together, hand in hand.

  ‘I have to concentrate, that’s why, otherwise I’ll go all wrong.’

  ‘Oh, that doesn’t matter! It’s part of the fun.’

  ‘Only for those who are looking on.’

  He got through the dance without any serious mishap and Ginny was very pleased with him.

  ‘There! You see! It wasn’t so bad!’ She looked at him with a glowing face, fanning herself with a small silk fan. Then, laughing, she fanned him too. ‘Now, if you’re not too lost for breath, you can get us both some wine-cup.’

  When he returned with the two glasses, he found her talking to Sidney Hurne. She looked at him with mischievous eyes and made a formal introduction.

  ‘Cox?’ Hurne said. ‘Do I know that name?’

  ‘Probably, yes,’ Martin said. ‘My father is well known in the district. He is a mason. So am I. And we did some work on your father’s mill about eighteen months ago. An extension to your engine-house.’

  ‘Indeed? Well, I wouldn’t know about that. My father has little to do with the mill these days. He leaves it to his manager. As for myself, I never set foot in the place.’