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

by Mary E. Pearce

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Martin said in surprise. ‘I meant no presumption, I assure you. I merely thought, as the Claytons had built your new mill at Hainault and you knew the quality of their work ‒’

  ‘I believe Edward Clayton is your brother-in-law, so it is quite understandable that you should wish to put work in his way. However, I have my own reasons for not employing him again, and I hope you will not be offended if I choose to reject your recommendation.’

  Martin was angry. He felt the blood rising hot in his face. But he did his best to answer with a coolness equal to Yuart’s own.

  ‘You quite mistake the matter, Mr Yuart. Clayton and Son have contracts for work that will keep them busy for some time to come. They certainly do not need me to drum up custom on their behalf.’

  ‘Mr Cox, I apologize. I mistook the matter, as you say.’ Yuart glanced at the stable clock and begged the company to excuse him. ‘I just have time for a word with my wife and then I really must be gone.’

  He hurried away into the house and John Tarrant looked up at Martin.

  ‘I’m afraid my son-in-law is somewhat over-brusque at times, but he has a lot on his mind just now, and I hope you will make allowances for him.’

  ‘Charles is not only brusque,’ Ginny said, ‘he is also very high-handed, Papa.’ She moved close to Martin and took his arm. ‘I’m afraid he rubbed you up the wrong way, but never mind. ‒ I will soon smooth you down again. Papa, dear, you won’t object, I’m sure, if I take Martin away from you? I want to show him the bean-tree in flower.’

  ‘No, my child, I don’t mind one bit. Martin and I can resume our discussion over lunch.’

  They walked arm-in-arm through the gardens; along the green walk into the allée; around by the small summer-house, where pigeons called from the sweet-scented limes, and back by way of the Tudor garden, where the York-and-Lancaster roses bloomed, their delicate scent mingling strangely with the burnt-coffee smell of the clipped box trees.

  ‘You are not offended with Charles, I hope?’

  ‘I think I would rather not answer that.’

  ‘Then you are offended. Oh, dear! Oh, dear!’

  ‘I took exception, I must admit, to the way he spoke of my brother-in-law.’

  ‘He did apologize for that.’

  ‘Yes. I will put it out of my mind.’

  ‘Charles has been very good to me. He is also very generous. He gave me twenty-five pounds last week, to spend exactly as I pleased, and I had a simply wonderful time choosing materials for next winter’s gowns.’

  Bleakly she looked down at herself; at her black silk dress, with its black net sleeves, relieved only by a touch of grey in the lace on the collar, which matched the grey of her silk stole.

  ‘I long to be dressed in colours again. I feel so old when I’m wearing black. But Papa, you know, is quite strict in some ways, and I must wear it for ages yet.’

  They had left the Tudor garden now and were standing under the Indian bean-tree, looking up at the sprays of blossom, white flecked with purple-brown, amongst the large pale luminous leaves.

  ‘Isn’t it beautiful?’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘It seems so terribly cruel, somehow, that everything is extra lovely this summer, and Hugh not here to see it all. I can’t get used to not having a brother. I still find myself thinking of things to tell him … and then I remember that he is not there.’

  The stable clock began to strike. Ginny took Martin’s arm again.

  ‘That’s twelve o’clock striking. Lunch will be ready at half past. Katharine should be free by now, so let’s go back to the house, shall we, and you can meet baby Dick.’ She looked up at him with a sweet sad smile. ‘The new heir to Railes,’ she said.

  On leaving Railes that afternoon, Martin, instead of going straight home, called on Edward at his office in Prince Street.

  ‘What has Charles Yuart got against you?’ he asked, and related what had passed that morning.

  ‘Well, we had a few tussles, he and I, during the last weeks at Hainault. He complained that we had overrun our promised date, though that, as you know, was due to the fact that he wanted certain changes made earlier on. He delayed settling his final account on the grounds that we had failed to fulfil the terms of the contract. All arrant nonsense, of course, and it has been cleared up now. His accountant has just written to say that we shall receive our cheque shortly.’

  ‘So what’s behind it?’ Martin asked.

  ‘I suppose he wanted time to pay and chose this way of getting it rather than ask us openly.’

  ‘Do you mean the man is not sound?’

  ‘Oh, I should think he’s sound enough. But he’s spent a fortune enlarging his mill, and another fortune on the new looms, and just at present it’s money tied up. Trade has been stale recently but it’s picking up again now, and once he gets his new looms under way, Yuart will be nicely placed to bag a large share of it. Hainault will be first in the field, and although the other cloth-men are following his example, he should be able to keep that advantage for a good many years to come.’

  ‘I’m relieved to hear it,’ Martin said. He was thinking of Charles Yuart’s wife, but after a little while he said: ‘You never breathed a word to me about having these arguments with him.’

  ‘No. I did not. Because such matters are, as a rule, kept private between the parties concerned. But now that Yuart has seen fit to make his insinuations to you, I am exercising the right to explain the Clayton side of it. As for his not employing us for the work he wants done at the manor house, that, my dear Martin, is a piece of bare-faced impertinence. After our experience at Hainault, we should be very reluctant ever to work for him again, as he well knows, and what he said to you was just an example of the old trick of refusing before he could be refused.’

  ‘But he must know also that I was bound to ask you about it and that we two at least would see the ploy for what it was.’

  ‘I don’t think Yuart cares twopence what we think of him so long as he can feel satisfied that he has got the better of us. We are beneath his notice, my boy, and as far as I myself am concerned, long may it continue so. Of course, I realize it’s different for you, being a friend of the family at Railes, and that was yet another reason why I didn’t speak up before.’

  ‘I care no more than you do that I am beneath Yuart’s notice, but yes, where the Tarrants are concerned, it is a different matter entirely. It grieves me very much indeed that the one member of the family deserving the very highest respect should be married to a man of such doubtful honour.’

  ‘Oh, come, now, that’s rather strong! I deplore the man’s lack of principle, of course, but he’s done nothing really heinous, you know. Indeed, some of our fellow businessmen would say that Yuart’s methods are merely an everyday part of business practice.’

  ‘Yes. No doubt. But Mrs Yuart is a woman of integrity, and I know that she would not share that view.’

  ‘It is unlikely that Mrs Yuart will ever know about such things so you need not have any fears that she will be caused distress on that score.’

  ‘I hope you are right,’ Martin said.

  By late August, stone for rebuilding the domestic wing-end had been delivered at Railes, and Martin’s banker-masons, working in conjunction with the builder’s men, were cutting the dressings. Martin himself was there two or three times a week, partly to oversee his men’s work, partly for consultations with the builder, but chiefly because John Tarrant was anxious that he should be there.

  ‘I’ve nothing against this builder. I’m sure he is a first-rate man. And Charles is sparing no expense to see that all the materials used are the very best that can be got. Come and look at this pile of timber. Stout seasoned oak, all of it. Beams and joists every bit as thick as those in the old part of the house. Floorboards the same. Rafters, too. They won’t burn very easily. But I’m glad you’re keeping an eye on things because no builder, however good, knows this house so well as you do, and having you h
ere makes me feel safe.’

  Martin, on these visits to Railes, saw little of Katharine Yuart: the duties of motherhood kept her indoors. Nor did he often meet her husband: he was busy with his new looms. But Ginny would always come running out of the house the moment she knew Martin was there and, whenever possible, would insist that he walk in the garden with her. She was always pathetically pleased to see him, for visitors were few and far between during this period of mourning, and the family rarely left home to pay visits elsewhere.

  ‘It’s all so silly!’ she complained once. ‘We see hardly anyone. Just a few close friends, that’s all. And we shan’t be asked to parties and balls for another two or three months at least, though at times like this we need cheering up. Never mind ‒ at least I’ve got you! Come and see the little oak tree Kate and Charles have planted in celebration of baby Dick’s birth.’

  John Tarrant’s health was failing and Martin, perceiving it, was grieved. On each visit he noted some change and could see that Tarrant still suffered great pain, though he always hid it as best he could, especially when his daughters were present. Alone with Martin he spoke in a way that showed the tenor of his thoughts at this time; how he dwelt on the past with wistful regret but looked to the future with resignation.

  ‘It saddens me that when I am gone the Tarrant name will pass from this place. We’ve been here since 1565. Still, there it is, and cannot be helped. Change is ordained from above and we must bow our heads to it. And at least Newton Railes will be in good hands … Charles takes almost as much pride in the house as I do myself … Furthermore, he has the money to take care of it as it deserves. That’s more than I ever could, scrimping and scraping all these years …’

  There was a pause. Tarrant, as was his custom now, sat on the bench in the kitchen courtyard, whence he could watch the men at work, rebuilding the end of the kitchen wing. Martin sat beside him.

  ‘Charles is full of plans, as you know, for making improvements here and there. He always discusses them with me and asks my opinion … but I shan’t be here to see them fulfilled. This work, perhaps, but not the rest … The sands are running out for me, Martin, and soon there will be no turning of the glass. I know it. So does Charles. And I think my daughters know it, too, in their hearts. Please don’t be distressed, my boy. The end, for me, will be a sweet release. I admit I worry sometimes about Ginny … I should have liked to have seen her settled, with a good husband to look after her … Still, there again, I am thankful for Charles. He and Kate will take care of her and in due course see to it that she makes a suitable marriage. Meantime, she is desolate. The restrictions of mourning weigh hard on her, and when I am gone, poor child, she will be in mourning again.’

  By the end of September, the banker-masons’ work was finished, and Martin was no longer needed at Railes.

  ‘But you will still come and visit us?’ Ginny said, imperatively. ‘Of course you will! ‒ You’ll come as a friend.’

  ‘Well …’

  ‘You must come. I insist on it. Papa enjoys talking to you and so do I. Indeed, I don’t know what I should do without your visits to look forward to. Apart from George Winter and you, I see no friends of my own age, so do please come, Martin dear, otherwise ‒’ Her lip trembled; her voice broke. ‘Otherwise I think I shall die.’

  ‘Yes. I will come.’

  ‘You said you would bring me Barry Lyndon when you had finished reading it.’

  ‘Yes, and so I shall,’ he said.

  But when, a few days later, he called at Railes with the book as promised, he learnt that Ginny had gone away.

  ‘She was in such low spirits that we feared for her health,’ John Tarrant said. ‘We sent her to stay with our friends in Llangollen and she will be there for two or three weeks. We have had a letter from Mrs Lloyd, who says the child is already improved.’

  ‘I’m sure you have done the right thing,’ Martin said.

  ‘Will you stay and have lunch with me? I am all alone today because Katharine is at Saye House, visiting her father-in-law. So it would be a kindness indeed.’

  ‘I should be delighted,’ Martin said.

  Ginny came home at the end of the week, because by then her father was gravely ill. Three days later he died, and on a cold wet morning in October, he was laid to rest in the churchyard at Newton Childe, in a grave close beside that of his son. Martin wrote to Katharine Yuart; sent flowers; and attended the funeral. Both sisters were heavily veiled; nothing could be seen of their faces; but Ginny, towards the end of the service, broke down and wept into her hands.

  At the end of October, Martin, for the first time in his life, went away for a holiday. He had always wanted to visit London; now he had the money to do it; and, with the quarry safe under Tommy Nick’s management, he could absent himself for two weeks without any anxiety.

  He stayed in a small hotel called Coote’s, just off Ludgate Hill, and spent his days exploring those places and buildings associated with the famous names and events of history. St Paul’s Cathedral, Westminster Abbey, and the new Houses of Parliament, part of which was still under construction. Windsor Castle, Hampton Court, and the Royal Botanical Gardens at Kew. He attended a concert where he heard Jenny Lind sing and Anton Harnische play the piano. He also attended a Chartist meeting but thought the speakers too violent to do anything but harm to their cause.

  He had been home little more than a week when, on a mild Sunday afternoon, Ginny Tarrant called on him. The governess-cart stood at the gate. She had driven herself and was quite alone.

  ‘Are you terribly shocked?’ she said, as he ushered her into the parlour; and, when she was seated ‒ ‘Yes, you are, I can see by your face.’

  ‘It will certainly cause some comment among my neighbours.’

  ‘And whose good name do you mind about most? Mine or yours?’

  ‘Chiefly, I am wondering about your sister, and whether she knows you are out alone.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course she knows, though she doesn’t approve, I must admit. Neither does Charles, needless to say. But never mind about Kate and Charles. I wanted to see you and here I am.’

  She removed her black hat, with its heavy black veil, and set it beside her on the couch. Her face had the tired, expressionless look that comes after prolonged weeping, and although she had coloured her lips with rouge, this only emphasized her general pallor and the cold limp texture of her skin.

  ‘I would like you to give me a glass of wine, if it is not too much trouble to you. Whatever is in that decanter there. It doesn’t much matter what it is.’

  Martin poured two glasses of malmsey and put one of them into her hand. He stood looking down at her.

  ‘Ginny, what is it? Why have you come?’

  ‘I needed to talk to somebody. I needed to get out of the house. So I bravely told Katharine and Charles that I was coming to see you. I wish I could be brave enough to rebel against wearing this horrible black. Just look at it, how loathsome it is! ‒ It makes me feel a hundred years old. I hate the whole business of mourning ‒ I would abolish it if I could. What good does it do? It doesn’t bring the dead back to life. It only makes everything harder to bear.’

  Her voice trembled and she came close to tears, but an angry defiance possessed her and she was borne up by it.

  ‘Can you imagine what it’s like? We see scarcely any company and those few friends who do call talk only on solemn subjects. Mrs Bourne was very shocked when I asked for an account of the concert at West’s. And that is how we must live our lives for another five months at least! It’s all very well for Katharine ‒ she has Charles and baby Dick ‒ but I have nobody of my own, and the only person who seems to have any understanding is George Winter.’ She took a few sips of her wine. ‘You remember George, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘He has proposed to me again.’

  ‘While you are still in mourning?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And do you intend accepting him?’
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br />   ‘I don’t know. I’m not quite sure. But I think most probably I shall. I don’t like living at Railes now … The memories are more than I can bear. Oh, Kate and Charles are kindness itself. Kate says it is still my home, just the same as it ever was, and Charles says so, too. But nothing is the same as it was, now that Hugh and Papa are gone, and I have a longing to escape.’

  There was a pause. She drank her wine. For a while she looked into her glass, but presently she rose from her seat and moved to the small hearthside table, where she set her glass down on the tray. She was now standing quite close to him, her wide black skirts almost touching his knee. ‘Anyway,’ she said lightly, ‘I have to marry somebody, sooner or later, don’t I? ‒ If only to have a home of my own.’

  ‘That doesn’t, by itself, seem a very good reason.’

  ‘What is a good reason, would you say?’

  ‘Well, of all those set out in the marriage service, surely the most important is love.’

  ‘It’s all very well to talk of love, but how are we supposed to know whether we love someone enough? Do you know what it is to love?’

  ‘We are not discussing my affairs. We’re discussing yours.’

  ‘Yes. Well. Kate says when you love someone, you know it at once, without any doubts. Certainly she and Charles were like that. And George is very positive about the feelings he has for me. He’s been so sweet and kind to me all through these terrible, terrible months, and in spite of my being in mourning, he says he will marry me straight away and take me on a tour of the Continent. It will cause no end of talk, of course, but he says he doesn’t care about that. And oh, to think of going abroad! Seeing new sights every single day, with a chance of forgetting the horrible past. George says we can stay away for just so long as I choose to. We may even go to Istanbul.’

  ‘It seems as though it is settled, then.’ Martin raised his glass to her. ‘I wish you both every happiness.’

  ‘Is that all you have to say?’

  ‘Why, what more can I say than that?’