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

by Mary E. Pearce

  ‘That is not true,’ Katharine said.

  ‘Oh, but it is! It is!’ he exclaimed. ‘I can see it in your eyes!’

  Katharine made a move towards him; a gesture of comfort and appeal; and just for an instant it seemed almost as though he would take her into his arms. But then, with a sudden exclamation, he flung himself away from her, snatched up his hat, and made for the door, stumbling against the pail on his way, so that water slopped over his trouser-legs. A moment later the front door opened and was slammed shut behind him.

  Katharine sat down. She was trembling badly and was close to tears. But, knowing Susannah would be back shortly, she made an effort to compose herself. She rose from her chair and removed the pail; wrung out her muslinet cloth and wiped the spilt water from the floor.

  Charles, on leaving the cottage, walked down to the river and stood on the bridge over the leats, close by Fleet Mills. Below him the water from the dam rushed in a swift white torrent, over the weir and into the mill-race, there to form a white boiling foam before eddying out in swirls that gradually gave themselves back to the river and became part of its smooth dark flow.

  Above the dam, beside one of the upper leats, two men were watching him, and over in the millyard, too, a few men at work, pressing bales, turned their heads to look at him. Could they see who he was, and did they think he might jump in? Well, they would be disappointed, for surely there must be some way out of his present problems, without that desperate, cowardly act? And with a queer grin that twisted his mouth, he walked on over the bridge and up the slope of the far bank.

  To shade the dams and keep them cool, the slope was planted with alder trees, and he stood among them, hidden from sight, looking obliquely across the fleet to the opening of Tack House Lane. By choosing his position carefully, he was able to watch his own home, and after ten minutes or so he saw his daughter return and go in. There followed a longer wait until, as he expected, his wife and daughter came out together, each with a basket on her arm, and walked up the lane towards the town. He emerged from his hiding-place, re-crossed the fleet, and hurried home.

  Upstairs in the bedroom he changed into his best suit and packed other clothes and essentials into a leather valise. He took a small chamois bag full of coin from its hiding-place under the wardrobe and put it into his inner pocket. Downstairs, in the living-room, he sat at the table and wrote to his wife.

  ‘You are right ‒ I do not seem able to see matters clearly here, therefore I am going away. I have lost all my self-respect and can see no prospect of regaining it. Not here in Chardwell, at any rate. I think I may go to America. It is a place that owes me something ‒ I mean compensation for my cloth that was burnt ‒ and is said to be a land of opportunity. If it is ‒ well, we shall see.

  ‘I am sorry to take my leave in this furtive way but saying goodbye to you and the children would cause me more sorrow than I could bear. Please try to understand and get them to understand too. My own view of the matter is that you and they will be better off without me because then you will find it easy enough to accept your sister Ginny’s offer and make your home at Chacelands.’

  Charles paused, read the letter through twice, and added a last few words.

  ‘In spite of the course I am taking, I beg you will please believe me to be your loving husband always.

  Charles.’

  He put the letter into an envelope, wrote Katharine’s name upon it, and propped it against a vase on the table. He left the cottage and walked down to the fleet again. But this time, having crossed the bridge, he set off across the rack-field where Fleet Mills cloth, undyed, hung out, dirty white, on the reaming-frames. From the rack-ground he climbed the ridge and set off over Tull Hill, in the direction of Pibblecombe Halt, where he would take a train for Crewe. From Crewe he would travel to Liverpool and there board the first ship that would take him to North America.

  The story of Charles Yuart’s abscondence spread quickly through the town, but Martin only heard it when he met George Ainley outside Coulson’s Bank.

  ‘Yuart and I had a disagreement and he walked out. It was bound to happen sooner or later. The man is too stiff-necked by half. But I’m sorry about it all the same and if I had known it would come to this ‒’

  ‘Come to what?’ Martin asked.

  ‘Yuart’s gone. Hadn’t you heard? Left his family and cleared off. According to rumour, he’s gone abroad.’

  ‘When did this happen?’

  ‘Three days ago.’

  Martin, making enquiries elsewhere, found the whole story to be correct. For two days he pondered the matter. Then he called at the cottage in Cryer’s Row. Katharine, as it happened, was there alone.

  ‘It’s Dick’s half-term holiday and Ginny has taken both children over to Chacelands for the day. I didn’t go with them because … well, I felt I wanted some time to myself.’

  ‘In that case I am intruding. Perhaps you’ll allow me to call again, on a day better suited to you.’

  ‘No, of course not. Do sit down.’ She looked at him with unsmiling gaze. ‘You know that my husband has gone away?’

  ‘Yes. And I am deeply sorry. It is in fact my reason for coming.’ Watching her, he did his best to gauge her response to these words, but her face remained closed to him. ‘I’m told that he has gone abroad. To America, I believe. That being so, then presumably he will be gone some time.’

  ‘Yes, it would appear so.’

  Her grey eyes were cold and bleak; her tone almost curt; and Martin, perceiving from this that she was still in a state of shock, was filled with anger against the man whose desertion was responsible for it.

  ‘If it is not presumptuous, may I ask what you mean to do?’

  ‘I am not sure. I haven’t decided. Ginny wants us to go to her. She and George have been very kind. But I would prefer to be independent and I’m trying to decide how that might be achieved. I thought of trying for a post as governess but at my age, and with two children, I am not really hopeful of success.’

  ‘Well, that brings me to the point of my visit,’ Martin said, ‘for I wanted to ask if you would consider coming to Railes as my housekeeper.’

  Katharine sat very straight in her chair, her hands clasped together in her lap; but in spite of her rigid self-control, he could see how his words had affected her, and he spoke with all possible care.

  ‘This is a strange and difficult situation. I know how painful it must be for you and the last thing I want is to add to your distress. It may well be that the thought of returning to Newton Railes, under such circumstances, is too painful for you even to contemplate. You may even feel that the mere suggestion is a gross insult to your pride but ‒’

  ‘I am not insulted, Martin. Nor can I afford to be proud. But it is, as you say, a strange situation, and I must admit I am taken aback. Certainly a return to Railes would bring pain to my children and myself but … our predicament is such that there can be no such thing as a really happy resolution.’

  ‘You mean you will consider my proposition?’

  ‘Yes. I will consider it and discuss it with my children.’

  ‘You will, I hope, bear in mind that there will be certain advantages in the arrangement that might, in some measure at least, atone for its more distressing aspects. It would mean that you and your children would have security and comfort until such time as your husband returns, and a certain degree of independence. You would, if it is agreeable to you, occupy those rooms which are on the same landing as the schoolroom. That would include the small sitting-room, so that you and your children could always be private whenever you chose. Your work as housekeeper would not, I believe, be too onerous, and you would have ample time to instruct your daughter, as you do now, and help your son with his school studies. Your salary would be fifty-two pounds per annum, with all found for yourself and for them, and probably some further allowances.’

  ‘Yes. I see. Indeed, it seems very generous. But why are you offering me this post? Have you had no ho
usekeeper at Railes all these weeks?’

  ‘No. Mrs Nicholls, who kept house for me at Fieldings, chose to stay and serve the new owner. Cook has managed at Railes till now and I have been reluctant to bring someone new into the house. But Cook, as you know, is getting old and ‒ well, she herself has repeatedly said that I ought to find someone suitable to run the place for me.’

  ‘Yes, I see,’ Katharine said again, but this time a little smile touched her lips. ‘Dear Cook. She is such a good soul. I have known her all my life, you know, and would dearly love to see her again.’

  ‘May I enquire how long you will need to think the matter over?’ Martin asked, getting up. ‘Would it be in order for me to call again in three days’ time?’

  ‘Yes. I shall have decided by then.’

  She rose and saw him to the door.

  At six o’clock Ginny returned. She was driving the carriage herself but left it standing in the narrow lane to come into the cottage with the two children.

  ‘Well, Kate, have you made up your mind?’

  ‘What?’ Katharine said, staring at her.

  ‘Whether you’re coming to Chacelands and when. George was quite sharp with me when I said you wanted time to think ‒ naturally, he assumes it’s my fault ‒ and he says there can be no question whatever but that you make your home with us.’

  ‘That is very kind of George and I’d like you to tell him how grateful we are for his kindness and generosity. But ‒’

  ‘Well, if only you had come with us today, you could have told him that yourself and perhaps argued the whole thing out. You shouldn’t have stayed here all alone. Not at a time like this. It’s given you a fit of the blues.’

  ‘No, it hasn’t. I’m quite all right. But I’ve had a visit from Martin Cox.’

  ‘Good heavens! What did he want?’

  ‘He had heard about Charles going away and he came to offer me the post of housekeeper at Newton Railes.’

  ‘Oh, how dare he?’ Ginny exclaimed, and so fierce was her indignation that it lit her fair face like a scarlet flame. ‘Oh, the effrontery of the man! I hope you sent him about his business.’

  ‘No. I said I would think it over.’

  ‘Surely you can’t be serious?’

  ‘Yes. I am serious enough. I’ve thought about it a good deal in the three hours since Martin left and I think there is much to be said for it.’

  ‘Children, did you hear that? Your mother has taken leave of herself! Kate, the idea is quite absurd. You have no need to do such a thing. Your place is with us and it’s only right that George and I ‒’

  ‘No, Ginny, it will not do. It would mean too great an imposition. And, as I’ve said before, I am anxious to keep my independence in whatever degree is possible to me.’

  ‘And going to Railes would give you that?’

  ‘Yes, because there I should be earning my keep.’

  ‘A paid domestic.’

  ‘Yes, if you like.’

  ‘That’s just it. I do not like.’

  ‘You seem to forget,’ Katharine said, ‘that I kept house for Papa all those years, without any shame attaching to it.’

  ‘That was a different matter entirely, as you well know.’

  Ginny, in exasperation, looked across at her nephew and niece, who, throughout this interchange, had stood in silence, shocked but alert. Then she turned to her sister again and spoke with some acerbity.

  ‘Will Martin expect you to cook for him?’

  ‘I think not, since Cook is still there. But even if he did, what of that? I’ve cooked for my own family since coming to live here and it has not meant the end of the world. To tell you the truth, I rather enjoy cooking and baking, and even in the old days at Railes ‒’

  ‘Well!’ Ginny said, and threw up her hands. ‘It seems there’s no reasoning with you at all because plainly you have made up your mind to accept this ridiculous proposition and are wilfully closing your eyes to the fact that by doing so you’re demeaning yourself.’

  ‘I have not yet made up my mind. I have three days in which to do that. And first I need to discuss it all very thoroughly with the children.’

  ‘Yes, I am simply dying to hear what their views on the matter might be!’

  ‘We shall find discussion easier when we are alone together.’

  ‘You want me to go?’

  ‘Well, your carriage is blocking the lane, Ginny, and any moment now somebody will want to pass.’

  ‘Then I had better take myself off. I certainly don’t wish to intrude on your private family councils. But I think I should warn you, Kate, that if you do as Martin Cox asks, instead of coming to Chacelands, I shall be seriously hurt and offended. And George will feel exactly the same.’

  The children, raised in the habit of obedience, had already accepted their mother’s reasons for refusing to live at Chacelands, and Dick in particular, with his own strong independent streak, had endorsed her decision wholeheartedly. Furthermore, the children knew there was only one alternative, for Katharine had made that plain to them. She would have to seek employment; but what, and how, and of what kind, were questions that had not yet been resolved. Now, suddenly, employment was offered, and, sitting with them at the dining-table, she presented her own views of that offer, point by point, pro and contra, before inviting them to give theirs.

  ‘The final decision, of course, must be mine, but I shall be helped, while weighing the matter in my mind, if I know what you both think about it.’

  Dick at this time was thirteen; Susannah eleven; and it was easy for Katharine to see the conflict of feeling in each young face: instinctive joy at the thought of returning to Newton Railes, darkened inevitably by doubts because of their changed circumstances. Railes had been their home from birth; they loved it as she herself loved it; and had suffered, with her, deep pain at its loss. Now it was another man’s home and they would be retainers there. Would they be able to accept that or would it be too hard to bear?

  ‘I certainly don’t like the thought that you would be a servant, Mama.’

  ‘Neither do I,’ Susannah said.

  ‘But whatever work I secure, it will have to be service of some kind.’

  ‘Yes, but not there, and with him,’ Dick said.

  ‘What kind of man is Mr Cox? Do you like him?’ Susannah asked.

  ‘Yes. I do.’

  ‘Even though he lives in our house? Aunt Ginny says she hates him for that. And sometimes I think I hate him, too.’

  ‘In that case we cannot possibly go.’

  ‘Oh, but I’d never show it, of course! I would take good care not to do that.’

  ‘Even to feel it would be wrong.’

  ‘Perhaps I might not feel it, however. Perhaps I might even like him, as you do, Mama.’

  ‘Yes. I think perhaps you might. And you wouldn’t see all that much of him because we should have our own quarters and mostly we should keep to them.’

  ‘Servants’ quarters?’ Dick said.

  ‘No. You would have your own bedrooms, next to the schoolroom, and I’d have the bedroom opposite. We would also have the small sitting-room, just to ourselves, for our private use.’

  ‘Did Mr Cox say so, Mama?’

  ‘Yes indeed.’

  ‘Well,’ Dick said in some surprise, ‘that seems very decent of him, I must say.’ And, after further thought, he added: ‘I think, if you don’t mind, Mama, I’d like a few words with Susannah alone.’

  ‘Very well. By all means.’

  Upstairs, in Dick’s bedroom, the children sat on the edge of the bed.

  ‘What do you honestly think, Susannah?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I keep thinking about Papa. I’m sure he wouldn’t like the idea of our going back to live at Railes.’

  ‘Then he ought not to have left us.’ Dick’s tone was uncompromising. ‘Sneaking off in that shabby way, leaving us to shift for ourselves, with nothing more than the few shillings mother had in her purse. Only think what it’s like f
or her, suddenly being left like that, on top of all that’s gone before.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ Susannah said, ‘I’ll never forget Mama’s face when we came back from shopping that day and she read the letter Papa had left.’

  ‘My own view of the matter is that Papa has forfeited every right to be considered in things of this sort. Mama is the only one we have to think about now. She wants to do what’s best for us, so we’ve got to do what’s best for her, and obviously, from the way she spoke, she is in favour of accepting the offer.’

  ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘I’m certain of it.’

  ‘Then we must say we want it, too.’

  ‘Yes. I know it will be difficult, going back as outsiders … Being there on sufferance … But I daresay we shall get used to that. Anyway, whatever it’s like, we must just make the best of it.’

  ‘I think I could bear it well enough, for Mama’s sake, if it’s what she wants.’

  ‘Of course you can. So can I. If we could bear living here all these weeks ‒’

  ‘Oh, Dick, just to think of it! To be gone from here and back to Railes, even though it isn’t ours ‒’

  ‘I know, I know,’ Dick said briskly. ‘But don’t get upset, there’s a good girl. It’ll only bring you out in spots.’

  ‘I’m not upset. Truly, I’m not. Look at me. I’m perfectly calm.’

  ‘Well, just take care that you stay that way, otherwise you’ll worry Mama. Now let us go down and tell her what we think of the famous offer.’

  Chapter Nine

  A few days later, on a misty morning in mid October, Sherard came for them in the carriage and drove them out to Newton Railes. On the seat beside him was a trunk containing some of their clothes. The furniture and the rest of their things were to follow by van that afternoon.

  Little was said during the journey, especially once they had passed through the main Newton Railes gateway and were driving through the parkland. Katharine, sitting between her children, exchanged an eloquent glance with each and knew that for them, as for herself, the moment was too full of feeling for words. But Susannah leant against her, clasping her arm with both hands, and in a while Dick did the same. Another hundred yards or so and they were rounding the long curve that gave them their first glimpse of the house, and Sherard, speaking over his shoulder, was saying in a quiet voice: