‘There it is, the old place … Doesn’t change much, does it, ma’am?’
‘No,’ Katharine said, ‘it doesn’t change.’
The stone-built walls, with their green creepers, just beginning to change colour; the steep-pitched roof and tall chimneys; the windows, not yet lit by the sun, gleaming darkly between their mullions; even the way the house stood, occupying, with its garden and park, a comfortable fold in the lower hillside, backed by the distant slopes of Ox Knap: all these things, imprinted on their minds and hearts from earliest childhood, touched them all in a certain way that no other place on earth could do.
‘Is Mr Cox at home?’ Katharine asked.
‘No, ma’am. He had business in Culverstone. He won’t be back till this afternoon.’
Round the east end of the house they drove, under the stone-built archway and so into the stable-court; and there, as they got down from the carriage, Cook stood stolidly waiting for them, wearing her best marocain dress with a crisp white apron-and-bib.
‘Welcome home, Mrs Yuart, ma’am,’ she said with strict formality. ‘Miss Susannah. Master Dick.’ But then, as the children went towards her, she suddenly opened her arms to them, and they, glad to be able to hide their faces, yielded themselves to her strong warm hug. ‘There, now! There!’ the old woman said, and Katharine, meeting her gaze, saw that her eyes were full of tears.
It was only three months since they had left, but to Dick and Susannah that seemed an age, and it was with a sense of amazement that they found everything so little changed. Not only was all the old furniture there ‒ naturally, they expected that, ‒ but everything was in the same place: the oakboard table in the great hall, with the green glass vase on it, filled now with tall white and yellow daisies; the old settle beside the hearth; the way the carpets were spread on the floor … And, the happiest thing of all, the two spaniels, Snug and Quince, who came lolloping in from the garden, were still allowed the run of the house just as they had been in days gone by. Everything was exactly the same.
But no, not quite, they soon discovered. There were some changes after all. New bookcases full of books in the alcoves in the drawing-room … A glass-fronted cabinet containing fossils, beside the window in the library … Some watercolours and pastels on the wall of the back staircase … Indeed there were quite a number of things … Still, in essence, the children felt, the house was as they remembered it; and Cook, in close attendance on them, agreed that it was so.
‘Mr Cox said, right from the first, that he wanted everything to remain just as it was when the family was here. That’s what he always calls you, you see, when talking in the general way. Always “the family”. Nothing else.’
A little silence fell on them all, and they looked at her reflectively, until Dick, with a touch of briskness, said: ‘But we’re not the family now, Cook, and we must take care not to behave as if this is still our home. You mustn’t call us Master Dick and Miss Susannah any more. It wouldn’t be right, would it, Mama?’
‘I think we shall find,’ Katharine said, ‘that Cook will very quickly get used to the new position we occupy here and will treat us all accordingly.’
The old servant looked at her.
‘Yes, Mrs Yuart. I’ll do my best.’
After lunching with the staff in the kitchen, the children went for a walk in the grounds, taking the dogs with them. Katharine went upstairs to her room and busied herself unpacking the trunk. When that was done, and the clothes had all been put away, she went out into the garden. The mist of the morning had thinned now, and a pale sun shone through it, bringing brightness but little warmth. The grass being wet, she kept to the stone-paved pathways, and went wherever they led her.
Shortly after four o’clock Martin returned and came looking for her. He found her in the lower garden, standing beside the oval pool, gazing downwards into the water. She was wearing a hat with a wide brim and it happened that the pale sun, glistening on the pool’s surface, was reflected upwards into her face and down again, because of this brim, in slow spreading ripples of light. She stood motionless, absorbed in her thoughts, and Martin, when he perceived her expression, would have gone away again, feeling that he was a trespasser. But she glanced up and, seeing him there, came forward at once to meet him. Martin spoke first.
‘I’m sorry I wasn’t here to welcome you but I had business in Culverstone and it took the greater part of the day.’
Katharine smiled.
‘I thought you had absented yourself because you knew how we should feel, coming back here like this, and you wanted to make it easy for us.’
‘Yes, I would always want to do that, if such a thing were possible.’
‘You have been very kind, Martin, and we are grateful, the children and I.’
‘I hope your rooms are to your liking. If there is anything you lack, you have only to say.’
‘We lack nothing. You have already made sure of that.’
Together they turned away from the pool, following the formal path that led through an opening in the yew hedge and across the parterre to the lower terrace.
‘The children have gone off through the park. Dick wanted to see the stream. But I have been on a tour of the gardens, quietly by myself.’
‘Everything is behind-hand this year, the summer having being so poor, and Jobe, as befits his name, predicts that autumn is bound to be worse.’
‘Let us hope he is wrong.’
‘You will have found that we’ve made a few changes, especially in the grounds lower down.’
‘Yes. You’ve built a second footbridge over the stream in the bog-garden. And you’ve planted a number of tree-ferns.’
‘The changes do not offend you, I hope.’
‘No, of course not,’ Katharine said. Then, in a while, as they walked on: ‘Martin, I think we should discuss the running of the house, and my duties as your housekeeper.’
‘That is simple. I want you to run the house much as you have done in the past.’
‘But we must discuss details all the same. I know nothing about your daily routine.’
‘Very well. I breakfast at seven; I lunch at twelve; and generally dine at half past six. But this is subject to change, of course, according to my day’s work, and social engagements, if any. As for your own routine, I leave you to arrange that to suit yourself and your children, so as to be sure of having some time with them, in quietness and privacy.’
‘Yes, we shall be glad of that. But what is more important still is that we should not intrude on your privacy.’
‘I have no fear on that score.’
‘You may not fear it, but I do. Dick and Susannah are very young. I have spoken to them seriously and warned them both against the danger of treating Railes as though it were still their own home. But I find now I’m here ‒ I was thinking of it as I stood by the pool ‒ that I am in need of the warning myself. I am in danger, as much as they, of thinking I’m back in my own home.’
Martin turned and looked at her.
‘As far as I am concerned ‒’ he began, but broke off abruptly, giving way to second thoughts.
He wanted to tell her that she and her children were free to treat the house as their home; that this was what he wanted for them; but he realized that to say such a thing would only emphasize the fact that it was not their home any more. Nothing he could say would alter that; nor remove the hurt of it. All he could do was give her time to adapt to her new situation here, hoping that its security would relieve her of immediate worries, especially those concerning money. Hoping too that Railes itself, even though it re-opened old wounds, would also in time effect its own cure.
‘What were you going to say?’ Katharine asked.
‘Something clumsy, which is best left unsaid.’
‘In that case let us return to practical matters. The choice of meals, for instance. What about that?’
‘I shall leave it to you and Cook, except when I have friends to dine, when some discussion may be need
ed. You will be responsible for ordering all household requisites and dealing with tradesmen generally. You will also keep the household accounts. I have done this myself till now ‒ Cook did not feel equal to it ‒ but I shall be glad to have the task taken out of my hands.’
At the end of the lower terrace, the children appeared, returning from their ramble in the park. They were introduced to Martin, who shook hands with each of them.
‘I have, as it happens, met you before, but you were very young then and I doubt if you remember me.’
‘No,’ Dick said, ‘I’m afraid we don’t.’
‘How far did you go in your walk?’
‘As far as the stream and along the bank a little way.’
‘See any trout?’
‘Yes, just a few.’
‘We’ve been losing them to a pike,’ Martin said. ‘A huge brute that comes up from the river. We’ve put a grille in above the pool and I’m hoping one day to catch him there.’
‘How huge is he, exactly, sir?’
‘Well, I haven’t actually seen him myself, but according to Jobe’s nephew Will he’s twice the size of an alderman.’
Dick smiled; Susannah laughed; and Martin was about to speak to her when a maid came from the house to say that Mr Nick from the quarry had called and was in the study. Martin excused himself, and the children were left alone with their mother.
‘So that’s the famous Martin Cox,’ Dick said. ‘I must say I was rather surprised to find him so gentlemanly.’
‘What did you expect?’ Katharine asked.
‘Well … the way Papa always spoke of him … “the quarryman’s son” and things of that sort … I pictured somebody quite different.’
‘So did I,’ Susannah said. ‘And I wish he hadn’t been called away because he was about to say something to me and now I’ll never know what it was.’
During the first three weeks, Martin’s meetings with Katharine were few, and the conversations they had together were restricted to domestic matters. As for the two children, he saw them not at all. Dick, of course, was at school by day, and Susannah was being taught by her mother in the schoolroom, as of old. But at all times their comings and goings were so quietly discreet that he scarcely knew they were in the house. Katharine was keeping her promise that neither she nor they should intrude upon his privacy. But Martin knew it was more than that. She had passed through difficult times: the failure of her husband’s business; the sale of her home; and now, worst of all, her husband’s desertion. All these had taken their toll, and now that she was back at Railes, centre of a lifetime of memories, with all the emotions they evoked, she had withdrawn into herself. Martin saw this and understood, but often he was troubled, too, and once he spoke to Cook about it.
‘Tell me, did I do wrong, do you think, bringing Mrs Yuart back here?’
‘I don’t know, sir. It’s hard for her ‒ I do know that. She belongs here in this house and yet the house don’t belong to her. But it isn’t just that. It’s everything. So many sad events have happened to the old family over the years … and now this latest thing, with Mr Yuart going off, leaving her and the young ones like that … It’s something I can’t understand, sir. But one thing I do know ‒ such a thing should never have happened. Not to our Miss Katharine, it shouldn’t. No, sir. It should not.’
No, Martin thought, it should never have happened. Charles Yuart’s desertion had inflicted the cruellest wound of all. He felt for Katharine and left her alone.
Although he saw so little of her during these early days, her presence in the house was manifest at every turn. For one thing, the household was better regulated: no longer were brooms and dusters left in corners here and there; nor did he come upon the maids gossiping together on the stairs. There were other improvements, too: he had always been given good meals, but now there was more variety in them, and they were served with greater care.
But in addition to these things, there were the hundred-and-one little touches, so characteristic of her, and which he remembered from earlier times. Fresh flowers everywhere, chosen and arranged so that their colours were always exactly right for the room. Provence roses, cool yellow and white, in a bowl of nut-brown aventurine. Pink nerine lilies, standing tall in a vase, with the slender, sword-like leaves of the yucca, striped in pale green and white. Copper-coloured chrysanthemums in a well-polished pewter jug. And soon, in large stoneware pots, there were branches of leaves in their autumn colours: sugar-maple, crimson and scarlet; flat sprays of beech, turning now to burnt sienna; and homely horse-chestnut leaves, speckled yellow, with rusty brown edges.
Katharine had always possessed this gift, for bringing light and life and colour to every corner of the house, and in spite of the shadow of recent events, she possessed it still.
One Saturday afternoon, when Katharine and her children had been three weeks at Railes, her sister Ginny drove over from Chacelands. Martin, from an upper window, saw her arrive. He went down at once and met her on the rear staircase.
‘Mrs Winter. What a pleasant surprise.’
‘Is it pleasant?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘You have no objection, then, if I visit my sister and her children here?’
‘On the contrary. You are welcome to come whenever you please.’
‘I’m not sure Kate deserves to be visited all that often. I have not yet forgiven her for choosing to come here to you instead of to me at Chacelands. However, I have my nephew and niece to consider, and I don’t intend to deny myself the pleasure of seeing them merely because of their mother’s contrariness. I think I shall blame you instead, for bringing her here in the first place.’
‘By all means,’ Martin said. ‘It is always wisest to lay blame upon those who are best able to bear it.’
‘By which you mean me to understand that you don’t care twopence if I blame you or not.’
Martin smiled. He would not be drawn.
‘I think you will find Mrs Yuart and her children in their own sitting-room. That is to say, on the west landing.’
‘Then I will go up and surprise them.’
‘I hope,’ Martin said, as he stepped aside for her to pass, ‘that you and they will do me the honour of taking afternoon tea with me.’
‘How very kind.’ Ginny paused, looking back at him. ‘Shall I instruct Kate to see to it? Presumably it is one of her duties.’
‘That will not be necessary. I will speak to Cook myself.’
A little while later, Ginny was strolling with Kate and the children in the garden, in the last of the day’s sunshine.
‘And how does it feel to be back here at Railes, in service to Martin Cox?’
‘It feels very strange, of course, and sometimes I can’t quite believe that this is how things really are. But Martin has been very kind to us ‒’
‘I should hope so indeed!’
‘‒ and we are getting used to the situation, gradually, the children and I.’
‘Yes, I daresay. But at what cost to your finer feelings!’
‘It isn’t all pain, you know. There is comfort of a kind in being here at Railes again.’
‘And is there comfort, my dear Kate, in being a paid menial?’
‘Yes. The comfort that comes with independence. But please, I entreat you, let us not argue again over that.’
‘Very well. But if you knew how I feel at seeing Martin Cox here, stalking about, so full of himself ‒’
‘Whatever your feelings may be, you are a guest under his roof, and I beg you will remember it.’
‘I am hardly likely to forget it. He will no doubt see to that.’ Ginny turned to her niece and nephew. ‘And what do you think of your mama’s employer?’
‘We’ve only spoken to him once,’ Dick said. ‘That was the day we arrived. Since then we’ve kept out of his way. ‒ Obeying Mama’s instructions, you know.’
‘How very wise,’ Ginny said. ‘I hoped to keep out of his way myself but alas, it was not to be, and
we came face to face on the back stairs. However, all was well, and your aunt Ginny carried the day.’
Brother and sister exchanged a grin. They were used to their aunt’s histrionics.
‘Was it difficult?’ Susannah asked. ‘Did you have to fight tooth and nail?’
‘Oh, my dear, it was much worse than that, for I had to smile and be pleasant to him! As a result you’ll be glad to know that he has graciously granted permission for me to visit you whenever I choose. We are also invited to take tea with him. Yes, my dears, all four of us! And there, unless my eyes deceive me, is Dorrie coming to say it is ready.’
During the course of tea, the children, mindful of their mother’s strictures, were careful not to put themselves forward; but their aunt Ginny, admitting no such need for restraint, chatted away without pause. Chiefly, she addressed herself to Martin and was in a mood for reminiscence, quite openly taking delight in reminding him of his early days.
‘How many years is it since you first came here, helping your father with the masoning, doing repairs on the stonework for us?’
‘I was ten the first time I came, so it was twenty-one years ago.’
‘And how long is it since you came to join us in the schoolroom?’
‘Sixteen years. I was fifteen.’
‘You were very different then. ‒ A gangling youth, all legs and arms, in a suit of clothes you had long out-grown. Katharine used to feel sorry for you. She thought you were half-starved and often she asked you to stay to lunch. Poor boy, you were so uncouth, you could hardly handle a knife and fork. We couldn’t help laughing sometimes. Once there was green salad to eat ‒ something you’d never had before ‒ and you said the lettuce tasted like rain. Do you remember those days, Martin, all so very long ago?’
‘Yes. I remember everything.’
‘Everything? That’s a large boast. Shall I test your memory?’
The Old House at Railes: A heartwarming rags to riches Victorian family saga Page 27
