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

by Mary E. Pearce

  ‘And the terms of this compromise, of course, will be defined and laid down by you?’

  ‘They will be defined,’ Martin said, ‘by a process of rational discussion culminating in mutual assent.’

  ‘I don’t want my children to be spoilt, Martin.’

  ‘They will not become so. I am sure of that.’

  Thus, on the following Saturday morning, which was fine and sunny, Katharine went down to the stable-court to watch the children mount their ponies. They were helped by Jack Sherard, who, as in the old days, would accompany them on their ride, mounted on the Irish gelding, Pat. Nearby stood another horse, a sorrel mare, Gipsy by name, with a lady’s saddle on her back. Sherard, meeting Katharine’s gaze, touched his cap with his riding-crop.

  ‘The mare needs exercising, ma’am. The master hoped you would oblige.’

  Katharine’s lips came together in a little gesture of stubbornness. To accept favours on behalf of her children was one thing; to accept those favours herself was another; and on this point at least she meant to be firm. But there was a gleam in Sherard’s eye; the mare was nuzzling Katharine’s sleeve; and the two children were growing impatient.

  ‘Look sharp, Mama! You must go and change. You’re keeping us waiting!’ Dick exclaimed.

  Katharine’s firmness evaporated. The day was fine and the green hills called. With a little laugh she picked up her skirts and went hurrying back to the house to change.

  Martin spent Christmas with Nan and Edward and their family, newly returned from travelling abroad. Katharine and her children spent it at Chacelands. Susannah hoped that the Christmas season would bring news from her father, but there was nothing.

  ‘Oh, it’s monstrous!’ Ginny said. ‘Charles has been gone now for twelve weeks. Why does he keep silent like this when he knows how anxious you must be? Has he no feelings left at all? He will assume that you’re living with us, so any letter is bound to come here.’

  George, however, on Christmas Eve, went into the town, to the Post Office, to make enquiries on Katharine’s behalf, ‘in case of misunderstandings,’ he said. But his journey proved fruitless.

  ‘I told them, if any letter comes, it is to be sent to you at Railes.’

  ‘Thank you, George. You are very kind.’

  The new year brought snow and for some days the roads were impassable. Newton Railes was cut off and Dick was unable to go to school. He and Susannah were delighted; they studied together in the morning and were allowed out in the afternoon, to romp in the grounds, which, for the most part, were free of drifts. Often Katharine joined them and they tramped together as far as the lake, with the two spaniels, Snug and Quince, who rolled in the snow and snapped at it and chased the snowballs the children threw.

  Sometimes, from a window, Martin would see them return; would hear them in the back porch, where they stamped the snow from their boots on the mat, hung up their coats and mufflers and hats, and laughed at the antics of the dogs, who tried to escape a brisk towelling. And Martin would smile to himself, glad of these indications that life here at Railes brought some joy to them.

  The snow lay for almost a week and was then washed away by heavy rain. February filled the dykes, sometimes to overflowing, until March winds came, keen from the east, to scarify the land and dry it out. Still there was no letter from Charles Yuart, and it was now almost six months since he had disappeared. The children seldom mentioned him now, and when they did it was with resignation. Their life at Railes was quiet and, on the whole, untroubled. Martin made sure of that. But still they kept too much to themselves and he resolved to do something about it.

  Always, when he entertained friends, Katharine, though making all the arrangements and supervising work in the kitchen, remained strictly in the background, in accordance with her position. But now Martin planned a small informal supper party and wanted her to preside as hostess. Katharine demurred at once. It would not be fitting, she said. The circumstances were against it.

  ‘You have not heard me out,’ he said. ‘The party I am proposing is, you might say, a family affair. Just your sister and her husband; my own sister and brother-in-law, together with their four young sons; and, of course, Dick and Susannah. Now, surely you must consent to join such a gathering as that, if only for your children’s sake?’

  ‘You make it very hard to refuse.’

  ‘I hope I have made it impossible.’

  The party was held on a March evening when, although the wind still blew cold, there was a hint of spring in the air. Supper was begun at half past five, and after it there were games and charades in the drawing-room, interspersed with music and singing. Susannah plainly enjoyed the distinction of being the only girl among so many boys, and the adults were amused to observe with what care she divided her favours among the young Claytons. She was filled with extreme elation, too, at being allowed to play duets, first with her mother, then with her aunt, on the magnificent Broadwood piano.

  During a lull in the entertainments, George Winter stood talking to Nan.

  ‘You have a fine quartet of sons, Mrs Clayton. I congratulate you on their looks and on their excellent behaviour.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Winter. They are not always so well-behaved as they are this evening but I must say, by and large, they give little cause for anxiety.’

  Martin now came and joined them, glad of the chance of talking to George, with whom, over supper, he had exchanged only a few brief remarks. George had a somewhat formal manner but responded affably enough to Martin’s attempt at friendliness.

  ‘This is the first time I’ve set foot in this house for something over a twelvemonth,’ he said. ‘My relations with Charles Yuart were not very cordial latterly, so naturally I stayed away. You don’t seem to have made any changes here and I must say I’m glad of that. Everything looks exactly the same as it always did in the old days and of course with your having Katharine here ‒’ George broke off somewhat awkwardly and began talking instead of the grounds. ‘I hear you’ve improved the trout stream here. I’d like to do the same with mine and I should be glad of your advice if it isn’t asking too much of you.’

  Martin was answering this when Ginny came and took his arm.

  ‘I’m sorry to interrupt you, George, when you’re talking about your favourite sport, but we’re going to sing “Don Sinnuendo” and we want Martin to be the Don.’

  Martin excused himself and George was left alone with Nan.

  ‘Do you not sing, Mr Winter?’

  ‘Not if my wife can help it. She says I keep changing key all the time. I daresay she’s in the right of it. I haven’t a good enough ear to know.’

  During the singing of ‘Don Sinnuendo’, where Ginny, in the role of Pepita, flirted with Martin as the Don, finally laying her fair head gently upon his bosom, she acted her part, Nan thought, with rather more feeling than was strictly necessary. Her husband obviously thought so, too, but hid his feelings well enough by applauding loudly at the end. Nan observed, also, that Martin, as soon as the piece ended, made a point of returning to George, to resume his conversation with him.

  After the Spanish interlude, there were musical games. Katharine played ‘hidden tunes’, one after another, in a rapid medley, while her listeners sought to identify them. Then it was Nan’s turn at the piano and she played ‘La Bande Militaire’, while all the children stood in a row and played on imaginary instruments: drums, flute, bagpipes, etc., her own two eldest boys reducing the company to helpless laughter by the ferocious faces they made, pretending to puff on horn and trombone.

  The evening was a merry one and it was almost twelve o’clock when the two groups of visitors took their leave. Indeed, Martin and Katharine, Dick and Susannah, were standing talking in the great hall when the tall clock on the half-landing began striking the midnight hour. Susannah was delighted at this and held up her hand, beseeching silence. Then, when the last chime had sounded, she whirled herself round and round very fast and, coming to a stop in front of Martin, s
ank in a deep curtsey, amidst her still billowing skirts.

  ‘Sir, I would like to thank you for a truly delightful evening. I have not been so well entertained for many a long day past. What is more, it’s the first time in my life I have ever stayed up till the following morning!’

  ‘So it is for me,’ Dick said, ‘and I am older than you, my girl.’

  When, having lingered as long as they dared, they had said good night and gone up to bed, Katharine turned and spoke to Martin.

  ‘Seeing my children so happy this evening makes me realize how selfish I’ve been. I’ve cut myself off too much from the world and my poor children have suffered for it. Susannah in particular, for she sees no young people but Dick. I’ve pleaded the change in my position, but part of that was just an excuse to hide myself away here, like an animal nursing its wounds. I lacked the courage to face the world in my new identity as deserted wife.’

  ‘You needed time,’ Martin said.

  ‘Yes, I did. But now I need, as you told me once, to reach some degree of compromise between the old life and the new. And due to your help, as in so many things, I think I am close to that compromise. Now I must go up and see the children into bed. Good night, Martin, and again my thanks ‒ for being such a good friend to us.’

  Spring came early that year and on the first Monday in April Jobe the gardener came to Katharine to say he thought it warm enough to fetch the bee-skeps out of the garth and stand them about the gardens. Where, he asked, would she like them put?

  ‘That is a matter for Mr Cox to decide.’

  ‘Master’s busy just now, ma’am. He said I should ask you.’

  ‘Very well. I’ll come and see.’

  Another day Jobe came to consult her about transplanting the melon plants; later it was a question of bedding out the geraniums; of thinning the fruit on the vines in the greenhouse; of picking the first crop of strawberries. In this way she was kept busy, doing the things she loved best. She no longer shut herself away in her room as soon as her household tasks were done, but came and went, indoors and out, almost as freely as of old. It was the same with the children; they had accepted Martin’s friendship and were perfectly at ease with him. Susannah, especially, was quite without shyness in this respect and always had some story to tell him; some discovery to impart; some accomplishment to display.

  ‘Would you like to hear my new piece? It’s a sonata by Johann Hummel.’

  ‘Yes, I would like that very much. But if you are to do yourself justice, you must play it for me on the Broadwood.’

  ‘Oh, Martin, I hoped you’d say that! It seems you must have read my mind.’

  ‘My daughter,’ Katharine said, alone with Martin afterwards, ‘is taking advantage of your goodwill.’

  ‘Surely that is what goodwill is for?’

  ‘Furthermore, just recently, she has taken to using your first name. I’m not sure it should be allowed.’

  ‘May I not be the judge of that?’

  ‘You are too lenient a judge, I fear. But my children are not the only ones who take advantage of you. I do it myself and have done from the very beginning. Accepting asylum under your roof, and all your many kindnesses, I have taken you too much at your word, and as a result I find that time is slipping past almost unnoticed.’

  ‘And what harm can there be,’ Martin said, ‘in living as Scripture bids us do?’

  Katharine smiled.

  ‘ “Take therefore no thought for the morrow, for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself”.’

  It was easy enough for Katharine to leave the future to take care of itself because inclination favoured it. Her children were happy and secure and this alone was quite enough to make her happy too. Her sister Ginny, so often at Railes, noted the improvement in her and gave credit where it was due.

  ‘I thought coming back here would be too painful for you, but it seems Martin knew best after all. Seeing you smiling and laughing again, I think I could almost forgive him for taking Railes away from us.’

  The two sisters were alone together because Martin had taken Dick and Susannah to see Scurr Quarry. Katharine sat doing some needlework; she was smocking the bodice of a frock for Susannah; and Ginny, in reflective mood, was studying her intently.

  ‘Kate,’ she said eventually, ‘have you ever thought what you would do if Charles never returned at all?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve thought about it often and long, but there is nothing I can do.’

  ‘No, that is the awful thing, because George made enquiries on your behalf when he saw Mr Godwin recently. He asked about your position in law and it seems you cannot divorce Charles for desertion unless he has been unfaithful as well. But Mr Godwin said that after a period of seven years you could apply to the court for a legal presumption of your husband’s death.’

  Katharine, who had lowered her needlework into her lap, stared at her sister in angry surprise.

  ‘George made enquiries?’

  ‘Yes,’ Ginny said. ‘He does have his uses, occasionally. But if you’re offended, you mustn’t blame him, for he did it only at my request.’

  ‘Ginny, you had no right to do that, and if you had asked me first, I should have forbidden it utterly.’

  ‘Surely you wish to know how you stand? I should wish it if I were you.’

  ‘Why should I? What use is the knowledge now that I have it? Charles has divorced himself from me, though not by process of law, so why should I need to divorce him, even if it were possible? As for the alternative, what woman, in God’s name, would wish to presume her husband dead?’

  ‘Because, my dear Kate, in years to come, she might perhaps wish to marry again.’

  ‘I shall never wish such a thing.’

  ‘You cannot know,’ Ginny said. ‘You feel that now at this moment, of course, but it may be a very different matter when a number of years have gone by.’

  ‘I shall have grown old by then.’

  ‘Oh, no, you won’t! You must not grow old! You must stay young for your children’s sake and to make up to yourself somehow for the hurt and unhappiness Charles has caused you. Surely you feel some anger against him for abandoning you and the children like this? Of course you do! And so you should. Wasn’t that partly why you accepted Martin’s offer of employment here? Because it was just the opposite of what Charles assumed you would do? Oh, I know you wanted your independence. ‒ You’ve always been obstinate about that. ‒ But if you are honest I’m sure you’ll admit that it was also a kind of revenge, because you knew how Charles would hate the idea of your coming back here to Newton Railes to work for Martin of all people.’

  ‘As by now it appears certain that Charles does not intend to come back, he will never know what I’ve done. But yes, Ginny, you are quite right. ‒ I did feel a certain satisfaction in doing something I knew he would hate … Rather an ignoble motive, I’m afraid, and certainly not my chief one, but ‒’

  ‘Oh, my dear! You can’t expect always to live up to your own high principles. And indeed it’s a great comfort to me to find that my high-minded sister is guilty of mean thoughts sometimes. It restores my faith in human nature.’

  With the coming of spring and the warm weather, Ginny was at Railes more and more, sometimes two or three days a week. She never sent word of her intentions; she came when the impulse moved her; and she liked to take them by surprise.

  ‘I’m really quite grateful to Martin now for employing you as his housekeeper. It gives me such a good excuse for coming back to the old place. Not to mention making it easy for me to see you, my dears.’

  It was an afternoon at the end of May and the two sisters, with Susannah, were strolling about the gardens. Underfoot, in the green walk, the calamint yielded up its scent, while, out on the open parterre, as they emerged into full sunshine, they were met by the warm heady sweetness of the wallflowers ‒ crimson, yellow, and claret-brown ‒ that filled the border beneath the terrace. From the parterre they walked down to the lower lawn and sat t
ogether on the stone bench that gave a fine view of the parkland. There, among the limes and the sycamores, only now beginning to leaf, the chestnut trees were in full glory, their pyramids of creamy white blossom standing erect among the bright green leaves, tier upon tier on the undulent branches.

  ‘Railes in the springtime is beautiful. Everything is just at its best. It’s so beautiful, it actually hurts, and as I was driving up through the park, I couldn’t help thinking that if only I had married Martin, I should have been mistress here now, and all this loveliness would be mine. Just think of that, my dears! ‒ Mistress in my old home.’

  Susannah’s eyes had opened wide.

  ‘Did Martin propose to you, then, Aunt Ginny, long ago when you were young?’

  ‘No, he never did propose. But he would have done, I daresay, if I had ever encouraged him.’

  ‘Do you wish you were married to him?’

  ‘Sometimes, my dear Susannah, I could wish myself married to any man, so long as it wasn’t your uncle George.’

  ‘Oh, dear!’ Susannah said. ‘Have you and he been quarrelling again?’

  ‘Quarrelling, I very much fear, is the only thing that keeps us alive.’

  A little while later, when Susannah, at her aunt’s request, had gone into the house to ‘rout Martin out of his study’, Katharine took up the subject of George.

  ‘These quarrels you have so frequently ‒ I trust they’re not really serious.’

  ‘No, no! We do but quarrel in jest, that’s all.’

  ‘Sometimes it seems, from what you say, that you go out of your way to provoke him.’

  ‘Well, I have to do something to pass the time.’

  ‘And I can’t help feeling it is less than wise to come here so often as you do, now that this is Martin’s home.’

  ‘I come to see you, and my nephew and niece, not Martin,’ Ginny said.

  ‘Does George believe that?’