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

by Mary E. Pearce

  ‘No. I have interviewed a number of women but none was really suitable.’

  ‘You are hard to please, having had Kate here. But if you think to find another such as she, you will only seek in vain, I fear.’

  ‘I’m afraid you are right,’ Martin said.

  ‘How very inconsiderate of Charles to come back and take her away from you. I suppose you make do with Cook again and expect her to do everything. How is the old body nowadays?’

  ‘She is very well,’ Martin said, ‘and if you were to visit her in the kitchen, she would be overjoyed.’

  ‘So I shall. But not now.’ Ginny glanced at the clock on the stairs. ‘I think, while the rain holds off, this is a good time to send for Dick, so that poor old Cobbold may not be drenched. Shall you and I go with him, Susannah, and give your brother a surprise?’

  ‘Oh, yes, I should like that! Are you coming, too, Mama?’

  ‘No, your mama cannot come,’ Ginny said. ‘She must stay with our host, for civility’s sake.’

  Martin and Katharine returned to the window, clear now of vapour, and in a while saw the carriage making its way down the drive. The storm clouds had passed over now and were heaped up darkly over Holm Hill. The sun shone in a warm golden surge, lighting the misty parkland in such a way that the carriage, rounding a bend in the drive, appeared to be vanishing into a rainbow. And behold, when the two watchers craned their necks, a rainbow could be seen in the southern sky, its colours bright against the livid clouds.

  ‘ “Who sees the rainbow in the sky

  Knows the storm has passed him by.

  Who sees the rainbow touch the ground

  Knows where good fortune may be found.” ’

  Martin turned towards Katharine.

  ‘My sister Nan told me that rhyme when we were children at Scurr,’ he said. ‘She believed it had a meaning different from the obvious one ‒ that seeing the rainbow was riches enough without going to the rainbow’s foot to dig in search of a crock of gold.’

  ‘What did you believe, yourself?’

  ‘I was disappointed, I think. I wanted the rainbow and the gold. But now I’m older I think Nan was right. The crock of gold is not only a myth ‒ it is meant as a myth. It represents what we can’t have. Or, perhaps, what we ought not to want.’

  Sunshine was flooding in at the great window now, filling the bay with its light and warmth, bringing to life the rich greens and golds in the Polonaise carpet, and casting over all, inevitably, the criss-cross reticulations of shade created by the many hundreds of small rectangular window panes. Some chairs had been set in the window-bay, ready for the visitors, and Martin and Katharine now sat down, choosing positions where they faced each other, without the sun’s glare being in their eyes.

  ‘How quiet it is,’ Katharine said, ‘now that my sister and daughter are gone.’

  ‘Your sister is in an excitable mood.’

  ‘She’s amusing herself at our expense.’

  ‘Does it trouble you?’

  ‘A little, yes. The things she says in front of Susannah ‒ I shall speak to her privately when I can. But otherwise, apart from that, it does not worry me at all.’

  ‘You are not angry with her, then, for bringing you here today?’

  ‘No, I’m not angry,’ Katharine said.

  ‘Nor for leaving you here with me?’

  ‘No. Of course not. I could have gone with them ‒ if I had wished.’

  ‘But you did not,’ Martin said. ‘You stayed with me ‒ for civility’s sake.’

  They smiled at each other and were silent a while. Then Martin spoke again.

  ‘There are so many questions I want to ask that I hardly know where to begin. I receive news of you sometimes … but never what I want to hear. I know you live at Grove End but it could just as well be Antarctica, so severed has your life been from mine since you left this house. I hear more about your husband than I do of you. He is gone into partnership with Maynard at Loxe Mill, I believe.’

  ‘Yes, and he is doing very well. He is determined to recover his old position and is working hard towards that end. He and Mr Maynard are on very good terms.’

  ‘So much for Yuart the clothier. But what of Yuart the man at home? I have seen Dick twice and I know all is not well between him and his father since the argument over his career.’

  ‘Dick is rebellious. That angers Charles. But I hope in time they will come to a better understanding together.’

  ‘And what of your own understanding with Charles? You were rebellious too, I hear, when pleading Dick’s case with him. And I have seen enough of your husband’s temper to feel anxiety on your behalf.’

  ‘There is no need for anxiety.’

  ‘As a loyal wife, you’d be bound to say that. But I am anxious all the same because under your composure you look …’

  ‘Yes?’ Katharine said. ‘How do I look?’

  ‘Rather less than your whole self.’

  ‘Oh, Martin, you must try to understand! Charles was away nearly three years. That is a long time for two people to be apart and it is no easy matter learning to be husband and wife again. Charles is changed. I can’t quite say how. But Charles says I have changed and I think that’s true. Certainly there are grievances between us. Wounds, as it were, that are not yet healed. Charles says I cannot forgive him for leaving the children and me for three years. But Charles in turn cannot forgive me for coming back here while he was away. Perhaps if I showed some sign of repentance, it would be a different matter. But I feel no repentance and never shall … because the sanctuary you gave the children and me, and your kindness to us in those three years … well, you know what that meant to us. We speak of you often, when we’re alone, and it’s always such a comfort to us, to know that we have you as our friend.’

  ‘Even though the friendship between us is such a thorn in your husband’s flesh? ‒ Another source of grievance between you and him?’

  ‘Yes, even in spite of that.’

  ‘Will the grievances heal in time, d’you think?’

  ‘I don’t know. I hope they will. But let us not talk any more in this vein. We have only a short time together and every moment of it is precious. Oh, Martin, my dear friend, if you only knew what it means to me to be here in this house with you again. To be sitting alone with you like this, so quiet together, and so comfortable. I don’t know which warms me the most ‒ this sunshine streaming in on us both or the pleasure of your company. But one thing I know for sure ‒ together, they are blessing and balm.’

  Ginny’s advice, on the way to Railes, that the visit should be kept secret from Charles was not such as Katharine could follow. For one thing, deception was hateful to her. For another, the burden of secrecy was bound to prove hard for the children to bear. Reserved though they were in their father’s presence, some hint of the visit was sure to slip out. Katharine decided, therefore, that they should speak of it openly, but without dwelling on it in any way that might cause him irritation.

  It happened that Charles was late home that evening, which meant that he and she were alone when, on asking about her visit to Chacelands, he learnt that she had first gone to Railes.

  ‘You went to Railes? Why was that?’

  ‘Ginny took us, as a surprise.’

  ‘And no doubt it was a pleasant surprise.’

  ‘Yes, very pleasant indeed,’ Katharine said.

  Briefly, he stood looking at her. Then he turned and left the room and she heard him go into his study. He was still there when she went to bed.

  It was nothing new for Charles to work late at the mill; nor for him to continue at home; and because of this, during the week, he and the children rarely met. Only on Sunday was he with them for any length of time and on these occasions, although he took some interest in Susannah, enquiring about her week’s lessons, his remarks to Dick were brief, cool, and impersonal.

  ‘My father means to punish me because I wouldn’t go into Loxe Mill,’ the boy said to Katharine on
ce. ‘I’ve been with Mr Bonnamy for more than ten weeks now and never once has my father asked me how I am getting on.’

  Katharine knew this was true, and it worried her. At the same time, Dick’s manner to his father left much to be desired, and when she taxed him with this he said he found it difficult to be himself when his father was present.

  ‘If you could just make an effort,’ she said. ‘For instance, if you were to show him some of your work …’

  ‘No, Mama. I couldn’t do that.’

  ‘Not even if I were to suggest it when you are together next time?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know …’

  ‘Let me try,’ Katharine said.

  On the following Sunday, therefore, with Dick’s consent, Katharine duly raised the matter.

  ‘Charles, Dick has been showing us the drawings he’s done for Mr Bonnamy, and I’m sure if you have time to spare you will find them very interesting.’

  ‘Indeed? What sort of drawings?’ Charles asked. Seated, he looked across at his son.

  ‘Drawings to do with my work, Papa. Some are sketches and some are designs, all illustrating aspects of our local architectural styles.’ Dick went to the side-table and fetched his portfolio. ‘Would you like to see them, Papa?’

  What it cost the boy to say this was very plain to his mother and sister but not, it seemed, to his father; for Charles, though he glanced at the portfolio, made no attempt to take it.

  ‘Has Mr Bonnamy seen your drawings?’

  ‘Yes. He was kind enough to say they were excellent.’

  ‘And what about Martin Cox? He is often at Bonnamy’s office, I gather, so presumably you have shown them to him?’

  ‘Yes. He, too, thought they were good.’

  ‘Well, since these two men, by virtue of their calling, are well qualified to judge and pronounce, I hardly think my opinion is needed. I know little of architecture. My comments would be useless to you.’

  Dick turned and left the room, taking his drawings with him. The door had scarcely closed on him when Susannah, rounding on her father, spoke out indignantly.

  ‘Papa, I don’t understand you! Why are you so unkind to him?’

  Without waiting for an answer, she went out after her brother. Katharine sat facing Charles.

  ‘I can only echo Susannah. ‒ Why do your treat him so?’

  ‘I only spoke the truth. That boy has no interest in anything I might say to him. He has shown his drawings to all and sundry before condescending to show them to me and now it is only at your instigation.’

  ‘He would not approach you before because he feared your indifference. Now his fears have proved justified. You are not only indifferent but hostile to him ‒ all because he has chosen a profession which you connect with Martin Cox.’

  ‘Cox has certainly played a more prominent part in my affairs than I would have chosen.’

  ‘And because you dislike him so much you wish us to end our friendship with him.’

  ‘I wish it had never existed at all.’

  ‘Well, I cannot undo the past, Charles. And, as far as Martin is concerned, I would not do so even if I could.’

  ‘In that case there is nothing more to be said.’

  ‘I could find much to say if I thought you would listen sympathetically. And I would be willing to do much, to create a better understanding between us. But this thing you ask of me, that I should reject a friend and his friendship ‒’

  ‘I have asked nothing. I have merely made my feelings clear. For most women, a husband’s wishes would be enough, but you would have me forbid you outright, thus exposing myself to the charge of being a harsh, domineering husband. Perhaps that is how you see me. It is certainly not how I see myself. But you have always had a gift for putting me in the wrong and it is not, I suppose, surprising that I now find myself arraigned by my two children as well as by my wife. Dick, in particular, from the day I returned, has been sulky and churlish in the extreme. Yet now, over these drawings of his, he would have me pat his head and say what a clever fellow he is.’

  ‘Charles, he is young. He is sixteen. Surely you, as a grown man, can make some allowances for him. You are his father, the most important person in his life. Of course he wants commendation from you. It is only natural. He is a boy, with a boy’s feelings ‒’

  ‘Do you think, because I am a man, that I don’t have feelings of my own?’

  ‘I know what your feelings are. You are bitterly disappointed because he has chosen a profession different from yours. But can you not forgive him for that? Can you not find it in your heart to take some interest in his work?’

  ‘It is absurd to speak of forgiveness. You make too much of the boy’s concerns. However, I am prepared, as you suggest, to make some allowances for him, bearing in mind that during my absence he came under doubtful influences.’

  Charles rose and went to the door.

  ‘I am going to my study. You may tell the boy, if you choose, that I am willing to receive him there and will look at these precious drawings of his. Possibly, if I see him alone, we shall do better, he and I, than when you and his sister are present.’

  But Dick, on receiving the substance of this message, rejected it with passionate scorn.

  ‘Never, never, never again shall I seek to interest him in my work, or in anything else whatsoever. He deliberately sought to humiliate me and would do it again if he had the chance. But he shall not have the chance again. I will make quite certain of that. It is no good, Mama, speaking to me of love and respect between father and son, because in my case they no longer exist. My father cares nothing for me. But what of that? I did without his love all the time he was away. I shall do without it now that he’s home.’

  Nothing Katharine could say would move her son from this avowal. The wound had gone too deep. And although she still hoped that time and its kindlier hours would bring a better understanding, in her heart she feared that the signs were against it.

  Charles, determined to re-establish himself in his native trade, applied himself to it with such single-mindedness that Ginny, on one of her visits to Rose Villa, scolded him roundly for cutting himself off from the world.

  ‘The Yeomanry Ball last week, Ginotti’s recital the week before, and the Yuarts were not present at either! Explain yourself, Charles, if you please.’

  ‘I will not attend public functions until I can do so on equal terms with those people I am likely to meet.’

  ‘And what about private functions? Will you accept invitations from friends?’

  ‘No. Not until such time as I can return their hospitality and that is impossible in this house.’

  ‘Surely you can come to Chacelands, just for an informal family meal?’

  ‘You forget, my dear sister-in-law, that your husband and I are not on good terms.’

  ‘Oh, how ridiculous men are! To keep up a quarrel all these years! I don’t know who’s worse ‒ you or George. But if you yourself will not come, at least you will not object if Katharine and the children do? I will send the carriage for them, of course.’

  ‘I have no objection,’ Charles said. ‘They are free to do as they please.’

  At regular intervals, therefore, Katharine and the children were invited to Chacelands; sometimes to tea, sometimes to supper; and always on these occasions Martin was invited too.

  ‘Is it not kind of me,’ Ginny said once, seated alone with Katharine while the two men and the young people were gathered around the billiard-table; ‘is it not angelic of me to bring you and Martin together like this? I always send him a note, you see, the moment I know for sure you’re coming. Oh, don’t worry, it’s always discreet. I simply say, “The family will be here at such-and-such a time. I hope you’ll be able to join us.” And somehow ‒ it’s the oddest thing ‒ he always seems to manage it.’

  Katharine, unravelling a skein of silk thread, glanced at her sister but made no reply.

  ‘There!’ Ginny said. ‘I’ve made you blush! And it is only
right that you should. For who would have thought, in earlier days, that time would cast me as go-between for my virtuous, high-minded elder sister and her cavaliere servente? It really is too amusing for words except that you’re so pudique, both of you, that sometimes I despair of you. It is such a waste, I could weep salt tears. For here I have been, these two years or more, simply longing to be unfaithful to George, in revenge for Anthony, and Martin, who could have been my amoureux, prefers playing Aucassin to your Nicolette. How unfair it all is! I can’t think of any other man who might do, which means I have no choice, perdee, but to be faithful to George after all.’

  Ginny paused, looking archly at Katharine, her head on one side.

  ‘I suppose it is no use asking what Nicolette feels for her Aucassin? She wouldn’t tell me, anyway. Oh, well! N’importe! N’importe! It means I can use my imagination, which is more diverting than fact as a rule, don’t you agree, Kate?’

  ‘In your case, yes, undoubtedly.’ Katharine, having finished her work on the skein, wound it into a neat coil and laid it in her sister’s lap. ‘There is your silk, all tidy again.’

  ‘Ah! Would that all knots could be undone so easily as that!’ Ginny said.

  The little party at the billiard-table, having finished their game, now came to the fireside.

  ‘Martin, come and sit here by me,’ Ginny said, and, as he complied: ‘Tell us how things are at Railes, now that Christmas is drawing near. Will you be spending it at home?’

  ‘Yes. Nan and her family are coming and will stay for three days or so. On Boxing Day I intend giving a small supper party and I very much hope that you and George and Anthony will be able to come.’