Mistress of Green Tree Mill

by Mistress of Green Tree Mill (retail) (epub)

  David decided to invite Alex to be one of their card playing set because he was a bachelor, a few years older than Lizzie, teetotal, highly religious, respectable and rich.

  He had no illusions about the sort of man his daughter would pick for herself – and that it would not be an Alex Henderson – but he had seen enough of the world to realize that some of the most suitable marriages are not made in heaven and necessity often brings together strange bedfellows. Lizzie was lonely but it was unlikely that she would ever find another Sam. There was also the danger that her loneliness would in time make her vulnerable to a fortune hunter. The fact that Henderson was rich and a success in his own right made them appear to be a good pairing. Anyway, mused David, it would take a quiet man to live with Lizzie and not resent her twin fixations – Green Tree Mill and Charlie. She’d changed a lot since Sam died.

  * * *

  It was pleasant to play cards again, to concentrate so hard on the little squares of cardboard in her hand that all her daytime concerns disappeared. She glanced under her lashes at the other players; her father’s face was lined and tired in the firelight; her aunt was frowning in fierce concentration and Alex Henderson sat with a beatific expression as if he held every ace and every trump in the pack.

  She’d seen him often around town and was even one of his customers at the High Street shop. When she inherited Tay Lodge she inherited Henderson’s as food purveyors but because all her household management was done through the housekeeper, Lizzie herself had never set foot in Alex’s establishment.

  He was a mild-mannered fellow with a pleasant, almost boyish face and an unctuous way of speaking which made the most ordinary words seem soothing. Tall and spare, he had grey eyes and black hair speckled with white although he was only in his early forties. He had such an otherworldly air that it was hard to appreciate the acuteness of his business brain.

  ‘Mine, I think,’ he said, gathering up the four cards on the table and swiftly counting the tricks lined up at his place with a long finger. He’d notched up eight already and the rest of them had nothing. She could see that he enjoyed winning.

  Alex was not the sort of man that she admired. She was a woman who responded to masculinity, and his old-maidish ways slightly amused her, but he was well-mannered and made every effort to entertain her at supper after their game. When he invited her to a musical concert which was to be held the following week, she found herself agreeing to go. Even her father looked slightly surprised when he heard this. He had not expected his plan to start working so quickly.

  The squiring of Lizzie Kinge by Alex Henderson was suitable on several levels. They were both ambitious business people; they found it easy to talk to each other but their conversation was always about practicalities and business problems, which fascinated them both. She respected Alex’s judgement although he tended to be more cautious than she. It never occurred to them to talk of the secret things that draw lovers together.

  Charlie did not like Alex. ‘He’s an old wife. The way he talks gets on my nerves – all that fancy fluting,’ he said after they met for the first time.

  ‘Don’t be silly. He’s very polite. It’s the way he talks to the ladies in his shop,’ said Lizzie.

  ‘He’s only good for cutting cheese,’ was Charlie’s retort as he and his huge Airedale terrier Bran went bursting out of the house on some suspicious errand.

  In spite of her son’s scorn, Alex suited Lizzie because he never made an ambiguous suggestion to her, never presented himself in the guise of a lover. They were friends and went out together every week to some social occasion or other. Having an escort gave her the opportunity of a life outside the mill and Tay Lodge. Society was open to her and she once again started to indulge her taste in fine clothes.

  Among the problems that she discussed with Alex was the waywardness of her son.

  ‘He doesn’t do anything he’s told. He twists Maggy around his little finger,’ she complained.

  Alex’s face showed that there were comments he could make, but he held his tongue. It was not for him to point out to Lizzie that her own treatment of Charlie was excessively indulgent. She wouldn’t have believed him anyway.

  ‘Perhaps he needs a man’s hand,’ he suggested. He hoped she did not think he was offering himself for the post. Dealing with Charlie would be more than he could contemplate.

  ‘I thought of that. I’ve asked my half brothers Davie and Robert to take him out with them. Davie’s busy with the Castle Bar but Robert spends time with Charlie. I’m not entirely sure it’s good, though. Robert’s a rogue as well. He was allowed to run wild when he was little.’

  She had never cared much for Robert, who she considered loutish, but Charlie seemed to enjoy his company. Perhaps, when she had time, she’d put her mind to finding another mentor for her son.

  Sometimes talking about a problem brings it to a head. When she arrived home next evening Maggy was waiting for her in the hall, looking concerned.

  ‘Your brother’s waiting for you. He’s gey mad,’ she whispered.

  ‘George’s here? George’s mad?’ she asked, surprised. George had not been in Tay Lodge for more than a year because her father had let slip a hint about Lizzie’s refusal to play cards with Rosie.

  ‘Not him. It’s Roh-bert,’ said Maggy.

  Lizzie swept into her drawing room and found her youngest half brother perched on the edge of the sofa, his red hands hanging between his knees.

  He stood up when she entered and made a few grunting sounds which she took to be greetings, but she did not return them. He was obviously bent on some business that would cause her trouble.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked with unsettling directness. If he’d come to borrow money, she was determined not to give him any.

  ‘It’s about that laddie of yours.’

  Her face hardened. ‘Charlie? What’s he done?’

  ‘His dog’s just about killed my Hercules.’ Hercules was a bull terrier, Robert’s proudest possession. When it was a puppy it had won innumerable dog-show prizes. Now rumour had it that Hercules was used for dog fighting, a cruel sport that Lizzie hated.

  ‘That’s not likely. Bran’s not a fighting dog.’

  ‘That little bugger of a laddie’s been training him. He set his dog on Hercules in the back court of the bar this afternoon and you should see my dog, half torn to ribbons.’

  ‘And what am I to do about it?’ she asked, facing him out.

  ‘You want to do something about that laddie. He’s as wild as heather. God knows what’ll happen to him if you don’t control him. It’ll be the Mars for him right enough. You just let him do what he likes.’ Robert’s voice was quavering and he was obviously deeply upset about Hercules. When Robert complained about someone being wild, they must be very unruly indeed, thought Lizzie, and her attitude was softened by his obvious suffering on Hercules’ behalf.

  ‘I’ll pay the vet’s bill. Here, take this.’ She thrust a hand into her skirt pocket and brought out a few sovereigns. He took them and left, still grumbling.

  Charlie was hiding in the back parlour with Maggy. Bran lay under the sofa with his massive head propped on his paws and his golden eyes shining.

  Lizzie was raging when she swept in. ‘What’s all this about dog fighting? You know I would never permit that. What did you do to Hercules? Robert’s almost in tears about him.’

  Charlie blustered, ‘Och, he’s aye boasting about how fierce that dog of his is. I wanted to show him that Bran’s fiercer.’

  ‘You’re stupid. You could have got your dog killed. Hercules is a vicious brute.’

  ‘But he’s a coward. Bran’s brave. I’ve been training him for ages. I pretended that Hercules was attacking me and Bran went in to kill him. He nearly did too.’

  Lizzie bent down to the dog. ‘Poor Bran. Was he hurt?’

  ‘Just a little bit,’ said Charlie proudly, ‘but not as bad as Hercules. My Bran nearly ate him alive.’

  ‘You’re
impossible. I don’t know what I’m going to do with you. Robert’s right when he says you’re out of hand. As punishment you’ll stay in all weekend. You’ve not to set foot over the door for three days – you’ve not to leave the house.’

  It was a punishment that she knew would annoy Charlie, who was due to take part in a swimming gala on Saturday night. His pleas and begging fell on deaf ears.

  ‘You’re to stay in,’ she told him, and turning to Maggy, ordered, ‘He’s not to go out. Not even for a minute.’

  He stormed and raged, he kicked the furniture and made such a din clattering up and down the stairs that her hours of relaxation were ruined. When Alex came to call, her son mocked him openly, imitating his precise way of talking and rubbing his hands together like an anxious shopwalker. She was furious and tried to quell him with her hardest stare but Charlie stared right back with the same look in his eye. It was war between them. On Saturday all the doors of the house were locked and the keys brought to her.

  ‘I hope you know what you’re doing. It’s a bit late to start coming down hard on the Boss now,’ said Maggy.

  Lizzie rolled her eyes. ‘The Boss! We should have done this long ago.’

  When it was time to leave for the swimming gala he came into the drawing room with a rolled towel beneath his arm and his dog at his heels.

  ‘I’m off then,’ he said boldly.

  ‘You’re not,’ she told him, ‘you’re staying here.’ She brandished the key to the front door as she spoke.

  His face went red and he blustered, ‘Oh come on, Ma, you don’t mean it.’

  ‘I do and you know why,’ she said trying to stop herself from shouting.

  Charlie almost wept. ‘But I’m team leader. I’ve got to be there.’

  If Maggy had not been watching from the door Lizzie might even have yielded, but she hardened her heart.

  Seeing he had lost, her son charged out of the room with Bran behind him. The next thing she knew was a terrible smashing of glass. When she ran into the hall the stained-glass panel in the middle of the front door was shattered. Charlie had made Bran jump clean through it. The dog was standing on the outside step, shaking his head but unharmed.

  When he saw his mother coming, Charlie tried to climb through the gaping hole, but he cut himself badly. Blood started spouting from a long gash in his leg and he grasped at it with his hands, looking at his mother with a white face. ‘Oh, Ma, I’m sorry,’ he cried.

  Screaming, she ran to staunch the bleeding with frantic hands but Maggy brushed her aside and stopped the blood by tying a tourniquet around Charlie’s upper thigh. He was kissed and bandaged, petted and forgiven. His mother was so frightened by what had happened that she could not bring herself to punish him. It did not strike her that Charlie had won again.

  Chapter 19

  ‘Charlie needs a holiday. I’m going to take a house at Carnoustie,’ Lizzie informed her father in the summer of 1910. Her son did not look greatly enchanted at the idea of being exiled to Carnoustie but his mother had decided that it was necessary to remove him from his undesirable city associates.

  ‘You’re not going to take time off from Green Tree, are you?’ asked David in surprise, for the jute industry was picking up but there were rumours of workers’ unrest. There was even talk of a strike.

  ‘No, Maggy’ll take Charlie to the seaside and I’ll go back and forward to Carnoustie at the weekend. I thought that Lexie might like to go too.’

  Lexie was in awe of her sister. The visits she paid to Tay Lodge with her father did not enchant her in the same way as Lizzie had been enchanted as a child.

  Lexie felt awkward among the tables covered with pretty things that could so easily be broken; she was intimidated by the rustling maids, the stillness and the insistence on good manners. Only when she was allowed out to the stables to play with Charlie did she relax.

  Her father guessed that she would rather stay at home but he was worried about her for she was as white as a bleached bone and as thin as a lathe. He feared that she might have inherited Chrissy’s consumptive weakness.

  ‘That’s kind of you, Lizzie. The bairn’ll go with Maggy and Charlie,’ he said gratefully.

  The child gazed up at him in consternation. Her concern for the old man reminded Lizzie of how she had taken on the role of his protector when she was Lexie’s age.

  ‘I don’t think I should leave you,’ said Lexie, clinging to her father’s hand.

  He laughed. ‘I’ll be all right and you’ll only be away for six weeks.’

  ‘But what about your pain?’ asked the girl and her father hushed her quickly with a sidelong look at his eldest daughter.

  ‘I’ve not any pain. You go and have a good holiday. I’ll come down and visit you.’

  She was still looking doubtful when their party boarded the train for Carnoustie. The rented house had a wild garden that ran down to the beach. Within a day, Lexie had forgotten her misgivings.

  The summer was half over when Lizzie alighted from the Carnoustie train on Sunday night and, to her surprise, found George waiting solemnly on the platform. He put his hand on her arm. ‘I’ve bad news about Father,’ he said.

  She stared at him. ‘How bad?’

  ‘He’s dead.’

  The tears sprang to her eyes but she controlled herself as they walked, heads bowed, to her waiting carriage.

  ‘It was this afternoon,’ George said. ‘Young Davie came to tell me. I didn’t have time to send you a telegram. Anyway I thought it was best if Lexie doesn’t find out that way. She’s awful fond of the old man.’

  ‘Thank God it was sudden. Was it his heart?’ she whispered, staring at her brother’s concerned face.

  He said slowly, ‘Yes, his heart.’

  ‘Did he die at home? Were the lads with him?’

  ‘He wasn’t alone but he didn’t die at home.’

  Her face was harrowed. ‘Not on the street? He’d hate that.’

  George shook his head. ‘No. Oh, you’ll have to know because the whole town’s talking about it. He died in bed with a woman. Some widow he’d been friendly with for years, apparently, ever since Chrissy died. She’s a nice respectable body, Lizzie.’

  Why did she still feel jealousy about her father? Though it was illogical it was very real. Her next feeling was outrage.

  ‘How could he do this to us? It’s shameful,’ she cried.

  George shook his head in disapproval, but not of his father. ‘I was afraid you’d take it like that. For God’s sake, Lizzie, he was lonely. Try to understand. He loved life. He wasn’t doing anybody any harm. I’m glad he met his end in some kind woman’s bed. She’s broken-hearted about him.’

  It transpired that the way David Mudie died made him a sort of hero among his friends. Far from disapproving, most of them were envious, but still Lizzie raged. ‘It’s disgraceful. It’s immoral. Why did he do it?’ Her own banked-up longings and deep-rooted frustrations stirred her to greater indignation.

  She sat through her father’s funeral with a thunderous face and led the procession out of the church as if leading them into battle. Bringing up her wake was Charlie in his kilt, then Lexie, dressed in mourning black. Her little face was streaked with tears and she clung tightly to Maggy’s hand, for she needed the comfort of a loving woman.

  ‘The lawyer wants to meet the family to read the will. Davie’s arranged for us all to go to the bar,’ George whispered to Lizzie outside the church.

  ‘There’s not much point. There’ll be nothing to leave,’ she hissed, but went nonetheless, stiff backed and stony faced. Her feelings were in turmoil. Half of her was grief-stricken and in mourning for the dear father she had genuinely loved; the other half was a mixture of emotions, outraged respectability, jealousy, strange longings that she could not name, and resentment mixed with fear. She had relied on David, he had been a confidant. Now that he was gone she felt strangely unprotected.

  The will was short. As Lizzie had predicted there was nothing much to
leave. The gig and pony had been sold by young Davie to pay for the funeral. The lawyer’s voice droned on, reading out David Mudie’s last messages of love to his children, for he had indeed loved them all. They wept and Robert was sobbing in a corner with a white handkerchief up to his eyes. Lexie was like a little ghost as she sat with her eyes fixed on the lawyer’s face and tears flowing unchecked down her cheeks. When her name was mentioned, she flinched as if she had been struck. David had left her the beautiful silver platter with the woman’s head on it. It was his last remaining treasure. George received his father’s silver-topped cane. The lads each got a set of cufflinks. Mention of Lizzie came last.

  ‘My dear daughter Elizabeth is not in need of a legacy but I want her to know that I think of her with the deepest affection and admiration. She cannot guess how much I have always appreciated the support she has been to me ever since the death of her dear mother. In gratitude I bequeath my gold watch to her only son Charles and hope that he will wear it in memory of me.’

  A strangled sob escaped from Lizzie’s throat as the lawyer read these words. Then he folded up the paper. The painful ritual was over.

  ‘But that can’t be all,’ said young Davie, leaning forward in his chair. ‘He must have left something else.’ Robert revived and chimed in with his protests: ‘He must have had some money to leave.’

  The lawyer looked pained. This sort of thing often happened at Dundee will readings. ‘I’m afraid your father did not have a penny to his name when he died,’ he said.

  The lads looked at each other in disbelief. ‘But he lived like a lord. All those cigars, the brandy, the racing and the theatre-going – the women! That picture! How did he pay for all that?’

  Lizzie rose to her feet like an avenging fury. ‘I paid for it and I gave him an allowance. I’ve been giving it to him for years. Your mother left him with nothing. I couldn’t stand back and see him doing without.’

  ‘You’re a damned liar,’ snapped Robert.

  ‘What did you say?’ gasped Lizzie.