‘How are you this evening, my dear?’ he asked, walking softly across the floor.
She gave a sob as she answered, ‘I was thinking about James. Do you remember the day he went into the fields and gathered a big bunch of flowers for me? At least he thought they were flowers but they were weeds really. He was such a sweet boy.’
Her husband nodded bleakly. ‘I remember. You must stop thinking about him all the time Arabella, you’re making yourself ill.’
Piteously she sobbed, ‘I can’t stop. He’s in my mind day and night. I wake up thinking about him and I fall asleep thinking about him. It’s so cruel. He was so young, he had everything to live for. Oh, I wish it was me who’d died and not him!’
In anguish Wylie knelt by the side of her couch. ‘My dear, it was an accident. There’s nothing we could have done to prevent it. His horse threw him and he broke his neck. It was God’s will. All we can do is endure and take care of his wife and daughter.’
She wiped her eyes with the sodden handkerchief. ‘Oh yes, I agree, but Amelia doesn’t seem to want to be taken care of. Sometimes I think she’s forgotten about James already. I heard her laughing and actually singing in her apartment this afternoon. I had to send Emma Jane to ask her to keep quiet and respect my mourning.’
He remonstrated gently with her. ‘My dear, Amelia’s only young. You can’t expect her to mourn forever. You can’t expect her to die of grief.’
Arabella looked up with tear-filled eyes. ‘Oh Christopher, of course I don’t. It’s just that we can’t seem to be able to talk to each other. Anything I say she takes the wrong way.’
He frowned, for he knew that Arabella tended to speak before she thought and might well have hurt Amelia unwittingly. ‘I’ll speak to her for you,’ he offered and she gripped his hand as she said, ‘Oh Christopher, please do. It’s awful having an atmosphere in the house. It’s so bad for poor little Arbelle.’
He stood up and looked around. ‘Where is Arbelle? I’d like to see her.’ At that moment the drawing-room door opened and his daughter Emma Jane appeared carrying a tray with the brandy decanter and his favourite glass on it. She put her burden down on a side table and he nodded, indicating with two outspread fingers how much brandy he would like poured. When that task was completed Arabella said, ‘Fetch poor Arbelle for your Papa, Emma Jane. He hasn’t seen the little darling today.’ Emma Jane smiled and hurried away to do her mother’s bidding. Christopher noticed how her impassive little face was transformed by a smile. When solemn she looked quite frumpish, but a smile turned her into an impish little thing with a scattering of freckles over the tops of her cheeks and across her nose. The way she wore her hair scraped tight back from her pointed face added to the elfin look.
She was still smiling when she came back a few moments later with a doll of a child hanging on to her hand. This was four-year-old Arbelle, daughter of the dead James and his wife Amelia. All the Wylies were convinced that Arbelle was the prettiest, cleverest, most entrancing little girl in the world. When she saw Christopher she dropped her aunt’s hand and ran to him with both little arms held out, her golden curls flying, and lisping, ‘Oh Grandpa, Grandpa, what have you brought me? Is it a thugar mouse?’
Three pairs of female eyes looked expectantly at him and he said defensively to them, ‘Oh my dear, I’ve been at my bank. They don’t sell sugar mice in banks.’
Arabella bent towards the little girl and said in the high, fluting voice she always used when addressing the child, ‘Isn’t Grandpa naughty? He’s forgotten your sugar mouse. Will we send the kitchen-maid out to buy you one?’
‘I want two,’ pouted Arbelle.
‘Two then,’ agreed her grandmother.
At that moment another voice spoke up from the open drawing-room door. ‘She don’t need no sugar mice. She’ll be puking up all night if she eats two of ’em.’
Mrs Wylie hoisted herself up from her cushions and said in a ladylike voice that contrasted with the strong Northumbrian accent and lack of grammar of her daughter-in-law, ‘Oh, a sugar mouse will do poor Arbelle no harm, surely, Amelia?’
‘Yes it will. She’ll be as sick as a dog,’ said the child’s mother, advancing into the room and shaking a finger at her daughter. ‘I told her she weren’t to ’ave any sugar mice today and she knows it.’
‘Oh poor Arbelle,’ sighed Mrs Wylie, sinking down again and rolling her eyes.
Arbelle’s little face squeezed up and the tears began to flow. Her mother, however, was unaffected by her grief. She grabbed her daughter’s hand and said, ‘You were trying it on, weren’t you? You’re a little monkey.’
The likeness between mother and daughter was striking.
Both had faces like flowers – pink-cheeked and round – both had blue eyes and full lips, and both had tousled golden curls that they could toss with devastating effect. Amelia was already beginning to grow plump, but she still gave off a strong aura of sexuality which made her father-in-law realise how hard widowhood must be for her and why there was so much trouble between her and his wife. Arabella meant well, but she was basically a simple woman innocently unconscious of the deeper, darker forces within others.
When he saw that buying a sugar mouse might cause another family explosion, Christopher Wylie put his money back in his pocket. Then he steered the conversation into less dangerous waters by asking the little girl, ‘What have you done today, Arbelle? Did you do your lessons with Emma Jane?’ he asked.
Emma Jane answered for the sulking child. ‘Yes, she did and she reads well. She’s very clever.’
From Arabella’s sofa came a deep sigh. ‘Her father was clever at reading when he was small. Very clever.’
‘I was a good reader when I was at school too,’ said Amelia defiantly.
‘Were you, my dear? How long did you attend school?’ asked her mother-in-law tactlessly.
Emma Jane leapt into the conversation now and announced hastily, ‘And Arbelle can count to ten. Count for Grandpa, my dear.’
The prodigy wiped her eyes and started to chant, ‘One-two-three-four-five-theven-thix-eight-nine-ten.’
‘That’s wrong. It’s five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten…’ corrected her mother and Mrs Wylie sighed again.
‘Oh poor Arbelle. You did very well, dear – you’re only four, after all.’
At this Amelia’s temper snapped. ‘Don’t call her poor Arbelle all the time! She’s not poor.’
Mrs Wylie’s face went bright pink as she argued, ‘Not poor? Of course she’s poor. She’s fatherless, dear little thing. She’ll not even remember James when she grows up.’
Amelia’s face was blazing as she shouted back, ‘I miss him too, you know. And my dad died when I was seven and I wasn’t poor. Lots of bairns lose their dads and survive it. Don’t call her poor!’
Seeing her advantage, Arbelle ran to her grandmother and was hugged close in a tearful embrace. ‘Oh poor Arbelle, you’re a sensitive little girl. Poor Arbelle,’ sobbed Arabella, cradling the child’s golden head on her breast while the others watched helplessly and, with an exclamation of disgust, Amelia flounced out of the room.
After the tears were shed and dried again, it was Emma Jane’s task to take the little girl back to her mother’s apartment in the west wing of the house. She found Amelia curled in a big armchair by the window, her chin in her hand. She only grunted when her daughter was returned to her. Emma Jane stood awkwardly in the doorway and said, ‘I’m sorry about what happened, Amelia, Mother’s so distraught about James she doesn’t know what she’s saying sometimes.’
Amelia stood up. ‘Then she should think a bit more. Sometimes I wonder if she’s trying to get rid of me. She’s always thought I wasn’t good enough for her son because I was only a housemaid. I don’t know how you stand her, Emma Jane, she’s always complaining.’
Emma Jane’s face was stricken as she replied, ‘Oh Amelia, she’s so sad. I understand how she feels – I’m sorry for her. I wish I could do more to cheer her up but I can�
��t take James’ place. He was always her favourite but I don’t mind.’
Amelia sat down again and sank her face in the cushions. ‘We all miss James, make no mistake about that, Emma Jane. But weeping and wailing won’t bring him back. Life goes on, you know. Don’t sacrifice your own life to looking after your mother. You should be getting married yourself soon. You’re old enough now.’
‘I’m twenty-two,’ said Emma Jane stiffly.
Amelia looked up bleakly and said, ‘Find yourself a husband as soon as you can. If you wait too long you’ll never get away. You’ll still be here looking after your mother when you’re sixty.’
Emma Jane walked away with the words ringing in her head. She didn’t want to think about what Amelia had said because she was very afraid that her sister-in-law’s prediction might prove true. Compared with the vivacious Amelia, who had started attracting suitors again even though she had not been widowed for a year yet, Emma Jane felt plain and unappealing. She was quite sure that no man would ever want to marry her, and that she’d end up as Arbelle’s adoring maiden aunt – a figure of fun and pity.
* * *
That same evening, Christopher Wylie ate an early dinner then retired to bed. His had been a happy marriage until James died, for he and Arabella were friends as well as husband and wife, and they loved lying side by side in bed in the darkness quietly talking, sometimes until the early hours of the morning. He had always discussed all his business affairs with her but now, because her grief was so absorbing, he did not want to worry her with his problems. Yet that night he almost yielded because as he lay down beside her, she reached out and took his hand. ‘You look so sad now, my dear,’ she whispered.
His heart ached. How he wished he could tell her about Munro, about the difficult bridge, about his crippling money worries but that would be too cruel. ‘I am worried,’ he admitted.
‘Is it about this new project?’
‘Yes, it’s not going to be easy. I may have to be away for long periods of time. Will you be all right when I’m in Scotland?’
She sighed. ‘Oh yes, you mustn’t worry about us. Emma Jane will look after me.’
He frowned to himself. ‘Emma Jane’s a worry, too. She doesn’t have much of a life since…’ He was going to say ‘since James’ death,’ but bit the words back.
‘I know,’ his wife said sadly, ‘but I can’t take her out into society, Christopher, I’m not capable of seeing people yet. When I am, I will try, but she’s so shy! She doesn’t say a word when we have company. I think she’s worse than she used to be.’
He ventured, ‘Perhaps Amelia could accompany her to things – tea parties or concerts, wherever young ladies go these days.’
That suggestion was not met with approval. ‘Oh my dear, Amelia’s friends are not the sort of people Emma Jane should know! They’re all ex-servants. I don’t expect Amelia will be with us for much longer anyway. I’m sure she’ll marry again soon. She’s the marrying kind – not like Emma Jane.’
He closed his eyes and remembered his daughter as a little girl. Even when she was tiny she had been solemn and anxious to please, always running along behind her handsome, dashing brother, always trying to catch up with him. ‘Perhaps we’ve not been entirely fair to Emma Jane,’ he murmured as he drifted into sleep.
Next morning he rose before dawn and was eating breakfast in his silent house, when he was surprised to see his daughter come slipping into the dining room with a long shawl wrapped around her shoulders. She sat down opposite him at the table, leaned her chin in her hands and asked, ‘Where exactly are you going today, Papa?’
He looked up, surprised at her interest. Normally she seemed indifferent to his business affairs, and he had only ever talked to her of them in generalities, not as he had done with James, who had had his complete confidence.
He smiled at her as he said, ‘Today I’m going to Edinburgh to speak to the railway company directors. I hope to get them to confirm that I’ll get the bridge contract. I’ve only had vague promises so far, but now I want it in writing. Then, if I’m successful, I’ll go to a little town on the Tweed called Rosewell. That’s where this bridge is to be built.’
She smiled her impish grin and he noticed that her eyes seemed to glow like amber in the candlelight. ‘I do hope you’re successful, Papa,’ she said.
‘Could I unburden my worries to this girl? Would she understand what I was talking about?’ he pondered. But then he decided that to do so would be unfair. Why saddle her with the knowledge that her apparently prosperous father was teetering on the brink of bankruptcy? She had enough to concern her with looking after her mother and teaching Arbelle. He had to maintain his front of the all-powerful parent, so he patted her hand and said reassuringly, ‘Oh I’ll get it, my dear. I’m quite confident of that.’ Her eyes were sad as she looked at him and for a moment he wondered what she saw that made her so pensive. ‘I hope you’ll not tire yourself out when you’re away. I hope you’ll eat properly and not stay up late poring over your papers,’ she told him softly. It sounded as if she was a mother worrying about a careless child.
He laughed. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll do all the right things. After I’ve been to Edinburgh, I’ll take rooms in Rosewell and when I’m established there, I’ll send my address. I may have to be away for several weeks, my dear. I’ve already warned your mother about that. You’ll be in charge here and I rely on you to let me know if anything happens… if your mother is ill or anything like that. Don’t hesitate, write immediately.’
‘Oh course,’ she replied gaily. ‘You mustn’t worry – we’ll be perfectly all right, but we’ll all miss you. Have you any idea how long you’ll be gone, Papa?’
He shrugged. ‘I can’t say. There’ll be a lot to do to get this project off the ground. After I’ve been to Edinburgh and Rosewell, I’m going to look for a certain man I’ll need to help me with this job. He’s working in Scotland – I’m not sure where, but I’ve got to find him.’
She looked interested. ‘He must be very special if you want him so badly. Who is he?’
Her father buttered another slice of toast and smiled slightly as he said, ‘He’s an Irish navvy called Tim Maquire. The best in the business, believe me.’
‘A navvy! According to the newspapers the navvies are all like animals,’ she exclaimed.
‘Oh, some of them are wild men, that’s true, but not all. There’s good men among them too. On a big job like this the navvies can make or break it, and I’ll need them on my side.’
‘And this man Maquire will do that for you?’
‘Yes, I think he can. He and his father have worked for me in the past. I heard the other day that the father’s dead but Tim’s on his own, working in the north. I’ll just have to go round the navvy camps until I find him.’
Her face was solemn as she listened. ‘Do take care, Papa. I wish I could help you like James used to do. If he was still alive, you wouldn’t need this Maquire man, would you?’
Wylie was ready to go now so he stood up from the table and rang the bell to alert Haggerty. ‘Ifs and buts butter no bread, my dear. You will help me very much by keeping this household going and looking after your mother.’
* * *
He travelled from Newcastle to Edinburgh by train, crossing the high bridge that he had helped to build across the River Tweed at Berwick. It was the first big contract he had ever undertaken, and it had made his reputation as well as his first fortune – the one he’d just lost. ‘How strange that again I’m investing my hopes in another bridge across the same river,’ he thought as he stared out at the rippling waters of the Tweed estuary far below the carriage window. In some strange way his fate lay down there…
Christopher was proud to have been associated with the wonderful expansion of railways that had transformed the land and the lives of people living in it. When he was born, a man could travel no faster than the speed of a galloping horse and he could remember stagecoaches full of exhausted people clattering
into Newcastle. Yet here he was, sitting in a comfortable train swaying and speeding towards Edinburgh – a journey he would accomplish in only a few hours when it used to take more than two days. He had the zeal of a Jesuit about wanting to convert people to a belief in railways, but he knew there were still those who were afraid of them and wished they had never been invented. These people were only simple and misguided, he thought; they’d change their minds in time when they saw the benefits that the iron horse could bring them.
It was raining when he alighted in Edinburgh, and he drew his thick overcoat around him as he trudged up the hill from the station to Princess Street. Mist hung over the brooding castle in the middle of the town, and people passing him on the street wore grim, suffering expressions; the cold bit into his bones. It was not a good omen for what lay ahead, but when he reached Rutland Square where the railway company had its offices, his attitude changed for he was shown into a sumptuously furnished room with a bright fire blazing in the hearth beneath a carved marble mantelpiece. Sir Geoffrey Miller, whom he had met on previous contracts, advanced towards him with an outstretched hand and a friendly smile on his face. ‘Take off that wet coat, Wylie. You’ve arrived on a typical Edinburgh day. Sit down and have a drink – will whisky do?’
Whisky suited him very well, and when he had taken a sip he felt warmth flow back into his body and hope into his heart. Now he was sure that everything was going to be all right.
There were several other men in the room and he was introduced to them by Miller. ‘This is Colonel Anstruther of Bella Vista, Mr Raeburn of Falconwood, Sir Rupert Caldecott of Marchhouse, Smith, one of our directors…’
The man called Smith laughed and said, ‘I’m Smith of Edinburgh – the only one who’s not a big landowner in the Border country.’
‘Then you’re the money man,’ thought Wylie. ‘You’re the one to watch.’
On a long gleaming table in the middle of the room lay large sheets of paper, plans and drawings. He walked across to them, and asked, ‘Are those the survey details?’
A Bridge in Time Page 7
