A Bridge in Time

by A Bridge in Time (retail) (epub)

  Mrs Wylie had not yet left for Harrogate but lay sadly upstairs, tended by the solicitous Louisa who made all the decisions. ‘Your mother is still far too unwell to travel. All this fuss about leaving her old home has undone the improvement she’s made since she came to live with me. It would be better if you delayed all this, Emma Jane,’ said Louisa. It was impossible to make her acknowledge that moving to the cottage was not a whim but had been forced on the family by harsh realities. Through speaking assertively in private to her mother’s doctor when he made one of his expensive daily visits, Emma Jane had learned that Arabella’s condition was nothing like as perilous as she seemed to believe, and she was sufficiently reassured by this to adopt a firm line with her troublemaking aunt.

  ‘The house is being given up on the last day of the year,’ she told her. ‘If Mama’s too ill to leave her bed, I’ll make arrangements for her to be carried in it down to the cottage.’

  The anticipated recriminations and protests followed this announcement, spiked with venom. ‘How can you do this to your mother? What’s the matter with you? You’ve always been strange. I thought so when you were a little girl but now I’m beginning to suspect that you’re very evil! It’s those eyes of yours. You can’t hide what’s in those eyes,’ Aunt Louisa upbraided her niece. When Emma Jane attempted to speak directly to her mother, she found the patient in a state of nervous indecision. Louisa had a strong hold over Arabella, but she loved her daughter too so she took refuge in tears and illness.

  There was nothing to do but persist in the course that Emma Jane knew was best. Little by little the house was emptied of the things the Wylies wanted to keep, and the rest was marked for despatch to the saleroom in Newcastle. Amelia’s muscular Dan made trips to and fro with his long cart, carrying kitchen equipment, armchairs, beds, looking glasses and, most important of all as far as Emma Jane was concerned, her father’s huge desk and chest of plans. She only kept his technical books, reluctantly deciding that there was not enough shelf-space at the cottage for the leather-bound works of literature that had lined his library shelves, but which, she had to admit, he never read.

  December 31st dawned bitterly cold, and Emma Jane woke in her almost-stripped room with a strange thrill of excitement – so strong, that it made her skin prickle. She sat up against the pillows as the thought struck her… ‘Today is a watershed in my life. This is the day I cast off the past and start the future.’ She jumped up and went running over to the window to look out on a frost-gripped world. The house was silent because the only servant left was Mrs Haggerty, who would be busy in the distant kitchen preparing morning trays for Emma Jane’s mother and Louisa. Only in their bedrooms were morning fires lit. Emma Jane’s room was so cold that her breath rose in front of her like a wisp of smoke so she hurried around in search of warm clothes. When she was dressed, she paused to examine her image in the little looking glass on the dressing table which was not accompanying her to the cottage. The face that stared out from its grey depths startled her. Her eyes looked enormous and very defiant. Surely they hadn’t always been that funny agate-yellow colour? They looked like cat’s eyes, strange and challenging. Her aunt’s cruel words came back to her, but her eyes, she knew, were not evil. If they were mirrors of her soul they must show that she harboured no hate against anyone. She had dislikes, of course, and Aunt Louisa was running high amongst them, but she also had burning desires and a determination that was almost ruthless. Perhaps that was what showed in her eyes; perhaps that was what Aunt Louisa found frightening.

  There was no time for deep ponderings, however. First she ate a light breakfast and then hurried down to the cottage which was glowing and comfortable. The furniture brought from Wyvern Villa was all in place, the fires were lit and the pieces of silver and brass her mother loved so much, were polished and gleaming. Amelia had worked very hard with Mrs Haggerty to make it perfect. She was waiting with Dan and her children for the arrival of the Wylies. When the new occupants were installed, Amelia’s family would set off for Hexham. Arbelle, grown much taller and greatly improved in manners, was in a state of high excitement, running about plumping up cushions and encouraging the already-blazing fire wtih a brass poker.

  ‘Everything’s ready,’ she squeaked, grabbing Emma Jane’s hand and pulling her into the red-curtained parlour. ‘Isn’t it pretty, Aunt? Look, we’ve put all the things Grandmama loves best in here.’ The room smelled of beeswax polish and lavender, and Arabella’s favourite sofa, her footstool, needlework pictures and fringed-silk cushions were all prominently displayed.

  ‘I think it’s perfect,’ exclaimed Emma Jane sincerely, turning to hug first her niece and then Amelia. To her sister-in-law she said fervently, ‘You’ve been wonderful. You didn’t need to give this cottage up, you know, ’Melia. There was nothing written down. It was yours to keep if you wanted.’

  Amelia hugged her back. ‘Bless you, I love this little place but it’s not my home. My home’s with Dan. Anyway, I promised your father I’d hold on to it for your mother and you. I hope it changes your luck, Emma Jane, I really do. Now come upstairs and I’ll show you what I’ve done about the big bedroom. It’ll be your mother’s. A fire’s been burning in there for two days and it’s as warm as a bread oven. Your aunt won’t find anything to complain about there.’

  ‘Is that possible?’ asked Emma Jane with a laugh.

  It was impossible, however, not to feel pity for her mother as, white-faced and visibly wobbling, Mrs Wylie was driven the short distance from her old home to the cottage. She sat between Emma Jane, who held her hand tightly and tried to console her, and her sister Louisa, who seemed to be bent on upsetting her with utterances like: ‘How sad to be leaving the house where you lived with dear Christopher. Don’t look back, Arabella. Don’t look back at it.’ Of course Arabella looked back and of course Arabella wept.

  When they alighted at the cottage door, Louisa stared around and keened, ‘Oh, what has your mother come to? If only Christopher could see this!’

  Accustomed by this time to the smallness of Tibbie’s home, Emma Jane looked around the wide hall with four solid panelled doors opening off it and said, ‘But it’s a lovely house! It’s more than big enough for Mother and me. Come into the parlour, dear Mama, and see what Amelia and Arabella have done with it.’

  The door swung open and beneath her sister’s baleful gaze, Arabella slowly walked over and stood on the threshold, looking all around. Emma Jane felt her heart-rate accelerate with tension as her mother’s eyes moved from the gleaming brass coal-scuttle beside the fire to the cushioned sofa, from the vase of silk flowers on the table to the walls covered with her favourite pictures and samplers. Aunt Louisa sniffed but Arabella tottered forward and collapsed on the end of the sofa. Her head drooped beneath the black lace mourning cap. Emma Jane was thinking of something comforting to say… something like, ‘One day I’ll buy Wyvern Villa back for you, Mama!’ when her mother’s head raised and tear-filled eyes were fixed on her daughter’s face. ‘Darling, it’s lovely. You’ve tried so hard, and you’ve made it beautiful,’ she sobbed, and then sank back against the cushions in a half-faint.

  Her sister chipped in, ‘It’s very poky but don’t worry, my dear, I’ll take you back to Harrogate with me tomorrow.’ Louisa lived in the large and impressive practice house of her late husband, the doctor. Her son had taken over the practice from his father but as he was unmarried, his mother still held sway at home though she had the uncomfortable feeling that any day now her son would take a wife. The girl he had in mind was as formidable as his mother, and there were already signs that a power struggle was brewing in the practice house.

  As they all stood staring anxiously at her, Arabella showed the first signs of resolution since her husband’s death. She shook her head. ‘No, dear Louisa, I’ll stay here. I like this little house – it makes me feel safe. And Emma Jane’s right, we must adapt to our new circumstances.’

  Louisa’s jaw dropped but she was not going to be done o
ut of her position as saviour of her sister. ‘If you insist on staying, my dear, of course I’ll stay with you until your health improves or your daughter is able to return and take care of you.’ Though she would never admit it, she did not particularly want to return to Harrogate, and her sister’s illness was an excellent excuse for staying away.

  Emma Jane said briskly, ‘That’s good of you, Aunt Louisa. If you’re going to stay with Mama, I’ll be able to get back to Camptounfoot sooner than I thought. Now come, Mama, let’s help you upstairs so you can see your bedroom. It’s just as pretty as the parlour, you’ll see.’

  Arbelle popped up under Emma Jane’s arm and said brightly, ‘Yes, do come, Grandmama. I want you to see all the pretty things I’ve put in there for you.’

  Mrs Wylie gave a heartbreaking sob and said, ‘Oh poor Arbelle, you’re such a sweet child!’

  Amelia opened her mouth to protest about the use of the adjective ‘poor’ but thought better of it because even she was mollified by the way her mother-in-law had taken to the cottage. She had not expected the transition to go so smoothly. As a kind of peace offering she said, ‘Dan and I will have to be off now if we’re to get home before dark, but if you like, Arbelle can stay with you till Dan comes down to the market next month.’

  This was accepted with joy by everyone concerned, and when Emma Jane and her niece saw the carter’s family off, even the baby waved gaily as Dan gave the reins a shake to urge on the horse. Amelia turned in her seat and called to Emma Jane: ‘Now you go back and build that bridge – and do-ant forget to invite us to the opening ceremony, will you?’

  ‘I won’t!’ cried Emma Jane, raising her hand high over her head like a soldier about to go into battle.

  Now the way was clear for her to return to Camptounfoot and she could hardly wait to leave. She’d have gone right there and then, but she knew there were still a few things to do, and was surprised to realise that one of them was to see Wyvern Villa again for the last time. Sending Arbelle inside with instructions to read to her grandmother, Emma Jane hurried the short distance between her new home and her old one. At the gate, she paused and gazed over the expanse of frost-whitened lawn to the empty, staring windows that seemed to look back at her with the same accusing expression she had seen on her aunt’s face when she made the cruel remarks about Emma Jane’s eyes.

  Now she remembered that tomorrow was the first day of the year 1855. She counted back the years since she’d come to live in the house that glared with such hostility at her now. Slowly she walked over the crackling gravel of the drive, remembering the sound it had made beneath the carriage-wheels on the first day her father had driven his family to their new house. She’d only been a little girl, and how thrilled she had been! She remembered that James had been particularly impressed by the turret. Now the house still looked imposing and grand, but the life seemd to have left it; it resembled an empty husk. Soon another family would move in, however, and fill its rooms, warm themselves before its fires, drive out its sorrows. She stood gazing at the tarnishing knocker on the front door and then turned away, glad to go, glad to know that it was no longer her home because within its walls she had suffered grief, loss and the annihilation of her self-esteem. Miss Emma Jane Wylie of Wyvern Villa had been a shy, withdrawn person who was too frightened to go out or even contemplate leading a life of her own, too scared to attend a tea party without her mother. Now she was free to forge her own future. The thought was so exciting that she remembered how it had been when she got slightly drunk at Amelia’s wedding. She felt giddy, light-headed and full of the belief that anything was possible.

  At the gate she turned for the last time and looked back. ‘Don’t be afraid,’ she told the old Emma Jane who, she imagined, was peeping out of one of the upstairs windows. ‘Don’t be afraid. Even if I fail, at least I’ll have tried.’ Next morning she set off again for Camptounfoot and took a tearful farewell of her mother. ‘You’ll get better, Mama, you really will and when I’ve finished the bridge, we’ll have money again. Then you can do anything you like – travel, buy a new house, anything. I promise.’

  Her mother nodded but was obviously not completely convinced, for Louisa had spent the previous evening filling her mind with fear and doubt. Emma Jane knew the only thing to do was to get on, finish the bridge and present her mother with a fait accompli.

  ‘It’ll be finished by August,’ she promised.

  ‘I might be dead by then,’ sobbed Arabella.

  Her daughter looked stricken and turned to her aunt to say, ‘You’ll keep me informed of how Mama progresses, won’t you?’

  Louisa nodded grimly. ‘Of course. She couldn’t have better attention. Poor dear Arabella…’ Comfortingly she patted her sister’s hand and then added briskly, ‘Goodbye, Emma Jane. I only hope you’re making the right decisions and don’t come a cropper.’ Her baleful tone of voice made it clear that she had no confidence in her niece but, thought Emma Jane, that was hardly a surprise. Louisa was just another of the Doubting Thomases, who would be surprised when the great project was finished. ‘Don’t doubt yourself,’ she scolded inwardly. ‘You can’t afford doubt. Not now…’

  Chapter Sixteen

  After Tim Maquire went away, Syndey Godolphin, the man of many secrets, was left with no real friend among the navvies. He had many acquaintances – people who were happy to talk or joke with him – but no one whom he admired or with whom he felt in tune. He also knew that the other navvies did not really understand or trust him as Maquire had done. As he had told Emma Jane, he was an outsider.

  ‘Why do I stay here?’ he asked himself as he walked between the huts of the camp one bitter morning during the Christmas season. Because of the frost the navvies were not working and prostitutes had come from far afield to ply their trade among the idle men. One of them, a big black-haired woman, stepped out from the shadows and hung on to his arm, beseeching him to go with her. ‘Only a florin,’ she whispered. He shook her off and walked away, apparently deaf to the shouted insults that followed him. ‘What’s wrong wi’ you? You’re a queer… you fancy bastard!’

  It had become his habit, if the weather was dry, to take solitary walks along the river bank or through Camptounfoot to the bridge, which glimmered eerily beneath a coating of frost that had covered it for many long and bitter days. ‘Why do I stay here?’ he asked himself again, staring at the gunmetal-coloured river rippling round the truncated piers. The answer to his question escaped him. Was it only because he wanted to see the bridge finished? Yes, that was part of it, for he had a hatred of leaving things half-done and besides, he could not think of anywhere else he wanted to go. There was another, almost inexplicable motive for his inability to leave, and the only way to explain it was that he felt as if he was waiting for something to happen – though he had no idea what that something would be. It was the same feeling he used to have just before he threw dice or lifted a hand of cards – a feeling so exciting that it made the blood surge in his ears. One of Sydney’s secrets was that he had a dangerous taste for gambling. Only sheer strength of will, coupled with the fact that he liked to play for higher stakes than navvies’ wages, kept him out of the camp card-games.

  From time to time, during the long lay-off that occurred while a bitter frost gripped the Tweed Valley during late December, he hired a horse and rode to Maddiston to spend the evening with Dr Robertson in his little parlour. There they smoked cheroots or drank the brandy which Sydney took with him, for he knew that Robertson had no money for such luxuries.

  The physician liked to talk, as young men do, about his hopes for the future. Sydney did not join in much, and when questioned said his plans were vague. ‘A bit of travel perhaps,’ he’d say and laugh lightly.

  Robertson sighed and gazed into the fire. ‘I’d like to find a wife one day. My dream is to live a quiet family life and raise a houseful of children, but I doubt if I’ll ever be able to afford it.’

  Sydney tapped the glowing end of his cheroot into the fire
place and said briskly, ‘But doctors aren’t paupers, old man, At least, I’ve never met one who was.’ He was disturbed by the depths of the man’s melancholy. ‘If there’s a black side to anything,’ he said jokingly to his new friend, ‘you’ll be sure to find it.’

  Robertson shook his head. ‘I should have realised why this practice was so cheap – there’s three doctors in the town already. The only patients I get are poor people who can’t afford to go to the others.’

  Sydney frowned. ‘And I’ll wager you treat them for nothing.’

  ‘How could I take their money? Some of them are starving.’

  ‘What you need are a few rich patients to balance out the poor ones, don’t you?’ said Sydney, and Robertson nodded.

  ‘That would help.’

  ‘Well, you can be sure of one thing. There’ll never be a sick navvy that doesn’t send for you,’ Sydney told him, and Robertson shuddered.

  ‘Oh my God, I hope I never have to go through anything like that cholera again. I wasn’t lying when I said that I felt insufficient. I wanted to save all those poor people, but they went on dying in spite of me.’

  His face was sad as he looked at Sydney, who only shook his head and said, ‘Have another brandy.’ He pushed the bottle across the table at the doctor and told him, ‘I think you’ve picked the wrong profession. You’re far too soft-hearted to be a doctor. I may not be a medical man, but I’ve got a prescription for you, my friend. Get yourself a woman – go courting. There must be lots of eligible young ladies – and maybe even some with respectable dowries – around here who’d want to marry a doctor. Get yourself out amongst them and you’ll be amazed at how much you’ll cheer up.’

  ‘That’s a good idea,’ said Robertson, brightening a little as the brandy coursed into his bloodstream. By the time Sydney left, the bottle was empty and they were both quite cheerful again.