By now Tranter was wishing he’d never started this journey. ‘I’m beginnin’ to think we’re lost,’ he said. ‘You ask me, we should make for that house, whatever it is. Least we’d be warmer there for the night than walkin’ about out here.’
‘We’re not lost,’ Caroline said with great determination. ‘We just don’t know where we are for the moment, that’s all. If we go on a bit further we shall see the town.’
‘I’m for goin’ to the farm.’
‘I’m not.’
It was ridiculous to be put down by a slip of a child, but there was no denying the force of this one. Even in a blizzard she blazed with determination, her face dark between ice-hung bonnet and snow-caked mantle. Now and a bit late Tranter remembered that she was one of the Easters, and that the Easters were formidable, everybody said so, rich and powerful and never took no for an answer. Was it any wonder she was answering back? It had been a great mistake to bring her along with him. A great mistake.
‘It’ud be better a-goin’ back, miss,’ he tried, subservient before her, despite himself. ‘It would truly.’
‘No it wouldn’t.’
‘Just for a little while, eh?’ he pleaded. ‘A stop-over.’
‘We’re going on,’ she said. And to his annoyance and alarm she set off on her own.
So they went on. And saw nothing, not even smoke.
By this time the cob was finding the going so hard that they had to walk beside his head and lead him.
‘The next farm we sees, we stops,’ Tranter said, brushing the snow out of his eyes. ‘It’s all very well you a-sayin’ we ain’t lost. I knows we are.’
‘No we’re not,’ Caroline said stubbornly. He was making her feel afraid, and the more frightened she was the more stubborn she became. ‘If we go on to the top of that hill ahead of us we shall see where we are.’
‘We shan’t see nothing, you ask my opinion,’ Tranter said. ‘I can barely see the hill, an’ in any case tha’s miles and miles away. And this ‘ere animal is fit to drop. We’re in a rare old pickle. Worse’n when we saw the farm.’ Which was all true enough.
‘Well, we can’t stop now,’ she said, trying to be reasonable, ‘because there’s absolutely nowhere to shelter here. So we might as well go on, mightn’t we?’
‘I can’t feel my fingers nor my toes,’ he complained.
‘Neither can I.’
‘We could die out here an’ no one would know.’
It was true but she wouldn’t even think about it. ‘We shan’t die,’ she said stubbornly, because fear was gnawing her belly. ‘We’ll see the town, just the minute we’ve climbed to the top of that hill, you’ll see.’
So he was persuaded again, and between them they coaxed their poor weary cob into a walk again, dragging beside him through the heavy snow, slowly and painfully on their frozen feet. It seemed to take hours to reach the lower slopes of the hill, and by the time they’d climbed to the top, it was dark as night and they were completely exhausted.
But there below them, welcoming lights glimmered in the snow-swirled darkness. And the wind blew away the falling snow from before Caroline’s eyes and with a spasm of relief so intense it was quite painful she knew she was looking down at Bury St Edmunds, set on its sloping hillside.
‘We’re home!’ she said. ‘Do you see? We’re home at last. Didn’t I tell you?’
Chapter 3
Nan Easter’s house in Bury St Edmunds was modest compared to the grand establishment she kept in London’s fashionable Bedford Square, but even so it was impressive among the lesser buildings of a market town, holding its own in the cobbled square of Angel Hill against the combined splendours of the famous Angel Inn and the classical balance of the Athenaeum Assembly Rooms. Like them, it was meticulously maintained, sumptuously furnished and brilliantly lit, for where other householders were content with a set of candles or a lamp or two, Nan Easter indulged herself with dazzling chandeliers ablaze with the new golden illumination of gas-light.
She might be sixty-five and grey haired, but she was still as full of energy as she’d always been, outspoken and outgoing, straight of spine and straight of purpose. And her home reflected her personality. When the nights were dark and the weather miserable she left her drawing-room curtains open so as to share her opulence with the passers-by.
‘Tha’s so bright there of an evenin’,’ the locals would say admiringly, ‘you could read one of her ol’ newspapers right out there on the pavement.’
At Christmas when her entire family usually joined her for presents and parties, fires were lit in every room and the whole house pulsed with light. It was a celebration she particularly enjoyed, so this year’s blizzard was a nuisance and a disappointment, for it meant that both her sons would be stuck in London, her lover would stay where he was on his estate in Westmoreland, and even her daughter Annie, who lived a few miles away in the village of Rattlesden where her husband was rector, would certainly keep her family at home in the warm and defer travel until the roads cleared.
Nevertheless she did have company that Christmas, for her old friend and companion Bessie Thistlethwaite was with her as always, and Caroline’s brother Will had ridden over from Cambridge two days before the snow began.
Nan was very fond of Will, partly because she’d brought him up since he was eight years old but more because he combined a protective affection towards his family with startling good looks. He was eighteen now and exceedingly handsome, tall and slender, with long limbs, elegant hands, a well-shaped head and an almost Grecian profile. His hair, which he wore in the romantic style brushed forward onto his forehead, was thick and curly and the colour of ripe corn, and his eyes were very large and very blue and fringed with thick dark lashes that gave his face an air of tenderness and vulnerability which was rather at odds with the rest of his dashing personality, and which Nan consequently found extremely touching.
It was always a pleasure to welcome him home, and feed his healthy appetite and sit about the fire afterwards, laughing and talking, which is what the three of them were doing that Christmas evening, gathered round the drawing-room fire with port and porter on the low tables beside them, enjoying the warmth and planning the party they would throw when the roads were clear.
The frantic knocking on their front door was a great surprise.
‘Who in the world can that be?’ Nan said. ‘At this hour and in all this weather?’
Bessie went hobbling off onto the landing to find out. She was just in time to see Caroline’s snow-caked figure totter into the hall.
‘Caroline! Lovey!’ she said as she eased her old legs down the stairs. ‘However did you get here? Is yer Pa with you?’
‘I w-w-walked from Long M-M-Melford,’ Caroline shivered. ‘Pa’s still in London as f-f-far as I know.’ After the cold and fear of her journey the hall was so warm and so full of bright colours it took away the little strength she had left.
‘All the way?’ Bessie said, still struggling down the stairs. ‘You’ve never walked all the way from Long Melford! That’s miles and miles. Mrs Easter, mum, she’s walked all the way from Long Melford.’
But Nan’s quick brown eyes had already taken in all the information she needed. She was busy taking command.
‘Let’s have you out of these wet clothes,’ she said, untying the frozen ribbons of the poor child’s bonnet and lifting it away from her head ice and all, handing her muff and gloves to the parlour maid, carefully removing that bedraggled mantle. ‘I’ll wager you en’t eaten.’ And when Caroline shook her wet head, ‘Compliments to Cook, Bessie. Ask her to see what she can rustle up. There’s goose a-plenty, and vegetables for bubble and squeak. Bring the kettle to the boil and we’ll make a mustard bath. Two hot-water bottles. Blankets if you please, Will. Come along, my lovey. We’ll soon have you to rights.’
Caroline followed her gratefully up the stairs, shivering all the way to the drawing room, where Nan sat her by the fire and removed her boots that were so wet they we
re dripping water, and her stockings that were so hideously dirty she felt ashamed of them, and her lovely red dress that was wet to the knee, and both her horrid damp petticoats. And then Will came into the room with his arms full of blankets and they bundled her up like a parcel and sat her in the chair again with her raw red hands in her lap and her raw red feet on the fender.
‘There now,’ Nan said, smiling at the child. ‘That’s a deal better, I know.’
And it was a deal better, so it was foolish to burst into tears. But that was what Caroline did. She couldn’t help herself. ‘Oh,’ she sobbed. ‘I’m so cold and so sorry. I wish I hadn’t. I didn’t know it was going to snow like this. Tranter said we’d die. It was an awful journey. Oh, poor Pa! He’ll be worried out of his life and it’s all my fault.’
At that moment Bessie limped into the room with a footbath, a dish of mustard and a jugful of hot water and she and Nan got busy at once preparing the mixture, so it was Will who cuddled his weeping sister and listened to her confession and dried her eyes and wiped her nose and told her not to be a goose. ‘We’ll get a letter to Pa, somehow or other,’ he promised. ‘Don’t cry, Carrie.’
But her tears flowed freely, thawed into torrents by their warmth and affection.
‘Now then, my lamb,’ Bessie said, ‘put your little toes in the water and tell me if it’s too hot. We can’t have our lamb taking a chill now can we? Both feet if you please.’
Caroline’s feet were the colour of raw beef and they tingled and throbbed when she lowered them into the yellowing water, but the heat was blissful, warming the blood back into her toes, and rising over her ankles into her shivering calves like a spreading benediction. And finally drying her tears.
By the time Cook came upstairs with a tray full of good things to eat and a glass full of hot toddy to sip and a jug full of hot water to top up the mustard bath, she was red-nosed but almost herself again. She ate every last mouthful of her makeshift meal and drank the toddy as though she’d been downing intoxicating liquors all her life. And bit by bit she told them all about her adventure.
‘My heart alive!’ Nan said lovingly. ‘You’ll make an explorer before you’re done.’
‘No, she won’t,’ Bessie said. ‘She’ll find a nice young man to marry her, you’ll see, and she’ll settle down and be as happy as a sand-boy. Won’t you, my lovey?’
Emboldened by safety and hot toddy, Caroline pondered the prospect, snug inside her blankets. ‘Well I might,’ she said, ‘but I’d much rather work in the firm like Papa and Uncle Billy.’
‘Good heavens!’ Bessie said. And she looked disapproving.
‘Well, why not?’ Caroline asked. ‘Nan worked in the firm. You did, didn’t you Nan? So why shouldn’t I?’
‘No reason in the world as far as I can see,’ Nan said, grinning at her. ‘What would you do if you worked in the firm?’
‘Well, for a start I think I’d sell other things besides newspapers and stationery.’
‘Would you indeed, miss? What sort of things?’
‘I don’t know yet,’ Caroline admitted. ‘But I’d think of something.’
‘Aye,’ Nan laughed, ‘I daresay you would.’ What spirit the child had! It was just what the firm needed. Somebody with drive and passion and energy to push it forward into new directions. Her son Billy ran the warehouses with easy efficiency and John had made it his life’s work to transfer the transport of goods from the coaches to the railways, but there was no one capable of inspiring the company except herself. And these days inspiration was often very hard work. She could do with a new young manager. ‘I might give you a place yet.’
Will gave his sister a hug. ‘She can have mine if she likes,’ he said.
Now that was surprising, for they’d all assumed that he would follow his father into management almost as a matter of course. ‘Why?’ Nan quizzed him. ‘Don’t you want it?’
He reassured her at once, smiling at her. ‘I’ll go into the firm if you want me to,’ he said. ‘Of course I will. You know that. But I’d rather not.’
‘What would you rather do?’ Nan asked, intrigued.
‘I would rather be a reporter and work for The Times. My friend Jeff Jefferson works for the Cambridge Chronicle and he says it’s a wonderful life. Imagine it, Nan, travelling the world, meeting famous people, seeing great events as they happen, no two days ever the same.’ His face was glowing with enthusiasm. ‘I can’t think of anything I’d rather do than that.’
‘Such talk!’ Bessie said, disapproving of it. ‘High time this child was tucked up warm in bed, if you ask me, instead a’ sitting here all night long a-talking nonsense.’
Will and Caroline grimaced at one another, half mocking their dear old Bessie, half admitting that they were ready for bed. So it wasn’t long after that that they kissed their grandmother goodnight and retired, with Bessie in attendance to make sure that the beds were aired and the fires properly damped down. But Nan stayed where she was.
It had been an eventful evening and had given her plenty to think about. It amused her to imagine Caroline as a future member of the firm. She would certainly be a challenge to the old fuddy-duddies who managed the regions. I shall keep an eye on her, she decided, and on Will too, for he was uncommon serious about being a reporter. What a fine strong-willed pair they are! Children after my own heart. And the best of the grandchildren without a doubt, for although Annie’s three were dear creatures, it was already plain that Jimmy would follow his father quietly into the priesthood and the two girls would marry and settle down in the most happily ordinary way and none of them would have the slightest interest in the firm. While as to Billy’s pair, dear little Matty would marry Jimmy in a year or so, and Edward was so spoiled it was hard to tell what he would make of his life, which was a pity for he was an affectionate creature underneath all that cockiness.
No, no, she thought, walking across the room to her writing desk, these two are the best. And she sat down to write a letter to John to tell him they were both safe with her in Bury.
The terrible weather continued. It was seven fraught days before Nan’s letter arrived in Fitzroy Square, sent by packet boat along the coast from Ipswich, and by then John Easter was suffering so much from sick headaches, indigestion and bad temper that his servants did their best to avoid him. And the odd thing was, as they told one another in the kitchen, that instead of bringing him relief, the letter seemed to make him worse.
‘Safe and well with my mother,’ he said to Tom bitterly. ‘Safe and well and here I’ve been worried out of my wits.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Tom agreed. ‘Don’t need ter worry no more though, not now, do yer sir?’
‘I shouldn’t have been forced to worry in the first place,’ John said. ‘This sort of thing must never be allowed to happen again. I shall go to Bury on the first available coach and take some action.’
1837 was actually ten days old before the roads were clear enough for the mail coaches to venture out, and by then A. Easter and Sons had another problem to contend with.
As always after bad weather, there was an outbreak of serious illness in the capital, and this time it was influenza. The number of cases reported in the newspapers rose day by day, and although the coaches began to run again there were soon fewer and fewer drivers well enough to take them out. John carried his timetables about with him wherever he went, so that he could find other routes when particular services were cancelled, transferring papers from coach to coach, and sitting up into the small hours to keep his schedules up to date and ensure a smoother run the following day. Profits had been seriously affected by the snow and it was imperative to get his papers distributed now that it was clearing. But as the epidemic grew his task became more and more difficult.
By the end of January the contagion was so severe that there were a thousand funerals in London in one week; the undertakers were hard put to it to find space in the cemeteries and in St Pancras they had to arrange for navvies to dig and refill the graves. It
was well into February and all the snow had long since melted before John felt able to write to his mother to tell her that he would be journeying to Bury in three days’ time ‘to attend to the matter of Caroline’s misdemeanour’.
Caroline had been enjoying herself so much with her brother and Nan that she’d almost forgotten her ‘misdemeanour’. She was quite cast down by his letter. ‘Oh dear!’ she said. ‘Do you think he’s still cross, Nan?’
‘He sounds cross.’
‘Oh dear!’ Caroline said again. ‘Then I’m for it!’
‘We’ll throw a party,’ Nan said. Perhaps that would put him in a better humour. ‘After all, we en’t had Christmas yet.’
They had Christmas on the day John arrived, and Annie and James and their family came over from Rattlesden, so that the house was full of people and laughter and everybody talking at once. And less than half an hour after the London coach had brought John in to the Angel Inn, there was another great to-do as Aunt Tilda and Uncle Billy and Matty and Edward came skating across from their house in Chequer Square to join the party. Soon they were all sitting round Nan’s great dining table eating their unexpected Christmas dinner. And after that Nan had presents for all of them. Caroline’s was a length of soft woollen cloth printed with tiny yellow roses, and Will’s a copy of the last two monthly parts of Mr Dickens’ ‘Pickwick Papers’ which he and his friends had been enjoying ever since the first hilarious instalment came out nearly two years ago. And after that there were charades and bobbing for apples and hide and seek and carols round the pianoforte and so many riotous games that by the time Annie and Billy took their dishevelled families home, it was so late that Will and Caroline and their father only just had enough energy left to climb the stairs to bed.
Nemesis arrived at breakfast the next morning.
Nan Easter was in the habit of taking breakfast in the front parlour on the ground floor of her house in Bury, partly because it was nearer to the kitchen which meant that the food always arrived hot, and partly because in the winter months the sun slanted in low through the windows and added warmth to the little room.
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