It was because of Mark’s affair with Lady Myton that his wife had left him and taken their four children with her, leaving him as desolate as Simon Bentwood had left her. Yet it wasn’t desolate, until she had gone willingly to the master’s bed that she realised, as Mr Burgess was so apt at quoting, there were so many different kinds of love.
Looking up at the figure on the horse she noted how changed he was from the man she had known. There was the suspicion of jowls to his broad face meeting the flesh of his neck pressing upwards out of his high collar; only the top button of his riding coat fastened, and the gap in his waistcoat from which his stomach protruded and seemed to rest on the saddle in front of him were all evidence of the physical change in him. Even his eyes were not the same. They lay in pouches of flesh and were slightly bloodshot.
She thought, with amazement, he was only forty years old, and then he was remarking on the change in her. Bending from the saddle and looking down into her face he said, ‘You’ve changed, I can see that. You know, we’ve never been so close for over twelve years.’
‘We all change with the years.’ Her tone was as cold as the air.
‘Oh yes, yes’ – he patted his stomach – ‘I’m not the man I was. Is that what you’re meaning?’
‘My words had no special meaning, I was merely making a statement, an obvious statement.’
‘Huh!’ – his chin jerked upwards – ‘we do speak correctly, don’t we? Of course, you’ve been mixing with the gentry for a long time and naturally it rubs off. And then, you have your private tutor.’ He turned his head quickly in the direction of the cottage, where Mr Burgess could be seen standing.
When she did not take umbrage at his remark but returned his gaze, saying quietly, ‘Yes, I have been very fortunate. It does not fall to everyone’s lot to meet two such men,’ he jerked at the reins and caused the horse to rear before he brought out on a growl, ‘Oh for God’s sake, Tilly, come off your high horse, be yourself, your memory’s short.’
Her voice was now as angry as his as she glared up at him and replied, ‘No, my memory isn’t short, Simon Bentwood, it’s very long. And looking back down it, I have nothing to thank you for.’
‘No? Well, let me tell you, Tilly, that’s where you’re mistaken. I kept you and your grandparents alive for years with the sovereign brought them every month. The stolen money had run out long afore that. But there’s more let me tell you. My marriage might have got off to a good start if it hadn’t been for seeing to you, like the bloody fool I was. And anyway, what have you done that you can hold your head up while I should bow mine? That affair with her ladyship was over and done with as quick as she finished it with your fancy man. She liked variety, did her ladyship, but even so she didn’t cause half the scandal in the county that you did when you went to bed with Sopwith. And you’re still managing to set fire to scandal, for after twelve years what has he left you? A bellyful, and thrown out on your backside into the bargain, because the family hates your guts. And another thing I’ll tell you, although I chased that little beggar of a McGrath away, it isn’t the last you’ll hear of them because old Ma McGrath wanted to build a bonfire the day they knew you had been shown the door. And if I know her she’s not finished with you yet, and when they start on you again, the villagers as a whole, because you spell bad luck for the lot of them, who will you run to this time, eh?’
Her eyes were steady, her voice equally so, as she gazed back into his infuriated face and said quietly, ‘Not you, Simon, never you.’
Again he pulled the horse into a rearing position; but then, all anger seeming to seep from him, he brought the animal once more to a standstill and, his voice now holding a deep sadness, he spoke her name.
‘Tilly! aw Tilly!’ he said; then leaning forward, he added, ‘I’d give anything – do you hear? – anything in this wide world to put the clock back.’
A tinge of pity threaded her thinking and caused her to pause and change the tart reply that was on her tongue, and what she said now was, ‘That’s impossible, Simon, and you know it.’
‘Could we be friends, Tilly?’
‘No, Simon’ – she shook her head slowly – ‘not again.’
He turned his body in the saddle and, leaning towards the horse’s head, he stroked its neck twice before saying, ‘When the child comes, what then, who’s to see to you?’
‘Myself Simon. Always myself.’
‘You’ll find it hard; you’re a lone woman and the whole place is agen you.’
‘The world is wide, I won’t remain here always, just as long as Mr Burgess needs me.’
Again he was bending over the horse’s neck, and stroking it, and he said, ‘I’d be good to you, Tilly. I would take it and bring it up as my own.’
The swift angry retort ‘You bring up Mark’s child as your own, never!’ stopped at her lips; then she bowed her head. And her tight lips and her attitude must have given him hope, because he was leaning well out of the saddle towards her when she raised her eyes to him and said, ‘Thank you, Simon, but I have no intention of marrying.’
‘You might change your mind.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘You know something, Tilly?’ His voice had lost its softness again. ‘I could have been married twelve times over during these last years. But I waited, aye, I waited, hoping for this moment. I felt sure something would happen sooner or later, and it has. And you know something, Tilly? I’m going on waitin’. I was going to finish by saying you’ll need me afore I need you, but that would be wrong. I’ve always needed you, and I always will, and I’ll be here when you whistle.’ He gave a wry twisted smile now as, changing the last word of the song, he said, ‘Whistle an’ I’ll come to ye, me lass. Remember that, Tilly, you’ve just got to whistle. Get up there!’ He brought his heels sharply into the horse’s belly, and it kicked up the snow-covered stones in the road before going into a trot.
She did not stay and watch him ride away but turned swiftly and went up the path, round the corner and to the woodshed again, and there she finished filling the skip before returning to the house.
But as soon as she came into the room she dropped the skip and hurried towards the couch where Mr Burgess was sitting, his hand in a bowl of warm water.
‘Aw no! you’re cut.’
‘Just a splinter, just a splinter. It’s all right. I put some salt in the water, it’s cleansed.’
She looked at the towel on the seat beside him, saying, ‘It’s bled a lot.’
‘Just a little. It’s stopped now.’
‘The devil!’
‘Village boys, were they?’
‘Yes, one of the McGraths, a new generation.’
‘And the rider was the farmer?’
‘Yes.’
‘Come to rescue you?’ He raised his wrinkled lids and smiled up at her.
‘You could say that.’
‘Did he get a flea in his ear?’
‘Yes, you could say that too.’
‘He wants you to marry him and save you disgrace?’
She patted his shoulder and nodded, ‘Right again.’ She left him and went to the end of the room and picked up the skip of logs, and as she placed them near the fireside he said soberly, ‘I wish you were back in the Manor, you’re not safe here. I wonder why Master John hasn’t called?’
Master John called the very next day. He, too, came on horseback and when Tilly heard the sound of the horse’s hooves on the road she hurried to the window and stood to one side looking out from behind the lace curtains. Upon ascertaining that it wasn’t Simon Bentwood, she drew in a long relieving breath and, turning to Mr Burgess who was dozing before the fire, she said, ‘It’s Master John; he must have heard you yesterday.’
From the open door she watched the young man tying the horse to the gatepost, and she went over the step to greet him, saying, ‘How nice to see you.’
Coming swiftly forward, he held out his hands and his mouth opened wide before he could bring out,
‘And . . . and you, Trotter.’
She said formally now, ‘It’s a lovely day, isn’t it?’
‘’Tis, Trotter, ’tis . . . Ah! there you are, Mr Bur . . . Burgess.’ He was crossing the room now and when he took the old man’s outstretched hand he added, ‘You’re looking very well, ve . . . ve . . . very well.’
‘I am feeling very well, thanks to my good nurse.’ Mr Burgess inclined his head towards Tilly and she, looking at John, said, ‘What can I get you to drink?’
‘What have you? Brandy, sherry, p . . . p . . . port, liq . . . liqueur?’
She flapped her hand at him playfully. ‘Bring it down to tea or soup and you can have your choice.’
‘Tea then, Tro . . . Trotter. Thank you very much.’
‘Do sit down . . . Here, give me your coat.’
He handed her his coat and hat and riding crop and when he was seated opposite the old man, Mr Burgess said, ‘Your visit portends good news I hope?’
‘Oh well.’ John turned his head first one way, then another, and his eyes came to rest on Tilly, where she was coming from the delf rack with a teatray in her hands, and he flushed slightly as he said, ‘No . . . not really. N . . . n . . . nothing I’m afraid that can . . . can be of any help at the mo . . . moment, but I thought it b . . . b . . . better to . . . to come and explain.’
She laid the tray on the table, then stood looking at him; and he, addressing her slowly now, said, ‘When Jessie Ann left I wa . . . wanted you to come back to the house, and I told her this was one of the fir . . . first things I was going to do. It was th . . . then she’ – his mouth now opened wide and he closed his eyes and his head bobbed before he brought out the next words on a rush – ‘informed me that she had already wr . . . written to Matthew telling him what she had do . . . done, so I was, well, sort of stum . . . stumped, Trotter. You understand?’
She inclined her head towards him and waited, and he glanced at Mr Burgess before returning his gaze to her and going on, ‘I wrote immediately to Matthew and explained the situation and str . . . str . . . stressed your—’ he blinked rapidly now and, his mouth once again open wide, he said, ‘Con . . . condition, and only yesterday I got a reply from him, in which he states he’s c . . . c . . . coming home. He should be back about August or September because Uncle—’ again he glanced at Mr Burgess, explaining now, ‘He is not really our uncle because he is . . . is . . . was my grandmother’s half-brother and the youngest of the f . . . family.’ He laughed now, his mouth stretching wide illuminating his pleasant features as he ended, ‘I do . . . don’t know what relationship that makes us to him b . . . b . . . but having n . . . no children of his own, he addresses us as nephews. Matthew seems to . . . l . . . like him very much, he says he’s a fine man. I don’t really think that Matthew wants to leave Texas but anyway he is c . . . coming back.’
‘Texas? Texas!’ Mr Burgess nodded his head now. ‘What a state for Matthew to choose to live in! It has been called the state of adventurers, and a slave state; everybody seems to want it and nobody seems to want it. After the tragedy of the Alamo and the massacres that followed you’d have thought politicians both Mexican, American and British would have allowed it to remain an independent republic. We wanted it to remain independent’ – he nodded from John to Tilly now – ‘oh yes, it was to our benefit those days that she should remain independent. Now Master John’ – he leant towards the young man – ‘I’m going to ask you something, the same question that I asked your brother not all those many years ago in the schoolroom. What was the Alamo?’
John cast a laughing glance now towards Tilly, then said, ‘I . . . I think it was a mission chapel, sir, in which the American soldiers took refuge in the w . . . w . . . war against the Mex . . . Mex . . . Mexicans.’
‘Yes, yes, you’re right. But you know what the answer Master Luke gave me to that question when I asked him what the Alamo was, eh?’
‘I have no idea, s . . . sir.’
‘He said it was a river that ran into the Mississippi. Can you imagine that?’
‘Yes, yes; I can w . . . well imagine that, sir. Luke was never v . . . very strong on history. When I saw him last I said I hoped he has a g . . . g . . . good sergeant when he is due to go to India and a g . . . g . . . guide book.’
They all laughed; then Tilly, stirring the tea in the teapot with a long-handled spoon, asked, ‘Are you home for good, Master John?’
‘It . . . it all depends, Tr . . . Trotter. I . . . I hope so but I cannot say anything def . . . definite until Matthew comes. I have a strong f . . . f . . . feeling he might want to return to America. If that is so I . . . I would be pleased to stay and se . . . see to things.’ He turned his head now and looked at Mr Burgess as he ended, ‘I di . . . didn’t really enjoy university life, sir. I’m s . . . s . . . sorry.’
Tilly handed the two men their tea and when presently the conversation became general and Mr Burgess’ head began to nod, John made a signal towards Tilly and, rising softly from the seat, he picked up his hat and coat and tiptoed towards the door, and she followed him.
Outside on the path, she asked a question that had been in her mind since John had mentioned the letter he had received from his brother. ‘Did Matthew make any reference to me, John?’
The young man struck at the top of his leather gaiters with his crop before saying, ‘No, Trotter. I explained things to him but he m . . . m . . . made no ref . . . reference in his reply. You see’ – he looked at her shyly – ‘I asked him if I c . . . could take you back in the position of housekeeper because th . . . the place needs a housekeeper, Trotter. B . . . Biddy is very good, and K . . . K . . . Katie and the rest, but there is no gui . . . guiding hand. I wish he had mentioned it.’
‘Don’t worry, John.’ She put her hand out and touched his sleeve. ‘I’m sure Biddy won’t let things slide. As for me, well, I’m all right here.’
His face flushing slightly now and his stammer more pronounced, he said, ‘It isn’t the . . . the pl . . . pl . . . place for a ba . . . baby to be born, Trotter.’
‘Many have been born in worse places than this, John.’
‘Yes, undou . . . dou . . . doubtedly, but what I’m thinking is the ch . . . child will be my half-brother or s . . . s . . . sister.’
‘It’s nice of you to look at it in that way. You are so kind, John, I wish there were more like you.’
‘St . . . stammer or no?’ He was laughing now.
‘St . . . stammer or no.’
‘I worry about the st . . . stammer, Trotter.’ He again struck his gaiters. ‘No young l . . . l . . . lady is going to p . . . p . . . put up with me.’
‘Nonsense! nonsense! You’ve got a fine figure and you have a face to go with it. When the right one comes along how you speak won’t trouble her.’
‘Not even when I have to say I . . . I lo . . . love you?’
She looked at him sadly for a moment. That was one of his most endearing points, he could make a joke of his affliction, even while it hurt him, even tore at him as now when presenting him with a bleak and loveless future. She wanted to put her arms around him and say, ‘I love you,’ for she did, like a mother, because she was the first one to have shown him love even while smacking his bottom.
Copying his light mood, she leant towards him now and gripping his arm tightly, said, ‘They’re positive in the village that I’m a witch, and your father at times said I was too, and sometimes I believe it myself. I believe that if I wish for a thing hard enough it’ll come true, and so, from now on, I’m going to conjure up the image of the young lady who is going to throw her heart at your feet.’
‘Oh, Tro . . . Trotter!’ His mouth wide open, his head back, he gulped and said again, ‘Tro . . . Trotter you’re a pr . . . pr . . . priceless gem. I’ve always underst . . . st . . . stood why Father loved you. Goodbye, Tr . . . Trotter, I’ll keep you in . . . formed. I’ll p . . . p . . . pop over often from now on.’
‘Goodbye, John.’ She watched him moun
t the horse and answered his wave before turning to go back into the cottage.
Mr Burgess was fast asleep now, his head resting against the high padded arm of the couch. Softly, she made her way up the stairs and when she reached the bedroom under the eaves she sat on the side of the low bed and after taking in a deep breath she dropped her head forward into her hands and the tears spurted through her fingers. She had experienced loneliness before, but never like this. Within the last few minutes it had become intensified, the result of that kind young man bringing the essence of the house with him, the house which had become to her as home, and the feeling brought from her the plea, Mark! Mark! what am I going to do?
Seven
Tilly’s baby was born at five minutes past midnight on the 27th of June, 1853. It was a boy, and when Biddy held him up by the feet and smacked his blood-stained buttocks he yelled, as any boy would, and when Katie stumbled up the steep stairs with a dish of water in her hands, her mother cried at her, ‘It’s a lad! Here, put that down and take him while I see to her.’
Peering down through the lamplight on to the sweat-streaming face of the young woman she thought of and loved as if she were of her own flesh, she said softly, ‘Look lass, you’ve got a son, and he’s a whopper. Lie still, you’re all right.’
Tilly touched her son’s face, then closed her eyes and only now when she let out a long weary breath did her stomach subside, its walls seeming to touch her backbone. She was tired, so very tired. It had been a long struggle, thirty-six hours in fact, but she had a son. She and Mark had a son. ‘Oh, Mark! Mark! I wonder if you know.’
Tilly Trotter Wed (The Tilly Trotter Trilogy) Page 7
