Tilly Trotter Wed (The Tilly Trotter Trilogy)

by Cookson, Catherine

  She hadn’t seen anyone from the house for four days, which was unusual, and she wondered, too, why the child, loved as it was, should leave room in her being for the need for other people. The fact that it was so created in her a feeling of guilt.

  She looked towards him. He was sleeping peacefully in his basket. The fire was bright in the open hearth. She had rearranged the room, washed all the curtains and covers, brought in all but one of the six rugs that had been shared between her own bedroom and Mr Burgess’, and placed them at intervals over the stone floor, so that there was now an air of comfort about the room.

  She had changed from her working clothes into the soft plum-coloured cord dress that Mark had liked to see her in and that Mr Burgess had always remarked on. This changing of her clothes in the middle of the day had become a habit picked up when she had first begun to dine with Mark in the upstairs room. Before her close association she had always worn a kind of uniform, but on the day that she first ate with him, he said, ‘You will change each day for dinner, Tilly.’ And she had liked the idea and adopted it until it had became a pattern of life.

  A change in the wind brought a grumble and growl down the chimney. She went to the fireplace and, taking some logs from the skip, she went to put them on the bank of red hot ashes but paused for a moment. It was a lovely fire for the griddle pan, she could make some griddle cakes. But then, why bother? she hated cooking for herself alone. And anyway she had changed. Tomorrow morning she’d bake some bread.

  She placed the logs on the fire, dusted her hands and went to pick up the child; then, her back bent, she turned her head towards the door. There was someone knocking. It must be someone on foot, she hadn’t heard a horse or cart.

  When she opened the door she stared at the man who was staring at her. ‘May I come in?’

  She stood aside and watched him walk into the room, stop and look about him for a moment, then walk on towards the fire, and there he stood between the table and the couch.

  She hadn’t moved but two steps from the door.

  ‘I have come to apologise; John said I was rude to you the other day.’

  She continued to stare at him, giving him no answer until, hunching his shoulders upwards, he exclaimed, ‘Well! what can I say except that my stay in America hasn’t improved my manners . . . ?’ He looked from side to side now, saying, ‘May I sit down?’

  She moved slowly towards him and, pointing to the chair opposite the couch, she said, ‘Yes, certainly.’

  He didn’t immediately take the seat, but with a gesture of exaggerated courtesy he extended his hand towards the couch and when she had seated herself on it, he sat in the chair opposite, facing her now and also the child where, at the end of the couch near the fire, it was lying still asleep in the basket.

  Tilly returned his unblinking stare until she became embarrassed. Turning her head to the side, she said, ‘I have known you long enough, Matthew, to realise that you didn’t consider your manner towards me the other day as warranting an apology. Will you come to the point and tell me the reason for your visit?’

  He smiled now and the movement of his features altered his whole face, the arrogant look going, the coldness seeping from the eyes. He became attractive, even handsome, and the smile slipped into laughter as he said, ‘That is the Trotter I remember, straight to the point, no beating about the bush. Now, me lad, let’s get things straight. You put a frog in my bed, I put a frog down your shirt.’

  Her head jerked back and he nodded at her, saying, ‘Oh, yes, yes; John is always saying Trotter has done a lot of good in her time, but I say that Trotter has done one or two not so good things in her time, things that have repercussions to this day, such as nightmares.’

  Her lips moved soundlessly on the word, and then she repeated aloud; ‘Nightmares?’

  ‘Yes, Miss Trotter, nightmares. I experienced the first one at boarding school. Raised the dormitory screaming my head off because I was being smothered in slime with all the frogs crawling over me.’

  She shook her head, her face straight, her eyes troubled now.

  ‘The boys nearly jumped for the windows, they thought there was a fire. But that was nothing to the bunkhouse in Texas. They were tough lads those, but when I scream, I scream, and to a man they sprang for their guns; they thought it was a raid on their horses. Imagine ten men in their linings rushing out into the night. And it was the first time they’d had their clothes off in months!’

  She looked at him. His head was back, he was laughing loudly. The concern seeped from her eyes. She said stiffly, ‘You’re exaggerating.’

  He brought his head forward and stared at her for a moment before he said soberly now, ‘Yes, perhaps a little, but it’s true about the nightmares. I’ve had nightmares, Trotter, ever since you put that frog down my shirt and always, always about frogs; big ones, little ones, gigantic ones, all crawling over me, smothering me.’

  ‘No!’ She shook her head and pressed herself back against the couch. ‘Don’t say I’ve caused you to have nightmares.’

  ‘But it’s true, you did.’

  She swallowed deeply, wetted her lips. ‘Then I could have had nightmares, because it was you who put the frog in my bed.’

  ‘Yes, I give you that, but then you were a young woman, sixteen years old, and I was but a boy of ten, a sensitive boy.’

  Again she jerked her head to the side while keeping her eyes on him, and she repeated, ‘Sensitive?’ and she knew she sounded like Biddy when she said, ‘If you were a sensitive child, then pig-skin is made of silk.’

  He laughed again, but quietly now while he continued to look at her; then he asked, ‘Why do you think I was such a little devil?’

  ‘I think you were born like that.’

  ‘Nobody is born like that, Trotter. I thought you would have learned that much with all the wisdom you’ve imbibed from Mr Burgess. It is environment that makes us what we are. I saw my mother for five minutes a day, no longer, living in the same house day after day, year after year. Even before she took to her couch I can’t remember seeing her for any length of time. I can’t remember being held in her arms. I can’t remember feeling loved. None of us did, but I was her first-born, I resented the others even while knowing that she gave to them no more than to me. If I’d been brought up in the home of your Biddy, who is apparently so fond of you, and you of her, I would I am sure have emerged a much happier person. I would not have had any cause to force myself on people’s notice. And I did that by playing tricks on nursemaids, so that my father would come and threaten to thrash me. He never did. I longed for him to thrash me because then I would have known I meant something at least to him. I loved my father. Do you know that, Trotter?’

  She paused before she said, ‘My answer to that is, you had a very odd way of showing it. You left him lonely for years before he died when it was in your power to come and see him.’

  ‘He didn’t want me, Trotter, all he wanted was you, and he had you.’

  ‘And that’s why you . . . you hated me?’

  ‘Who said I hated you?’

  ‘You showed it in every possible way during your brief visits, and I don’t find that your sojourn abroad has softened your attitude.’

  He looked down towards his hands which were now placed on each knee, and he said quietly, ‘I’m sorry that you should think that way. But you are right, in part that is, I did hate you. As for my attitude towards you not having altered, I’m . . . I’m afraid I would have to do a lot of explaining before I could make you understand, and it has nothing to do with my sojourn abroad. Yet again that isn’t true. Oh’ – he now tossed his head – ‘this is not the time for delving into the whys and wherefores of one’s reactions; the only thing I will say’ – he looked straight at her now, one corner of his mouth lifted in an ironic smile – ‘that no man, English, Irish, Scotch, Welsh, or any other for that matter, who spends three years in any state of America, or in Texas, particularly in Texas, could remain unchanged or, let me a
dd, retain his refinement. America is another world. Although the majority of the people you meet have hailed from here, one generation is enough to change them into practically different species. They tear at life to make a living, or, like a few, scheme to make it. They are different, and I suppose some of the difference has rubbed off on me. It has undoubtedly shown in my irritation, as John informs me.’ He rose now and took two steps towards the fireplace as he added, ‘The pace of life is so slow here, even the horses seem slower.’ He laughed on the last words and looked at her over his shoulder. ‘I was in the hunt the other day. There we were, lolloping over hedges and gates, pushing our way through woods, hollering and yelling; yet I had the strange fancy that we were all standing still for I could see the vast, vast plains, no sight before the horse’s head for miles and miles and miles. There’s no world beyond the plains. Like the sky, they go on for ever. What they call a township is merely a meteor dropped from the heavens. Oh dear, dear.’ He dropped his head now and laughed. ‘Shades of Mr Burgess. That’s how he used to go on, isn’t it?’

  He turned his back to the fire now and stared at her, and as he did so the child in the basket awoke, coughed and spluttered a little, and the sound brought Tilly from her seat. Bending down, she lifted up her son and held him upright in her arms, supporting him with her hand on his back, so that his face was on a level with Matthew’s.

  For a moment she thought he was going to turn away; she could see the muscles of his jaw pressed tight against the skin. She waited for him to speak, to acknowledge the child, and he did so.

  ‘My half-brother?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You were a long time in bringing it about.’

  She knew the colour was suffusing her face. She turned the child now and pressed its head against her neck, and he said on a defensive tone, ‘Well, you were, weren’t you? And it’s a pity you didn’t leave it a little longer because he won’t be recognised other than as a bastard.’

  Her lips were tight-pressed for a moment before she could bring herself to say, ‘I chose to have him as a bastard. I could have married your father years ago. I wish I had now. Oh! how I wish I had. And then my son would have had his rightful place, and you wouldn’t be standing here daring to insult me.’

  ‘Aw, Trotter!’ His voice and manner had changed so dramatically that as he swung round and reached up to the high mantelpiece above the fireplace and gripped the edge of it, she felt for a moment she was dealing with the young boy in the nursery, and there flashed across her mind a picture of him standing at the top of the nursery landing telling her he didn’t want to go back to boarding school. And she remembered the reason why they were standing there. He’d had a fight with Luke as to who was to marry her when they grew up. And he had told her that a boy at school had said he had kissed a girl on the lips. She could see his face now as he had appealed to her. ‘You cannot kiss anyone on the mouth until you are married. Can you, Trotter?’

  She stared at his broad shoulders, his head hanging forward, the odd cut of his hair, and it came to her that the great Matthew was a very unhappy man. He had been an unhappy boy but that she suspected was nothing to his present state.

  When he turned slowly to her his voice was low and his question had a plea in it. ‘Will you come back? That’s the reason for my visit today. You may have what rooms you like, and . . . and you can run the house as you did before.’

  A lightness came into her body. There was nothing at the moment she would have welcomed more than to be back in the house. Coming down in the morning into the kitchen, talking to Biddy about the day’s menus, writing down what stores she needed, going from room to room seeing that everything was in order; then some part of the day, winter or summer, walking in the garden, not solely for pleasure, yet it was a pleasure to see the work that the boys were doing, and she never stinted in telling them of her pleasure.

  Why was she hesitating? She stared into the face of the man before her. There was no arrogance on his countenance now. The scowl, the ever present scowl that gave one the impression of ugliness, was no longer present. Again she saw the boy, but with more knowledge of him now that he had told her the cause of his actions when young. So why, why was she hesitating?

  She seemed to surprise herself as she said, ‘It’s very kind of you but I’m afraid I can’t accept.’

  Her head drooped forward and stayed bent in the silence that followed her refusal, until he said, ‘Why?’

  ‘There . . . there are, I suppose, a number of reasons. First your sister, Mrs . . . ’

  ‘Oh, Jessie Ann.’ He threw the name off as if with scorn. ‘She is a little bitch. She always was, she always will be. I went to Scarborough before I came on home. She acted like a fishwife, solely because I had put John in charge.’

  ‘Well, what do you expect her reactions to be if you engage me?’

  ‘Hell’s flames!’ He flung one arm wide now and walked past her and round the table. ‘The Manor is my house, I own it, I can do what I like with it, engage whom I like to run it. Jessie Ann has no say in my life. Anyway, we never got on together. And look!’ The arrogance was back in both his face and his actions for, thrusting his arm out, he pointed his finger at her now, saying, ‘If you don’t take my offer I’ll bring in male staff, a butler, a footman, the lot, and your Drew family won’t like that, will they? Both inside and out they run the place as if they had been born there, owned it, as if they were . . . ’

  ‘Concerned for its welfare.’

  ‘Oh—’ He turned his head on to his shoulder and, his voice dropping, he muttered, ‘Why are we always at loggerheads? Can’t we call a truce? What is past is past, I am willing to forget it.’

  ‘That is very noble of you.’

  ‘Don’t be sarcastic with me, Trotter.’ The voice and the look was that of the master speaking to the servant, and now her voice and look was that of an equal as she almost barked back at him, ‘And don’t you take that tone with me. You have no control over me whatsoever, I am an independent person. This is my house, small and humble as it is, it is mine. I’ve enough money to keep me for the rest of my days and to educate my son as I think fit.’

  ‘Don’t be too sure of that; you only have shares, they’ve been known to flop.’

  ‘Well, say they do; I still have my hands left and, what is more, my head. Now you’ve had the answer to the question you came to ask me so I’ll thank you if you will leave.’

  He stood, one hand gripping the front of his cravat, staring at her, glaring at her.

  He looked like a man who at any moment could lash out with his fist. For an instant she had the impression he was one of the villagers, a working man, untutored, no grain of a gentleman in him.

  As he snapped his gaze from her there seemed to be an audible click, so sharp was the movement, and, grabbing up his cloak and hat, he went to the door. There he turned and his lips hardly moved as he said, ‘You’ll need me before I need you Trotter.’ On this he went out, banging the door behind him with such force that the child jumped in her arms and his face crumpled and, what was most unusual, he began to whimper, then cry loudly.

  Dropping on to the chair, she rocked him backwards and forwards. Her eyes closed, her mouth open, she took in small gulps of air. A feeling of fear that she hadn’t experienced for a long time was sweeping through her. It wasn’t the kind of fear engendered by the villagers; she couldn’t put a name to it, she only knew that she was afraid, afraid of him. And then she asked herself, Why? He could do nothing to her. Of course he could dismiss all the Drews and get in a male staff but he couldn’t put Biddy out of the lodge; that was her property now. Yet the fear somehow wasn’t connected with the Drews; it was an unexplainable fear . . . Yet was it so unexplainable? The answer that thought brought to her was: madness, sheer madness.

  Three

  Tilly had never made use of a carrier cart since she had taken up residence in the Manor and she was loth to start now for she would have to rub shoulders with the villag
ers, that’s if they allowed themselves to get near enough to touch her shoulder; and so for her visits into the town to replenish her cupboard, she had to rely on Arthur taking the cart into Shields. Even that trip had become hazardous, not for herself, but for the child, because the weather was cruelly cold.

  There was only a week to Christmas and she felt she must do some shopping, not for presents but for necessities; the only presents she had to give were to the Drews. She had been knitting scarves, mufflers and gloves for weeks past now, and she had made a fine shawl for Biddy. She had also decided to give herself a Christmas box. She was going to buy the material to make a warm winter dress, as well as more flannel for petticoats for the child.

  She had arranged yesterday with Katie for her to sneak out, and that was the word that Katie used, in order that she could look after the baby for two hours or so. Arthur was to bring her on the cart, and then pick herself up and take her into Shields, where he would leave her while he went and collected the weekly supply of fodder for the horses. She would later meet him at the top of the Mill Dam bank and return home.

  She was ready except for putting her hat on when she heard the stamping of the horse on the road and glanced out of the window in passing, then took one step back and became still. It wasn’t Arthur with the cart, it was Simon Bentwood. She nipped hard down on her lip and allowed him to knock on the door before she opened it. He was smiling at her, his arm extended towards her and from his hand was dangling a medium-sized goose.

  ‘I thought it might do for your Christmas dinner, Tilly.’

  She looked at him sadly now and, shaking her head, said, ‘Thank you, Simon, but I can’t accept it.’