Tilly Trotter Wed (The Tilly Trotter Trilogy)

by Cookson, Catherine

  ‘What about Mrs McGill?’

  ‘Oh, she went off about an hour ago, and the aunt an’ all. I liked her. She spoke to me, they both did. They’re sort of gentry, good gentry those two, not like some of them there the night. Coo! the Bull an’ Pen on a Saturday night is nothin’ to some of the things I saw goin’ on. Lordy . . . !’

  ‘What about Miss Anna?’

  ‘Oh, she went along of them, and Master John, he rode aside the carriage. A lot of the young ’uns ran alongside as they went down the drive, cheerin’ and laughin’. That was nice.’

  ‘I’ll come down.’

  ‘Me ma’s dead beat.’

  ‘I should think she would be. You must make her lie in tomorrow morning; I can see to things here.’

  ‘Oh, I doubt if she’ll stand for that.’

  Before leaving the nursery, they both went and looked at the child. He was lying with his thumb in his mouth and Katie said, ‘When he looks like that I could eat him.’

  They went quietly out and down the stairs on to the main landing. The house was strangely still now.

  In the kitchen Biddy was sitting with her feet up on a cracket and, turning and looking towards Tilly, she said, ‘I thought you were lost, lass.’

  ‘I’m sorry; I fell asleep.’

  ‘Nowt to be sorry for. Anyway, it’s all over except payin’ the bill. An’ I bet this’s cost him a pretty penny the night.’

  ‘The waiters . . . ?’

  ‘Oh, they went off in the brake with the band about fifteen minutes ago. And you know something?’ She turned her head and looked up at Tilly. ‘They were for taking the remainder of the stuff that was left outside. Aye, they were . . . Aw, I told them where to go to. By! I did. They said it was the rule. Well, I said to them, there’s a first time for everything an’ this is the first time your rule’s gona be broken, an’ I hope it won’t be the last . . . Five bob a night each and all they could eat . . . and drink, and then they wanted to take the foodstuff. My! some people get their livin’ easy.’

  ‘Come on. Get off to bed. And you an’ all, Katie. I’ll see to things here.’

  Biddy got slowly to her feet, saying, ‘Yes, lass, I think I will. We’ve cleared up as much as we can, we’ll do the rest in the mornin’. But look, how are we gona get down the drive without bumping into somebody? There’s still young ’uns kickin’ about in the garden.’

  ‘Go round by the orchard and the water garden.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t like that way,’ Katie put in now; ‘it’s dark round there, you’ve got to go under them cypresses.’ And when Fanny and Peg endorsed this by saying together, ‘Me neither,’ Tilly said, ‘Well, go and ask Arthur to go with you, or one of the others can leave the stables now the carriages are nearly all gone. Anyway, Fred may still be about; he’s nearly sure to be.’

  ‘Oh, don’t bother them; they’ve had enough on their plates the night.’ Biddy flapped her hand towards the girls, saying, ‘Don’t worry; there’s none of the young sparks going to break you in.’

  ‘Oh, Ma! The things you say. She’s awful, isn’t she, Tilly?’ Tilly smiled at Fanny as she said now, ‘Come on, I’ll walk with you, I could do with a breath of air.’

  Biddy gave one last look around the kitchen; then motioning to her daughters, she waved them out of the door before following them; and when in the yard she stood and looked up towards the moonlit sky, she said, ‘Well, if he had paid to have a night like this he couldn’t have got better value for his money, could he now?’

  ‘You’re right there, Biddy.’ Tilly smiled at her. ‘It’s a most beautiful night, almost like day. I don’t remember ever seeing a brighter one. And it isn’t a full moon yet.’

  They met no-one on their journey back to the lodge but they heard laughter and running footsteps here and there in the garden, and when Biddy remarked, ‘Somebody’s still loose. I hope he hurries up an’ catches her so we can settle down,’ the girls smothered their giggles.

  With the back of the lodge in sight Biddy said, ‘Well, here we are. Thanks, lass. And goodnight, or good mornin’. See you later on.’

  ‘Goodnight, Biddy . . . Goodnight, Katie. Goodnight, Peg. Goodnight, Fanny.’

  ‘Goodnight, Tilly. Goodnight, Tilly. Goodnight, Tilly. Goodnight, Tilly.’

  The whispered farewells over, Tilly turned slowly and made her way back to the cypress walk.

  There were no sounds coming from the garden now; that was until she had almost reached the end of the walk. Then she was startled by the sound of laughter, and it brought her to a dead stop for she recognised that laugh, and she knew that if she continued on for the next few yards she would come up with the owner of that voice and his companion, and so, taking two cautious steps to the side, she stood in the deep shadow of a cypress tree. Then again she was startled by the fact that whoever was on the other path had also stopped, for now the laughter seemed to be almost in her ear.

  Then the woman’s voice came to her, saying, ‘You know something? You are drunk, Matthew Sopwith, you are drunk’; and Matthew’s voice answered on a throaty laugh, ‘And you are not a kick in the backside from it, Miss Bennett, not a kick in the backside from it.’

  Alicia Bennett’s laughter now joined his, and Tilly had the impression that they were leaning against each other.

  Now Alicia Bennett was saying, ‘Why were you so mad a while back? Come on, tell me, why were you so mad?’

  ‘I wasn’t mad.’

  ‘Oh-yes-you-were. And all because I wanted to see the nursery floor.’

  ‘Well, as I told you, it’s private up there.’

  ‘Private? Housekeeper’s quarters, private! When were housekeeper’s apartments private? No servants’ quarters are private. I know what it was, you didn’t want me to see the child, did you? Is anything wrong with it? Two heads? Has it two heads? Or water on the brain? I once saw a child with water on the brain. It was so big they propped its head up in a cage.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, water on the brain! You have water on the brain. I don’t care if you see the child; anybody can see the child. Anyway, forget about it. Come on.’

  ‘No, listen. Stop it. I want to know something. Why do you have that one as your housekeeper?’

  ‘Why shouldn’t I have her as my housekeeper?’

  ‘Oh, you know as well as I do . . . ’

  ‘Look, I don’t want to discuss this with you, Alicia. Anyway, I want a drink, come on.’

  ‘It’s the talk of the county.’

  There followed a pause.

  ‘What’s the talk of the county?’

  The tone of Matthew’s voice now caused Tilly to press her hand tightly over her mouth.

  ‘You know as well as I do: your father’s mistress, now your housekeeper. As my pa always says, have your fun on the side but should there be results keep them on the side too.’

  There was a longer pause now before Matthew’s voice came thick and fuddled: ‘Well, your pa should know what he’s talkin’ about as he’s done a lot of work on the side, hasn’t he, Alicia? His sidelines run right through his four farms, an’ away beyond, so I understand. I’ve only one little half-brother but you must have enough to fill a workhouse, ’cos that’s where they go, don’t they, the maids with their bellies full?’

  Now Alicia Bennett’s voice came harsh, the words spitting, ‘That isn’t funny; I don’t find you amusing. You’re acting like a swine.’

  ‘Only because you, my dear Alicia, are acting like some cheap hussy.’

  ‘Cheap hussy, am I? Huh!’ She gave a short laugh now before saying on a high sarcastic note, ‘Oh, do please forgive me, Matthew, for daring to criticise your father’s whore, I . . . ’

  There followed the sound of a ringing slap, a gasp, then a long drawn out ‘O . . . h!’ Then Alicia Bennett’s voice, deep and sober-sounding, came through the thicket of the trees like barbed prongs, saying, ‘You shouldn’t have done that, Matthew Sopwith. That was no slap, that was a blow. You are the first man who has ever da
red lift his hand to me. You’ll be sorry. You mark my words.’

  Tilly stood as if she had become rooted to the spot. She heard one set of footsteps running into the distance but she dare not move because she knew that Matthew would be still standing where Alicia Bennett had left him. Then she almost cried out aloud as the trunk of the cypress which she was facing began to shake, and she knew that he had hold of it and that his hands were within an arm’s length of her face. And when, as if he were speaking to her, his voice came on a groan, saying, ‘Christ Almighty!’ she closed her eyes tightly and gripped her mouth until the pressure hurt.

  When at last she heard him move from the tree, she held her breath wondering if he would turn at the end of the path and come down the cypress walk. And when he did just that she prayed, ‘Oh God! don’t let him see me.’

  When he came abreast of her his head was down, his chin almost on his breast, and his walk was not that of a drunken man, but rather that of an old one.

  Presently his footsteps faded away in the distance, and she came from out of the shadows.

  She didn’t run back to the house, she walked slowly, but her whole body was shaking, and she was asking herself the question that she had asked a number of times in her life, Was it starting again?

  Three

  By lunchtime the following day the house was back to normal, at least as far as clearing up was concerned; but there seemed to be a tension running through every member of the household. Katie, Peg, Fanny and Betty all grumbled about the mess left by the hired waiters; Biddy hadn’t a civil word for anyone; the men outside hadn’t been able to go to bed until the last horse had gone from the stable, and that had been nearly four o’clock; the master himself, Arthur said, mustn’t have slept at all because he was dressed and out on his horse by seven, and he must have harnessed the animal himself.

  The only one who seemed happy was John, and it was around one o’clock in the afternoon that Tilly met him as she went through the main gates. He was riding back from having paid a brief visit to the mine. He stopped and, looking down at her, said, ‘You off for a w . . . w . . . walk, Trotter?’

  ‘I’m going to the cottage.’

  ‘Oh, that’s a l . . . long tr . . . tr . . . trail. Why don’t you t . . . t . . . take the trap?’

  ‘I want to walk.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Well I . . . I understand: I, too, f . . . felt I had to g . . . g . . . get out this morning after the r . . . rumpus of l . . . last night. Went off won . . . won . . . wonderfully, didn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, it did, John; a great success.’

  ‘It was d . . . d . . . dawn before the l . . . last ones left and I slept late. Then Arthur t . . . t . . . told me that Ma . . . Matthew had been up and gone since s . . . s . . . seven, so I’ve just b . . . been along to see him, and he’s l . . . like a bear with a sore scalp. I don’t think he r . . . really cares much for parties and such. Being in America has ch . . . changed his taste about many things. Did you know he was in a p . . . p . . . paddy, Trotter?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, something or some . . . somebody has upset him. I asked him if he was c . . . c . . . coming back to dinner and he said no, he was going into New . . . New . . . Newcastle.’ He bent further towards her and grinned now as he said, ‘Likely had w . . . w . . . words with the Lady Alicia, eh?’

  She swallowed deeply before she answered, ‘Yes, likely.’

  ‘Well, bye, T . . . Tr . . . Trotter. Have a nice w . . . w . . . walk.’

  As he urged his horse on she turned away and went into the main road. John was in love. His world looked rosy.

  But his brother wasn’t the only one who couldn’t bear the house today; she had been longing from early morning to get out of it, and now the nearer she came to the cottage the more she wished with all her heart that she was living in it again, just her and the child.

  When she reached it the first thing she did was to open all the windows. Unless the fire was kept on the musty smell from the old books permeated the house. After taking off her light dust coat and hat she sat on the couch near the empty fireplace and looked about her. There was nothing to stop her coming back here; she was independent, she didn’t need to work. But what excuse could she give to him for leaving the house? Did she need to give him any excuse? Couldn’t she just say she wished to return to the cottage? Then what would happen? She couldn’t give herself an answer to this, but in her mind’s eye she could see him stalking round the room yelling; she could see his face hovering above hers, his eyes fierce with a light that created an inward shaking in her. What was she to do? She must do something, and soon, because if she didn’t it would be too late, and then she wouldn’t be able to do anything about it. She didn’t explain to herself what it was she’d be unable to do anything about, it was something she hadn’t as yet had the courage to put into words because once she admitted it that would be the end of her and the beginning of something that couldn’t be countenanced.

  She rose to her feet. She was thirsty, she could do with a cup of tea. But it wasn’t worth lighting the fire for that; the well water would be cool. She went through the room and the scullery and unlocked the back door, and taking the water bucket that was hanging from a hook in the ceiling, she went out to the well.

  She took the wooden lid off the top of the well, attached the bucket to the chain, then allowed it to drop slowly down. It had a cool sound as it hit the water.

  As she wound it back again and pulled the bucket on to the stone rim of the well she had the odd feeling that there was someone watching her, and, the old fear of the McGraths acting like a spring, she swung round and the bucket toppled back into the well again.

  A man was standing by the corner of the cottage. He was staring at her with as much surprise on his face as was on hers. It took more than a moment for her to recognise him; the last time she had seen him he had appeared but a boy, he was eighteen years old and was pressing her to marry him. Almost his last words came back to her, ‘I killed me brother for you, Tilly,’ he had said. But there was hardly any resemblance in the Steve McGrath of thirteen years ago and this man. Yet it was he, but he seemed twice as tall, twice as broad, and there was no sullen, sad look about his face. It was a good-looking face, even a handsome one; but even if she hadn’t been able to recognise him his left forearm held at that odd angle would have been evidence enough of his identity.

  It was he who spoke first. ‘Why, Tilly, I . . . I never expected to see you here.’

  ‘Steve! Oh, you did give me a fright. The bucket’s gone.’ She looked down the well; then turned to him, laughing now, and he, coming up to her, smiled into her face before bending over and looking down to where the bucket was bobbing far below on the cool water.

  ‘Have you got another bucket?’

  ‘Yes, but not a special one; this is the one I used to keep for the water.’

  ‘Well, let’s see if we can get it up.’

  She watched him as he wound down the chain, and when it was at its full stretch he began to manoeuvre it gently until of a sudden he gave it a jerk, then glanced at her, saying, ‘Got it!’

  When the bucket was once more standing on the stone surround he took it off the hook; then lifting it up, he said, ‘I could do with a drink of this myself.’

  ‘Well, it’s cheap.’ She laughed at him before turning away and walking towards the cottage.

  A minute later, after they had both drunk a mugful of the ice-cold water, she said, ‘Sit down, won’t you, Steve. Oh, I’m still amazed. I can’t believe it’s you. You know, you have changed.’

  He was about to sit himself on the couch when he turned and glanced at her as he said, ‘Can’t say the same for you, Tilly.’

  She blinked and flushed slightly, then said, ‘Where’ve you been all this time, and what are you doing back here now?’

  ‘I . . . I was looking for a cottage and I understood this one was empty.’

  ‘Really? Well, you see’ – she spread her hands wide �
� ‘it isn’t empty, but it’s mine.’

  ‘It’s yours, Tilly?’

  ‘Yes. Oh, it’s a long story, but you remember Mr Burgess?’

  ‘Oh yes, I remember Mr Burgess.’

  ‘Well, I’ – she looked downwards for a moment – ‘when I left the house, I came and lived with Mr Burgess for a time and he bequeathed it to me.’

  ‘You’re living here then?’

  ‘No, no; I’m housekeeper back at the Manor.’ Her words were spaced and it was he who blinked his eyes now and looked away as he said, ‘Oh aye. Aye, I see.’ Then more brightly, ‘But you still own this?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you thinking of selling it?’

  ‘No, no; I don’t think I’d ever sell it, it’s got a sentimental value for me.’

  ‘Would . . . would you let it then?’

  She stared at him. ‘You’d want to take it? But . . . but are you working round here? What about your mother?’ Even the word brought a tightening of her stomach muscles.

  His voice as he answered her was grim. ‘Answering your last question, Tilly, I want nothing to do with me mother, or our George. They don’t know I’m back and it’ll make no difference when they do. I haven’t seen them since I left home thirteen years ago. Anyway, I’m now engaged at the Sopwith and Rosier mine as under-manager.’

  ‘Under-manager!’ the words came out on a high surprised note and he nodded, a pleased expression on his face. ‘Aye. Would you believe it, the pitman an under-manager? It’s a long story. I suppose you could say I’ve been lucky. When I left here I went on the road for a time, then landed up at a Durham pit and I lodged with a Mr Ransome. He was a deputy, and his wife was a canny body, they made me feel at home. Well, it was the only real home life I’d ever experienced and Mr Ransome was very taken up with his job, and he had a ready listener in me, so just listenin’ to him I learned more things in a year than I would have done in a lifetime otherwise, I mean about the workings of the pit. Well, he got me so interested that I started to study an’ for once no opposition to the fact that I could read and write. Well, after a lot of night work, burning the midnight oil . . . and candles’ – he laughed – ‘I got me deputy’s ticket. And I thought that was the end, but it was only the beginning. I went on from there, and last year I passed for under-manager and when I heard they were wantin’ one here I applied, and with a little push from Mr Ransome and Mr Burrows, the manager, I was accepted. At first I was hesitant about coming so near the village an’ me mother again, but it was the only post going. And you’ve got to be an under-manager afore you can become a manager. So there you have it, Tilly.’