Tilly Trotter Wed (The Tilly Trotter Trilogy)

by Cookson, Catherine

  For a time the buggy rolled along smoothly and she had time to look out at the landscape. It was nice in parts, tree-lined slopes, the thin line of a river far away; but as yet she had seen no houses since leaving the tavern.

  . . . And the tavern, so called, she had seen as merely a large wooden hut. Every part of it was wood, the walls, the floor, the furniture; and all rough hewn, no polish on anything. The bed was a wooden platform set in the middle of four posts but, unlike a four-poster bed, it had no canopy and no drapes. Still, she had slept well, and she had eaten well; the food had been roughly served, but there had been plenty of it.

  It had been their first night in a real bed and they had loved and laughed, and she had gone to sleep in his arms.

  She awoke to find herself alone; and when she did see him he was fully dressed and had already been outside with the men.

  She discovered that he had enormous energy. It seemed that he must always be up and doing; and she understood now the sense of frustration he must have felt during the time he had spent at home.

  Home. He spoke of this place for which they were bound as home. When she had asked him how far it was he had said, ‘Oh, we’ll be home by tomorrow nightfall at the latest.’

  They had already made two stops, one at Houston, then at a place called Hempstead. They had made another short stop between these two places at a kind of crossroads, where Matthew had walked her around and pointed into the empty distance naming places, San Antonio away to the left, Huntsville to the right, and vaguely somewhere in between the place for which they were making. And all the time referring to a man named Sam Houston. Then, of course, the river that they were travelling beside was the Brazos. One day soon, he promised, he’d take her to the falls of Brazos where there was a trading post; and oh, she would enjoy seeing Indians bringing in the pelts, and listening to the subsequent bargaining, mostly by signs, which he had demonstrated.

  She had gazed at him in amazement as he talked. He spoke like a man who was walking on land that he owned. She also knew that he had become lost in himself, that he wasn’t so much explaining to her but telling himself of its wonders, its charm. She had, since landing in this country, become aware of yet another facet of his character, a new facet, and with the awareness had come the knowledge that she really knew very little about this husband of hers. He appeared as strange to her now as the land about her; but one thing was evident, he was at one with this land, it was as if he had been born here, reared here, for he obviously loved it. She was already realising too that, with the exception of Houston, what the men referred to as towns were little more than villages; in fact the village at home was bigger and certainly looked more substantial, the houses being brick and stone built.

  At the last wayside tavern where they had stopped she had listened to the garrulous Mr Scott talking about places which all seemed to be preceded by the word Fort: Fort Worth, Fort Belknap, Fort Phantom Hill, and when he seemed about to enlarge on the fact by saying they had rounded the beggars up there, she knew that the only reason why he stopped was because of some signal he had received from Matthew, who at the time had his back to her.

  She knew there had to be forts to protect people from the Indians. She had learned from Matthew all about the Indians and their raids on the settlers, but all this, she understood, took place in a distant part of the country. Anyway, the rangers saw to it that the Indians toed the line. These were Matthew’s words, this was Matthew’s explanation. But strangely from the very moment they landed and had met up with Mr Scott, she’d had the strong feeling that Matthew’s statements were not quite accurate, but that he made them light in order to alleviate any fears that the true situation might arouse in her. She felt that she wouldn’t have to be long in Mr Scott’s company for the true state of affairs to be made clear, absolutely clear.

  The distance before the next stop was comparatively short, and at Washington-on-the-Brazos she sat at a table in what for the first time she considered a real house, but again one made entirely of wood, yet artistically so this time. It was a private house owned by a Mr Rankin. He was a small, spare-framed man, whose wife seemed to have been cut out of the same mould. They had two sons. The family had a chandler’s store in the town which the father and the eldest son appeared to run, but the younger one’s business seemed to be with horses, and the conversation at the dinner table revolved generally around horses, particularly mustangs.

  Although the men talked and the mother listened she knew that the family were all covertly weighing her up. Their greetings to her had been friendly but not effusive as they had been towards Matthew, yet even that had been expressed in handshakes and slapping on backs accompanied by very few words.

  No-one asked her any questions. They had merely nodded at Matthew’s explanation of the child’s presence; Katie they took for granted, she was a nursemaid.

  They, too, had servants, many more than a house of this size would have entailed had it been in England: one Mexican waited on table, with another hovering in the background, while earlier in the yard she had seen three negro slaves.

  She had yet to take in the fact that people who kept slaves could be nice, friendly creatures. Years ago the parson’s wife had talked about slaves and the hard cruel people who owned them, but as yet she had seen no sign of cruelty, but as yet, too, she told herself she had barely set foot on this land; then wryly she thought, she might barely have set foot but her back and buttocks were feeling as if they had been bumping along these roads for years.

  She noticed with this family too that the men either talked a lot or they talked little, that there seemed to be no happy medium.

  The meal over, they sat on the verandah and watched the night creeping into the great expanse of sky, but it was much as Tilly could do to remain seated in the slat-back wooden chair and not run to the closet, which even in this house was an exposed hut at the end of the yard. All her life she had seen men spitting. The roadways and pavements of Shields, and Jarrow and Newcastle were covered with sputum and the fireplaces of the poor were often tattooed with it, but to hear the constant pinging aimed into an iron receptacle set between the chairs became almost too much to bear, especially on top of a meal of pork, but the three Rankin men sucked at their pipes, coughed, then spat until the sound almost created a nauseating melody in her head.

  Matthew was smoking, but like his father he didn’t spit, except into a handkerchief, and for this she was thankful.

  Making the child an excuse to leave the company, she rose to her feet. Matthew, too, rose, and smiled and nodded towards her before resuming his seat.

  As she walked along the verandah to go into the house she heard the young son laugh as he said, ‘Long spanker there, Matthew man. A horse like that and . . . ’ She passed out of earshot, but when, on her way along another corridor towards their room, she saw through an open door Katie sitting at the end of a table with Doug Scott, and the two of them laughing, she had an overwhelming urge to join them. But here she recognised another obstacle facing her in this free country, there was status to be considered. As Matthew had said laughingly, although they wouldn’t have it said they were more class conscious here than they were in England, for here there were more divisions of class. There were the slaves at the bottom of the grades, then the half-castes, which could be Mexican Indians or Mexican whites or even Indian whites; and there were the homesteaders, the majority of them respectable but others who were slackers; then there were the whites who set the standards, the tradesmen, the bankers, the lawyers. It was from these came the offshoots, the politicians and, one mustn’t forget, the army. Some of the officers were class, mainly those, Matthew had added, who had come over from England; but a number of them were mere mercenaries, no better than the men they controlled, the majority of whom were scum who had merely joined up to escape punishment of one kind or another, not realising that life in the so-called forts was a punishment alone to outdo all others.

  He had spoken of this so lightly, muc
h as Mr Burgess would have done in giving a history lesson, like something that had happened in some bygone time. The only difference was the bygone time was now and she was experiencing the happening.

  Katie, glimpsing her, got to her feet as she said, ‘Do you want me, Ti . . . ma’am?’

  ‘No, no,’ she called back; ‘it’s all right,’ and Katie resumed her seat.

  That was another thing; she must be ma’am now all the time to Katie, and she smiled to herself as she recalled the difficulty Katie had in remembering this form of address.

  The child was asleep. He had kicked the clothes down to the bottom of the rocking cradle. She had been surprised when first shown the cradle; then Mrs Rankin had informed her that she had three married daughters and a number of grandchildren. Willy had the fingers of one hand in his hair as if he were scratching his head, his other small fist was doubled under his chin. He looked funny, amusing and beautiful. Whenever she looked at him like this she always wanted to gather him into her arms and press him into her, he was so precious and so loving. If only his eyes . . . She shook her head. She mustn’t start whining about this, she had got to face up to it, and help him to meet it too. He could still see out of one eye. They could but hope he would continue to do so until he was old enough to be fitted with spectacles.

  She turned now quickly from the crib as the door opened and Matthew entered, and moved swiftly towards her. With his arm about her, he stood looking down with her on the sleeping child. She found it strange that he should care so much for the child, that there was no trace of jealousy in him, it was as if the child were his own.

  When they turned from the cot he peered at her in the fading light, and taking her face between his hands, he said, ‘They like you,’ then jerking his chin upwards as if in annoyance at an inane remark, he repeated, ‘They like you. What I mean is, you’ve knocked them flat on their faces.’

  She opened her eyes wide as she lowered her head while still looking at him, and she said, ‘It wasn’t apparent to me.’

  ‘Because they don’t talk? You can’t go by that; it’s something one detects in their manner, in their look. You’ve got to wait a couple of years before they speak to you.’

  ‘Well, that’s something to look forward to.’

  ‘Oh, darling! Darling!’ He pulled her into his arms and they kissed and clung tightly together; then after a moment, as he released her, she asked, ‘How much further, really?’

  ‘If we make good time, no hitches, we should be there by noon tomorrow.’

  She looked at him soberly now as she said, ‘I’m a bit scared, Matthew.’

  ‘Of the country?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The Indians?’

  ‘No, no; although’ – she nodded – ‘I wouldn’t want to meet any Indians. No, it’s meeting your uncle and his daughter. You said he looked upon you as a sort of son. Well, he may not like his son having taken a wife.’

  ‘Nonsense! Nonsense! He’s a fine man, a most understanding man. About most things that is. One thing I’ve never fathomed about him is the fact that he doesn’t seem to understand his own daughter; nor for that matter does his daughter understand him, although I must admit she’s got a point. Oh yes, yes; she’s got a point.’

  She waited but he did not go on to explain what the point was.

  ‘Anyway, come on; they’re talking about a barbecue they’re putting on in a fortnight’s time.’

  ‘A barbecue. What’s a barbecue?’

  ‘Oh, well, now’ – he scratched his head – ‘it’s a cross between a county ball and a barn dance, somewhere in the middle.’

  ‘Oh, I’ll have to see this.’

  ‘Yes, you’ll have to see this.’ He again pulled her into his arms. ‘And they’ll all want to see you because you’ll be the belle of the ball. There’s been nothing like you around here for a long, long time. I’ll lay my last dollar on that.’

  She looked at him in silence now. He was so proud of her; yet she knew it to be a strange pride, one of possession. And he endorsed this as he now said, ‘I’ve always believed that if you want a thing badly enough you’ll get it in the end, yet there were times when I doubted it, but not any more. Tilly Trotter that was, you’re mine, mine!’ His lips pressed so hard against hers that the kiss became painful, but she endured it.

  Two

  They seemed to have left the tree-lined country miles and miles behind them. They had passed dwellings, poor makeshift affairs, but each passing had always been greeted with wavings and calls from both sides. At one such place they had stopped for Tilly and Katie to get out to stretch their legs and the men to water the horses in a brook nearby. The family had stood gaping at her: the woman of indeterminable age, a girl of about twelve, and two small children, their sex hidden under long skirts. Neither the woman nor the children spoke, they just gaped at her as if she were a mirage dropped from the sky. What had simply amazed Tilly and sent her mind questioning was the sight of a man running from a far field accompanied by a small boy who could have been no more than seven years old, for both of them were carrying guns. The man hailed Doug Scott enthusiastically and nodded in a friendly fashion towards Matthew, but when he looked at her it was some moments before he spoke, and then he said, ‘How-do, ma’am?’

  The boy with the gun slung across his shoulders stared at her, his mouth partly open, his eyes wide and smiling.

  She wanted to say to the boy, ‘Why are you carrying a gun?’ but then she asked herself, why not? At home young boys shot rabbits. Yes, but not a boy as small as this one. And another thing, from the condition of his boots and his hands it was evident that he had been working in the fields.

  She turned to Matthew, but Matthew was now preparing to leave and he called to her, ‘Come along’; then to the family he said, ‘Good-day.’

  All nodded towards him, and she, looking at the woman, said, ‘Goodbye.’ Still the woman didn’t speak, she merely inclined her head towards her.

  The poverty, the almost squalid poverty of the family depressed her. It was Katie who voiced her thoughts, saying, ‘I’ve never seen anybody as poorly off as that, not even in the pit row. I thought we had reached bottom there. And that little lad. Did you see he was carrying a gun? Why was that now, do you think?’

  Tilly shook her head as she answered, ‘Likely for game. There’s a tremendous amount around; you saw for yourself a way back.’

  ‘Aye, but there’s no trees here for them to live among. Would it be to shoot them Indians do you think?’ It was a fear-tinged question and Tilly was quick to respond, ‘Oh no, of course not. The rangers see to them. In any case, they’re miles away, two hundred, three hundred, four hundred. So Matthew says.’

  ‘Well, that’s something to be thankful for.’

  They smiled at each other. Then Katie put a question to Tilly that she couldn’t answer. What she said was, ‘Do you see how they treat Diego? Mr Scott speaks to him all right and, of course, the boss, but them we just left, and them last night took no notice of him. Is it because he looks a bit like an Indian?’

  Tilly considered for a moment before she said, ‘Well, Katie, we’ve got to face it, it’s likely the servant question over again.’ She finished this on a laugh, and Katie, laughing with her, said ‘Aye, you could be right. Although I wouldn’t have thought we would have come across anything like that out here where everything’s so rough.’

  Yes, where everything was so rough. The land was rough. Beautiful, yes, but rough and dangerous. They had spoken again of bears last night. And the people. Even those one expected to show some refinement had a roughness about them. Oh, she wished she was settled in to the new home. She wished she knew what was facing her. She had a strange, even a weird feeling of premonition hanging over her. Well, she would soon know. Less than a couple of hours now and she would know.

  She saw the homestead when still some way off. It was what she termed the railings she saw first surrounding what appeared to be a large farm. She was leaning her
head slightly out of the window and through the dust from the galloping horses’ hooves she saw Matthew and Doug Scott riding ahead. They were shouting as they rode, their voices coming back to her in an unintelligible sound. Diego was yelling too, and his cry she made out to be, ‘Hi-hi! . . . Hi-hi!’

  Then the buggy was rolling between the high fences and into a big open space, and the horses suddenly seeming to skid to a stop brought her, Katie, and the child into a heap on the seat.

  They were disentangling themselves when the door was pulled open and Matthew, his face alight, said, ‘Come.’

  Tilly straightened her hat, took a handkerchief swiftly around her face, and pulled down the skirt of her long blue coat before holding out her hand to him.

  Then they were in the compound and he was leading her towards the tall grey-haired man who was standing at the bottom of a set of steps that led to the long verandah fronting the wooden house, which appeared quite imposing in its style.

  ‘Well, Uncle, here we are.’

  Matthew still kept hold of her hand as he held out his other to Alvero Portes, and the man, taking it, gripped it hard as he said simply, ‘Welcome home, Matthew. Welcome home.’ Then turning his attention to Tilly, he looked her up and down; and she returned his gaze, and as she did so she knew immediately that this man resented her presence. Even when he smiled at her and said, ‘And welcome to your wife,’ that innate knowledge which she possessed that had not been born of experience but which she had inherited from some ancestor who had been wise in knowing told her that a smile, no matter how oiled, could not hide the truth that lay deep in the eyes.

  ‘Come in, come in; you must be tired. Oh.’ He paused and looked towards where Katie was standing with the child in her arms and he said, ‘Ah, your stepson. I was prepared; I got your mail yesterday.’ He did not give any more attention to the child but turned and went up the steps, and Matthew, gripping her hand tightly, drew her with him, and thus she entered the house.