She had said to Luisa, ‘How long has Mack been here? And why is he part ranger and part cowboy?’
The conversation had taken place in the cookhouse, the hut that divided the main house from the dog run, and Luisa, punching some dough with her fist as if she had a spite against it, said, ‘He rides when necessary. He knows the country right away into the Comancheria; he’s a scout, as good as any Indian. The Comanches laugh at the soldiery but never at the rangers. I think he and O’Toole’s rangers have been farther north than any of them yet. Up there the Comanches had it all to themselves at one time; they used to ride down from the high plateaux, usually in moonlight, and raid the small ranchsteaders. Years ago they had it all their own way because, give it to them, they can make their horses run swifter than flying birds, and they think nothing of coming three or four hundred miles to carry out a raid. It took time for the rangers to get their measure, but they did. When they invaded the prairies the rangers followed them back to the high plateaux where they imagined no white man could go. Anyway, most of the Indians are under control now, all except the damned Comanches, and if Houston hadn’t been so bloody soft they would have been settled, too, long before now. But’ – she stopped speaking for a moment and, taking up the lump of dough, she flung it into a great earthenware bowl, then motioned to Ma One who lifted it from the table and laid it down on the hearth before the wood fire, then she said abruptly, ‘You were asking how long Mack had been here, the answer is always.’
Tilly repeated, ‘Always?’ and Luisa had made a deep obeisance with her head as she replied, ‘That’s what I said, always. This was his place before it was ours.’
‘The ranch?’
‘Yes, the ranch; not all of it as it stands now, just this house. Father came along. He saw the situation, he liked it, he bought it. Mack’s father had died; Mack himself was riding on patrol most of the time, his mother was left here alone. They had previously come out with the idea of herding cattle, but that didn’t work out, the cattle ranged too far and it meant men and horses for the round-up. In those days, too, when you got a few horses together if the Indian raiders didn’t take them some marauding dirty whites did, so what he had he sold to Father and stayed on between times as a cowboy, because Father had money which could be turned into horses and men, and so they could go ranging for the cattle. But Father wasn’t satisfied with ordinary scraggy longhorn cattle; it was shorthorns he wanted to breed, and horses.’ She had now leant her hands on the table and stared down towards it as she repeated with a strange bitterness, ‘Hundreds, hundreds and hundreds of horses, not just common mustangs either, oh no, not for him, thoroughbred Arabs, Mexican strains. Oh—’ She had suddenly swung round from the table, ending with, ‘What does it matter, and why am I jabbering like this? You know something, Matilda, you make people talk, there’s something about you that loosens a body’s tongue like drink.’ Then abruptly changing the subject again, she said, ‘What about that house you’re going to have built? It should be started by now, at least the planning, for the haulage of the timber and stuff will take weeks in itself; even if they bring it up the river. Get at him.’ On this she had turned about and walked abruptly out of the room leaving Tilly nonplussed for a moment, until Ma One came to her side and, smiling broadly at her, said, ‘Good ’vice, own house ’n’ fire, good ’vice.’
That was yesterday, and now she was looking for Matthew to put to him the good advice. Last night he had been in no mood for discussion, he had been out with the hands all day and when he came in was both tired and hungry. A steaming hip bath had not seemed to refresh him and he had appeared preoccupied about something.
This morning he had been closeted with Uncle in the study. This was the small book-lined room behind the multi-coloured curtain. The break in the morning for coffee was always in the company of Uncle, and this morning after coffee they had gone to the enclosure where some horses were in the process of being broken in. She could never watch this, the taming of a high spirit, the final submission, that look of pain that was in the eyes of all animals once their spirit was broken left something inside her that was too akin to human humiliation to be borne; so she had excused herself, which she knew had annoyed Matthew as he was about to try his not unskilful hand at the breaking.
But now, two hours later, there were few hands about, and she didn’t like to ask where he was for it would appear, she imagined, as if she were hanging on to his coat-tails. And then she met Alvero. He was making his way towards the house, and she caught up with him at the bottom of the steps.
‘I’m looking for Matthew, Uncle.’
‘Oh!’ He turned and smiled at her. ‘Then you’d better mount your horse and go off at a gallop. You should pick him up somewhere between Boonville and Wheelock.’
She paused for a moment on the steps as she said, ‘I didn’t know he had gone out.’
‘Oh, I must tell him to inform you of his movements in future.’
Her face became tight, her shoulders stiffened. They surveyed each other in silence for some seconds before both moved across the verandah and into the room, and there, looking at him fully again, she said, ‘I cannot help but say it, Mr Portes, but I don’t like your manner.’
‘Oh, you don’t, madam? Dear! dear! dear!’ He turned from her and walked up the room towards the fire. And now taking his stand with his back to it, he folded his arms across his chest as he stared at her walking slowly towards him, and when she was again confronting him she knew a moment of fear, yet it was overridden by a wave of anger, justifiable anger such as she had never felt for a long time, and she knew that the cards, so to speak, were on the table between her and this man. Her voice was low and deep, her words clipped as she said, ‘I have no doubt in my mind, Mr Portes, that you object to my presence here; I’ve been aware of it from the moment of my arrival.’
‘Please be seated, Mrs Sopwith.’ As she had given him his full title, now he was giving her hers. As he extended his hand towards a chair she replied, ‘I prefer to stand while discussing this matter.’
‘As you wish.’
She watched him stretch his thin neck up out of the soft white muffler that he was in the habit of wearing over the high collar of his coat, and his words startled her. ‘Are you married to my nephew, Matilda?’ he said.
She took in a long slow breath and held it for a moment before she replied, ‘Yes, I am married to Matthew. How dare you suggest otherwise! And at this point I will remind you that he is not your nephew, the relationship between you is very, very slight. He is the grandson of your half-sister and the blood tie there is very thin.’
Alvero reached in his pocket for a handkerchief with which he wiped his lips and she saw that his tanned skin for the moment had lost its healthy hue and she realised that he was experiencing an anger that went far beyond her own. Of a sudden she felt in danger. Then in a voice that held a slight tremor, he said, ‘Heredity has the power to repeat itself after generations, it only needs that thread to which you refer, and I instinctively know I am repeated in Matthew. He is every inch me under the skin.’
‘Never! There is nothing of you in him. I should know, I’ve known him since he was a child.’
He put his head on one side now as he said, ‘You speak like a mother,’ and he repeated, ‘You’ve known him since he was a child? You know what I think, Mat . . . il . . . da?’ He split her name up and his voice held the last syllable as if it were a note before he added, ‘I think you are a woman of mystery; you have a past, a past that Matthew does his best to hide. I have tried to probe but without avail; all I could gather from him was that your late husband was a gentleman, a mine owner by the name of Trotter. Well, it may surprise you that as far as can be ascertained by my agent in England, and he, I understand from his letter, has gone into the matter thoroughly, there is no such coal owner under the name of Trotter in the North of England, or in any other part of it . . . What was your husband, Matilda?’
She felt slightly faint; the anger was s
eeping from her and the fear was replacing it. If this man ever discovered the truth life would be unbearable; he was a Catholic, a narrow-minded Catholic. On Sundays he held some kind of a service in his study; where he spent an hour alone with lighted candles, a standing crucifix, and a Bible. He had at one time, Matthew had told her, held a service for the Mexicans.
Aiming to keep her voice steady, she said, ‘My husband was a coal owner; he was a gentleman as were his forbears. Tro . . . Trotter was his middle name.
‘Oh! Then may I ask what his surname was?’
‘You may, but I won’t give you the satisfaction of telling you; you can enquire of Matthew when he returns. And finally, Mr Portes, I shall inform you that one of the reasons I was searching for Matthew was to take up the matter of our home, and this conversation has now made it imperative that we have our own establishment as soon as possible. And should you, Mr Portes, decide to put any spoke in this particular wheel I shall express my desire, and strongly, to leave this place, if not to return to England then to establish ourselves in another part of the state; and I, knowing my husband, know what course he will choose. If I were penniless then there would be a problem, but as it is there is nothing to stop me leaving, and I can assure you, Mr Portes, that your supposed nephew will accompany me . . . Do we understand each other?’ Again she knew a moment’s fear of danger. ‘Perfectly, Mrs Sopwith, perfectly,’ he said, his words coming from between his teeth.
How her legs carried her from the room she did not know. When she got into the bedroom she dropped on to the bed and buried her face in the pillow, and Katie, coming from the other room holding the child by the hand, paused for a moment before relinquishing the boy and running towards her. Putting her arm around her shoulder, she said, ‘What is it? What is it, Tilly?’
After a moment Tilly, raising her wet face from the pillow, gasped as she muttered, ‘He . . . he knows.’
‘No! Oh God, no!’
‘Not everything. Not everything’ – she shook her head – ‘but he’s written to England to find out if there was a mine owner called Trotter. I’ll have to get hold of Matthew before he tackles him.’
‘What’s he done it for? What’s his game?’
‘His game, Katie’ – Tilly now wiped her eyes – ‘his game is to separate Matthew and me. He wants him for himself, he’s resented me from the minute I came here.’
‘Aye, I guessed that much; but if the master’s got to pick and choose I know which direction he’ll throw his quoit.’
‘Yes, I’ve told him as much, but how far it’ll check him I don’t know.’ She now leaned forward and picked Willy up from the floor and held him in her arms, and she stroked his hair as he chatted at her. Then she said, ‘You know, Katie, that man’s bad, evil bad; there’s something about him that’s frightening. I can understand how Luisa feels. At one time, he must have done something to her that has created her hate of him. But her hate will be nothing compared with mine if he comes between Matthew and me. And he can you know, Katie, he can, even while we’re together he can come between us.’
Katie stood staring at her shaking her head; and then she said, ‘Pity the Indians don’t get him.’
This pronouncement did not bring the retort, ‘Oh, what an awful thing to say, Katie,’ for she found herself endorsing it in her own mind.
It was almost two hours later when Matthew returned. He came riding towards the ranch with Doug Scott and Pete Ford.
She was standing at the gate, and the road from it led straight for some way until it forked off into two directions, one seemingly to the horizon, the other quickly lost in a jumble of foothills and low scrub. They came out of the foothills, the three of them galloping side by side, and they were still galloping when they passed her and brought their mounts up to a skidding stop in the middle of the yard.
Matthew was first to alight and he paused for a moment, stretched his body upwards, banged the sides of his tight hide trousers with his hands, then stamped one high-leather-booted foot on the ground as if to ease cramp, passed some laughing remark with Doug Scott, then turned and walked towards her.
Tilly hadn’t moved from the gate, she wanted to be well out of earshot of anyone when she spoke to him; and she did not put her hands out to touch him as was usual after they’d been separated even for only a short while, but she held them tightly joined at her waist; and his first words told her that he sensed trouble. ‘What is it?’ he asked, and when she didn’t answer immediately he closed his eyes and screwed up his lips before saying, ‘Oh, don’t tell me you and Uncle again?’
‘He knows, Matthew.’
‘Knows what?’
‘Well, what is there to know?’
‘How can he?’
‘Because he’s crafty and cute. He . . . he has sent to England to . . . to find out if there was a coal owner named Trotter.’
He actually took a step back from her before making a small movement with his head; then he said, ‘No!’ The word rumbled in his chest. ‘You’re mistaken.’
It was she who closed her eyes now and she sighed before she said, ‘He told me he put his agent on to investigating.’
‘The devil he did!’ As he turned and looked towards the house, his dust-covered skin showed a tinge of red; then looking at her again, he said, ‘You’re not mistaken?’
‘No!’ She had shouted the word and now she put her hand tightly over her mouth and looked out away into the endless land beyond, and in this moment she longed to be gone from this place, back home, oh yes, in spite of everything, back home. And the intensity of her feeling almost made her give voice to the desire, but it was checked as he said, ‘I’ll put a stop to this.’ He took her arm. ‘Come on.’ Yet he did not lead her towards the front of the house but round the side, saying as he went, ‘I want to clean up before I see him, he’s always so spruce he puts one at a disadvantage.’
It was the first time she had heard him say anything that could be taken as a condemnation, however slight, of the man.
On their way round to the back door she said, ‘I’ll get Diego to fill the bath.’
‘No, that’ll take too long,’ he said; ‘I’ll go into the wash-house.’
‘But the water’s cold there.’
‘Well’ – he looked at her with a forced smile – ‘it may clear my head and sharpen my wits, I feel they’re going to need it. And send me some clean clothes over.’ Stopping for a moment, he took her hand and pressed it tightly, saying, ‘Don’t worry. This will be the last time he’ll interfere in our lives, I’ll see to that. And I think you may be right about a place of our own.’
She returned the grip on her fingers, and he left her and went towards the wooden hut that had on its roof a tank with pipes leading from it that ran over the ground for almost half a mile until they reached the river. The tank was filled by a hand pump, an ingenious contraption, and a lever inside the hut released the water through a perforated tin plate and so formed a shower.
It took him no more than fifteen minutes to get undressed, have his wash, and get into his clean clothes; after which he did not immediately leave the wash-house but stood for a good five minutes more weighing up how he would approach the old man and tell him what he thought of his intrusion into Tilly’s private life.
But as often happens things didn’t work out as planned and it was Alvero Portes who took the initiative. He was sitting before the fire, a book on his lap, a glass of wine standing on a small table to his side, and he did not raise his head when the door opened and Matthew entered the room. He did not even raise it to look at him when Matthew took up a stand opposite him at the side of the fireplace, but he spoke to him, saying, ‘I know exactly what you’re going to say, Matthew: it was none of my business, why did I do it. To say the least, it was a most ungentlemanly action. You have heard your wife’s side of the conversation we held and no doubt you are furious. Now you’re going to hear mine. Sit down.’
‘I prefer to stand, Uncle.’
Alvero
now raised his head and smiled, saying, ‘That’s the attitude your wife took. Well, just as you please. To begin with. As you know, I have interests in London, shipping interests, and I have corresponded with my agent there for many years. We have never met but we have formed a sort of . . . what you would call distant friendship, we end our letters by asking after each other’s family. He even hopes we’re having no trouble with the Indians. He has a great respect for Mr Houston. Of course, his is only one man’s opinion, but I am not so foolish as to tell him that his respect in my opinion is misplaced. Anyway, our correspondence does not deal solely with business and so it was most natural for me to say that my nephew had returned bringing with him a wife, a lady who had been widowed, that she was a very beautiful lady.’ He inclined his head now to the side and his eyes slanted upwards towards Matthew. ‘And I went on to say that she came from good stock, that her late husband was of the landed gentry and a mine owner into the bargain.’ He paused here, before adding, ‘As yet, can you find anything wrong in that, Matthew?’
Matthew said nothing, he merely waited, no muscle on his face moving, his eyes intent on the old man.
Alvero now went on, ‘Well, it should happen in the last mail I received a letter from Mr Willis stating briefly that he was glad to know that you were happily married, but to his knowledge there was no gentleman by the name of Trotter who owned a mine.’
‘Why should he go to the trouble to find out?’ The question was slow and the tone of it cold.
‘There is an explanation for that too, Matthew. He is not only my agent but he is an agent for a number of mine owners in the north of the country who have their coal transported by sea to London . . . Now does my explanation coincide with your wife’s version?’
‘No, because as you have told it to me it hasn’t upset me, and I am sure it wouldn’t have upset her stated in this way.’
Tilly Trotter Wed (The Tilly Trotter Trilogy) Page 24
