Haworth’s winter had been terrible, upwards of four hundred folk dead of the smallpox on top of the usual winter maladies, and there wasn’t a family in the Worth Valley who hadn’t lost someone. A couple of families, the Hardys and the Slaters, had been wiped out; there was simply no one left to continue the name.
Those that were left were in a right state: one minute grieving, then euphoric for those left alive, then remembering once more. Harry was determined that today, at least, the Sutcliffes and the Earnshaws would be celebrating. And he could afford to with all the work he had on.
He was looking at taking on another apprentice too. Martha’s nephew, Charlie, couldn’t keep up, and Harry’s own nephew, Georgie, was coming up to an age where he could be of use.
I could do with an apprentice in house, she mused. Or an housekeeper. She smiled up at her husband; she was still working on that one, but was confident she’d get a kitchen maid at least. Especially once the new babby was here.
She put a hand to her belly and winced.
‘Aw reet, love?’
‘Aye, I’m fine. Just a twinge, probably just the cold air.’
‘Aye, well. Happen thee’s got too much on today.’
Martha said naught.
‘That’s why our Mary’ll be joining us a bit later.’
Mary was his elder sister’s girl. Nice enough, but a bit lazy, Martha judged.
‘What does thee mean?’
‘She’ll be giving thee an hand. And living in an’all; she can have the small room next to the kitchen.’
‘Thee means—’
‘Aye. Merry Christmas, love. We have an housekeeper.’
‘Oh Harry!’ Martha swung into his arms, nearly knocking them both off her feet in her joy. She’d soon cure Mary of her sloth.
***
Martha looked around her dining table and could have cried. This was the first time both families had come together since her wedding three and a half years before.
Despite the latest additions, Edna amongst them, they were less than half in number. She and Harry had grieved each and every death, but the sum total of their losses hit her.
She looked across at Harry and knew he felt the same, as did everyone around the table; those of an age to understand, anyway.
Both her and Harry’s parents had gone now, as had near half a dozen of their own generation, plus twice more little ones. All in three years.
It felt too much to bear at times, and now she did not feel like celebrating this Christmas after all.
Harry brought out the crowning glory of their feast, a huge joint of roasted beef, to a round of diminished yet still heartfelt applause. He picked up the carving set, then put them down again. He looked around the table, tears in his eyes, and Martha knew without doubt that he felt the same way as she.
‘It’s aw reet, love,’ she said, placing a hand on his forearm in a rare public gesture of affection. ‘We all know, we all understand, and we all miss them.’
‘Hear, hear,’ Thomas, Harry’s sole remaining brother, said, raising his glass. ‘Truer words may not be spoken.’
Harry lifted his own glass. ‘To them no longer with us, may thy spirits soar, and thy memory live long.’
The Sutcliffe-Earnshaw clan drank as one, and a rare silence descended over them, deep enough to include even the youngest members; then, as one, conversation broke out: compliments about the house and feast; enquiries over the various trades represented around the table; and news of a more homely nature.
Harry reclaimed his carving knife and meat fork, then dropped them once more as Martha screamed in agony.
***
‘Reet then, lass, that’s the last of ’em gone home. Gave ’em all a reet scare thee did.’
‘I scared mesen, love. Thought me insides were ripping apart.’
‘So where’s pain?’
‘Round me hips and in front.’
‘But babby’s not coming?’
‘Nay, not yet. Pain’s been coming on awhile, but nowt as bad as that afore.’
‘Thee should have said, love. Thee’s been overdoing it. Thee should have been resting.’
‘Too much to do to rest.’
‘How’s thee really feeling though?’ Harry did not want to start arguing, not now.
‘I’ve been better, Harry, and that’s the truth, but pain’s lessening now.’
‘Lizzie says it happens sometimes if babby’s lying wrong.’
‘Hmm. Lizzie’s no midwife,’ Martha pointed out.
‘Nay, but she’s had bairns of her own.’
‘So have I.’ Martha glanced at the ceiling where, in the room above, Edna had finally been put down to sleep after watching her mother’s collapse and the near hysteria of her relatives.
‘I’ll be reet,’ she said, her voice softer. ‘Don’t take on so, Harry.’
He perched on the side of her armchair and chucked her under her chin. ‘Don’t ask the impossible, love. I’ll allus fret over thee.’
Martha leant her head against his strong shoulder. ‘Lizzie does have a point though,’ she allowed. ‘Plenty of women have pains like this in run up to a birth. I’ll just have to take it easy, tha’s all.’
‘Well, thee can now that Mary’s here. She’s moving in tomorrow.’
‘What? On Boxing Day? She’ll have to sort all Christmas boxes out. Thee’ll have to make sure she gives reet ones to butcher and baker, we can’t have them getting mixed up.’
‘Aye, we’ll sort it, Martha. Thee needs looking after, lass, and she’s family, she’s happy to do it.’
There was silence for a moment, then Harry rose, crossed to the sideboard and awkwardly poured himself a brandy. After only three weeks in this house, it still did not feel like his, and nor did the style of life that went with his new position.
‘One for thee an’all, Martha?’
‘Aye, it’ll dull pain a bit,’ she said and held out her hand for the half-full glass.
5.
Harry dropped his chisel with a curse as another scream from Martha speared through the cottage wall and into his workshop. She’d been at this for hours already and the shrieks had only increased in their intensity.
He listened but heard no more, so picked up his chisel and examined the stone. It pained him that there was naught he could do for his wife at present, but that was the truth of it and he had to accept it as did every other father-to-be.
Uttering another oath, he ran his hand over the F in WIFE. Or what was supposed to read WIFE. It looked more like a P now. He offered the late Florence Butterworth a heartfelt apology, knowing it would be the living he would have to answer to for the grave error. Her son, Robert.
Poor woman; it was bad enough her name did not appear on her own memorial stone, now it read: RICHARD BUTTERWORTH AND HIS WIP with only the husband’s dates below.
He would do what he could to correct it, and he chiselled away the offending stone to inscribe the correct F, deeper than the other letters, but at least her station in life would be spelled correctly. He pondered whether Robert Butterworth’s wife, Martha’s friend Sarah, would suffer the same fate.
Martha would not, he knew that, and once more he stared at the wall in the direction of their bedchamber as the volume of her screams rose again. If, God forbid, she did not survive this birth, he would ensure she’d be named properly, her name on their family memorial clear for all to see.
More likely, ’twill read MARTHA SUTCLIFFE RELICT OF HENRY SUTCLIFFE, Harry thought with a stray smile. Despite her current distress, she was strong, much stronger than he, and apt to outlive him. Would she be proud of me enough to be known as my relict, my widow? Or would even that be an indignity too far for her?
More screams prevented him from answering his own question, and he threw down his chisel before he could make any more errors upon the Butterworths’ gravestone.
‘Harry.’
He looked up to see Emily at the door.
‘It don’t sound as if t
he child comes easy.’
‘Nay, Emily, ’tis a hard birthing for sure. No surprise considering how hard she’s been carrying this bairn these past months.’
‘If anyone can do it, Martha Earnshaw can.’
‘Sutcliffe.’
‘Aye, of course. I meant nothing by it.’ Emily stepped aside and returned the harsh glare of the new arrival.
‘Sarah, what news?’ Harry asked.
Sarah glanced at the gravestone Harry was carving for her in-laws, then stared back at Emily, though she elicited no further reaction.
‘I think thee should come, Harry.’
‘What?’ Harry blanched and another scream answered him. His wife had not passed.
‘Just to be close by, offer her comfort,’ Sarah qualified. ‘Old Peg is with her now, but this is an hard one. Martha needs to know you’re near. Though be warned, she’ll not show thee much appreciation till the birthing is complete.’
And mayhap not even then, Harry thought as he nodded his understanding and followed Sarah to the cottage. He did not pause as Emily placed a brief hand on his arm as he passed; nonetheless, he felt and appreciated the comfort she offered him.
***
Sarah slipped through the bedchamber door, careful to open it no wider than necessary; she did not want to give Harry any larger a view than necessary from his vantage point in the corridor.
‘He’s just outside the door, Martha.’
‘Oh, sitting comfortably is he?’ Martha yelled between grunts, each one crescendoing to a hoarse scream. Sarah forbore to point out the heavy tread of Harry’s hobnailed books as he paced the boards outside.
‘Well he might! He’ll never get near me again. If he tries, I’ll make sure I pass on every ounce of this agony.’ The last word was barely recognisable from a shriek, but everyone within hearing understood. Including Harry. His pacing stopped and both Sarah and Peg heard the crunch of his chair back against the wall as he dropped into the seat. Martha was oblivious.
‘Can thee not widen thy legs any further, lass?’ Peg had been encouraging her to do this since she’d arrived an hour ago, but to no avail.
‘I’ve already told thee, no I ruddy well can’t!’ Martha screamed. ‘There’s summat wrong, has been for months, thee knows that.’
‘Her legs and hips just ain’t working right,’ Sarah interrupted before Martha could resume her earlier name calling. Peg had nearly left five minutes after her arrival due to the filth that had spewed from Martha’s lips. ‘Is there another way?’
Peg stared at the stricken woman on the bed for a moment, then accepted these were not the usual insults of a woman in the throes of childbirth. ‘Aye, mebbe so. Help me roll her on to her side, Sarah, then we’ll get her on to her knees, see if that’ll help.’
‘It’d better, thee awd carlin, else I’ll have thee hanged for witchcraft.’
‘Martha!’ Sarah was horrified. That was not something to be joked about. A couple of hundred years before, near a dozen people, most of them women from just over the hill at Pendle, had been hanged for the same, possibly another in her own house on West Lane.
‘What’s thee dawdling at, lass?’ Peg broke into Sarah’s thoughts. ‘ ’Tis an idle threat, she knows I’d have her turned into a toad afore she could even blink at constable.’
Sarah laughed, even Martha made a strangled, gurgling sound that passed for a moment of mirth, then screamed anew as her two attendants manhandled Martha into a crouch.
The next pain elicited such a shriek, even Peg blanched, and Harry banged on the door, demanding to know what torture they were inflicting upon his wife. He obeyed Peg’s sharp instruction to remain where he was.
Peg, who still had the strength of a farmer’s wife despite being near seventy, grabbed hold of Martha’s midsection, pulled, and dropped the mother’s knees to the floor. Martha’s head and shoulders collapsed on the bed in a temporary relief. Sarah leapt on to the soiled coverlet and grabbed her friend’s hands, desperate to offer support; to do anything to help.
‘Push reet hard now, lass,’ Peg instructed, one hand buried in Martha’s nether regions. ‘I can feel the head. Thee’s nearly there.’
***
Harry winced at the curses emanating from his bedchamber, and uttered a quick prayer that the parson would not hear his wife’s profanities, then hung his head in shame at his disloyalty.
He sprang to his feet and recommenced his pacing of the corridor. ’Twas not lengthy enough to ease his fears, and his hobnailed boots did the floorboards no good at all. Martha’ll have my guts for garters, he thought when he spotted the scuffmarks occasioned by his turns at the window and stairtop. I hope.
He winced at another scream, even put his hands to his ears in an attempt to block out the sounds, then slumped back down on to his chair, head in hands. How can anyone survive this? Mother or child?
After a few moments of silence, he raised his head. Why is she not screaming? Then a new cry, a babe’s. But relief did not come, Martha was too quiet.
Sarah emerged from the room, her eyes downcast.
‘Look at me, woman! What is the news?’
She crouched beside his chair. ‘Thee has a son, Harry Sutcliffe. A fine boy.’
‘And Martha?’
‘She’ll recover.’
Harry eased his back with a sigh of relief. ‘She lives?’
Sarah nodded. ‘Aye, she does, but she’s weak. She’ll be abed for some time.’
‘But she lives, she’ll recover?’
Sarah said naught.
‘Sarah Butterworth, tell me!’
‘Walking will allus be difficult, and she’ll bear thee no more children.’
‘But she lives?’
‘Aye, Harry, she does.’
‘Can I see her? And the boy?’
Sarah glanced at the closed door. ‘Not yet, it’s been an ordeal, let her rest. I’ll bring the bairn out when he’s fed. Oh, and best Edna stays with Lizzie a while longer, till Martha regains some strength.’
6.
Martha stared down the flight of stairs and gritted her teeth. A woman’s laugh echoed up the dark stairwell and Martha turned sideways on to the steps, thumped her gnarled hawthorn walking stick on to the top tread and grasped the bannister with her free hand. Grunting, she forced her right foot down a step, then her left joined it.
A deep breath, then she jammed her stick on to the next step and she repeated the process.
She was greeted at the bottom by Emily Brontë. ‘Good morn to you, Martha. I was just about to come up and help you.’
‘Aye, so I heard,’ Martha muttered as she brushed past the parson’s daughter and thunked her way to the kitchen. She sank into her prized rattan chair by the fire with a sigh and eyed with distaste the basket on the table.
‘Where’s that been? I’d better not have to scrub the tabletop when she’s gone.’
‘Good morn, Martha,’ Harry said, refusing to let his wife’s sour temper spoil the day so soon. He was becoming well-practiced at this particular trick. ‘How did thee sleep?’
‘Like I were lying on a bed of thorns.’
‘Better than nest of wasps the night afore.’ Harry tried a smile to no avail.
‘Hmph,’ was Martha’s only response.
‘I’ve brought you fresh-baked baps.’ Emily bustled into the kitchen and removed the cloth from atop her basket. ‘And some new honey from the sexton’s hives.’ She placed the goods on the tabletop.
‘Thank thee, Miss Emily, that’s much appreciated. The sexton’s honey is best in village, ain’t it, Martha?’
‘Hmph.’
‘My pleasure. But I must hurry, I’d like to get the rest of these to Weaver’s Row while they’re still warm.’
‘Pass my regards to Lizzie and rest of ’em, will thee?’ Harry said.
‘They appreciate thy charity do they? Hardworking men and women the lot of ’em, earning their way, then you turn up to dole out the scraps from thy kitchen.’
&n
bsp; ‘Martha!’
Emily held up a hand to forestall Harry’s protest. ‘You may call it charity, Martha Sutcliffe, but no one turns down Tabby’s baking nor John Brown’s honey.’
‘Aye well, Tabitha Aykroyd must be into her seventies now, barely able to walk she is, and you and your family still have her keeping house as if she were a young lass.’
‘Now look here, Martha Sutcliffe.’ Emily planted both hands on the tabletop and leaned forward to glare at Martha. ‘Tabby is as much a part of the family as I, Charlotte, Anne or Branwell. And you’ve never heard her complain, have you?’
Martha looked away and stared into the fire.
‘Papa is the parson of this village, and we all know however hard everyone works, there isn’t enough food for all the hungry mouths. So Tabby and I turn what we can from the collection plate into flour, and we bake; all ruddy week we bake, so everyone in this godforsaken rookery of a village can eat!’
‘Just making an observation. No need to get het up.’ Martha glared at Emily. ‘Bet the wives of this “godforsaken rookery of a village” love you calling on their husbands. Choosing which one to take for thyself is thee? Or has thee already chosen?’ She looked at Harry, her accusation clear.
‘You bitter old witch!’
‘Now, now, that’s no way for a parson’s daughter to speak.’
Emily’s colour rose further, her cheeks flaming red with her ire.
‘That’s enough, Martha!’ Harry thundered. ‘Emily has been nowt but friend to us. It ain’t her fault thee’s in pain.’ He bent to pick up their son, Thomas, now a year old. ‘Ain’t his fault neither, and he needs his ma. Thee barely even looks at him.’
‘Hmph.’
Harry sighed, walked over to his wife and placed their son in her lap. He glanced at Emily, whose temper, he saw, was not yet under her control. If it ever were, he thought ruefully. ‘Come on, lass, there’s no talking sense to her these days. Thank thee for bread and honey, and my regards to thy father. I’ll see thee out.’
Emily re-covered her basket with the cloth, gave Martha a parting glare, which was returned in full, then turned and made her way to the front door, Harry close behind.
Ghosts of Yorkshire Page 63
