by Val Wood
‘The packman has been with his dusters, pins, needles and thread and local gossip; two harvests and one winter have been and gone,’ she wrote, ‘and now another winter is upon us. The logs are stacked for the fire and the cow is in the barn with the hens. The milk yield is not so great and there are just enough eggs for the three of us. This summer I had to go down to the villages to sell some for we had such a glut, and Mr Laslett went to Driffield market to sell the rabbits, so we have a little money put by.
‘Mr Laslett came in one day in a very irritable mood. A surveyor had called on him to discuss the railway line to Market Weighton, which if it goes ahead would run across his land. Mr Laslett said he had told the man to go away for he wouldn’t allow it, even if there should be compensation as he had said.
‘Christina is walking and chattering and I have all on to watch for her. She tries to follow Stephen when he goes out and puts up her little arms for him to pick her up. It worries me rather that she dotes on him so, and he on her. Perhaps the parson was right. It is an unusual situation.’
Jenny had bathed Christina and tucked her up in bed. She slept with her now as she had outgrown her cot. Stephen kept promising that he would make her a little bed of her own, but he never had the time; there was always something else more pressing. She put some eggs on to boil and sliced ham for their supper, then brought a cake out of the cake tin. She turned down the lamp to save the oil, put another log on the fire and swung the kettle over it. Then she sat down and waited for Stephen to come in from checking the animals and making sure all was locked up securely. There had been a fox about; a week ago one had come into the barn and killed some of the hens before Stephen could shoot him.
She’d closed her eyes for a moment and must have dropped off to sleep, for she woke with a start when she heard Stephen moving the steaming kettle.
‘You’re tired!’ he said. ‘You’re overdoing it.’
‘No, I’m all right,’ she said, stretching. ‘It’s just ’end of ’day, isn’t it? You must be tired too.’
‘I’m not chasing after a child all day.’ He looked down at her. ‘Nor feeding her. You should finish weaning her, Jenny. She’s too big to be at the breast.’
There had never been any embarrassment over her feeding the child in front of him, though she always tried to be discreet. But Christina often pulled at her breasts when she wanted comfort or was tired, and Jenny found it hard not to give in to her. But she blushed now as he admonished her.
‘Give her a bottle, if she needs it,’ he said bluntly. ‘You’re wearing yourself out.’
And so she did. When Christina demanded her, she gave her a bottle, or else distracted her in some way; then Stephen brought in a puppy and within a week she had forgotten about her mother and the bottle and turned her attention to the wriggling pup that escaped her entreating arms.
‘I want to talk to you, Jenny,’ Stephen said one night. He’d been edgy for a few days and Jenny had wisely let him alone, knowing that sometimes he became morose. She had seen him walking up the hillside towards Agnes’s grave, and in the evenings when they sat opposite each other, she with her sewing and he perhaps mending a lock or adding up accounts, he had gazed into the fire, but occasionally she had caught him surreptitiously watching her.
‘Is something wrong, Mr Laslett?’ The name slipped out. ‘Stephen, I mean,’ she said lamely. ‘Something’s bothering you. Have I done something I shouldn’t?’
‘No,’ he assured her. ‘You haven’t. It’s me. I wondered – well, I think perhaps I haven’t been fair to you. Here you are, a young woman, cooped up in an isolated cottage with a grumpy old fellow.’
‘You’re not grumpy,’ she said. ‘Neither are you old.’ She thought of what Billy Brown had said, that he wasn’t as old as his da. ‘I’m nearly twenty-one, not a young girl any longer. How old are you, Stephen?’
‘Thirty-four, thirty-five next birthday.’ He ran his fingers through his shaggy hair. ‘A few grey hairs to prove it.’ He sighed and looked away from her. ‘I never told you this, Jenny, but Agnes asked me something before she died.’
‘Oh!’ She felt it must be serious, but why had he waited so long? ‘She asked you to let me stay because of Christina, didn’t she?’ she said fearfully. ‘I won’t hold you to it if you want me to leave.’ But where will I go? Her spirits plummeted. I won’t give up my child. Not ever. Not after the anguish I have suffered.
‘Nonsense! There’s no question of that.’ He seemed tense and his voice was sharp. ‘None at all. If you’re happy with the situation here, then so am I.’
‘Oh, I am,’ she said earnestly. ‘I don’t want to go anywhere else. I don’t know where I would go,’ she said. ‘There’s no-one else who would want me.’
‘Then that’s all right,’ he said, and seemed relieved, though she felt there was something else he wanted to discuss. But what was it that Agnes had asked him? Jenny remembered that her aunt had told her that she had asked her husband to promise something, and that he hadn’t yet agreed. Whatever it was, however, would have to wait, for Stephen got up abruptly and announced he was going to bed.
Jenny thought that Stephen was trying to avoid her over the next few days. He rose earlier than usual and helped himself to his own breakfast, though he came in for his midday meal, which they ate together, usually in silence. The weather became colder as November turned to December, and when Christina had her afternoon sleep Jenny went out to help him with feeding the horses and bedding them down with clean straw; then they fed the pig, and checked the sheep which had been brought down into the shelter of the bottom meadow.
They ate their supper and she bathed Christina and prepared to take her to bed.
‘Come and give me a kiss, angel,’ Stephen said, putting his arms out to the child, and she leant towards him in his chair to receive his kiss. His arms brushed against Jenny as he hugged Christina and she pulled back awkwardly from his closeness.
‘Say night-night to … I don’t know what name she should call you,’ she said to cover her confusion. ‘I suppose she’ll find something of her own eventually!’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’ He rubbed his hand across his chin. ‘She could just call me Stephen as you do when you remember!’
She hitched Christina up into her arms; she was getting almost too heavy to carry. ‘I try not to forget that I work for you, that’s why,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to become too familiar. You’re my employer, after all.’
‘Even though I don’t pay you?’ he said gruffly.
‘You do pay me,’ she insisted. ‘I have bed and board, and I have ’egg money when there is some. I’m far better off than if I was in service. And I have Christina with me,’ she added.
He nodded. ‘That means a lot to you, doesn’t it? Having the child?’ He stood up and took Christina from her. ‘I’ll carry her up,’ he said. ‘And then I want to discuss something with you.’
Jenny climbed the narrow stairs carrying a flickering candle. Stephen followed and Christina patted his cheek at this unaccustomed pleasure. He handed her back to Jenny to put into the narrow bed in her room, and went into his own bedroom, the one he had shared with Agnes. He went across to the window and stood looking out.
‘Jenny!’ he called, as she came out of her room across the landing. ‘Will you come here a minute?’
‘What is it?’ She hesitated at the door. She only went into his room to sweep and dust or change the bed linen, or occasionally if she needed linen from the big drawer where it smelled of the lavender which Agnes had always laid amongst the sheets, and Jenny now did also.
He half turned from the window towards her. His face was in shadow, though outside a full moon shone. ‘I just want to show you something.’
Slowly she went towards him. What was it that he wanted her to see? She felt strange being alone with him in his darkened room, which is ridiculous, she thought, for aren’t we always alone and have been ever since Agnes died.
‘Look,’ he said, p
ointing up the hillside. There was a sharp frost tingeing the grass with silver and as she followed the direction in which he was pointing, she saw the white stone brilliantly illuminated in the moonlight.
‘Agnes,’ she breathed. ‘She’s watching over us, just like the gypsy woman said.’
‘What?’ He looked down at her and she saw the glint of moonlight reflected in his eyes. ‘Who?’
‘During haymaking,’ she explained. ‘One of ’gypsy women came to the house. She asked about Agnes and when I said she had died, she said she had seen it in her palm. She also said that Agnes was watching over us.’ She gave a small smile. ‘I didn’t tell her that she was buried up there on ’hillside.’
He gave a dismissive grunt. ‘She would have known. The gypsies used to make their camp up there. Now they don’t. I expect it’s because they’ve seen the grave.’
‘Perhaps,’ she said, though she was inclined to believe in the gypsy’s words.
‘Do you believe that she’s watching?’ he asked quietly.
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I’m not sure what I believe – except –’ She paused.
‘What?’
‘Well, sometimes it’s as if she’s showing me what to do, like when I brought ’piglets in that time, or when I don’t know if ’oven is right for baking. It’s as if she’s telling me.’
He turned back to the window. ‘I do know what you mean,’ he murmured. ‘I sometimes get that feeling too. Though I don’t believe in all that,’ he added brusquely.
‘Oh! So if you don’t believe it, why …?’
‘It’s my conscience that’s telling me,’ he said firmly. ‘Agnes asked me to do something and although I didn’t promise that I would, I know it’s what she wanted. I’ve let her down and that’s why I feel that she’s watching. It’s as if her spirit won’t rest until I’ve done what she asked. Which is the most ridiculous notion,’ he said testily. ‘And quite out of the question!’
‘Was it something very difficult?’ Jenny asked. ‘Couldn’t you find your way to doing it? It might make you feel more settled. Oh!’ she said as a thought occurred to her. ‘Did she want you to make it up with your father?’
He gave a sudden start and glanced at her. ‘In a way, yes. That might come into it.’ He put his hand on her shoulder. ‘The trouble is, Jenny, I still love her so much that what she asked of me seems quite improper.’
She hardly dared to ask what it was, if it was something so terrible. ‘Sometimes …’ She hesitated and gave a shiver. ‘It’s as if we have to do something against our nature in order to make something right,’ she said. ‘And Agnes would surely never ask you to do something wrong. She was a good person.’
‘She was, wasn’t she?’ he answered softly. ‘But perhaps it isn’t so much wrong – as not being right.’
She saw the Adam’s apple move in his throat as he swallowed, and she thought how strange that he seemed so vulnerable, whereas usually he was strong and positive. ‘So, what was it?’ she whispered. ‘Do you want to tell me? Would you feel better for having confided in someone?’
‘It concerns you, Jenny, so if I tell you, I must ask you to promise not to be angry or afraid. Though I would understand if you were both, and I will apologize now before I even say it.’ He took a breath to compose himself and she saw from his anxious expression that whatever he was going to say wasn’t going to be easy for him, or even for either of them.
‘When Agnes saw Christina that first time, she was overjoyed,’ he said quietly. ‘She felt she had had a renewal of life.’
Jenny nodded. Her aunt had said the same thing to her. ‘Yes. She gave her great delight,’ she murmured.
‘Well, she asked me – if I would ask you –’ he paused, ‘and I will understand if you put on your bonnet and walk out when you hear what I have to say.’
‘I won’t do that,’ she said. ‘Not tonight anyway. It’s starting to snow.’
He turned to glance out of the window. A flurry of snowflakes were falling and dissolving on the glass.
‘She said, would I ask you to bear me a child.’
Jenny stared at him, the silence of the night throbbing in her ears. Whatever was he thinking of? He had just said that he still loved Agnes.
He took hold of her hand and gazed down at it, unable to meet her eyes. ‘So, will you, Jenny?’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
‘I can’t believe what you’re saying,’ Jenny breathed. ‘How could you ask such a thing? It wouldn’t be right! We don’t love each other.’
‘I said, didn’t I, that it wasn’t so much wrong as not right? But Jenny.’ A flicker of a smile touched his lips. ‘People do – erm – make babies, though perhaps unintentionally, and do not necessarily love each other. They are – erm – attracted to each other, or perhaps swayed by passion!’
‘But – we’re not!’ She pulled her hand away from him and clutched her throat. ‘I mean – I work for you, and Agnes was my aunt and you are – were – her husband. And – and why would she want us to?’ she stammered out in a flurry. ‘What reason would there be?’ She looked wildly around the bedroom. ‘I want to go downstairs!’ she said. ‘It doesn’t seem right talking in such a way in here.’ She glanced out of the window and saw the stone stark white on the hillside.
‘I’m sorry, Jenny,’ he apologized. ‘I’m really so very sorry! But I had to ask you here in this room where Agnes had been. Will you discuss it downstairs?’
She agreed, though reluctantly. I’ll have to leave, she thought. How can I stay now? How could he suggest it? He said he loved Agnes. It’s a strange kind of love! And yet he is doing it for her. She was the one who asked it of him.
Stephen went to the cupboard where he kept his spirits and brought out half a bottle of brandy. He poured himself a glass and a small one for Jenny. ‘I know you don’t usually drink, Jenny, but this might calm you. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you, but I had to say it. I’ve been mulling this over for weeks. My conscience – as I said before,’ he said ruefully. ‘But now that it’s said, we can forget about it. Agnes wouldn’t want you to do anything you were unhappy about. And it does seem most bizarre.’
Jenny took a tentative sip of the brandy and shuddered at its raw potency. ‘I don’t understand,’ she murmured, avoiding his eyes. ‘I know that Agnes wanted children of her own, but to ask you to – to go with another woman!’
‘It shows the strength of her love, doesn’t it?’ His voice was wistful as he sat across from her. ‘But she wouldn’t have considered it with any other woman. She had grown increasingly fond of you, Jenny.’
‘Like a daughter?’ She raised her eyes to him. ‘That makes it worse!’
‘No. More like a sister,’ he asserted. ‘Like a sister who might have supported her in the past. You would have done that, wouldn’t you?’
‘I don’t know,’ she declared. ‘I’m not so close to my own sisters; but yes.’ She considered. ‘Probably. I was very fond of Agnes. I felt I knew her better than my own family – even more than my mother. But I still don’t understand why she would ask such a thing of me. Unless … It’s because I’m young and fertile, isn’t it? She thought I could give you what she couldn’t!’
He nodded. ‘Agnes knew that I wanted a son. It was what we both wanted, even though it wasn’t a source of conflict between us. She was also aware of how bitter I became when my father wouldn’t accept her as my wife, even after her brute of a husband died and we married legally. We had lived together – in sin, as my father called it – when she had been a married woman.’
He gulped his brandy straight down and stared into the fire. ‘She always thought that if she’d had a son, my father would have forgiven us and accepted the child. I never told her that he wouldn’t. He wrote to tell me that, after I informed him of our marriage.’
‘He sounds like a very hard man,’ Jenny said. ‘And not deserving of grandchildren!’
Stephen gave a little smile and shook his head. ‘He wasn’t
hard when I was young. He didn’t entertain his children, of course, his generation didn’t, and we had to obey his rules. But he took an interest, especially in me as his only boy: he taught me to shoot and hunt, to track and fish.’ He sighed. ‘So many things that I would have liked to teach my sons. Father spoiled the girls too when they were young, but he was quite out of his depth as they grew older, as you must have observed with Bella.’
‘But you surely don’t think he’d accept a child from someone who’s your housekeeper and had once been a kitchen maid?’
He leant back in the chair and folded his arms. He gazed at her for a moment, and then said, ‘It does sound improbable, but if we were married and hadn’t had a romantic liaison, yes I think he might. He needs an heir.’
She put her hand to her mouth. ‘Married!’ She breathed the word. ‘You’d want us to marry?’
‘You contemplated marrying Christopher Ingram, didn’t you?’ His tone and question was direct. ‘But yes, of course! Otherwise any children we might have would be bastards and he wouldn’t accept them. Sorry,’ he added quickly. ‘I wasn’t thinking. It was not intended as a slur on Christina. She’s an adorable child. I think the world of her, as you know, and, if we had married, which I now realize is out of the question, then I would have adopted her.’
She was even more flabbergasted than before. The thought of having Stephen Laslett’s child had shocked and unnerved her. The idea of becoming his wife astounded her. But it was true; she and Christy had planned to marry. Whether they would have been allowed to would never be known.
‘Your sister has seen Christina,’ she reasoned. ‘She’ll surely tell your father that I have an illegitimate child?’ She couldn’t bring herself to call her daughter a bastard as he had done. Yet a responsive stirring was beginning to take effect. He said he would adopt Christina!
