Tilly Trotter Widowed (The Tilly Trotter Trilogy)

by Cookson, Catherine

  Mrs Sillitt’s chatter had in a way floated over Tilly’s head, that was until three evenings ago when she brought up the subject of ‘the blacks’. She had brought Tilly sharply out of her reserve by saying in her naturally loud overbearing voice, ‘Do you think it’s wise, Mrs Sopwith, to take a black child into the country? Although slavery has been abolished in England since the beginning of the century, there’s still a suspicion in some quarters that black children are being used in the old way.’

  Her remark had stilled the conversation at the table and also caught the attention of the diners at the other six tables in the room.

  Tilly had stared hard at the woman, then said stiffly, ‘I am returning home with my adopted daughter, madam,’ but before she could continue Mrs Sillitt, smiling tightly, said, ‘Yes, yes, I know, my dear, we know of your situation, but I’m only offering the suggestion that it may not be wise seeing that she will be brought up in close proximity to your son. Black and white don’t go together. Never will. I merely put it as a suggestion . . . ’

  ‘Then I would rather that you kept your suggestions to yourself.’

  This rebuff did not penetrate the hide of Mrs Sillitt, and she was about to make another retort when her husband, seeming to drag himself out of obscurity and making his entry as explosive as a gunshot, glared at his wife as he hissed, ‘Mind your own business, woman! Just for once, mind your own business and get on with your meal.’

  As the first officer said later, if everybody had burst into cheering he wouldn’t have been at all surprised, but oh, he wished he could have put his ear to the keyhole when the couple were alone in their cabin. Yet, he pointed out to Tilly, did she notice that the bold lady actually did as her husband bid her, although, mind you, she had looked as if she was going to burst asunder at any moment.

  Since that meal a few nights ago the problem of Josefina had taken on a more definite shape in her mind, and the shape encompassed the years ahead and what might come out of the close proximity between the children. Mrs Sillitt had opened up another avenue of concern.

  Yet as she sat on the side of the bunk and looked down on the sleeping face of Josefina she asked herself what else she could have done, and the answer came, she could have done what Matthew told her she must do, return home alone with Willy and leave his flyblow behind.

  And it was strange to think now that that penultimate request of his had been unthinkable, whereas his dying request, the request that had made her swear that she would never marry again, had been easy to comply with.

  She put her hand out and stroked the black shining plait lying over the small shoulder; then she rose to her feet and looked into the other bunk that was now on eye level with her. Her son was sleeping soundly, one fist doubled up under his chin. He was beautiful to look upon, so beautiful that the sight of him always brought an ache to her heart. Although when he was born he’d resembled his father there was now no trace of that resemblance in his features. He had her eyes. Oh, his eyes. The ache turned into a sharp stab that seemed to pierce her ribs. Perhaps in a very short while he’d be unable to see what she looked like; one eye was already sightless, the other gave him but dim vision, and yet no-one looking into them would guess that they were not capable of normal sight. For a moment the incident that had injured his eyes rose before her. She saw herself in the market place, the child in her arms, and there was Mrs McGrath drunk and brawling, and when the sodden woman wielded the stick at her, she had ducked her head to avoid it, only for her son to take the blow. A baby of but six months he had been then.

  Oh, those McGraths. They had been the curse of her life. All except Steve, the youngest of them and now the under-manager of the Sopwith mine. He had been her friend from childhood days. He had suffered for her, as his crooked arm proved, he had suffered for her because he loved her. Yes. Yes, Steve McGrath had loved her. And three years ago she had almost taken advantage of that love and offered to marry him to escape the passion of Matthew, because even in her own eyes it seemed a sin to be marrying the son of the man to whom she had acted as mistress for so long and whose child she had only recently borne.

  Would she be pleased to see Steve? She got no answer to this question, except to give herself another question: Would she be pleased to see anyone?

  Although she had recovered from the breakdown that followed on Matthew’s death, there was a great void in her which she felt would remain with her always, for she could never see anyone filling it, except her son.

  She now touched Willy’s hair; it was getting fairer every day. She lingered a moment longer gazing at him, then she turned from the bunk and attended to the packing.

  A few hours now and she’d be in England, home, home which meant Highfield Manor, the place where she had gone as nursemaid all those years ago, the place from which she had been twice turned out, the place to which she was now returning, not as mistress of Mr Mark Sopwith, or as wife of Mr Matthew Sopwith, but as a widow and owner of the house and estate and the mine besides. She was financially a very rich woman . . . rich in everything that didn’t matter.

  Two

  ‘S . . . s . . . soon be there, Tilly. S . . . s . . . soon be there. Soon be home.’

  John Sopwith turned from the window of the swaying coach and looked across at Tilly and his wife sitting hand in hand; then with his arms out he encircled the two children kneeling up on the seat beside him, and when Willy, bobbing up and down, shouted excitedly, ‘Horses, Mama. Look, horses, galloping horses!’ John said, ‘Yes, horses, my boy. Why are you so . . . so surprised? America is not the only pl . . . place that has horses.’

  ‘We had lots of horses, sir.’ Willy had turned and was looking up into John’s face, and he, bending towards the child, said, ‘I am Uncle Jo . . . John. Say Uncle John.’ And the boy glanced at his mother, and when she gave a little smile and a small movement of her head he looked back at John and repeated, ‘Uncle John.’

  Josefina had now turned from the window and was looking at John, and she too repeated, ‘Uncle John.’

  Her words were clearly defined. She was speaking English yet the inflection of her voice stamped her as foreign as much as did her dark solemn appearance. When she put up her hand and tapped John gently on the nose he burst out laughing. Then looking across at Tilly he said softly, ‘She’s an unusual ch . . . child. I can understand why you wanted to br . . . br . . . bring her b . . . back with you.’

  Yet even as he spoke he knew he was merely being polite because for the life of him he couldn’t think what had possessed Tilly to bring this coloured child, this strange-looking coloured child, back home. This child did not look like any coloured person he had seen before. But he had seen pictures and drawings of American Indians, and there was something of the Indian in the hair and eyes. Yet she did not appear altogether Indian.

  He now lay back against the quilted leather of the seat and with only half his mind he listened to his wife explaining the changes she had made in the house and stating that she hoped they would meet with Tilly’s approval. For the rest, a strange thought had entered his head and he was chiding himself for it, albeit at the same time expanding it. Four years old, Tilly said the child was, yet she had the stature of a child not yet two. To his mind she was too tiny to be four years of age, she was more like an infant. Tilly had left this country almost three years ago . . . No, no! He now thrust the thought from him. There was the child’s voice; she certainly spoke as a child of four might.

  He centred his gaze on his wife now. She was so pleased to have Tilly back. There was little female company of her own age or station near the Manor. There were neighbours, yes, but Anna didn’t make friends easily; she was still very conscious of her affliction, especially so with anyone outside the household. Yet looking at her now from his position there was just the merest sign of the purple stain rising above the lace collar of her blouse. It was only when she was undressed that the frightful birthmark covering one entire shoulder and part of her breast gave evidence of the bu
rden she had carried since she was a child. Yet he loved every inch of her skin with a passion that seemed to grow in him daily. He had known when he married her that he loved Anna, but he had never imagined himself capable of the feelings that possessed him now. In a way he felt his feelings for his wife almost matched his dead brother’s mania for Tilly. Why had Matthew to die? And how had he died? He was longing to talk to Tilly about his brother, to know every detail. All she had told them so far was that he had been wounded in an Indian raid and had died of his wounds.

  ‘I never thought to see these gates again.’

  The carriage had turned into the drive and Tilly was now bending forward looking at the line of rowans, their greenery about to burst fresh and bright. Spring wasn’t far off. For a moment she felt a stirring within her as if the coming season itself had touched her. Then it was gone, replaced now by a quivering anxiety, for in a few minutes she’d be meeting Biddy and, however pleased Biddy would be to see her, she wouldn’t be able to understand that she’d come back without her daughter, for of all her children, Tilly knew, as strongly as she would deny it, Biddy had favoured the one she had chastised most. She had boxed Katie’s ears as a child, shouted her down because of her chattering, ordered her about as if she were still a child when she was a full-grown woman, and had done all this to hide the fact from the rest of her family that she favoured this particular plain, podgy-looking daughter.

  The carriage came to a stop at the foot of the steps and there they all were, all the members of the household, most of whom she recognised: all the Drews, Biddy looking the same as when she had left her, her work-worn back still straight, her big lined face, usually unsmiling but now with a look of bright expectancy on it that caused Tilly to gulp in her throat against the disappointment she was about to bring to her. There was Peg, the eldest of the girls – she must be near to forty and she was the best-looking of the bunch. She had been married and widowed. And there was Fanny, the youngest. What was she, twenty-five? And Arthur, a sturdy man in his thirties; and he was the youngest but two of the seven Drew men. And that was Jimmy, who must be about twenty-eight now. Bill, she understood from one of Anna’s letters, had left and had gone to sea. That had been a surprise. She had thought he might have joined his three older brothers in the Durham mines. Betty Leyburn was still here, and Lizzie Gamble. She had been engaged as under-housemaid just before they went to America. And there were two strange men. The younger of the two, a man of about forty, was now opening the door. He was the new footman then. And the portly man with the grey hair at the top of the steps must be the butler. At one time she would have smiled to herself at the evident way he was showing to all those present that he knew his place in the servants’ hierarchy.

  The children had scrambled to the open door of the coach and she watched the footman extend his arms and lift Willy down to the drive. She also noticed that he hesitated for more than a moment at the sight of the dark child, and that when he did place her beside Willy his eyes remained on her before he swung about and extended his hand to help her down from the coach.

  Almost immediately now she was engulfed by the whole Drew family. This was not a meeting between mistress and staff, this was a meeting of friends. But as quickly as it had begun so it ended. With one arm around Tilly’s shoulders, Biddy Drew looked towards the carriage and to where stood the young master and mistress she had served during Tilly’s absence; and then she was looking at Tilly again and her voice was a whisper as she said, ‘Katie?’

  ‘It’s all right. It’s all right, Biddy.’ Tilly was quick to assure her. ‘She’s well and happy, very happy. I’ve got a lot to tell you . . . ’

  ‘She hasn’t come back with you?’

  ‘No. No, but she’ll be coming later on. She’s married. Let us go in.’

  The Drew family gazed at one another, their eyes saying, Our Katie’s married? Then at the children, particularly at the dark child, before they all followed Tilly and John and Anna up the steps.

  At the front door Tilly was greeted by the butler. His manner as correct as one would wish, he bowed towards her, saying, ‘I am Francis Peabody, ma’am.’

  Again Tilly wished she could smile. How was she to address Francis Peabody? Call him mister or Francis, or merely Peabody? And this she did, but gently, saying, ‘Thank you, Peabody.’

  Then they were in the hall, and she stood for a moment looking around it. It was a beautiful sight, so beautiful. She hadn’t realised before how beautiful this house was. Even in America when she had longed to return here she hadn’t visualised it as she was now seeing it. Nothing had changed; Anna hadn’t altered anything, not even to move one piece of furniture. She turned towards Anna and found her hand extended, and she gripped it, and she knew in this moment that here she could have a friend, a confidante; and yet she also knew that she could never talk to her as she had done to Katie, or as she would do to Biddy. She was the lady of the manor but beneath the veneer and the education that Mr Burgess, the one-time tutor of her husband and his brothers and sister, had imposed on her was the child, the young girl, the granddaughter of William and Annie Trotter, two very ordinary people who had brought her up.

  She looked down for a moment on the children. They were standing side by side gazing upwards to where the stairs led into the gallery. Their mouths were slightly agape, their eyes wide. The house was as new and surprising to Willy as it was to Josefina, for he could have no memory of it. And when he turned and, looking up at Tilly, said, ‘It is a big house, Mama,’ she said, ‘Yes, dear; it’s a big house.’

  ‘Shall I take him . . . them upstairs, Tilly . . . ma’am? The nursery is ready.’

  She turned and smiled at Fanny Drew, who was as perplexed as the rest of the household by the small dark addition to it, and in this moment too, so excited that she had forgotten that the old family friend, Tilly Trotter, was now their mistress. Of course, she had been their mistress for years before, but on a somewhat different footing.

  ‘Yes, Fanny, take them up. Thank you. Their day things are in the small trunk, the other luggage will be following.’

  Fanny nodded and smiled and held out her hands to the two children; but her right hand being on Willy’s left side he did not see it and she had to lift it up, and as the child was drawn forward he turned and looked towards Tilly, saying questioningly, ‘Mama?’ and she, nodding towards him, said, ‘It’s all right. Fanny will take care of you; I’ll be up in a moment.’

  Following this, the servants, taking their lead from Biddy who had uttered no word since coming into the house, dispersed.

  It was in the drawing room when Anna was helping her off with her hat and coat that Tilly felt suddenly weak. Her legs gave way, her mind became a void, and the next thing she knew she was sitting on the couch with John and Anna bending over her, their faces showing their anxiety. ‘Wh . . . what is it, Tilly? D . . . d . . . do you f . . . f . . . feel ill?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, no. Please don’t worry; I’m not ill, it’s . . . it’s just reaction, relief I think that the journey is over.’

  ‘You almost fell, dear, and you’ve lost all your colour.’

  She caught hold of Anna’s hand and pressed it gently. ‘It’s nothing. I . . . I was rather ill after Matthew died. My legs go weak now and again. I think I’ll go and have a wash. And then I must talk to Biddy; I could see she was in a state. But’ – she smiled weakly now – ‘before I do anything at all, do you think I could have a cup of tea?’

  ‘Of course. Of course. What am I thinking about?’ Anna rushed to the bell pull near the fireplace and tugged at it; and presently, when the door opened and Mr Francis Peabody sailed into the room, she said, ‘Bring a tray of tea immediately, Peabody.’ The butler inclined his head and, gravely turning about, went from the room, and Tilly closed her eyes and it came to her that life could hold other problems besides those stemming from the big issues, such as the one of having two mistresses in the house. And then there was Mr Peabody. No, not Mr Peabody, m
erely Peabody. How would he react to her sitting at the kitchen table chatting to the cook, laughing with Peg and Fanny? But then, after all, the latter needn’t trouble her for she didn’t think she’d ever laugh again . . .

  After drinking a cup of tea she did not go upstairs immediately; instead she went into the kitchen where it looked as if Biddy was awaiting her entry, for she was standing to the side of the table looking down the long room towards the green-baized door. Her hands, joined at her waist, were gripped so tightly that the knuckles showed white. Peg and Fanny Drew were also in the kitchen and they too stood waiting for Tilly to approach.

  Going immediately to Biddy, Tilly pressed her hands apart and gently pulled them from her waist and, holding them tightly, she said, ‘It’s all right. It’s all right, Biddy, Katie’s all right, I’ve a lot to tell you. But first’ – she now glanced at the girls – ‘I want to say how glad I am to see you all again. I . . . I never thought I would . . . Sit down.’ She drew Biddy to the settle, and when they were seated both Peg and Fanny came and stood in front of them, and Fanny in her soft voice said, ‘You weren’t just sayin’ she was married, were you, Tilly? She’s not dead, is she?’