Tilly Trotter Widowed (The Tilly Trotter Trilogy)

by Cookson, Catherine

  ‘Four.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Aye. And you know what he was aiming to do just afore you came home?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Get the lot of them here. His eldest one’s tickin’ forty and she’s a housekeeper in Newcastle somewhere. He’d been on to Master John about a housekeeper sayin’ that it wasn’t right for an establishment like this to be run by a cook.’ She now thrust her thumb into her chest. ‘Then his second eldest daughter is a widow with one bairn, and the other two are in service. The youngest, just on seventeen, would, he imagined, be just right for the nursery. Oh, when he knows about our Miss Connie Bradshaw the poker’ll drop down his spine and right out of his backside, and he’ll crumple up ’cos, let’s face it, that lass’ as common as clarts. He thinks my brood’s bad enough. Oh aye, he does.’ Biddy nodded vigorously at Tilly who now bit on her lip and lowered her head; for the first time in many, many months she had the desire to laugh.

  Oh, it was good to be home, good to be with Biddy, good to be with real people. Not that John and Anna weren’t real. Not that Matthew and Mark hadn’t been real. But there was something about Biddy and her brood that presented life without veneer. There was no pretence. You hadn’t to act in her presence, you just were. But she knew that if she were acting correctly as the mistress of this house she should not be standing hobnobbing with her cook; nor should she have the desire at this moment to fall against her and put her arms around her and say, ‘Oh, Biddy! Biddy! Hold me close, comfort me.’ In fact she shouldn’t be in the kitchen at all, she should, as that girl had said and as Peabody expected, have a housekeeper and leave the ordering to her, for was she not Mrs Matthew Sopwith?

  No, no; she wasn’t, not really, not underneath. Under the façade she knew who she was, and always would remain so: she was simply Tilly Trotter.

  The sun was shining when, a week later, she rode out of the courtyard, and not sidesaddle but astride the horse. It was the first time she had been on a mount since she had returned, and she was aware that the men were watching her covertly from the stables, as was Biddy and most of the staff from the kitchen windows.

  She sat relaxed, as Mack McNeill and Matthew had taught her. The stirrups were long, her legs almost straight. Her riding breeches were grey, her high boots and coat brown; except for the bun of white hair showing behind her soft felt hat, the one that she had worn when riding out from the ranch, she could have been taken for a young man, a slim, straight young man.

  As Biddy, her face close to the window, muttered to her daughters: ‘In the name of God did you ever see anything like it, the change a pair of trousers can make in a woman? And it’ll do her no good at all to be seen ridin’ like that, astride a beast for all the world like any man.’

  It was Jimmy Drew who opened the gates for her. He had been working at the end of the drive trimming the hedges, and, what was unusual, he never spoke as he watched her ride through, although she said, ‘Thanks, Jimmy. Thanks . . . Lovely day, isn’t it?’

  She wasn’t unaware of the stir she had made in riding out in such a fashion, and she knew her slouched hat, which was at variance with the smartness of her coat and breeches, would itself cause comment should she meet any rider. But what matter, she was used to comment. And this is how she had been taught to ride; and this is what she had worn when riding side by side with Matthew.

  Oh Matthew! Matthew! If only he were here. Last night she had dreamed and the dream had been so real that she had turned in the bed and snuggled into him and just as always happened when she had turned to him he had loved her, and she had woken rested and put her hand out to feel him, and when realisation hit her she had pressed her face into the pillow and sobbed.

  But crying was for the night; you faced the day calmly. You had two children to educate and a house to run . . . a difficult house to run, a house that was staffed partly by her friends and partly by professional servants. It hadn’t been difficult for Anna and John to keep the harmony between the two factions but it was going to be so for her, for she knew she wouldn’t be able to favour her friends without annoying her professional staff, few as they were.

  She put her horse into a canter and rode so until she came to the lane leading from the main coach road. Here she quickly drew the animal to a walk as she saw in the distance a woman and three children scrambling up the bank. They had been gathering wood, which was made evident as they pulled the bundles into the narrow ditch at the side of the road, and when she came abreast of them they stared up at her as one, their eyes unblinking.

  ‘Good afternoon.’ She smiled at them, and it was after a moment that the woman replied, ‘Afternoon, ma’am’, at the same time bobbing her knee.

  As she rode on there came over her a strong feeling of nostalgia for the days when she herself had gathered wood, not only gathered it but limbed it from the trees and sawed the branches up before dragging them home, and then had the satisfaction of seeing a roaring blaze at night as she sat before the fire between her granda and grandma. But that was another life, another world.

  When she eventually turned a bend in the narrow lane and came within sight of the cottage it was to see a horse tied to the gatepost, and her acquired knowledge of horseflesh told her it was a good animal and beautifully saddled. She also noticed that the hedge bordering the side of the cottage had been allowed to grow to almost twice the height she remembered it, although the top had been kept trimmed, but as she turned from the lane and rode up by the side of it she could just see over it and towards the front door of the cottage.

  She was pondering in her mind whether to ride on and return later when the door of the cottage opened almost abruptly and a woman stepped onto the pathway, and following her came Steve. She did not immediately recognise the woman but she recognised Steve, although his head looked to be bandaged and his face was smeared with coal dust. The woman had turned and was looking up at him where he was now standing on the step above her, and it was with a start of amazement, not untouched with horror, that Tilly now recognised her.

  It must be all of seventeen years since she had last set eyes on this woman, and then she had been lying naked in the barn with Simon Bentwood. Strangely, it was this woman who had decided the course of her own life; in a way, it was her she had to thank for the position that she now held as mistress of the Manor, for if on that day she hadn’t seen her lying with Simon Bentwood, he and she herself would have come together and she would have been a farmer’s wife and happy to be so . . . Life was strange, terrifyingly strange. But what was that woman doing here? Indeed, what else but trailing a man! She was noted for it. She remembered her nickname, Loose Lady Aggie.

  Tilly slid from the horse and took its head to keep it quiet. She did not want to be found here by either of them and it was no use riding on because the path which simply circled the garden would eventually bring her back into the lane and in full sight of them.

  She listened as Lady Myton spoke. Her voice was as she remembered it, high, haughty, the words clipped. ‘You’re foolish, you know that,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t see it that way, m’lady.’ Steve’s voice sounded cool.

  ‘It’s a good position, you’d be in charge of the stables. There are nine hunters in there altogether.’

  ‘As I understand it you have very good stockmen already.’

  ‘Yes, I had, but Preston has left and his place is open.’

  ‘Then why not move the next man up?’

  ‘He’s not capable enough.’

  ‘Well, I can assure you, m’lady, he’d be much more capable looking after hunters than I would. My knowledge of horses is practically nil.’

  ‘I saw you riding the other day; you handled the animal well.’

  ‘Oh, him!’ There was a slight note of laughter in Steve’s voice now. ‘Only because his back’s as broad as a fireplace settle, and he’s too old even to trot. His days were over in the pit and he was on his way to the slaughterhouse; I felt he would save my legs the three-
mile walk twice a day, so I took him on.’

  ‘You’re making light of your achievements.’

  ‘Not a bit of it, m’lady.’

  There followed a pause now and Tilly heard their footsteps going down towards the gate; then Lady Myton’s voice again: ‘You are turning down a great opportunity. Do you know that? And anyway I understand you were thinking of leaving the mine?’

  ‘I think you’ve been misinformed, m’lady.’

  There was another pause before her voice came again, saying, ‘It’s a tinpot mine, doesn’t even pay its way.’

  ‘Again I think you’ve been misinformed. It’s doing very nicely for all concerned.’

  ‘Until it’s flooded again. And look at your head. I understand there was a fall this morning?’

  ‘Just a slight one. These things happen every day in mines.’

  ‘And two men taken to hospital?’

  ‘Just broken bones, nothing to worry about really.’

  Again there was a pause, and when the woman spoke Tilly could only just make out her words. ‘When we last met I indicated that I could be of great help to you; and you know, you are the kind of person that could be of great help to me. It would be a reciprocal situation.’

  There was a longer pause before Steve’s voice came to Tilly, saying, ‘On that occasion, m’lady, I’m sorry to remind you, I pointed out that you had picked on the wrong man.’

  There was now the grating of the horse’s hooves on the rough road and the sound brought a feeling of panic to Tilly. If the visitor rode back in the direction of the mine all well and good, but if she decided to take the coach road then she would pass by the path and almost assuredly she would glimpse her.

  As there came to her the words ‘You’re a fool. Mr McGrath. Do you know that?’ followed by Steve’s answer, ‘Yes. I’m well aware of that. Have been for years,’ she pulled the horse forward and was making quickly up by the side of the hedge when she heard a loud, ‘Well! Well!’ and, looking over her shoulder, she saw Lady Myton sitting on her horse staring towards her. As they looked at each other over the distance Tilly realised that the woman had recognised her, and this was made evident when her ladyship’s voice rang out, saying, ‘Mrs Sopwith, about to enter by the back door. If I remember rightly you have a habit of turning up at inopportune moments. The way is clear now.’ She thrust out one arm in a dramatic gesture. ‘He’s yours, for the time being at any rate. I’ve always baulked you, haven’t I? Ha! Ha!’

  As Lady Myton spurred her horse up the path, Tilly was aware that Steve had parted the top of the hedge a little way back and was peering at her in amazement; then almost instantly he seemed to be by her side.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Tilly, I never expected you. I mean . . . well’ – he hunched his shoulders and spread out his hands – ‘what can I say? Here; let me turn him about.’

  He turned the animal about and into the lane and tied it to the gatepost where Lady Myton’s mount had been fastened a moment ago.

  Now they were walking up the path to the cottage and she hadn’t as yet spoken.

  ‘Here, sit down.’ He pulled a chair from underneath the table, and she sat down thankfully and looked at him as he bent slightly above her. He was smiling, his eyes shining, his black hair above the bandage was ruffled, his shoulder muscles were pressing against his shirt; the belt that supported his trousers didn’t cover a stomach bulge; he was a very presentable man and she could understand how he attracted Lady Myton.

  As if he had picked up her thoughts he put his hand to his head where the bandage was stained as he said, ‘That woman! She’s a menace, and she’s as brazen as a town whore. I’m sorry.’ He flapped his hand now. ‘But I’m so surprised to see you. Of course I knew you were back and we’d come across each other sometime, but to be on the doorstep so to speak.’

  ‘And at the wrong moment.’ It was the first time she had opened her lips and she smiled at him and he smiled back at her as he said quietly now, ‘Aw, Tilly, it’s good to see you and to hear your voice. How are you?’

  ‘Oh, getting along, adjusting.’

  ‘I hear you had a rough time of it out there.’ His eyes rested on her hair where it showed under the turned-back brim of the hat, but he made no remark on it.

  ‘Yes, you could say that, Steve.’

  ‘I was very sorry to hear about Mr Matthew, very sorry indeed. You can believe that, Tilly, I was.’

  ‘Thank you, Steve.’ She looked to the side for a moment; then her glance went round the room and she said, ‘You haven’t altered anything.’

  ‘No; why should I? It was just right to begin with.’

  ‘You still like living here?’

  ‘Nowhere better. In one way I’ve never been so contented in me life. Look, I’ll just have a sluice and then I’ll make you a cup of tea. The fire’s bright.’ He thumbed towards it, and impulsively she said, ‘You go and have a sluice and I’ll make the cup of tea.’

  ‘You will? Aw, Tilly!’ He jerked his head at her. ‘It’s as if the years have dropped away. I’ll do that. Do you remember the day the bucket fell down the well?’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ She laughed at him as he went down the room and out of the bottom door. She didn’t, however, go immediately to the fireplace but stood looking around her, and for a moment again nostalgia hit her and she had a longing to be back in this cottage with Mr Burgess sitting on the couch there nodding over his books, and Willy lying in the wash-basket by the side of the fireplace. She hadn’t realised how peaceful she had felt during that interlude between Mark and Matthew.

  Automatically her hand went to the mantelpiece for the tea caddy; and yes, when she opened it there it was half full of tea. As he said, he hadn’t altered a thing. Dear Steve. But she must be careful, very careful, she must raise no hopes in that quarter again.

  A few minutes later when he came into the room his face was clean and shining; his hair was combed back and the bandage was off his head showing a two-inch cut across his brow sealed now with dried blood, which caused her to exclaim, ‘Was the fall bad?’ Then turning her head to the side, she muttered, ‘I couldn’t help overhearing some of your conversation.’

  ‘I’m glad you did, Tilly, else you might have thought otherwise . . . got the wrong idea like . . . But about the fall. No, it was nothing. Two fellows were trapped, one got his shoulder put out, the other . . . well, I think his leg’s broken but it’ll mend; we got them out quickly.’

  ‘Is the mine paying?’

  ‘Aye, yes. Oh yes, especially this last year. Master John has done a good job. He belies his looks that young fellow if I may say so, and the men think highly of him. There’s hardly a day goes by but he shows his face, and that’s something in a mine owner. Well, what I mean is’ – he gave a quick jerk of his head – ‘I know he’s actin’ for you, but the men look upon him as the boss and although he’s got a longer trek now comin’ from his wife’s place he still turns up.’

  ‘I’m glad the men have taken to him. He’s a good young man in all ways, but I’m sure things couldn’t have worked out so well without the help of you and Mr Meadows. By the way, were you thinking of leaving?’

  ‘Er . . . well, no. No, no, not at all . . . and leave this cottage and everything? I’d be daft now, wouldn’t I?’

  She stared at him, this Steve McGrath whom she had known from a boy who had pestered her with his attention until she had shocked him off by becoming the mistress of Mark Sopwith. That Steve had been a kindly nondescript character, persistent in his attentions, but nondescript; but this Steve, well, he could be a man of the world. Put him in different clothes and she could see him talking with the best of them. He sounded confident, knowledgeable, which thought brought her to the reason for her errand here.

  And so as he turned from her, saying, ‘You’ve mashed the tea then. I’ll pour out. And you still take milk?’ she said, ‘Yes. Yes, please. And . . . and I must tell you the reason why I came today. You see I’m in need of books, school books; I’
m going to start teaching the children.’

  ‘Well, you’ve come to the right place, Tilly; they’re all just as you left them. Well, that isn’t quite true.’ He now paused with the big brown teapot in his hand. ‘You see I’ve been going through them, at least some of them. I’d have to live a couple of lifetimes afore I’d manage to read that lot up there’ – he lifted his head towards the ceiling —‘but the more I’ve read lately the more I’ve realised what a learned man Mr Burgess must have been, because most of the pages have pencil marks or queries on them. He must have read most all the light hours of his life.’

  ‘Yes, I think he did, Steve. As for me, I’ve always felt indebted to him and that indebtedness increases with the years because besides teaching me so many things, he taught me what to read. You can waste so much of your time reading stupid matter.’

  ‘You’re right there; but I don’t think he possessed a book that you could put the name stupid to. You know, I think he would have made a good member of parliament, and on the side of the working man too. Did you ever read the notes that he made on Malthus? By! Some of them were scathing, especially those touching on what Malthus said about catastrophes, wars and famines and such being the natural means of preventing overall starvation . . . My! If he’d had his way there wouldn’t have been any bairns born because every bairn meant another mouth to feed. He was a stirrer was that Malthus. I used to sit here at nights’ – he pointed to the rocking chair now – ‘and get all worked up about him, real hot an’ bothered.’ As he put his head back and laughed Tilly gazed at him, her face straight. She hadn’t read anything about Malthus but she remembered the name now and hearing Mr Burgess explaining to Mark the Malthus theory, his idea being to bring about an ideal life for the few.

  ‘Is your tea all right?’

  ‘It’s lovely, thanks. Have you read any of Shakespeare?’

  ‘Oh aye. Oh yes. By! There was a writer, wasn’t he?’ He now sat down at the opposite side of the table to her and, folding his arms on it, he leaned towards her, saying, ‘I can put this to you, Tilly. You see I can’t talk to anybody else about it because I’m like a being set atween the devil and the deep sea. The lads back there’ – he jerked his head – ‘wouldn’t understand what I was getting at, even those who are now learning their letters on the quiet, and if I was daring to open my mouth to me betters’ – he made a face here – ‘you can imagine their reaction, can’t you?’ He now straightened his back and took up the pose of a man sitting at a table with an enlarged stomach and his voice matched his stance as he said, ‘What the devil is the fella on about? Give them an inch and they take a mile. Only way to manage ‘em is keep ’em down. Keep ’em down.’