Tilly Trotter Widowed (The Tilly Trotter Trilogy)

by Cookson, Catherine

  For the first time that Tilly could remember Willy had disobeyed her, saying openly, ‘I don’t want to go to bed, Mama, I want to play with Uncle,’ whereupon Luke put in, ‘If you don’t do what your mama tells you then I’m going to pack my bags and call for the carriage and ride away, right to the sea, and there I’ll board a boat and you’ll never see me again.’

  The response had been quite unexpected for both Willy and Josefina had thrown themselves upon him, the tears flowing freely and crying, ‘No, Uncle Luke! No, Uncle Luke!’

  When peace was restored and the four adults were left in the drawing room, John, nodding at his brother who was now lying flat out on the chaise, said, ‘I think it’s just as w . . . well you’ve only g . . . g . . . got another f . . . few days, otherwise Tilly would have to give . . . give you notice and . . . just l . . . l . . . look at you! For a sol . . . sol . . . soldier of the Queen, you are a . . . mess.’

  ‘Oh.’ Luke stretched out his legs and put his hands behind his head as he said, ‘It’s wonderful to be a mess, this kind of a mess,’ and rolling his eyes backwards, he looked up at John who was standing at the head of the chaise and, his voice quiet, even serious now, he said, ‘Don’t put a damper on me, little brother; you have no idea what this spell has meant for me.’ He brought his head down now and looked towards where Tilly and Anna were sitting on the couch that ran at right angles to the fireplace, the open hearth showing a great bank of blazing logs, and he asked, ‘You don’t mind, Tilly, do you?’

  ‘No, Luke, I don’t mind. Of course I don’t mind.’

  ‘I suppose I have gone a bit far . . . daft.’

  It was Anna who spoke now, saying, ‘I wish more people could show their daftness in a similar way.’

  Luke rose on his elbow now and grinned towards her as he said, ‘Thank you, sister-in-law. And if you’d care to engage me when your family comes along I should be delighted to offer my services free.’

  When Anna hung her head slightly, John’s eyelids blinked rapidly and, his stammer evident now, he said, ‘You’re a f . . . fool, Lu . . . Luke. Always were and . . . and . . . and always will be. Come on, Anna, let’s go and s . . . see the children to bed, then g . . . get on our way.’

  He held out his hand to his wife, turning his head and glaring at his brother as he did so.

  As soon as the door closed on them, Luke swung his legs from the chaise, pressed his shirt into shape under the lapels of his coat, ran both hands over his skin-fitting trousers, then smoothed his hair back before saying, ‘Did I say something wrong?’

  ‘No, not really.’ Tilly gave a slight shrug of her shoulders. ‘Anna is just a little conscious of the fact that there is no sign of a family yet. But as I’ve told her’ – her smile widened now – ‘it took me almost twelve years.’

  ‘Yes, yes, it did.’ He nodded at her, and their laughter joined.

  It was strange but she found she could talk very easily to Luke. Of the three brothers she would have said she liked him the least. He had always appeared a very self-contained person; he knew what he wanted to do and he did it with the minimum of fuss.

  She watched him now rise and come towards her, and when he sat down in the corner of the settee he looked at her for a few moments before he said, ‘This is the first time we’ve been alone together since I came home. Funny that.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘I said home. Although I spent all those years away in Scarborough, then in the army, I still look upon this house as home.’

  ‘I am glad of that.’

  ‘Tilly.’

  ‘Yes, Luke?’

  ‘I’ve never mentioned Matthew, being half afraid it might be too painful a subject to bring up . . . is it still?’

  ‘No, Luke, no. Talk about him if you want.’

  ‘John tells me he had a terrible time. What I mean is you both had, I think you most of all.’

  When she remained quiet he wetted his lips before lowering his head and muttering, ‘You’re more beautiful with your white hair.’

  And again she made no answer.

  He raised his eyes to her as he said, ‘You’ll marry again of course?’

  ‘No, Luke, never.’

  ‘Oh.’ He jerked his chin to the side. ‘That’s nonsense. Anyway, I can’t see you being allowed to remain single.’

  ‘Nevertheless, I shall.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I can’t tell you why, only that I shan’t, I won’t . . . I . . . ’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Tilly.’ He leant forward, one hand pressing deep into the pile of the cushions as he brought his face almost within an inch of hers. ‘Love doesn’t last a lifetime. It can’t, not unless there’s someone on the other end to keep the fire stoked. You loved Matthew, all right, I admit that, and he loved you. No . . . no’ – he now made a single swift movement with his head that spoke of denial – ‘he didn’t love you, his feelings for you could only come under the term of mania. He was so eaten up by you, even as a boy, it wasn’t normal.’

  ‘Don’t say that, Luke.’

  ‘I must say it because it’s true, and you know it’s true. He would have put you in a cage if he could just to keep you to himself. And in a way, yes’ – he nodded at her – ‘in a way, I can understand his feelings. But it wasn’t ordinary love, and you shouldn’t let the memory of it rule your life. Tilly’ – he caught at her hand and she let him hold it – ‘I’m going to ask you something, a question, but I think I already know the answer . . . It’s simply this, why did you adopt Josefina?’

  All the muscles in her face seemed to be twitching at once, she couldn’t take her eyes from his. Her mouth was dry and she ran her tongue round her lips before saying, ‘Because her mother didn’t want her and . . . and she was such a tiny thing, so, so in need of care.’

  ‘No other reason?’

  Again she moved her tongue around her lips before saying, ‘No.’

  ‘You’re lying, because I know that nobody in their right senses adopts a dark child, not one such as her, except a missionary might. She’s not an African, she’s not Chinese, she’s not Spanish, nor is she pure Indian or Mexican. There’d have to be some very grave reason for you to take such a child into your life.’ He released her hand now and, turning from her, he lay back against the couch and spread one arm along the head of it as he said, ‘When Matthew came back from America we met only once. We had a long day together and as usual when two men meet the conversation reverts to the pleasures they have had or missed. I asked him what the American women were like. I remember his answer wasn’t very flattering. One of the ranchers had three hefty daughters and, excuse the coarseness, but I remember he referred to them as three mares waiting to be sired, but not without the ring. He said the only beautiful women were half-castes. I asked him if he had known any of them, and by using the term “known” I was indicating something deeper, and I remember he made a face before using a certain expression which told me that he had been in contact with at least one of these women. Then the fact that he refused to enlarge upon her, and that his manner became abrupt, seemed to suggest his association with one person had had consequences that he wished to forget. Well now, Tilly,’ – he turned and looked at her – ‘I must admit when I first set eyes on Josefina she gave me a bit of a shock and I asked myself the question that everyone must ask when they see you and her together, why did this woman adopt such a child, a child that looks like a little foreign elf, a beautiful elf, but a strange creature? Why? And after thinking back I knew I had the answer. She’s Matthew’s, isn’t she, Tilly?’

  Her eyes were wide and unblinking and when her lips trembled he caught at her hand again, saying, ‘Poor Tilly. Dear Tilly, to shoulder his flyblow . . . ’

  ‘She’s not a flyblow!’ The sharpness of her reply almost startled him, and he said rapidly, ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Believe me, Tilly, I’m sorry.’

  ‘If she’s a flyblow so is Willy.’

  ‘Tilly! Tilly!’ He had pulled himself towards her and was gripping both
her hands now. ‘Tilly, you are the most wonderful woman on earth. Do you know that? And I’m going to say this to you. I won’t ask you to forget about Matthew because you never can, but don’t hang on to the past. Marry again. Promise me’ – he shook her hands up and down now as he repeated – ‘Promise me you’ll marry again for I can’t bear the thought of you being wasted.’

  She slumped back against the couch now and her voice was weary as she said, ‘I can’t. I can’t, Luke.’

  ‘Tell me why. Is there a reason, not just your feeling for Matthew?’

  It was on a long drawn out breath that she said, ‘Yes, there’s a reason.’

  ‘Can you tell me it?’

  She turned her head and looked at him. If she didn’t give him a reason he would probe.

  He broke into her thoughts, saying urgently now, ‘It isn’t that you’re ill in any way?’

  ‘Oh no, no.’ Again she let out a long breath, and now she said, ‘I promised Matthew on his deathbed that I would never marry again.’

  He drew his chin tight into his neck and screwed up his eyes as if getting her into focus before he exclaimed, ‘You what!’

  ‘I don’t need to repeat it, Luke, you heard what I said.’

  ‘I hope I didn’t. You said that you promised Matthew on his deathbed not to marry again? Don’t tell me he asked you to give that promise.’

  Her lids were lowered, her chin was on her chest when he said, ‘Good God Almighty! But yes, yes—’ He let go her hands now and sprang up from the couch and paced the length of the long rug that lay before the open hearth as he cried, ‘I can hear him doing it. Yes, I can hear him doing it. “Promise me no other man will ever touch you, Tilly. Let me take my mania to the grave with me”.’

  ‘Luke! Please, Luke.’

  He was standing now, his legs apart, his arms spread wide, silent, just standing gazing at her; then his arms flapping to his sides and his heels almost clicking together, he said, ‘Damn him! He was my brother and I say to you, Tilly, damn him, wherever he is, for the selfish, self-centred maniac he was. As for you to give him that promise, what were you thinking of?’

  ‘I was thinking of him dying. And under the same circumstances I would do the same again.’ Her voice was quiet.

  He bent towards her as he said, ‘You’ve got a long life before you, Tilly. You are lonely; one can see it in your eyes. You laugh with everything but your eyes. And think of the years ahead. Knowing this, can you say you would give the same promise again? By God! If I wasn’t your brother-in-law, Tilly, I would see that you broke that promise. Do you hear me? A man can’t marry his brother’s wife, and even if he could you might think that to run the whole gamut of our family was a bit too much, but if it was within the law, Tilly, I tell you that I’d wear you down, because I, too, have loved you, not like Matthew, that maniac, or like my father in need of solace, but as an ordinary man loves a woman . . . Oh, don’t press yourself away from me like that. Nothing can happen between us, I’m well aware of that. And I haven’t lived a saint’s life because I couldn’t have you. Oh no; I’ve enjoyed a number of women; and it’s because I’ve done this I know what you’re missing. And let me tell you’ – he poked his face towards her – ‘that’s what you need at this very moment. And because I’m sure of this I beg of you, forget your deathbed promise and take yourself a husband, a man who’ll be a father to those children because that’s what they want. Their need in a way is as great as yours.’

  When he straightened his back the sweat was running down from the rim of his hair over his temples and, his voice quiet now, he said, ‘This is the moment I should apologise I suppose and say I’m sorry, but I’m not a bit sorry, Tilly.’ He took a step back from her and they surveyed each other in silence until he said, ‘I’ll leave you to think over what I’ve said. Tell yourself, Tilly, that the dead are dead, and there’s nothing as dead as a dead man. I am haunted at night by the dead I have seen and by the fact that there can be nowhere for them to go: the heavens couldn’t hold all the dead that have died in battle and by plague and massacre. There’s no place for the dead in which to survive even in spirit, Tilly, so they have no power over you. Matthew is dead. He will never know whether you have kept the promise he extracted from you or not. Your struggle to keep faith with him is as senseless as if I were to say to you now, I am going to shoot myself because I remember that my friends dropped dead around me.’

  Her head was bent again and she felt rather than saw him walk up to the head of the couch, and when she heard the drawing-room door close she opened her mouth wide as if she were about to scream; then she pressed her hand tightly over it, but she did not now say, ‘Oh, Matthew! Matthew!’ Rather, her mind cried, ‘Oh dear God, help me! Help me.’

  Fourteen

  The children cried when Luke departed. Dressed in his uniform once more, he did not look the same man who had clambered over the furniture like a monkey, chased them up and down the stairs, ridden the rocking horse in the nursery, and generally enchanted them; yet the uniform did nothing to hide the man from them, the father figure, and they clung to his legs until they were forcibly removed by both Tilly and Christine.

  When the nursery door closed behind them, Tilly led the way down the stairs, saying, ‘You have spoilt them,’ and he answered, ‘If playing the father to them has spoilt them, then I am found guilty.’

  She did not answer this, but hurried on across the gallery and down into the hall. It was the first time he had made reference to the conversation they had held in the drawing room four days previously, four days which she had found to be very uncomfortable. She had no doubt within herself that if it hadn’t been for the law Luke would have pressed his suit, and then what would she have done? Father and two sons. No! No! It wasn’t to be thought of. Anyway, she had no feeling for Luke other than as the brother of her husband and the elder brother of John. She had more, much more tender feeling for John than for Luke. She was glad he was going, but he stirred her mind in the most uncomfortable way, and not only with regard to the children. But it was right what he said, they missed the presence of a man, a father; but as she would never be able to supply that, she must in some way endeavour to bring into their lives the male element.

  The thought of Steve was rejected at once, yet it was the first name that came into her mind, for she imagined Steve would be good with children. No, she knew what she was going to do once she was rid of Luke. And now here they were standing face to face at the front door. The carriage was waiting on the drive. Myers had lowered the steps, Biddle was standing on the terrace; Peabody flicked a speck from the back of Luke’s collar, then moved back and stood at a respectful distance. Luke took her hand and, his voice soft, he said, ‘Goodbye, Tilly. This has been a most memorable visit for me.’ And out of politeness, she said, ‘You must repeat it as soon as possible.’

  He made no answer, but leaning forward, he put his lips to her cheek, and as he did so a shudder passed through her body because for a moment she imagined him to be Matthew: he had the same body smell, his mouth was the same shape.

  Her fingers felt crushed within his grasp. She could have winced with the pain but she made no sign, and then he was gone, running down the steps. He did not turn and look at her again, but she saw him looking up at the nursery floor; then the carriage was bowling down the drive.

  Biddle came hurrying up the steps and into the hall and, closing the door quickly after him to shut out the bitter wind, he was about to chafe his hands when he noticed his mistress standing in the middle of the hall. He stopped and looked at her enquiringly; then he could not keep his eyebrows from rising slightly as she said, ‘I would like to speak with Ned Spoke. Bring him to the morning room, please.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  As Tilly made her way across the hall to the corridor leading to the morning room she was well aware that Biddle and Peabody were exchanging glances and wondering why she wanted to see the stable boy.

  She had already given everybody thei
r Christmas boxes, generous with them, too, she had been. What was she wanting with Spoke?

  Young Ned Spoke, too, wondered this as he was thrust into the changing room by Biddle, told to take off his boots and to choose a pair of slippers that were likely to fit him from a row set against the wall, then ordered to lick down his hair, straighten his jerkin, and to mind his manners when speaking to the mistress.

  Ned Spoke had not answered Mr Biddle. Mr Biddle was a footman and you didn’t backchat footmen, but he followed him obediently through the kitchen, past Mrs Drew who wanted to know what was up but got no reply from Biddle, and into the corridor, then into the hall, across it and there he was standing in what he termed a grandly room, the carpet so thick he felt that the large slippers on his feet were lost in it.

  ‘Thank you, Biddle.’

  Biddle went out and closed the door and Ned Spoke stood looking at the mistress.

  ‘Sit down, Ned.’

  ‘What! I mean, should I, ma’am?’

  ‘I’ve told you to.’

  Ned slowly lowered himself down on the very edge of a chair and stared wide-eyed at his mistress, and he would have said that his eyes couldn’t stretch any further but they did as he listened to her talking.

  ‘You used to like playing with the children, didn’t you, Ned?’

  ‘Aye, ma’am.’

  ‘Why didn’t you continue to play with them?’

  ‘Mr Myers stopped me: I was wasting time, ma’am.’

  ‘Well now, in future, Ned, I want you to play with Master William every morning for at least an hour. If it’s bad weather you can go into the big barn, but if the weather is at all mild I prefer you to play outside.’

  ‘Play, ma’am?’

  ‘Yes, play, Ned, wrestle and . . . ’

  ‘Wrestle!’ The end of the word seemed to jerk the boy’s head up and he gulped, then gulped again before he whispered now, ‘Wrestle, ma’am?’