Tilly Trotter Widowed (The Tilly Trotter Trilogy)

by Cookson, Catherine

‘If I ask him to come away with me he would, Mam.’

  ‘Oh, come down from your cloud, lass, how would he earn a living away from the Manor?’

  ‘He wouldn’t need to, he’ll have money of his own.’

  ‘Not until he comes of age, lass. And then all these things are complicated. I think it’s the mother who holds the purse strings there, and she’s sheltered him all his life.’

  ‘He’s no weakling, Mam. You don’t know him.’

  ‘All right, he’s no weakling, but he’s an almost blind man, and how long do you think romance will last living a hole-and-corner life? You’re sensible, you’ve always been sensible. He’s been brought up as a gentleman; you yourself could rough it and your feelings remain the same, but it’s different for a man, I’m telling you, I know. They are full of self-importance, from the smallest to the biggest. Aw lass’ – she finished in a tearful voice – ‘put him out of your mind. There are others in the world who will jump at you. You’re young, this will pass.’

  When no answering voice came through the keyhole, Lucy got to her feet and stood leaning against the support of the door for a moment, her eyes closed, her head bowed. Then bending again, she put her mouth to the keyhole and said, ‘Put on as much clean underwear as you can,’ after which she turned and opened the door of the wardrobe on the landing where most of Noreen’s clothes were kept because the bedroom with its sloping roof would not allow of such a large piece of furniture, and talking from it a coat and a working cloak, she went downstairs and began to prepare for her daughter’s escape.

  On his return, Simon Bentwood was slow in getting down from the trap. Lucy watched him from the kitchen window and noted with relief that he was impeded as much by his back as by the drink he had taken.

  With regard to the latter she was informed of the amount almost immediately for Eddie, scurrying into the kitchen, whispered, ‘He hasn’t had a lot, Mam, three pints and two whiskys. I was watching from the window. It’s his back; he could hardly get up into the trap.’

  Lucy made no answer but stood waiting for her husband’s entry. The moment he entered the door she could see that he was suffering great pain for he had difficulty in lifting one foot over the step into the kitchen. Without comment, she watched him take off his hat and outer coat; then he sat down at the table, and cast his eyes over the bare boards before raising them to Lucy and saying, ‘What’s this?’

  She answered straight away, ‘I’m not making any more meals in this house until that girl is cleaned up and is properly fed. She hasn’t had a bite since breakfast, and worse, the room’s stinking, her bucket is overflowing. If you don’t come to your senses soon she’ll die of a fever.’

  He stared at her. Then, his tone without anger, even moderate sounding and slightly weary, he said, ‘She could be out of there within minutes if she gave me her word, but until she does there she stays and nobody can do anything about it. Do you hear that, Lucy? Nobody can do anything about it. I’m her father and it’s within my power to keep her under control as long as I like.’

  She bowed her head and remained silent for a moment, and then said, ‘Will you give her a clean bucket?’

  When he made no reply she looked at him and with raised voice cried, ‘Well, if you can’t make the stairs let me take one to her.’

  The very suggestion seemed to lift him from the chair, and when he was standing straight he said, ‘Bring it to me!’

  Immediately she went into the scullery and brought an empty pail, but as she handed it to him he said, ‘Give it to the boy.’

  This was a contingency for which she wasn’t prepared; nevertheless she handed the bucket to Eddie and when his father pointed towards the door the boy went before him into the hall and up the stairs. It was a good minute later when Simon joined his son for he’d had to place two feet on every stair before being able to make the next one.

  Now he was standing outside the door. Slowly he put his hand into his back pocket and, taking out a key, placed it in the lock. He paused a moment, then turning the key he pushed open the door, stood for a second before reaching out towards Eddie and grabbing the empty pail from his hand, then taking three steps into the room he faced his daughter. Her face was deathly pale, almost haggard looking, her eyes wide, staring, and her lips quivering.

  Simon swallowed deeply, cleared his throat noisily, then said, ‘Well, are you going to see sense, girl?’

  When she didn’t answer, only stared defiantly back at him, he thrust his hand behind him and said, ‘Come and take the pail, boy.’

  Now Noreen’s gaze flashed to her mother standing on the landing, then bending swiftly she picked up the pail and as Eddie approached her she screamed at him, ‘Out of the way!’ and at the same time she heaved it upwards and threw the contents at the man before her.

  Simon, aware of her intention just a second too late, had thrust out his arm towards her but when the avalanche of filth spewed over him he let out a most inhuman cry, staggered backwards, slipped, and with arms flailing in an effort to catch hold of something to break his fall he fell flat on his back and with an agonising groan lay there.

  Noreen did not even see him fall for she was out of the door, past her mother and down the stairs; nor did Lucy go to the aid of her husband but, running after her daughter, she hissed, ‘Don’t forget the address. And pick up your cloak.’ Noreen did not wait to give an answer to her mother. Like an escaping prisoner, as she certainly was, she flew through the sitting room and out of the window, and as swift as any hare she made her way to the old barn where would lie her passport to freedom, freedom her mother would never have provided her with if she had known what she was carrying inside her.

  Eight

  ‘Mama . . . Mama! Please, please, be quiet. It’s no use talking any more. I mean to go over there and find out what’s happening to her. I went along with you last week when you asked me to wait, I’ve gone along with you this week when you’ve begged me to wait, but I can wait no longer. Unless she was tied up she would have got word to me in some way, I know she would. She’s strong-willed, determined if you like.’

  Tilly sank down slowly onto the couch and, taking a handkerchief from the pocket of her dress, she wiped the beads of sweat from her brow.

  It had been hot all day, in fact June had been behaving as one expected it to do for the past two weeks; there had been no rain, the sun had shone all day long and the nights seemed to be almost as hot as the days.

  All the windows on the ground floor of the manor were open, yet no breeze stirred through the house.

  She brought the handkerchief round her lips and, reaching out, picked up a glass of sherbet from the table and sipped at it. After replacing the glass on the table she moved her lips slowly one over the other before she said, ‘What you don’t seem to understand, Willy, is that Simon Bentwood is capable of killing, and rather than have you have his daughter I’m sure he will attempt it, even knowing the consequences of such an act.’

  ‘Mama’ – he was bending down towards her now – ‘why did you have me trained in wrestling?’

  When she looked up at him and made no reply he demanded, his voice almost on a shout now, ‘Go on, tell me, tell me why you had me trained to defend myself.’

  ‘Don’t shout at me, Willy!’ Even as she said the words she was surprised that she had to speak in such a way to this son who up to a few short weeks ago she had deemed to be the most even-tempered creature in the world, and when he slowly straightened his back and stood rigid before her she looked up at him and said patiently, ‘Willy, you are dealing with a madman. How can I get that home to you? Simon Bentwood has become unbalanced.’ She now put her hand out towards him and, gripping his wrist, she said, ‘Do one more thing for me: wait until you hear from Steve. You said yesterday he was going to make enquiries.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mama, I can’t. I can’t stand another day without knowing what’s happened to her. Do you know that I haven’t slept for nights?’

  No, she hadn’
t known that, but she used his words now, saying ‘Well, if that is the case, you’re in no fit condition to meet up with that raving lunatic of a man.’ Her voice had risen now, and she pulled herself to her feet and as she did so there was a tap on the drawing-room door. It opened, and Biddle stood there and announced solemnly, ‘Mr McGrath to see you, ma’am.’

  Tilly did not move towards Steve as he entered the room but Willy did. His hand guiding him along the back of the couch, his face slightly to the side, he hurried towards the mist-shrouded figure and as Tilly watched his hand go out to Steve, and Steve take it firmly within his and turn him about, then guide him back towards her, she experienced the grinding ribcage pain again which had nothing to do with her son’s unhappiness but which recalled the words he had said to her some time ago: ‘At one time, I thought he was my father.’

  It was the first time she had seen Steve to speak to privately since their interrupted conversation. She had seen him twice since; both times he was on horseback and in the company of . . . the woman. And on the second occasion she knew that he had deliberately turned off the main coach road to avoid meeting her.

  Acting the hostess, she said, ‘Can I get you something to drink, Steve?’

  To her surprise he accepted the invitation, saying, ‘That would be welcome at the moment, Tilly. A beer, if that is possible.’

  Yes, a beer would be possible, and from the cellar too, but it wasn’t usually drunk in the drawing room. However, marriage into the Drew family had so much altered Biddle’s attitude that the request he should serve the guest with beer in this room would register no effect on his expression.

  As she rang the bell Willy was saying to Steve, ‘Have you heard anything?’ and before the door opened Steve had answered, ‘Yes. Yes, I have.’ But once Biddle had entered the room he did not speak again; not until Tilly had said to Biddle, ‘Will you please draw a fresh flagon of ale from the cellar and bring a platter of bread and cheese at the same time?’ and the door had closed on the butler did he look from one to the other and say, ‘I must warn you that it isn’t pleasant news.’

  Willy made no comment, and Steve went on, ‘If one is to believe Randy Simmons’ chat he’s, I mean Bentwood’s, got her locked up in her bedroom and she’s been there for the past fortnight.’

  No! No! Willy turned about hastily and made to walk towards the opened window, and when he stumbled against the chair and it toppled over, Steve, rising hastily, made to go to his aid, but Tilly’s hand on his sleeve stayed him, and when he looked at her she shook her head.

  Now they both watched Willy swing around as he cried, ‘Well, this is it! I’m going over there. Will . . . will you come with me, Steve?’

  When there was no direct reply Willy shouted, ‘All right! All right! I’ll go on my own, but go I will.’

  ‘Hold your hand a minute, wait! Wait. Come and sit down.’ And saying so, Steve went towards him and drew him back to the middle of the room and pressed him down into a chair. He himself sat on the edge of the couch and, leaning forward, he gripped Willy’s knee as he said, ‘You’ve got to go careful in this business, Willy. If you barge into his house, even into his farmyard, and he does you a mischief you won’t get much sympathy or even justice, you’ll be at fault.’

  ‘I don’t want sympathy, and if there’s any justice the police should go to the house and lock him up.’

  ‘Now, now! Wait. Put your studying cap on and think it out. It’s a private matter; she’s his daughter. What does she want to do? Well, she wants to run off with a young man. Now he doesn’t see eye to eye with her about this, so what does he do? He locks her in her room. The same thing’s been done countless times before, Willy, in an effort to make young lasses come to their senses.’

  ‘She’s . . . she’s not just a young lass, she’s a very sensible person, clear-headed . . . she thinks . . . ’

  ‘Well, if that’s the case she’ll likely think of a way out of this situation. Look; will you leave the matter in my hands for another day or two? I’ll take a walk round there and when he’s in the fields, Bentwood I mean, I’ll try to have a word with her mother.’ His voice now went into a gritty growl as he added, ‘And at the same time I’ll collar Mr Randy Simmons and threaten to choke the life out of him if he carries any more tales. He’s an old rat that fellow. He was a mischief-maker when I was a lad and the years haven’t improved him. Well now, what do you say?’

  ‘What’s that? Aw no!’ Tilly looked towards the door. They all looked towards the door from where beyond in the hall there came a sound as if Biddle had dropped the tray and the glass had splintered. But when there followed a commotion of scuffling and muddled voices, Tilly glanced quickly at Steve and he at her. Then they both ran towards the drawing-room door. But before they reached it, it was opened, not thrust open, but kicked open, and there, like an infuriated bull, stood the man who was in all of their minds.

  ‘Where is she? Come on! Where is she?’

  ‘Now, look here, Mr Bentwood.’ Steve had taken a step forward, only to be checked by Simon Bentwood’s voice bawling, ‘You keep out of this, McGrath, this has nothing to do with you. Or then perhaps it has, you being her fancy man.’

  The echo of his last word had scarcely died away before Steve had sprung over the distance between them. But all Bentwood’s faculties were alert, the drink had worn off, his back for the moment had eased as it was apt to do at times, helped he had imagined by the cold sluice he had given himself under the pump to rid his body of the stink and filth of the slop bucket; so he met Steve’s attack not with his fists but with his boot. Bringing it sharply forward he caught him in the groin and sent him reeling to the side in agony. Then he was in the drawing room and advancing to where Willy was waiting for him, his body stiff, his arms slightly bent, his head turned well to the side.

  The pose checked Simon Bentwood’s onslaught and within an arm’s length he stopped and again he bawled, ‘Where is she?’

  Before Willy could answer, Tilly’s voice broke in, crying, ‘She’s not here. Your daughter’s not here.’

  Simon Bentwood did not take his eyes from the young man before him and again he demanded, ‘Where is she? You dare to stand there and tell me she’s not here, go on!’

  ‘She’s . . . not . . . here.’ The words were spaced and firm; then Willy added more to them: ‘But if she were here, I can assure you I wouldn’t let you near her.’

  ‘You! You blind son of a bitch of hell.’ Now it was he who sprang, his right hand extended in the act of delivering a blow. But surprisingly it didn’t reach its target and there was no-one more amazed than Bentwood when he found himself spun round, his arms wrenched behind him and into a grip like that of a vice while a knee found the sorest spot on his spine, and, his body bent over, he was forced to groan aloud.

  In the seconds it had taken this to happen, Tilly had raced from the room past Biddle and Peabody, who were attending to Steve, and it was only seconds again before she returned and, looking to where her son was still holding Simon Bentwood, she shouted, ‘Let him go. Let him go, Willy.’

  Willy could only dimly see the outline of his mother standing in the middle of the room. For the moment his vision seemed to have worsened and he imagined she was standing holding a gun to her shoulder. Her voice confirmed his dimmed image, for she now cried again, ‘Let him go, and if he dares to raise a finger to you I’ll shoot him.’

  Slowly Willy relinquished his hold on the big, flabby figure and he could see enough to know the man stumbled some steps forward and groped for the support of the back of a high chair. He saw him straighten his back, then look slowly around the room.

  Perhaps it was not only the sight of Tilly standing levelling a gun at him that raised the fury in Bentwood but the fact that she seemed surrounded by all her lackeys, for besides the two flunkeys three outside men were standing by her now. Two of them he recognised as the Drew fellows. And then there were the women crowding round the door, a host of them, all ready to defend her and h
er blind brat.

  He fixed his gaze on Tilly now, then on a bitter laugh he cried, ‘You would shoot me, would you? If I remember rightly you used to be against guns at one time, wouldn’t hear of a rabbit being potted. But that was afore you crossed the seas and became a squaw. Did you shoot Sopwith afore he shot you for mixing it with the blackies . . . ?’

  The report of the gun startled him and lifted him from the ground for the bullet had passed through the pad of his coat taking the skin off his shoulder with it and had lodged itself in the panelling near the window behind him.

  In the stillness that pervaded the room he put his fingers inside his jacket, and when he pulled them out they were wet. He stared at them for a moment, then looked towards her. She had the gun cocked again. She had shot him, Tilly Trotter had shot him. She could have killed him. Perhaps she meant to kill him. He wanted to say something but he was too shaken and he stood with his hand extended in front of him listening to her saying, ‘I aimed for your shoulder. Now I’ll give you exactly five minutes to clear my grounds, and should you ever enter them again, Simon Bentwood, I won’t aim for your shoulder next time. One more thing, from this moment I give you twelve months’ notice to quit your farm . . . Arthur, Jimmy.’ She did not look towards the men as she spoke but went on, ‘See that this man leaves my property.’

  When Jimmy and Arthur Drew approached him, Simon Bentwood, as if coming out of a dream, growled at them, ‘Keep your place, you two. She hasn’t finished me off yet; I’m still capable of dealing with lackeys.’

  ‘Arthur.’

  The command checked Arthur Drew from taking the battle further.

  Simon Bentwood now moved from behind the chair and in passing down the middle of the room he had to come within two yards of Tilly and he paused for a moment as he glared at her and he said, ‘I’ll make a case of this, shooting’s an offence. There’ll be no-one to meet you coming out of court this time. There’s still justice here, and I’ll see you along the line yet.’