‘To act as a wheel?’ asked Marty with a laugh.
‘Dozy sod – for your mother. Tell her I’ve got some nice bacon an’ all – oh, there we are!’ Bill found a suitable wheel which, affixed to the barrow, was to provide Marty’s salvation. He had a barrow, he had a job; now he would have Etta.
Before anything else, he had to conjure an excuse for his parents as to why he might be absent for the next couple of days. It would not work. They would guess at once what he was up to and prevent it. Instead, speaking enthusiastically about the barrow, he explained the difficulty he might have in touting for custom without a licence, and that if he happened to be very late home on his first day they must not worry. They seemed very pleased with his enterprise and he hoped they would not be too concerned when he failed to show. He hated lying but could not hope for them to understand the strength of his feelings for Etta. It was she who commanded his thoughts as he trundled his barrow to the pub in Long Close Lane early the next morning, to be stashed there until his triumphal return.
Everything was in order with the room. How fortunate that he had paid the month’s rent in advance. Checking for the umpteenth time that the key was in his pocket, he embarked on his rescue expedition. Admittedly he was terrified of such a powerful man as Ibbetson, but his love for Etta overcame all, and the notion that he was taking the first step towards their reunion filled him with cheer as he set off on his fifteen-mile hike. Occasionally, this lightness of spirit was to evaporate along with the runnels of sweat on his brow as he struggled through the August heat wave that had suddenly flared, plodding along dusty roads and rolling countryside with his jacket slung over his shoulder, hour after hour after hour, his feet on fire, his legs fit to buckle, his throat parched. But, eventually arrived at her gate just after noon, he was imbued with a sense of such overwhelming achievement that instead of lying low and waiting for her to spot him, he summoned every ounce of courage, donned his brass-buttoned jacket and marched proudly up the driveway towards the massive front door. He would show just how serious he was and let Ibbetson admire his pluck.
The door seemingly miles away, his resolve began to fray as he pictured the actions of those inside as they heard the crunch of an impostor’s feet along the gravel. He imagined eyes at every window, and steeled himself for the blows that must surely follow.
But lo and behold it was a kiss which greeted him first! Spotting him from her lonely seat by the window as she dressed for luncheon, Etta shoved aside her startled maid, rushed headlong down the staircase and across the hall, and before he even had a chance to ring the bell she had thrown herself into his arms and was pressing her lips to every sweating part of his face in joy and relief.
‘I knew it! I knew you’d come!’ And she grabbed his arm and hurriedly led him around the back of the house to a more secluded spot near the potting shed, with an anxious Blanche giving chase.
Unrestrained kisses were to follow, the maid averting her eyes, until Etta suddenly commented on the results of his previous beating. ‘Oh, your poor face! Have I hurt you?’
‘No, no! You make everything better.’ A rapturous Marty enfolded her, moulding his body into her soft, hot flesh, breathing in her scent along with the flowers, kissing and caressing erotically.
‘You shouldn’t have come to the front door!’ Her protestations interspersed more breathless kissing.
‘Are you saying I’m not good enough?’
Her face scolded him between kisses. ‘I meant why did you risk it? Father will be even more furious, I dread to think what he’ll do this time!’
‘Miss Etta!’ Blanche hissed a warning, but was ignored.
‘I won’t be cowed.’ Marty nuzzled the silky white neck. ‘I’ve decided to face him man to man, tell him I’ve got the licence for our wedding and he’ll have to kill me to prevent it!’
‘That is a distinct possibility!’ interjected another. They whirled to see her enraged father bearing down on them. Informed by a servant, Ibbetson had had no time to grab a weapon but his clenched fists promised retribution. Blanche immediately backed away.
Forewarned, Marty was prepared and squared up to his opponent – at least there was only the one this time – but Etta went to meet her father. ‘Please discuss this sensibly!’
However, Ibbetson had never been an articulate man.
‘Mother, stop him!’
Along with a gaggle of servants, Mrs Ibbetson had pursued her husband but, afraid of his fury, did no more than hover in the background wringing her hands.
Etta found herself swiped to the ground, much to Marty’s disgust, but before he could avenge her honour she was up again and yelling into her father’s face. ‘Oh, that’s right, cast me aside like the dirt you hold me to be!’
Ibbetson wrestled with her, at the same time grappling with Marty. ‘You behave like a guttersnipe, and you’ll be treated as such!’
Mrs Ibbetson moaned. Blanche burst into tears. The tranquil garden was rent by angry grunts and squeals.
‘Call yourself a gentleman!’ countered a furious Marty, trying to avoid hitting Etta, who insisted on sandwiching herself between the men. ‘You look down on me but I’d never spurn a lady in such a fashion!’
‘No, you’d just defile her so no other man’ll take her!’ yelled Ibbetson, managing to elbow past his daughter and grab hold of the young upstart, tussling with him, trying to aim a good punch, their struggle invading the flowerbeds where geraniums were trampled underfoot.
‘I’ve done nothing to be ashamed of!’ Face livid, Marty grasped the bigger man around the waist, hanging on grimly and pulling him in close to prevent Ibbetson landing a blow. ‘If you’d granted me the chance I would have asked politely to marry Etta, but you’re not a man for reason, are ye?’
Striving with effort, her nostrils tweaked by the anomalous perfume of crushed geranium, Etta heaved on her father’s tailcoat, trying to haul him off Marty, whilst her mother merely whimpered and hopped ineffectively from foot to foot. ‘Father, why in pity’s name won’t you allow me to marry the man I love?’
‘Because you can’t be trusted to make an intelligent decision! You’d sooner bring disgrace on this family – a boot boy, for deuce’s sake!’ Ibbetson staggered as his daughter almost succeeded in pulling him off balance, Marty still clinging on for grim death, both almost ankle-deep in soil.
‘Boot boy no more since you kindly had me dismissed!’ panted Marty, grimacing with the effort of trying to hang on and reassuring Etta at the same time as informing her father, ‘But I didn’t stay down for long – I’m to be my own boss!’
Etta might be impressed, but her father sneered. ‘If you think that entitles you to marry my daughter then think again! Now will someone remove this parasite from my land!’ With the assistance of footmen, a rebellious Marty was manipulated towards the exit.
Jerked back and forth by the violent jig performed by the men, Etta felt his jacket ripped out of her hands and threw them up in a gesture of exasperation, declaring stubbornly, ‘You can forbid it all you like, but Martin will be back for me! Lock me in chains, but I’ll get out somehow!’
‘Like a bitch on heat!’ Spittle flew from her father’s lips to his beard, showing just how deranged she had made him and causing her mother to reel in shock, the servants too. ‘I wager he doesn’t know how many more there’ve been, queuing up for your favours. He wouldn’t be so keen then!’
Etta gasped, could hardly speak from outrage. ‘And you’ve turned every one of them away! How dare you humiliate me in such a vile manner? What chance have I had to do such things of which you accuse me when I’m forever in thrall to you? I have no value to you other than to be bartered to some rich man, no matter how charmless or ugly, just so long as the union brings you more power!’
This pulled him up slightly, but only to offer derision. ‘I don’t need some flibbertigibbet to imbue me with power! I’ve worked damned hard to build all this and I don’t intend to lose it to some Tom, Dick or Harry on w
hom you’ve conveyed your favours!’
‘Pybus, this is intolerable, I beg you, desist!’ entreated Mrs Ibbetson, a more genteel person altogether than her husband, braving his wrath to snatch at his arm and condemn him with a whisper. ‘It’s unforgivable that you address Henrietta like some common…she’s our daughter.’
‘And how many times I’ve wished she wasn’t!’ retorted Ibbetson, but his wife’s quiet rebuke had acted as a turning point. Wrenching himself free of Marty, he thrust the hapless youth into the arms of the servants who awaited the order to eject him. But their master signalled them to linger. Brushing and tugging his clothes into some semblance of order, only just able to control his fury, he issued his daughter with an ultimatum. ‘One last chance – and I’m being more than generous in the face of such wilful provocation. But first I shall have an honest answer: did this scoundrel at any time take advantage of you?’
Etta toyed with the idea of saying yes – which would, in effect, mean that no other man would want her and she would be of no further use as a bargaining tool – but it would also spell another beating for Marty and she could not bear that. ‘You asked me once before. I told you that I intend to guard my honour until I marry. But, let me inform you, Father, I would die before I wed a man of your choosing. This man here, whom you have so cruelly handled, he is the only one I shall marry!’ She went to Marty’s side and clung to him.
Driven to distraction by this girl who, since babyhood, had never done as she was bidden, Ibbetson ranted, ‘You imbecile, he’s only after your wealth, can’t you see?’
‘What wealth?’ Etta reflected her father’s exasperation, her face pink and her hair tousled from the fray. ‘I have none, other than that which you deign to bestow!’
Ibbetson clutched his scalp and gave a delirious moan as if trying to understand how all this had come to pass. How could she depict him as such an ogre, after all he had given her? He got on well with his son John, didn’t he? Tremendously in fact, for John had never repaid his generosity and advice with ingratitude or confronted him at every turn of the way, as had this chit here, but gave him all the admiration that was due. Etta seemed only to want to hurl it back in his face, the ultimate display of that ingratitude being here and now in her choice of husband, this damned upstart, this lowest of the low.
A lethal expression on his face, he made as if to grab Marty again, but Etta’s mother intervened with a shriek. ‘Pybus, must you resort to murder? For nothing short of it will stop them. They are determined to wed.’
It was an unusually brave move for Isabella Ibbetson, who had allowed herself to be passed mutely from an overbearing father to a domineering husband, and, having learned how spitefully childish Pybus could be if not exalted as the font of all wisdom, preferred to buckle under for the sake of a quiet life. Her prayers that Etta would take this example had been unanswered, but she loved her wilful daughter, empathised with her reluctance to be bartered, and, even if it might be too late, sought to fight her corner now.
Marty saw the mother properly for the first time now, a striking woman with dark looks, and threw her a look of gratitude for her support, though it quickly became evident that she had not an ounce of Etta’s staying power.
Receiving a glare for her disobedience, Mrs Ibbetson sighed and meekly stepped aside for her husband to do his worst. But at least he seemed to have taken her remark to heart. Confining any further violence to his voice, he barked at Etta whilst addressing her via his wife. ‘Very well! The unmanageable baggage wants her own way, and she shall have it.’
Thinking there was some trick, Etta did not move, scraping away the hair that was clinging to her glistening brow and exchanging looks with Marty.
But her father said again, directly this time, ‘Off you go then! If that’s the way you want to repay everything that’s been lavished on you, there’s no point in dallying. After all, what use are you to me if you won’t do as you’re bidden?’
Still she was hesitant. ‘With your blessing?’
‘Blessing be damned! I hope you both rot in eternal damnation!’
Galvanised into action, she replied hotly, ‘As you wish, Father! Blanche, go and pack – you shall come with me, of course.’
An admiring Blanche made to accompany her to the house but the master blocked their progress. ‘She shall not! The servants are my property, and I didn’t buy you those clothes so you could pawn them to subsidise your fancyman.’
Alternating between relief and anger, Marty rejoined tersely, ‘I can support my own wife, Mr Ibbetson, we need none of your help.’
‘Splendid! Because you won’t get it. You!’ He jerked his head at Blanche. ‘Back to the house, unless you want to forfeit your livelihood.’
‘Don’t treat her like a chattel, she’s a human being – Blanche, stand your ground!’
But, recognising the futility of siding with Etta, the maid instantly complied with her employer’s demand.
‘Now let’s see how keen you are to take her on, Mr…whatever your name is.’
‘Lanegan,’ provided Marty through gritted teeth.
‘Hah! I thought I detected a touch of the bog-trotter. I suppose you’re a damned Roman Catholic into the bargain, aren’t you?’
‘I am.’ Marty was defiant, though he rarely went to church and neither did his parents.
‘Didn’t know that, did you?’ Ibbetson took delight in the look of slight surprise on his daughter’s face.
‘Martin’s religion has no bearing on anything.’ Etta became haughty.
Ibbetson gave a nasty laugh. ‘Let’s see what bearing it has when he lands you with a brat every year!’ His tone lightened. ‘But if you still want him badly enough I’ll allow you to walk out of here with the clothes you stand up in, which is more than you deserve. I wouldn’t like to guess how long one dress will last, mind.’ He saw the flicker of alarm on his daughter’s face as she realised what she was about to sacrifice, and drove his point home. ‘But then maybe, after what you’ve just learned, you’d care to reconsider, to admit that you’ve been an ungrateful fool and put this ridiculous notion out of your head, say goodbye to this bog-Irish fortune hunter, in which case we’ll say no more about it.’
Etta tried to appear dignified. ‘Presented with such generosity of spirit, Father, you leave us no choice.’ She took Marty’s arm and headed for the gate.
Her mother panicked – this was not what she had intended at all. ‘Henrietta, don’t be so rash! Will you not consider your mother? For I must stand by my husband in this, there shall be no return.’
‘I’m sorry, Mother.’ Etta turned a pitying expression on Mrs Ibbetson, her eyes filling with tears. ‘Say goodbye to John for me when next you see him.’ Then she turned away to hide her distress.
‘Pybus, you cannot allow her to go!’ The mother clutched her cheeks in anguish.
Ibbetson was unnerved too at his bluff being called, though he did not let it show. ‘You were the one who said she was determined. Well, let’s see how determined she is when she has to fend for herself.’ And to his daughter: ‘Don’t come begging to us when you find your boot boy doesn’t earn enough to keep you in scent!’
Etta rounded angrily on her father, fighting tears of rage at the blithe manner in which he rejected her. ‘If you think that by spoiling Martin’s chances of finding work I’ll come back to you –’
‘You think I’d have you back?’ Ibbetson gave an uncaring snort. ‘Once you get beyond those gates that’s it – and that fellow doesn’t need my help in losing a job, he’ll do that for himself by his reckless attitude.’
‘I know you, you vindictive wretch!’ stormed Etta. ‘The minute I’m gone –’
There was no chance to say more, for at her father’s declaration of ‘Enough of this!’ she was bundled unceremoniously from the grounds along with her lover and the gates clanged shut in her astonished face. There was nothing else for it but to walk away.
Behind the barricade, watching her go, Etta’s
father remained furious. Her mother was only sad, her voice caught with emotion. ‘We’ve lost her.’
‘Rubbish! She’ll try crawling back when he finds he can’t manage her either and throws her out.’
In response came a miserable shake of head from one who knew: both husband and daughter were as stubborn as each other.
Ibbetson turned dismissively to march back to the house, the servants scurrying ahead. But his daughter’s ingratitude had wounded him deeply. He could never forgive her.
Elated at having won, Marty would have tackled the fifteen-mile return hike with aplomb, but how could he drag Etta all that way in those flimsy little shoes? Especially after such extreme upset as she had endured.
‘We’ll bide here for the carrier,’ he told her kindly, even though he had little cash to spare, as he led her to a bench on the village green. ‘Hope it’s not too long a wait.’
Etta nodded and sat beside him, constricted, chafed and sweating in the corset that held her upright like a fist of iron but could not prevent her overall subdued bearing.
It hurt to say it but he felt he must. ‘There’s still time to go back if you’re regretting –’
‘No!’ Her upper lip beaded with sweat, she hastened to reiterate her love for him, trying to appear her bright self. ‘I’m not in the least regretful. You’re all I’ve ever wanted and will want, truly.’ She laid her head on his shoulder. ‘It’s just so sad to have to leave Mother…’
‘Aye…but you mentioned she didn’t have much to do with bringing you up.’ He remembered Etta voicing her sense of loss at the dismissal of her old nanny.
Her head came up. ‘That doesn’t matter! She’s still my mother. Imagine how you’d feel.’
Nodding, he entwined her in comforting arms, coaxed her head back to his shoulder and was thoughtful for a while. ‘It’s not the same, I know, but I’m sure mine will welcome you as her own once she gets to meet you in person. And my da’s a lovely man too.’ Perhaps, again, it was the wrong thing to have said, her father being quite the opposite. He rested his chin atop her perspiring scalp, imagining the initial commotion his parents would make. But they were good people, and once they had evidence of Etta’s love for their son they would take her to their hearts.
Keepsake Page 8
