They drew up at the front of the house and stood back to inspect the outside of the property.
“Smaller than Thornehills, Mother, but not by a lot. Three windows to the front and a wing at the side, it seems. Eight bedrooms, perhaps?”
“So it said on the description, my dear. With outhouses to the rear as well – laundry and coal house and such. Big enough for a family. An acre of flower garden to the front, full of fine roses and foxgloves – much could be made of that. I must presume vegetables in a kitchen garden to the rear.”
Mary was increasingly puzzled but agreed it to be so.
“An attractive property, Mother, but…”
“It is to be yours, my dear. Samuel must inherit Thornehills and Abraham is determined to make his fortune in faraway places. A house of your own makes good sense now that one has fallen into our hands. You will wish to marry in a year or two or three, depending on the discovery of a husband you want. Being mistress of your own property will have much to recommend you.”
Mary agreed, faintly. She had long intended to marry as soon as was practical – she had no wish at all to be a spinster sat in the corner at home – but she had not considered the financial aspects of making a family of her own. A house was, now that she thought about it, a very useful asset to a married lady, or indeed to any grown-up female.
“A question to be considered is of the acreage that should come with the building itself, Mary. You should have your gardens and lawns for children to play on and perhaps an orchard as well. Will the family require fields, one must ask?”
“Must one, Mother?”
Josie wondered if her daughter was waxing satirical, stared sternly at her. Probably not, she concluded; she was merely overcome by the sudden significance of the occasion.
“We could think of retaining the whole acreage and making it into a park where the children could ride their ponies – but that would be wasteful of land, in my opinion.”
Mary was not prepared to advance her own opinion against her mother’s; she meekly agreed.
“As an alternative, we might think of selling all but the sandpit and say two or three acres for the house. Finally, we might simply continue to rent the land to tenant farmers and take the income that produces. Not a large income, I would say, a bare two hundred a year.”
Mary knew little of money – she had no use for it in her own day-to-day existence – and accepted her mother’s dismissal of two hundreds as a mere bagatelle. She did have an idea for the land, however, her eye following its sweep down to a small stream and guessing its size.
“Might we keep as much as twenty acres, Mother? That is not a huge amount of land, I think, but would offer little walks and the chance to plant more of trees and flowers and give a place for the children to ride.”
Josie was not sure it was the best of suggestions but was pleased that her daughter had thought to make it. She agreed that it might well be an answer.
“Let us venture inside, my dear. The Tackenhams left the bulk of their furniture behind, being gone off to Bath and possibly spending more to transport it so great a distance than it would cost to buy new.”
The house was old-established and so was its furniture, dark oak of a previous generation, solid and foursquare.
“A maid to polish and dust every day, Mother, and probably have no time for anything else. Look at the state of the dresser, Mother!”
Josie looked at the massive oak, standing eight feet tall and ten wide, a mirror centrally and shelves to either side and a dozen drawers in the lower part. It was carved with Elizabethan men-at-arms, standing tall and proud – and dusty.
“A fine piece, Mary, but demanding much labour. Better be rid of it.”
It was far too good to be thrown away. It must be kept. It was probably the first time Mary had ever gainsaid her mother – both were struck dumb in amaze.
Eventually Josie agreed that if the house was to be her daughter’s then she should have the ruling of it.
All of the downstairs rooms were dark, their small windows letting little light onto the black furniture.
“Some covers and hangings, perhaps, Mother, might brighten them up eventually. The kitchen must benefit from a proper closed range rather than the open hearth with its spits and hooks for the boiling pots!”
Josie agreed.
“Your cook will not give you thanks for trying to make meals on this old-fashioned arrangement. I cannot imagine how the lady of the house tolerated this!”
“Perhaps her lord had the word on it, Mother.”
“Unwilling to spend money – and then complaining for the food not being good enough, so I would wager!”
It seemed likely to both.
There was but one staircase – no back way for the servants to use out of sight – and that not especially wide or impressive.
“It does not compare to Thornehills, Mother.”
“No. Tackenham called himself ‘squire’ but lived as little more than a farmer, it seems. Let us see what the upstairs has to offer.”
Eight bedrooms, four of which were empty and long had been, the others containing bedframes and dressing tables and wardrobes. At the rear there was a second set of stairs leading up to a pair of rooms in the attics, tiny boxes eight feet square for cook and maid.
“Out of the way old-fashioned, Mary. Better to build a pair of little cottages to the rear for the staff and use these as box rooms.”
Mary agreed – better far the staff should be properly distant. It was no longer the case that cook and maids should be treated as a lesser part of the family as they had been in olden times.
“Eight bedrooms, Mother – surely more than sufficient. It would be possible to turn two into dressing rooms, one for wife, the other for husband, rather than cram wardrobes into the one bedroom. Warm rugs to the floor, as well, in bright colours. It would be possible to make more of the house, Mother.”
Josie thought it might be practical, slowly realised that Mary was looking forward with pleasure to refurbishing, to knotting rugs with her own hand, to determining where sheepskins might be laid.
“All of the pleasures of domesticity, my love?”
“Why, yes, Mother! My own house set out as I want it! When can I start, Mother?”
The answer had to be ‘immediately’. Josie had not expected so joyous an acceptance and now could not disappoint her daughter. It was very puzzling to her.
“I will speak to Miss Smithers, Mary. I do not know what is best, for you could not live here without a companion, and Josephine must still be taught. We should discuss what to do.”
“Simple enough, Mother. I shall leave the schoolroom and move here. You should discover a cook and a maid and a genteel companion to live in so that all will be respectable. An old man for the garden, as well, and to drive a little gig. All will be well and we will build our comfortable household.”
Josie was surprised that her quiet daughter should have such definite plans.
“I have never wanted anything else, Mother, than to be like you and rule my own life. I have often dreamed of my own house.”
“What of a husband?”
“If needs must, Mother – but if I have my own house, I do not need a husband as well.”
It was very strange, but the family finances could easily stretch to Mary’s own establishment, and, if she wanted it so much, then it could be done. Josie began to suspect that she did not know her own daughter, then told herself that was no great surprise for she had always been too busy with more important matters to play much of a part in bringing up her children.
‘As you sow, so shall ye reap’. One of the Epistles, she believed, and, apparently, true.
She spent a while longer looking over the upstairs and then led Mary back to the little carriage. She suffered the whole ride home from Mary’s enthusiasm and planning, bright chatter about a topic which interested her very little.
“What do I do now, Miss Smithers?”
“Find a compan
ion for Mary, ma’am. Not a difficult task, I must imagine. She is a bright girl but has never wanted more than to be mistress of her own house. I do not understand her, but there is no great reason why I should. Do you wish her to marry, ma’am?”
Josie could not imagine that she should not – every girl wanted to marry, to have a husband and children… did they not?
“Generally, yes, ma’am. Mary might be perfectly happy without a husband.”
“I had thought Mr Higgins, perhaps… Or another of the local men of affairs. With a house of her own and an income secured to her, she is eminently marriageable.”
“She is, ma’am, but that is not to say she wishes to be. She has always wanted her own house and understood that a husband necessarily came with it. Without the encumbrance of a man, the house is even more attractive, I suspect.”
“I do not entirely understand why that might be, Miss Smithers. You may well be right, however. You know more of my own children than I do – through my choice, I will admit. Tell me, are Samuel and Abraham truly happy in the course laid out for them?”
Miss Smithers smiled, relieved to have the difficult part of the conversation behind her. She could not claim to comprehend Mary’s nature but thought the boys to be easier studies.
“Samuel is happy to be a man, ma’am. He will do well in the business, for wanting to be the match of his father in your eyes. He is not one to try to rise in the world, ma’am, but will be content to be wealthy and unknown.”
That seemed eminently reasonable to Josie – the unknown never fell into trouble nor had sons who could go gambling in the wider world and bringing debt down upon their families.
“Abraham is an adventurer, ma’am, a wild man in the making. He must go, he is to ‘fly where the wild goose flies’, as they say. He may return one day; more likely he will not. He cannot be ‘cabin’d, cribb’d, confined’, as the Bard says, ma’am. In Macbeth, you know?”
Josie did not know. Her knowledge of Shakespeare was limited.
“Not to worry, ma’am. Suffice it to say that he will roam the wild seas and tramp to the far mountains, perhaps to make his fortune, possibly to discover a remote and early grave. He cannot be kept here to become a sober man of business.”
Melancholy, but true, Josie thought, ‘wild geese’ stirring a recollection.
“I remember the song, Miss Smithers. My father used to sing it, ‘my heart flies where the wild goose roams’. It is Irish, I think. My mother was an Irishwoman, so I believe… My son to go and never return… I must imagine that my mother did the same, leaving home and country and never to see either again. It is a hard world we live in, sometimes, Miss Smithers… But it is the only one we have! Not to fret – I do not doubt that my sons are as I have made them – and my daughter, too. A companion for Mary, that must be the first aim, Miss Smithers. How and who?”
“If I might say, ma’am, not a lady, as such. A respectable housekeeper would be best. A childless widow, left near penniless by an improvident husband – there are such to be discovered, I do not doubt. Perhaps our good friend, Mr Malone, would know of such? Not perhaps the field in which Mr Nick might excel.”
“Definitely not Mr Nick’s speciality, Miss Smithers. Mr Malone has responsibility for the welfare of many. I shall send him a note.”
Mr Malone was surprised by the request, so much so that he took a morning out from his busy schedule to call at Thornehills.
“Miss Mary Heythorne to set up in her own house, you say, ma’am?”
“The house is to be hers, Mr Malone, and she believes she is old enough to set up in it. Better than leaving it empty, I feel.”
“Never good for a house, that, ma’am. What of the estate? I presume she is not to farm it herself?”
“No, I think not, sir. I have it in mind to fence off an acreage to be made into orchard and such around the house and the remainder to be sold or let to local men.”
“A wise plan, ma’am. I know little enough of agriculture myself and have no desire to learn, but I cannot imagine it to be the amusement of an educated young miss such as a daughter of yours must be. Is Mr Samuel Heythorne to play any part in her existence, perhaps?”
“He has the sandpit, but that is to be kept quite separate from the house. He is seeking a deposit of finer-grain sands, if such may be discovered. The pit at Tackenham’s is of coarse material, useable for glass but better-suited to moulding for cast iron.”
That was worth knowing, as she was well aware. Mr Malone could find a profit from that information, and possibly Samuel would be pointed to the sands he wanted.
Mr Malone thought he might know just the lady who would suit Miss Mary’s needs.
“The very recent widow of the senior clerk to a merchant of the town, ma’am. Never a child in twenty years of marriage and him not the most robust of men. He took and died over the winter, slowly from the consumption or somesuch. He could not work the last three months and so lost his post and his only income. All of their savings went to the doctor’s bills. She sold their little house last month and is putting up as a lodger in one room in the town for the while. A year and she will not have the money for that. Her landlady is mother to one of my fine young employees and the matter was brought to my attention only last week and I have been wondering what I might do for her, being as I look after all of my people. I believe her to be a little educated and of a mild-mannered frame of mind, ma’am. Perhaps Miss Mary might wish to meet her? Mrs Antrobus, the name, ma’am.”
“An old name, Mr Malone. Was her family of the nobility of a time?”
“A younger son of a younger son, perhaps, Mrs Heythorne. Such can fall a long way in just two generations.”
“They can indeed, sir. How are the two best to meet?”
“At the Tackenham house, ma’am? I can arrange for her to be driven out, shall we say on Friday? It will make sense for her to see the location that might be hers.”
“At eleven in the morning, perhaps?”
The agreement was made and Mary was informed of the efforts being made to accommodate her needs.
“If you take a dislike to the lady, Mary, tell me so. Once taken into your service, you will have obligations to her, so do not accept her if you are uncertain of her suitability.”
Mrs Antrobus was tired, faded and forty. Life had used her hard and she was hopeful that her time of tribulation might be coming to an end, but she did not truly believe in happy endings, was not to be surprised if her interview led to nothing.
Mary was nervous too and had little idea of what to say to her potential companion.
Josie took charge, inviting Mrs Antrobus to discuss the garden and the house and how it might be brightened up.
“Mirrors, ma’am, opposite the windows. They did well for my little house in Stoke. Brighter colours, too. These heavy old curtains could be changed to great benefit, ma’am. A year or two of effort with a needle and much could be done. I never had a garden, ma’am, and would have dearly loved one.”
Mary ventured to ask if she had always lived in town, was told that she had but had wished for the cleaner air of the countryside all her life.
“Town has much to say for it, ma’am. But I have perhaps seen sufficient of it.”
“You must choose a bedroom while you are here, Mrs Antrobus. Come upstairs now. I am to take the big room at the front here, and the one next as my dressing room, but that gives you a choice of six.”
There was a room facing out to the far hills, not the largest of the six but airy and west-facing, bright of an evening. Mrs Antrobus thought it would do her well indeed, if she was to stay.
Mary nodded to her mother.
They sat down in the formal front room, around the great oak table.
“We would like you to stay, Mrs Antrobus. As lady-companion, which is to eat at the table with my daughter, of course. Not as a mere servant. There will be a cook and a maid and a gardener and his boy and a general man who will drive the gig and work outside as well. I thi
nk we might look to set on a second maid, a young girl to learn. It is not a small house. Your keep is found, of course, and I think a salary of fifty pounds a year might be reasonable?”
“More than reasonable, Mrs Heythorne. I had not expected a payment as well as my keep.”
“It is only fair, Mrs Antrobus. Mary will have her own income and you will wish to assist her in the running of the house – something new to her in the nature of things – but you are not to be a mere housekeeper. I will seek to hire on the staff in the next few days. You cannot live here without them, of course… What would you say to coming here two weeks on Monday?”
“I would be pleased indeed, ma’am.”
“Good. Have you a cat or dog to bring with you?”
“Neither, ma’am. My poor husband’s chest wheezed so when he came close to either. I would have liked a dog, ma’am, but it was not to be.”
“A pair of dogs might make good sense in a country house such as this, Mrs Antrobus. I shall look about for puppies!”
Mary agreed that she would like a dog. She would have wanted one as a child, but the question seemed never to have arisen.
Josie could find it in her to feel a little guilty.
Mrs Antrobus took it upon herself to offer Mary lessons in household economy and particularly in how to manage and spend her money. She was thanked and sent back to town where she ventured so far as to buy some lengths of cotton, suitable for dresses for country wear, and some heavier materials to be embroidered in her leisure time.
Mary did not know what her income was to be and steeled herself so far as to ask her mother.
“As to that, my dear, your brother Samuel must be consulted as well as myself. While he is in his nonage I can take the decision but he could override me on reaching the age of one-and-twenty so it is wise to have his agreement from the very beginning. We shall talk to him this evening when he comes in.”
Samuel entered the house triumphant. He had organised the contract for bricks for the glass cone and furnaces and had seen the start made on digging the footings. He could see the enterprise actually taking shape now.
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