The Glass Virgin

by Catherine Cookson

  ‘Selling a few bloody pig scraps to the rabble! You mean you dismissed the woman for that?’

  ‘The rabble, as you call them, were your friend Rosier’s workmen, the evicted ones, and my cook was selling my food to them. If they had a penny they could eat, if they hadn’t they starved. And where do men on strike get pennies?’

  ‘What Rosier does is no bloody business of yours.’

  ‘Will you kindly control your language when you’re speaking to me, Edmund?’

  ‘Control, be damned!’ He advanced towards her until he was within a foot of her; then thrusting out his chin, he growled low, ‘Do you know what you’ve done? You’ve lost me two thousand pounds. Blunt is not a bond man, he’s free to go, and he’ll go now that his wife’s dismissed, and likely over to Boston or Rosier. He’s the best fighter in the county, and now because of a few bloody scraps you’ve lost him to me. Even if he does stay and does fight he won’t have his heart in it; he’ll get his own back by selling the game, I know Blunt.’

  She looked at him steadily before saying in a trembling voice, ‘You must have wagered a considerable sum if you expect the return of two thousand pounds and at a time when you tell me there is no money at all in the bank.’

  ‘I backed him over a year ago, long odds.’ His lying was so perfected that he could even make himself believe it. ‘And up to this morning the money was as good as in my hands. Look.’ His voice suddenly dropped to an almost soothing softness. ‘Reinstate her. Caution her – I’ll do it for you – but have her back.’

  ‘No, Edmund; I’ll do no such thing.’

  He stared at her, the grey eyes narrowing as the seconds passed. This morning she had saved him from sure bankruptcy and also saved his face among his gambling friends, but even so he could say to her now and in slow soft tones that made his words more terrifying, ‘I was thinking of looking up the continental firms in Germany, France and Belgium; I might learn a trick or two; and perhaps find markets in Spain or Portugal, they want good quality glass there and we can offer it. It’s years since I was in Italy; I’ve always been intrigued by the Venetians, and Annabella would love Venice, I think that seven is old enough for her to travel and see something of the world. What do you think about it?’

  His tone suggested that they were discussing the child’s education amicably. He watched the blood drain from her face, he watched her hands tremble, he watched the dress at her flat breast suddenly heave. ‘I’ll be in to supper,’ he added; ‘we’ll discuss it further this evening.’ Then bowing slightly to her he turned and went from the room.

  The only authority she had left was the running of the house, and now she was to lose that. That woman would have to be reinstated. In future she would merely be a figurehead in the eyes of her staff, an empty figurehead. From where did one get the strength to bear such humiliation? Only from God.

  She locked the door of her room, then knelt by her bedside, and, bowing her head, buried it deep into the bedcover.

  But the events of that particular day weren’t quite over. It happened that Annabella asked Alice the meaning of a word.

  Annabella had found that the day hadn’t been as happy as she anticipated. Her mother had stayed a long time in her grandmama’s house and Watford had acted very queerly on their way to the strawberry field. Once she had stopped and, shaking her hand which she was gripping tightly, she had looked down on her and said, ‘You’re a little . . . ’ Then she had stopped.

  They had found the children in the strawberry field. They were gleaning among the leaves. When she approached them they stood close together and very still. She would have gone nearer to them and dropped the sixpences at their feet but Watford had stopped her. It was she who grabbed the sixpences out of her hand and threw them at the children, and they were so startled that they didn’t scramble in the grass and pick them up. Then in a gruff voice Watford gave them the message from her mama and all the while they stood gaping at her.

  It was very disappointing, Annabella thought; things would have been quite different if she had been on her own, and she would have felt much better if she could have put the sixpences in their hands. But as her mama said they were very dirty children and had an offensive smell about them, yet still she would have liked to talk to them.

  After delivering the message Watford had pulled her away and had refused to play games. She felt peeved with Watford, yet at the same time she was sorry for her because Mama was going to speak to her in her office, and that meant Mama was angry with her.

  Then there were the other servants. Mrs Page had looked the other way when she saw her coming, and Pierce, the girl who was called Fanny and had a red, happy face and always said, ‘Hello, Miss’ when she saw her on her own, she too passed her, only looking at her slantwise. And Watford’s friend, Rawlings, had stared at her hard as if she didn’t like her. She couldn’t understand it. Then Rawlings had come into the day nursery and, as usual, she and Watford talked and as usual she herself listened. She didn’t think it was wrong to listen, for the simple reason that she didn’t repeat anything they said. They often talked about Faill and Cargill and they talked about the cook and Mrs Page. When they talked about Faill and Cargill they laughed, but when they talked about the cook and Mrs Page they didn’t laugh. But this evening they were talking about her, and Watford kept saying the word that she had missed this morning. She kept saying, ‘The little bars-stard.’ What was a bars-stard?

  She asked Alice. ‘What is a bars-stard, Alice?’

  Alice, not being of gentle birth, hadn’t the privilege of fainting; her reactions only went as far as covering her ears with her hands and gazing wide-eyed heavenwards. Then her whole body working as if agitated by bellows, she whispered in awe-filled tones, ‘Child! Child! What are you saying?’

  ‘I was only asking what is a . . . ’ Annabella was a little frightened at the reaction to her question by old Alice, and when Alice with upraised hands, cried, ‘I know, I know what you’re asking, but where did you hear such a word? Tell me, where did you hear it?’ she remained silent.

  She thought of Watford. Watford wasn’t pleased with her so she mustn’t get her into further trouble or tomorrow would be another day like today when Watford wouldn’t play with her properly, and the servants wouldn’t smile at her, and so she answered, ‘I don’t know, Alice. Someone said it. They said I was a little . . . what I said.’

  ‘If they said that, child, then you must know who said it. Was it Watford?’

  ‘No, no, Alice; it wasn’t Watford. It wasn’t Watford, really and truly.’ She knew she was protesting too strongly, so she stopped and stared into the taut-skinned face before her.

  ‘Look, child, tell me at once. Who said that to you?’

  ‘They didn’t say it to me, Alice, I just heard it.’

  ‘Will you tell me?’

  ‘No, Alice.’

  ‘Very well.’

  Alice marched out almost on the point of a jog trot and at the same speed she entered her mistress’ room, then came to a dead stop at the unexpected sight of her master. For him to call in on her mistress two nights running meant trouble. She was about to retreat when Rosina said, ‘What is it, Alice?’

  ‘Nothing, Madam, only when you have a minute would you kindly come up to the nursery?’

  Rosina, remembering last night and the blindfold, rose to her feet, asking anxiously, ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘Not exactly wrong, Madam.’ She always gave her mistress her title in front of the master.

  ‘Then what is it?’

  Alice became flustered. ‘Just something I think you should know, Madam, but it can wait.’

  ‘Is she sick in some way?’ Now HE was walking towards her. She always thought of Edmund Lagrange as HE, for HE was an intruder in the house, an alien, an evil alien.

  She said, ‘No, Master, s
he’s not sick.’

  ‘Then what ails her, woman, that you think your mistress should go to her immediately?’

  She stared back at him unafraid. She was unafraid of devils because she had God on her side and this man was composed of a number of devils. She would tell him what the trouble was and find pleasure in the doing. Looking him straight back in the eye, no timidity in her manner or voice she now said, ‘She asked me the meaning of bastard. Someone has used the name on her.’

  She watched his brows gather into a cleft above his nose; she watched his cheeks move upwards and almost obliterate his eyes; she saw anger like a red flame sweep over him; and then he brushed her aside and rushed from the room.

  ‘Oh, Alice! Alice!’ Rosina was also rushing past her, but, stopping for a second, she looked at her and said, ‘Who? Have you any idea?’

  ‘No, none whatever. She says it isn’t Watford.’

  When they reached the nursery it was to see Edmund Lagrange in a most unusual position. He was in the common attitude of sitting on his hunkers. His fine striped trousers tight around his hips, he balanced on his toes as he held his daughter’s hands and looked into her frightened face and demanded yet again, ‘Tell me at once, Annabella. Who called you that name?’

  ‘I . . . I don’t know, Papa.’ Annabella’s fear-filled gaze now flickered past her father to where Watford was standing, her back and hands pressed tight against the frame of the intersecting door and the combined actions of his daughter and the nursemaid were telling enough for him. In a springing movement he was on his feet and towering over the frightened girl. ‘You!’ The spittle from his lips sprayed her face. ‘You called my daughter a bastard?’

  The twitching face and shivering body was answer enough. He had pulled back his arm, his fist clenched, when Rosina’s cry of ‘Edmund! No!’ checked the blow but did not prevent him from knocking Watford sidewards and almost on to her back.

  Rosina, now looking at the cowering girl, said the same words for the second time that day: ‘Go to your room and get your things. Mrs Page will give you what is owing to you . . . ’

  Watford did as she was bid. With shaking limbs she went to her room and then to the housekeeper’s room, by which time she had regained enough of her natural courage to tell her aunt she could keep her reprimands to herself; she had said what she had said and it was the truth anyway, and she was glad she was leaving.

  Then the aggressiveness of her kind when roused rising in her, she made a final gesture. She didn’t leave by the kitchen but went into the hall in order to tell Harris what she thought of him, and incidentally to get him to open a door for her – this once.

  She hadn’t reckoned on the master and the mistress descending the stairs at this time, but, undeterred, she went on towards the door and calling to Harris in a loud voice as if he was at the far end of the room, she said, ‘Well, she is, isn’t she, nowt but a little bars-stard?’ Then in her black straw bonnet and faded red cloak and carrying her bundle of belongings she went out into the driving rain to walk the five miles to Jarrow. She was never to forget the journey and the incident that happened on the way which she kept to herself for years until the memorable night when she found herself sharing a room with her one-time charge, and then she spat the details into her face.

  The result of Watford’s dismissal was that Rosina engaged a governess. This was not a little dictated by her husband’s suggestion that the child’s education under herself was meagre.

  Miss Christina Howard was a young woman in her early twenties. She was highly intelligent and if she had been born a hundred years later would no doubt have found a position in the Diplomatic Service. It didn’t take her long to realise that her mistress wished her daughter to be well informed and charmingly mannered but above all she desired that she be instilled with high principles, whereas her master wished his daughter to be amusing and gay, to have more than a cursory knowledge of languages, and strangely that she should learn something about the glass-making trade. Perhaps this was because his wife was knowledgeable on the subject.

  She herself knew nothing about the glass-making trade but in the gallery there was a bookcase holding more than fifty books about the trade on which this particular family’s fortunes were founded, so she had all the information necessary to teach the theoretical side of the business to her pupil . . .

  And so it was that on Annabella’s tenth birthday, when she paid her first visit to the family works, she could recognise and name and even explain all that she saw.

  It was on this day, too, that her cousin, Stephen, kissed her for the first time, and she knew that she loved him. And it was on this day that she met the Spaniard who was known as Manuel Mendoza.

  BOOK TWO

  MANUEL MENDOZA

  One

  There was great excitement on the drive, at least Annabella felt that everyone was excited because her own body was bubbling with it. She was very happy because of a number of things. First, because she was ten years old; and secondly, because her father was happy, and had been happy for days. Perhaps this was because Mr Boston had been staying with them. Mr Boston was quite a young man but he was her father’s friend. Then there was the fact that her mama had kissed her a number of times and held her very close as she wished her a happy birthday. But above all, yes, above all, there was the joy of having her cousin Stephen’s company for a whole week. Her papa had even been agreeable to Stephen staying; at other times he had objected to anything other than her cousin paying a short visit.

  Her papa’s dislike of Stephen was something she couldn’t understand, and it troubled her. Sometimes she wondered if it was because her mama liked Stephen. Then there was another thing that had been troubling her of late, the disagreement that existed permanently between her parents.

  But today everyone was happy because they were going to visit the glass works. For such a long time now she had wanted to visit the glass works, and her papa had promised to take her on her tenth birthday, when he had laughingly informed her and Miss Howard that she was to conduct the tour and explain all the mysteries of glass-making to the party.

  In the open landau Annabella sat between her mother and her cousin, a fair-haired youth of sixteen. Opposite sat George Boston, a plump, already florid-faced young man of twenty-three. When Edmund Lagrange entered the carriage Harris closed the door, then gave a signal to the coachman and they were off.

  Such was her excitement that Annabella almost forgot to wave to Miss Howard who was standing at an upper window. She wished Miss Howard could have accompanied them because she was very fond of Miss Howard, but her mama had not been agreeable.

  Rosina glanced at the glowing face of her daughter and her heart contracted, as it always did, when she thought of how quickly the years were slipping away; she looked upon each birthday of Annabella’s as a step nearer parting, because she could be married at sixteen, or seventeen at the latest. Then what would become of herself? There was one glimmer of hope in the fast approaching empty future; Stephen, she knew, was very fond of his small cousin and Annabella was in a childish way greatly attracted to him, but should this feeling ripen with the years then she would not lose her daughter, for Stephen had a regard for herself, and for a boy so young he already showed a deep understanding.

  Stephen, too, was looking at his cousin. He thought she looked very pretty today and much older than ten, twelve at least, but that was, he supposed, because she was tall for her age. He was glad he had been invited to stay for a week, but he must not run foul of his Uncle Edmund. He now looked at his uncle across the narrow space. He did not look a bad man, he considered; but how did you tell a bad man? From his looks? His uncle, he considered most handsome and attractive in manner. He had once voiced this opinion to his great-aunt Emma, and her reply was that there had never been a handsome man yet that was not possessed of the devil. This, he thought, was a pity because he hoped
that he himself would grow into a presentable person. He might never be as tall as his uncle, or as thin, but he hoped that he might become as comely.

  Edmund Lagrange, too, was considering his daughter. She was ten years old today. Was it ten years since the night he had brought her from Crane Street? She was showing signs of real beauty. Did you ever see a pair of eyes so deeply green? Not hazel or bluey-green, but a summer sun-splashed green, warm and clear; and to her looks add her fresh affectionate charm. It was odd, he thought at this point, that she in no way resembled her mother. Her mother. He chuckled deeply inside himself. What would she think when she saw her daughter for the first time? He was exceedingly glad the day was fine and they had been able to use the open carriage, otherwise it would have meant her hovering in the vicinity of the glass works and watching them alight from the coach and then she would only have caught a glimpse of the child, whereas today she’d be able to walk down the full length of the street and beyond and look her fill.

  He wondered what Boston would say about the situation if he knew the ins and outs of it. Likely raise his blasted plebeian eyebrows. It was funny, the lower the gutter they came from the higher they wanted to fly, and the more finicky they were about morals. For instance, he didn’t like openly visiting Crane Street which, after all, was just as well, he supposed. When finally he had persuaded him the thing to do was to set up a mistress in a small establishment he had chosen a house on the outskirts of Newcastle. His principles, set against his urges, put a great strain on his horse’s legs.

  Edmund Lagrange would have been somewhat surprised if he could have read his friend’s mind at this moment, for Boston’s thoughts were travelling almost the same channels as his own, because George Boston, remembering incidents from the previous night, was thinking, he’s got the taste of a pig-swiller; and he wondered how much the stiff-laced madam sitting opposite knew of her husband’s life outside the Hall. He wondered if the fortune that was coming to her in three years’ time was as vast as Lagrange made it out to be. He certainly hoped so else he could say goodbye to his loans. He had wiped a number of slates clean in return for Lagrange taking him under his wing and introducing him into select sporting circles, but he’d been thinking of late he’d been paying a lot for damned little. But still, Lagrange wasn’t a man to cross, or drop. In spite of his notorious name he still had entry to a number of good houses, perhaps not in the Percy or Redhead class but families of substance, from whom he himself hoped to choose a wife.