There was no laughter in his eyes, no amusement lurking on his lips. He put out his hand and after a moment she placed hers in it, and he said gallantly and quite sincerely, ‘I’ve never been knighted by a king but what need have I of that after receiving such an honour. Thank you, Miss Annabella; I’m yours for life.’
As she smiled back into his face there came a most unladylike lump in her throat and a smarting in the back of her eyes. Dear, dear; she mustn’t cry.
He rode silently by her side. Never before could he remember being so touched by anything that had happened to him, but his thoughts nevertheless were aggressive. Of all the people in that bloody establishment there was no-one she could be herself with, there was no-one she could be a child with. She wasn’t a child; they had smothered the child and were foisting on her the manners of their kind, their stiff proper adult kind. At ten years old she should be running, scampering, getting mucked up, playing kiss-in-the-ring, with children of her own age. And what was before her? Marriage to the young gentleman? Well, not if the opinion below stairs was anything to go by. He had heard from Armorer about the whole setup. Everybody on the estate knew except the child herself. A nursemaid had been dismissed on the spot not long ago for putting a name to her little mistress. How old would she be before the truth was given her? And when she did know what effect would it have on her? The love of that stiff soulless woman, her supposed mama, wouldn’t be able to compensate for the stigma, if he was any judge of it. As for her marrying Master Stephen, what would that young pip have to say when he knew that his sweet cousin was nothing but the fly-blow of a Shields whore.
It was strange that this child, who followed her mother’s dictates and tried her best to keep him in his place, should be, like himself, a bastard. In this moment he prayed that the knowledge of her heritage would never come to her, for then she would feel as he did at times; and there were some pains that were too hard to be borne, even by a man.
BOOK THREE
1866 : THE HERITAGE
One
The year was 1866. Since the beginning of the forties when the railways had come into existence the North had known a growing prosperity; villages, like Jarrow, through its steelworks, had mushroomed into towns. Middlesbrough, only a few miles away, had in 1830 been a hamlet housing just over a hundred people but by the year 1853 it was a thriving port with nearly twenty thousand inhabitants. Names had become synonymous with places. Henry Bolckow of Middlesbrough who was actually a German by birth; Stephenson of Newcastle; the Lehmans of Sheffield; and not forgetting John Brown, who from an apprentice in a cutlery firm rose to be the owner of a large steelworks; Vicars, Armstrong, and Ramsden were names that spelt steel, names upon which thousands upon thousands of men depended for their livelihood; names that were carved in stone at the base of statues and busts, representing the gratitude of thriving towns to the benefactors who had erected gigantic municipal buildings or who had donated a public bath or perhaps a library.
The North at this period was an empire, an empire of coal mines, steelworks, and railways, not forgetting glass works. It was a time when a few outstanding men rose from muck to millions and having done so housed their families in palatial establishments. A percentage of lesser men made a good deal of money and they, too, lived well. And then there was the gentry, and they, as they had always done, lived high.
But quite suddenly on a May day in 1866 the empire of the North shuddered and collapsed as if struck by an earthquake, and small men, middle men and those in high places felt the tremors.
There was panic in the City of London. Banks failed; railways went out of business; steel companies had to join forces in order to survive; businesses that had been held jealously within families were either bankrupt or were merged with companies that had been fortunate enough to escape the earthquake.
This one and that were blamed for the disaster but the fault seemed to be with the company of Overend and Gurney, who financed a great deal of the Northern industries at the time, and were overspent by many millions; and so the flame of panic spread from the banking houses in London and swept the North.
The catastrophe afforded Edmund Lagrange a protective screen. He could, and did, put the failure of the glass works down to the slump, whereas every employee in the works and the owners of all other glass works from Shields to Birmingham knew that the firm was finished.
Edmund Lagrange was now forty-seven years old. Until he was forty his body had stood up to the pace of his life, but over the last few years it had grown tired of resisting excess, so that now he looked like any over-indulged man of his age. He had a paunch, his neck was thick, his face florid; but to many he still presented a fine figure of a man, and there was no apparent slackening of his vitality for he rode as hard as ever, drank even more than ever, ate all too well, gambled indiscriminately and was consistent in his main amusement.
But these pastimes had become merely an armour behind which he hid himself for he had had many personal defeats during the past seven years. One that rankled most had happened just a year ago and it concerned the mother of his daughter.
Whatever faults Lagrange had meanness wasn’t one of them, and where he loved or liked he was over-generous. What matter if his presents were bought with the money squeezed out of his wife, which process was becoming more difficult each time he attempted it? Or what matter if the money was borrowed, for he worked as hard at borrowing as other men did at earning? The man to whom he was most in debt was his friend, Boston, and it was this selfsame friend who had brought his pride low, for he had taken his mistress.
Jessie Connelly had been fifteen when Lagrange first took her, and she was a virgin, which fact pleased him, because it was unusual, at least in the quarter from which she came. He had become greatly enamoured of the girl because, besides being very bonny, she was vivacious and gay and had a kindly way with her; she was out to please a man. So, on the condition that she remained solely his, he took rooms for her in Crane Street and it was in this street that his young mistress got the idea that she would like to own an establishment. He had been highly amused by her idea and, being flush with money at the time, he bought her a house and she was in business.
Jessie, he would have sworn on oath, had remained faithful to him over the years, one of the reasons being, he imagined, was, once having had him, she could not resort to the type of customers she supplied for her girls.
The apartment at the top of the house, which was kept especially for him and which was approached by a back entrance, had over the years become a kind of refuge, and although it was long since he had ceased to have any affection for her she was still kind and attentive, and pleased him at times.
He had been very drunk on the night he introduced Boston to the private apartment. He had done it out of bravado and had regretted the impulse the next day, but it never dawned on him for one moment not to trust his mistress, until one night, feeling the need for comfort, he had gone to the house. It wasn’t the usual time for visiting; he had his set times and had been with her the previous evening, but on his arrival in the street he had been surprised to see Boston’s coach and a man discreetly hidden up a side turning. Riding on past the house, he had waited, and presently Boston had emerged through the red painted door.
His feelings on that particular night had been one of murderous rage and frustration. Boston must be laughing up his sleeve at him, yet he was powerless to say a word to him because he was so much in the man’s debt. But there was a stronger reason why he couldn’t expose him; it was because ultimately he intended that he should marry his daughter. The alliance would be his only hope of ever ridding himself of the debts he owed him and finding security for the future, for Boston had his finger in every pie in the county. He didn’t see any obstacle to the union except from one source, Rosina. Boston himself had been very attentive to Annabella over the past year, so he wouldn’t need much pushing. As for Annabella,
she’d obey him. The only obstacle was Rosina; but then in the long run what could she do?
The effect of the financial explosion in the North had, in a way, brought Rosina’s life also to a climax. The fact of closing the family business was like an operation that had been put off for years. The final act of closure was excruciating but like the aftermath of an operation there was relief attached to it.
The money she had inherited at thirty had been swallowed up within four years and the process of begging from her mother had begun again, but now that was over too.
They could no longer maintain the House and all its commitments. This, in a way, did not worry her for she would find a home in the cottage with her mother, and in making the transfer would be free at last, free from the slights and the shame, free from the pretence that she had to keep up before the community.
Where her husband would live was of no concern to her; the only concern left in her mind was with regard to Annabella’s future. Yet, in a very short while, this would be settled. In two days’ time Stephen was returning from London and he would speak then.
For years now he had given Annabella his attention and sweet consideration. Because of her husband’s manner towards him he no longer visited the House, but over the past two years she had made it her business frequently to visit Durham when he was home from the University. When last year they had spent two months in London he had paid regular attendance on Annabella and had been her constant escort when her father wasn’t present.
Stephen had grown into a handsome man and was very popular with the ladies, but she knew, as she had always known, where his deep affection lay. She’d had a letter from him two days ago and one line had brought comfort to her heart, for it said, ‘I shall be home for Annabella’s birthday, please bring her to Weirbank for I have something to tell her, and you also, dear Aunt. You have been so good to me all my life that I want you to share my happiness.’
Only one highly disagreeable task lay before her now, the interview with her husband which would deal with the closing of the House and the Old Hall; the servants must be given notice as soon as possible. Alice, of course, would go with her to the cottage, and perhaps Harris, but that would be all.
She rose from her desk and as she passed the window she saw in the distance Annabella walking through the pagoda with Mr Boston and she remained still watching them. It always gave her a sense of pleasure not unmixed with personal achievement to watch Annabella walking, for she held herself so well, and her manners were impeccable. The only fault with her decorum was that she was inclined to be a little too gay at times, and her laughter too loud but marriage and responsibility would through nature itself subdue such exuberance.
Mr Boston had been visiting a lot of late. She didn’t like that man. In spite of his expensive attire and his elaborate establishment he still remained a coarse individual. Part of her was surprised that some of Edmund’s polish had not rubbed off on his friend for they had been close associates for years now, but the man appeared to her as gauche an individual as on the first day she had met him almost eight years ago . . .
Annabella shared her mama’s feelings about Mr Boston. She, too, thought he was a gauche individual and she was forever comparing him with Stephen. Yet it was strange that she saw more of this man and talked with him more frequently than with any other male person of her acquaintance.
Mr Boston could be an amusing companion and sometimes made her laugh; he had a cynical turn of wit, yet his whole person, his face, his manner, and his voice were objectionable to her.
Four times during the past year she had been to dinner in his home, and once to a ball he gave. She had enjoyed the ball because she loved dancing, but she never enjoyed the dinners, nor did she care for his house. He lacked taste, she thought. Her papa had said that what the house needed was a mistress, for there were twice as many servants as they had, ten gardeners at least. She wondered why Mr Boston had not married. He was, she understood, thirty years old.
Sometimes she thought she was imagining that his manner had changed towards her during the last year. Up till she was sixteen he had been, in his own way, very polite. There was even a certain deference in his manner towards her, but during the past months he had taken to teasing her when they were alone, and was, she considered, much too free in his conversation. Of course Stephen could have acted in a similar way and she would have loved it, and laughed and been gay and teased him in return, but Stephen was different, Stephen was the man she was going to marry.
Her pulse quickened and a soft smile spread over her face at the thought that in exactly two days’ time she would see Stephen, and on that day he would ask her for her hand. Her mama had shown her the letter he had sent. Her mama had talked to her for a long while last evening. That the House was to be closed came as a shock to her, for she loved the House, every bit of it; she even liked the Old Hall. She’d had access to the Old Hall over the last two years. Her father had said to her quite suddenly one day, ‘Why don’t you come and see my pictures?’ He had said it in an accusing voice as if he were blaming her for not having used his part of the house. Since that day the oak door had been left open, except in the evenings, when he was gaming.
Her mama, she knew, had been relieved when she showed no excessive interest in visiting the Old Hall. She’d made her happy by telling her she much preferred the pictures in the House to those in the Old Hall, and it was quite true she did prefer the pictures in the House because they were of people she knew, pictures of her grandmama and grandpapa at various stages of their lives, and of her great-grandmama and grandpapa, and their mama and papa.
Her excessive interest in her grandparents stemmed, she thought, from the fact that she had never once in all her seventeen years spoken to her grandmother. Of late this unusual fact had troubled her and she wanted an explanation, but some nicety of feeling prevented her from asking her mama pointedly why she was never taken to see her grandmama. Yet she had discussed the matter quite openly with Stephen, and Stephen’s opinion had been very comforting. He said that Grandma Conway-Redford had always been a very austere, elusive kind of person; he himself had only seen her twice since his father had died. He had the idea that she didn’t like children . . .
George Boston was saying, ‘I’m extending the stables, you must come over and see them.’
‘You are getting more horses?’
‘Yes, another half-dozen.’
He spoke of buying horses by the half-dozen when the majority of people in the county and the next were selling their carriages and horses . . . Was he thinking of buying her papa’s stable? Although he was a friend, that would be dreadful.
In this moment her sympathy was with her father rather than with her mother; although she knew, and had known for some years now, that her father was not a good man, he had gained her sympathy even more at times than Rosina had, because her mother, she sensed, had the steel-like power of integrity of character to support her, whereas she recognised that Lagrange was a man who lived by his charm, and his wits, and by a facet of his character which she hated to name as intimidation. In growing awareness over the years she knew that he showed one side of his character to her and another to her mother. This had become very evident when at fifteen she was allowed to move her bedroom from the nursery on to the first floor to a room opposite her mother’s boudoir. Sometimes when her father visited her mother the murmurings were low, at other times his voice was filled with rage and his language so startling that she would put her hands over her ears to shut it out. Yet within a short space of time following such occasions he would cup her chin and exclaim in a velvet-toned voice, ‘How is my beauty?’ or ‘What about a race over the fells?’
More and more of late he claimed her company when riding. She thought that if he had to sell the stable he would go mad; horses were his life.
‘It’s a great pity about the work
s having to go.’
‘These things happen.’ She brought her attention back to Boston; she had the idea that he didn’t think it was a pity at all that the works had closed but rather that he was gloating.
‘What are you going to do with yourself?’
‘Oh—’ she turned her head slightly and smiled at him. ‘I shall find plenty to do.’ She was thinking of the journey to Durham on her birthday. She ended, ‘We’re not going to be evicted on to the fells you know, Mr Boston; we have plans.’
He laughed heartily at this, his mouth so wide that she could see the white fur on his tongue, and her nose wrinkled slightly with distaste.
His laughter suddenly cutting off but his face still holding an amused smile, he said, ‘You have plans then?’
She turned her head towards him, and the action was slightly coquettish, as she replied with emphasis drawn from the secret she shared with her mama, ‘Yes, I have plans, Mr Boston.’
‘Ha-ha, I smell a mystery. Is it any use me asking what these secret plans are? I assure you I would bury your confidence deep in my heart. Come, what are your secret plans?’
His gallant joviality conveyed to her that she was being too free with him. Her mama was always warning her about her easiness of manner, which was not to be confused with ease of manner; it was, her mama said, apt to slip into a freedom that could give the observer the wrong impression. She said now with studied stiffness, ‘My secrets, if I harboured any, Mr Boston, would be of no interest to you for I’m sure you’d consider them childish and immature.’
The Glass Virgin Page 15
