The Glass Virgin

by Catherine Cookson

  Her husband was thinking along similar lines and it was he who voiced both their thoughts as, patting Annabella’s head, he said, ‘The whole thing’s been an unfortunate mistake, from beginning to end, my dear, most unfortunate, but nevertheless it can be righted. After what you have told us there’s been no real harm done. Manuel, in a way, is to be commended for protecting you, but . . . but he should never have gone as far as to force you into marrying him.’

  ‘Force me! But, Uncle, you don’t understand. He didn’t force me, I . . . I wanted to, I wanted to marry Manuel long before he asked me.’

  ‘You don’t know what you’re saying, child. You don’t know what you’re saying.’ Aunt Emma was now fanning herself with her lace-edged handkerchief. ‘You can’t possibly marry Manuel. Manuel is a groom, a workman.’

  Annabella looked down at the fragile face. Then she spoke as if she were trying to make a dull child understand some simple thing. ‘Aunt Emma,’ she said, ‘I have married Manuel; I’m already married to Manuel. I have the marriage certificate. It is here, in the belt round my waist.’ She patted her stomach.

  ‘Let me see it.’ It was Uncle James speaking now, and when she looked up at him and said, ‘I would have to undress first,’ he wiped his forehead and muttered, ‘Well, well, I must see it later.’

  ‘You shall see it, Uncle James.’ She disengaged her hand from the old lady’s and, standing up, she looked at the tall old man, saying, ‘What I came for, Uncle James, was to see Stephen and ask him to take up Manuel’s case.’

  ‘Oh, my dear, my dear. Well now, this is most unfortunate, and I know if Stephen was available he would do his utmost to help you, yes indeed he would, but, my dear, you’re not to know that he was married last week and he’s now in Italy on his honeymoon with dear Kathleen.’

  She sat down on a chair as if her legs had given way and drooped her head forward, and Uncle James said practically, ‘But there are other solicitors and barristers. We must talk about this. But first of all I think we should all have something to eat; it’s close on three and the bell is about to go I’m sure.’

  Within a second or so the bell went and Aunt Emma, raising herself up from the couch, said, ‘You know what no-one of us has thought about with the shock you have given us all, dear, is the happiness that you are going to bring to Rosina again.’

  ‘Ma . . . Mama?’ She used the term because she could not think of any other form of address. ‘I . . . I understand she’s very ill and wouldn’t know me?’

  ‘Wouldn’t know you?’ It was Uncle James speaking again. ‘Who gave you that idea?’

  ‘Well, Manuel went to Grandma’s when I was ill. He wanted to see Mama, but Grandma ordered him away and said that Mama wouldn’t know me if she saw me as she had lost her reason.’

  ‘Oh! Oh! The wickedness of it.’ Aunt Emma was gazing at her husband now and, putting her hands to her face, she swayed gently as she repeated, ‘Oh! The wickedness, the wickedness.’ Then she added, ‘I always said that Constance was wicked, James, be she your sister and dead, I always said she was wicked, and a stern, hard-hearted woman.’ She now turned to Annabella and, grasping her hand once again, she ended, ‘Rosina, your dear mama, never lost her mind. She was ill, very ill through losing you, but her reason was never impaired; she lost the will to live for a time naturally, but she is recovered and she’s still your dear mama and, as I said, will be overjoyed to see you and have you back home.’

  ‘Dear Aunt Emma, I must make you understand’ – Annabella pressed her thin hands together – ‘that I’m no longer the young girl, what I mean is I’m no longer Annabella Lagrange . . . ’

  ‘Come along, come along.’ Uncle James was now pressing them both forward down the room towards the dining room. ‘We’ll talk about this later, but now let us first of all, before we say grace, thank God that you have been given back to us, and then we must eat because one cannot reason and think on an empty stomach.’

  How often during those first days on the road had she longed to be back amid the comfort and amenities of the House; even over the last few days before her wedding the thought had crept into her mind of how wonderful it would have been if she were going to be married from the House.

  Now she was back in the old life; if not actually in the House in one similar to it, only on a minor scale, there being only ten servants at Wearbank; but the strangest thing now was that she was ill at ease in this environment, as she would have been if she had spent the first seventeen years of her life in Crane Street and then been picked up bodily and placed here.

  Twenty-four hours had passed since her arrival and with each hour she was becoming more irritated with everything and everybody. The way the old people spent hours talking about trivialities, even the way the servants moved. She had thought once or twice, They want Mrs Fairbairn after them, or better still Mrs Skillen; and then there were the delaying tactics applied by Uncle James. He seemed dilatory even with advice as to which solicitor in the town she should apply to take Manuel’s case. When she had told him that she had twenty-seven guineas, and although she knew that would not be sufficient to cover the legal fees, that she would work and pay whatever was owing over this amount, he had laughed, then appeared slightly shocked, and finally said he must have time to consider the matter. And when, later, he informed her that he had considered it and thought it best to consult his friend, Colonel Ryson, tomorrow when he returned from London, she had startled him by saying, tomorrow might be too late, and, what was more, she was going to the house of correction herself to ask if she could see Manuel.

  Aunt Emma had actually shed tears at this outrageous statement. ‘You would never do anything so improper, Annabella, surely? To go to the house of correction on your own!’

  It was then she had looked at them and had realised that on 19 June last year she had left their world for ever, and it came to her that they had not the slightest conception of how people lived outside the walls that confined their particular social life. Aunt Emma did good works; she sewed for the poor, and donated quite a lot of money to charities, particularly to the heathens whose greatest need, she considered, was to be brought to God; but neither she nor yet her uncle knew anything of the lives of the ordinary people about them.

  She sat waiting now in the small drawing room for her uncle to come and accompany her to the prison. He said he’d had to put many wheels in motion before permission had been granted for her to see Manuel, as the visiting day was still a week hence; and deep in her mind she doubted whether she’d be going to see Manuel today at all if it wasn’t that she had absolutely refused to return to the House and meet her mama until she had first seen and talked with him, and the not too subtle threat that she would return to the caravan and live on the outskirts of the town until she knew what was going to happen to Manuel finally persuaded Uncle James to ‘set wheels in motion’.

  It was only ten minutes’ walk from the house to the prison but they made the journey by carriage. When it entered Stone Street and drew to a stop against a line of cottages she looked across the road to the grim high walls opposite and thought, Dear God! He’s behind those; that alone will be enough to kill him.

  They went through the gate, across a courtyard, through another door, and then an officer was speaking to Uncle James. She didn’t take in a word he said, for she was waiting, just waiting.

  They went into a passageway and as the door clanged behind them she started, and Uncle James put his hand on her elbow, and then they were shown into a large, bare room where the officer asked them to wait.

  She would not be seated but stood staring at the door until Manuel came through, and there was another officer behind him. And this man came in and stood with his back to the door while Manuel stood looking at her and she at him, and neither of them moved for a number of seconds; then it was she who rushed forward and threw her arms around him and kissed his
stiff lips. Then she searched his face with her eyes and said, ‘Oh, Manuel! Manuel! How are you?’

  He swallowed deeply, blinked his eyes, pressed one lip tightly over the other, then answered, ‘All right . . . all right.’

  ‘This is Great-Uncle James.’ She turned her head on her shoulder. ‘I wanted to get help for you. I . . . I went to see Stephen but . . . but he’s away. But Uncle James is going to help, he’s going to get you a solicitor.’

  Manuel looked at Mr Dorcy-Grant, as he knew him, but he gave him no sign of recognition, or word of thanks, and the old man coughed in his throat and moved from one foot to the other as if it was he who was at a disadvantage; then he said in a pompous tone, ‘We’ll do what we can. We’ll do what we can.’ He omitted the ‘my man’, because he felt that the term might bring this new Annabella storming at him. As his wife had said, she had lost a lot of her nice ways and gained a lot of unpleasant ones during the time she had been absent.

  Annabella, gabbling now, said, ‘We’re going to see a solicitor as soon as we leave. Your case is coming up next Tuesday. There’s not much time but . . . but I have written to Mr Carpenter and asked him if he can possibly come. He’ll be able to explain things, don’t you think?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  The syllables cut her to the heart and again she was clasping his hands to her, saying, ‘Oh, Manuel! Manuel! It will be all right. It will be all right. Uncle James knows a good solicitor.’

  Looking back into her eyes now, Manuel asked, ‘Where are you livin’?’

  She didn’t want to give him an answer to this because the answer he would want to hear from her was, ‘I am still in the caravan,’ but she said as she had to, ‘I am staying with Great-Uncle James; they . . . they have been very kind. But . . . but it’s only for a time, until your case comes up.’

  In the awkward silence that followed, the policeman’s voice said, ‘Time’s up!’ and she cried at him, ‘But he hasn’t been here but a few minutes.’

  The man stared at her and repeated automatically, ‘Time’s up!’

  It was only now that Manuel seemed to come alive. Taking her in his arms, he held her tightly before turning quickly away and walking out, followed by the officer.

  Uncle James was peeved. The fellow wasn’t even civil; he had become boorish. He had been a pleasing enough servant, but there was a great gulf between a servant and the husband of Annabella. The quicker he got this business disentangled the better for all concerned. He was going to take a firm hand, he must.

  In the carriage again, he showed his hand by saying, ‘Annabella, I want you to listen to me. I’m going to do nothing for that fellow until you promise to go and see your mama. Now it’s no use talking, I won’t listen. That’s my final word. You go and see Rosina and I will set the law into motion on his behalf, but not otherwise.’

  Her stiff face, her silence, told him that he had won this first round. From now on the going should be easy, for once she was back under the protection of Rosina and living to some extent her old life she would forget this breach of social etiquette, because that’s what it amounted to, and during the time the fellow was in prison – for solicitor, barrister, or no, he would certainly do time for his assault on that sea captain – they would see to having the marriage annulled.

  Four

  Both Uncle James and Aunt Emma said they would accompany her to the meeting with Rosina, because it would be a most joyous occasion; Rosina was beside herself with happiness, she couldn’t believe the news and she said she wouldn’t until she could see Annabella for herself.

  That their suggestion should be instantly refused upset them both. Indeed, indeed, dear Annabella had changed, and not, they were afraid, for the better. The circumstances under which she had lived over the past months had left their mark on her. Uncle James had warned Rosina of this, he had also laid their course of action carefully; he had been against Rosina coming at once to Durham, it would be more advantageous, he said, for Annabella to come to the House, at least to the cottage, as the House was no longer occupied. But anyway, here was the atmosphere of her upbringing, here under Rosina’s guidance her nature had been formed, and here, please God, she would return to herself. But, he had warned her, Annabella was no longer the amenable girl that they remembered so dearly; her manner was completely changed. Of course, this was to be understood when you considered her story. It was a case of not being able to touch pitch without becoming defiled, only in a lesser form. She had, for almost a year now, been mixing, even living, closely with menials. Had she not married one? Of course they must not be too hard on Manuel. He had done what he had done to protect her, for Annabella said he had been the soul of honour. But the necessity for his protection was over; Annabella could now return to the life she was made for, at least, he qualified, the life dear Rosina had made for her. And when the publicity and scandal had died – and she must prepare herself for this, for Annabella’s reappearance as the wife of their one-time groom would certainly create a scandal – life would pick up where it had left off. And she was fortunate, for the isolation in which she lived would enable her to ignore wagging tongues. So he had comforted Rosina, saying finally, once the trial was over and the case for annulment was put into motion the thing would die, like all nine-day wonders, a natural death.

  ‘Believe me, Uncle James, I have no wish to offend you, you have been so good, but I would rather take this journey alone. I can get the coach to the crossroads.’

  ‘But, child!’

  ‘Please, Aunt Emma.’

  They both stared at this girl who was becoming stranger every hour they knew her, and it was only the fear that she might insist on making the journey to the House in that dreadful caravan that checked their pressure. But Aunt Emma couldn’t fail to have the last word. ‘You can pick up all kinds of things in those public conveyances,’ she said, then dabbed at her nose with a scented handkerchief. And Annabella wished she could laugh. Then a strange emotion rising in her, almost touching on ferocity, she had the desire to whisk her Aunt Emma into the room in Reuben’s lodging house, into the Skillens’ farm, to make her stand in the market place at the hirings.

  In the hall she almost pushed off Frances’ hands as she went to button her cloak for her, then in the next breath she nearly apologised for her roughness but Frances would not have understood; Frances was happy in servitude, as so many people seemed to be. Yet not all; oh no, not all.

  ‘But the coach does not go for another half-hour, my dear.’ Uncle James was behind her now, and without turning her head she said, ‘I know, Uncle James, but I have a little errand I would like to do first.’

  He said no more, but he stood at the top of the steps and watched her go down the drive. He knew what errand she was going on, and he was both annoyed and shocked . . .

  It was around twelve o’clock when Annabella stood against the cottages in Stone Street and looked across at the great stone wall and the ugly buildings behind, and she willed her thoughts to pass through the bricks and mortar and to make Manuel aware of her presence. The gate was opened, and a man emerged. He looked like a workman and she had to stop herself from running to him and saying, ‘Do you know Manuel Mendoza? Are you going back in there? Would you please give him a message? Tell him I’ll be waiting. I told him yesterday but he didn’t seem to understand. But tell him I’ll be waiting no matter how long.’

  The man passed along the other side of the road without looking at her. Had he turned his face towards her she might have been tempted to give him the message.

  An old woman at a cottage door said, as if speaking to herself, ‘Aye, you’re not the only one to stand there, lass. But there it is, if they’d done a bit of thinkin’ and kept their feet on the right path those walls wouldn’t have seen them.’

  She felt an anger against the old woman. She wanted to bawl at her, ‘My Manuel kept to the right path!
He’s in there because he defended me.’ Instead she walked with bent head up to the corner of the market where the coach would stop, and as she stood waiting she told herself these angry spells would get her nowhere; she must curb these feelings.

  The coach put her down at the crossroads at two o’clock in the afternoon and she asked the driver at what time one would be passing this way back to Durham. ‘Five o’clock,’ he called to her, ‘or thereabouts, but you’d better be afore time, we could be ten minutes up, or ten minutes after, no knowin’.’

  When the coach had rattled away she stood and looked about her. There was the road to Newcastle, there was the road to Jarrow and Shields. It wasn’t just ten months since she had run blindly down this road, surely! Surely, it must be ten years, ten lifetimes. For the girl who on that day had been so eaten up with shock and sorrow was someone, she felt, she had never known, someone who had no part in herself as she was now. She had been growing up fast over the last months, but since Manuel had stepped into that van every hour had become a year, and now inside she was an old woman, old and knowledgeable, for she had experienced pain, pain which Miss Annabella Lagrange could never have experienced, the pain of really loving, without the romance attached; the pain of pity and worry and anxiety.