by Rona Randall
She glanced down. He was right — her hands were not so well cared for as they had once been.
“You mean you are ashamed of a wife with roughened hands?”
“I mean that I am proud of having a wife with hands such as yours, and want them to remain as they have always been. When I said I noticed them that first night, I didn’t mean it was for the first time. I have always noticed your hands and thought them beautiful.”
To cover an unexpected confusion, she said lightly, “Using cream from the milk is extravagant, wasteful.”
“And I am too poor a provider to afford it?”
His touch of anger startled her.
“I meant no such thing. Only that a wife should exercise economy.” “You do that admirably, but pray do not stint unnecessarily.”
His touch of anger was gone, but so too was the personal feeling, the hint of closeness. They were silent all the way to Meg Gibson’s home.
The hovel was even worse than expected, a one-roomed place built of wattle and daub, with crumbling thatch and a rough earth floor which even the summer weather failed to dry out. The result was an odour of decay, assailing the nostrils as soon as they entered. Jessica felt nausea rise within her and thrust it back, but her husband sensed it.
So, too, did Meg, and despite her surprise at their unexpected call she resented the reaction. Her home was her home, and not to be recoiled from. She said aggressively, “If you find our place not to your liking, Mistress Kendall, I suggest you go outside and stay there.”
It was a bad beginning which Simon tried to overcome by saying, “I think we would all be better in the fresh air on this fine summer’s day, your mother particularly.” He glanced at the figure huddled within a chair. “I can carry her and sit her in the sun. You can follow with her chair.” So saying, he lifted the woman and walked with her to the door, a rickety affair scarcely standing on its hinges, but before Meg could reach for the chair Jessica had picked it up and turned to follow.
Deliberately, and still with a touch of defiance, Meg took it from her.
“In your condition, Mistress, should you be lifting things? Women of your class take care of themselves at such times, or so I’ve heard. Not like my mother. She had to carry on, no matter what.”
“Then she has earned rest and comfort and a better home, which is why we are here. We have come to move you into a cottage with a well of its own and somewhere to cook, instead of a cauldron over an earth hole in the room you live and sleep in. It also has a bedroom upstairs and a garden where you can grow vegetables. There’s an apple tree, too.”
Meg nearly dropped the chair. She tried to speak, but could only stare. Her eyes were questioning and suspicious.
“If you don’t believe me, come outside and hear about it from my husband,” Jessica finished. “It was he who thought of it.”
She walked out into the August sunshine and when Meg’s mother was settled she said, “I have told Meg, but I don’t think she believes me. Perhaps she will believe you, Simon.”
She sat down on the low, crumbling wall which divided the hovel from the marlpit, appalled by the proximity of such a place. The vast expanse of marl, half excavated and now permanently neglected, was clogged with water in the summer and flooded in the winter. No other habitation stood near it, nor could be built on it. Its only use was for the extraction of coarse, heavy marl clay, which demanded excessive cleaning and riddling and was obtainable only if water-logging could be overcome, and that was an expensive process on which local potters had finally turned their backs — hence the availability of a hovel long since abandoned. And soon to be abandoned again, Jessica thought resolutely. The sooner they moved this tragic woman and her daughter away from such a place, the better.
But even when Simon had confirmed the news, Meg remained irresolute, torn between incredulity, relief, and an ill-concealed apprehension which Jessica could not understand. The girl’s mother sat with eyes closed and from beneath the lids tears began to trickle, slowly at first and then increasingly until the premature wrinkles on her worn face were like miniature rivers on a crumpled map, and even worse was her total silence, her terrible stillness. She uttered no sound, no sobs, but when her daughter gathered her close, rocking her like a child, she murmured, “It ain’t true — they must be lying — tell me they ain’t lying!” and Meg held her more tightly, uttering reassuring sounds while staring at the visitors wordlessly.
Simon said, “I promise you it is the truth, and we can take you there at once. You and I can travel in the gig while your daughter and my wife walk the short distance to Larch Lane. We can take some of your things with us and I can return later for the rest. You can be out of this place and into your new home in no time at all. What is more, I can promise you will never be turned out.”
Sobs came at last and wasted arms clung to Meg like a sick child’s clinging to its mother, but still Jessica sensed the daughter’s uneasiness.
Meg said, “Larch Lane — that’s where Martha Tinsley lives.”
“True,” Simon answered, puzzled, “But she’s a good neighbour.”
“She wouldn’t be, to the likes of us.” The words were whispered so low that they could scarcely be heard, but Jessica caught them and knew that for some reason this girl wanted to avoid Martha Tinsley.
“Her cottage would be well away from yours, Meg.”
“’T’ain’t ours yet.”
“Then we’ll make sure it is, and without delay.” Simon brooked no further argument. Like Jessica, he couldn’t believe the girl was actually unwilling to go there, or that she could really be averse to having the old woman as a neighbour. He had heard that Martha Tinsley could be quarrelsome, and he could believe that if she bore a grudge she could be an implacable enemy, but there was a toughness in Meg Gibson which could surely stand up to her.
Meg said no more, but went back into their home and returned with her mother’s best shawl. Like the rest of their clothes, it had seen better days. “Here, love — we can’t move you into a fine country mansion ’cept in your Sunday best, now can we?” Her smile was so tender and her solicitude for the woman so deep that Jessica felt a lump in her throat. People said dreadful things about Meg Gibson, calling her by equally dreadful names, but how many saw this side of her?
It took little time to gather together their sparse belongings — a handful of patched clothes, a basket of meagre food, and threadbare blankets which served as covers by night. Such luxuries as feather beds or even straw palliasses were unknown to them. The mother slept on the hard shelf-bed beneath the eaves, a slab of wattle and daub covered with rough plaster. There was no other bed in the place, so presumably the girl lay on the floor or curled up on one of the tumbledown chairs. There was a large one with broken arms which could serve such a purpose.
Again sensing her thoughts, Meg said, “Aye, ma’am, that’s mine at nights. Suits me fine.” The defiance was back, so Jessica said nothing, but resolved to do something about furnishing the new home. The scraps in this hovel were not worth transporting, but Simon would do so nonetheless. It was important to move these people with dignity and to treat their sad possessions with respect.
“Ready, Meg?”
With one last backward glance, Meg followed Jessica Kendall out of the place. She couldn’t really believe this was happening or that after what seemed a lifetime in this hovel she and her mother were actually escaping. It was the sight of her mother perched in the Kendall gig outside that finally convinced her.
Simon took the roll of threadbare blankets Jessica handed up, cushioned the frail figure with them, then stacked the small remaining pile carefully. What little was left, could wait. No one was likely to loot this impoverished place.
And so began the day which Meg was never to forget. Little had she imagined, on waking, that she had spent her last night here, or that her longstanding dream of getting her mother away was actually to be fulfilled within a few hours. The church bells ringing in the distance had actually
been heralding mercy. Had she realised it, she would have heard them as paeans of praise or as the sweetest music on earth. What matter that Ma Tinsley was now to be her neighbour, that they would come face to face more frequently than Meg desired, that the woman would take every opportunity to remind her of her promise to get the money — “Two golden guineas, no less, and don’t ye fergit it. I’ll be after ye fer it till the day I die. Mark that well, ye black-eyed gypsy!”
She meant it, too. Not a drop of belladonna, not a scrap of medicine, not a soothing potion or poultice had come her mother’s way since that dreadful morning when Tinsley had demanded what was rightfully hers. The woman’s threats were never idle and they would increase when living in such proximity.
To hell with you, Ma Tinsley, the girl thought as she watched Simon Kendall start up the gig, driving slowly to avoid jolting his frail passenger. Damn you for ever, you old witch! See if I care for your threats! If you come near us, I’ll slam the door in your ugly face, that I will!
But Meg was still resolved to get the money so that the medicines would arrive again and her mother’s pain-ridden nights be lulled. Obtaining it was proving difficult, for since his betrothal to the Freeman heiress Joseph Drayton had kept away from Meg Gibson, and that state of affairs was likely to continue until the novelty of his marriage began to wear thin, which Meg hoped would not take too long. The day was sure to come when he summoned her again, though to where remained to be seen. With a wife installed at Carrion House he could scarcely have another female in his bed, but, knowing the man as she did, Meg was confident that he would find a way round that problem.
She didn’t know which of the two she hated most, Martha Tinsley or the Master of Drayton’s, but the day would come when she would be avenged on both.
Chapter Eleven
Simon drove sufficiently slowly for his wife and Meg to walk alongside the gig, and the small procession headed for the centre of Burslem and the turning beside the church leading to Larch Lane. Worshippers were emerging as they approached. Prominent amongst them was Joseph Drayton with his bride-to-be at his side and Emily, Phoebe, and Martin Drayton immediately behind them. Plainly, Agatha had chosen to miss family prayers in the Tremain chapel for the pleasure of being seen in the parish church with her future husband and very proud she looked, clinging to his arm as they paused to say farewell to the vicar.
She also looked more restrained than usual in a Sabbath gown of plain moss green, adorned only with a welter of superfluous frills, and a straw milkmaid hat tied beneath the chin, currently fashionable but, in her case, not so simple. The shallow crown and widening brim were entirely submerged in masses of greenery in which a family of stuffed birds perched uncomfortably, and the enormous bow of green satin ribbon beneath her chin extended beyond the width of the hat, with long ends fluttering in the breeze like the tails of a kite.
She was plainly enjoying the attention she attracted and interpreting it as admiration. It was also plain that she considered the vicar’s deference to be as much for herself as for Joseph, and that he was endeavouring to divide it between them although, as always, the greater homage went to the man. This Joseph received as his due. Other parishioners would take their leave in the usual way, a handshake from the men and a bobbing curtsey from the women, but not Joseph. It was the churchman who had to bow to him.
Coming behind, Martin was trying to conceal dislike of his brother’s display of patronage. Although the Reverend Hartley was not a man wholly to his own liking, being a boring sermoniser and unctious towards the more important members of his parish, Martin felt there was at least some excuse for him since he depended on such members for his living. Displease them, and he would incur the displeasure of his bishop. For Joseph’s behaviour, Martin felt there was no excuse at all.
He was wondering how to avoid the ritual handshake and deciding that if he simply stepped out of line he might pass unnoticed, when Phoebe gave a smothered gasp and stood stock still.
“Oh, my goodness! How perfectly dreadful!” There was a panic in her voice and her colour was high. Martin looked at her in surprise, demanding to know what was wrong.
“Look, look! Over there — outside in the lane! What are we to do, Martin, what are we to do?”
He followed her horrified glance and without another thought he was hurrying down the church path, calling Jessica’s name. The sound attracted Joseph, cutting him short in mid-sentence and jerking his attention away from the vicar who, like everyone else, stared at Martin’s retreating figure and then at the group beyond the church. And a more startling sight had not been seen in the village of Burslem for a very long time.
That slut Meg Gibson was walking brazenly beside Joseph Drayton’s other sister, her frail mother perched in the Kendall gig amidst a pile of shabby bundles. What was more, both Jessica and her husband seemed to regard the situation as perfectly natural, which was more than spectators did. Already most of them had seen the Kendalls’ earlier arrival in the village and observed the wife’s condition, which was plainly about six months advanced although she had been married barely three. On reaching their pews, the most devout had even prayed that she might be forgiven her adulterous sin, but this blatant consorting with immoral creatures like Meg Gibson was a clear indication that Emily Drayton’s problem daughter had taken yet another step on the downward path. She would find no redemption in the eyes of her former social circle.
Unrestrained, Martin flung his arms round his sister and hugged her. He had ridden to Cooperfield whenever possible since her marriage and only wished he could do so more often, for he missed Jessica. He had experienced only one moment of shock when, seeing her for the first time some weeks after the wedding, he noticed signs of advancing pregnancy. Too advanced for a woman who had been married so short a time.
Sensing his reaction, she had said quietly, “Don’t sit in judgement on me, Martin. Not you.”
“I could never do that, but — I thought — ”
“I know what you thought. That I loved Roger Acland. So I did, and Simon knows it. He knows the truth about everything, even why you were supposed to wait for me at the top of Larch Lane one memorable night.”
It had been too late to bite the words back. Relaxing in the routine of her new and increasingly satisfactory life she had forgotten that her brother was unaware of what had gone before. “I’m sorry — “ she stammered. “Please forget that.”
But Martin had shaken his head, bewilderment giving way to a suspicion too ugly to believe, then he had said slowly, “I was to wait for you? Joseph didn’t tell me that.”
“At the last minute, my courage failed. And that is the last we shall ever talk about it.”
And so it was, but ugly suspicion had become an ugly condemnation of his brother which Martin was never likely to forget.
As for her sudden marriage to Si Kendall, the reasons for it concerned Jessica and Simon alone. Martin accepted the situation and in many ways was glad of it, for they were his favourite people. All he regretted was the six miles which now separated him from them, a distance he could cover infrequently during a working week of six thirteen-hour days and a Sabbath filled mainly with religious services dutifully attended at his mother’s side.
But now, unexpectedly, here they both were, and as glad to see him as he was to see them.
“We are moving Meg and her mother into Simon’s old cottage. Isn’t that splendid? Come with us, Martin. You can then drive back with Simon to pick up the rest of their things, and then they will be settled in no time — “
“Martin!”
The voice of command was familiar. Joseph had marched down the church path after his brother and now seized his arm and marched him back, ignoring his sister. The deliberate action and the deliberate slight were missed by no one, least of all Meg Gibson who saw Jessica’s proudly lifted head, also the hurt in her eyes as she looked towards the church where her mother was standing uncertainly. Slightly in front of her stood Agatha Freeman and the vicar,
the man visibly shocked and the young woman plainly scornful, but most cutting of all was Phoebe’s averted head, indicating that she was either too afraid of incurring her elder brother’s wrath or too ashamed of her twin sister to acknowledge her.
The bitch, thought Meg. The stupid little bitch. As for that bastard Joseph Drayton, how dare he treat a sister like Jessica Kendall in such a way! She was worth a hundred of him any day.
And with that thought came another, swift as a flash and as sure as Meg’s instincts always were. This was the unknown visitor who had failed to arrive at Tinsley’s cottage, the ‘unfortunate female’ of whose identity Joseph Drayton denied any knowledge. The conviction was stronger than any sixth sense and was confirmed by Jessica Kendall’s condition. The knowledge refuelled Meg’s determination. One day she would do more than get even with this man, more than be avenged on him for her own sake.
Simon Kendall was looking down at his wife and saying quietly, “Ready, Jessica?” but she was walking through the lych-gate, back erect and step determined, straight down the church path to her mother.
Kissing her on the cheek she said calmly, “Mamma, you are the very person I want to see. I have just told Martin that we are moving the Gibsons into better habitation. They deserve it, do you not agree? They will need furnishings for their new home, beds and bedding and other necessities they have never had. I know there are things at Medlar Croft which you can surely spare, items from Joseph’s old room now stored in the attic, and the furnishings from mine. I will come to help you sort them out this afternoon whilst I am in Burslem. You won’t deny me this, will you, Mamma?”
“Of course not, my love, of course not.” Pleasure in seeing her daughter momentarily overcame Emily’s embarrassment. “And it is good to see you looking so well, my dear.”
Hurt and anger disappeared from Jessica’s eyes and with a serene smile which she had the audacity to extend to all the watchers except Joseph and her sister, she sailed back down the path.
