by Rona Randall
Meg had no choice. And her instinct was right. The man stood there, cap in hand, his tow hair revealed as thick and curly.
“There still be no sign o’ me aunt. Mebbe I can bide betimes?”
His voice was deep, and pleading; his eyes clear and honest. Instinct told her he wasn’t a bad’un, but surprise was greater.
“Your aunt?” she echoed, unbelieving.
“Aye. Frank Tinsley’s the name. At yr’service, ma’am!” He touched his tow head with a large forefinger, smiling broadly, eyes friendly. “Ye wouldn’t be so unkind as to turn away a stranger what’s journeyed all the way from Liverpool t’find the pore ol’ baggage, surely to’God?”
“That I would!” Meg flared. “No relation of Ma Tinsley’s so much as crosses this doorstep.”
The friendly eyes became puzzled. They were amazingly blue; the bluest she had ever seen.
“Now that’s a harsh thing to say, missy, an’ you a slip of a thing with warm eyes an’ a gentle mouth. So what’s me Aunt Martha bin a’doin’, t’make such an enemy outa the likes o’ thee?”
The words softened her, but her resolution hardened.
“Come inside and see,” she said, holding the door wide.
Sometime later, Martha Tinsley returned to find her nephew sitting on her doorstep. Though she had not seen him for many a year, there was no mistaking that tow head and square chin and bright blue eyes, for the picture of young Frank’s face was printed indelibly on her memory.
Stumbling to a halt, she tried to speak, and failed. At last she quavered, “Frankie! The devil be praised, it’s our Frankie!”
He rose to his great height.
“Aye, it’s our Frankie, y’old harridan. An’ after I’ve said what brings me, we’ll deal wi’summat else. Summat important.”
She was so amazed to see him, and so glad, that she heard only his voice and none of the sternness in it. She stumbled forward, reached up to embrace him, and failed because she could now scarcely reach his chest. At that, he laughed.
“Ye’ve shrunk, ye ould witch!”
“An’ wot o’thee, lad? Grown inter giant!” A sob rose from her heart.
“Nuffo’that, ould woman. There be things t’say.”
“Years of ’em, lad, but all can keep till ye be fed.”
“I already bin fed, an’ right well — by kindly neighbours down t’lane.”
At that, Martha was struck dumb. She decided she must be hearing things. “Ye be jokin’, Frankie, or else I be dreamin’. An’ many’s the time ol’ Martha’s dreamed o’seein’ thee agin. My, but ye’ve grown! An’ that ’andsome! I alius knew thee would be.” Again she tried to touch him, and again he was beyond her reach, and when he made no effort to return her embrace, she became worried, birdlike eyes darting apprehensively.
“’Ow’d ye find me, lad? Not through your ma. That sister o’mine ain’t bothered with me for many a year.”
“I knows that, but bein’ dead this twelve month ain’t given her the chance to make things up.”
“Lottie — dead? Why, she be younger’n me by five year’n more!” “Well, she ain’t now, God rest her soul. I’d’ve tried to find thee afore, but seamen on t’other side o’ the world don’t get leave just for funerals!” A touch of his old humour flashed out, lulling her apprehension. “I were away in Pollyneezia when she kicked the bucket, pore ol’ soak. That’s what she became, Auntie, an’ don’t ye go calling her names because of it. Life didn’t alius treat her kind. Not as she grew ould. All she left were a few trinkets, but I thought dear ould Auntie Martha would mebbe like’em, so when we docked I jumped ship an’ began tracking thee down.”
“All t’way from Liverpool! That were mighty kind, our Frank.”
“Thee were mighty kind when I were a nipper.”
“Aye — I loved ye, that I did. Loved ye an’ wanted ye an’ fair envied Lottie. I’m sorry she be dead, lad, but after I went t’jail she nivver wanted nothink t’do with me. Warned me off, she did. ‘Don’t ye come alooking f’me when they let y’out,’ she said. Not sisterly-like, were that.”
“Forget it, Auntie.” He glanced around, at the cottage and the dusky garden surrounding it. “Life seems to be treatin’ you orlright, from the look o’things. That’s more’n can be said for that soul down the lane. One look at her, an’ I knew she were dying — an’ not helped by you stopping her med’cines, I’m told.”
Martha blazed, “Who by? That black — ’aired slut? That thievin’ wench wot robbed me o’ two gold guineas? Shame on thee, our Frankie, believin’ any tale that wench fobbed off on ye! I’ll warrant she nivver let on about stealin’ money wot should’ve bin mine!” “No. An’ I don’t believe it.”
The old woman asked bitterly, “’Ow’d ye come to meet’er, lad? Picked ye up, did she?”
“That she didn’t, though I wouldn’t’ve said no, given the chance. Now open this door and then fetch that ancient bag I remember ye traipsing around dockland with. I’ll wager ye’ve got it still. Ma told me it were all y’owned when ye went to jail, so they’d’ve kept it, certain-sure, till ye come out — and I’ll wager too that it’s still doin’ good service on those ‘errands o’ mercy’ you useter brag about. Still filled with those brews an’ potions, is it? So come on, y’ould witch. Look sharp. Ye’re going on an errand o’ mercy right now. After that, I’ll kip down in this nice cottage o’yourn for as long as thee want me. Remember you alius said ye’d be glad to have me? So I’ll reward thee by staying betimes, an’ doing a bit o’ landlubbing work t’pay for me keep, if you be still o’ the same mind?”
“I’ll alius be o’ t’same mind, our Frank, but don’t go askin’ too much o’me, such as goin’ down that lane…”
“Be it too much to aid a dying woman? Took one look, I did, and saw it there, plain as plain. What’s come o’er ye, Martha Tinsley?” “Please, Frank! Don’t ask me t’break me vow — ”
“And what do the likes o’ Martha Tinsley know about vows? They be sacred promises, they be, and there ain’t nothing sacred about treating a suffering soul the way thee’s bin a’doing. And mark this, y’wicked ould faggot, if ye don’t do what I be asking, ye’ll never see hair nor hide o’me agin — and that's God’s oath!”
“’Aw, c’m on! Ye wouldn’t do that to a body wot alius loved ye!” “D’ye want t’find out?”
There was a glint in the blue eyes. She clutched at disbelief, then bridled.
“If I do this, lad, don’t ye go askin’ me to change me mind about that young trollop Meg Gibson. She stole money that should’ve come t’me, an’ nivver will I believe else.”
Frank Tinsley shrugged.
“Folk believe what they want t’believe. That don’t mean I believe it too, nor ever will. She be the finest lass I ever clapped eyes on, any’wheres in t’world, and I seen aplenty an’ known aplenty.” He landed a kiss on his aunt’s wrinkled cheek, slapped her behind, and said heartily, “Come on, y’ould witch, afore I find thy broom t’beat thee with!”
Chapter Twenty
It was evening when Sir Neville arrived at the Kendalls’ home. As always, when addressing the opposite sex, his words and manner were elaborate.
“My motive is purely selfish, dear lady. My numerous Armstrong relatives are pleased to visit me when summer entices them to the country, but hasten back to what they regard as civilisation when winter rears its threatening head, leaving me to enjoy the colours of autumn and winter’s variable patterns while they huddle over smoking fires nursing colds caught on draughty city streets, with nothing to gladden their eye but dank buildings and wet sidewalks, and with no company but folk who are coughing and sneezing as much as they, while a solitary old man in the country remains hale and hearty, but somewhat lonely in a vast and empty house.”
“A house filled with servants to wait upon you, sir. You also have many winter pursuits and entertain a lot. Your hospitality is famous.”
“Then I hope you will enable me to extend it further by giving m
e the pleasure of your company for awhile. Then I can enjoy presenting a young and lovely lady to my guests.”
“I appreciate the invitation, but I have a husband and home to look after.”
“An unselfish husband who, I am sure, will not begrudge his wife a change of scene, and a home which will be cared for by a village woman who lends an occasional hand in the kitchens at Ashburton and will be more than glad to earn some extra coins. Moreover, your husband visits Manchester more frequently now the canal is reaching completion. Very soon the final touches will have been made and the official opening can take place. After that, there is the even bigger project of the Trent-Mersey trunk scheme, making more demands on his time and taking him even farther afield when construction begins, for I have no doubt he will be appointed, Surveyor General. No working party can be set up until the Act is passed, but the group already favours the idea, bar one minor dissenting voice which, if I have any influence — and I intend to have — will be overruled.”
“Whose dissenting voice, Sir Neville?”
“Some west country people who promise to invest a substantial sum, hoping for a substantial slice of the cake, I have no doubt.”
“The slice being the building of the canal?”
“If they hope for that, they are too optimistic. I am pledging the largest Bond, payable when the Act is passed, so that should strengthen my hand, and when the working party is in being I am determined that Simon shall become Surveyor General. Any dissenting voices will be crying in the wilderness. I have gone so far as to consult him on the distribution of labour and support his idea of dividing it between local groups, no particular one having the greatest slice or making the greatest profit. Local men work best in their own local areas. I support that, with the Surveyor General having authority over all.”
She said with a hint of a smile, “I think I recall my husband stipulating that.”
“So he did, my dear, so he did. And I agree. So do others, and since he is the original planner, he deserves to have his way. One dissenting voice can be dismissed — and much can happen before things reach fruition. Meanwhile, I await your acceptance of my invitation and I wait with bated breath, dear lady. Pray do not refuse to grace Ashburton with your presence.”
His flowery words touched her. She answered with a smile, “A village woman to keep an eye on things here and, for me, a visit to one of the loveliest houses in Staffordshire — you are a very thoughtful man, Sir Neville. It sounds as if you have planned things, and arranged things, already.”
“I believe in planning well, and in making sure those plans succeed. For example, I had my eye on your husband long before the Armstrong Canal had been designed, for I knew he was the man to do it, just as I know he is the right man to supervise the new scheme.” Short-sighted eyes twinkled beneath bushy brows. “Yes, I confess to a liking for my own way, so I will also confess to another motive in inviting you to Ashburton. I have a large library which I am struggling to catalogue — not very successfully, for I am not much of a scholar. But you are known to be intelligent and well educated, and your occasional assistance would be welcomed. You see how selfish I am, dear Mistress Kendall. No — dear Jessica. The name becomes you and I dislike formality, especially with someone who is to be a guest in my house.”
“I can see you contemplate no refusal, and I admit that working in your library sounds appealing — ”
“ — and not arduous, let me assure you of that. I would permit no more than an hour a day, otherwise I would see little of my charming guest.”
Jessica laughed. “I suspect you are something of a flatterer, sir. But you seem to think it unnecessary to consult my husband.”
“Then let us consult him now, for here he comes, and if Simon Kendall is the man I believe him to be, he will raise not a single objection.”
He was right. Simon appeared to give the matter some thought, as if the whole idea were new to him, finally agreeing that the visit would no doubt be beneficial to his wife, and the next morning he drove her the four miles to Sir Neville’s home.
He had not imagined the cottage would seem so empty without her. On returning that night he found that the village woman had left a stew simmering on the hob, but he ate little of it. The silence was oppressive; an unnatural stillness due solely to her absence. He missed the rocking of her chair, the sound of her step, the awareness that she was near. In the months of their mock marriage this alone had made the whole situation tolerable for him — the fact that he could see her and hear her and occasionally touch her, that he could listen to the sound of her voice and look on the loveliness of her face and watch its ever changing expressions — and dream his secret dream that one day he would see one particular expression there, and solely for himself.
He slept little, rose early, prepared the simple breakfast which had served him well as a bachelor in the Larch Lane cottage, but which Jessica had supplemented with eggs coddled in her own especial way and devilled kidneys more tasty than any, and shut the cottage door with a feeling of relief. She had haunted him throughout the night, and would do so again when he returned. Meanwhile, he could lose himself in work, and since he was leaving earlier than usual he could make a detour via Burslem to find out how one of his hired men was faring after an accident. It was this detour which made his path cross with that of Amelia Freeman taking her early morning ride.
Seeing him, she reined and waited for him to draw alongside. After enquiring about Jessica and hearing of her visit to Ashburton, she rode with him for awhile, making passing conversation until he could no longer suppress his desire to question her.
“I have been wanting to ask you something, Amelia. Did you see anything — anything that could have contributed to the accident — anything that startled her and caused the fall?”
“How could I, Simon? I arrived after it happened.”
“Of course…of course…”
Seeing the disappointment in his eyes, she said gently, “Can you not put it behind you now it is over? We grieved for her, we grieved for both of you — my father and mother, Martin, myself, poor Emily Drayton…”
“But not her sister, I’ll be bound.”
“Silly Phoebe thinks of no one but herself.”
“And has become a snob, to boot. Too much of a snob to visit a sister living in a former wheelwright’s cottage.”
Amelia shrugged.
“Phoebe is unimportant,” she said.
“But still capable of hurting Jessica. A thoughtful message would have cost her nothing.”
“Everybody else cared very much. My only wish is that I could have done more.”
“My dear Amelia, you did everything. But for your arrival and your swift action, things could have been — worse.”
He could not bring himself to utter the word ‘fatal’.
Amelia said gently, “You are tormented by worry; I can see that. You will never rest until you find out what actually made her fall. Could it not have been a slip of the ladder, insecurely propped?”
“I am confident that she tested it, that it was sufficient to hold firmly unless something untoward happened. To be careless at that late stage was uncharacteristic of Jessica. She behaved sensibly throughout the waiting months.” Sensing an unspoken comment he added, “I know what you are thinking — that it was scarcely sensible to mount a ladder only a month before the birth was due, and indeed you are right, but this very fact persuades me that she would not have done so without the utmost care.”
They had reached their point of parting. Turning her horse’s head, Amelia answered sympathetically, “I understand how you feel, dear Simon, and I only wish I had arrived earlier. Indeed, I would have done, but for meeting Cousin Acland riding out of Cooperfield and waylaying him because he had helped himself to my own personal mount. He had ‘fancied an afternoon jaunt’, he said, as if that excused his making use of our stables without asking which horses had been set aside for guests. He merely took his pick, and picked the best. That would
have been no matter had it not been the one I am most at ease with, and wanted to use to visit Jessica. Naturally, I could scarce reproach him, being a visitor in our home, but he must have sensed my surprise for he went to some pains to pacify me, keeping me talking for longer than I wished, and since he was leaving for Bristol by the early morning stage it would have been impolite to cut the conversation short. But how I wish I had! Thanks to him, I arrived late indeed.”
Simon said slowly, “I was unaware that Acland had been in these parts.”
“He came for the wedding — at Agatha’s wish, I suspect. I also suspect that he accepted the invitation solely to impress us with his newfound prosperity. He appears to be flourishing.”
“And will he be coming back?” Simon hid the effort of putting the question.
“As to that, I have no idea. Despite his present affluence and impeccable manners, dear Papa still appears to be not over partial to him, though Mamma and all the ladies were charmed.” Amelia reached out a neatly gloved hand, and touched Simon’s sleeve. “Try not to fret about Jessica. She will be mightily cherished at Ashburton. Dear old Sir Neville pampers his guests — especially pretty, feminine ones. Pray give her my love when next you see her — “
“That will be on Sunday. I am expected for the midday meal.” It seemed to Amelia that he spoke absently and that he scarcely saw her departing wave.
Simon’s immediate desire was to see Jessica and talk with her, but wisdom counselled him to wait. She had loved Acland with passion and she had cherished his child as it grew within her. She had spent long evenings sewing for it until not another item was needed, storing all in a cedar chest beside the window of her room. He had watched her face when she saw the cradle he had made, the hint of tears in her eyes, the sweet gratitude of her smile — as if he had given her the most beautiful gift in the world. All this was for Acland’s child, and because it was his she had loved it and planned for it and waited for it with longing.
