Down Weaver's Lane

by Anna Jacobs

  ‘Show me what you’ve brought with you.’

  Emmy looked at her in puzzlement.

  ‘I wish to make sure you are not bringing anything dirty or distasteful into this house.’

  Why should she expose all her pitiful possessions to this woman and her two grinning cousins? She made no move to open the trunk. ‘I have the outfit I’m wearing, which Mrs Bradley gave me, and another like it, but my summer dresses are rather worn and too small for me.’

  The slap her aunt administered took Emmy by surprise, sending her reeling onto the bed and making her head ring.

  ‘I said to show me what you’ve brought with you!’ her aunt cried.

  Lal and Dinah tittered but a glare from their mother silenced them instantly.

  ‘That is your first lesson in obedience, Emmy. Now, show me what you have or I shall fetch my strap.’ The resemblance to her elder daughter, both in voice and behaviour, was striking. She was much bigger than Emmy and much fiercer, too, so the girl gave in and opened the tin trunk.

  Her aunt pulled everything from it, scattering clothing across the bed and floor, poking through her spare chemises and petticoats disdainfully. ‘You’re badly equipped and I suppose they’ll be expecting us to clothe you decently on top of everything else! Still, you’re so small I dare say I can find you some of Dinah’s cast-offs.’ She took a step backwards. ‘I shall give you five minutes to put your things away in the chest then you are to come downstairs. Lal, Dinah!’ She led the way out again.

  At the door Lal paused for a moment to smile at Emmy: the smile of a cat who has a bird trapped and is looking forward to tormenting it.

  When they had gone Emmy closed her eyes and willed the tears not to fall. She had never experienced such hatred in her whole life and was shaken by it. Her cheek still stung where her aunt had slapped her. What was she to do? The only word she could think of was endure. At least until her life had settled into some sort of pattern again. She’d done plenty of that before, but had been so happy with Mrs Tibby that this new life seemed a dreadful prospect. She stopped folding things for a moment, deciding that if things did not go well, she would find a way to leave. At least she still had the coins she had sewn into her petticoat. She had been going to run away, so it would not be much different, but she would not stay with people who hated her and slapped her for nothing!

  When she could delay no longer Emmy went downstairs, her stomach churning with nervousness. As she walked along towards the rear of the ground floor, she passed three doors on the right but they were all closed. At the end of the passage was an open door which led into the kitchen. There she found her aunt and Dinah preparing food, while Lal was visible in the scullery beyond washing dishes.

  Her aunt found her jobs to do and kept her busy until the church clock struck half-past twelve, then Dinah looked at her mother and asked, ‘Shall I set places for us all?’

  ‘Certainly not! She isn’t going to be eating with us.’ Her aunt turned to Emmy. ‘Go into the scullery. Lal will bring your food to you there.’

  The meal Lal brought in was adequate but plain. Soup that would have been better for a ham bone to give it savour and stale bread, followed by a wizened apple. Lal slapped it down on the scullery bench.

  ‘I have nothing to eat it with.’

  ‘As far as I’m concerned you can lap it up like the animal you are!’ Lal hissed.

  But even as she spoke, Dinah appeared. ‘You forgot her cutlery.’ Her gaze was more curious than hostile but she said nothing as she turned to follow her sister back into the kitchen.

  Emmy was aware of them staring at her from the kitchen as she ate. How cruel to put her in here only a few yards away!

  When she had finished eating the housework began again. Thanks to Mrs Tibby, Emmy was able to do most of the tasks they set her. When she wasn’t sure what they wanted, she asked. It became obvious that her aunt and cousins did all the housework and cooking, but tried to hide this from their neighbours, though apparently a scrubbing woman came in twice a week.

  Emmy felt she’d acquitted herself well, but she had not received a single word of praise and once or twice Lal had pinched her as she passed, savage nips that left bruises on her arm.

  As evening approached the three Butterfield woman tidied themselves up and went to sit in the little parlour to wait for the master of the house. They left Emmy in the kitchen, keeping an eye on a pan of potatoes and another of hearty lamb stew.

  The front door opened and Emmy heard her uncle’s voice. He sounded tired.

  In the front hall the two girls greeted their father and fussed over him, taking his outdoor clothes and hanging them up for him, then joining their parents in the small parlour partway along the corridor.

  Their voices echoed clearly down the corridor.

  ‘Where’s Emmy?’ he asked.

  ‘In the kitchen where she belongs,’ Lena said.

  ‘Don’t you think she should join us here in the evenings, my dear? We cannot leave a relative sitting in the back room like a maid.’

  ‘If you knew what it’s been like you wouldn’t say that. She’s afraid of work, that girl is -’

  Emmy gaped in shock.

  ‘ - and she has no idea how to do housework. We’ve had to show her everything, haven’t we, girls?’

  ‘Yes, Mother.’

  ‘And she’s bone idle! Did she think she was coming here to be waited on? She may have fooled an old woman, but she won’t fool me. We all work hard, as you well know, my dear Isaac, and have no intention of letting her loll around in idleness.’

  By this time Emmy’s eyes had filled with tears. She almost went along the corridor to protest, but there were three of them and it would only be her word against theirs.

  Sinking down on a chair, she dashed away a tear. It was going to be far worse than she had expected here, but she wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction of seeing her weeping.

  A smell of burning brought her out of her reverie, as did the eruption of her aunt into the kitchen, shouting, ‘Can I not even trust you to keep an eye on a pan of potatoes, you stupid girl?’ But Lena Butterfield smiled as she pulled the pan off the hot part of the cooking range, as if she was pleased with what had happened.

  Again Emmy ate her meal alone.

  Jane Rishmore stood motionless while her mother watched the maid who served them both fuss over her dress and hair.

  ‘Thank you, Peg. You may go now.’

  Jane turned away from the mirror, saying nothing. This dress was in the height of fashion, but was as unflattering as everything else she possessed, because her mother had no sense of taste or style and yet insisted on choosing everything her daughter wore.

  ‘Are you all right, my dear?’

  ‘No. You know I’m not, Mother.’ Jane had done with pretending. ‘I’m dreadfully unhappy and I hate Mr Armistead - hate him!’ Her voice had risen in spite of her resolution to stay calm and tears were welling in her eyes. She went across to her drawers and fumbled blindly for a handkerchief, dabbing the moisture from her cheeks and taking several deep breaths.

  Her mother sighed. ‘Your father is quite determined on this match.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘There will be compensations, I promise you. You’ll have your own house, servants - children, too, one day.’

  ‘And that’s supposed to compensate me for having to live with that nasty little man?’ For there was something about Marcus that revolted Jane, something evil. Which was a strange fancy for a young woman who was usually the least fanciful of beings.

  As her mother continued to gaze anxiously at her, Jane heard the sound of carriage wheels outside the house and took a deep breath to pull herself together. ‘Hadn’t we better go down?’

  They went to sit in the parlour where the master of the house was waiting impatiently for them.

  ‘Does she not have any brighter clothes?’ he demanded, staring disapprovingly at his daughter.

  ‘Well, no, dear. You sai
d you preferred us to dress quietly.’

  ‘There’s a difference between dressing quietly and dressing like a damned dowd! We’re not still in mourning.’

  Jane saw her mother wince and the determination grew in her not to let a husband treat her in this openly scornful way. Her mother wasn’t very intelligent, but she was well-meaning and her father had no right to show impatience with her. After all, he had married her for her money and been richly recompensed. Jane thought about Marcus Armistead, who was much smaller than she was, and it occurred to her suddenly that nothing could prevent her from defying him once they were married. She didn’t need to act in the subservient way her own mother did. Of course, she knew the main reason why her mother was always so apologetic. Because she hadn’t given her husband a son.

  Would Jane have similar difficulty in producing an heir for Marcus Armistead? She considered this thoughtfully as she waited for the maid to show him in. She would like to have children, but it worried her that she didn’t understand exactly what married couples did to get them. When she’d asked, her mother had flushed and told her it would be up to her husband to enlighten her, and had then made an excuse to leave the room.

  ‘Ah, my dear Marcus!’

  Jane watched her father go forward to greet their guest, who then came to clasp her mother’s hand and pass on his mother’s regards. As he turned to Jane, she saw again how much shorter than her he was and a sudden savage joy filled her. If she did fight back, this little man would not easily best her. She straightened up to her full height, though her mother had ordered her to stoop a little, and had the further satisfaction of seeing Marcus scowl at her.

  ‘Do sit down, Jane!’ her mother said hastily.

  She did so, smiling. At a gesture from her mother Marcus sat beside her. Even sitting he was shorter than she was.

  After a few civilities her father said bluntly, ‘Mr Armistead wishes to speak to you, Jane. We’ll leave you two young folk alone for a few minutes.’ He waited impatiently for his wife to get to her feet then hurried her out of the room.

  Jane stared down at her clasped hands. When Marcus reached out to take one of them she let him, but made no attempt to clasp his in return and after a moment he let the limp hand drop.

  ‘You are looking very - charming today,’ he managed at last.

  ‘I don’t think so. This colour doesn’t suit me. My mother chose it.’

  ‘Well, you have a very - fine complexion, so that doesn’t matter.’

  ‘“Lancashire fair women”, don’t they say?’ she replied. ‘My skin is certainly light, but I would prefer fresh air and rosier cheeks only Father doesn’t approve of my going walking on the moors.’

  Marcus breathed deeply then began again, ‘My dear Miss Rishmore - Jane, that is - you must know that I have grown - um - fond of you.’

  ‘Have you? I hadn’t realised. I thought it was my father you came to see on behalf of yours.’ She distinctly heard a growl of anger in his throat. It gave her immense satisfaction. She gazed at him limpidly, her eyes not leaving his, and this seemed to make him uncomfortable. When he rose abruptly to his feet she gazed down at her hands again.

  ‘My dear Jane, you must surely realise why I am here?’ he said in exasperation.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yet you give me no encouragement!’

  ‘Why should I? Our fathers have decided what is to happen. I’ve had no choice in it. Have you?’

  He blinked. ‘Well, it is usual in our circles to marry for convenience, is it not?’

  ‘Whose convenience?’

  ‘That of all parties.’

  She did not dare go as far as telling him she loathed the very thought of marrying him, so pressed her lips firmly together and waited for him to continue.

  He spoke rapidly as if determined to give her no chance to interrupt him. ‘My dear Jane, given our families’ joint expectations, I sincerely hope you will do me the honour of becoming my wife?’ He paused expectantly.

  She had to force the word out. ‘Yes.’

  ‘You have made me very happy.’

  She could not hold back a snort of disbelief.

  Ignoring it, Marcus sat down again beside her. ‘My father is to provide us with a house in Padstall village. I should like to show it to you.’

  ‘My mother and I will be very happy to drive over to see it.’

  ‘Good, good.’

  Silence deepened between them and she was relieved when the library door opened and footsteps come towards them.

  Marcus rose and took up a studied position in front of the fire. As his host came in he said, ‘I am happy to tell you, sir, that your daughter has agreed to become my wife.’

  Jane thought he sounded resigned more than anything. His smile certainly faded within seconds and he did not again look directly at her or even address a remark to her.

  Her father came across to pat her shoulder and say ‘Good girl!’ in exactly the same tone as he used with his dog.

  Her mother followed to give her a fluttery kiss.

  They sat on and made stilted conversation for a minute or two. Jane said nothing. Why should she help them in any way?

  Her father soon tired of this and said impatiently, ‘Well, I must be getting back to work.’

  Marcus stood up. ‘And I too have duties which call, sir.’ He rode back to Padstall feeling thoroughly depressed. He’d got through the proposal as well as could be expected, though he’d swear the stupid female had grown another couple of inches since the last time he’d seen her. As he passed the spot where he’d killed the old whore he reined in his horse for a moment and smiled. The deed was something he took a certain amount of secret pleasure from, for it showed he was not a man to be trifled with.

  It came to him suddenly that there must be ways of disposing of a wife if she displeased you and that thought cheered him up considerably. As did his father’s approval when he returned to report that he was engaged to be married.

  The next day Jane went to visit her old nurse, a Scottish woman who had been pensioned off to a small back-to-back cottage in a narrow alley off Weavers Lane. She took a basket of food with her because she knew her father gave Aggie only five shillings a week to live on.

  When they were both seated in front of the fire Jane came straight to the point. ‘I’ve had to accept Marcus Armistead, Aggie.’

  ‘I knew your father would make you, lassie.’

  ‘Yes. But, Aggie, I need to know now what happens between a man and wife. You can’t let me face it in ignorance. Not with a man like him.’

  Her nurse stared into the fire and sighed. ‘Your mother has forbidden me to tell you anything. It seems you’ve been asking her as well.’

  ‘She won’t know.’

  The two looked at one another and Aggie said suddenly, with tears in her eyes, ‘Och, lassie, I’ll miss you sorely.’

  ‘If it’s at all possible I’ll bring you to live with us once I’ve settled in. I’ll have to wait and find out about that, though. I can’t promise you anything until I see how things - work out. But whatever happens, I will continue to help you.’ She looked at the old woman expectantly. ‘So tell me about it. Please.’

  ‘Well, it’s like this ...’ Aggie explained simply and straightforwardly how children were made.

  Jane sat there in amazement, staring into the fire as she listened, unable to believe that her father actually did this to her mother. ‘I hadn’t realised it was so like animals,’ she said at last. ‘Does it - hurt?’

  Aggie shrugged. ‘Depends on the man. If he’s skilled he can make it pleasant for a woman. If he doesn’t bother it can be uncomfortable. It’s not normally painful, though.’

  ‘I don’t think I can bear Marcus Armistead to touch me like that.’ Jane shuddered.

  ‘You’ve no choice, hen.’

  Determination rose in her. ‘We’ll see about that. Maybe he won’t want to touch me.’

  ‘Oh, he will. He’s young enough to need it regular.’
Aggie paused and looked sideways at her young lady, then said, ‘I’d better tell you the rest.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Your intended has a reputation with the ladies. They say no woman is safe with him, that his mother employs only old and ugly maids, that he visits houses of ill repute. Some men are like that. Always needing it. So he will want to touch you, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I’m still bigger than he is.’

  ‘Och, lassie, you can’t keep him off by force. It’s his right to have you in his bed. The church says that and so does the law.’

  ‘Is there no way women can live without men?’ Jane demanded bitterly.

  ‘Only if they have money, hen. And men don’t often give that to a woman. It makes them too independent.’

  ‘I certainly have none, though my father has given me some expensive jewellery now that I’m engaged to be married. Part of my dowry, he says. I’d rather have had half its value in money and gone away to live quietly somewhere.’ She sighed and changed the subject to her wedding clothes.

  When she went home, she was very thoughtful. Marcus Armistead was not going to have things all his own way after they were married, whatever his behaviour was like with other women. But perhaps later she could find some way to strike a bargain with him and keep him away from her bed? Surely he’d prefer women who were not reluctant to have him touch them?

  She’d have to bear him a child or two first, however. Tears rose in her eyes. She didn’t know how she was going to bear being married to him. Even to have him touch her hand made her feel uncomfortable.

  11

  Tibby Oswald stood by the window of her bedroom in the Grange staring across the moors. They looked as bleak today as she felt, with rain sweeping across them like ragged swathes of dirty gauze and black clouds racing to shed more moisture on the damp, rain-darkened land. She was extremely comfortable in her old home and though she missed Emmy, at first had loved being back here, waited on hand and foot. But now she was feeling the lack of a suitable occupation to fill her time.

  She looked down, stroking the material of her skirt. The new clothes had been provided only to suit her station as an Armistead of Moor Grange, not to give her pleasure, but she did enjoy wearing them. There were several simple but elegant gowns for the daytime and a real silk dress for evenings. She had forgotten how soft silk was against the body.