Down Weaver's Lane

by Anna Jacobs

  Now that the novelty had worn off, however, and the friendly dressmaker from Northby had stopped calling for fittings, Tibby was feeling lonely. She kept wondering how Emmy was, but didn’t like to ask Eleanor because her sister-in-law would think it strange to take such an interest in a maid. And since they attended the local church in Padstall village, she didn’t see dear Mrs Bradley any more either.

  Claude wanted to take over her tiny income and manage it. What difference could such a small sum make to a man as wealthy as him? That was the only time she had stood up for herself, for she had refused to sign a piece of paper giving the annuity into Claude’s keeping and leaving it to Marcus when she died. It had made him furious and she had been unable to hold back the tears. Eleanor had overheard the end of their conversation and said brusquely that it was a great deal of fuss about nothing, so Claude had let the matter drop after that, thank goodness.

  Tibby hadn’t mentioned the other money sitting in her savings account at Northby Bank or the few items of silver still lying in the vault there unsold. She had written to Mr Garrett to ask him to keep her money and possessions safe and not to give them to anyone but her. She had also begged him not to reply to her because she was quite sure Claude checked all the letters that came to the house, though not those that went out, and would want to know why she was receiving one from the bank.

  He was out most days, thank goodness, managing his various ventures or meeting gentlemen of similar stature in the Manchester business community. Some of the so-called business meetings brought him home unsteady on his feet and with slurred speech, but no one commented on that, least of all his wife. In fact, her sister-in-law seemed to regard Claude with cool tolerance and he always appeared slightly uneasy in her company, doing as she asked without a quibble when she spoke in a certain tone of voice.

  Eleanor was polite enough to her. You could not fault her on that. But she was cool and distant in her dealings and had made it plain Tibby was not welcome to join her in receiving daytime callers unless expressly invited and was to dine with the family in the evening only when no guests were expected. The maids let Tibby know about that, knocking on her door to say, ‘I’ll be bringing you up a tray tonight, ma’am.’ It was a further humiliation, she felt, to be told this by a servant.

  As for her nephew Marcus, he treated her like a half-wit, speaking slowly and mockingly when he did condescend to notice her existence. And she had seen the hot way his eyes devoured any young female he encountered. She could understand Emmy’s wish to stay out of his clutches far better now and, although she was sure Eleanor would have allowed it, she would not even ask to bring her former maid here.

  While this lack of affection between members of the family reminded Tibby of exactly why she had run away to marry her dearest James, it also reminded her of the girl who had been brave enough to do that. When she compared her younger self with the timid old lady she had now become, she felt downright ashamed. Age made you frail in more ways than one, it seemed.

  She could not run away again because she had little money, could not walk far without assistance and had nowhere to go. In fact, her world had dwindled to a comfortable room where maids popped in now and then to suggest a tray of tea or to help her get ready for bed. There was not even anywhere close enough to walk to and the gardens were presided over by a surly fellow who would barely give you the time of day, let alone discuss the flowers she loved so much. Tibby’s only entertainment was to read the novels Eleanor supplied her with, which was the only human weakness her sister-in-law seemed to have, or to watch the comings and goings in the stable-yard below the wing where she was housed.

  ‘There must be a way to escape,’ she muttered, then realised she was talking to herself again, something which had made Claude stare at her suspiciously the other evening. She would have to guard against that. But the thought of getting away from this velvet prison went round and round in her head for the rest of the day. Not that she could see a way to do it, but dear James would have said, ‘Let it go round. Maybe it’ll find a new turning one day.’ He had been so sensible and had made her feel sensible too.

  That evening she was told the family wished her to dine with them, so she asked for help with her hair, dressed carefully and walked downstairs on the arm of one of the capable middle-aged maids because the stiffness in her hip was no better for soft living.

  ‘We have excellent news for you, my dear Matilda,’ Claude said over dessert, examining the port wine in his glass against the excellent light shed by the ornate colza oil lamps and nodding in approval of it.

  She waited to be enlightened, silver spoon poised over her fine china dish.

  ‘Marcus is soon to be married - to Jane Rishmore.’ He raised the glass in a silent toast to his son.

  Tibby saw Marcus’s sour expression and was intrigued. Was he not pleased about his betrothal, then? ‘I’m sure she must be a delightful girl. I shall look forward to meeting her.’

  ‘She’s invited to dine here with her family tomorrow evening,’ Eleanor said. ‘You must join us, Matilda - as long as it’s not too much for you?’

  ‘I’d be delighted to join you. I find myself in much better health these days.’ Tibby took a deep breath and ventured to make her first small stand against the way they treated her. ‘And I should like a small glass of port as well, Claude, if it’s not too much trouble? I find it very fortifying.’ Her heart was pounding in her chest as she waited for a response.

  He waved a hand and the maid served her.

  ‘Make sure a decanter of port is kept in Mrs Oswald’s room from now on,’ Eleanor ordered.

  Tibby enjoyed the port and began to wonder if she was imagining restrictions on her life where there were none. When the meal ended Claude told Marcus to escort his aunt to her room, but she declined hurriedly, saying the maid’s pace suited her infirmity better.

  That brought her a thoughtful stare from Eleanor, who then frowned in Marcus’s direction.

  The following evening Tibby was again escorted downstairs by the maid. ‘It’s good news, is it not, that Mr Marcus is to marry?’ she said, feeling desperate for conversation.

  The maid sniffed. ‘Good news he’ll be leaving and us maids will be safe to walk about the house.’ Then she realised what she had said and gasped in dismay. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Mrs Oswald. I don’t know what came over me to say that.’ She did know, though, an encounter with Marcus on the back stairs which had made her flee shrieking to the safety of the kitchen and had filled her with outrage that he would so treat a woman old enough to be his mother. Though if she’d borne a son as nasty as him, she’d have smothered him at birth, ’deed she would.

  ‘It’s all right, dear. I shan’t tell anyone what you said. And I’d guessed what he was like anyway.’

  ‘Thank you, ma’am.’

  ‘I do wish you’d call me Mrs Tibby. It’s the name I prefer. And you’re Katy, are you not?’

  But they were now descending the main stairs and the maid said only, ‘Yes, ma’am. But Mrs Armistead prefers to address us by our surnames. Mine’s Beggley, if you please.’

  No sooner had Tibby settled in a chair in the drawing room than the visitors’ carriage drew up outside. A cold draught swept in from the hall as the front door was opened and Claude turned to fix his son with a stern glance and say, ‘Make sure you speak pleasantly to Jane tonight. You hardly said a word to her last week.’

  ‘Of course, Father.’

  The Rishmores greeted Tibby politely then seemed to forget her existence. Eleanor made sure Jane sat next to Marcus on a sofa and the two pairs of parents stared at the ill-matched pair in obvious satisfaction.

  To her surprise Tibby liked the look of Jane Armistead, who might not be a beauty but had clear, steady grey eyes and an intelligent look to her. You could tell so much from the eyes. Mrs Rishmore’s were pale blue and vacuous, and she looked to be a foolish creature. She had topped her corkscrew curls with one of the fashionable silk dinner berets Tibby had
read about in Eleanor’s ladies’ magazines but had never seen until now. The beret was far too large for Mrs Rishmore’s narrow face and the vivid colour did not suit her, either. Jane was wearing a bright pink gown, which was also wrong for her, and the poor girl was far too tall for Marcus. He was bound to feel that, being such a short man, very like Tibby’s own father in appearance.

  Jane’s expression remained tight and controlled and she contributed little to a conversation with her betrothed. Marcus was unable to hide his impatience with this.

  At table Jane let out a muffled yelp and Tibby guessed that Marcus’s hand must have strayed under the table. A minute later he gasped and glared at his fiancée. What had Jane done to him? Tibby wondered in shocked amusement. Pinched him hard where it hurt a man most, she hoped.

  She was glad to see the young woman standing up for herself, and it was a further impetus to make Tibby do something for herself as well. She was going to try, she really was. She could not go on living this lonely, useless life.

  The mere thought of taking action made her feel better than she had since her arrival here.

  Emmy found it hard at first to believe the spiteful tricks the three Butterfield women played on her. They had soon convinced Isaac she was lazy and stupid, good for nothing, the true daughter of her feckless mother, though sometimes she thought she saw a look of embarrassment in Dinah’s eyes and certainly her younger cousin did not play such nasty tricks on her as Lal.

  The only time Emmy was allowed out of the house was when she went on errands for her aunt, and she was not entrusted with money, simply told where to go and what to ask for. The goods were then charged to the Butterfields’ account.

  As she was coming back from the nearby farm from which her aunt bought eggs, she stopped in the lane to stare across the gardens between her and the rear of the Butterfields’ house. Tears came into her eyes at the thought of re-entering it. Lal and her mother had been particularly unkind to her that morning. How she was to endure it for much longer she did not know.

  A young man turned the corner, whistling, and she saw it was Jack, so turned her head quickly to hide the tears.

  ‘Don’t you speak to old friends now, Emmy?’ he asked in such a gentle tone that it drew a sob from her. ‘What’s wrong?’

  When she turned to face him she felt a tear trickle down her cheek, then another.

  He said simply, ‘Tell me!’ and she poured out the tale of what her life was like now. The only self-control she exerted was to speak in a low voice and keep her distance from him. She longed for him to take her in his arms, to hold and comfort her as he had done on that dreadful night, but he was as far beyond her reach as he had always been. Further. For her aunt would not allow her to have friends of any sort, she was sure.

  Jack stood there aghast at her unhappiness, knowing he must not touch her because someone might walk past and then her reputation would be blackened. ‘Is there nothing you can do about it?’

  She shook her head. ‘Mr Rishmore wishes me to live with my mother’s family.’ She was thinking of running away, only how to smuggle her few possessions out of the house and get away without being recaptured were puzzles she had yet to solve.

  He made a bitter sound in his throat. ‘Mr Rishmore thinks he runs everyone’s life.’ After a moment’s thought he added, ‘Your uncle’s quite kind, though.’

  ‘Kind? He does nothing to help me!’

  ‘Maybe he doesn’t understand what it’s like for you.’

  ‘Or doesn’t care!’ The church clock struck the half-hour and she took a shaky breath. ‘I’d better go or she’ll say I’ve taken too long and slap me again.’

  Back at the mill Jack finished his next task and went to return the ledger to Mr Butterfield’s office, saying casually, ‘Could I ask how Emmy is, sir?’

  ‘My niece?’

  ‘Yes. I thought last time I saw her she was looking unhappy. She must be missing the old lady very much.’

  ‘She has reason to look unhappy. She is a lazy young madam, and I should be grateful if you would stay away from her.’ The constant anxiety that Emmy would do as his wife feared and fall into sinful ways, bringing down Mr Rishmore’s wrath on the Butterfields’ heads, made Isaac add, ‘The last thing we want is for her to become interested in young men.’

  Jack drew himself up. ‘As you know, I can’t even consider young women in that way, sir, and I think you do Emmy an injustice in comparing her to her mother. She was always very hard-working and behaved decently when she worked for Mrs Oswald, though she had plenty of freedom to do otherwise if she’d chosen. And she was running away from immorality when I found her and took her to Parson Bradley, so I don’t know why you should be worrying about her in that way.’

  ‘I can only repeat, her happiness is not your concern and I would be grateful if you would stay away from her.’

  But Isaac found this conversation disturbing because he had been so busy at work that he realised he had not paid his niece much attention.

  Jack went back to his work, unsure whether he’d done any good mentioning Emmy or made things worse for her. After further thought he decided to speak to Parson Bradley about her as well. And if neither of them would do something, then he must!

  That evening Isaac studied his niece as she served them their meal then went off to eat hers in the kitchen, something that still made him feel guilty. Jack was right, she did look unhappy. And was that not a bruise on her cheek? When she returned to clear away the soup bowls, he noticed another on her arm. Yet she didn’t seem clumsy, and in fact had his sister’s graceful way of moving.

  Even as he watched he was shocked to see Lal stick her foot out, trying to trip her cousin. But Emmy avoided it as if she’d been expecting something like that. When she’d gone back to the kitchen, he frowned at his daughter. ‘Why did you do that, Lal?’

  She stared at him in surprise. ‘Do what?’

  ‘Try to trip Emmy.’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘I saw you do it.’

  ‘It was an accident.’

  He thumped the table, indignant that she should look him in the face and lie like that. ‘Go to your room this minute! I will not have a daughter of mine lying to me! And if I see such spiteful behaviour towards your cousin again, I shall punish you severely.’

  His wife waited until Dinah too had gone up to her room after the meal before saying reproachfully, ‘I didn’t think to hear you taking your niece’s side against your own daughter, Isaac.’

  He hesitated. It was usually wisest not to anger Lena. But once again he remembered the unhappiness in every line of his niece’s body, the unhappiness that a stranger had had to point out to him before he’d noticed it. ‘Lal was behaving badly, my dear. What sort of person would play such tricks on another? But what annoyed me most of all was that my own daughter would lie to me and that is why I sent her to her room. And how did Emmy get those bruises, pray? I would not like to think she was being ill treated here.’

  ‘I slapped her face for impudence today,’ his wife said complacently.

  ‘What did she say to make you do that?’

  ‘What does it matter what she said? Do you not believe me? Is that girl more important to you than your own wife and daughter now?’

  Her voice was dangerously close to hysteria and her emotions had been very uncertain lately, so he said nothing more. But he lay awake for a long time in his lonely bedroom worrying, determined to keep a more watchful eye on his family’s behaviour towards his niece from now on. While he did not wish to give his sister’s daughter any opportunity to misbehave, he did not like to think of her being bullied or slapped so hard for what could only be minor offences. He was glad he no longer shared a room with his wife. He wished he didn’t have to share a house with her, either.

  Two days after the Rishmores’ visit to Moor Grange, a note was brought across inviting the Armistead ladies to call upon the Rishmore ladies to discuss wedding details.

  ‘I’m su
re you won’t want to come, Matilda,’ Eleanor said. ‘I’ll give them your apologies.’

  Tibby saw this as another opportunity to make a stand. ‘I’d love to come, actually. I’m feeling so much better that I’m finding the days dragging a little. And I’ve been thinking I’d like to get out and about a bit. Would there be any objection to my going out for rides in the carnage - when it isn’t needed, of course?’ She waited with pounding heart for a curt refusal or a scornful remark, for Eleanor didn’t mince her words when she was angry with her menfolk.

  ‘There is usually a vehicle of some sort free. I’m pleased you feel able to get out more.’ Eleanor paused then added with another frown, ‘You’re not a prisoner here, you know, Matilda. Surely we haven’t made you feel like that?’

  She gathered her courage together. ‘I have felt a bit confined, I’m afraid. This house is so isolated and - well, I miss having my own place more than I’d expected.’ She blinked her eyes rapidly to dispel the moisture. ‘There is something about running a home and garden, even a humble one, that fills the hours nicely and offers many small pleasures. If I’d had only a very little more money, I don’t think I’d have grown so worn down. And I miss my maid as well. Dearest Emmy was such a comfort to me.’

  After thinking this over for a moment or two, Eleanor said slowly, ‘If you like, after the wedding I’ll see if I can persuade Claude to find you somewhere else to live. Maybe a little house in Northby - or Rochdale perhaps?’ After all, it wouldn’t cost much and it’d save them the embarrassment of not quite knowing what to do with Claude’s sister whenever they had guests. And although her husband wouldn’t care whether Matilda was unhappy or not, Eleanor found she did.