THE JARROW TRILOGY: all 3 enthralling sagas in 1 volume; The Jarrow Lass, A Child of Jarrow & Return to Jarrow

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  ‘That’s enough, Mrs Bates,’ her husband coughed in warning. ‘Mr Pringle-Davies doesn’t want your life story, just wants to know if Lady Ravensworth is at home.’

  Mrs Bates clucked in disapproval. ‘No, she is not. Gone somewhere foreign - the Continent or the likes. Left His Lordship to his hunting. Not that he does much of that these days at his age - sleeps a lot in the library so I hear. Eighty-one. Still a handsome man, mind. And there’s the old dowager still at Farnacre, and she a hundred! They’re long-lived the Liddells - excepting your poor dear mother.’

  ‘Mrs Bates,’ her husband cautioned her again with one of his embarrassed coughs.

  ‘Thank you for your information,’ Alexander said with a reassuring smile, touching the old woman on the arm. ‘It’s good to see you’re still keeping a watchful eye on the place as ever, Mrs Bates. Just like you did when I was a boy.’

  She clung on to him. ‘Always enjoyed your visits, Master Alexander. Not the same without children about the castle -you were always the liveliest, a right little handful, but a loving nature. Didn’t I always say that, Mr Bates? A loving nature. Now there’s no children - just parties and balls and the like when the mistress is at home. Crying shame His Lordship has no son and heir—’

  ‘Mrs Bates!’ Mr Bates growled.

  Alexander tipped his hat at them both, waved a cheery goodbye and strode off up the track before Mrs Bates could waylay him with offers of tea and a further hour of gossip. She had been equally garrulous as a housemaid, easily distracted from her work when he had stayed at the castle as a boy. The orphan. ‘That poor baim’, as he had often overheard the staff describing him within earshot.

  Nobody had known quite what to make of him, Alexander thought with familiar discomfort. He was a Liddell through his mother. But she had eloped with a handsome Scots coachman, been outcast and then died, leaving the itinerant Pringle with a small boy on his hands. His father had handed him straight back to the Liddells and disappeared out of his life too.

  Alexander did not like to remember the painful, confusing years of being tossed around his mother’s family like a hot coal that no one wanted to handle. He had felt like one of the gentry, but the world had looked on him otherwise. He was classed as a wild Pringle and had played up to their disapproval, behaving as badly as he knew how. Only the intervention of His Lordship’s coal agent, Jeremiah Davies, had saved Alexander from his nomadic life and given him a home and education. Widowed and childless, the lonely businessman had offered to take on the troublesome boy as his own.

  As Alexander walked on the soft drive, breathing in the scent of pine needles and freshly cut logs, he felt a stirring of the old resentment. Then he mocked himself for his self-pity. He might be lumbered with the names of Pringle and Davies - half wayward Scot, half upright man of business - but he felt in his bones he was an aristocrat.

  ‘I am a Liddell!’ he cried at the trees and waved his walking cane at a pheasant that flapped in alarm across his path. He laughed his quick, deep-throated laugh. That was why he had the audacity to turn up at Ravensworth and expect Lord Ravensworth, his distant cousin, to offer him hospitality. He would not stay at the local inn like any ordinary commission agent or merchant. It was his birthright to stay in a place like Ravensworth. The earl was an amiable, generous man who had shown him kindness as a boy.

  Yet once he was in the care of Davies, relations with the Liddells had cooled, for it was socially awkward to have the adopted son of an employee holidaying at Ravensworth. Once more he had been rebuffed. Then the earl’s wife had died and to family surprise, Lord Ravensworth, at the age of seventy-one, had got remarried to a vivacious widow, who had breathed new life into the mournful estate and set little store by social convention.

  Alexander smiled at the thought of the handsome middle-aged widow Emma Sophia, who so relished life. She loved entertaining; lavish dinners, dances, picnics, hunts and a houseful of guests. She loved her new husband and his magnificent Gothic castle and she loved to fill it with lively young women and attractive young men who shared her appetite for society.

  When Alexander had first come on business on behalf of his adoptive father, Lady Ravensworth had insisted he stay on for a few days’ riding. The few days had turned into a fortnight, until Jeremiah had called him home to the south of the county and reprimanded him for outstaying his welcome. But Jeremiah was ageing and Alexander was quick to take up offers of travel on his behalf. On several occasions he had done business on behalf of the estate and the Liddells’ extensive coal interests. Usually his visits had coincided with a summer carnival or a winter ball to which he had been pressed to stay.

  It was too bad if Lady Ravensworth was away from home, Alexander thought ruefully. But he would beg a night or two with His Lordship and maybe there would be news of her return before he had to take ship from Newcastle. He was bound for Scandinavia and the Baltic States to secure contracts for selling coal and arranging return cargoes of timber for use in British mines.

  Travelling suited his restless nature and he spent more time roaming the art galleries and museums, and playing cards at the gaming tables of the richer hotels than he ever did haggling over the price of coal with the managers of Swedish iron ore mines. But he dressed and talked like an English gentleman and his mixture of charm and knowledge of the host country brought more success than Jeremiah’s honest but dour business talk.

  Alexander walked briskly up the steep track, whistling as he went. A group of low-lying stone cottages came into view around the corner, their lintels obscured by honeysuckle. The sweet scent permeated the warm air. A be-capped gardener was helping a young woman out of a cart. Alexander caught a brief glimpse of a fair curved cheek under a large straw hat and a flash of stockinged ankle as she dismounted.

  ‘Afternoon!’ he called, touching the brim of his hat with his cane, thinking that the ruddy-faced man looked familiar.

  The man pulled at his cap in reply, then a red-haired boy bounded out of the cottage and took his attention.

  ‘Look, look! I’ve got a duck’s egg. Look, Cousin Kate!’

  ‘Let the lass down first, Alfred,’ said his father.

  Alexander grinned at the boy, whose exuberance reminded him of himself at that age, and walked on.

  Kate, holding on to her Uncle Peter’s earth-ingrained hand, jumped down from the small cart. She glanced at the walker’s retreating back. He was tall and broad-shouldered, in a smart coat and hat, with thick, wavy hair that touched the back of his collar. Strangely, for a gentleman, he was carrying his own suitcase and seemed to have emerged from out of the woods. But in a few long strides he was gone, with a flash of silver-topped cane and a lusty tuneful whistling, and Kate wondered about him no more.

  She turned to hug her young cousin. ‘Hello, Alfred. Let’s see this egg, then.’

  The boy dragged her into the cottage, his boots clattering on the stone flags. The kitchen floor was covered in unwashed clothes and the table with dirty dishes. There were trails of dried mud across the rag mats and the range was dull and soot-encrusted. Kate looked around in dismay. Suddenly a pheasant came darting and squawking through the kitchen, making her start in fright. The bird fled out of the open door.

  ‘That’s Edward - he’s called after the new king,’ Alfred explained. ‘He comes here for his dinner.’

  A ginger cat yawned and stretched on a pile of straw near the hearth and fixed an interested gaze on the retreating bird.

  ‘That’s King Rufus,’ said Alfred, running over to grab the cat. ‘Our George learnt about him in school - said he had ginger hair.’

  ‘What a lot of royalty!’ Kate laughed. ‘Didn’t know I’d be living with all these kings.’

  ‘I’ll have to be gettin’ back to work,’ Peter said, his look harassed. ‘George’ll be back soon to help. Your aunt’s in there.’ He nodded towards a closed door. ‘Make yours
elf at home.’

  He raced out of the cottage like the pheasant, leaving her basket by the door.

  ‘Ta for the lift, Uncle Peter,’ Kate called after him, but he was gone.

  Alfred was quite absorbed stroking the cat, but the creature objected to being grappled in his small arms and leapt down, padding quickly after the others.

  Kate untied her hat and then wondered in all the mess where to put it. Holding on to it she said, ‘Well, shall we go and tell your mam I’m here?’

  ‘Yes!’ Alfred cried, having already forgotten about the duck’s egg. He ran to the closed door, jumped at the latch and flung it open. ‘Mammy! Kate’s here. Wake up, Mam!’

  Kate stepped into the bedroom and peered into the gloom. ‘Aunt Lizzie?’

  A sneeze erupted from the depths of the high bed next to the tiny casement window. ‘Kate? Is that you, hinny? Come closer.’ Her voice was laden with cold.

  Alfred had already scrambled on to the bed. ‘Aye, it’s Cousin Kate.’

  ‘Ow, mind me leg!’ Lizzie cried in pain.

  Kate went quickly to her aunt’s side, taking hold of her hand. ‘How are you, Aunt Lizzie? We’ve all been worried -Mam especially.’

  ‘Mammy’s leg looks like a tree trunk, that’s what me da says,’ Alfred chirped.

  Lizzie groaned in frustration. ‘I cannot move out of bed without Peter’s help. And now I’ve caught a cold. I was that worried about what to do until we got your note.’ She gave a weak squeeze of her clammy hand.

  ‘You don’t have to worry,’ Kate assured. ‘I can stay as long as you need me.’

  ‘This place is like a pigsty since I took to me bed.’

  ‘Don’t fret. I’ll get it put right,’ Kate smiled.

  ‘You’re a good lass,’ Lizzie coughed.

  ‘Haway, Alfred,’ Kate said, pulling her young cousin off his mother, ‘you said you’d show me that duck’s egg.’

  At the sudden reminder Alfred scrambled to the edge of the bed and slid off. He dashed out ahead of Kate.

  ‘I’ll bring you a cup of tea in a minute.’ Her aunt sneezed in reply and Kate closed the door.

  She moved around the unfamiliar kitchen, trying to bring a measure of order to the chaos, tidying and sweeping and trying not to step on Alfred’s collection of eggs and berries and feathers. She cleared the grimy clothes into a pile by the back door and searched the pantry for something to make for tea. At least that seemed well stocked, with baskets of carrots, beans and eggs, a wooden platter of butter, earthenware jars of sugar and flour and a china pail half full of milk. Tomorrow she would tackle the washing and scrub the stone floors.

  George, a stocky boy of twelve, returned, eyeing her cautiously from the open front door. He was bashful and sandy-haired like his father, and replied to her questions with grunts. Alfred interpreted for his older brother.

  ‘He walks the long way back from school looking for birds’ eggs. He got me this,’ the small boy said, cradling the duck egg in his warm, dirty hands. ‘George won’t eat them, but he likes pigeon pie. And he’s got a sweet tooth. Likes Mam’s fruit pies best.’

  ‘Shurr-up,’ George growled in embarrassment and aimed a boot at his brother’s leg.

  Alfred squealed and kicked back. George shoved him, knocking the duck egg from his hands. It splattered over the stone floor. Alfred howled and flew at his older brother, kicking and punching.

  Kate intervened, grabbing Alfred round the waist and pushing George away. She was strong-armed and used to separating Jack and Mary from fighting. She stood between them.

  ‘Stop it! I’ll have no such carry-on while I’m in charge.’

  George scowled. ‘You’re not me mam.’

  ‘No I’m not.’ Kate was sharp. ‘Your poor mam is lying in there trying to sleep. And while she’s laid up, you’ve got me. So you can like it or lump it. Now start clearing up that mess you’ve made.’ She turned to Alfred, who was crying. ‘George’ll find you another one, kiddar. You get a cloth and help an’ all.’

  They set about it in sullen silence while Kate got on with tea. By the time Peter came home, they were sat at a cleared table, their hands scrubbed and ready to eat. George had not uttered another word to her, but Alfred could not remain silent for more than a minute and was chattering about frogs and dung beetles.

  ‘See you’re settling in just grand.’ Peter’s sunburnt face smiled in relief. He wolfed down his tea, grabbed his cap and headed out the door once more. George licked his fingers, pushed back his chair and followed without a word.

  She looked at Alfred. ‘Where have they gone?’

  ‘To put the garden to bed,’ he said simply.

  ‘Oh. How do they do that?’

  Alfred considered this a moment. ‘They water the plants and shut the hothouse windows.’

  ‘Does that take long?’

  ‘Till it’s dark. Sometimes I’m asleep. Can I gan out now?’

  ‘Aye, but not far else I won’t know where to find you.’

  Kate cleared the table and heated up water to wash the dishes. She found a tin tub and scrubbed them in front of the fire, leaving them to drain on the hearth. For a while she went into the bedroom and sat with her aunt, giving her news from the family and Jarrow. But Lizzie tired quickly and she made her comfortable for the night.

  Taking out the chamber pot to empty in the midden, Kate had a yearning to explore her new surroundings in the mellow evening light. But she knew it would be foolish to wander off not knowing her way. Besides, she had Alfred and Lizzie to look after. That was why she was here.

  Reluctantly she went in search of the young boy, calling him in for the night. She found him swinging from a low branch of a sycamore tree, his dirty impish face glowing in the twilight. For a moment she was reminded of Jack and had a brief pang of homesickness. But it did not last.

  Tonight she would be bedding down on a borrowed truckle bed by the kitchen fire with a cat and a pheasant for company. There would be no Mary digging her in the back with her elbows, or the fear of Father’s volatile moods. She would fall asleep knowing she was safe from sudden drunken shouting in the night or being roused from bed to sing for her drink-maddened stepfather.

  ‘Haway, it’s time for bed.’ She smiled up at Alfred and held out her arms. ‘Tomorrow you can show me all your hiding places.’

  The small boy allowed himself to be lifted down.

  ‘Are you going to stay for ever, Cousin Kate?’

  ‘Not for ever.’

  ‘More than a week?’

  ‘Aye, more than a week.’

  ‘Good,’ he said, then yawned, his breath warm on her neck. ‘I like you.’

  She kissed his unkempt mop of curls. ‘I like you an’ all,’ she smiled and carried him home.

  Chapter 5

  To Alexander’s delight, Lady Ravensworth returned from the South of France the following week.

  ‘It’s far too hot there now and I didn’t want to miss the Coronation celebrations,’ she told her dinner guests.

  ‘They say that won’t be until August,’ Alexander said.

  ‘We’ll have a grand ball and invite the whole county,’ she enthused. ‘You will stay, won’t you?’ She put a bejewelled hand on his arm.

  ‘I have business abroad.’ Alexander gave a shrug of apology.

  ‘Oh, you must stay! Henry, tell him he must,’ she called down the long gleaming table to her husband.

  ‘What was that?’

  She raised her voice almost to a shout. ‘Tell Alex that he can’t leave till after the Coronation ball.’

  ‘What ball?’

  ‘The one we’re going to have for the King.’

  ‘Kin?’

  ‘Oh, never mind.’ Emma waved her hand with a laugh and turned back to Al
exander. ‘You’ll just have to delay your boring old business trip. It’s your patriotic duty to stay. You simply can’t leave the country at a time like this.’

  ‘Not even for the Riviera?’ Alexander teased.

  ‘I came back, didn’t I?’ She pouted in mock offence.

  ‘To everyone’s delight,’ he smiled.

  She laughed and patted his hand. ‘You are a terrible charmer. It’s time I put my mind to finding you a wife.’

  Alexander rolled his eyes. ‘My father thinks of nothing else. He’s scouring the North of England for someone suitable.’

  ‘Oh, how depressing. You don’t want suitable. You want someone to match your good looks and your tastes in life. Otherwise you’ll be bored in a year.’ She raised her voice again. ‘Isn’t that right, Henry? Alex must marry for love.’

  ‘Alexander’s getting married? Do we know her?’

  ‘No, we have to find her first!’ Emma laughed. She rose. It was the signal for the other women to retire to the drawing room and leave the men to their port.

  Alexander gave a wistful look at the departing group, wishing he could carry on his flirtatious conversation with Lady Ravensworth and her friends rather than talk business or hunting with his aged cousin. But he was content to while away the evening drinking the dark port out of crystal glass in the glittering candlelight of the large dining room with its gilt-edged portraits of his ancestors.

  He could string out his business at the estate and the surrounding mines for a couple more weeks and delay his voyage until mid-August. There was a weekly steamer from Newcastle to Gothenburg and he could accomplish his business in Sweden and elsewhere long before the Baltic ports became ice-bound.

  In the meantime he would enjoy riding out among the Durham hills and roaming the estate and beyond with his sketch book and pencils. It amused Lady Ravensworth to see his cartoons of her neighbours and his drawings of life around the area; men supping beer in a tap room, children playing with hoops, girls in summer bonnets. That was what intrigued and entertained her. A memory of a young woman stepping out of a cart with a flash of stockinged leg flitted through his mind. Lady Ravensworth would approve of that.