Tilly Trotter (The Tilly Trotter Trilogy)

by Catherine Cookson

  ‘No.’

  He drew back from her now, saying, ‘Then why?’

  ‘Because—’ She now drew in a shuddering breath, lowered her gaze for a moment, then lifted her head and looking at him, straight in the face, she said, ‘I was directed to . . . to the barn. I saw him there.’

  ‘Oh my God!’ He turned his head to the side and said quietly, ‘Both of them?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Why did you go to the barn?’

  ‘I . . . I was directed there.’

  ‘Who directed you?’

  ‘One of his men, a man called Randy Simmons.’

  ‘Cruel swine! Well now, it’s over.’ He put his finger under her chin and pushed her head upwards. ‘You remember what you said about being able to hold your head up? Well, you go on doing just that. But I’ll ask you another question and then we won’t mention the subject again . . . If he were to come tomorrow and beg your forgiveness would you take him?’

  She looked at him steadily for a moment before she said, ‘No, sir, not after today, I . . . I couldn’t.’

  After a short silence, he said, ‘Odd, isn’t it; we both have suffered through the one lady. You can see she has practically ruined my life, but that needn’t be so in your case, in fact it could be the making of you. Put it behind you, Tilly. You’re worthy of something better than the farmer. I’ve always known that. Go now, go to bed and sleep, and start a new life tomorrow.’

  She rose from where she had been kneeling by the side of his chair and, drawing in a deep breath, she stood straight, before saying, ‘Goodnight, sir.’

  ‘Goodnight, my dear.’

  As she went out of the door he knew he had missed an opportunity; he could have kept her with him tonight. But he didn’t want it that way. There was time enough now.

  Six

  When eventually he took Tilly she came to him like a mother to a sick child.

  It should happen that about three weeks later a tragedy enveloped Mark and spread over the whole house. It came in the form of two letters. Both Mr Burgess and Tilly were in the room at the time he opened them. The first he slit open with a paper knife; he was always meticulous about the way he opened his mail. He often looked at the postmark and the stamp before opening a letter. Now, taking the letter from the envelope, he leaned back in his chair and began to read, and the first line brought him sitting upright. His brows gathered into a deep line above his nose and his lips fell apart for the words he had just read were:

  It is with great sorrow that I write this, I being Harry’s chaplain since first he came to the University. His death will be a loss to many.

  He seemed to have stopped breathing, and such was the expression on his face that both Tilly and Mr Burgess stood still and stared at him. Then he was tearing at the other long envelope with his fingers, and when he pulled out the single sheet of paper his hand was already crushing the bottom of it.

  My dear Sir,

  It is with the deepest regret that I have to inform you that your son, Harry, was knocked down and killed instantaneously yesterday morning by a runaway dray horse in Petty Cury. This news must come as a great and grievous shock to you, as indeed it has to all of us here at the college. Believe me, sir, you have our deepest sympathy.

  A coroner’s inquest has already been held, at which a verdict of accidental death was returned, and I shall now await your instructions as to the disposal of your son’s mortal remains and of his personal effects.

  I send you these most unhappy tidings by the mail coach. If you will reply likewise, I shall personally ensure that your wishes are carried out to the letter and as swiftly as possible.

  Again may I offer you and your family my deepest sympathy in your great and grievous bereavement.

  I am, my dear sir,

  Yours very truly,

  W.R. Pritchard

  Dean

  He lay back and looked at the two faces before him. His mouth opened and closed several times; then he moved his head slowly from side to side and when he did speak it was a drawn-out whispered syllable. ‘N . . . o!’

  ‘You have had distressing news, sir?’ Mr Burgess was bending over him and for answer Mark lifted the sheet of paper from his knees and handed it to him.

  When Mr Burgess had read it he looked at Tilly and she whispered, ‘What is it?’

  ‘Master Harry.’

  ‘Oh no!’

  He now handed the letter to her, and when she had read it she gripped the front of her bodice with one hand and, her lips quivering, she stared at Mark. His head was up and tightly pressed against the back of the chair, his eyes directed towards the ceiling. He was so still that for a moment she thought he’d had a seizure; but as she made to go to him his head snapped forward, his shoulders with it, and his knees came up, and now he was gripping them with his hands.

  Silently they stood one on each side of him until he made a jerking movement with his head and muttered, ‘Leave me.’ And on this they went from the room.

  It was a week later when the coffin arrived. It lay in state in the library for a day before being taken to the cemetery.

  The funeral was a quiet affair. Mark sitting alone in the first carriage followed the hearse. Behind him came another carriage holding his mother-in-law, together with Matthew and Luke; following this were various carriages bearing male members of different families. The only mourners on foot were the male members of the staff, and these were made up mostly of the Drew family.

  Both Mark and Mrs Forefoot-Meadows sat in their carriages and watched the coffin being lowered into the ground. Mark, being alone, could cry and he cried as he had never cried in his life before. And in this moment he felt alone as he had never felt alone in his life before. He already knew the feeling of loneliness, but this was a different sort of aloneness: his first-born had gone, just apparently when they were beginning to know each other. After his second marriage the boy had been unfriendly, only returning to his old self when Eileen had gone from the house. The last time they had spoken together the boy, or the young man, the young man that he had become, had spoken to him of his affection for the sister of his friend, which explained his frequent visits to France, and he had confessed that he thought his affection was being returned. So now another young heart would also be pining.

  When he returned from the cemetery the mourners, realising his predicament, didn’t censure the fact that he wasn’t present at the meal laid for them in the dining room and presided over by Mrs Forefoot-Meadows.

  After receiving the usual condolences Mark had ordered that he be taken straight upstairs, and once there he told both Tilly and Mr Burgess that he did not wish to be disturbed, and that he would ring when he needed them. He even refused to see his mother-in-law until the following morning which, needless to say, annoyed Mrs Forefoot-Meadows.

  When they did meet they seemed, at least for a time, as if they had nothing to say to each other. Mark sat stiffly in his chair, his eyes directed towards the window, while Jane Forefoot-Meadows sat as stiffly in hers as if waiting for him to open the conversation, and when he did it was abruptly. Turning his head towards her, he almost growled, ‘My son is dead, my first-born, and she hadn’t even the decency to come to his funeral. What was she afraid of, I’d have her chained up?’

  ‘She is not well. The journey would have been too much, and . . . ’

  ‘From all I hear she’s still well enough to take jaunts. You may have your informants here who take the news back to Scarborough; well, it’s amazing how my friends are desirous of bringing the news from Scarborough to here.’

  ‘There is life in Scarborough, things to do, entertainments. There was nothing such here.’

  ‘God in Heaven!’ He threw his head up. ‘The times I’ve tried to get her off that couch and into a coach and go to the city, to a concert or a play, but no, she was always indisposed, too ill. Hell’s flames! when I think of the game she played, how she deceived me . . . ’

  ‘Oh, Mark! Mark! think.
I shouldn’t bring that word into the conversation if I were you.’

  ‘Look, Mother-in-law—’ He now bent towards her and, his voice quiet, he said, ‘There are various forms of defection and the worst of them isn’t having a mistress.’

  ‘Perhaps we don’t see eye to eye on this matter, nor do I think did Eileen. And while we’re on the subject of news going backwards and forwards I am not going to beat about the bush with what I am about to say, and that is, you should get rid of that girl.’

  ‘What girl? Trotter?’

  ‘Which other girl is there who looks after you?’

  ‘Will you give me one good reason why I should get rid of Trotter?’

  ‘I could give you several but the main one is your name is being coupled with her.’

  ‘Oh! my name is being coupled with her? Will you go on and describe in which way?’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Mark; you don’t need me to put it into words.’

  ‘Oh yes, I do, Mother-in-law. Oh yes, I do. Trotter acts in the capacity of my nurse, also as housekeeper, and she does both very well . . . ’

  ‘You should have a male nurse, you know that.’

  ‘I have one, Burgess; but I also like to have a woman about me to attend to the niceties of life, my life such as it is. Now the main capacity you are referring to is the part of mistress. Well, there, I must disappoint you for as yet she hasn’t taken up that position.’

  When he broke off and they stared at each other, Jane Forefoot-Meadows realised from the look of him that he was speaking the truth; but then he added, ‘I hate to receive any favour that I haven’t really earned, so please tell my wife that I will do my best to see that Trotter complies with the main duty in future.’

  ‘I . . . I was only putting you on your guard.’

  ‘Thank you for your concern.’

  ‘People will talk, the girl is young and . . . and . . . ’

  ‘Yes, Mother-in-law, what were you going to say, beautiful?’

  ‘No, I wasn’t.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Oh, it doesn’t matter. Only personally, I don’t like the girl; there . . . there is something about her. And what’s more, she doesn’t know her place.’

  ‘Has she been rude to you?’

  ‘No, she hasn’t, she scarcely opens her mouth.’

  ‘Is that to be held against her?’

  ‘There is a way to be silent and a way not to be silent. The look of the girl. Anyway, I would advise you, Mark, and I do this in all sincerity, I would advise you to get rid of her.’

  ‘And in all sincerity, Mother-in-law, I must tell you, and you can also convey the message to my wife, that I have no intention of getting rid of Trotter, ever. If she leaves this house it will be of her own wish because she has been of more help and comfort to me than anyone in my life before. Now you tell that word for word to my wife. And also tell her I shall never forgive her to my dying day for not being present with me at this time. I knew well enough that she was never fond of Harry, in fact she disliked him, but out of respect and as a matter of courtesy she should have been at my side today. In the eyes of the whole county I am being treated like a leper; not one of them will believe that she has left me simply because of the Myton affair. I am sure they think I was a monster to her. What else would have kept her away at this time?’

  It was some moments before Jane Forefoot-Meadows spoke again, and then, her voice small, she said, ‘She sent her condolences; you had her letter.’

  ‘Oh yes, I had her condolences, I had her letter, a letter that was so formal she must have copied it from a book headed: Appropriate letters to be sent to the relations of the deceased. There is such a book, I have read it and laughed over it.’

  There followed another silence before she spoke. ‘You must remember that she brought the boys from school out of respect.’

  When he closed his eyes and made no answer, she went on, ‘Speaking of the boys; there is a little matter I think I must bring up. Matthew has had to be moved to another school.’

  ‘Why?’ His enquiry was sharp.

  ‘Because he apparently didn’t like the school he was at, and he misbehaved. This . . . his other establishment is very expensive and . . . and . . . ’

  ‘You want me to foot the bill?’

  ‘Well, Eileen would be grateful if you . . . ’

  ‘Tell Eileen from me she is getting all I am able to give her. If she can’t afford to keep the children, send them back home; they’ll live much cheaper here, schools included.’

  She stared at him, her eyes hard now, before she said, ‘You should have sold the mine when you had the chance.’

  ‘What do you know about the mine and me getting the chance? Oh. Oh, your informant of all my doings. I wonder who it is.’

  ‘It is public knowledge that Mr Rosier is willing to buy.’

  ‘And, Mother-in-law, let it be public knowledge to the effect that my mine will lie there and rot, which it is doing now admittedly, before I sell it to Rosier or any of his kin.’

  ‘You’re being foolish. What good is it as it stands now? You haven’t the money to . . . ’

  ‘No, I haven’t the money to set it going again, but I am bloody well sure it’s not going to be set in working order by Rosier. I hate the fellow and all he stands for.’

  ‘You are a very trying man, you know that?’

  Mark looked at his mother-in-law. She had now risen to her feet. He was about to make some tart retort, but checked it as he thought yet again that she was an old woman and she had made this long journey to be at his side at this particular time, yet he knew deep in his heart that were the journey twice as long and twice as hard she would have tackled it rather than let her daughter come back to him. The possessive mother had her daughter to herself once again. What he did say was, ‘Thank you for coming, Mother-in-law.’

  And to this she answered, ‘It was as little as I could do;’ and when she added, ‘I am very sorry for you, Mark,’ he was surprised at the sincerity of her tone. Then quite astonished when she added, ‘Would . . . would it be any help to you if I left the boys for another week or so? You could send them back in the care of Leyburn. I . . . I would explain to Eileen.’

  He stared at her for a full minute before saying, ‘That’s very kind of you, but . . . but no, take them back with you, there . . . there would be no pleasure, no joy for them here at the moment.’ He couldn’t add that he didn’t want to see his sons at this particular time. He couldn’t really understand the feeling himself but their boisterousness, which they wouldn’t be able to subdue for as yet death had no real meaning for them, and even their voices, muted as they would be coming from above, would rub salt into the wound that was gaping wide at this moment.

  ‘I understand but I thought it might help you.’

  ‘I am very grateful and will always be grateful for your suggestion.’

  ‘Well now, I . . . I must be away. Phillips has packed. I shall send her for the boys, they will likely be in the nursery. You will, of course, wish to see them?’

  ‘Oh yes, yes, of course.’

  ‘Goodbye, Mark.’

  ‘Goodbye, Mother-in-law. And again please accept my thanks for coming.’

  She inclined her head towards him and walked out.

  After a moment, during which he lay back in the chair and closed his eyes tightly, while at the same time gnawing on his lip, he leaned forward and pulled the bell rope . . .

  Five minutes later Tilly showed the boys into the room, then left them. They stood one each side of Mark’s chair and he, looking from one face to the other, smiled at them. Matthew, he noticed, had since he had last seen him changed the more. He was taller and his fair hair seemed to have darkened somewhat, but it was his eyes that showed the biggest change. Where they had looked merry and mischievous, devilish in fact at times, there was now in their depths a look that puzzled him; in an older person he would have named it misery, not untinged with fear, but Matthew was a spirited boy,
so the look must have another explanation. Luke, for instance, had hardly changed at all, his round dark eyes were bright, and his mouth still had the appearance of constantly hovering on a smile. But as different as they looked, they were both of one mind, and this they confirmed within a few minutes. After greeting them he went on to say that he hoped they would have a good return journey, and he thanked them for coming. But before he had finished speaking Matthew put in, ‘Papa.’

  ‘Yes, Matthew?’

  ‘I . . . I should like to ask you something. We . . . we would both like to ask you something, wouldn’t we, Luke?’ And to this Luke nodded and said firmly, ‘Yes, Papa.’

  ‘What is it you would like to ask me?’

  ‘We . . . we would like to return home.’

  Again Mark closed his eyes, and now he lowered his head as he said, ‘I’m afraid that doesn’t rest with me entirely, Matthew; it is for your mama to decide. If you could persuade her to return and . . . ’

  ‘She . . . she won’t listen to us, Papa. If . . . if you could talk to her, write, and I promise you if you let us come back I wouldn’t cause any trouble, I mean not to the servants, I’d be good, we’d both be good, wouldn’t we, Luke?’

  Again Luke nodded and said, ‘Yes, Papa, we would be good.’

  Mark swallowed deeply and as he tried to find words to answer his sons, Matthew started again: ‘We’ve . . . we’ve talked it over with Trotter. Trotter would like us to come back and . . . and we promised her, too, we wouldn’t get up to any tricks. And . . . and I’ll go to school from here, Papa. I could go into Newcastle.’

  Mark now put his hand gently on Matthew’s shoulder and he said, ‘I’m sorry, my dear boy, very sorry. There is nothing I would like better than to have you all back home, but as I said, it . . . it depends on your mama. If you can persuade her, all well and good. You see, to run a house like this is difficult at any time, but when there are children, four in fact, well it needs . . . ’