Outcast

by Josephine Cox

  Shortly after the doctor had gone, with instructions for Emma to ‘Just keep her quiet and follow the procedure I’ve written down for your husband. She’s not injured at all . . . but she is in a deep state of shock. I’ll be back first thing tomorrow,’ Gregory sat with his head in his hands, staring at the floor and saying again and again, ‘God forgive me, Emma. I could have caused her terrible injuries . . . even . . .’ His voice broke and dropping his head lower, he began quietly crying. Watching him, Emma wondered who was in a deeper state of shock – Gregory or his mother!

  Coming to kneel before him, Emma said comfortingly, ‘You can’t blame yourself, Gregory. She will be all right . . . didn’t the doctor tell you so?’ When he nodded his head and reached out to take her hand in his, Emma realized that fate had thrown her into a situation where, of the three of them, she must be the strongest.

  If it was a day of revelations for Emma, it was also a day of reckoning, for, on this day, Doreen Denton took to her bed and was never again seen out of it alive – except on one occasion, which was to have far-reaching and disastrous consequences.

  Chapter Eight

  ‘Oh yes, Manny, I’m more content than I ever was at Breckleton House.’ Emma leaned over to place the wooden tray on to the sidetable. Lifting the china teapot, she poured tea into one of the pretty floral cups, and then handed it by the saucer to Mrs Manfred, who graciously accepted both milk and sugar together with a root biscuit from the small plate. Emma collected her own cup and saucer, before seating herself on the opposite side of the fire, directly facing the familiar little figure, who so often visited on her time off to keep Emma company.

  ‘I have to be honest,’ Mrs Manfred said, ‘I never believed in all my born days that you’d fit comfortably into this household.’ As she spoke, she examined the delicate bone china tea service, thinking how even Mrs Crowther had no finer.

  Emma considered the other woman’s words and she recognized some truth in them, for hadn’t she herself believed the very same at first? And if she were to be honest, wasn’t there still a semblance of truth in Manny’s observation? Her reply, however, betrayed none of these inner thoughts as she said, ‘I count my blessings, Manny. I have a comfortable home, and a good husband.’

  Emma might have added ‘loving’ husband, but somehow she couldn’t bring herself to say it; not because it wasn’t true, for it was – Gregory positively doted on her – but because Emma’s idea of love was not the same as Gregory’s. He smothered her with his affections, and what took place in the bedroom at night gave her no pleasure; indeed, without exception, it was a humiliating and painful ordeal for her, and she thanked God that, though it was always frenzied, it was over very quickly.

  ‘It does my old heart good to know that you’re content and looking much stronger since your illness.’

  ‘Oh, you mustn’t worry about me, Manny. I’m a survivor, you know that!’ Emma said with a small laugh. Then she added more seriously, ‘I don’t miss the Crowthers, ever. But I do miss having you around all the time.’ There had been many occasions since she had come to Montague Street – particularly during the two endless weeks when she had been confined to her bed because of a vicious chill – when Emma had sorely needed a shoulder to cry on, usually because of old Mrs Denton’s spiteful tongue and constant condemnation of her. All of this had come to a head when the old woman had flung the breakfast tray, which Emma had fastidiously prepared, across the room with the warning, ‘If you ever dare to step one foot in my room again, I’ll not be responsible for my actions!’ Emma had wondered at the time what form the threat would come in: would she throw herself out of the window, or cut her wrist on a teacup, or perhaps make a dive for Emma’s throat. In the ensuing weeks, Emma became convinced that she meant the latter!

  Even Gregory could not persuade his bedridden mother to be more amiable towards Emma. So, at an extra cost of one shilling and sixpence a week, he assigned Tilly Watson to attend his mother under Emma’s instruction. Since the young woman from next door had been employed for the previous two years to carry out the more menial tasks in the Denton household, the arrangement was a simple one. Tilly Watson was a bright young thing whom Emma had grown quite fond of, and her year-old son, Joey, had become the highlight of Emma’s day. However, Emma knew virtually nothing about Tilly’s husband, for he worked long hours as a weaver and according to both Gregory and Tilly, he had a very quick temper. Emma had not made his acquaintance, nor did she particularly want to.

  Emma asked after Cook and other members of the Crowther household, with the notable exception of the Crowthers themselves. But Mrs Manfred couldn’t resist telling how Martha had suddenly turned up on the doorstep just two days before, ‘in a dreadful state, and calling Mr Trent all the names under the sun!’

  Emma was astonished. ‘But they’ve only been married four months!’ she said. However, she was not surprised when Mrs Manfred explained how Martha was still spoilt and selfish.

  ‘Being married hasn’t altered her one jot. I’ll tell you what, though . . . she’s met her match in that husband of hers, for he seems untouched by her sulky manner.’

  ‘A good thing too, if you ask me,’ declared Emma, thinking what a handful Martha was, and sure that her cousin would never grow up. ‘But what made her come running home from Liverpool, Manny?’

  Mrs Manfred gave a low snort of disgust and, leaning forward, she lowered her eyes, saying, ‘She’s with child.’ Straightening herself up and adopting a thoroughly disdainful look, she added, ‘It’s only just been confirmed. When the news was given her, it seems that her husband had a sailing commitment which he had to honour and which would take him away for the better part of two months. Well, of course, he was delighted at Mrs Trent’s news – she didn’t deny that to Mrs Crowther – and he spared no expense in ensuring her comfort and well-being till his return. But she would settle for nothing less than his abandoning his contractual obligation and staying with her. Well, of course, since his father’s demise, Mr Trent has a great responsibility on his shoulders, as Mr Crowther pointed out to Mrs Trent with a deal of impatience.’ Mrs Manfred leaned forward once again to look Emma in the eye and say more intimately, ‘In fact, he told her in no uncertain terms that she was a married woman now, and neither he nor her mama would be seen to be interfering in private affairs of matrimony. Well, he as much as showed her the door . . . “Your place is in your own home, waiting for your husband, and looking forward to the arrival of your child,” he told her. And, I do believe that if it hadn’t been for his own imminent departure on a tour of the Assizes, and Mrs Crowther’s fawning attitude to her daughter, Mrs Trent would straightaway have been sent packing!’

  ‘And what of Silas Trent?’ asked Emma. ‘Had he already set sail for foreign parts?’

  ‘Well, no. Just as Mr Crowther was ready to depart, Mrs Trent’s husband turned up. There was a private discussion in the study, after which I was informed that Mrs Trent would be staying at Breckleton House for the duration of her husband’s absence. Oh, Mr Trent was very attentive towards her, and was seen to kiss her goodbye before he left.’ Here, Mrs Manfred clicked and tutted disapprovingly. ‘A blind man could see how he worships the ground she walks on. Oh, but she is a mardy and sulky madam. Lord only knows what kind of parent she’ll be for the coming child!’ Mrs Manfred suddenly realized how she had let her tongue run away with her. On seeing Emma’s crestfallen face, she put her cup and saucer down on the table, saying in a forlorn voice, ‘Oh, child, forgive me for prattling on so.’ She reached forward to pat Emma’s hand, asking in a low voice, ‘Have you still no sign of being with child?’

  Deliberately lightening her expression into a smile, Emma shook her head. ‘Afraid not, Manny,’ she replied, cleverly disguising her growing disappointment that, in spite of almost five months of marriage and Gregory’s insatiable sexual appetite, she had not yet conceived a child. She dreamt longingly of holding her own new-born babe in her arms, but as the months passed and there was sti
ll no sign, she had begun to feel less and less of a woman. She also knew that, despite his assurances to the contrary, Gregory had come to believe that she might be lacking in some way. In fact, once Emma had recovered from her illness, he had arranged for all their bedroom furniture to be taken up the flight of stairs to the large attic bedroom. Emma was in no doubt as to his reasons why: he obviously felt as keenly distressed as she did at the thought of old Mrs Denton lying awake at night, listening to every word and noise they made. She was glad to have moved to the upper bedroom, but it disillusioned her to see how Gregory had already started stripping their old room, with the intention of turning it into a nursery.

  ‘Now, you mustn’t fret, child.’ Mrs Manfred was not fooled by Emma’s disarming smile. She thought to herself that, while the Martha Crowthers of this world could never live up to motherhood, Emma was of such a warm, loving nature that she would cherish a child and bring fulfilment to them both. ‘It’ll happen . . . in its own good time, it will happen, you mark my words.’

  ‘I know, Manny, murmured Emma, ‘I know.’ After which, a silence ensued as they each sat staring deep into the fire’s dancing flames.

  Looking around the room, Mrs Manfred couldn’t help thinking what a remarkable difference Emma’s delightful and bright presence had made to his house, and to this room in particular. On that very first occasion when they had made their courtesy call to meet old Mrs Denton, there had been a most forbidding and unwelcome atmosphere in this very room. Yet now, it positively glowed with warmth . . . reflecting Emma’s enchanting personality, thought Mrs Manfred. But then, maybe it was not very different after all and perhaps it was just the fact that she was close to Emma herself, that brought such comfort and delight to Mrs Manfred.

  The room itself had not changed physically. The walls were still a murky cream colour and the curtains the same flock-tapestry ones. The furniture was in exactly the same place – a low, polished wood sideboard spanned the length of one wall; there was a small circular table in the far corner, which was covered with a lace cloth that draped down to the brown patterned carpet, and on which was a silver five-stem candelabra that had been a wedding present to Gregory’s parents; two deep, black, horse-hair armchairs sat either side of the fireplace, and a small, square side-table stood beside the larger of the two chairs. Standing pride of place in the centre of the room was a huge round table, covered in a frilled green-cord tablecloth and surrounded by four long-back chairs finished in rich tapestry. Both the quality of the oak furniture and the ornaments dotted about gave a feeling of decayed grandeur – almost like the old lady herself, mused Mrs Manfred.

  ‘Coo-ee!’ The call came from the front door and immediately following it came the slim, beshawled figure of a young woman, with painfully thin features, bright blue eyes, and a chubby child in her arms. The child’s thick fair hair was identical in texture to the woman’s and, like hers, was short and curly about his face. The child was bareheaded, while she had on a small white cap with a gathered and frilly brim which flopped on to her neck and forehead. ‘It’s only me,’ she said, coming into the room, ‘only Tilly.’ Then, catching sight of Emma’s visitor who was by now a familiar figure to Tilly, she added, ‘Oh, hello Mrs Manfred, I’d no idea you were here.’ At once, she pulled out a chair from the table and fell wearily into it, lowering the child on to the floor where, for a while, he stood on unsteady legs, clinging to her skirt. ‘I ain’t stopped all day,’ she said, looking first at Mrs Manfred, then at Emma. ‘I woke up with the urge to clean the house from top to bottom, once the man had gone off to work.’ She leaned back in the chair and laughed out loud, ‘It was the very same when I was carrying Joey here,’ she explained. ‘I’d like to bet a tanner that there’s another on the way.’ She opened her shawl and patted her stomach. ‘I can tell. I feel different in here.’

  Emma was not in the mood to discuss whether Tilly was or wasn’t likely to be with child. So instead she asked, ‘Would you like a cup of tea, Tilly?’

  ‘No thank you, luv. Seeing as how it’s nearly time for the duchess’s tray,’ she replied, pulling a face and jerking a thumb up towards the ceiling. ‘I’d best set about giving her a wash first eh? Y’know what a pain she can be if I’m late making a start.’ Giving a loud shiver, she exclaimed, ‘By! It’s that nippy in the air this morning . . . you wouldn’t think we were well into June.’

  Emma was always conscientiously aware of her duties regarding old Mrs Denton and even now the big old kettle was happily spitting out its bubbling contents on to the burning coals. In no time at all, Emma had removed the kettle to the kitchen where she mixed both hot and cold water into a large bowl; then making sure it was comfortable to the touch, she collected soap and flannel from a drawer in the small pine dresser. She put these into a drawstring bag which she threaded over her wrist. Then, taking care to avoid the area where the child was playing, she went through the parlour and up the stairs. At the top of the stairs, she put the bowl and toiletries against the wall on the landing. As she turned to descend the stairs, her eyes glanced towards the closed door of Mrs Denton’s room. She paused for a moment, wondering whether the old lady was asleep or awake and whether, just once more, she might go into the room and make a determined effort to befriend her. It was something which Emma often thought about, for she couldn’t easily accept things as they were. When she tentatively made her way forward along the landing, she was abruptly stopped in her tracks by the loud shriek which came from the room.

  ‘Go away! I don’t want you anywhere near me, Emma Grady! I know that’s you skulking about out there.’

  Feeling both angry and belittled, Emma hurried down to the scullery, deliberately averting her gaze from the two watching women who must have heard old Mrs Denton’s cry. Having quickly refilled the kettle, Emma brought it back into the parlour and wedged it firmly on to the coals in the fire. Then, thankful for the discreet silence, she gave her full attention to the child, who eagerly clambered into her arms when she reached down to enfold him.

  ‘Right, then,’ said Tilly, getting to her feet, ‘I’d best get on with it eh? Fresh towel in her chest-drawer as usual, is there luv?’ she asked. Upon Emma’s affirmative nod, she said, ‘Y’know, you don’t have to take the bowl upstairs, luv. Though I expect you like to feel you’re doing your bit for the old duchess, eh? . . . in spite of her surly ways.’ She knew Emma would have preferred to look after the old biddy herself, but that Doreen Denton would have none of it, oh dear me no! Still, it earned Tilly an extra one and sixpence a week, so she didn’t want to complain.

  Long after both Tilly Watson and Mrs Manfred had departed, Emma sat ruminating on the way of things. She had meant what she’d said to Mrs Manfred – she was more content than she’d been for a very long time. It wasn’t a hard thing to be, she mused, once you had the commonsense to accept that the things you really want in life are not always the ones you get. There was much that Emma would have chosen to be different; but choice was a luxury reserved only for a few. So, she had come to terms with her disappointments; she had learned how to push disturbing thoughts of Marlow to the back of her mind; and she had hardened her heart to the callous attitude of old Mrs Denton. Emma had also resigned herself to the frequent and insensitive night-time advances of a man she could never love and who, in the light of day, was gentle and selfless. It was almost as though the grasping, thoughtless man who climbed on top of her at night was someone totally different from the man who tenderly pecked her on the cheek when he left for work and seemed to live only for the hour when he came home to her again. Emma wondered whether all men were like that. It was all a revelation to her, and not a very pleasant one at that.

  ‘That was wholesome, Emma.’ Gregory Denton picked up his napkin and dabbed at each side of his mouth. ‘I do believe you make the best rabbit pie in the whole of Lancashire.’ Stretching up, he patted the flat of his hands on his stomach, gave a groan of satisfaction and, pushing back his chair, got to his feet. In a moment he had rounded
the table to where Emma had already started clearing away the plates and, coming up behind her, he placed his hands on her shoulders. Then, bending his head into her neck, he kissed it with the utmost tenderness. ‘Never a day passes,’ he murmured, ‘that I don’t know how lucky a man I am.’

  He then spent a few minutes standing with his back to the fire, contentedly smoking his clay pipe but seeming to Emma restless in his manner. As a rule, once he had eaten his fill of the meal she prepared so well – thanks to the guidance of Mrs Manfred over these past months – he would chatter incessantly about many things: what could have been if only her money had not been so wantonly destroyed; the price all three of them were now paying for it; and how, in spite of it all, he supposed they were content enough. Then he would go on at great length about his fervent desire for a child and of how, when the child did arrive, as surely it must, then please God that it be a son. He also talked with great pride about his work, exaggerating the praises bestowed on him by Caleb Crowther when the figures showed a good return and making small of any condemnation that might have come his way from the same source.

  On this Friday night, however, he was unusually quiet and Emma sensed that something was wrong. So, after Gregory had brought down his mother’s tray and Emma had finished the washing-up, she sat herself in the armchair facing him across the fireplace. Taking up her sewing, she glanced at him and, seeing that he was leaning forward in his chair with his head dropped in his hands and his eyes trance-like as they gazed at the glowing coals, she asked quietly, ‘Are you ill, Gregory?’

  At once, his full attention was on her. ‘No, of course I’m not ill, Emma.’

  ‘But there is something wrong, isn’t there?’ Emma was sure of it.