Grim-faced, Sarah heaved the pail of water into the kitchen and began to prepare the evening meal. Monty barked at the elder girls to go and help her, whilst he remained in the parlour and sat brooding by the fire. With the lack of any rival, Owen seized possession of the spindle-backed chair opposite his brother. Kit had put the family bible down by the slate hearth and was sitting upon it, too close for his liking.
‘Shift yourself, mousy bum,’ commanded Owen.
Kit resisted. ‘Aw, don’t call me that!’
‘Why? ’Tis true. You’re allus pissing yourself and your clothes do stink like they’re full o’ mice. I can’t abide it – now shift ’ee.’
Kit looked to her elder brother for assistance but received just an impatient gesture for her to comply with Owen’s wishes. Dutifully, she manoeuvred the bible so that it lay between the two fireside chairs, then sat upon it once again, twisting her father’s handkerchief around her hands, her blue eyes watching every twitch of Monty’s face, every play of feature.
Owen rested his elbows on the wooden arms and laced his fingers over his abdomen in the attitude of lord of the manor, asking, ‘You know how you’ve had to take this time off work, do you still get paid, bain’t your fault, so to speak?’
Monty gave a bitter laugh. ‘Noo! What master’s gonna pay good money for coal left in the ground? Far as he’s concerned I’ve broken my bond and I’ll have to take my chance with the day men. Probably have to get down on my knees to be taken back on.’
‘Don’t seem jestly right to me,’ objected Owen. ‘When it weren’t of your making.’
‘Master don’t care ’bout that.’ Monty had forced himself to ignore the injustice of his position, would in future just accept his lot in life. The need to provide for his family superseded any thought of pride. Never again would a Kilmaster be buried in a pauper’s grave.
‘Why, he should be made to care!’ The dark-featured urchin glowered. ‘How you going to buy food for us all if you’ve no money?’
‘I may have to feed one to the other.’ Monty was unsmiling.
After staring for a moment, Kit’s eyes turned back to the younger brother, awaiting his contribution.
Owen, renowned for quoting adults, fumbled to recall his father’s explanation, then announced in businesslike manner, ‘You can’t rightly be expected to feed all of us, you’re only a young chap. I’ll go down the mine too!’
The other showed slight irritation. ‘You’re too little.’
‘I saw a boy my age covered in coal dust when we were on the way here!’
Monty himself had started work when not much older than Owen but he was unwilling to inflict that on his eight-year-old brother. Somebody had to get the education that would lift the family out of this trap. ‘True, but I want you to get some proper schooling fir—’
‘Don’t need schooling to dig coal!’ Enthusiasm made Owen rash. ‘I reckon I could do as good a job as thee.’
Monty was already annoyed that his wife had managed to usurp his authority and was not about to permit this brat to do likewise. ‘Owen, you might think you know everything but you don’t. If you’re going to bide here with us remember this: I’m the man of the house.’
Such dismissal of his noble offer wounded the youngster, who responded by lamely mumbling into his chest, ‘Don’t seem jestly right to me, them not paying you.’
‘That’s the way of it,’ snapped Monty, after which there was a long hiatus. Kit did not like the expression on his face and struggled to think of some way to alleviate it.
At the flash of inspiration she beamed, jumped up and prepared for action. ‘I got a new dance, our Monty!’
Her brother stared at the eager, grinning face that was in size more fitted to adult shoulders than an infant’s, the stout limbs like the branches of a tree, extended in anticipation of praise. What a lot of bad luck this child had brought with her. Before Kit’s unwelcome birth the Kilmasters had been poor but not destitute. Her arrival had changed everyone’s life. Every sibling had some pertinent grievance about Kit. His parents had been forced to struggle to accommodate the extra burden, he himself had had to contribute money for which he had worked hard and which could have been better spent on himself, which was why he had left home, which was why his parents had had to travel so far to his wedding, which is how they had come to eat the thing that had killed them. Ergo, in his quest to find a scapegoat for his present dilemma, he saw not a little child but the cause of all his ills, and his response was issued with a scowl of disapproval. ‘Shame on you, girl! Our mother and father are dead. Just sit ’ee down and behave yourself! There bain’t time for your nonsense now.’
Kit’s face fell. Deflated, she sank back to her seat on the bible and chewed on a portion of the handkerchief. If this was a sample of what it was going to be like to live here, she was not sure she wanted to remain.
A moment passed.
‘How long we gotta stay here, Monty?’ When he glared at Kit she shrank, but put her question another way. ‘When are Mother and Father coming back?’
‘I told ’ee.’ Monty fought to keep his voice even. ‘They’re never coming back.’ At the sight of her juddering lips, he buried his face in his hands.
‘Stupid! It’s all your fault!’ Eyes bright with tears, Owen turned on Kit and made a grab for the precious handkerchief; his sister shrieked and hung on to it, forcing Owen to curse her again.
Monty lifted his head with a roar. ‘Stop that! There’ll be no more arguing or fighting – ever! We are a family! Not animals but human beings, and you’ll behave as such! If you’ve got grievances you’ll keep them to yourselves. I haven’t sacrificed my own happiness to listen to ’ee at each other’s throats and this is the last time I expect to have to raise my voice in my own house – and that goes for all of ’ee!’ Shocked by the intensity of his anger, he swore to himself that this was indeed the last time he would lose control. After a final trembling glare, he wrenched his eyes back to the fire.
Leaving Kit too dazed for tears, Owen slunk from the room.
In the tiny kitchen, fearful looks were exchanged between the children. An apprehensive Sarah carved great wedges of bread from a loaf and set to buttering them as the sullen little boy elbowed his way in. Gwen, only three years younger than her sister-in-law, continued in her attempts to imprint her own authority. Arms folded under her corseted bosom, she examined a cake that sagged in the middle and pointed it out to Flora and Charity. ‘Must’ve been taken out o’ the oven too soon.’
Sarah clenched her jaw. Missing her new husband, she had spent his absence making this treat for his return, had tried to mask its deficiencies with icing sugar but had only succeeded in making it worse by lifting it and the icing had crazed.
Flora knew what it was like to be the butt of Gwen’s criticism. Indeed, she had always regarded herself as the filling in the sandwich between her domineering elder sister and the more popular Charity. Everyone else seemed so much more confident of themselves. Desperate to make an ally of her sister-in-law, she offered enthusiastically, ‘I’m sure it’ll taste nice though.’
Gwen was furious with her. ‘Presentation’s as important as taste, so Mother taught me. Course, you wouldn’t know that. Her never wasted much breath on you, did her?’ Tears came to her victim’s eyes. It had always been very easy to make this one cry.
To deter lachrymosity, a crimson Flora edged nearer to Sarah, wearing an eager-to-please expression. ‘Should I lay the table?’ At the other’s curt nod she bustled between kitchen and parlour looking for the tablecloth, opening doors and cupboards, appearing to be industrious, but in the end having to ask where it was. After this, she fussed and rushed about getting nowhere and having to seek constant instruction, trying so hard to please that Sarah found her earnestness overpowering and was forced to tell her she had done enough and to sit down.
‘Please! You’ll do me more service in there. It doesn’t do to have too many in the kitchen.’
‘Ah, i
t is a bit poky, ain’t it?’ mused Gwen.
‘How old are you?’ enquired Owen.
Sarah did not care for his familiar edge, and the tone of her voice was set accordingly. ‘I don’t think that’s any of a little boy’s business, do you?’
Owen sought to punish her for this denigration. ‘You don’t look as old as our Gwen.’
Charity, a lover of food, complimented Monty’s wife on the offering and said in bright tone, ‘Would ’ee mind if I take a slice of bread with me? I’m ravenous after that journey.’ Nothing much perturbed Charity, or if it did she hid it well.
‘Take what you like but all of you get out of my way!’ Overwhelmed, Sarah waved her hand at the others to shoo them out of the kitchen.
Only Gwen lingered, turning her attention to Sarah’s lack of dexterity in carving the bread. ‘You could get another four slices out o’ that loaf. Mother always used to—’
‘I like my slices thick!’ For a young bride trying to make her mark the criticism had twice the impact.
‘Oh, I’m not saying anything untoward.’ Gwen presented a shrug of innocence. ‘’Tis your kitchen, you may do as you please. Well … there must be zommat you want me to do?’
Sarah instructed her to get down the best china teapot and was upset again when Gwen said, ‘D’you mean this?’ – whilst beholding the wedding gift disparagingly.
Under more pretence of helping, Gwen hovered, as if testing her sister-in-law’s competence, and from time to time would sniff and, after a heavy pause, murmur, ‘Course, Mother wouldn’t do it like that – but then you must do it how you like, ’tis your house.’
Goaded to the brink of fury, by the time they were seated around the put-together tables Sarah could eat nothing, her disrelish exacerbated by Flora who, anxious over the manner of her parents’ death, sniffed suspiciously at every morsel before putting it into her mouth. Jumping to her feet, Sarah announced that she was not hungry and would go instead to ask if her mother could lend them some fresh bed linen.
Monty showed surprise as she hurried to the door. ‘We brung some with us.’
‘It’s filthy!’ In a childish effort to get back at Gwen, Sarah threw an accusing look at her sister-in-law. ‘My mother’d have a fit if she saw me putting that on the bed. Anyway, I want to see my father too. One of us has to do something about getting your job back – won’t be long!’
There was no chance of walking out her anger, for her parents lived quite nearby, though in a much smarter house. Neither was there much sympathy when she had finished her outpourings. Her father, akin to management, had not wanted her to marry beneath her station, but had been wise enough to see that it was no good trying to dissuade a woman in love from the path she had chosen. Sarah’s humiliation was all the greater in that her elder sisters were part of the audience, each barely able to conceal her glee at the downfall of one who had lorded it over them at being the first to marry.
‘Well, you’ve made your bed, madam, and now you can lie on it,’ Probyn Rogers told her flatly, which was rather ironic, thought Sarah, for encumbered by the ready-made family it was unlikely that she would ever have the time to lie down again.
‘What bed?’ she retorted. ‘I’ll have none to lie on if my husband loses his job.’
There was a lack of compassion from her mother. ‘Won’t be wanting these sheets then, will you?’ A stack of linen over her arm, Mary Rogers made as if to return it to the cupboard.
Sarah grabbed it, the anger at her husband still fermenting. ‘I was just speaking figuratively! I thought you’d be interested in your daughter’s troubles.’
‘You mean you’re expecting me to do something about it,’ corrected Probyn, tilting his chin at her. It was easy to see where Sarah inherited her own recalcitrance from.
‘Well, you are the deputy – and you are my father.’ Even granted this opening there was little subservience.
‘And I’ll give you a damned good whipping if you don’t alter your tone, married or no! How’s it going to look to the men who beg me for work every morn and I have to turn them away? What are they going to say about me if I let my son-in-law have a week off whenever he chooses and then give him precedence over them?’
Her mother showed similar harshness. ‘We warned you, didn’t we? Said once you were a married woman you couldn’t expect us to look after you.’
Recognizing that it was useless to go on, Sarah gave a cool nod of understanding. Trying to hang on to her dignity as tightly as she held the sheets, she bustled towards the door and had almost got to it before her father spoke again.
‘Have I said I wouldn’t help?’
‘If you want Monty to beg for it—’ guessed Sarah.
Probyn was terse. ‘No, I just want my daughter to show me a little respect if she demands a favour of me! I am right in thinking you want me to give your husband his job back?’
Sarah considered her situation carefully. Without her father’s assistance there was no chance of Monty being reinstated. After the battle she had had to obtain consent to marry him it galled her to have to grovel, especially so soon afterwards, made her appear weak and dependent in her own eyes.
‘Well, do you or don’t you, girl?’ demanded Probyn.
The words stuck in Sarah’s throat, but it was not really her father with whom she was angry, it was Monty for placing her in this position. ‘If you please, Father.’
‘That’s better. Right, I’ll see Monty gets his job back – but just this once, mind. You’ll have to go down on bended knee before I show another such favour.’
‘Thank you, Father, I shan’t ask again.’ Thinking bitterly that the sea would dry up before ever she resumed such a humiliating position, Sarah went home, but the short journey was given to much angry thought and later, after the children had gone to bed in their overcrowded room, she decided that she must confront Monty about their future.
‘Right!’ She handed him a cup of cocoa and sat opposite him, nursing her own cup, only the glow from the fire to light her face which shone pale and serious from its dim surroundings. ‘Now we’ve got rid of that lot you can tell me. How do you propose to look after the eight of us? Just because I’ve managed to get you your job back doesn’t mean we’ll have money to burn.’
He took a tentative sip of the hot beverage and, more out of awkwardness than discomfort, shifted position, the embers casting golden lights in the flaming red hair she had so recently found attractive. ‘Well …’
‘Hadn’t even thought about it, had you?’ The expression of faint disgust descended into her cocoa cup.
‘Yes, I have!’ His tone was indignant. ‘Gwen and Flora are no strangers to work. They could get a position round here and pay their way – and they’d do their own washing if that’s what concerns you.’
‘No.’ Sarah’s voice was firm. Sitting ramrod straight, she rested the cup on her aproned lap, both hands curled around it. ‘They’ll go into service. At least that way they won’t be under my feet.’
‘Send them away? That’s harsh after we just lost our parents. I know Gwen can be a bit bossy—’
‘Monty, it may have escaped your notice, but apart from our bedroom there’s one other; the six of them can’t stay in it indefinitely.’
‘Oh, they’re used to it, we only had the one room at ho—’
‘Well, I’m not used to it! ’Tisn’t decent for boys to sleep alongside girls – and don’t say Owen can come in with us ’cause I’m not having it, see! No, I’ll tell you what we’re going to do. We’re going to stick a partition up in that room, Owen can go on one side and the younger girls can have the other. Gwen and Flora can get a job at the mansion and live in, so can Charity.’
Alarmed by this revelation of his wife’s dominant streak Monty attempted to regain control. ‘She’s barely finished her eddication!’
‘She’s old enough to work, and so is Owen come to that.’ Sarah forestalled any argument about this by making her own concession. ‘But there’s not enoug
h weight on him, the pit ponies would take him for a wisp of hay, so we might as well have him educated – even if the clever little devil thinks he already knows it all. With him and Amelia at school all day there’s only whatsername to cope with.’ She had taken an inexplicable dislike to the youngest child who had done nothing at all to provoke this, apart from the irritating way she kept staring with those big blue eyes. ‘Though we might have to rethink the arrangement when we have our own family.’ She noticed the change in his expression and in response said, ‘Oh yes, I still intend to have children,’ but her attitude was composed more of determination than warm enthusiasm.
Misreading the strength of her obstinacy, Monty put down his cup on the slate hearth in order to kneel before her, taking one of her hands and kissing it. As ever, the contact with her flesh spawned tumescence. ‘I beg humble pardon for not consulting you first, my dear – but you must see I couldn’t abandon them.’ He nuzzled her seductively.
‘I understand that.’ Her voice was level and she allowed him to hold on to her hand though she remained aloof and craned her neck to deter anything further. ‘You feel you have a duty to your brother and sisters. You made your decision to put their welfare above that of your wife – well, that’s all right, I married you for better or worse and I’ll stand by you …’
The tone of her voice led Monty to believe that this statement was about to be qualified, and duly it was.
‘But just as you’ve let me know where I stand,’ Sarah continued in even tone, though her proud heart was broken, ‘it’s only fair that I tell you where you stand with me. I have a duty too and that’s to my own children when I have them. No one shall ever come before them. Not even you.’
Rejected, Monty leaned back on his heels, stared into her unyielding expression, saw a hardness in the Celtic eyes that had not been there a week ago. How could he, not yet out of his teens, have forecast that his unselfish act would have different connotations to others? But he knew now. His marriage was doomed before it had begun.
A Sense of Duty Page 4
