Kit looked on, rather alarmed at this occurrence and also the change in her niece’s appearance in the short time since they had last met. What little flesh she’d had previously had fallen from her, the bones in her wrists jutting like carbuncles, and her dark auburn hair lacked its sheen. Saying that the smell of bacon might tempt her niece, she began to lay rashers in a pan on the range. Turning to Sarah, she showed concern and asked if there was anything she could bring that would provide relief.
‘I doubt it,’ replied the girl’s mother. ‘I’ve tried everything. At least she’s starting to cough some of that rubbish up now.’ As the bacon sizzled, Sarah carved thick wedges from the new loaf, laying them upon four plates. The sight of Beata’s constantly moving arm caught her eye. ‘Why do you keep rubbing at your collarbone like that?’
‘It hurts,’ murmured the young woman.
‘Some of this nice bread will take your mind off it.’
‘I couldn’t get it down, Mam,’ came the weak protest.
‘Well, you’ve got to eat something – here, I’ll do you some pobs!’ Sarah ripped the slice of bread into pieces and laid these into a bowl of milk to soak. ‘Here, now eat this and no arguing!’
Whilst Kit, Probyn and Sarah devoured their bacon, Beata toyed half-heartedly with the bread and milk. When their plates were empty, hers was still three-quarters full. Finding her mother’s constant reference to her poor appetite unbearable, she asked to be helped to the privy.
Kit was glad to do this for it gave her the opportunity to divulge the awful mess she had got herself into. It wouldn’t really make much difference that she had been forbidden to make her home visits, she said, for she would normally have been away in London from spring until summer, so Sarah and Monty would suspect nothing. Just how she was going to explain her absence after that she had not yet worked out.
After Kit had made her confession, Beata revealed the true extent of her malady. ‘I haven’t had the curse again this month.’ Seeing Kit’s worried face she blurted, ‘I haven’t been doing owt wrong!’
‘I wouldn’t think that of you, love.’ Seated on the wooden bench beside her, Kit pressed Beata’s thin hand, feeling desperately sorry for her.
‘I can’t tell me mam.’
Kit said Sarah should be told. ‘I’ll tell her if you like.’
Beata thanked her. ‘I hope she doesn’t make me say owt to Dr Ibbetson. I’ll go bright red.’
Kit echoed her feelings, then giggled. ‘I can just see him saying, “There’s a lot of it about – I’ve had it meself!”’
Beata broke into a fit of coughing. Having mislaid her handkerchief she was forced to hold her shawl over her face. This interrupted the conversation for a while. When talk resumed, the topic came around to men, and in particular Thomas, Beata wanting to know had Kit seen him lately. ‘I’m so happy for you, Kit, you know. I’ll never get a chap of my own but—’
‘Of course you will!’
‘Nay, you don’t have to pretend.’ Beata’s eyes held a new maturity. ‘Lads run a mile from me. But your happiness is as good as me own.’ Kit could have wept. They had always shared secrets before. Only pride had prevented her from revealing Thomas’s abandonment; she could never give voice to the lie now. Telling Beata she had had a recent letter from him, she helped her fragile companion out into the fresh air.
It was cold, but with many private thoughts to share, they wrapped their shawls about them and tarried by the allotments for a while, watching the pigs and chickens. Anxious to make her niece feel better, Kit made Beata laugh time and again, plunging her into yet another paroxysm of coughing.
Kit looked on anxiously. Respiratory problems were a common feature of the mining village – Monty and his colleagues were always beffing to clear the coal dust from their lungs. The sound was commonplace in the Kilmaster household, but never had Kit seen her niece so severely afflicted. Alarm prickled her breast. People died from bronchitis.
Again, with no handkerchief at her disposal, Beata rid herself of the mucus as discreetly as possible over the allotment fence. Apologizing for her unladylike act, she rubbed her chest and said they had better be getting home.
Kit hovered assiduously, asking if Beata wanted a piggyback – only half joking – but her niece laughingly brushed these solicitations aside.
‘Eh! I’ve just thought – if you’re not allowed to come home you’ll miss our Probe’s breeching day.’ Even in illness Beata’s thoughts were for her aunt.
Kit made calculations. Probyn’s birthday was not until summer. ‘I might be in the good books again by then. Eh, I can’t believe he’ll be four! Time seems to fly after you’re twenty-one. Anyway, one way or t’other I’ll make it my duty to be here. I’ve been saving a brand-new sixpence to go in his trouser pocket.’ She wrapped her arm around the invalid’s waist, affecting a jocular air but really quite anxious. ‘And I hope you’re better by then, me lass. Or there’ll be trouble!’
* * *
Kit’s return to Postgate Park marked the start of a period of hard work which continued without abate, save for an interlude of prayer at Easter. Whilst the Earl and his family went off to London accompanied by their new cook and half the domestic staff, she was left behind with a band of skivvies and the housekeeper, who made sure that there was no escape. When the chimney sweeps had gone, Kit and the others went into battle against cobwebs, dust and grime. One huge room after another was stripped of its furnishings, which were beaten, shaken or laundered, gallons of water were dispensed over acres of paintwork, thirty-foot carpets were rolled aside, then rolled back again, feet ran up and down ladders, aching arms cleaned a thousand windowpanes – night after night an exhausted Kit fell into bed and woke minutes later, or so it seemed, ready to begin again. And still towards the end of May there were many rooms yet to go.
It was as she was cleaning the windows that overlooked the front drive that her horrified eyes saw the Earl’s carriage coming down the drive and rushed to alert the housekeeper. ‘It isn’t July yet, is it? I must’ve lost a couple of months somewhere along the line.’
The housekeeper was as shocked as anybody and herded the servants to the staircase in order to greet their employer’s arrival, moaning over their dishevelled state.
But when the Earl and his family arrived in the hall with his wife it was he who issued apologies, saying that he detested putting the staff to this inconvenience but he had received word that an elderly relative had died and the family had perforce come to pay last respects. They would only be staying for a day or two until after the funeral, he advised the housekeeper, and would avoid those rooms yet to be cleaned. He hoped it would not interfere with anyone’s work.
Kit hoped it would, but was to be disappointed for her chores were as numerous as ever.
However, once the funeral was over, and the Garboroughs were preparing to return to London, she learned she was to be given respite. As the morrow would be Empire Day, and as a mark of his appreciation for his servants having coped so well with his impromptu return, the Earl had decided to grant them a day off. On top of this they would be transported to their homes in one of the Earl’s own carriages. Unsure whether the treat extended to her, Kit tentatively consulted the housekeeper who, assenting, told her that the Countess was very pleased with her efforts and if she kept them up she might soon find her privileges restored.
The next morning, whilst the Earl’s luggage was loaded for return to London, a delighted Kit stood in the courtyard with the rest of the home-going girls, awaiting their own promised vehicle. Teasing remarks were made upon the fact that she was more soberly dressed than usual – Kit had not dared to further provoke the Countess by wearing one of the offending garments and was clad in plain blue cotton. In the middle of jest, all bonneted heads turned expectantly at the sound of wheels, but the sight of a farm cart provoked laughter.
It was one of the Earl’s neighbours, a more modest landowner, who pulled up alongside the waiting girls, his dour Yorkshire
face bestowing a mere nod of acknowledgement before he jumped down. ‘I heard his lordship were here. Thought he’d be glad to see these afore I take ’em to t’kennels.’ Going to the rear of his cart he threw back a piece of hessian to reveal three cages of young fox cubs, fifteen animals in all.
There was a collective, ‘Aw!’ Whilst someone went to inform the master, Kit gathered round the cart with the others, looking at the terrified furry cubs that squirmed and cowered, each trying to hide behind the other. Farmer Alderson’s face held no expression.
The Earl strode out, his fat old labrador plodding along behind. The scarcity of foxes had been the bane of his life of late and he treated this donation like a priceless gift, his craggy face examining the cages. ‘Splendid, man! I was beginning to think it was going to be a year like the last – didn’t have a kill in months.’
Without subservience, Farmer Alderson took off his hat. ‘I thought your lordship’d be pleased. I do know how you like a chase.’
His beam seeming, to others, at odds with his mourning garb, the Earl heartily agreed. ‘Mind you, there’s no sport equal to shooting wild fowl with a punt and a big gun on water, I always say.’
‘Fancy yourself as a poacher, milord, does tha?’ The farmer’s wry response held no disrespect.
‘Hardly much fun on one’s own land, old chap,’ came the laugh.
‘Oh, by the way, milord—’ Farmer Alderson remembered something and pulled aside a piece of sacking to reveal a mangled badger – ‘miners’ve been having sport down by your lordship’s spinney agin last neet. I found it on t’way here still alive – it’s deed now, mindst, I finished him off. Thought it might do to feed these little buggers.’
The Earl’s attitude changed, he uttered a sound of disgust, condemning the working man’s sport as brutal. ‘It’s bloody diabolical! I’ve warned my gamekeeper to keep his eyes open—’ He broke off with a sigh of acceptance. ‘But then he can’t be everywhere I suppose. Anyway—’ he started to back away, referring once again to his own superior class of butchery – ‘I’m most grateful for these fellows, Alderson. You’ll be rewarded.’
‘Nay, I’m glad to get the buggers away from my lambs.’ Responding to the Earl’s instruction to take the cubs over to the kennels, Farmer Alderson threw a carpet back over them and climbed into his cart.
‘You’re not going to chase them tiny things, milord, are you?’ tendered Kit.
‘There’d be little sport in it,’ came his reply. ‘No, we’ll feed them up then release them for future hunts – ah, your carriage awaits you, ladies!’ A stately vehicle appeared from the mews. Kit’s face lit up as the Earl himself helped her inside and waved his servants off. By the time it went through the gates all her sympathy for the cubs had been displaced by joy over the long-awaited visit home.
* * *
Her vigorous entry was to be somewhat tempered by the sight of her eldest niece in a makeshift bed by the fire. It had been impossible to imagine that Beata could lose more flesh, but the emaciation had progressed so far that it was as if a skeleton lay there – albeit a smiling one, for as ever Beata maintained her happy air. Though stunned, Kit hid it well and proceeded to acknowledge those gathered. It was a full house that greeted her, even Monty being allowed the day off to celebrate the glorious British Empire. In conjunction with this auspicious occasion it had been decided to bring Probyn’s breeching day forward, partly to raise Beata’s spirits. There he stood in his new trousers, jingling the coins in his pocket and waiting expectantly for his Aunt Kit to bestow another. Uncle Owen contributed too, he and his son having just arrived on their way back from a visit to the allotments. As much as Owen derided imperialism, the family noticed that he held his tongue when it came to a paid holiday.
The children as ever were delighted to see their aunt, the smaller ones hanging from her skirts in the hope that she might have a treat in her pocket.
Kit handed round a bag of conversation lozenges. ‘Well, aren’t we all lucky being given the day off to celebrate Her Majesty’s birthday!’
‘No, we’re off because it’s Empire Day,’ corrected Wyn, waving her Union Jack.
‘The Queen’s birthday is Empire Day, dozy,’ said Rhoda.
Wyn sulked and turned to Kit, ‘It isn’t, is it, Aunt?’
Kindly advising her that in fact it was, Kit led her over to the map on the wall and pointed out the large areas of red. ‘See, the Queen is head of the Empire – which is a lot of foreign countries ruled by the British, because we’re superior to the natives who live there and that gives us a responsibility to look after them.’
‘Hang on!’ exclaimed Sarah. ‘Speaking of geography, I thought you were supposed to be in London?’
Kit had her answer prepared. ‘The Earl had to come back early – he’s had a death in the family. So he brought a few of us with him.’
There was muttered sympathy, then a concerned exclamation from Owen. ‘Eh, we’ve just found that last bantie o’ yours dead, Monty! Just like t’others, not a mark on it.’
‘That’s it then, all gone.’ After an initial groan, Monty turned to Kit. ‘You ain’t been casting a spell on them, have ’ee? Thinking you’ll have one on your bonnet for every day of the week.’ He glanced at Beata and was satisfied to witness a grin spread across her wan face, which had been the joke’s design.
Yet his quip masked a deep concern, and once Kit was installed, his attention and everyone else’s for that matter, reverted to Beata in her fireside bed.
Somewhat ignored, Kit might have been glad that for once no interest was shown in her love life, had her niece not displayed such suffering. She seemed even too exhausted to indulge Probyn and begged him to go away.
‘Ooh, I’ll have to go again!’ A sudden look of alarm on her face, Beata had to be helped from her bed by her father. Amidst an air of panic, Sarah thrust a wad of cut-up newspaper at Kit, who took over from Monty, she and Ethel half carrying their undernourished companion down to the privy on the corner of the street.
Sarah’s black eyes showed anguish, demanding to know of Monty, ‘How can she get so much diarrhoea? She doesn’t eat enough to keep a worm alive. And she’s been getting dreadful night sweats, her gowns are saturated. I’m forever washing.’
Discussion arose over what the malady might be, this being curtailed when Ethel and Kit returned the invalid to her bed, solemnly announcing that Beata had coughed up a lot of blood.
‘Well, we don’t need to ask what it is now,’ murmured Owen through his teeth, though loud enough for his learned opinion to be heard. ‘Consumption.’
‘You don’t know that!’ In her fear, Sarah rebuked him.
‘And neither will you if you don’t have her to a proper doctor.’ Owen was grim.
Monty defended Dr Ibbetson ‘She’s maybe just ruptured her throat with all that coughing,’ he added. Turning his back on his brother, he attended the invalid, telling her everything would be all right, and wishing he believed it.
Unable to contain his frustration, Owen jumped up and told his son they were going home.
However, he was to reappear later that afternoon as Kit was preparing to leave, telling them that a doctor was on his way here from Methley and would appear any moment. ‘He’s just tethering his horse. Now, I don’t want any argument, Monty! I’m paying for this out o’ me own brass.’
Both Monty and his wife objected to the interference but their voices were stilled abruptly as the doctor poked his head around the door.
Monty became courteous. ‘I beg pardon that you’ve been put to this trouble, Doctor. I wouldn’t have sent—’
‘I’m glad you did,’ the younger man interrupted him, looking upon Beata with grave concern. ‘Could we perhaps make a little room in here?’
Sarah packed the youngsters upstairs, she, her husband and a worried Kit attending the doctor whilst Owen went outside to lend Beata some privacy.
Showing kindness to his patient, the doctor asked numerous questions, then listened
diligently to her chest for a few moments, before coming up with his verdict. ‘I’m afraid it’s phthisis.’
‘Not bronchitis then?’ asked Sarah. ‘Only, Dr Ibbetson told us it was.’
‘Did he?’ The tone of the response told that this was nonsense.
Sarah went to open the door to re-admit Owen.
The latter whispered a request for the verdict, and was instructed that Beata was suffering from phthisis. He gave a jubilant exclamation. ‘Told you!’
Sarah’s face blackened and she hissed back at him, ‘Well, there’s no need to sound so blasted pleased about it!’
Subdued, he came into the room where Monty was asking if the rest of the family were in danger of catching it.
The physician felt unqualified to answer this, but liked to sound as if he was. ‘There are different schools of thought on whether it’s contagious or not. I rather doubt it myself. Some doctors say it’s hereditary.’
Owen had been reading about the germ theory of disease and was keen to propound his knowledge, but the physician did not appreciate a layman telling him his job and said this was tripe. ‘How could such an organism multiply so quickly? If that were so, all of mankind would be annihilated!’
Kit noticed Monty’s satisfied glance at his wife, both enjoying Owen’s comeuppance. How could they be so petty when Beata endured such suffering? She sat on the end of the bed and rubbed her niece’s leg reassuringly.
The young doctor went on to list palliatives. ‘Bismuth for the diarrhoea, and for the night sweats sponge her down at bedtime with tepid water and vinegar. If this fails I can prescribe something for that too, but I’d rather not give too much at the moment.’
Shaken by the verdict, Monty asked if they should keep giving her the medicine Dr Ibbetson had prescribed. The young man bit back an oath. ‘Oh no, no, no! No medicine at all – unless the cough drives you up the wall.’ Asked what else they could do to improve their daughter’s health he instructed, ‘Give her eggs—’
A Sense of Duty Page 32
