Feeling that her heart would break, Kit lowered her tear-filled eyes to her lap, where her hands played with a black-bordered handkerchief. Black, black, everything was black.
Monty stood in silence, wearing only a hint of his private pain.
His wife gazed blindly into mid-air. ‘I got quite a shock at that Mrs Kelly’s house. It was remarkably clean, considering. And she was actually quite nice.’ There had been little contact between the two women since that day, but Sarah was not quite so swift to condemn now.
Probyn, confused over his sister’s death, looked from one face to another, seeking answer, but finding none.
‘They’re all here.’ A grave billy-goat face inserted itself into the crowded room.
At Owen’s utterance, Kit risked a glance through the window. Almost every inhabitant of Ralph Royd appeared to be gathered outside. She and everyone in the room rose as one. The Minister entered, offered a prayer and a hymn was sung.
Owen, regarding the Minister as a boss’s man, stepped forth to voice his own contribution. ‘Well, Beata lass, tha’s off to a better world than this, to sup with the Lord and enjoy His everlasting love. I know He’ll be as pleased to see thee as we that are left behind are sorry to lose thee. You’ll be the bonniest and best angel in His heaven. Amen.’
Monty stood with bowed head and gritted teeth, hating Owen for his ability to speak at such a time. Anger filled his every pore: anger that Owen could take it upon himself to perform what should have been a father’s speech, anger that his brother’s words moved him to tears, tears that he had so far valiantly managed to suppress.
After a respectable interval, a man came forward with a screwdriver and secured the coffin lid, whilst Mrs Feather supervised the passing round of glasses of port and funeral biscuits to those who waited outside.
Although a non-smoker himself Monty handed round clay pipes and tobacco to those he knew partook of the weed. Peggo reached out and took a plug of tobacco from the black plate, filling his own pipe, afterwards helping to position two chairs on the footpath. The coffin was then carried out and placed on them.
Flora, the last out, attempted to close the door behind her but Gwen quickly threw it open. ‘How will her soul escape? Dope!’
‘Eh, they’ve done the lass proud,’ murmured a neighbour, admiring the casket that had been provided by the insurance payments. Everyone agreed.
Peggo puffed on his pipe and spoke thoughtfully to the coffin. ‘Well, you’re on your way now, honey. God speed.’
Eyes shone. When the glasses of port had been drained, the villagers united in a hymn and Beata’s remains were borne along Savile Row, past the allotments and onwards down the slope to the chapel. Behind, in their black hats and white crocheted shawls walked Mrs Feather and her team, then the Minister, the bereaved family and the rest of the mourners.
After the service, Mrs Feather and her helpers escaped as inconspicuously as they could in order to prepare the funeral tea whilst the coffin was carried to the graveyard where they all sang ‘Gather at the River’. The clink of blacksmith’s tools, echoing across the field from the mine, was both a death knell and a sign that life went on.
Reluctant to look down into the hole, Kit read each of the epitaphs around her on those slabs of weathered stone, many of them bearing the names of miners, then lifted her eyes to stare across the field at the loathsome structure that had put these men in their graves. Such an uninspiring view for Beata’s last resting place.
Afterwards, all retired to the Sunday school room for a meal of ham and fruit cake.
When the family went home, Sarah removed the covers from the mirror and the picture and life continued as it always had. Just one person less.
Hating Gwen’s stupid platitudes – ‘Life must go on, I zuppose,’ – and listening to Amelia talk about the important people who came to dinner at her employer’s house, Kit yearned to get away, but was forced to spend a respectful time amongst them, knowing that none of her siblings, except perhaps Monty, could feel the loss as deeply as she.
With shattered heart she eventually managed to depart for Postgate Park, mind railing at the injustice of her loved one’s premature demise – poor, dear Beata, never so much as a boyish kiss to touch those lips!
Her boots felt like lead, dragging her dispirited form along the coal-dusted track. Was spinsterhood to be Kit’s lot in life too? She recalled the gypsy’s prediction: I see no marriage. I see no children. The woman had been right about Myrtle; must Kit, then, accept her words as truth?
Casting her eyes ahead, Kit saw her future unfurl before her, a long and empty road. When the tears came again, they were not entirely for her dead niece.
16
The devastation Kit experienced over Beata’s death stayed with her a long time. It was said that hard labour took one’s mind off one’s troubles but even in her overworked role of general dogsbody there were still pauses for reflection, at which point Beata’s lovely face would manifest itself. A very different face to the one which hung on the wall of Savile Row.
True to her intention, Sarah had taken her remaining daughters to an artist’s studio in Castleford and, presenting him with these models, the lock of hair and the deathbed photograph, had instructed him to create a pastiche of the dearly departed and thus bring her back to life.
Kit thoroughly detested the finished portrait, not because she was excluded from participation, but because it had no soul. This was not the Beata she had loved.
It had been hard enough to come back here at all after the funeral, but to be faced with that awful picture was more than Kit could bear. Receiving a good report about Kit from the housekeeper on her return from London, the Countess had reinstated her seamstress and restored her days off, but perversely this seemed not to please Kit, her visits to Ralph Royd so subdued that others could not fail to comment on her mood.
‘If her don’t buck her ideas up I’m going to give her what for!’ Kit heard a familiar voice as she came up the incline on her latest visit. ‘Why, the face on her, you’d think it was her child who’d died. I mean, we’re all sad, but really she always milks a situation for all it’s worth, does our Kit.’
Rounding the corner, she came across Gwen and Flora, two black beetles moving up the street, the latter agreeing with her sister’s every word as they made their way to their brother’s house. Her mind raged against such unfeeling comment. Did they not appreciate that Kit had been especially close to her niece, having grown up alongside her? She had only been four when Beata was born, it had been like having a baby sister.
Hearing a footfall to her rear, Gwen looked round and her expression turned to one of command. ‘Here! I want a word with you, my girl, before you go in.’ Waiting for her youngest sister to catch up, she took hold of Kit’s mourning dress. ‘You can get rid of that miserable face for a start! We’re all feeling the loss but it don’t do Sarah any good to have you moping around all the time. If the girl’s mother can carry on, then so can you.’
Chastened, Kit saw that Gwen was right in part. Promising she would do her best to contain her grief – though just how, she could not tell – she accompanied her sisters along the row.
Gwen was kinder then, patting her arm. ‘There’s a good lass. It’ll make you feel a whole lot better too. And I know you’re only being respectful but don’t let it be too long afore you go back to wearing your normal clothes, outlandish though they might be. Well, we gotta have sommat to laugh at, ain’t we?’
Kit was forced to smile.
‘That’s better!’ The portly middle-aged Gwen reached up to chuck her much taller sister’s chin. ‘I’m sure your young man don’t want to look at a misery guts either, does he?’
Kit’s heart leaped. Courtship being the last thing on her mind, she had totally forgotten Thomas. Even presented with this opportunity, she could not force herself to admit that someone had paid her to stay away from their son. The only admittance she was prepared to make was that she had not seen anyt
hing of him in ages.
‘Why, you must be sick and tired of us old busybodies going on at you,’ Gwen told her as they arrived at their destination. ‘I won’t utter another word about it.’ But she enjoyed a self-satisfied glance at Flora, one that said: Didn’t I tell you he was only a figment of her imagination?
* * *
By the following spring, Kit had managed to struggle free of her mental fetters and Mothering Sunday found her dressed to the nines. Most of the servants had been given leave to take daffodils home from the park. Kit would not be taking any, not from any sense of malice but because she did not want to outdo the children, who would be going out to pick their own. As a further treat and to help those whose homes were at a distance, the Earl and Countess had provided transport – no mother should be deprived a visit on this special day.
Hence she arrived in style at Ralph Royd. Being the last of the servants to be dropped off, it appeared that she alighted from her very own carriage. Children came to gather in the street, Probyn amongst them.
Immediately spotting the colourful bird on her new hat, he asked, ‘Is that the one I gave you, Aunt?’
Kit lied and said it was, adding didn’t it look splendid? The little boy looked proud, and ran into the house ahead of her, shouting to his parents that he was the one responsible for his aunt’s wondrous attire.
Sarah passed a disparaging glance at Kit’s apparel, she herself still in mourning dress. ‘I wondered how long it would be.’
Inferring that she was being accused of an uncaring attitude, Kit looked stricken. There was an awkward silence in the room, broken only by the younger children’s fidgeting. Her own siblings were not here, having visited only a few weeks ago. There was no reason for Kit herself to be here either; Sarah was not her mother. Though, physically, Sarah had looked after her well, there was a dearth of affection between them. Never more so than now. Look at that big healthy lump, Sarah’s attitude seemed to say, when my own daughter lies in her grave.
Kit inhaled and tried to sound cheerful. ‘Well, who’s coming for a walk?’
‘We can’t yet we’ve got to bury t’bird,’ Wyn told her.
A look at Monty produced the answer that they had found the canary dead in its cage this morning. The children said they would like to have a funeral and Kit agreed to help them, saying they needed a little box to put him in.
Sarah looked as if she might explode with anger. ‘Haven’t we had enough funerals in this house?’
Knowing that it was more than the death of a canary which made her thus, Kit glanced at Monty. The air of friction that was always there between these two seemed to have intensified since Beata’s death.
‘I’ll walk with you up to the allotment.’ Monty looked grim. ‘Georgie Smith said he’d sort me out a new bird.’ Taking the empty cage, he went up the street alongside Kit, the children spread out in front, bearing the feathered corpse wrapped in cloth.
When Kit asked if anything was wrong between Monty and Sarah, he replied, ‘No more than usual.’ How could a man tell his sister that his wife would not let him near her – had never let him near her since Beata had died? He was not yet forty years old and life might as well be over.
Reaching the allotments, he asked, ‘D’you want to come with me for the bird, Probe?’ But the little boy preferred to attend the funeral. Feeling a childish sense of resentment towards his son for rebuffing this offer, Monty stalked off to his friend’s aviary.
Kit performed the funeral, suggesting that the children needed some lolly sticks to form a cross. A search ensued, providing two sticks, which were bound together with some cotton from Kit’s pocket. Afterwards she and the children went off to pick flowers.
Upon the way back, his cage bearing a new occupant, Monty noticed the miniature cross with ‘RIP’ written on it in pencil. The children were still out when he got back. Not wishing to be in the house alone with Sarah, he stayed in the yard for a while, examining his feathered companion. The young canary was nervous and kept leaping around its bars in a panic. Reaching into the cage, Monty cupped the bird in his hand and began to stroke its yellow feathers gently, talking to it in a low murmur in order to calm it. ‘Young chap like you shouldn’t be trapped in a cage,’ he told it, all too aware of the analogy. ‘But ’twouldn’t do to set you free. You wouldn’t survive a minute out there on your own.’ Having calmed the bird slightly he put it back in the cage, then reluctantly carried it indoors to show to his wife.
A great awkwardness remained between them until eventually the children spilled in, each bearing an armful of flowers.
Their mother showed little gratitude. ‘Good grief, is there anything left standing in the meadow? We haven’t got room for all those in here. Go and put some of them on your sister’s grave.’
Kit wondered if that suggestion was for her benefit. Did Sarah truly think she had forgotten Beata? Steering the disappointed children back outside, she murmured that she would not stop for tea but had to get back to Postgate Park, adding that she would not see the family for a while as she was due to go to London tomorrow. With his wife apparently unaffected by the news, and Kit obviously upset, Monty was kind enough to accompany his sister along the street.
* * *
Kit wept too on her way home. Too early to meet the Earl’s coachman at the arranged point, she made her return to Postgate Park on foot, this lending much time for contemplation. Poor dear Beata, how Kit missed her. Try as she might to drive that gaunt image from her mind, mile after mile Beata was to accompany her. What if she too were to die before she had known a man’s love? It was all too much. Along that lonely stretch of road, each step was accompanied by a sob.
The sound of a horse’s hoofs came clopping up behind her, the rider passing her a glance as he went by. Upon noting her ladylike attire he raised his hat. For once Kit did not appreciate the attention, but kept her head lowered so that he would not see her mottled face.
She was in the act of blowing her nose when the rider pulled in his reins and steered the horse back towards her.
‘May I be of any assistance, ma’am?’
Half of Kit wished for him to go away, the other part of her desperately needing friendship. ‘I am unwell …’
He was off his horse in seconds and, leaving it to graze on the verge, came to her side. Simultaneously, he removed his top hat, revealing dark hair to match his eyes, and offered a handkerchief. Kit shoved her own drenched piece of linen into her pocket and accepted his, thanking him sincerely.
Dismissing it as of no consequence, he told her to keep it, adding, ‘I should very much like to be of further assistance, if I may?’ Without his hat, he did not appear so tall now.
Badly in need of company, Kit asked if he would escort her home. It was not very far away.
This he agreed to, and walked alongside her, leading his horse. Introductions were made, the young man giving his name as Ninian Latimer. Kit provided explanation for her tearfulness, telling him that she had lost someone dear to her. He offered his sympathy, then seemed content to remain quiet until they arrived at Postgate Park, where his next comment was to surprise her. ‘You must have only been visiting Cragthorpe Hall the last time we met.’ The ensuing look of puzzlement caused a grin. ‘You don’t remember me, do you?’
Kit studied him as closely as politeness would allow. How could she have forgotten meeting such a finely dressed fellow? He was quite good-looking too. ‘How very rude you must think me.’ Instinctively, she found herself reacting in ladylike manner, and this in itself caused a pang of guilt. What manner of woman showed such artifice when purporting to grieve?
His laugh was kind. ‘Not at all! I’m afraid my comment was a bit of a sham, for we were never introduced. I merely saw you walking by and before I could summon the courage to do anything more than raise my hat you had gone through the gates of Cragthorpe Hall. I should add that it was some years ago when I was but a callow youth. Yet I remember you very well.’ Fleetingly, his eyes took in her J
unoesque figure.
Through the haze of teary confusion, Kit received a sudden vision of the time she had borrowed Mrs Dolphin’s clothes. Recognition appeared on her puffy face.
He seemed glad that she had at last remembered. ‘I’ve been hoping we would meet ever since.’
‘Have you?’ She was utterly taken aback.
‘What a great pity that it had to be my intrusion into your distress which brought us together.’
‘Your compassion does you honour, Mr Latimer.’
‘Without wishing to impose upon your grief further, could I hope that we might meet again in happier times? Perhaps I could come to call upon you soon?’
‘I’m afraid I’ll be going up to London tomorrow and shall be there until the end of July.’
He was unfazed. ‘Then could I arrange to call upon you when you return?’
Still recovering from her tears, Kit was in a quandary. There had been no intention to mislead him at first – she had referred to Postgate Park as home quite naturally. But would he wish to meet her if he knew of her humbler origins? Presented with such a chance of happiness she could not allow it to slip. Beata would want her to be happy. ‘I should love to make your further acquaintance,’ she told him. ‘But although I am of age to make my own decisions, my brother, who is my guardian, is very strict and doesn’t care for me to receive gentleman callers.’ It was not an actual lie. She had not said that Monty lived here. ‘Could we meet somewhere else? One afternoon or evening, perhaps.’
He was eager to arrange such a meeting. There was an inn, the White Hart, in the nearby village of Aldwaldwyke; across the road from this was a stone memorial cross. If she cared to wait there on the first of August at noon he would come with his carriage to whisk her off for a picnic luncheon. Inclining her head at his bow, Kit turned and walked up the drive, doubting very much whether she would ever see him again, for the first of August was a very long way, off.
A Sense of Duty Page 34
