by Jean Stubbs
He bowed his head, considering, then spoke in contempt.
‘I did indeed misjudge you, Mrs Longe. I had thought you asked more of life than its creature comforts. Man does not live by bread alone, though I know he must eat. But the woman’s world is a very small one!’
‘You seem to overlook my children, Mr Ackroyd, who must be cared for.’
‘Madam, your children cannot take up too much of your time or you would have none for gossiping!’ Here he looked scornfully round the pretty parlour.
He had gone far enough. Charlotte spoke with chilling rebuke.
‘You have been very free, sir, with your opinions — and those of Mr Fairbarrow — though I did not ask for them. Allow me to expound my own philosophy, which is drawn from close observation and owes more to practice than verbal brilliance. When I first met my husband I adored him, for I had never before heard such eloquence, seen such energy, known such visions. It seemed to me that he was exalted above all other men. Nothing was too trivial for his humane concern. He would argue half the night, travel half the country, write and publish tracts often at his own expense. What money he had was generously bestowed. He was entirely sincere, and without malice even to his enemies. Who could find fault with him?
‘But, sir, though he was constantly in attendance upon his ideas he neglected his human responsibilities. His family, who should have come first, came last and least. It was I who saw that they were clothed and fed, that the landlord was paid and the most pressing debtors satisfied. And this is something I have noticed in many men who call upon God or themselves to reform the world. They are so busy with Utopia that they do not mind their proper business. I know very well where mine lies, and I shall concern myself with it despite your opinion. Pray tell your friend to find some meddling fellow instead of me!’
She rose and rang the bell with such violence that Polly fairly ran to answer it.
‘Mr Ackroyd is going, Polly. Good-day to you, sir. Your hat is on my writing-desk!’
He bowed curtly, without reply. What reply could he have made? He took his leave of her. She watched him striding furiously across the High Street, one loose tail of his cravat whipping behind him in the wind, his hat crammed down upon his head. But the discourse ran on in her mind, and she gripped the curtain thinking of it.
‘A woman’s world may seem a small one, its horizon limited, its details petty, its pace immeasurably slow. But from these little daily tasks comes forth the whole of mankind. Were governments to run their nations half so well as a good woman runs her household we should have no war, no debt, no famine. So do not dismiss our lives out of hand. We know very well what we are about. And if you are intent upon righting the wrongs of the world, sir, then look closer to home and begin there!’
‘Told ‘im off, ‘ave you?’ said Polly knowingly, collecting the china. ‘Just like old times, Mrs Longe! It does you good to light off now and again, ma’am. You’ve been a-bottling up ever since we left London.’
She did not expect either a snub or an answer. She had acted too long as friend and spectator to give offence.
‘You can have your supper in peace and quiet tonight,’ Polly went on. ‘The children is having theirs with us, and Miss Jorrocks is properly put out and taking hers in her room!’
‘Why, what has put Miss Jarrett out?’ cried Charlotte.
‘She says as the rector’s lady looks down on her, ma’am.’
‘Oh, fiddle!’ said Charlotte crisply.
She did not mind a bit. She wanted to sit by herself and think over all she and Jack Ackroyd had said to each other, and to discover what had incensed her so much. He had acted, unwittingly, as a touch-paper to the anger pent up inside her. She had been wanting to quarrel with somebody all afternoon, and he had served her purpose very well.
It was true that she found Millbridge empty of excitement or purpose. For now she was thoroughly restored in strength she often recalled old friends and old times in Lock-yard; sometimes dreamed she was back there, but with her present safety and prosperity to soften its harsher outlines. And though she believed every word she had flung at Jack Ackroyd, still she had not told the full truth.
She had delighted in doing battle in a man’s world. She enjoyed the company of men, their toughness and simplicity, their direct approach to life. She missed Toby’s passionate commitment, his flow of ideas, his ability to make magic out of an evening with two friends over a pie from the cookshop. Even his faults had been fascinating, and he always admired her complementary virtues and had sworn to do better in future. She was sad to think she had used him only in the context of an argument. He was worth more than that. In her heart she asked his pardon, and received it.
Charlotte sat alone and late, lifted the velvet curtain and pondered on the quiet street, walked the silent rooms: listening to the long clock chiming her life away.
A Family Wedding
Fourteen
3rd day, 1st month, 20th, 1795
My dear Friend Dorcas Howarth,
For Friend thou hast been to me over these Difficult years, while Our Children strove for their Happiness even against Us who mast wished them Joy. I am at last able to take upon me the Sad and Loving Task of writing to thee Concerning their Marriage. The Discipline of our Society being necessarily Strict, my dear Husband cannot Consent to this Union, but he can give his Assent — thus saying that he Loves his Child and wd let her have her Way, but yet does not Approve it. It is with a Sore heart that I tell thee we cannot Give our Daughter her Wedding, nor shd we Attend it, and so I must Beseech you to take our Place in this Matter Can I ask thee to be such a Mother to our Zelah as you wd be to yr own Sweet Child at such a Moment in her Life? I fear thou wilt Misunderstand or Mislike us hereafter, but I Pray you do not. I remain thy Sincere Friend. Catherine Scholes.
*
26 January 1795
My dear Catherine Scholes,
I believe we know each other Well enough, tho’ but Good Friends on Paper, not to Mislike aught but the Circumstances in which we find ourselves. Nor are we such Bigots as to believe that God may not be Worshipped in Many Ways, and still Bless and Keep us, out of His Mercy. It is with a Full Heart that I accept the Joyful Task of giving Zelah’s Wedding, and even to Ponder upon the Mysterious Goodness of God in allowing me a Second Daughter whose Marriage will take place within the Family. For my Charlotte, as you may Recall, was married Secretly, which caused Great Grief, tho’ now she is Safely Home again. But Surely you can Visit yr Child once she is Settled? For we slid all Wish to Meet you and Love you as we Love yr son Caleb. Please tell Zelah that I shall write again to her Shortly, but the Weather has been so bad that the Apples were Froze in the loft! And Charlotte and I have not been Able to Continue with our Work at Belbrook. Last Week we met there with Two Maids, but the Well was a mask of ice. Perhaps Zelah cd let me know if she Wishes me to Engage her Servants from Garth? I desire to be of Service to her, but not to Intrude too much upon her Future Life. Sincere Friend. Dorcas Howarth.
*
3 February 1795
My dear Zelah,
Tho’ we know each other not as yet we shall be Sisters hereafter, and therefore I write to Welcome you into our Family and to tender the Hospitality of Thornton House for the time before yr Wedding. I am to act as Chaperone when William Calls but you shall not find me an Oppressive one! We thought it good that you and William shd have Belbrook Farm to yrselves for a Week after yr Marriage, so Caleb has Invited himself back to Flawnes Green and will Work from there. We wondered whether you shd be Married at St Mark’s Church in Millbridge, and have the Wedding Dinner at Thornton House, but William thought — and we believe him to be Right — that the Simple and Homely Ceremony at St John’s in Garth wd Suit you better. My Mother is Agog with the prospect of a Vast Reception at Kit’s Hill, which she Swears shall be a Deal more Elegant than her Boisterous Feast of Four-and-Thirty Year ago! Of that, and of Much else, you shall Hear from our own lips. God bless and Keep you, dearest Zelah.yr
Sister Charlotte.
*
4th day, 2nd month, 18th, 1795
My dear Dorcas,
We have a Black Fast this morning, with a Cruel Easterly Wind! The poor Birds lie Dead in the park, tho’ Zelah path them Feeding almost from her Hand and Strives to keep all Alive in this Wicked Winter Dear Friend, I cannot let my Child be Joined with her Husband and be not there to see it. My own dear Husband thinks that if we do not Attend the Ceremony but come to the Wedding Dinner this will be accounted sufficient by the Society of Friends. Let us Pray so, else shall I break my Heart! We shd be a Great Party, for I do not Doubt that Mary and her Husband will Join us and if their Younger Children are Coming then there will be the Elder Grandchildren. Dear Friend, I shall not Weary thee with a List of them, but if thou wilt Engage the Largest and most Respectable Inn in Millbridge we promise to Fill it for the Wedding! We shall be travelling in our own Carriages, and of course we shall be very Circumspect — not thinking to Play the Host or otherwise Disagree in any way with thine own Arrangements. Only, dear Dorcas, may we Visit with thee, then? Thy Friend Catherine.
‘Ned!’ cried Dorcas triumphantly from the parlour. ‘Please to call in at The Royal George and enquire as to the number of rooms. The ironmaster will attend the wedding!’
It was one of the sweetest moments in her life. But now they must consider the date. Usually a marriage took place within the month, but the winter was such a terrible one that even the Prince of Wales’s bride was forced to wait on the other side of the Channel, the navy being unable to put to sea on her account. The Scholes family inclined to a summer wedding, considering this a pleasanter season to travel the country.
… but, dearest Friend, [Dorcas wrote] we cannot consider it at the Farm, for in June we have the hay harvest — if Harvest there be, after so much Cold and Wet! — and the Sheep-shearing, and the Feeding on both Occasions. In July and August we are greatly Concerned with Crops and Stock, and the Grain harvest and Mel Supper and Lammastide. Indeed, Autumn would be the Best Time but William Chafes so at the delay that I dare not suggest it! Then, tho’ I do not bow to Superstition, there wd be an Outcry if the wedding was to fall in the month of May, and a Similar Chorus if it were to Take Place during Lent. Betwixt Christian and Pagan Niceties, we are come upon the last week in April when we shall Offend Nobody! But what of the Day? Monday will be Fair Day in Millbridge, and Saturday is Market Day, and both of them in an Uproar. Moreover, you will Wish to be within Reach of a Meeting-house for yr Sunday Worship, and the nearest I know of is at Rawtenstall, which is above Twenty Mile from here. Dear Friend, shall Our Children ever Wed? …
Lawyers drew up the marriage settlement. Seamstresses sat in hillocks of linen and lawn and cambric, of silk and satin and fine cotton, stitching the trunkfuls of fine clothes which the bride would take with her: a dozen of everything to dad her from morning to night, and the handkerchiefs embroidered with her new initials, and six pair of silk stockings. At Belbrook the farm was re-named Quincey Place, after the original Norman owner. In spite of the cold weather, Dorcas and Charlotte drove themselves on, and their workmen even hoped to finish the outside painting before Easter.
Nellie, housekeeper of Kit’s Hill, and her niece Sally in Millbridge were given the bill of fare for the banquet. With wheat at an exorbitant price because of the war, parsley at two shillings the ounce, and everything hard to come by, they worked out amounts and costs for the campaign ahead, called up a troop of minor assistants, and allotted tasks from master to the youngest lad who scared crows. Snares were set for rabbits and hares, geese and ducks and chickens had their necks wrung, hams were cured, an ox set up for roasting, sheep slaughtered. In the dairy, cheeses ripened, butter was stacked. Syllabub would be made fresh in the milking-pails, jellies were set in fanciful moulds, cheesecakes and fruit tarts and custards piled in tiers on the larder shelves. The new ice-house, which stood behind the farm like a giant beehive, was filled from floor to ceiling, and they thanked God for it.
The ironmaster graciously sent up two cases of fine foreign wines. From Kit’s Hill cellar came casks of home-brewed beer, strong and mellow. From Thornton House came bottles of home-made wine: damson, elderflower, cowslip and blackberry. But with the wedding list now reaching enormous proportions, and the Scholes’s party overflowing The Royal George, Ned arranged for The Woolpack in Garth to remain open from morning to evening of the day at his own expense, so that this giant thirst might be truly slaked.
For four days both households baked bread and stored it. For the whole of one day Sally Sidebottom hand-raised, baked and glazed a tableful of meat pies: each one a work of country art, crowned by a brown shining wreath of pastry fruit and leaves, and wine jelly poured into the centre-hole by means of a narrow-spouted jug, and left to set.
Garth, always pinched by poverty, now ground by starvation, looked to Kit’s Hill for invitations to fill their bellies with food and their mouths with loud rejoicing. Lord Kersall, condescending to wealth and industry, invited himself to a supper-party with the ironmaster at The Royal George the evening before the wedding, and brought with him a most handsome set of silver cutlery, but declined an invitation to the feast. While the ladies of Millbridge, who had been so difficult to please during William’s long and curious engagement, were now wholly devoid of criticism in their anxiety to attend the most interesting union Wyndendale had beheld in years.
On the last Wednesday in April 1795 both households were astir by five o’clock in the morning, though the bride stayed abed until seven. Tom the carter took his breakfast of ale and bread and cheese with him, drove the big wagon into Millbridge to collect the last of Sally’s contributions, and helped to unload. A host of voluntary servants was busy about the house and barn at Kit’s Hill, setting up tables and laying them. Cutlery and china had been borrowed from every farm on the fells. Linen cupboards stood empty. Garlands of flowers hung from ceilings and graced trestles. Wicker baskets stood at intervals by the walls, filled with bread and bottles of wine.
Here was Ned in his best blue suit, looking uncomfortably splendid; and Dorcas in gold brocade with blond lace on her silk hat; and Dick a young edition of his father and twice as uncomfortable, but the handsomest bachelor in Garth; and all the servants in new clothes. Caleb and William had not arrived back until the early hours, and were sleeping off the effects of a lavish drinking session. There had been some difficulty over the duty of giving away the bride, since the ironmaster was forbidden to do any such thing, and young Caleb was acting as groom’s man. But Dorcas suggested Ned, who offered no objection, so that was settled. Indeed, Dorcas thought, looking at their preparations with considerable satisfaction, anything could be settled if one used common sense. Though she had found that sense to be rarer than its name supposed.
‘Well, it’s no good standing round doing nowt,’ said Ned, tapping the long clock in the parlour. ‘Let’s broach one of them casks of beer and see how it’s kept!’
*
At Thornton House they were all in tears. Catherine had come over to dress her daughter for the wedding, which accounted for her state of emotion. Then William had sent a child’s basket of primroses to Zelah, with a lover’s note tucked in their heart, which set the bride weeping. Charlotte felt the contrast between this family festival and her own hurried and meagre nuptials, and Phoebe cried because she had never been married at all.
They were saved by the appearance of Ironmaster Scholes, gold time-piece in hand, to announce that the hour was well advanced and they would be late if they did not dry their eyes at once. So the stately progress from Millbridge began, with folk standing on the pavements and peeping from windows, waving handkerchiefs and calling good wishes, as the line of carriages rolled down the High Street-promptly on the stroke of nine. First came the great Caleb Scholes, with Catherine and their three youngest children, and the giant bride-cake baked at Somer Court having a seat to itself. Then their married children and elder grand-children, an aunt or two of liberal mind and pe
rsuasion, and a sprinkling of close cousins: all soberly but elegantly dressed, plain and expensive as became their state in life.
*
At Belbrook William and Caleb’s chief workmen climbed into Tom’s big wagon, while their lesser fellows marched two or three abreast down the road to Garth, to watch the ceremony and hang upon the outskirts of the feast, until plenty itself bade them join in.
Garth was garlanded from steeple to cow-shed, and as the first guests drove into the village they were cheered by a contingent of hopeful children. Gravely bowed the ironmaster, courteous to all, rich or poor. And Joe Eccles the blacksmith, who was to fire the anvil when bride and groom left the church, was so overcome by the grandeur of the occasion that he let fall his hammer too soon, and the discharge of gunpowder made the horses start. The Scholeses had been advised to leave their carriages below, since Garth Lane was never meant for fine transport. Fortunately the weather was holding, so the entire party mounted by foot to Kit’s Hill in the most splendid crowd imaginable, and all smiling and talking — as Jacob Burscough remarked — ‘Just like other folk do!’
A little flurry rose in Dorcas’s heart as they met, but in Catherine she recognised the friend of her long correspondence, and both ladies succumbed to the second weep of the day. While Ned, who treated everyone alike, whether king or commoner, offered the ironmaster a mug of beer, which was accepted.
An hour behind everyone else, so that the company might arrive at church together, came the bride’s carriage bringing Zelah, Charlotte, Phoebe and the two children. Agnes was too feeble to leave her bed, but Sally rode on the crupper of her father’s horse, and he set the gelding to a canter and overtook the bride’s party in no time. As Zelah approached Coldcote she heard the first peal of bells ring out from St John’s Church, and now the sun shone upon her as though Dorcas had ordered his presence at that precise moment. She lifted her face to the warmth and light, smiling.
