The Iron Master

by Jean Stubbs

  ‘I would advise you to leave him in the hall, Mrs Longe,’ Jack Ackroyd continued, ‘until you know what is the matter with him. If it is cholera or typhus or smallpox we are at risk in any event, but we need not spread it all over the house.’

  ‘I wish my mother were here,’ said Charlotte. ‘She would know what to do.’

  ‘You have done well enough,’ said Jack, which was high praise from him.

  He lifted Judd’s eyelid and felt his pulse, turned over his hands and looked compassionately at them.

  ‘He has worked hard all his life,’ he said quietly, ‘and they grudge him a death.’

  ‘Why, what have we here?’ said the dry voice of Matthew Standish. ‘They tell me you are fetching vagabonds from the hedgerows, Mrs Longe! Well, you will find plenty of employment. Let me see him, if you please.’

  He examined the man carefully, nostrils distended, for Judd stank. Then called for a basin of warm water and a towel.

  ‘He has been dying these many months,’ said Dr Standish, washing his hands thoughtfully, ‘and will not be long over it, You need fear nothing for yourselves, apart from his body and head vermin. His sickness is his own.’

  ‘His sickness is a social one!’ said Jack Ackroyd savagely, of the emaciated creature.

  ‘That too,’ said Matthew Standish coolly, ‘and he is not the only one to suffer it!’

  ‘Is there anything we can do for him?’ Charlotte asked.

  ‘You could clean him, Mrs Longe, and keep him warm. Give him tea and slops if he asks for nourishment. No more. But I warn you that if this story is bruited about you shall have every beggar in Christendom knocking on your door! Let me take him to the hospital. There we can make his last hours comfortable, and his corpse will serve medical purposes, thus saving you innumerable complications.’

  ‘No, I thank you, sir,’ said Charlotte slowly. ‘I should feel I had in some manner betrayed him.’

  ‘Pure sentimentality,’ said Standish, ‘but I shall not dispute the matter with you. No, no, ma’am,’ waving away his fee. ‘If you must be so foolish I shall not charge you for it — unless it becomes a habit!’

  Simeon Judd opened his eyes, though they saw nothing. Took three quiet breaths. Was gone from them.

  His onlookers formed a tableau for a few moments: Polly holding the basin, Sally with her apron to her mouth, Charlotte clasping her hands and Ambrose standing protectively by her, Jack Ackroyd about to speak, the doctor in the act of putting on his hat. Then they all bent over Simeon Judd.

  ‘His sorrows are done,’ said Matthew Standish, and closed the empty eyes.

  ‘Mrs Longe,’ said Jack Ackroyd, too loudly in the quiet hall, ‘I shall look to the arrangements for you, and with your permission will pay for the funeral myself.’

  ‘Another sentimentalist!’ the doctor remarked, covering the empty face.

  ‘Someone should settle the debt,’ said Jack, taking it upon himself.

  ‘I commend your good heart,’ said Matthew Standish cheerfully, ‘and hope it does not lead you into too much expense! Mrs Longe, you would oblige me by lying down until suppertime. You have sustained an emotional shock, and I do not wish to be fetched back here in half an hour for a fit of hysterics. Polly, will you see to your mistress?’

  ‘Yes, Dr Sandwich,’ Polly replied, curtseying.

  ‘Then good-day to you all!’

  And the doctor departed, as lean and trim as any youngster, only his rheumatism conceding his sixty years.

  It was the first time Jack Ackroyd had been in Thornton House since that disastrous visit twelve months previously, and he was anxious not to commit the same errors.

  ‘You will, please, rest as the doctor recommends, Mrs Longe,’ he said awkwardly. ‘I shall have this poor fellow removed at once. Perhaps Ambrose would take a message for me — if you would allow him to do so.’

  ‘You are more than kind, sir,’ said Charlotte, striving to put him at his ease. ‘Ambrose, you will be pleased to help Mr Ackroyd, will you not? Sally, will you see that Miss Jarrett and Cicely are kept in the parlour until Mr Ackroyd has seen to the arrangements.’

  She paused at the foot of the stairs, looked down at the pitiful body, looked up into Jack Ackroyd’s face. The same compassion was in his countenance, the same anger in his voice, the same resolution in his bearing, as in her own. She had found him and herself as she knelt on the muddy cobbles beside Simeon Judd. Someone should settle the debt, he had said, and he was right. Today, she had thanked those strangers who picked up Toby’s body from the fatal doorway, carried it to a strange house, paid for and attended his funeral in a strange grave in a Paris cemetery. But she could not say all this, though she needed to explain.

  So she only said, ‘Once, he belonged to somebody.’

  *

  The scandal was mouthed down the valley as far as Kit’s Hill. Dorcas penned approval, though Charlotte felt that her mother would somehow have managed the matter without recourse to the drama. But Ned had written at the end of the elegant script, in his round, self-taught hand, ‘Well done, lass!’ Caleb extolled her action. Zelah accepted it as right and merciful. William, with that mixture of admiration and mockery brothers reserve for well-loved sisters, dubbed her ‘the family heroine’. And Millbridge turned its corseted back on her.

  The following Tuesday afternoon Charlotte made ready for social battle and was disappointed of it. For two hours she sat in her parlour while Ambrose composed his weekly newspaper, Cicely sewed her sampler, and Phoebe quarrelled with the absent Mrs Graham in whispers. None of them commented upon the lack of callers, but all of them knew the reason why.

  When Polly entered with the usual tea-tray Phoebe rose in dignity.

  ‘I refuse to stay in the same room with Beelzebub’s mistress!’ she announced, and swept out, head high.

  ‘Stay where you are, Cissie,’ said Charlotte, as the little girl stood up, sewing in hand. ‘You can see Aunt Phoebe after tea.’ Polly jerked her head towards the door, and winked.

  ‘Miss Jorrocks ain’t right, up here, if you ask me,’ she said, pointing to her forehead. ‘You oughter get Dr Sandwich to have a look at her, ma’am.’

  ‘Miss Jorrocks,’ said Ambrose, with Toby’s glint of humour, ‘is barmy. She thinks there is a man hiding under her bed. Tell Dr Sandwich that, if you please!’

  ‘Ambrose!’ Charlotte warned terribly.

  ‘My dear Mamma,’ he replied, ‘I always take my tea in the kitchen of a Tuesday. Can I not have it here with you for once?’

  ‘She does, Mamma,’ said Cicely, ‘for she always asks me to look under the bed when I am in her room.’

  ‘She comes to my room in the middle of the night sometimes,’ said Ambrose, very matter-of-fact, ‘and says she has escaped him, and will I call the constable — though what old Letherbrains would do I cannot imagine!’

  Charlotte set down the silver teapot, feeling chilled.

  ‘Oh my dear children,’ she said, ‘why did not tell me before?’

  ‘It was but Aunt Phoebe’s fancy,’ Cicely replied. ‘If I had seen a man I should have told you, Mamma.’

  ‘But in the night, Ambrose, when you are asleep? What do you do?’

  ‘I take her back to her room,’ said Ambrose, smiling, ‘and peep behind the curtains, and shout — very softly, so’s not to wake anyone! — “Be off with you, you villain!” And then Aunt Phoebe climbs into bed and goes to sleep again.’

  ‘I do not know whether to laugh or cry,’ said Charlotte, on the verge of both.

  ‘You fetch Dr Sandwich to her, ma’am,’ Polly advised, and added in exactly the same tone, ‘and try them Bakewell tarts. Sally had the recipe off Miss Whitebread’s cook.’

  Then the front-door knocker astonished them all. Polly ran. They conjectured which of the faithful had been faithful. They listened.

  ‘It is our good friend Mr Awkright,’ said Ambrose, grinning. ‘I can hear them arguing about the disposition of his hat. Well, he will be the only frie
nd we have if Mamma persists in her scandalous behaviour!’

  ‘You will take your tea in the kitchen, Ambrose!’ Charlotte was crying as Jack Ackroyd walked in, carrying his hat.

  ‘Mrs Longe,’ he said, without preamble, ‘your son is too old for petticoat government. You should enter him at the Grammar School. Aye, and upon a weekly basis, so that you do not amend our discipline daily!’

  ‘Is that what you have called to say, sir?’ cried Charlotte, thoroughly out of temper.

  ‘Do let me have your hat, Mr Awkright,’ said Polly, placating. ‘And you come along of me, Master Ambrose. I told you how it would be if you didn’t hold your blessed tongue!’

  Cicely sat timidly upon her stool, not knowing what she should do among these dashing people.

  Then, visibly, Jack Ackroyd began to correct their first impression of him.

  ‘Wait a moment,’ he said, and put his hand to his forehead as though he had forgotten something. ‘Here, Polly. Here is my hat. I forget these trifles. Mrs Longe, I should like the pleasure of some conversation with you on a private matter — but after tea, if you please. And could the children stay awhile, for part of the matter concerns Ambrose? Pray sit down, miss, and do your needlework. I don’t bite, you know!’ And as she looked even more alarmed he asked gently, ‘What is your name, little miss? Cicely?’ Catching the whisper. ‘Well, sit you down, Cicely. I know so few small girls that you must teach me how to behave towards them. Is this your needlework?’ Holding it up the wrong way. ‘Well, it looks very neat indeed — though I am no judge of such matters. But I am sure you will not frighten me, and turn me out of the house, as your mother does, will you, Cicely?’

  At this notion, which had a grain of truth in it, both children laughed aloud, and glanced slyly at Charlotte to see how she would take such splendid humour.

  ‘Polly, fetch more cakes, if you please,’ said Charlotte, smiling. ‘Mr Ackroyd will take tea with us.’

  ‘I shall sit by you, Cicely,’ said Jack Ackroyd, genuinely relieved. ‘You will not scold me!’

  She saw at once that he was another child, a damaged child, and no longer felt afraid of him.

  ‘Pray sit in Aunt Phoebe’s chair, sir,’ said Cicely kindly, ‘and I shall fetch you the nicest cakes. You must not be frightened of Mamma. If you behave well she is very nice indeed.’

  Ambrose said seriously, ‘I should like to go to grammar school, sir. Here is my weekly newspaper. My grandmama says I am cleverer even than Uncle William was — though she is partial, of course! Pray keep my Gazette, sir, if you wish. I have a number of copies. I find The Wyndendale Post somewhat stuffy, and of a high Tory persuasion!’

  ‘And how do you like your tea, Mr Ackroyd?’ Charlotte asked ironically. ‘very sweet?’

  He met her eyes, under the children’s protection.

  ‘Aye, madam. For I need sweetening. I am aware of my defects.’

  Before such humility she was robbed of her weapons.

  Softened by tea and conversation, he no longer looked formidable. His thin face was defenceless without its frown, his grey eyes gentle. He was turning over her ideas in his mind, giving them full consideration. The short silences between them did not clamour to be broken. They sat quietly together before the fire, as they had done these two hours past.

  Then he said, ‘I have never spoke with a radical woman, Mrs Longe. For that is what I take to be the trend of your argument. Indeed, I have never before heard any woman speak to such effect — but then, I was an admirer of your prose long ere this. I fear my opinion of women has been much akin to that of Ralph Fairbarrow — how did you put it? “He thinks we are puppets, fools and breeders”? Well, you are scarcely representative of your sex, Mrs Longe, for most of them match that description! Grant us that excuse, at least!’

  ‘I grant you that excuse, sir,’ said Charlotte, animated, her cheeks flushed by fire and argument, ‘but I would never grant it to Mr Fairbarrow. For though he was never part of our London circle — nor of any circle that I knew off — he moved freely among us, and met with women who would put me to shame for intellect, achievement and discussion. But he does not like us at all. He is afraid of us, dreams us into tyrants who must be put down. When we show skill or courage or integrity in his own field he is lost, for his narrow creed does not allow of our virtues. He dismissed my friend Mary Wollstonecraft as being an idiot in love and a vixen in temper. Well, I grant you she has not been wise in her loves — if wise we can be! — but her affections are deep and true. And if she grow angry in debate, sir, have we women not cause for anger, and is she not our representative? When the fox mauls, shall not the vixen scratch? But no, he will not consider that. Like a picker in a rag-bag he cries, “Oh, this piece will not match, and that piece is an ugly colour!” and so casts all away. No, sir, it is easier for men to keep us for their private purposes, and give the better part of themselves to their friends and the world. And, sir’ — holding up her hand as he seemed about to speak — ‘men are not our only, nor yet our worst enemies! Women themselves clutch the chains that bind them, nay even forge the links. Such mouthers of cant and convention as form the bulk of my tea-parties are enemies of women — and why I entertain them,’ she said suddenly, aware of her words, ‘I cannot imagine!’

  Jack Ackroyd burst out laughing and slapped his knees, delighted.

  Polly, knocking on the door as she pushed it open (for she had never learned to knock and wait a moment before entering) was amazed to hear him. In fact, seeing that they sat together like old friends, she resolved to mend her ways in the future lest she might sometime embarrass them.

  ‘Hem! Mrs Longe, ma’am,’ said Polly loudly, as though they were both deaf. ‘Sally wants to know if Mr Awkright is staying for his supper. Because if he is she’d beg to let you know as she warn’t told early enough. And there’s only hashed mutton from the Sunday joint, and cold bread-and-butter pudding from yesterday, else the cakes left at tea-time. But if you’d wait a bit she’ll think of summat else, and shall she do that instead, ma’am?’

  ‘Mr Ackroyd,’ said Charlotte, lit by laughter, ‘you are being introduced to the less formal end of our housekeeping, I fear, but if you care to join us you are very welcome. Polly can fetch a bottle of claret from the cellar, to enhance the mutton!’

  ‘Nay, stand on no ceremony with me, madam. I cannot abide your genteel supper-parties. Hashed mutton and bread pudding will do very well for me, I thank you. As to the wine — well, if you would drink with me, there is nothing I like better than an occasional glass of claret.’

  Conspirators

  Seventeen

  January 1978

  They had tiptoed about the house all day while Charlotte sat in solitary grief. It was that wretched time of year, when Christmas is over and spring is nowhere near arriving, and this as much as death in the house had depressed its mistress. For Polly voiced their opinions very well.

  ‘It warn’t the wet beds, and the running up and down stairs, with Miss Jorrocks, but the downright badness of her at the end. For she’d soil her nightgown a-purpose, just when I’d put it clean on. And I’ve seen her throw a dish to the floor, just on account of it being the pudding she hadn’t called for. As for the language — well, my old father were a blessed saint in heaven compared to her. Where she learned it from I’ll never know!’

  Yes, Phoebe had gone out in great style, reduced to the naughty child she had never until then been able to indulge. Dorcas, saddened by the change in her old friend, had even braved Ned’s admonitions to attend on her; while Charlotte went through agonies of embarrassment as Dr Standish listened to the ravings of a foolish virgin.

  ‘I feel,’ said Charlotte, after one session, ‘that I do her an injury by calling you in. I had not realised she feared men so much. You understand, of course, that I speak not of you but of any man, Dr Standish?’

  ‘My dear Mrs Longe,’ he replied, with his thin smile, ‘your feelings are most praiseworthy, most delicate. But your diagnosis of
the case — which is senile dementia — appears to be at fault. These are not the hallucinations of morbid terror, madam, but of raging desire! She does not fear my sex. She has been most cruelly deprived of it!’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Charlotte faintly, and kept that information to herself.

  At last the ravisher under the bed, and behind the curtains, came forth in the shape of death and claimed his victim. All this they concealed, and her burial was demure and proper. They laid her with her father and mother, And Phoebe, devoted and beloved daughter of the Above, and prayed that the Almighty would overlook this last antic revel, in view of the patient years before. Left her to heaven, as it were, and came home relieved and ashamed.

  Then, within the week, Agnes had followed her, and in such a different manner that the entire household was red-eyed and subdued. Though feeble and bedridden, the aged housekeeper had contrived to play a part in the household almost to the last. Propped up on the pillows, she would darn and mend the linen finely, with the aid of her spectacles and a good wax candle to enable her to see clearly. Cicely had been invaluable to both patients, and there was something extraordinary in the way the child comprehended derangement and death. A voice raised in anger, a door slammed, would make her jump. But the harrowing sights and sounds of terminal illness left her unmoved, except for the sympathy with which she would anticipate a need or want.

  Whereas Phoebe had rushed towards death in sublime ignorance, garrulous to the last, Agnes approached oblivion in an orderly manner. On her final day she had asked to see Sally, and apparently interrogated her clearly and minutely as to the condition of cupboards and drawers: ending with a brief but practical homily on the virtues of spring-cleaning early. Then, perfectly composed, she had asked if Charlotte could spare her a few moments. She wished to hand over to her god-daughter the contents of a woollen stocking, in which she had collected her life’s savings; and to leave a message for Dorcas. She thanked Dorcas for inviting her to become Charlotte’s godmother: an honour of which she had always been proud. Then, perhaps a little blurred by this time, though quite coherent, she put Charlotte through her religious catechism — a feat which that lady afterwards recalled with some misgivings — and so partook of a glass of mulled wine and a slice of toast, and said she would sleep.