Every Mother's Son

by Val Wood

  ‘You’d need to read English too,’ Beatrice told him, ‘if you’re going to write articles for publication.’

  ‘You wouldn’t mek much money either,’ Daniel said practically. ‘Not at first. You’d still have to depend on your father’s support.’

  ‘I would, wouldn’t I,’ Charles agreed thoughtfully, ‘and as I’m the eldest son it would be up to me to safeguard the family fortunes.’

  Beatrice butted in. ‘It might be better to let Stephen do that if your heart isn’t in it.’

  Daniel stroked his pony’s neck. He and Charles had taken it in turns to ride the mare and the larger stallion, whilst Beatrice had ridden the smaller one, whom she had named White Socks; the mare was Mama, the other stallion Blaze. ‘I know what I’d like to do if money was plentiful,’ Daniel said. ‘I’d like to breed hosses. I love these Haflingers. Do you realize that they were bred not far from here? But although they wouldn’t be suitable for our flat countryside back home, there are hilly areas where they might be.’

  ‘They’re lovely animals, I agree,’ Beatrice said. ‘But we already have mountain ponies in England: the Welsh cob, the ponies in the New Forest and on Dartmoor and Exmoor.’

  ‘I know,’ he sighed. ‘It’s onny a dream.’

  The road to Genoa took them through steep alpine valleys into mossy tree-lined glens where they rested and camped, for the weather was good, and five days later they were approaching the outskirts of the great port. They rode in on busy roads packed with post-buses and carriages and carts bearing commercial goods and private passengers, and found accommodation with stabling in a lodging house; after a night’s sleep and a hearty breakfast they set off on foot to explore the city.

  They were thrilled and overawed by it, although Daniel wondered how he would ever find any information about the Orsini family, even if it was here to be found. The old town was built around the port and was a conglomeration of ancient buildings dating back many centuries, narrow twisting lanes leading into wide piazzas with market stalls, and one that took them into the larger medieval piazza dei Banchi, which was still a commercial and banking centre where men stood in doorways exchanging information.

  They judged that Genoa was a great trading centre as the port itself was crowded with shipping; they noticed also the many races, not only Italian but dark-eyed and dark-skinned North African and fair-haired Swiss and German. They heard French spoken too, though they didn’t hear any English voices.

  By midday they were flagging as the heat became intense; they looked for a place to eat and found somewhere suitable with tables outside overlooking the quay. They ordered food, Beatrice speaking in Swiss-German as she knew only a little Italian, and they were brought a dish of olives and bread and a jug of local wine.

  Daniel leaned against the back of his chair and gazed out at the ships. He put his face up to the sun. ‘This is the life, isn’t it? I was just thinking that Fletcher and Tom will be attending to ’lambing and calving and Lenny will be farrowing ’pigs, and here am I living a life o’ leisure.’

  He leaned forward again, putting his elbows on the table, then took a sip of wine, drawing in his cheeks at the rough dry taste. ‘How am I going to find out about ’Orsini family?’

  Charles folded his arms. ‘Well, do you recall when we were in Paris?’ He grinned. ‘Doesn’t that sound very cosmopolitan?’ he said, and Daniel and Beatrice agreed that it did. ‘Well, we wanted somewhere to stay and we asked in the café and – what was his name …’

  ‘François,’ Daniel said, ‘and he spoke English. Are you suggesting that we ask this waiter?’

  ‘Well, why not? If he speaks English.’

  ‘Yes, we could,’ Beatrice said. ‘I’ll ask him when he comes back with our meal.’ She took off her hat and put her face to the sun for a moment, enjoying the warmth.

  Another waiter brought the food she had ordered, a course of pasta with pesto sauce followed by a fish dish with prawns and fat ripe tomatoes. Presumably his colleague had told him that Beatrice was German; he spoke to her in that language, warning her against getting burned.

  ‘Danke schön,’ she replied. ‘Bitte – sprechen Sie englisch?’

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘A leetle,’ he said in a strong Italian accent. ‘I ’ave not much chance to speak wiz ze English.’

  Beatrice smiled and Daniel could see that the waiter was charmed by her. ‘We were wondering if you know whether any of the Orsini family live in this district?’

  The waiter looked astonished, then laughed. ‘You know they were ze most noble family in Italy? They lived in Roma. Popes, cardinals, noblemen. I learn ’istory in school. Not all were good men. They like ze power.’

  ‘Oh!’ Beatrice looked at Daniel.

  He sighed. ‘Young George was right. He said we should go to Rome.’

  ‘I think ze family is gone long long time ago.’ The waiter shrugged expressively. ‘But, I ’ear the name sometimes.’ He broke off to shout ‘Federico!’ to a colleague, an older man, maybe the owner, and called out a question to him. Federico came over and the waiter asked him something they couldn’t understand.

  Their waiter looked them over. ‘Inglese?’ His eyes lit on Daniel. ‘Italiano?’

  Daniel shook his head. ‘English.’

  Federico spoke rapidly to their waiter, who said, ‘Federico say that sometimes an Inglese he come ’ere. He may know.’

  ‘Long odds, I’d say,’ Charles murmured. Beatrice agreed. ‘Bare improbability, but,’ she added, ‘a chance.’

  ‘Why would an Englishman know about an Italian family?’ Daniel frowned.

  Federico spoke again to the waiter, who told them, ‘Federico, ’e say this Englishman ’as lived in Genoa a long time. He may know who to ask. If ’e come, ’e come on a Friday.’

  ‘We could ask, I suppose,’ Daniel said gloomily. ‘If he doesn’t know, then it’s a dead end. Rome’s too far for us to go.’

  They finished their meal, paid the bill and left the table to walk back to the lodging house. Beatrice paused and said, ‘So what day is it today?’

  They had lost track of the days, but Charles said, ‘I think it might be Friday.’

  ‘So, shall we go back and wait?’ Beatrice asked. ‘We’ve come all this way, Daniel.’ She looked at him anxiously, as if she guessed that he was feeling downcast. ‘We can’t give up at the first hurdle.’

  ‘Mebbe later then,’ he said. ‘Mebbe tonight when it’s cooler.’

  They had gone only a few yards and were standing by the waterfront looking at the ships when they heard someone whistle. They ignored it, but then someone shouted ‘Inglese!’ and they looked back towards the café. Their waiter stood with his arm held up, beckoning to them.

  ‘We did pay, didn’t we?’ Daniel asked.

  ‘We did,’ Beatrice was watching the waiter. ‘But he wants us to go back.’

  ‘The Inglese, he come now, we see ’im,’ the waiter called, and pointed down the waterfront.

  Federico stood inside the café doorway with his arms folded across his chest, looking in the same direction. A man of medium build wearing a straw Panama and a cream jacket and trousers was walking towards the café talking to another man, who by his clothing of wide trousers, blue shirt and a dark navy cap looked as if he might be off a ship. They shook hands, saying ‘Grazie’ and ‘Arrivederci’ before separating.

  ‘Milo!’ Federico called out. ‘Potete aiutarmi, per favore?’

  ‘Can you help, please,’ Beatrice translated and Daniel glanced at her admiringly.

  The man threaded his way between the tables outside to the café door. He and the owner shook hands and greeted one another.

  Then followed a short conversation too fast for Beatrice to understand, but they all heard the words ‘la famiglia Orsini’. Both men looked towards them.

  ‘I think Federico’s saying that we’re asking about the Orsini family,’ Beatrice explained. Daniel and Charles nodded, as that’s what they had gathered too. ‘He’s
coming over,’ she said softly. ‘He doesn’t look English, does he?’

  ‘Neither does Daniel,’ Charles commented.

  Milo lifted his hat, showing hair more grey than dark, and gave a short bow to Beatrice, murmuring, ‘Signorina.’ He turned to Daniel and Charles. ‘Buongiorno.’ Then, in English with a trace of an Italian accent, he said, ‘Good day to you. How may I assist you?’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Anger had been eating away at Fletcher since the day he’d argued with his mother and he barely slept at night, tossing about in bed and keeping Harriet awake too. He had told her what had happened and she understood his feelings, but after three sleepless nights she had had enough.

  ‘This is no good, Fletcher,’ she told him on the morning of the fourth day. ‘You’ll have to go back and have it out with her. Tell her that even if you believed what she’s saying about Christopher Hart, you wouldn’t do anything about it. You’re never going to settle if you don’t.’

  ‘I know,’ he sighed. ‘But I could do without this. We’re in ’middle o’ lambing and we’re a man short wi’ Daniel away—’

  ‘If Daniel had been here, you’d still find a reason not to go,’ she said gently. ‘But you must, once and for all; I’d offer to come with you but she wouldn’t have me in ’house.’

  ‘And that’s another thing!’ His voice rose and she hushed him in case the family should hear; she’d heard Maria and then Lenny go down and that meant Joseph and Elizabeth would be awake too. ‘I won’t have her saying things about you. If it came to choosing—’

  ‘Hush,’ she said. ‘It won’t come to that. But you must go and see her, Fletcher. Do your morning jobs and then go.’

  *

  Harriet was preparing vegetables for the midday meal. Fletcher had gone again to see his mother, Elizabeth and Joseph were at school and Maria and Lenny were busy elsewhere so she had the house to herself. Like Fletcher, she had his mother on her mind and was trying to think of a solution. How pleased I am to have someone like Rosie in my life, she thought. She’s the way my mother was, no grudges or ill-will towards anybody, unlike Ellen, who if she did but know it is ’onny one who can be blamed for her own unhappiness.

  There was a timid knock on the door and she took a cloth to dry her hands before opening it.

  ‘I’m sorry, Harriet,’ Melissa Hart faltered, looking distressed.

  ‘Please come in, ma’am,’ Harriet said. ‘I’m on my own; there’s no one else here.’ Automatically she swung the kettle over the fire. She saw that Melissa was trembling as if she were cold, although it was a beautiful sunny day. ‘Come and sit by ’fire.’

  ‘You know why I’ve come?’ Melissa said.

  ‘I can guess. Tea or coffee, ma’am?’

  ‘Oh, erm, tea please. Weak, no milk. I’m so sorry,’ she said again, sitting down. ‘Your husband must be very angry, and shocked by the news?’

  ‘With his mother, yes. But he’s known for years. She told him even before we were wed. But we don’t understand why she should tell your husband now. I suppose she has told him? She told Fletcher she was going to.’

  Melissa sipped the tea that Harriet had placed on a small table beside her chair. ‘She sent a message by the bailiff that she needed to see Christopher about a personal matter.’ She took a deep shuddering breath. ‘He’s been so busy that he only went yesterday, and – and she confronted him.’ She lifted her head and looked at Harriet. ‘I’ve tried to be strong, but today – today I feel so weak and helpless. I – I persuaded Christopher to go back and see her. He was so shocked when he came home that it made him quite ill, but I said he must go back and ask just what Mrs Tuke wants from him. Your husband is not the kind of man who – who …’

  ‘Wants anything from your family,’ Harriet finished for her, and sat down opposite her. ‘No, he doesn’t. Never has done, and you needn’t worry that we’ll shout it from ’house tops. If we’d wanted to do that we’d have done it years ago.’ She considered for a moment, and then said, ‘But truth to tell, if Ellen thinks that she’s kept a great secret all these years, I think she’ll find that she hasn’t. Folks round about have always had suspicions that Nathaniel Tuke wasn’t Fletcher’s father.’

  They both sat silently for a moment, then Harriet asked, ‘So when will Mr Hart visit her again?’

  ‘Oh, he’s gone this morning. That’s why I came. I couldn’t bear the waiting and I wanted to speak to you. I think it is up to us, the mothers of our children, my sons and your daughters, to make sure that they are safe and that they understand.’

  ‘I’ve explained to Maria already,’ Harriet said. ‘I was mostly concerned about her.’ She put her hand to her mouth. ‘Your husband will be there now?’

  Melissa nodded. ‘Yes. I said he should get it over with.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Harriet agreed. ‘That’s what I told Fletcher. He’ll be there too.’

  Fletcher’s senses were in turmoil as he pulled the trap to a halt at the end of the lane, jumped down and tied the horse securely. He didn’t want to fall out with his mother, but neither did he want any more aggravation from her. All our lives, he thought, mine and Noah’s, we had to tread carefully so that we didn’t say or do anything to upset her or Da. At least, I did; I don’t think Noah was bothered and now we know why. Poor lad, he was unwanted right from ’off. Little wonder he turned out to be so belligerent.

  There was a cool breeze down by the Haven and he shivered, though not so much because of the chill as because he was worried about the forthcoming battle of wills. He was almost at the cottage when he heard his name being called, and turned to see Christopher Hart walking towards him. Christopher lifted his hand and called in a croaky voice, ‘Wait, please!’

  Fletcher walked slowly back to meet him. He was not confrontational and had no wish to get into an argument with the man his mother insisted was his father. He wondered if Hart already knew what she was claiming, or if this was his first visit since she had decided to break her long silence.

  Christopher was breathing heavily and his face was grey.

  ‘Are you all right, sir?’ Fletcher asked.

  Christopher shook his head. ‘No,’ he panted, ‘not really. This – business with your mother has distressed me; I can’t believe – still, if she says it’s true, then …’ He took another breath. ‘Then I suppose it must be. Why would she lie? But on the other hand, why has she waited so long to speak of it? If I’d known before … then I would have supported her in her difficulty.’

  I believe he would, Fletcher thought. He couldn’t have married her, but he might have provided for her and the child – me. But that wouldn’t have been enough for my mother; she would still have wanted him to acknowledge that I was his son, and would Nathaniel Tuke have married her if he’d known ’truth? No, he thought, remembering the ill-tempered man he had assumed was his father, he wouldn’t.

  Christopher Hart gazed at him through bloodshot eyes. He looked drained, as if he hadn’t slept either. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said. ‘So very sorry.’

  Fletcher put out his hand and patted Christopher’s arm. ‘It’s not ’end of ’world,’ he said mildly. ‘Life is a tangled web sometimes.’

  Christopher nodded. ‘O what a tangled web we weave …’ he quoted, then sadly shook his head. ‘I never thought that it might apply to me.’

  ‘It doesn’t, sir,’ Fletcher assured him. ‘Not to you, if it’s true that you didn’t know or weren’t aware of it. But there could be implications for our children if we’re not careful.’

  Christopher frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Now’s not the time. Let’s go together to see my mother and let her know that we have an understanding, and the understanding is that no matter what she says I expect nothing from you, no inheritance, no apology. My accidental birth has no bearing on the lives we lead now.’ Fletcher kept his hand on Hart’s arm as they walked towards the cottage; he seemed so shaky that Fletcher feared he might collapse. He’s not
a young man, he thought. He’s as old as my mother and this has brought him to ’verge of collapse. I’ll have to keep ’peace between them. Like a dutiful son, he thought wryly. Just like I did when I was a lad living at Marsh Farm.

  The first thing Fletcher noticed was that the cottage door was open and swinging gently on its hinges. He frowned; it wasn’t like his mother to keep the door open. He pushed it wider. ‘Ma?’ he said, and then saw her lying on the rug in front of a dead fire. He rushed inside and Christopher followed more slowly, not having seen Ellen lying on the floor until Fletcher bent over her.

  ‘Oh, great heavens,’ he said. ‘What’s happened? She’s not—’

  ‘She’s still breathing.’ Fletcher had his ear to his mother’s chest. ‘She’s soaked through and covered in mud; her skin is cold. Can you move ’blanket off ’bed and I’ll lift her on to it.’

  Christopher did as he was bid. Fletcher picked Ellen up easily and thought how thin and bony she was. He put her on the bed, took off her boots and stockings and covered her with the blanket. He put his hands to his head. ‘I’ll have to fetch a doctor,’ he faltered. ‘Will you stop with her?’

  ‘I’ll go,’ Christopher said quickly. ‘My driver brought me; my wife insisted. The carriage is in the lane and our doctor lives in Brough. It will take no more than ten or fifteen minutes. Pray God he’s in.’

  Fletcher nodded. ‘Please, if you will. Tell him to hurry. I’ll get ’fire going – it’s cold in here and we’ll need hot water.’ He had in mind to fill the stone water bottle that his mother always used to warm her bed. But Christopher was already on his way out of the door, galvanized into action whereas previously he had seemed weak and vulnerable.

  There was kindling in the hearth and Fletcher placed it on top of the ash and looked on the mantelpiece for matches. He found them and with trembling hands struck one, but it blew out immediately and he looked about him for scraps of paper, which he found in the coal scuttle and pushed beneath the kindling before striking another match.

  This time the flame held, the twigs took hold and he carefully added more, whilst still keeping an eye on the bed. He heard a low moan and jumped to his feet. ‘Ma, it’s me. I’ve sent for ’doctor. You’re not well. What happened? Did you fall in ’water?’