The Girl From Poorhouse Lane

by Freda Lightfoot

  ‘Lucy, Lucy darling. Don’t shout at me, Beloved. It’s not my fault!’

  Something in the plaintive note of his voice, broke through her fury and touched her heart. ‘Oh my darling, of course it isn’t. How dreadful of me to take it out on you. How could I be so cruel?’

  And then she was on him like a bitch on heat, fastening her mouth to his, ripping the buttons on his trousers with frantic fingers in her urgency to get them undone, tugging at her own clothes as she did so. The nice silk waistcoat she’d recently bought for him made an ominous tearing sound as she yanked him on top of her, sending the rest of the china smashing to the ground. ‘Don’t worry about it, darling. It can be replaced,’ Lucy gasped. ‘Put your fingers here. Ooh, that’s lovely. No harder. Push, push, push!’ The next instant he was panting like a dog and taking her there and then on the dining room table, amongst the scattered remains of their dinner.

  Later, as they lay in bed, sated after repeating the procedure a time or two more, Charles realised that engaging as the evening had been and a great relief to divert Lucy with sex rather than have her berate him over the loss of the Sevres tureen, now he’d only added to his worries. As sure as eggs make fat little chickens, this evening’s work would cost him another mouth to feed, not to mention a fortune replacing broken china. He cleared his throat and tried again to explain their situation.

  ‘A little belt tightening is all that is required, my love, but not for long, I do assure you. Just until we are on our feet again, out on the straight, as you might say.’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand what you mean by “belt tightening”, or “out on the straight”. I never use such common expressions.’

  ‘Something will have to go, dearest. Cuts must be made. Perhaps you could let your French maid go for a start?’

  ‘Let her go where?’

  ‘Sack her, my darling.’

  Lucy looked utterly shocked. ‘I couldn’t possibly. Celeste is essential. Who would do my hair?’

  ‘I’m afraid I must insist, dear heart. And at least two of the housemaids must go too, and the renovations on the Lake House will have to wait a while longer.’ All too aware that her face was growing purple with the effort of self-restraint, he wagged a playful finger and rushed on before she had time to draw breath. ‘Once this difficult patch is over, you shall not only have a French maid but a butler too. How about that, my precious? Only the very best for my little duck, eh?’

  ‘A butler?’ Now this was something even the Cowpers didn’t have. ‘Oh, Charles, you are so good to me.’

  ‘Don’t I always do what is best for you, my sweetheart? I only want to make you happy. You aren’t going to punish little Charlie boy for being naughty and dipping his fingers in the family coffers and mucking things up for us, are you, dearest? You aren’t going to smack him too hard, are you, my love?’

  And since he looked so very contrite, his soft eyes so full of pleading, plump jowls quivering with such fear, Lucy sternly informed him that she most certainly was. Slipping from between the sheets, she went to the blanket box which stood at its foot, aware of him watching the soft bounce of her breast, the sway of her hip, every movement of her naked body as she pulled out the cane which lay buried beneath the soft blankets. ‘Charlie has been a very naughty boy, and he must be a brave little soldier and bend over for the teacher.’

  The following morning Lucy sat and glared at herself in her dressing mirror, hating the tired, bedraggled woman she saw framed in it. Although she adored the old rascal, he was still not entirely forgiven. How could he be so stupid as to get himself dismissed from the company? At least he should have made absolutely certain that whatever he’d done, couldn’t be traced back to him. Let Swainson be dismissed, not her darling Charles. She had come closer to meaning the smacks she’d given him last night, than ever before. Only her very real love for this pompous, over-ambitious, opinionated, fascinating man, and her belief that it was Eliot who was really to blame, had checked her.

  Lathering her face with cream, she began to smooth the fine lines of disappointment from the corners of her eyes, privately mourning how her once pretty mouth seemed to be forever turned down in a perpetual sulk these days, already showing signs of bitterness.

  And no wonder. This was not how life was meant to be.

  When she’d first married Charles Tyson, she’d been promised wealth and comfort, fine gowns and servants to wait upon her every need; a town house, naturally, and one in the country in which to entertain their many friends in style. Now, not only had Charles cut down on servants so that nothing was quite as clean or as warm as it should be, but he’d absolutely refused to allow her to refurbish or refurnish, even to have any new curtains at all, let alone Chinese silk.

  Once having taken possession of this drab Lakeland mansion, Lucy had dreamed of furnishing it in the French style, with elegant little couches, low tables and desks, a central chandelier perhaps in the drawing room, shaded in a soft pink, and a huge French window opening out on to a regal terrace which would overlook the lake. She’d planned to build a conservatory with marble busts, huge ferns and jardinières; plus establishing a library with bookshelves lining every wall and padded window seats for quiet contemplation. Instead, the rooms must remain dull and dark and dreary.

  And then there was the humiliation over the motor. Hadn’t she told all her friends and new neighbours how Charles was about to purchase a Renault or perhaps even a Daimler which would have put her in the very glass of fashion along with some of the best of twentieth century hostesses such as Lady Warwick and the Duchess of Sunderland. Lucy had even ordered an entire new wardrobe to accompany it, with all the essential dust protectors, furs, hats and veils in spotted net and fine silk. She would have looked quite splendid, a delightful chauffeuse.

  And look at them now: up to their ears in debt, the bank pressing for repayment of a loan, the mortgage payments crippling, and instead of the hoped for equal partnership, Charles had been turned out – dismissed – from his own company. The shame of it was appalling, degrading, utterly humiliating. Lucy fully intended, of course, to put it about that he’d left of his own free will, otherwise she might never be able to hold up her head again. But deep down, she wasn’t certain that everybody would believe this fiction.

  How she would ever manage to endure Christmas with that dreadful family, she shuddered to think. The whole thing would be a nightmare from start to finish. And she would certainly have a few words to say to that impossible brother of his.

  Her first Tyson family Christmas was a delight so far as Kate was concerned. Everyone was so happy over Callum’s full recovery that even the servants began to speak to her again. Mrs Petty herself invited Kate into her private quarters for a mince pie, piping hot, accompanied by a generous serving of cream and a large pot of tea. A fire blazed in the cast iron fireplace and on a polished desk close by stood the household account books, a pen holder and a photograph of a stern looking gentleman with one hand resting on his wife’s shoulder as she sat before him, a baby on her lap. Kate wondered if they could be Mrs Petty’s parents, finding it hard to imagine the stout housekeeper as that baby in the white broderie anglais gown.

  As the housekeeper poured the tea she cleared her throat, then the words came out in a rush. ‘That were a fine thing you did for Mrs Tyson, lass, sticking by her in her hour of need. I know you and me didn’t see eye to eye over this issue of the bairn, but I’d like you to know that happen I were a bit hasty in me judgement.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Petty. You don’t know how it warms me heart to hear you say so. I’d never give me babby away, if I hadn’t thought it was for his own good. It seems hard here, with all this plentiful food around, the Christmas goose and all those puddings ye’ve been making, to remember a time when I would gladly have eaten the shoes off me own feet, I was that hungry.’

  The housekeeper had the grace to pause in the act of lifting a mince pie to her open mouth, and look suitably shame-faced. ‘Aye w
ell, I come to realise that like. It’s easy to forget need, when yer not suffering from it theeself.’ She took a large bite of the pie and chewed on this thought for a while. ‘Truth to tell, I should understand more than most.’ She set it down again, brushed away a few crumbs, and glanced back over her plump shoulder as if to check they were not overheard, although since the door of the housekeeper’s room was firmly closed, it was unlikely. ‘I’ll trust thee not to let this go any further but I had a bairn of me own once. That were wrong side of t’blanket an’ all. Cut me parents up summat shocking, that did.’ And she gazed sadly upon the photograph of the solemn looking pair, and heaved a sigh. ‘He were adopted too, my boy, by a fishmonger and his wife. Not so fancy or as well placed as the Tyson’s, but better off than me, a young lass. I were nobbut fifteen at the time, and taken advantage of, if ye get me meaning. Anyroad, I weren’t so fortunate as you. I never saw my lad again.’

  Kate was deeply moved by the older woman’s willingness to share this secret with her, so decided not to correct the repeat of her misconception that Callum was illegitimate. ‘Oh, Mrs Petty, I’m so sorry to hear that. Tis a terrible thing to lose a child. At least I still get to care for Callum, to be with him every day. God alone knows how I’d manage if I ever lost that.’

  Having reached this amicable state of agreement between the two of them, Mrs Petty refilled their cups and offered Kate a second mince pie. ‘I don’t reckon you’ll have any more difficulties with the other servants in future. They’re all pleased as punch that the little chap is himself again. You’ll be joining us for Christmas dinner in the evening?’

  ‘If I’m invited.’

  ‘Aye, course you are. You’re one of us now, so put yer glad rags on. Happy Christmas, lass.’

  ‘Happy Christmas, Mrs Petty.’

  Christmas Day dawned clear and blue and bitterly cold, with a hoar frost sparkling on the grassy banks that sloped down to the River Kent. Breakfast was a jolly affair with bacon and kidneys, followed by church which gave Mrs Petty and her band of helpers in the kitchen an hour or two to rush around roasting, baking, stuffing the goose, making gravy and chestnut stuffing, and all manner of other festive tasks; a mixture of tears and hysterical giggling over unexpected disasters, such as when the trifle upturned in the larder, and the brandy sauce curdled. Fortunately, Mrs Petty always kept reserves of everything, and didn’t turn a hair. But it wasn’t surprising that the servants were beginning to flag with exhaustion. It had been all hands to the pump for weeks with all the shopping, cooking, baking and preparations to be made.

  With several family members staying for the entire holiday period, Christmas Eve had been spent in a whirl of bed making, airing of rooms, dusting, sweeping and polishing, not forgetting the laying of half a dozen bedroom fires. Fanny had at last allowed Kate to help her, and Callum toddled around with them, helping to put soap in dishes and hang lavender bags in wardrobes.

  The two aunts had arrived on Christmas Eve at four o’clock sharp, with their Gladstone bags and leather trunk, giving the impression they might be staying for a month rather than two weeks. Dressed in a black bombazine frock, leavened only by a cream fichu of lace at the throat, Aunt Vera looked even more stern than expected: short and square, with her straight dark hair clipped as neatly as the pruned privet hedge in her garden at home. Not that you could see much of it until after she had finished afternoon tea, which was the moment she removed her best black felt hat. She had at least agreed to take off the equally funereal overcoat which very nearly reached the toes of her button boots, handing it over to Fanny with lengthy instructions on where it should be placed and how it should be brushed. She had worn black ever since her father had died some thirty years before, and not even the festive season would make her change the habit.

  Cissie, younger by three years, was altogether more brightly attired in a ginger brown tweed skirt and a rather baggy green sweater, somewhat moth-eaten, with cuffs which looked as if someone or something had chewed on them, as perhaps they had, the culprit undoubtedly being one of her dogs, upon whom she doted as if they were children. She kept several pointers and wherever they went they caused pandemonium, always wanting to chase something, and preferably eat it. Fortunately, on this occasion, they’d all been left at their somewhat untidy home in Heversham, with ‘the girl’, who had also been left strict instructions to give the place ‘a good clean through’.

  ‘Are you quite sure this is wise?’ Vera said to Amelia as Callum was brought in for inspection.

  ‘Yes, Aunt Vera, I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life.’

  Cissie held out her arms in an ecstasy of longing. ‘Oh, may I hold him?’ But then seeing Vera’s frozen expression, dropped them again. ‘He looks such a dear.’

  Amelia chuckled. ‘He is indeed. An absolute darling who steals hearts wherever he goes, so do take him, Cissie, and I’m quite sure he’ll capture your heart too.’

  Cissie sat entranced with Callum on her knee while wreaths of holly and ivy were brought in from the garden and Amelia put swathes of it along the tops of pictures and wound about the banister rail. A large sprig of mistletoe was tied from the chandelier in the hall, ready to catch unwary visitors.

  And so, on Christmas morning, as they all trooped back in from church, kicking snow from their boots, pulling off gloves and blowing on cold fingers, Callum, who’d been thought too young to attend, ran to greet Amelia and she swung him up in her arms to give him a resounding kiss under the mistletoe. ‘Happy Christmas, darling boy.’

  ‘Kiss for Nursey,’ Callum said, and, laughing, Amelia gave Kate a peck on her cheek too. The next instant Eliot was looming over her too, smiling into her eyes.

  Kate thought her heart might stop if he actually touched her. She’d never felt quite the same about him since that moment when he’d held her close on the stairs, and tenderly mopped up her tears. He’d comforted her with such sensitivity that he’d captured her heart utterly. Today she could smell his cologne, all tangy and clean, and she felt suddenly plain and dull in her crisp, uniform dress, forgetting how proud she’d been to put it on not so many months ago. Grasping her gently by the shoulders he kissed her firmly on each cheek.

  Kate carried the imprint of that kiss with her for the rest of that day.

  Just before lunch, everyone was ushered into the small parlour where the Christmas tree, adorned with tinsel and tiny candles, and with a fairy perched high on the topmost branch, kept stately vigil over a pile of presents. Everyone laughed as the little boy excitedly set about opening each gift with increasing wonderment and delight. Aunt Vera didn’t even bother to preach about the greater good being found in giving rather than receiving. Cissie, who clearly adored him, got down on her hands and knees in her best tweed skirt so she could help him to rip the paper off. Callum’s gifts included a farmyard complete with animals, a wooden ship and toy soldiers, a whistle, glossy pictures for his scrapbook, several books and puzzles, plus a money box from Mrs Petty and the servants. A very lucky boy indeed, as Aunt Vera kept reminding him. She’d bought him a copy of the New Testament in white leather, beautifully illustrated and inscribed. Amelia accepted the gift on his behalf, with grave reverence. Cissie gave him a woolly toy dog she’d crocheted herself, and promised him a real one as soon as he was old enough.

  ‘One of me best pointers, don’t you know, and I’ll teach you how to hunt with it, child. We’ll have such dashed good fun.’

  It seemed that whatever reservations the maiden aunts might privately hold over this unusual adoption, they were giving no sign of it on this special day.

  Charles and Lucy arrived in time for Christmas lunch with their own two children in tow: four-year-old Jack, and three-year-old Bunty, a precocious, blonde-haired pair who clearly had never been taught the importance of the maxim of being seen and not heard. And George, of course, the new addition to the family, who was placed in his pram in the hall, although later, Kate would take him upstairs to the nursery for his feed.


  As a special treat, the children were to be allowed to eat with the family and as Kate placed Callum in his chair, tied him in with ribbons and fastened on his bib, she thought the atmosphere almost as frosty as the weather. Even though she was kept busy helping Fanny with the serving, she couldn’t help noticing that whatever joy and laughter had been present earlier, had been flattened by a definite air of awkwardness and tension in the room.

  Charles Tyson seemed particularly morose. It was the first time Kate had viewed him at close quarters and she didn’t much care for the look of him at all. His face was florid, and she noted bloated cheeks and a slack jaw beneath the whiskers. He piled his plate with food in a most ill mannered way, and then complained that the goose was cold, which was absolute nonsense. Mrs Petty would never allow such a thing. Eliot bluntly told him that if he spent less time grizzling and complaining, and more on eating the excellent food set before him, then it wouldn’t be given the chance to go cold. ‘You’re running to fat, Charles. Take care. You’ve piled enough on your plate to feed an army.’

  Lucy Tyson coldly remarked, ‘Indeed, who knows when we might get another meal,’ which Kate thought a very odd thing to say.

  After that, Charles kept casting sidelong glances at his wife, who never spoke another word throughout the entire meal, although like her husband, she certainly ate plenty.

  Amelia, as always, looked lovely in a crimson gown trimmed with silver lace, if a little wan and tired, revealing how much Callum’s illness had taken out of her. Her husband was as attentive as ever, showing his concern over her lack of appetite.