The Girl From Poorhouse Lane

by Freda Lightfoot

  ‘I think you very foolish.’ Kate chuckled. ‘I also think you’ve drunk too much port and you had best go down now before you wake the children.’

  He made as if to obey her but at the door turned back, his eyes shadowed, unfathomable, unreadable. ‘It’s very important to me that you are happy, Kate. I hope you understand that? We love having you here. Callum is now my son and I love him, but you are still his mother, in a manner of speaking, and I’m very fond of you too. We both are. How could we not be when you’ve given us such a fine boy? You are very much a part of this family. I hope you feel the same?’

  She wasn’t used to people being kind to her. They never had been before, not since Daddy had passed away. Dermot was, well – Dermot, and had gone off to Ireland to seek his fortune, forgetting all about her. Daddy had loved her uncritically, of course, and she him, but that had been different. Only right and natural. The love she felt for this man was of a kind which wasn’t right at all. Finding a better life for her son had cost her dear, yet she couldn’t help but love him, couldn’t even find it in her heart to hate his wife. She should resent Amelia for having so much: wealth and comfort in this lovely home, a radiant beauty, and this wonderful man. Eliot Tyson had turned out to be much kinder than she’d been led to believe, good natured and so handsome with skin tanned from the long hours he spent in his garden. Dark brown hair falling in shining waves almost to his collar so that the urge to run her fingers through it was almost unbearable. His gentle brown eyes had lines fanning out from the corners, and they would narrow slightly when he was puzzling over something or shrewdly summing up his competitors. Even the fact that he was clean shaven, which was quite against the fashion, set him apart as his own man.

  He was looking at her keenly, perhaps attempting to read these thoughts while he waited for her to speak. But Kate could say nothing, merely stand drinking in the sight of him, loving him with a pain that almost cleaved her heart in two. She found that she was trembling, and bit down hard on her lower lip in an effort to control her emotions, desperate to stop herself from doing what she most longed to do: melt into his arms. She could recall the feel of them around her only too clearly.

  It was Eliot who broke the silence between them. ‘I would never wish to cause Amelia the slightest concern. You understand that, don’t you, Kate? No matter what the circumstances.’

  ‘Of course.’ Now what would he be meaning by that exactly? She wished she understood the enigmatic expression in those deeply mysterious eyes of his. Was he referring to Callum, saying that Kate mustn’t be too proprietorial over him? Or something else entirely? Why was it that every word he uttered left her in two minds over its meaning?

  ‘Nor would I ever risk hurting you, or driving you away. I want you to know, Kate, that you are quite safe here, living under my roof, and will ever remain so.’

  He hesitated a moment longer, as if needing a response to this puzzling statement at least - expressions of gratitude perhaps. And still Kate could say nothing, feeling utterly bereft of words, could scarcely breathe, let alone think. Safe from what? Not from her own heart, certainly. Were it not for Callum, wouldn’t she pack her bags and leave like a shot? Whatever she’d felt for her husband, and she’d loved him for sure, the sensations of longing running through her now were so tangible she felt certain Eliot must see them radiating from her like heat waves, not to mention the emotion which must be plain in her face.

  Fond as she was of Amelia, if he’d made one move towards her then, Kate would not have been unwilling.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Over the weeks following, despite Kate’s exemplary behaviour, the servants were given plenty to gossip about. In due course it found it’s way into neighbouring kitchens all along Kent Terrace, Thorny Hills and as far as Stramongate; from maids below stairs to their mistresses above, from workers at the factory to their wives at home, until the whole south end of the town was buzzing with rumours.

  There was the quarrel between the two brothers for a start, which had resulted in Charles quitting the company and devoting his time exclusively to running Marshall and Stone, the leather currying firm. Word had it that this new business was already in difficulties as the days of vegetable tanned leather were numbered and a new process, called chrome tanning, had appeared.

  Old Askew the gardener was heard to constantly bemoan the fact that the master had lost interest in his garden and was now spending most of his days incarcerated in his office at the factory with his accountants and foreman, or closeted in meetings with his bank. This left far more digging, weeding and hedge trimming for the old man than he could rightly cope with, so he’d taken to hiding away in the shed to smoke his pipe, which meant that the gardens were running to rack and ruin.

  More entertaining still was the tale of the two sisters-in-law who were said not to be speaking since their little contretemps at Christmas.

  Ida, who’d been refilling the coal scuttle and able to slip in and out unnoticed, had heard at first hand how Lucy Tyson had demanded her husband be promptly reinstated, declaring that she didn’t in the least mind swallowing her pride in order to make the request, as she had her babies to think of. A state of affairs which Amelia couldn’t possibly understand since she’d been driven to adopting a Poor House brat to fill her cradle.

  Apparently, tempers had become more and more frayed as the afternoon had gone on, with Aunt Cissie wailing about not disturbing the children, and Aunt Vera pontificating upon Christmas good will. By the time Eliot had arrived upon the scene, it had been too late to save the situation and Ida had also been able to describe how furious he’d been to discover that his wife had been accosted in her own drawing room. Goggle-eyed, she’d crept out to tell Fanny who in turn had told Dennis, who mentioned it in passing to Old Askew. Mrs Petty elicited juicy morsels from each and filled in the gaps after a little gentle interrogation of Kate herself, who’d witnessed the start of the quarrel.

  Embarrassed by his wife’s uncalled for defence of him, Charles had taken his family home forthwith, not even staying for the substantial tea of raised pork pie, cucumber sandwiches, Christmas cake and the delicious hot mince pies which Mrs Petty had so painstakingly prepared. Dennis had driven them home in the carriage, earning extra rations in the kitchen afterwards with his tale of how the couple had not spoken a word to each other throughout the entire journey. ‘Even those noisy nippers kept their traps shut. You could’ve cut the atmosphere with a blunt knife, so help me.’

  As a result, Lucy Tyson had been banned from the house save for family occasions when she was accompanied by her husband. ‘Almost as if she were a naughty child being kept on a leading reign,’ murmured the matrons of Thorny Hills, lapping up the gossip with glee. ‘How very shocking!’

  Fanny found it remarkable that the master was prepared to allow his brother to continue to visit at all, having caught him in the act of defrauding the company and given him the sack for it.

  ‘The toffs think different to us, girl,’ Mrs Petty assured her. ‘Family is everything. Blood being thicker than water, and all that. Though how would you know, when you haven’t a drop of decent blood in your veins?’

  ‘No, it’s pure milk stout,’ Dennis agreed with a grin, and was given a slap for his trouble.

  And all of this brought about by the fact that Amelia Tyson was unable to produce a son and heir, so that her husband had foisted one of his by-blows upon her, said the matrons as they sat in their church pews whispering behind their hymn books. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, he’d forced her to take in the natural mother as well, a no-good piece of rubbish from the Kirkland workhouse on Poor House Lane.

  It was a Sunday in early March, a gloriously bright spring day with the morning sun slanting rays of white gold over Gummer’s How, lighting Rusland Heights and Furness Fells, burnishing the lake to a silvered blue. Beauty enough to take anyone’s breath away. Anyone save Lucy, who was in a rage. Lucy neither noticed nor cared about the majesty of mountains, nor the cri
sp, sparkling air. She paid no heed to the shy crocuses and snowdrops peeping through the spears of new grass, nor the tightly furled buds bursting open in a pink flush on the horse chestnut trees. The snow-capped peaks of the Langdales did not captivate her, nor the lush green fringe of woodland that stretched down to the lakeside fascinate.

  Lucy knew only that she was alone. Charles had swiftly devoured a substantial breakfast of scrambled eggs and bacon but instead of going off for a sail, as he had once used to do in the good old carefree days, or helped her to devise some picnic or trip out in their newly purchased steam yacht which stood to attention in the lapping water beside their very own jetty, he’d dropped a hasty kiss on her brow and said that he must return to the office at once, as he had business to attend to.

  Lucy had been outraged. ‘Not on a Sunday, Charles, surely?’

  ‘I’m sorry sweetheart, but that’s how it is. We’re being dreadfully undercut by the chrome tanning people, and I have to find a solution. To make matters worse, Eliot has decided to dress his own leather in future. He’s bought the patent rights of a process used by a company in Doncaster, and I was depending on Tyson’s to really get us launched. He said that if he couldn’t trust me to work for him within the company, why should he risk sending any Tyson business my way.’

  Charles’s face looked grave, lined with worry which she hated to see, but for once Lucy had little sympathy for him. She felt irritated at being left to endure yet another entire day alone; stuck here with the children and the servants right at the bottom of the lake in the middle of nowhere, with not even any house party arranged to divert her. Utterly unbearable.

  ‘What nonsense! You must insist. Remind Eliot you are still family and deserve his support.’ Details of the business bored her. Why didn’t Charles simply insist on his rights?

  ‘Yes dearest, though I doubt he’ll listen.’

  ‘You give in far too easily, that is your trouble. You must insist that he sees sense and allows you back into the company.’

  ‘He won’t have me back. He’s made that perfectly clear. Besides, I don’t need him. I prefer to be in control of my own destiny,’ Charles spoke with courage but there was a desperate look in his eye which said the exact opposite. As he made a dash out of the door, he was still wearing his napkin tucked into his waistcoat front.

  He’d even forgotten to kiss her goodbye but Lucy didn’t run after him to remind him of that fact. She snapped at the maid who came to clear the table, then flounced off to the drawing room in a furious sulk and pretended to read the paper.

  All of a sudden she hated this draughty house, hated the mud, the acres of woodland garden that had to be supervised, the packing and unpacking which transporting three children and a host of servants every weekend demanded. And she’d forgotten how very messy it was to live in the country. As a girl, her one dream had been to escape the bleak emptiness of woods and fields, so why had she allowed herself to be persuaded back? Because she had believed it would be different. She’d thought that this time it wouldn’t be an insignificant farm house but a substantial country mansion, with huge fireplaces and stately rooms, as well as sufficient servants to keep the place clean and the fires blazing. That they would be courted by the country set. But it wasn’t like that at all. Throughout the dark days of winter she’d felt trapped behind the glass of rain-streaked windows, and cold, always so cold. It had felt as if she were living in an ice box. Now that spring was at last here, she’d insisted they buy the steam yacht, even though Charles had moaned and groaned that he didn’t have the money for it, not yet.

  ‘Poppycock! How am I ever to go anywhere without transport, or get to know any of our neighbours without the proper means to entertain them?’ Lucy had kicked her heels and thrown a tantrum until the deal had been struck. Days later the steam yacht had been delivered, a handsome vessel done out in crimson and gold, its brass and copper gleaming to perfection. Since when, she’d spent a small fortune fitting it out, and had been looking forward to their first Sunday afternoon picnic of the season; a practise run as it were, before sending out invitations for their socially elite neighbours to join them on an outing. And now, despite the sunshine, and all of her effort, Charles had decided he must work instead.

  ‘Will somebody come and see to this dratted fire?’ Lucy screamed, although the coal scuttle stood yards from where she sat.

  When nobody came in answer to her shout, she jumped up and furiously rang the bell which hung by the mantelshelf. It echoed somewhere for several long moments in the depths of the house. Above her head were the children, no doubt playing and jumping about with their nurse, or whatever they did when not at lessons. Occasionally she went up to see how they were getting along. But whatever went on in the bowels of the kitchens and servant quarters, Lucy did not know and had no wish to know, except that if someone didn’t come soon, she’d dismiss the entire staff and start afresh.

  Fortunately, at that moment the door opened and a maid hurried in, pink-cheeked and out of breath from rushing up many flights of stairs. ‘Were you wanting summat, ma’am?’

  Really, these common little people. ‘Something, were you wanting something. And tidy your hair, for goodness’ sake. Where is your cap?’

  The maid’s round face became transfixed with horror. ‘Ooh heck, it must have blown off when I were fetching in the kindling.’

  ‘Bringing in the kindling. Oh never mind, go and find it, this instant. No, not quite this instant,’ as the girl turned on her heel to rush off at once. ‘What do you think I wanted? Why do you think I rang?’ Lucy then looked pointedly at the dimly burning coals in the fire grate and managed to indicate her displeasure without saying another word. The maid ran for the coal scuttle and set about her duties.

  ‘When you’ve found your cap and refilled the scuttle, you can bring my coffee and also a selection of home made biscuits, if you please.’

  ‘Cook hasn’t had time to make any this morning, it being Sunday like and having to make the dinner, and it being her afternoon off.’

  ‘Then we’d best cancel her afternoon off, hadn’t we? If she’s slacking in her duties, she doesn’t deserve one, nor anyone else for that matter.’

  The little maid looked stunned. ‘Cancelled? Nay, she’ll not like that. She were going to see her sister over in Grange-over-Sands, said how nice and convenient it were, us being so close.’

  ‘Well, it isn’t convenient for me.’

  ‘Begging yer pardon, ma’am, but does that mean that I can’t go and see me mam in Arnside? We were going over in the governess cart after t’dinner were cleared away.’

  ‘It certainly does. No one is going anywhere.’ If she couldn’t go out, why should they? ‘And it’s lunch, not dinner.’

  ‘Oh ma’am, she’ll be that cut up.’ The girl gave a great hiccupping sob and then continued, greatly daring. ‘Cook won’t be happy to lose her afternoon off. She’ll be handing in her notice, if yer not careful.’

  ‘Go away, you silly girl, and do as you are bid. You could all be without a job before the winter is out, if you don’t buck your ideas up.’ And having reduced her most biddable servant to tears, Lucy watched with some satisfaction as the girl fled, coal scuttle clattering as she attempted to do a proper curtsey and close the door as quickly as possible so as not to let in any draughts.

  Lucy screamed with fury and stamped her foot, then flopped down on to a sofa, picked up a magazine only to fling it down again. How she loathed the loneliness without Charles, the emptiness and endlessness of her days. And their games above stairs seemed to have come to a halt. Whenever she suggested one, he would complain that he was too tired, but she knew he was nervous of having another child before they could afford one. Money was his overriding obsession these days and he never seemed to have any time for her at all, always making excuses about some business matter or other which required his immediate attention. It had been this way ever since that dreadful weekend when he’d confessed to being dismissed by the compa
ny.

  Oh, but someone must be made to suffer the full weight of her wrath. It wasn’t poor Charles’s fault at all. Was he supposed to sit by and do nothing while that bastard child took everything, stole the bread from the mouths of his own children?

  Lucy got through the rest of the day as best she could, toying with her luncheon which was worse than usual, probably due to Cook’s annoyance at having her afternoon off stopped. Serve the woman right, whatever her name was, she’d be dismissed next week and a new one found. Cooks were two a penny.

  After lunch, the afternoon stretched before her, like an empty desert, or rather a freezing landscape. To add insult to injury, the fickle sun had gone and it started to rain, so there wasn’t even the possibility of a walk in the gardens. Oh, how she hated winter here. It seemed to go on forever. Why couldn’t they go to Italy, or the South of France for a while, as they had used to do? Where was the point in Charles having his own business and being his own boss, if he couldn’t take time off whenever he wished to? She longed to go straight home but no one of any significance returned to town until Monday.

  Finally, bored and disgruntled, Lucy went to bed alone, rather the worse for wear from the several glasses of Madeira she had consumed with her lonely dinner. She would absolutely insist on having a house party next weekend, economy drive or no, and whether Charles had to work or not. There was absolutely no reason why she should endure such unnatural, enforced poverty and utter misery. It was too much.

  Her plans did not quite work out as the following weekend Charles insisted upon a display of family unity by inviting Eliot, Amelia and that dratted bastard child over for the day. It proved to be a complete failure as the rain poured down yet again, Eliot refused absolutely to take Charles back into the business, or discuss the matter further. Amelia had not brought the nursemaid with her because she believed the silly girl needed a day off, and so the pair of them were forced to mind their own children for once.