Kate found that with the aunts in residence, her own duties multiplied threefold, and work she did to help Fanny was no longer voluntary but an expected part of her day. Maintaining a proper nursery routine for Callum who, as a lively four year old was much more demanding, appeared to be very by-the-way, given no priority at all. The aunts did not approve of him trailing after her while she carried out her duties of sweeping, bed making, cleaning windows or brasses, which meant that he must remain in the nursery unattended for short periods alone, which greatly troubled Kate.
‘What possible harm can he come to?’ Vera would stoutly remark when once Kate expressed her reservations on this practice.
‘He gets upset when he’s on his own, and what if he should wander about looking for me and fall down the stairs, or have an accident of some sort? I should be there to watch over him.’
The aunts, in particular Vera, were privately of the opinion that delightful as the little boy might be, actually adopting him had been one step too far. They naturally blamed Amelia and her obsessive need for a child for this decision. Nor did they wish to consider too closely the unpleasant rumours about dear Eliot, which were rife. Who the father of the Kirkland Poor House child might be was certainly none of their business. Men were a law unto themselves, after all, and they didn’t consider it their place to act as judge and jury on the subject.
The mother, however, was another matter entirely, and showed every sign of getting above herself. Writing and sending out Announcement of Death notices, giving orders to undertakers and attempting to organise poor dear Amelia’s funeral without any discussion with the family, was quite beyond the pale. Quite shocking! As for imagining she could plan the entire day exclusively around this child of hers, and at their expense, was sheer impertinence on her part.
‘Stuff and nonsense, girl. I can’t be doing with mollycoddling infants,’ Vera declared in stentorian tones, just as if she were an expert on the subject. ‘You have your duties to attend to. We can’t have you lolling about all day in the nursery, playing with your child.’
‘Will he be going to school soon, when he turns five, do you think?’ Kate dared to ask.
‘I’m sure I wouldn’t know. That is entirely up to Eliot. He may well decide to send him away to school. Indeed I would advise it. Certainly something must be done if the child is not to turn into a savage.’ And having issued this dreadful indictment of Kate’s son, her small, solid figure marched briskly away, not a hair on her neatly clipped head moving an inch as she did so.
Charles was in deep trouble. His currying business had been under-financed from the start and having been hit by a new process which left vegetable tanning outdated and expensive, which he hadn’t even seen coming, it was a miracle it had lasted as long as it had. The fact that Eliot had agreed to buy him out and take over the failing business should have been the answer to all his problems. Hadn’t he wanted to return to the fold, to have his old job back in Tyson’s? And he’d got it, admittedly with strict limits curtailing his power. He no longer had access to the accounts of course, and all orders he made had to be double checked with the firm who had made them, plus any decisions he made must be discussed with Eliot first. It made him feel all the more inadequate, unwanted and useless.
‘Don’t you trust me?’ he would demand of Eliot.
‘No, why should I? The last time I did that, you robbed me. A person has to earn trust, Charles, not assume it by right.’
‘I’m your brother, for God’s sake.’
‘Exactly. That’s why I thought I could trust you in the first place. I was wrong. Have you done nothing to curb Lucy’s spending habits, or your own for that matter?’
Keeping two fine houses going was proving to be a considerable drain on his purse, alarmingly so, and yet didn’t seem to make Lucy happy. It was certainly true that he’d managed to restrain her spending for a while, but the moment the take-over had gone through, she’d reverted to her old ways.
‘Thank goodness for that,’ she’d declared. ‘Now we can get on with enjoying life again. We shall have the Cowpers over for dinner on Sunday.’
Charles attempted to explain that money was still tight, that in fact none had actually changed hands. Eliot had simply agreed to take the debts of the currying business off his hands, which was a great relief, but did nothing to solve the problem of their other substantial debts, which seemed to be growing at an alarming rate, nor pay off the mortgage.
Lucy either didn’t listen or wasn’t interested. She set about furnishing and equipping the Lake house to the highest of standards. He had the latest bill in his hand at this moment: two hundred guineas for a fine mahogany dining table, not even counting the set of twelve chairs. He couldn’t imagine how one piece of furniture could cost so much, and why on earth they would ever need to seat twelve people in any case.
And that wasn’t the only expense. He flicked through several more bills that he kept stuffed in a box at the back of his desk which were equally frightening. Fifty pounds for a Persian rug. Seventy-five each for some gilt chairs she’d had specially made in the French style. And then there were any number of pieces of Chinese porcelain, tapestries on the walls, screens, mirrors and pretty little tables which had happened to catch her eye. The house looked more like a French chateaux than a Westmorland country home. She’d even started looking at masterpieces and talked of buying a Gainsborough or a Reynolds, a prospect which made his blood run cold.
Charles felt close to despair. He also possessed a letter from his bank manager. He read it through one more time then tore it to shreds and dropped it in the waste paper basket. Where was the point in going to see the man simply to receive another lecture, particularly when there was nothing to be done.
Perhaps he should try one more time with Lucy. He began to rehearse what he might say, pouring himself a large whisky to help the process along. It certainly wasn’t going to be easy but he must find some way of imparting to her the severity of their situation.
It was almost as if Eliot was avoiding her. Kate hadn’t set eyes on him for months, following their painful discussion in his study on the morning of the funeral. A part of her wanted to avoid him too, and yet another part ached to be with him, to have him hold her as he had done that night; to have him need her and not confuse her with the memory of a much loved wife. If only she could catch Eliot alone to speak to him about these fears. But he seemed to have forgotten all about Callum in his grief, and was making no provision at all for his welfare.
Fortunately, Callum was a good little boy and Kate would set him small tasks of reading or writing, or small sums for him to try, hoping that Eliot would find him a school soon, though one in Kendal. She couldn’t bear the thought of him going away. And what would happen to her then? She would no longer be needed, no longer have access to her son. The thought filled her with fear.
Besides concerns about Callum’s education and her own future, in order to keep her promise to help Millie, she must somehow confront Eliot with what was going on behind his back where his outworkers were concerned. He couldn’t be allowed to remain in ignorance, and who else would have the courage to tell him, but herself? Kate had been twice more to console her friend, reaffirming her promise to help but explaining it might take longer than she’d hoped. Millie seemed oblivious, expecting nothing.
Eliot always seemed to be fully occupied at the factory and she didn’t like to trouble him too much. Kate went there once but had been refused entry by a sour-faced woman who told her the master was too busy for visitors and wasn’t taking on any more operatives. Kate had objected, saying she wasn’t seeking employment, that she was his son’s nursemaid. When Eliot had appeared looking fraught and bad tempered, waving her away with a dismissive hand, she’d seen at once that it was a waste of time.
‘Not now, Kate, not now. Can’t you see I’m busy.’ And he’d walked away. Swainson had given his supercilious smirk as he’d turned and followed his master back inside.
Kate
had tried twice more, to no avail. Now she was hovering about in the passage, hoping she might catch sight of him on his way home from the factory when Aunt Vera hove into view.
‘And what do you think you are doing here, girl? You should be upstairs in the nursery, with Master Callum.’
‘I was hoping to have a word with himself, so I was.’ Kate winced, knowing her Irish brogue came out all the stronger when she was anxious.
‘Haven’t I told you a dozen times, there is a correct and an incorrect way of going about such things. Lurking in the passage, hoping to waylay the master and waste his time with a lot of foolish girlish nonsense, is not the proper way at all. If you have any problems, you must address them to me directly, each morning after breakfast. Should I deem it necessary for you to see the master, an interview will be arranged at his convenience, not yours. Is that clear?’ Not waiting for a reply, she briskly continued, ‘Now be off with you and about your business. You are not paid to stand around doing nothing.’
Aunt Vera and Aunt Cissie firmly believed that domestic routine must be shaped to suit masculine needs and requirements. The fact that during Amelia’s lifetime Eliot would always defer to her on most things which were not directly connected with business was quite by the way. His wishes were now paramount, or whatever they imagined his wishes should be.
The aunts themselves had never done paid work, spinsters or no, as this would have reflected badly upon their father for not having properly provided for them, and latterly upon Eliot, their favourite nephew, who ran the family business in which they held shares. If this meant at times that they must deprive themselves of small treats and excursions, they looked upon this as a way of instilling fresh fortitude in themselves against life’s adversities. They had never expected, nor called for equality, and yet were formidable adversaries whom few men would have had the temerity to cross. Kate certainly didn’t attempt it now. She hastily apologised, bobbed a curtsey and beat a hasty retreat, aware of Miss Tyson’s stern glare watching her every step of the way. When she returned to the nursery, it was a relief to find that Callum was still sleeping soundly. She should have asked Fanny to sit with him while she went downstairs but the maid was being particularly contrary these days, never quite agreeing to anything Kate suggested.
Yet somehow, despite the two old aunts’ interference, she must find a way to speak to Eliot alone. How to achieve it, that was the question.
Lake Windermere was at its most magnificent, the woodlands thick and lush and green. The summer days endless and golden. Charles sat watching the public steamers chug back and forth the length of the lake with the last of the season’s cargo of trippers and felt deeply depressed, almost as if he were spinning downwards into a dark pit from which there could be no return. There was an actual pain in his chest, as if he were about to succumb to a heart attack. And was it any wonder? In his hand he held the bill for the completed conservatory, yet another expensive monstrosity Lucy had insisted on having built at vast cost, and for which the builders were harassing him for payment, threatening court action if there were any further delay. But how could he pay, if he had no money?
In his heart, Charles knew that the evil day could be put off not longer. He must speak to his wife.
He found her among the ferns and the lilies. She looked enchanting, of course, as always. Soft red lips that he so loved to kiss, shining ebony hair curled and teased about her brow, rising into a delightful coiffure that could only have been achieved by the new French maid. And her breasts, so full and round and comely. He almost reached out and fondled her there and then before he thought better of it, reminding himself that he had come to play the role of scolding husband and he must stand by his decision not to give in to her charms.
‘Sweetheart, there you are.’
Just looking at her lovely face should make it all worthwhile but somehow, even though she turned to him with the smile she’d used to give in the early days of their marriage, when he was in funds, her radiance didn’t excite him the way it had then. Perhaps he was too concerned with what lay behind the smile, that she might be about to ask for some other treat essential to her happiness.
Before he had the chance to speak, to say a word of his carefully rehearsed speech, or broach the subject which had become a nightmare for him, she flung her arms about his neck and, squealing with delight, said, ‘What do you think I’ve found?’
His spirits plummeted. Dear Lord, let it not be another picture. He’d been thinking of sneaking the Constable back to the gallery to get a refund until he realised he hadn’t yet paid for that either. How she charmed these people into giving her so much credit was quite beyond him, yet she never failed to do so. Presumably brandishing the name Tyson about as if it meant he was some sort of walking bank vault. ‘Not another work of art, sweetheart, I trust? We don’t have the wall space.’
Lucy giggled girlishly. ‘What a darling you are! No, no, this is much more fun. Come and see.’
She pointed through the arched, conservatory windows, and there it was, standing on the drive. A motor car. Not any old motor, but a brand new Daimler. ‘Didn’t you say that you liked those best, darling? Well, I’ve bought you one, for your birthday. Isn’t it wonderful? Aren’t you excited?’
Charles thought he might very well pass out on the spot. Lights were spinning in his head, rose coloured, green, purple, yellow and blue, all colours of the rainbow that had nothing to do with the glory of the woodlands, pounding and beating behind his eyes, their only benefit being that they blotted out all sign of the expensive motor which was completely hogging his drive.
Lucy was still talking. ‘I’ve engaged a chauffeur, of course, to go with it. Can’t have my sweet darling tiring himself out by driving. Didn’t Eliot always say that a gentleman never drives his own carriage? I’m sure it is even more true of the internal combustion engine. There, aren’t I clever to have learned such words? And I picked all of it up from my Woman At Home magazine, would you believe? Well, what do you think? Are you thrilled?’
Charles managed to discover his voice at last. ‘You really shouldn’t have, beloved,’ he said weakly, as if she’d bought him a new puppy and not this – this most expensive, unasked for, unexpected, disastrous piece of merchandise. ‘But, dear heart, when you say you bought it for me, how did you do that exactly? I mean, how much did it cost?’ Charles could hear his own voice rising hysterically and valiantly attempted to curb it, finishing more quietly, ‘Where on earth did you get the funds?’
She kissed him lightly on the cheek. ‘Now you aren’t going to start getting all grumpy about money again, are you, pudding? Well, of course I didn’t actually have the money on me. I never carry cash, silly boy. I gave them your name, of course, at the garage, and instructed them to deliver it today, for your birthday. You don’t mind paying for your own pressie, Charlie Boy, do you? I mean, it’s the thought that counts.’
Later, when Lucy went into the study to check why Charlie Boy hadn’t come down in answer to the dinner gong for his birthday repast with at least twenty invited guests, she found him sitting looking out of the window, a great smile on his face. Except that when she got closer, she found that he was holding his hunting rifle between his knees, and it wasn’t a smile at all.
Charles’s funeral was nothing like so grand as Amelia’s. Besides, following on so swiftly upon that previous sad event, no one quite had the stomach for it. Nor could it take place at the Parish Church, since he had tragically taken his own life. A few stalwart members of the family stood around while the body was disposed of as quickly and discreetly as possible, and then returned to their respective homes without another word. Charles would probably never be spoken of again, certainly not in polite circles.
Lucy was too numb to react. She showed no sign of hysterics, shed not a single tear. Whether she grieved for her husband in private, nobody quite liked to enquire. She didn’t seem to hear even if anyone offered their condolences, mumbling odd remarks about a motor car havi
ng been sent back, and how it was such a pity that Charles would never get to drive it now. The only spark of life came when she was brusquely informed, by Eliot, that the house by the lake must be sold and she would have to make do with the one in Stramongate; that she could very well lose that one too, if Charles’s debts proved too heavy.
She did not take this threat lightly. Embarrassed members of the household tip-toed past the door of Eliot’s study, pretending not to hear the shrillness of her voice within, only thankful that they were not the one suffering the blast of her temper. ‘You wouldn’t dare to deprive my children of their only home as well as their heritage? You do realise, Eliot, that he wouldn’t be dead at all, if it weren’t for you!’ And she’d stormed away giving him no further opportunity to defend himself, managing to look both brave and forlorn all at the same time.
In the weeks following, life itself seemed to be taken on tiptoe with everyone, servants and family alike, speaking in low, hushed tones, not quite knowing whether it would be proper to smile. It was the aunts who put a stop to this nonsense and came to the fore yet again, privately remarking how wise had been their decision to stay on. They certainly had no intention of leaving.
‘Dear Eliot will need us more than ever now,’ Vera stoutly declared.
‘Oh, indeed yes. To lose a wife, and a brother. Dear, dear, dear. Poor man,’ Cissie most heartily agreed.
‘Charles was always a loose cannon, a wild boy who grew into an unstable man,’ Vera stated in a tone which would not brook contradiction. ‘It does not surprise me in the slightest that he chose the coward’s way out.’
‘Nor I,’ agreed Aunt Cissie.
‘All we can do is pray for his soul. Meanwhile there is work to be done, and a life to be lived.’
‘Of course there is. So true, so true.’
The Girl From Poorhouse Lane Page 21
