Rich Girl, Poor Girl

by Val Wood

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  A few days later a letter came from Luke Kingston with abject apologies for omissions in his previous correspondence.

  My daughter Clementina normally handles domestic affairs [he wrote], but she is presently away and staying with her grandmother until spring. You will travel by train to Scarboro’. You must let me know the date and time of arrival a week before, and Amos will collect you and bring you to Nab Farm. Strangers don’t know the way. The boys will be here if I’m not.

  Your uncle,

  Luke Kingston.

  ‘Well, we have an address to give Mr Blake, but I’m none the wiser as to where it is; and who is Amos and who are the boys?’ Rosalie took out her father’s map again and laid it out on the kitchen table. ‘What do you think, Polly?’

  Polly gazed at the map. ‘I don’t understand it,’ she said. ‘I’ve never seen one before.’

  ‘Well, these lines here are roads.’ Rosalie pointed. ‘And look, this sign shows a castle, or the site of a castle.’

  ‘Oh,’ Polly said. ‘I’ve never seen a castle. Would we be able to go in it, do you think?’

  ‘It might be a ruin,’ Rosalie told her, ‘but we might be able to see some of the stones or walls. There’s a castle in Scarborough,’ she added. ‘Perhaps we’ll see that.’

  Their preparations were complete and Rosalie wrote to her father informing him that she would be travelling to her uncle’s very soon. Then she called on Mr Benjamin to ask him about her allowance and to tell him when she was leaving.

  The weather had been improving slightly, but a week before the end of February it snowed again and they wondered whether or not to travel.

  ‘It might be milder in a week’s time,’ Polly said. ‘We could chance it.’ She was eager to be off, to find out what was in front of her.

  ‘On the other hand, it might be worse,’ Rosalie dithered. ‘February is such a difficult month. Oh, dear. I don’t know what to do for the best.’

  ‘I’ll ask Sonny, shall I?’ Polly said. ‘Perhaps he would know what it’s like up there.’

  She went in search of him, wearing her warm coat and huddled under a gamp. This time she went straight to Charlotte Street and walked up and down, wondering which door to knock on. But he must have seen her from a window for he suddenly appeared with a coat thrown casually over his shoulders and a scarf flung round his neck.

  ‘Where did you come from?’ Polly asked. ‘You’ve got paint on your face and on your hands!’

  ‘Oh, so I have!’ He spread out his long fingers. ‘I’ve just been – erm – painting an old chair.’

  ‘Mm!’ she said. ‘Wouldn’t have thought you’d choose that shade of blue. It’ll show up every grease mark.’

  ‘Hark at the housewife!’ he grinned. ‘Is this the Polly I once knew? But no, it isn’t,’ he went on. ‘I meant to say when I saw you last how very becoming that dress is. And you’ve done something with your hair.’

  ‘Washed it,’ she said. ‘Miss Rosalie’s got all kinds of soaps ’n’ stuff which she lets me use.’ She took hold of a strand of hair and held it to her nose. ‘Smells nice; just you smell it.’

  Dutifully, he put his nose close to her hair and sniffed. He laughed and patted her cheek. ‘So it does.’ He looked seriously at her. ‘I’m really pleased that things are going well for you, Polly. I think Miss Rosalie is genuinely pleased with you.’

  ‘She is!’ Polly looked eagerly up at him. ‘That’s why she asked me to be her companion. It’s a sort of friend, you know,’ she added in case he didn’t know.

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘So what are you doing round here? It’s freezing cold, even though you’ve got a lovely warm coat on.’

  ‘I’ve come looking for you,’ she said. ‘We don’t know what to do. Weather’s bad and we’re supposed to be travelling next week. Should we go or not? Miss Rosalie’s got to write and tell her uncle which day we’re coming.’

  ‘No!’ he said emphatically. ‘The roads will be bad, if not impassable. Put it off for a little longer.’

  Polly sighed despondently. ‘I wanted to go. I can’t wait to set off.’

  ‘You’ll probably be there for a long time if you like it,’ he said. ‘Another week or so won’t make any difference.’

  ‘All right,’ she agreed. ‘I’ll tell Miss Rosalie. We decided we’d ask you as you might know what it’s like up on ’moors. How do you know?’ she asked. ‘Have you been?’

  ‘Yes, often, especially when I was young,’ he told her, omitting to say that he was there the previous autumn. He loved to see the changing colours of the moors, the gorse and the heather. He took a canvas tent, a blanket and his painting equipment and sometimes lived rough for a few days; he had been doing that for many years.

  ‘Is it nice?’ she asked eagerly. ‘Did you see any castles?’

  ‘Only old ruins.’ He smiled. ‘But it’s beautiful, Polly. You’ll love it. You won’t ever want to come back to the town.’

  She left him then with the assurance that she would let him know their travel arrangements so that he could help them to the station, but when she returned to Albion Street to tell Rosalie what he’d said Rosalie was as disappointed as she was.

  ‘Of course we don’t have to take his advice,’ Rosalie said petulantly. ‘We’re quite ready to go. I could write to my uncle and tell him that we shall be a little later than planned. We could travel on the first of March. The weather will surely have improved by then!’

  Polly took off her wet coat and bonnet and picked up a towel to dry her hair. There had been quite a blizzard as she’d returned; the gamp had blown inside out and her bonnet was soaking. ‘I hope so,’ she sniffed. ‘Cos it’s really, really cold.’

  The following week they went looking for Sonny, but there was no sign of him in the mews or in the town. Then Polly saw Mrs Walters shopping in Whitefriargate and hailed her. The old lady was surprised to see her. ‘I thought you’d left,’ she said.

  ‘Not yet,’ Polly said, ‘but we’re going soon. You know Sonny Blake, don’t you? If you see him about will you tell him that we’re leaving on Friday on ’ten thirty train?’

  ‘Aye, I will.’ Mrs Walters looked quizzically at Rosalie. ‘How de do, miss,’ she said. ‘Polly’s a good lass.’ She nodded her head emphatically. ‘Very reliable. We’ll miss her round our way.’

  ‘I’m sure you will,’ Rosalie murmured. ‘Your loss is my gain.’

  On the Friday morning the sky was black and sleeting rain as sharp as needles was bouncing off the road. Polly had looked for Sonny again but couldn’t find him.

  ‘Mebbe Mrs Walters hasn’t seen him,’ she said. ‘He wouldn’t let us down, I know. It’s half past nine. Shall I run and find a lad to fetch us a cab, Miss Rosalie?’

  Rosalie took a breath. She was exceedingly anxious. She had never travelled alone before and as she knew Polly hadn’t either and would have no idea what to expect, the responsibility was hers alone. She had written to her uncle again but hadn’t received a reply.

  ‘We’ll wait just a little longer,’ she said tightly, ‘and if he hasn’t come by ten we will just have to manage on our own.’

  At five minutes to the hour a furious Sonny Blake turned up in a hansom cab. He hammered on the front door and stormed in when Polly opened it.

  ‘This is madness!’ he bellowed. ‘You should have waited until the weather cleared. I’ve only this morning heard from Mrs Walters that you’re going today.’

  ‘Shh!’ Polly put her finger to her lips. ‘Miss Rosalie will hear you.’

  ‘I don’t care if she does! It’s not fit weather for you to travel.’

  ‘If it’s inconvenient, Mr Blake,’ Rosalie’s cool voice came from the top of the basement steps, ‘I’m sure we can manage. We did not have your address,’ she added cuttingly, ‘otherwise we would have informed you earlier.’

  He turned a furious face to her. ‘As a matter of fact it is not convenient, and I had great difficulty in hiring a cab
at such short notice. Every man and his wife need a cab in this downpour. But I’m not talking about that! It’s madness that you attempt to travel to the moors at this time of year.’

  Rosalie lifted her chin and looked down her nose. ‘It was my decision, Mr Blake, right or wrong. I can’t change our plans now as I have written to my uncle telling him to expect us at Scarborough railway station.’

  ‘Well let’s hope he can get there,’ he muttered. ‘Where are your trunks?’

  Three of Rosalie’s trunks and a portmanteau and one trunk for Polly were stacked haphazardly in Rosalie’s father’s study.

  ‘Good heavens!’ he said bluntly. ‘Are you planning on going to balls every night or have you got a suite of furniture in here?’

  Rosalie crimped her lips and didn’t answer him, but Polly attempted to explain that as Miss Rosalie didn’t know if or when she was coming back they had packed most of her winter wardrobe.

  Sonny grunted. ‘Have you no idea when you’ll return?’

  ‘None,’ Rosalie said flatly. ‘It depends on my father and what plans he has for me.’ She swallowed and gazed stonily at him as he straightened up from lifting a trunk into the hall. ‘I am not a man, Mr Blake, who can decide his own future.’

  He sighed. ‘Your life is your own, Miss Kingston. We have only one. Don’t allow anyone else to dictate to you what you should do with yours.’

  She blinked and frowned as if she didn’t understand what he meant.

  ‘It’s yours,’ he advised softly. ‘Don’t waste it on petty conventions or conformity. Swim against the tide if you want to.’

  He heaved a trunk out of the door and on to the top step, and whistled to the cab driver. ‘Come and give me a hand,’ he called. ‘Otherwise we’ll miss the train.’

  ‘Hello,’ Polly said brightly, as the driver came up the steps. ‘I know you. You’re Bob, married to Mrs Walters’ daughter.’

  ‘I am,’ he said. ‘Hello, Polly. And I know you, miss.’ He touched his cap at Rosalie, who was hovering inside the doorway. ‘You give us your Christmas tree.’

  ‘I did,’ she said. ‘I hope you enjoyed having it.’

  ‘That we did, miss,’ he said. ‘It was a really nice thing to do.’

  Sonny glanced at her and nodded. ‘So it was.’

  It was a cold, miserable journey and there were few passengers brave enough to venture on it. Sonny had collared a porter to help put the trunks in the luggage van and had then seen the two young travellers into a ladies only compartment. Polly had had the foresight to pack two blankets in her portmanteau and they huddled under them.

  ‘You’ll go through Beverley and Driffield and then Bridlington, Hunmanby and Filey; Scarborough’s the end of the line.’ Sonny frowned, worried that the line might be blocked with snow or ice. ‘I trust all will go well for you.’ He handed Polly a slip of paper with his address. ‘Write if you have any difficulties.’

  ‘Thank you very much for your kindness, Mr Blake,’ Rosalie murmured. ‘I’m sorry if we’ve caused you any inconvenience.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ he said. ‘But do remember what I told you.’

  Rosalie looked puzzled and tilted her head enquiringly. She was wearing a fur bonnet and a coat with a deep fur collar. Beneath it he saw a glimpse of dark blue cloth.

  ‘About life,’ he reminded her.

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said, and sighed. ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘Don’t just try,’ he responded. ‘Do it!’

  The engine got up a head of steam and the train juddered as brakes were released and wheels began to turn.

  ‘Goodbye,’ Polly said excitedly as Sonny slammed the door and they began to jolt forward. ‘I’ll write and tell you what it’s like.’ She jumped up from her seat and went to the window, frantically waving as the train gathered speed. ‘Goodbye! Of course,’ she admitted as she sat down again, ‘I don’t write very well. I didn’t have much schooling.’

  Rosalie was pondering on Sonny Blake’s last words to her. ‘I’ll help you, Polly,’ she said vaguely. ‘Reading and writing might be the only thing we can do up on the moors.’

  ‘Oh!’ Polly exclaimed. ‘Will you, Miss Rosalie?’

  ‘Yes,’ Rosalie said. ‘And Polly! Will you call me Rosalie, and not Miss, please?’

  Polly gazed at her, her lips parted. ‘Oh!’ she said. ‘Yes, Miss Rosalie, I’d be glad to. Thank you.’ She shrugged and smiled and drew next to Rosalie. ‘If we sit up close we’ll keep warmer,’ she said, adding, ‘Don’t you think that Sonny Blake is the nicest man you’ve ever met, and very handsome?’

  Rosalie’s cheeks flushed. ‘Yes,’ she admitted. ‘I think he probably is.’

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Polly rubbed the steamed-up window and then pulled it halfway down, letting in a blast of cold air. She leaned out. ‘This must be Bridlington,’ she gasped as the wind tore at her face. ‘But I can’t see ’sea.’

  ‘Close the window,’ Rosalie complained. ‘You’re letting the cold in. The railway station won’t be near the sea, will it? It will be in the middle of the town, I expect.’

  ‘Sorry.’ Polly heaved the window up again. ‘Mebbe we’ll see it when we get further on. See the sea,’ she giggled. ‘I’ve never been to ’seaside. Ma used to say we’d go to Withernsea when we had some spare money. But we never had.’

  She sighed and sat down again. ‘Have you been to ’seaside, Miss Ros — er, Rosalie?’

  Rosalie laughed. Polly was trying so hard to remember to drop the Miss, but she kept forgetting. ‘Yes, often,’ she said. ‘But not recently. My nanny took me to Withernsea several times and once my parents took me to Bournemouth. I only remember that it was a long way from home. But my mother disliked the seaside; she always preferred towns, like York or Bath, so that’s where we went.’

  Polly gazed at her wide-eyed. ‘And did you ever go to London?’

  ‘Yes,’ Rosalie said. ‘And I expect we would have gone more often if Mama ...’ She heaved a breath. ‘If Mama hadn’t died. I would have gone for the Season, you know.’

  Polly shook her head. She didn’t know. She jerked forward as the train began to rumble on with a screech of steam.

  ‘It’s a sort of hunting ground to find a husband or a wife,’ Rosalie explained. ‘My mother used to say that we would go when I was eighteen. There are balls and dances and dinners where you meet people who would be suitable.’ She shrugged. ‘But I won’t go now. There’s no one to chaperon me.’

  ‘I could chaperon you,’ Polly said eagerly. ‘I’d look after you.’

  Rosalie gave a hoot of laughter. ‘It’s not like that, Polly! You have to go with someone who will introduce you to all the best people and they introduce you to others.’

  ‘Why are they ’best?’ Polly asked curiously. ‘Who says they are?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Rosalie answered. ‘And I don’t know if they are. It’s a matter of birth, and a matter of money,’ she added.

  ‘Oh!’ Polly said, slightly deflated. ‘That lets me out on both counts then.’ Then she shrugged her shoulders up to her ears and looked smug. ‘But I’m going to Scarborough and up to ’moors, so what could be better than that?’

  Rosalie smiled back at her. ‘I’m so pleased that you are with me, Polly. You lift my spirits.’

  The sky became darker and the rain turned to snow, obliterating any view from the window. Both girls began to shiver with cold, despite their blankets. The train was travelling slowly and occasionally stopped, but they didn’t open the window again to find out what was happening. At Hunmanby, a woman dressed in a thick coat and covered in several shawls came out of the station master’s house with a tray of tea for the ladies’ compartment. ‘The station master sends his apologies for the delay,’ she told them as they eagerly took the hot tea from her. ‘You’ll be on your way in about fifteen minutes.’

  They thanked her and looked about them as they drank their tea. At the side of the track were large grain warehouses and alongside th
em were stacks of bricks, waiting to be transported.

  They handed back the empty cups with effusive thanks. Rosalie gave the woman sixpence for her trouble, and a few minutes later they were off again. At Filey, a porter opened the door of the carriage to let in an elderly woman.

  ‘At last!’ she gasped as she plonked down in the seat opposite. ‘I hope we get through to Scarborough; the snow’s getting thicker by the minute and they’re saying a blizzard is on its way. I’ve waited nearly an hour for this train. Why is it so late?’

  ‘It kept stopping,’ Polly said. ‘But we don’t know why.’

  ‘They’d be brushing the lines probably,’ the woman said. ‘It was freezing this morning, and then the snow came. I hope they’re wrong about a blizzard; I’ve a three-mile walk when I get off the train. I’ve been visiting my sister, but when I saw the weather closing in I thought I’d better head for home.’

  Rosalie and Polly glanced at each other. Maybe we should have waited after all, Rosalie worried. I’m afraid Sonny Blake was probably right.

  How daring we are, Polly thought. What if our transport gets stuck on ’moors and somebody has to rescue us? What if it’s a wealthy farmer who rides up on his horse and plucks us out of ’snow and falls in love with Miss Rosalie? And then I can be her attendant and wear a lovely gown and flowers in my hair.

  The train stopped and started and they could hear the shouts of the railway men, the driver, the fireman and the guard, as they attempted to clear the line. Eventually they reached Scarborough. It was three o’clock in the afternoon, and the station was as dark and gloomy as night.

  Polly ran off to fetch a porter, but found one already in the luggage van heaving the heavy trunks on to the platform, where another porter was loading them on to a wooden handcart.

  The woman who had joined them at Filey gave them a wave. ‘Weather’ll get worse,’ she called out as she hurried off. ‘Mark my words!’

  ‘Someone is collecting us,’ Rosalie told the porters. ‘Has anyone enquired?’

  They both shook their heads. ‘No, miss,’ one of them said. ‘We hardly expected any passengers on a day like this. You’ll be best going to the ladies’ waiting room and sitting there till they come.’