Knowing the strength of her father’s feelings concerning his son she was convinced that Amos had no right to be sitting in that chair, it was she who should be in charge of the farm. She was sure that her father would not have been so negligent as to omit leaving a document that would ensure that Amos would not inherit. In fact the thought was adamant in her mind that he would have ignored Amos’ requirements, as he had always done, and left his future in her hands.
The solicitor had been of the same mind, but as he said, if there were a later will, they must stand by the present one until such times as it might be found. He suggested that she search the house, particularly the office. This she had done over and over again, but with no success.
Amos startled her by saying, ‘I’ve ordered them to finish the malt house.’
‘The malt house! But why? It won’t be necessary.’
He leant over the desk and although she was out of his reach he extended his hands towards her, laying them palms down on the papers. ‘You want to get married, don’t you? You’ve waited long enough.’
‘Yes.’ Her chin was slightly to the side, ‘Yes, I’ve waited long enough. But – oh’ – she smiled now – ‘I see.’ She nodded towards him. ‘You don’t want to live with us, you want a place of your own. I can understand, and it’s thoughtful . . . ’
‘No, no’ – he was shaking his head vigorously – ‘you’ve got it wrong. Turn it round. It’s for you . . . and Arnold.’
‘You mean . . . ?’ She got to her feet. ‘You mean I’m . . . we’re to go to the malt house?’
‘Well’ – he pulled his arms sharply back across the desk – ‘I’m going to marry some day, and before long I hope, and two mistresses under the one roof wouldn’t work.’
‘You’re going to . . . ’ She stopped. She had never thought about him marrying, not even that the idea would ever enter his head. Who would . . . ?
‘DON’T LOOK LIKE THAT.’ He was bawling at her now. ‘My God! underneath you’re like the rest of them. I’m not a man am I? just a thing!’
For the moment the malt house was forgotten as she tried to reassure him, saying, ‘Don’t be silly, Amos. And that’s most unfair, you know it is. It’s only that you’re so young and . . . ’
‘And I’m odd. Who would want to take me on? That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it? That’s what they all think. Well, I won’t have far to go to find someone willing. I might as well tell you now I’m going to marry Biddy.’
She felt the blood draining from her face, from her arms; she had the sensation that there was a tap in the soles of her feet letting it flow away. She felt for the moment that she was going to faint. She knew now that Arnold had been right when he had advised her to tell the boy when he was no more than eight years old. He had again brought the subject up when Amos was ten, and then twelve, but she couldn’t risk embittering him further against his father and taking from him the only young companionship he had. Anyway, she had foreseen the problem solved by Molly sending Biddy away into service when she became twelve, with either Lena or Katie. Both of them had married, but remained in service. From time to time Molly had spoken of Lena, saying she could get Biddy into her household, but nothing had come of it. Molly, she knew, was loath to part with her daughter, for she was the only thing she had.
He was yelling at her again. ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake! don’t come over all class conscious. Anyway, who cares? We’re in the backwoods here, we might as well be on an island for all the visitors we get. And that’s how I want it, I want it to be an island, I’m going to turn it into an island. I’ve written to old Tuppin about the bottom land. I’m having the walls and fences done, gates put up. I’ll make it an island where we can . . . ’
‘QUIET! Do you hear, be quiet!’
‘Jane!’ His voice was deep in his throat and, without looking behind him, he groped for his crutches and, drawing them forward, tucked them under his arms and came round the desk to stand in front of her. And with his head just slightly back, he looked at her and said slowly, ‘Gone are the days when you could tell me to be quiet.’
She moved one step back from him; then two. When she bumped into the chair she turned round and pushed it out of her way, then took another step in the direction of the door.
He stood watching her for a moment before he demanded, ‘What’s the matter with you? Why are you looking like that? You’ve always liked Biddy, and she’s tractable and not ignorant; she can read and write as well as the next.’
‘A . . . mos!’ His name was strangled in her throat. She gulped spittle into her dry mouth, then breathed deeply three times before she said, ‘You cannot have Biddy, ever . . . ever; it’s . . . it’s impossible.’
‘I cannot have Biddy? What do you mean?’
‘I . . . I should have told you before now, years ago, but I thought it . . . it would make you dislike Father more. And I didn’t think you would . . . I never thought about marriage. It’s impossible. Biddy . . . Biddy is your . . . our half-sister.’
For a full minute he did not seem to comprehend the meaning of her statement. His face screwed up, the almond eyes became long, narrow slits, his whole body was still; then in a lightning movement he came to life and she sprang back towards the door and screamed, ‘Don’t! Don’t Amos. Don’t!’ as a crutch came spinning through the air like a boomerang at her. It struck her shoulder and she cried out again and ran into the hall.
Molly, coming from the dining room, inquired urgently but quietly, ‘What is it? What is it, Miss?’ and Jane rushed towards her and clung to her for a moment; then grabbing her hand, almost dragged her up the stairs and into the bedroom.
‘In the name of God, Miss Jane, what is it? What’s he done?’ Again Jane was clinging to her. ‘I . . . I had to tell him about Biddy; he . . . he said he was going to marry her.’
‘God Almighty!’ Molly’s response to this was so quiet that it had a calming effect on Jane, and she dropped on to the side of the bed and joined her hands tightly on her knees and asked, ‘What are we going to do?’
Molly didn’t answer her directly but said, ‘I’ve . . . I’ve been half expecting it, Miss. It made me write to our Katie and Lena some weeks back. The place has been filled in Lena’s but they’re looking for a still-room maid in Katie’s. But . . . but I didn’t want to let her go that far; it’s right down in the south of the country, back of beyond near a place called Teignmouth. Beautiful, Lena says, but lonely. Worse than this. I . . . I didn’t want to send her to the back of beyond ’cos she’s young. Yet she was for going when I mentioned it. I wish to God I’d let her now.
‘Don’t shake so, Miss Jane.’ She came slowly to the bed and, sitting down on the edge of it, she put her arm around her and held her close, and Jane said, ‘Oh Molly, Molly, what have things come to?’ and Molly turning her gaze to the wall said flatly, ‘Parson Hedley would say it’s the sins of the fathers and of the mothers.’
‘Oh, I wasn’t meaning that, Molly.’
‘I know, Miss, I know, but I can’t help thinking that it’s right; I carry a weight about with me all the time.’
‘Oh, Molly!’ Jane leant her head against her and in this moment they could have been the half-sisters.
After a time Molly rose to her feet, saying, ‘You stay here quiet for a while, Miss Jane, till things settle down, but we’ll have to put our thinkin’ caps on, something must be done.’
On her way to the door she glanced out of the window, then stopped and exclaimed on a high note, ‘Oh my God! there he goes into the dairy.’ And with that she turned and ran from the room and down the stairs and out of the house . . .
As if Amos knew that Molly would come, he had immediately dropped the bar over the door when he entered the dairy from the yard, and now he stood with his back to it and looked towards Biddy, where she had turned from the marble slab on which she had been pat
ting up butter and stared at him. It was she who spoke first. ‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘What’s the matter? What you barrin’ the door for?’
He did not answer her, only continued to stare, and she turned from him and picked up a cloth and wiped her hands before looking at him again and repeating, ‘What’s the matter? You bad or somethin’?’
His face was colourless but running with sweat, as were his hands gripping the bars of the crutches. He leaned back against the door as he asked, ‘Do you like me?’
‘Like you?’ She twisted her face at him. ‘What’s up with you?’ The question was high.
‘I said do you like me?’
‘Well’ – she wagged her head – ‘I suppose so. Aye, yes, I like you.’ She looked him up and down. She never thought about him having no legs; she was so used to him that way, and so she had never been sorry for him because of his disability.
‘Would you marry me?’
‘WHAT! What did you say . . . marry you?’ Her dark brows had moved into points. Then she gave a little laugh as she said, ‘Don’t talk daft.’
‘BIDDY!’ He bawled her name as she went to turn from him, and at the same time it was shouted from beyond the door. ‘Biddy! Biddy! open this door. Do you hear me?’
Biddy stared at the door above his head, then down at him. ‘That’s me ma,’ she said. ‘Open the door.’
‘Answer me first, will you marry me?’
As the glinting light of his eyes held her gaze she almost said, ‘Marry you, are you mad? Who would marry you?’ but she had some of her mother in her and so her answer was, ‘Now look, don’t act so daft; I’m not marryin’ anybody, nobody.’
‘Biddy! D’you hear me? Open this door. Push him out of the way an’ open this door.’
‘You’d better get by,’ she said quietly, ‘else I’ll have to push you.’ If she pushed him he’d overbalance, and she was quite capable of pushing him. Over the years he had sparred with her she had learned to defend herself the hard way; although he had always got the better of her once they were on the ground together. And so he made no effort to stop her when she moved close to him to swing the bar back into its socket.
When the door burst open it almost knocked them on to their backs. Standing in the opening, red in the face and enraged, Molly looked from one to the other before addressing her daughter. ‘What’s he done? What’s he said?’ she demanded.
‘Nothin’, Ma, nothin’. What you yellin’ for?’
‘Nothin’ you say? Why did he bar the door then?’ She turned her glance swiftly on Amos, who was glaring at her with a look of deep hatred on his face, and it came over in his voice as he said slowly, ‘I asked her to marry me.’
‘You dirty . . . ’
‘Don’t say it. Don’t say it, Molly.’ As his head went down his eyes moved upwards under his lids, giving him a demoniacal look.
‘I will say it.’ She now turned to Biddy. ‘You get out. Get out of here, go on up home.’
‘What? Why?’
‘Do as I bid you, girl. Go on up home.’
Biddy went slowly out, and Molly, banging the door closed again, leaned against it as she growled, ‘Knowin’ what you know, you asked her that?’
‘Yes, I asked her that. And it makes no difference.’
‘You mean you would . . . ?’ Her lips moved away from her teeth and he finished for her, ‘Yes, yes, I would. And she would an’ all if you left her alone.’
‘Never! Never in this world! An’ when I tell her, that’ll be the finish.’
He moved slowly towards her and stopped only a few feet from her before he said thickly, ‘If you make it the finish it’ll be the finish of you too; I’ll send you packing quicker than a rocket.’
‘You will, will you?’ Her head was jerking in small movements. ‘That’s what you think.’
His expression showed he was surprised by her defiant attitude. But he spat at her, ‘And you won’t get a reference other than I’d give to a whore.’
Her lips became tight, her rounded chin knobbled. It was some moments before she spoke and then she said, ‘I’m no whore, never was. Compared to you, your father was a gentleman. An’ that’s what you’ll never be, not even half a one.’ She flicked her eyes down towards his lower limbs. But in spite of her brave front, she became fearful for a moment by the look on his face. Even so she went on, ‘I’ll leave this farm when I feel so inclined an’ not afore, and you can’t do a damned thing about it, Mas . . . ter Amos.’ She watched his lids blinking, his brow moving to a furrow of thought. ‘That’s set you thinkin’, hasn’t it? An’ I’ll tell you somethin’ more, I’ve got it in me power to put you along the line any minute I choose . . . You killed your father; you swung from that beam an’ you killed him. An’ I’ve got the evidence of it. Not only have I got the torn piece from your coat but I’ve got the coat an’ all. You made the mistake of givin’ it to our Johnnie when you were rigging yourself out with your new finery . . . Now don’t, I’m warning you’ – her arm went straight out, her finger pointing at him – ‘don’t think you’ll wallop me with that crutch an’ get off with it; I’m not Miss Jane, I’ve got no niceties about me. You lay a finger on me, whether it’s by hand or wooden leg, an’ by God! you’ll live to regret it.’
They glared at each other for a moment longer. Then she turned to open the door. Her hand on the bar, she cast her glance back at him and said softly, ‘An’ don’t try to concoct a way of gettin’ rid of me ’cos if anything happens to me you’ll be for it surely, ’cos I’m not the only one who knows, I’ve seen to that. You see I know you, Master Amos; I’ve known you for a long time. Long afore others twigged what was in you, I knew you.’
She held his gaze before turning away. Her legs were trembling under her long skirt and the sweat was running from her oxters. She made herself walk steady because she knew he was watching her . . .
A few minutes later in the kitchen of her cottage she stood looking at Biddy, who was crying loudly while she muttered, ‘You should have told me, Ma. You should have told me.’
‘Aye, I know I should. It’s my fault, but . . . but I thought you’d be gone years ago to your Auntie Lena’s or Katie’s.’
‘You, you can’t blame him for carryin’ on, you can’t, ’cos he must have got a shock an’ all, he must, Ma.’
‘Of course he got a shock, I’m not denyin’ it, but in spite of gettin’ a shock he went an’ put that to you. Marry him, he said. If he had been an ordinary being it would have been bad enough, not right, against God like, but him as he is, offerin’ you a double handicap. Now stop cryin’, do. Dry your eyes. Come on, dry your eyes.’
‘I feel all of a dither, Ma.’
‘Aye, lass, I understand. You’re bound to. Look, I’ll make a sup tea an’ then I’ll have to get back. But you stay here. Mind, I’m tellin’ you, you stay put until I get things arranged.’
As Molly went to the hob and lifted the kettle Biddy said quietly, ‘I can’t take it in, the master being me da . . . father. He never looked at me, or spoke to me, no more than he did to Amos.’ There was a pause before she ended, ‘Funny him being me father. I’m not just nobody then. I used to wonder. But I’m not just nobody am I?’
Molly set the kettle into the heart of the fire, then she turned and looked at her daughter. It was odd that she should lay stock on who she came from. Yet not so odd when you came to think of it; she must have wondered many a time.
And Biddy confirmed this now by saying, ‘You know, Ma, I used to think it was’ – she thumbed towards the wall – ‘Mr Armstrong . . . Davie. I used to think he was me da, an’ that’s why he went away.’
Molly turned again to the fire, saying grimly, ‘Well, you thought wrong then, didn’t you?’
‘But Ma, why . . . why haven’t we heard afore, either him, I mean Amos, or me? It�
��s a wonder nobody let it out, isn’t it? Me Uncle Johnnie or Mickey, or Will Curran, or them at the Sunday School. It’s a wonder they didn’t pelt me with it, ’cos I was called a bastard more than once.’
As Molly measured the tea into the earthenware pot she said quietly, ‘In Sunday School they were from well around, the places are spread out, they wouldn’t know. An’ anyway, they were just bairns like yourself.’
‘Jim Doolin, or Frank Pearce, they’re not bairns. Jim Doolin is after me proper; he waits for me market day.’
‘Well, it’s not likely that they would say anything even if they knew, is it? An’ if they knew the master had been your da, it might have been a feather in your cap.’
‘I don’t know.’ Biddy considered. ‘Men are funny about such things. I know Frank Pearce’s mam and dad wouldn’t have liked it, they’re stiff chapel.’
‘Well, you won’t have to worry about what any of them think; you’ll meet a different class with your Aunt Katie. Down there there’s butlers, an’ footmen, an’ proper coachmen, an’ everything she says.’ She leaned forward now and touched her daughter’s cheek. ‘You’re a bonny lass, you’ll likely make a good match.’
‘I’ll miss you, Ma.’
‘And I’ll miss you, lass.’
They put their arms around each other and remained quiet for a time until Molly said, as if she had been reconsidering the matter, ‘It’s no good, you’ve got to get out of here an’ as quick as possible.’ She moved briskly away now, saying, ‘I’m goin’ across to see Miss Jane. She’s in a state an’ all, poor soul. My! if anybody’s had the rotten end of the stick, she has. Make yourself some tea, an’ no more cryin’. You’ve got life afore you, an it could be wonderful.’ She smiled weakly; they both smiled weakly; then she went hurriedly out.
On entering the house she immediately heard the shouting coming from upstairs, and going swiftly through the kitchen, she found Winnie standing at the foot of the stairs. There were high spots of scarlet colour on her cheeks, the rest of her face was white. ‘He’s like a devil,’ she whispered. ‘He went for Miss Jane like a madman. Look.’ She pointed to the corner where a vase lay broken on the floor. ‘He swiped that off with his crutch. I thought he was going to hit her, I did . . . Where’s Biddy?’
Feathers in the Fire Page 23
