‘Very well. Kate, you can take the pot. I know fine it’s the pot you’ve got your eye on. There’s plenty left to give you and Tam a drink so there’s no need to fash yourself.’
‘Did you ever!’ Griselle said after Kate had gleefully departed with the tea pot. ‘Mother is insisting on bringing that vile old witch and old Tam with us when we move to our mansion. Isn’t it diabolical?’
Letitia suddenly rapped Griselle’s knuckles with her fan.
‘Keep a civil tongue in your head, mistress. I’m maybe putting up with your big-headed notions of mansion houses but I will not countenance all the good old customs to be so lightly tossed aside.’
Griselle snatched up her own fan, snapped it open and agitated it in annoyance.
‘Good old customs. What are those, pray?’
‘Having a sense o’ loyalty and some respect for a lifetime of devoted service. Old Kate and Tam have been good enough servants in their day.’
‘You have given them their keep all these years, mother, and a good home.’
‘Aye, and my home will be their home, mistress, until the day I die and I’ll have none o’ your snash. I get enough snash from them. I couldn’t get rid o’ the old devils even if I wanted to. They’re that stubborn they just wouldn’t go. Tuts, I’ve tried often enough. The last time I told her in no uncertain manner. We must part, Kate, I said, and she said, “Aye, mistress, and where are ye goin’? Ye’d be better to stay at home at your age.” ’
Annabella laughed but Griselle sighed and tutted and flicked her fan. She knew that nothing would ever change her mother. Her mother had been cast in the same stubborn mould as old Kate and Tam.
Phemy, who was a kind and gentle soul, ventured:
‘Surely Mother is right? It would be unkind to turn Kate and Tam out now. Where would they go?’
‘You’re always the same, Phemy.’ Griselle’s chins bounced with annoyance. ‘Why should we care about them?’
Annabella’s laughter rippled out again.
‘I dare swear I often ask myself that about my Betsy and Tib, not to mention Big John. Betsy is the most monstrous tearful prophet of doom you could ever imagine and the touchy vanity of Tib Faulds is downright impertinent at times. I’m looking for a personal maid now. I’m hoping I might see someone at the Fair today. You’ll need more servants too when you’re in your mansion, Grizzie. Do you fancy a stroll down Stockwell Street to have a look at some?’
‘No, I think I’ll wait till nearer the time. It’ll be a good few weeks yet before we can move.’
They all rose with Annabella to see her to the door and Letitia called a warning before Annabella waved goodbye and disappeared down the spiral stair.
‘You watch your reticule, mistress. Half o’ that crowd at the Stockwell are no’ Glasgow folk, remember. Thieves and vagabonds come flocking into the town for the Fair.’
Stockwell Street was across the road from the Shawfield Mansion in which Prince Charles Edward Stuart had stayed during his invasion of Glasgow. The street was the western boundary of the city and it formed the leading thoroughfare to the only bridge that spanned the River Clyde at Glasgow.
Fashionable tenements, some two storeys high, some three, some four, graced the head of the street and at the foot near the river there were quaint irregular-shaped thatched dwellings with outside stairs and rickety wooden banisters. Mixed in with the handsome tenements and humble cottages there was also the South Sugar House and the rope works. The street was regarded as a most desirable town residence and many leading merchants and notabilities of the city were born and bred in the tenements in this locality cheek by jowl with the humble occupants of the cottages. It was always fairly busy with folk going to and from Trongate Street at one end, or Bridge Street which curved from the other. On Fair days however it was jam-packed. There was the horse and bestial Fair when there were endless rows of restive horses and neighing stallions or bulls and cows lowing. Or there was the Hiring Fair when ploughmen came in from the surrounding countryside and took the opportunity of enjoying much whisky and ale and merrymaking and courting of cherry-cheeked dairymaids. The country servants for hire were usually to be seen at the Trongate Street end of the Stockwell and the city servants could be viewed at the bridge end.
Annabella hadn’t made up her mind, as she left her friend’s close and emerged onto Trongate Street, whether she wanted to hire a country or a city servant. Country servants usually looked healthier and cleaner but she had heard that they could be very naive and more of a worry than anything else in the city.
Although the sun was shining, there was a cool breeze and Annabella was glad of her cloak. The wind frisked around her, tugging and flapping at her cloak and swaying her panniered skirts as she picked her way lightly along. A heavy cart rumbled past, then the stage coach to Edinburgh packed with loudly baaing lambs to be delivered at some stage on the journey. She stopped and waited under the pillared walkways until a confused drove of animals on their way to be slaughtered crushed by. Then she tripped across Trongate Street towards Stockwell Street.
Tall grey stone tenements seemed to ripple as sun chased shadow and shadow chased sun. Trongate Street was busy with people too and there was a happy festive air because it was Fair day. Gaggles of gossiping ladies with shopping baskets clung on to hats and hoods. Tobacco lords, in their curled wigs and three-cornered hats and sparkling shoe-buckles and scarlet capes swirling and billowing, strolled up and down the plainstones, the special paved part of Trongate Street reserved solely for themselves. Past the equestrian statue of King William of Orange they sauntered, keeping to the right when going westwards and to the left when returning eastwards as was customary.
Other fine gentlemen in brocade coats with large cuffs and buttons astride handsome horses cantered along amid the noisy street-criers.
‘Pots to mend! Pots to mend!’ A man rollicked along with pots slung over his shoulders and one in his hand on which he was banging energetically with a hammer.
A woman in a white apron and gown tucked up was balancing a basket on her head and singing,
‘Cherries, fair cherries!’
Another older woman awkwardly clutching her wares pleaded hoarsely,
‘Buy a fork or a fire shovel?’
A man was whipping a barrel-laden mule along chanting,
‘Lily-white vinegar!’
Hoards of children danced and pranced around and barking dogs added to the din, especially on the east side of Stockwell Street where in front of one group of thatched cottages there were piles of empty casks and barrels belonging to a cooper who lived there. A little old woman who sold sweeties was also a great attraction.
It was in this area of Stockwell Street that Annabella caught sight of Mungo cavorting about and having a hilarious time along with a motley band of other boys.
‘Mungo!’ she angrily called to him. He was supposed to be in school diligently studying and it had never occurred to her that he would act in such a grossly deceitful and disobedient manner. Immediately he saw her, instead of coming in answer to her cry, he hared away in the opposite direction and was immediately swallowed up by the crowd. It occurred to her, not for the first time, that Mungo was in need of a father’s stern hand. Her own Papa was far too indulgent with him.
She afterwards discovered that Mungo had not been near the school the whole day. First he and some other boys had thrown stones at sparrows perched on trees in the vitriol dealer’s yard, until the vitriol dealer, a thin curious-looking man with long legs like a spider and a face like an owl, had hastened menacingly out and chased them away. Then they had gone bird-nesting behind Virginia Street and watched a man shoot hares and partridges. From there they’d gathered in the yard of the Black Bull Inn where there was a draw-well. The well-cover was a huge oblong wooden box painted blue. Two tremendous leaden arms fixed near the top of the box hung vertically, and when water was drawn, moved from side to side like a pendulum. A thick curved spout projected from each side of the
well and it was a favourite sport of boys to stop the mouth of the spout with the palm of the hand and squirt jets of water around. The well handles had great round knobs at the bottom and made a popular swing for the boys who cared nothing for the water they wasted in the process. Eventually they had been chased away by townsfolk arriving with wooden pails to collect their supplies of water. The boys had scampered from the Black Bull to Stockwell Street and the Fair.
That night Annabella soundly boxed Mungo’s ears and sent him to bed without any supper. She hoped that when he went on to University, and he would be going soon now that he was twelve, he would settle down and take his studies more seriously. If he did not, she hardly knew what to do with him. He was a big sturdy lad who could be serious and sensible at times but at others could cause her much consternation with his wild and rowdy ways. She wondered if Harding had been like that when he was a child. No doubt he would have known how to deal with Mungo, but as it was she had to cope with him as best she could herself.
She decided it might be safer to take him with her when she went to stay at the Duke of Dalgleish’s estate for a few days. They travelled in a new chariot and six she had bought and Big John in splendid scarlet livery sat up front. Standing at the back was Donald, the new manservant, also in a scarlet coat and white breeches.
As they galloped up the drive towards the Dalgleish mansion Annabella temporarily forgot her worries about Mungo. He was a splendid-looking young man with his richly embroidered coat and his three-cornered hat and his hair tied back and his hand resting on a gold-topped cane that her Papa had had specially made for him. When they reached the enormous residence of the Duke, Mungo jumped out and helped her to alight, and it was hard to imagine that he could ever be anything other than a perfect gentleman.
She equalled him in splendid appearance as her hair was padded and powdered and she wore patches and a luxurious fur-lined hooded velvet cloak over her wide gown of gold silk.
Both she and her son gazed in admiration at the Duke’s splendid house and grounds. In their faces were visions of the balls and the banquets they would enjoy there and the riding and the hunting.
Then Mungo raised his hand with confidence and authority, and led her towards the open door.
19
‘I CAN’T wait any longer,’ Gav told Abigail. ‘The weather will be too bad if I do.’
He didn’t want to go to Forest Hall. He couldn’t spare the time. Quite apart from his many responsibilities in the store he had his family to feed and his patch of land to attend to. Already he’d pushed back a fair amount of forest by felling trees and burning stumps.
He also hunted turkeys, otter and raccoon, caught fish, dug ginseng and hunted bees. In fact most days he worked from sunrise till dark. Not that he was complaining. He loved the settlement. He knew every occupant of every log cabin. In the settlement they were like one large family enclosed together by the boundaries of forest and river. He knew every child scampering around the store, or in the clearance in front of the gaol-house, or swimming or fishing down by the creek. He knew every ship that billowed up the river and every sea-captain and seaman who strutted ashore for a carousal in Widow Shoozie’s tavern. He knew every planter who rode or sailed in for a gossip and to exchange tobacco for goods. He knew the Virginian weather, the brassy heat of summer making morning steam rise from the river, the clear crisp winters and freezing temperatures that iced over the water. He knew the variable winds. The north and northwest winds prevailed during the short winter season, while the south and south-east winds were warm, bringing sultry weather and a hazy humid atmosphere. The south-west wind was usually accompanied by gusts, hail, rain, squalls and electrical storms which could be very frightening. Many a stout ship fetched up on the shoals of the Chesapeake during a south-west gale. The settlement with its sprawl of log cabins dotted in between blackened stumps, its slippery wharf, its shimmering river, was the centre of his universe. He had no inclination to leave it even for a few days but he had promised to deliver Regina’s order, and goods for Mr Harding had also arrived in the last shipment.
Abigail said, ‘Mr Harding usually comes about this time of year.’
Gav tried not to lose his temper.
‘Abby, you know as well as I do he won’t be coming now.’
She put a hand up to shade her eyes as if from anxiety.
‘I’m never happy about you going there.’
‘I know you’re not, and I know why. I wish you’d try to like Regina, Abigail. Or at least not actively dislike her so much.’
She was standing at the kitchen table ironing clothes and she smoothed the iron back and forth without concentrating on what she was doing.
‘I can’t help it.’
‘Yes you can. You just don’t try.’
‘She frightens me.’
‘That’s just because you don’t understand her.’
‘Promise me you won’t stay long.’
He sighed.
‘I promise.’
‘Just the one night to rest after the journey?’
‘Yes, all right.’ He ran his fingers through his wiry red hair in a gesture of irritation. ‘But I don’t understand you, Abby. You’re always so level-headed as a rule. Why on earth are you so jealous of Regina that you can’t bear me to stay at her house for more than one night? You’d think she was my lover instead of my sister to hear you talk.’
Her face screwed up with worried intensity.
‘I don’t think it’s jealousy. Not altogether. It’s this apprehensive feeling.’
In a way he knew what his wife meant. He could never be quite sure what Regina was thinking or what she might do. All the same there was no need for Abigail to be so possessive and to try and stop him from going to Forest Hall. Later he tried to reassure her again but without success. Nothing he could say could make her feel any happier about the trip and eventually, despite her tense and unhappy attitude, he set out on the long trek through the forest.
He sat at the front of the covered wagon, his gun across his lap, the reins dangling between the fingers of one hand, his pipe gripped in the other. Booster rocked to and fro at his side, every now and again breaking into song to pass the time.
‘Lord, I want to be a Christian,
In—a my heart,
In a—my heart.
Lord, I want to be a Christian,
In—a my heart,
In a—my heart.
Lord, I don’t want to be like Judas,
In—a my heart,
In a—my heart.
Lord, I want to be like Jesus,
In—a my heart,
In—a my heart.’
Puffing at his pipe, Gav thought how interesting it would be to see how Regina’s little girl was progressing. Lottie must be running about and talking now. He had brought some candy that Abigail had made for her. It seemed no time ago and yet a lifetime away since Regina and he had been children themselves. He remembered how Regina always used to waken first in the morning and lightly touch him and his mother to make sure that they were still there. Her stealthy touch always wakened them and he used to be angry at this habit of hers. Looking back he realised now that Regina had been a nervous and insecure child. She’d always liked to hold his hand when they went home to Tannery Wynd in case any of the harlots who lived upstairs, or Blind Jinky and his savage dog who lived next door, suddenly appeared to menace her. Coming home from school on dark nights too she had clung nervously to his coat tails. The school had been down near the river and he had been a bit frightened himself at the noise of the clappers used by the lepers to warn of their approach as they shuffled across the bridge from the leper hospital in the village of Gorbals.
Booster was beginning to get sleepy but he still managed to keep the occasional verse going.
‘Before I stay in hell one day,
Heaven shall—a be my home;
I sing and pray my soul away,
Heaven shall be my home.’
Both Re
gina’s life and his own, Gav decided, were heaven now compared with what they had been in Glasgow. He liked old Glasgow. He had fond memories of the place as well as harrowing ones but there could be no doubt that the quality of life here and the opportunities were better. Regina and he had been ragged beggars in Glasgow. If they had stayed there how could Regina have become mistress of a large mansion house in many acres of land? How could he have become a manager with servants and slaves working under his orders? How could he have acquired his own home and land on which to produce good food and keep his family well nourished?
America was God’s own country, although he had to admit next day when the wagon at last rumbled and creaked and jerked from the tangled denseness of the forest that this particular part of it was not his favourite.
The forest had been gloomy enough but Forest Hall never failed to depress him.
‘Hello-o-o, the house!’ he called.
He wondered if Lottie was becoming more like Regina in appearance. The last time he’d seen her she’d had Harding’s black hair and dark eyes but fortunately she had Regina’s even features.
Regina was writing at the desk in the drawing room when she heard Gav’s call and felt an immediate surge of pleasure at the sound of his voice. She put down the quill and carefully closed the slope-fronted desk before swishing from the room. When she reached the hall, Lottie called excitedly from the top of the stairs.
‘Horses and wagon, Mama.’
‘Yes, it’ll be your uncle Gav. Come down and say hello and curtsy nicely to him. Watch her on the stairs,’ she added sharply to Flemintina who rushed to catch the child’s hand.
Westminster came running to open the doors and then, along with Joseph, hastened to attend to Gav’s horses and wagon.
Gav took the outside wooden stair three at a time and as usual gave Regina an enthusiastic hug and kiss. As always she tutted and pushed him away.
‘Lord’s sake, Gav, you’re getting more like an ox every time I see you.’
The Tobacco Lords Trilogy Page 83
