Harry turned to the Rooks, just as they were about to leave. ‘There is more that can be done.’
Zem met his gaze and raised an eyebrow.
‘Making life easier in mill is one thing, but what about at home?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Thy weavers and woolcombers. Does thee know how many men, women and children are crammed into them cottages thee rents out? Most of space is given over to looms and the woolcombers’ charcoal fires. As thy mill grows, so does thy workforce. They all need to live somewhere. I bet fewer would be taken by smallpox and the other plagues if they weren’t so crowded in. That’s what Reverend says, anyroad.’
Zem regarded Harry for a moment, then looked around the room, sensing the charge in the atmosphere, before turning to his father and brother. Harry could not hear what was said, but could see they had a decision when Zem turned back to face the room, head high.
‘What do you have in mind, Mr Sutcliffe?’
‘The site of the old woolcomber’s shed, the one that burned down a few years ago, next to Weaver’s Row. I can build thee four cottages on that scrap of land. And me family needs the extra work now that Lizzie’s hand were maimed in that machine of thine.’
Zem nodded. ‘We’ll give thought to where else to build.’ As one, all three Rooks bowed their heads once, exited the Black Bull, then replaced their top hats for the short walk to their carriage.
10.
Martha dipped her rag into the water bowl beside her, wrung it out and put the cooled fabric to her daughter’s brow. She stroked Edna’s cheek, whispering encouragement to the eight-year-old. ‘Come on, lass, look at thy ma, let me see them beautiful eyes of thine.’
She dripped water on to Edna’s lips in the hope that some drops would find their way into the girl’s mouth, but there was no response, and tears filled Martha’s eyes as she looked down at her daughter. Wrinkled, blue-grey skin and dark circles around her eyes, hot to the touch, and heart beating double time, there was no mistaking the signs of the cholera. Half the village was down with it.
Edna groaned as cramps took hold of her again and expelled what little sustenance, and liquid, remained in the small body.
‘Doctor Ingram’s with the Rooks,’ Harry said from the doorway, and Martha jumped. ‘Whole village is suffering; there are so many shutters closed on Main Street, it’s heartbreaking.’
Martha looked at him and said nothing, then turned back to her daughter. There was nothing to say.
‘I’ll go get Emily, mebbe she can help.’
***
‘She’s here again, that ruddy basket over her arm,’ Sarah announced as she entered Lizzie’s cottage on Weaver’s Row.
‘What, Emily? Where is she?’ Martha paused, turning away from Lizzie and dropping her cloth into the bowl of cool, murky water.
‘Where do you think? Talking to thy Harry.’
Martha’s colour rose. Since Edna had died, she had spent most of her time with Lizzie, looking after her and her husband Thomas, and Sarah had taken to coming to help. It was no secret that since Betty’s death, Robert had been finding comfort in arms other than his wife’s and she could not bear to stay home in an empty house.
‘I wish he’d never suggested building them cottages. She’s there every ruddy day, and he laps it up!’
‘Thee’ll have to watch him better, Martha. Thee knows what men are like.’
‘Not our Harry,’ Lizzie croaked. ‘Not him.’
Martha wrung the cloth out, and stroked her sister-in-law’s burning face. ‘Hush now, Lizzie, keep thy strength.’
‘He’s a good man is Harry,’ Lizzie whispered before sinking back into sleep.
‘Martha.’
She looked up at Sarah, who had gone to check on Thomas. Heart sinking, she struggled to her feet and crossed the small room to Thomas’s bed as Sarah passed her hand over his face to shut his unseeing eyes.
Martha sighed. ‘I’ll go tell Harry. He can sort coffin boards out while we lay him out. Will thee watch Little Thomas while I’m gone?’
‘Aye. They’ll be running out of ground in that churchyard at this rate.’
Sarah got to her feet, and closed the shutters, then she checked on Lizzie again, before making her way to the kitchen to search out black ribbon; it would be needed for the family to wear, and to cover the doorknob to warn visitors. She’d make a wreath for the front door as well from laurel and yew, and wind the ribbon around that. She couldn’t collect the greenery yet, though, first she needed to ensure there would only be the one wreath to make.
***
‘It seems I only see thee when there’s a funeral on these days, Martha,’ Harry said as he watched his wife dress their remaining child, Little Thomas, in his Sunday best.
‘Aye, well.’
‘I thought I’d be seeing more of thee while I were working on them new cottages, what with thee spending so much time at Lizzie’s.’
‘Aye well, her brood keep us busy, especially with her only having one hand.’
‘But Sarah seems to be there every day too, can she not do more?’
‘Thee spends thy time talking with thy friends, I’ll spend my time with me own.’
Harry stared at her, then understood. ‘Not this again. Emily is a friend, no more. If thee don’t believe it of me, thee should believe it of her.’
‘Hmph.’
‘Martha, please, not again, I don’t know what else to tell thee. There’s nowt going on, all she does is pass the time of day.’
‘Several times a day from what I hear.’
‘Martha!’
She stopped what she was doing as Harry raised his voice, and sent Little Thomas waddling out of the room, then stood to face her husband, her face set.’
‘Not today. Not when I’m burying me daughter and me brother. Just give it a rest, will thee?’
Martha said naught, but her eyes prickled as she watched her husband give up on her and go to find his son.
She followed them down the stairs to the front parlour where Thomas and Edna were laid out ready for the funeral.
‘It’s right that he’s here,’ Harry said. ‘I know it’s more work for thee, Martha, but Lizzie couldn’t have coped well on her own.’
‘I’d have managed fine, Harry,’ Lizzie said from the door.
He sighed and turned to deal with the living. ‘It weren’t a disservice, Lizzie, I know thee’d have managed, I just want to make it easier for thee, that’s all. Thee’s me brother’s widow, he’d want me to look after thee.’
Lizzie softened as her gaze went to her husband’s coffin, three times the size of Edna’s. ‘Aye, I know, Harry, and I thank thee for that. There ain’t many folk who’d take on a crippled widow and her brood.’ She raised her gloved stump of a hand.
‘Stop talking of thysen like that,’ Martha scolded. ‘Thee’s got another hand, and it ain’t slowing thee down much.’
‘That’s true enough.’ Lizzie crossed the room, and strewed more flowers in both coffins. ‘They look peaceful don’t they? As if they’re sleeping.’
‘Aye. Harry’s had a photograph took of ’em. They won’t be forgot.’
Lizzie nodded.
‘Reet then, is there anything else that needs doing afore the parson gets here?’ Harry asked.
Martha and Lizzie examined the room: the coffins were placed against the back wall, draped in black and white ribbon with a multitude of flowers; and as many chairs as could be crammed into the room were arranged in rows. ‘No, we’re ready,’ Martha said, with a nod from Lizzie.
Harry grimaced, nodded and strode to the front door to prop it open for their guests and allow them to view Thomas and Edna before the service began.
***
Harry, Martha and Lizzie followed the parson and pallbearers past their friends and neighbours, and out into the sunshine. All three were numb, and barely aware of the service they had just sat through to commemo
rate their lost family.
The youngsters: Georgie, Little Thomas, and Stephen followed behind, pleased to be out in the fresh air again instead of the stuffy room, and leading the rest of the mourners out of the house and down Church Lane.
From the back of the procession, the large pine box and smaller white casket seemed to be moving on a sea of black crêpe and ribbon. At the gate, only those closest to Thomas and Edna entered the churchyard, everybody else continued to the King’s Arms to make a start on the ale and food that Harry was laying on for them.
The family, plus Sarah and one or two other close friends gathered around the Sutcliffe family grave as Reverend Brontë began the rite of committal.
Harry stared at the elaborate memorial stone he had carved after Baby John’s death five years before. Elaborate scrolls and a frieze carved around the edge, he’d also carved a statue of a young child into one of the supports that would carry the altar stone. He had a second one to put into place when they replaced the stone. Harry stared at the names already on there, and gulped as he remembered carving Edna’s name two days before in preparation.
He had thought himself hardened to it by now; he’d carved so many of his friends’ names, and their children’s as well as his own kin, but none had been as hard as carving his daughter’s.
He caught the hand of Little Thomas, his sole surviving child, and was pleased to feel Martha’s hand creep into his other, then realised Lizzie clasped Martha’s free hand. Their numbers may be diminished, but they were family, and they would make the best of the days to come; together.
11.
‘How’s our Mary doing?’ Lizzie asked.
‘Thee could at least let me in and sit down afore thee grills me,’ Martha grumbled.
Lizzie stepped back to allow her friend to clump past her into the kitchen and settle down in the most comfortable chair.
‘She’s on the mend, stop fretting, Lizzie. The coughing’s subsiding and doctor’s happy that it ain’t consumption after all. Probably her lungs are weak from mills and soot. She’ll be on her feet again by end of week.’
‘That’s good news,’ Lizzie said, and put some water on to boil. ‘Will thee have some dandelion tea?’
‘Aye, that’d do me reet,’ Martha said. ‘Has thee heard about Bart Grange?’
‘Aye, dead of the consumption last week.’
‘Aye, but that’s not all. He were the last in line, and instead of burying him in family plot near church, Rooks have bought Granges’ grave.’
‘They never have! What about bones? And where’ll they put Big Bart?’
‘Up top of new bit – alongside parsonage by field wall.’
‘That’s terrible – they should be left to rest in peace.’
‘Aye, Harry’s livid. Reckons it’s too disrespectful, even though there’s no bugger left to mourn them. He’s shocked at parson for allowing it.’
‘Well, I hope he’s making Rooks pay through nose for it. Oh that’ll be Sarah.’ Lizzie bustled to the door to let her in. ‘I wonder if she’s heard about it.’
‘Were that Emily’s voice I heard?’ Martha queried when the two women joined her.’
‘Aye,’ Sarah said with a glance at Lizzie.
‘She’s been there every ruddy morning, and afternoon too. What the ruddy hell is she playing at?’
‘Oh Martha, hush. There’s nowt going on, thee can trust Harry, he ain’t one to fool around on thee.’
‘Thee can never tell,’ Sarah disagreed. ‘It were months afore I realised my Robert were playing away.’
‘Well, I’ve had enough. I’m going to find out what’s going on, and if I don’t like it I’m putting a stop to it. I’ll be up in weaver’s gallery, I’ll be able to see what they’re saying from top of steps.’
Lizzie and Sarah shared another glance as Martha heaved herself up from her chair and clumped towards the internal stairs to the gallery above.
Lizzie shouted after her, ‘No good’ll come of it, Martha. You’d do better staying down here with us.’
She received only a harrumph for answer, accompanied by the thumping of Martha’s stick as she scaled the treads.
***
‘How do, Ellis.’
‘What did you call me?’ Emily Brontë turned on Harry, her face twisted into her fiercest scowl.
Despite himself, Harry took a step backwards, nearly falling over the stone behind him waiting to be faced. He held his hands up, still clasping hammer and chisel, to ward her off. ‘Steady on, Emily. I’m reet then, am I? It is thee that wrote that book, thee’s Ellis Bell?’
‘No! No, I am not!’ Emily stamped her foot to further stress her denials.
Harry ignored her. ‘Aye, thee is. It’s thee that wrote it. “I wish I were a girl again, half savage and hardy, and free ... Why am I so changed? I'm sure I should be myself were I once among the heather on those hills.” Them’s thy words, Emily, no matter what’s written on cover.’
Emily glared at him, her fists clenched, and Harry wondered if her basket would hold up to the force of her fingers, but he wasn’t going to let his advantage go now.
‘Anyroad, ain’t Bell one of the curate’s names? And if thee’s Ellis, I’m guessing Currer is Charlotte, and Acton, Anne. I’m not daft thee knows. Anyroad, no bugger else could write about the moors like that – reading Wuthering Heights were like seeing the moors through thine eyes.’
‘Does Martha know?’
‘Ha! I knew it! And no she don’t. I weren’t sure mesen till just now. I’ve been teaching her letters, and she’s reading it at moment, though I doubt she’ll work it out. She don’t know thee like I do.’
‘You can’t tell her, Harry Sutcliffe, you have to promise me. It’d be all round the village by noon.’
‘I don’t keep secrets from me wife, Emily.’
She scowled again, and Harry gave in. ‘All right, I won’t tell her, I’ll keep thy secret.’
Emily relaxed and Harry grinned at her.
‘So, who’s Heathcliff based on, anyone we know?’
‘No.’
‘The only lad daft enough to scrabble around moors with thee were mesen.’
‘Don’t flatter yourself, Harry Sutcliffe.’
‘I can’t help but notice there’s a similarity in the name an’all.’
‘There’s similarities to most names in village. It doesn’t mean folk are in the book. It’s just a story, with characters not neighbours.’
Harry raised his eyebrows, and Emily shrugged.
‘Well, happen I did get some inspiration from the goings on in Haworth.’
‘I knew it!’ Harry grinned at her.
Emily shook her head at him, opened her mouth, then with a glance upward, shut it again and began to climb the stairs to the weaver’s gallery, basket over her arm. Halfway up, she paused, started to turn, then changed her mind and continued upward.
***
Martha stepped forward into the doorway, blocking Emily’s entry to the gallery. She smiled at the smaller woman, who was further disadvantaged by having to pause on a lower step as Martha loomed over her.
Emily glared at her, but Martha did not move aside.
The background noise of the looms working softened then tailed away as the weavers realised something was happening and they paused in their work to watch and listen.
‘I can’t get past.’
Martha made no reply, but crossed her arms, strengthening her position.
‘Please stand aside.’
‘It’s time we had a little chat, Miss Brontë. Thee’s spending far too much time with my husband and I would prefer it if you would desist.’ Martha looked at her in triumph at her well-worded demand. No one would be able to say she wasn’t polite.
Emily flushed a deep red, and moved forward until there was just one step between them. Martha did not move, but Emily was not one to be cowed.
‘There’s nowt improper happening, you
know that well, just as everyone else does. If you don’t like Harry talking to folk, maybe you should try talking to him yourself.’
It was Martha’s turn to colour, but she was aware she had an audience and stood her ground.
‘I can still lip-read from me days in the mill, thee knows. Comes in reet handy it does.’ Martha grinned at Emily. ‘I’ve read that book an’all. Some of it, anyroad, I’m not quick with me letters like thee and Harry.’
Emily gasped. ‘Martha, no!’
‘Harry’s my husband; he ain’t thy Heathcliff. Thee’s made me a laughing stock with that ruddy book!’
‘Then stop talking and don’t tell anyone,’ Emily hissed. ‘I don’t want folk to know. As far as the world knows, Mr Ellis Bell wrote that book, and that’s the way it can stay.’
‘Well.’ Martha uncrossed her arms and rested her hands on her hips. ‘If it’s privacy thee wants to keep, thee’ll have to do summat for me to keep me mouth shut. Stay away from my Harry!’
‘Martha!’ Harry had noticed the quarrel and rushed up the steps.
Emily took advantage of Martha’s momentary distraction, and pushed by the larger woman, then hurried through the gallery.
‘What the ruddy hell’s going on here?’ Harry stared after his friend as she reached the far steps and scurried down them.
‘Is Martha reet? Did Miss Emily write that book everyone’s been on about?’ Alf Thackray asked.
Harry turned to his wife. ‘What has thee done? What was thee thinking? Thee’s full of spite, Martha Sutcliffe, and there’s nowt worse than a spiteful woman!’
‘She’s writing ruddy love stories about thee!’ Martha protested. ‘And having whole world read ’em. The pair of thee have humiliated me! Even Robert Butterworth tried to keep his dalliances private – thine are ruddy published. Ruddy Heathcliff, my arse!’
Harry stared at his wife, barely recognising her as the woman he’d fallen in love with ten years ago. Now he felt only disgust at the woman she’d grown into, and grieved for the woman she could have been had life been kinder; or if she’d chosen different words and actions over the years.
Parliament of Rooks Page 23
