‘Gilbert!’
‘I apologise for my language, step-mamma, but can you blame me for feeling so illused? I work jolly hard and he knows it.’
Lorianna sighed and looked away. She had no wish to become embroiled in any quarrel Gilbert had with his father, for she had as much as she could cope with in treading the prickly path of Gavin’s moral rectitude as it was. He would not regard it as a proper or indeed a Christian thing for her to take anyone else’s side against him. As he had reminded her many times, he was not only her protector and provider but also her Lord and master in the eyes of God and man. Her loyalty and gratitude were qualities that Gavin insisted on to an obsessive degree. Not that he had any need to question her complete devotion to him, as she so often tried to tell him. But he could work himself into such a state of moral indignation and outrage that it didn’t matter what she said.
Indeed, it was more often than not her devotion that sparked off his worst criticism of her. Or at least, what she had thought of as devotion but he had regarded as her habitual and wicked pursuit of sensual pleasures.
‘The human soul,’ he explained to her, ‘is in its own nature, a spiritual and sin compounded substance, incapable of full enjoyment of anything that is not pure and spiritual like itself. But by its union with material organs, it comes to be contacted also with objects of sense and appetite and so is allied to the inferior and brutal …’
They were in the open victoria carriage with Jacobs perched like a statue up front in his navy-blue and crimson livery; as they came to the end of the long avenue of trees on the Drumcross Road she could see the market town of Bathgate tucked down in the valley below. The tall spire of St John’s rose on the left side of town. The crown-topped St David’s dominated the centre and the clock tower of the grey stone Parish Church looked over the town from the right. Around these three edifices clustered the shops and stables, houses and cottages—all looking like a toy town from this height and distance. On the far side, beyond trees and fields, the occasional pit bing rose up like a black pyramid. Beyond them again were the rolling hills. Bathgate was, in fact, surrounded by hills and looked a clean and pleasant place with the sun frosting the grey roof tiles of the houses into silver and flaming the square red tower of St David’s.
Soon muted sounds began filtering up the steep hill; the distant whistle of a train and the iron clatter of a bread van vied with the lowing of cattle and the soughing of the wind.
Mrs Forbes-Struthers lived in Marjorybanks Street, a quiet street of imposing villas at the upper end of the town. Lorianna was not particularly looking forward to the call. The woman did go on so about her servants, always complaining about them. Sometimes it was the sole topic of conversation. But her husband, like Gavin, was an elder in the church and Gavin liked to have them to dinner occasionally and encouraged her to return Mrs Forbes-Struthers’ calls.
‘Just drop me off at the corner, Jacobs,’ Gilbert raised his voice, then dropped it again. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve any spare cash on you just now, Lorianna?’
Without hesitation she opened her reticule and took out the coins she had in her purse. ‘That’s all I have, but you’re welcome to it.’
‘Bless you!’ He lifted one of her gloved hands and dropped a kiss on it before alighting from the carriage. ‘I’ll see you later.’
She watched his slim figure, jaunty now because he had some money jingling in his pocket, disappearing away down Hopeton Street. Then she instructed the coachman to turn left along Marjorybanks Street.
The Forbes-Struthers’ mansion was not as big as Blackwood House, but it was square and solid looking and the maid who opened the door was very smart in a long black dress with leg-of-mutton sleeves and lace-trimmed apron, and a cap with long streamers down the back. Nevertheless Lorianna could not help noticing that there was a strained look about her.
The hall was gloomy and smelled too strongly of wax polish and Brasso. She could see her reflection on the floor and she stepped nervously on the rugs in case they slithered away under her feet and caused her to fall. The ‘Wag-at-the-wa’ clock had been so vigorously polished with Brasso that its numbers and pendulums dazzled hypnotically through the shadows and its ponderous ‘tick-tock, tick-tock’ seemed very slow and loud.
‘What name please, ma’am?’ the maid whispered. Then after a timorous knock at the drawing-room door her hand jerked back in anguish, obviously remembering too late that it was extremely vulgar to knock at a drawing-room door.
‘Mrs Gavin Blackwood, ma’am,’ the maid announced.
‘Mrs Blackwood, how nice to see you!’ Mrs Forbes-Struthers flashed a glower at the servant before her face smoothed into a smile of greeting.
Lorianna allowed the girl to take her feather boa, gloves, silk muff and long parasol, but of course kept on her hat, an enormous creation of straw with a seagull and a great froth of net on top.
‘Do sit down, my dear,’ Mrs Forbes-Struthers said as the maid left the room. ‘Tea will be served in a few minutes. That is, if the stupid creature remembers—I don’t know what I’ve done to be tormented so.’
Lorianna tried to make herself reasonably comfortable on the slippery horsehair sofa. ‘Servants can be a problem,’ she murmured.
‘Problem? My dear, they are the bane of my life! I’ve told Brown—the parlour-maid—that if she doesn’t smarten herself up she will be out on the street without a character.’
Mrs Forbes-Struthers was a large-bosomed woman who was much older than Lorianna, nearer Gavin’s age in fact, as was her husband. They were childless and Lorianna sometimes thought that if Mrs Forbes-Struthers had had a child she might not have been so obsessed with the lower orders. At least it might have given her something else to talk about. On the other hand, she might simply have added a nanny and a nursery-maid to her list of tormentors.
Thinking of a nanny reminded Lorianna of Mrs Henning. Gavin had been complaining that she was a stupid ditherer of a woman and quite incapable of instructing Clementina or disciplining her. No doubt he was right, but it was such a pity because Clementina was obviously so fond of the nurse.
‘Are you feeling all right, Mrs Blackwood?’
‘Pardon?’ Lorianna suddenly realised that Mrs Forbes-Struthers had been speaking. ‘Oh yes, I’m quite well. Perhaps a little fatigued …’
‘Ah, here’s tea at last! No wonder you’re fatigued my dear—having to wait so long.’ And then in a lower tone and with narrowed eyes, ‘I’ll speak to you later, Brown!’
The maid, looking paler and more nervous than ever, was arranging everything on the table in front of Mrs Forbes-Struthers: a hanging silver kettle on a stand, a silver teapot, cream jug and sugar basin and dainty cups and saucers of fine porcelain. The tea consisted of thin slices of white and brown bread and butter, small macaroons and iced sponges. Everything always had to be nibbled very neatly because it was not the done thing to provide plates or serviettes at afternoon tea.
Mrs Forbes-Struthers poured the tea and handed the cup to the maid, who carried it over to Lorianna in both hands and with excruciating care.
‘And how is your dear husband?’ Mrs Forbes-Struthers enquired after the maid had been dismissed.
‘Very well thank you, I’m glad to say.’
‘Will he be at the feeing fair today? Or does he leave the engaging of farm servants and estate workers to his grieve?’
‘Oh, the feeing fair! I had forgotten about that. Is it today?’
‘Yes, it’s a wonder you didn’t catch a glimpse of it. Sometimes it spills over from Engine Street into Hopeton Street and as for the Steel Yard, it’s always absolutely packed I’m told. Then of course there’s the shows and roundabouts down Whitburn Road, where they all go at night and fritter away their fee. And the public houses do a roaring trade, I believe. My dear, a lady wouldn’t dare put a foot out of her carriage anywhere near the centre of the town on a day like this. Why, I remember once …’
Mrs Forbes-Struthers launched into a story t
hat Lorianna had heard more than once before about how she had been insulted by a drunken ex-gardener of hers.
Lorianna had a sudden wicked urge to go and watch the feeing fair—perhaps even steal a glance at the shows. Many a time when she was a young girl she had enjoyed the crush and bustle and excitement of such occasions when her father used to stroll along Engine Street looking for new farmhands, horsemen and maids. She remembered how he used to examine the men like oxen for strength and fitness by feeling their back, shoulder and arm muscles. He even used to prise open their mouths and examine their teeth. Then as the day went on bargains were struck by each farmer placing a shilling or a half-crown in his palm, spitting on it and then holding it out for the man or woman of his choice to smack his or her palm on top and seal the bargain. Bargains could also be sealed with a dram, and the back room of the licensed grocers as well as all the inns did a continuous and noisy trade.
She doubted very much if Gavin would be there. For one thing he was one of the leading lights of the Temperance Society and so would certainly not seal any bargain with a dram.
When at long last she was able to make a polite escape from Mrs Forbes-Struthers and the carriage was taking her back along Marjorybanks Street, Lorianna impulsively instructed Jacobs to turn down Hopeton Street instead of going up the other way. In a matter of minutes they were at the end of Engine Street and she called on him to stop for a few minutes.
Sitting in the carriage gently twirling her parasol, she gazed along at the moving mass of farm folk so densely packed in both Engine Street and the town square at the other end—for some unknown reason called the Steel Yard—that it was a mystery how farmers could crush a path through in order to select new employees. Then as she watched she suddenly noticed a tall athletic figure instantly recognisable even in the smart tweed suit and hat tipped slightly back on his head.
Not wanting to be seen by Robert Kelso, yet somehow unable to drag herself completely away from the spectacle, she ordered Jacobs to carry on down Hopeton Street, then turn down the continuation of North Bridge Street. At the foot of North Bridge Street they turned left along South Bridge Street, only to discover that some of the fair had even spilled round there. Like the Steel Yard the street was dotted with stalls protected by umbrella covers of white canvas and offering for sale everything from safety pins and sewing needles to huge horned gramophones. The air was spiced with the aroma of smoked haddock and hot newly-baked gingerbread.
‘It’s going to be very difficult for us to get through the Steel Yard, ma’am,’ Jacobs said. ‘Do you wish me to try?’
‘I cannot see that we have any choice now that we’ve come this far, Jacobs.’
‘Very well, ma’am.’
She regretted her foolish whim to tour the streets on such a day now that her carriage was in danger of being jostled and her horse beginning to whinny in fright and paw at the air. But more than anything she began to panic in case Kelso might witness her predicament. As they pushed their way slowly across the Steel Yard she glanced along Engine Street, praying that he would not be there. She saw that he was, but his back was towards her.
‘For pity’s sake do something, Jacobs! If I don’t get away from here immediately I shall faint,’ she said, surprised herself at the keenness of her agitation.
‘Very well, ma’am.’
Jacobs cracked his whip and there were screams of fright from people milling nearby as the horse’s hooves clattered on the cobbles and sped forward. Lorianna held on to the side of the carriage with one hand and her parasol with the other. Her cheeks were burning and she felt guilty and ashamed of herself—so much so that as soon as she got safely home she went straight to Gavin’s praying stool and knelt at it with eyes closed until she felt calm again.
7
Clementina and Henny had climbed the Knock Hill. It was breezy up there and Henny had to cling on to her hat, the skirts of her blue cotton dress flapping and cracking in the wind like a flag and strands of her hair tugging out and streaking across her face. Sometimes the hair tickled her nose and made her sneeze and Clementina nearly laughed herself silly. She loved to come up the Knock and feel the wind frolicking her own hair and clothes and tingling her cheeks. She gambolled about in it like a young lamb, laughing and jumping up and down flinging up her arms and racing about pretending she was a kite.
‘You can see five counties from here on a clear day,’ Henny called out. ‘And look, Miss Clementina, what’s that away over there?’
‘You know,’ Clementina giggled.
‘Ah, but do you know, Miss Clementina? Do you know?’
‘The Forth Bridge.’
‘And what, I wonder, is that sparkling underneath it?’
Clementina rolled her eyes. ‘That’s too easy. The Forth, of course!’
Suddenly Henny grabbed the little girl’s hands and whisked her round. ‘London Bridge is falling down, my fair lady …’
Clementina skipped quickly, jerkily, her long hair streaming out behind her. Then Henny stopped, suddenly breathless.
‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ she panted. ‘Poor Henny must be getting old. I run out of puff so easily these days.’
She sat down on the grass, chest heaving. Clementina’s round green eyes fixed worriedly on the nurse. Henny had a nice chest, not big and sticking out like her mother’s or her mother’s friends. They even wore big frills on their dresses and blouses and pouched them out over their skirts, to make their chests look huge. Henny said everyone did this because it was fashionable to have what she called ‘a voluptuous, bendy-forward figure’.
Clementina was glad Henny didn’t have a figure like that. Henny was neat and straight and small enough to cuddle.
‘You’ll never get old,’ she told the nurse, pouncing on her and hugging her round the neck.
‘Don’t dear, please don’t! I feel I’m choking as it is. That’s better.’ She straightened her hat. ‘Everyone gets old, you know. But of course it takes a long, long time, so there’s no need to worry … no need at all.’
She took some slow deep breaths, closing her eyes as she did so; then suddenly they were open wide again and full of mischief and her mouth, turned up at the corners even in repose, was smiling. ‘There, that’s better. All I needed was a little rest. Now, fetch your hat, Miss Clementina and we’ll descend. But Henny will go down slowly if you don’t mind. What an old nuisance I’m getting these days—always puffing and blowing.’
‘Like a steam engine.’
‘Yes indeed. Just that, exactly. Your hat, Miss Clementina!’
‘Oh pooh! I hate hats.’
‘You hate Henny’s hats? Oh dear, oh dear!’
‘No, not your hats, Henny. I love your hats.’
‘Well, then.’
‘It’s just my hats I hate.’
‘Fetch it, Miss Clementina. Please do! You should never have taken it off and flung it aside like that. What would your father say?’
‘He wouldn’t say anything, he’d just beat me. Or lock me away somewhere horrid.’
The nurse winced. ‘Do fetch it, dear, and put it on before we walk back.’
The child scrambled across some boulders to a clump of long grass where the hat had landed. Retrieving it, she tugged it on to her head and then sat on the boulder for a few minutes, legs dangling, face brooding on the restriction of the stiff crown and flopping brim.
‘You look very pretty in it, Miss Clementina. You really do.’
‘I don’t want to look pretty.’
‘Tut-tut, of course you do.’
‘Don’t! Don’t!‘
‘Do! Do! Oh dear, I sound like a pigeon, don’t I?’
Clementina caught a giggle in her hands and then, forgetting about her hat, scrambled down beside the nurse.
‘Oh my,’ Henny said. ‘Aren’t you lucky your dress is green? It won’t show any grass stains, will it? Only I do wish your pinny was green too and your petticoats and knickers.’
‘Don’t worry, Alice will take them to
the laundrywomen,’ Clementina said cheerfully. ‘Mother and father will never know.’
‘Well, maybe so, but still, do try to be a little more careful with your pinny, Miss Clementina. If we met your mother or father they would certainly see that. I tell you what! You be careful with your pinny and I’ll carry your gloves until we come to the drive.’
This was joy indeed to Clementina. A hat was bad enough but in the country on a summer’s day, gloves were sheer purgatory. She couldn’t even see the sense in wearing them. But her mother had been shocked when she had seen her out walking hatless and gloveless with Henny one day. She had been angry with Henny and Clementina had hated her for what she had said.
‘Mrs Henning, I expect a child’s nurse to know better than this. It is not proper for any respectable girl to be seen out walking without hat and gloves. She has plenty of hats and gloves, I take it?’
‘Oh yes, madam, yes indeed. She has very pretty hats and gloves, but you see the point was—’
‘The point is, Mrs Henning, that if you don’t do your job properly I shall be forced to report you to the master.’
All the time Clementina had stood with head bowed, clinging into Henny’s skirts, just waiting for the horrid woman to go away. As soon as Lorianna had gone she burst out to Henny: ‘I hate her!’
‘Oh, no, no, no, you mustn’t!’ Henny had cried in alarm. ‘Not your own mother. That’ll never do. No, no, no, Miss Clementina!’
‘She said she would tell father.’ The child began to tremble. ‘That’s wicked.’
‘No, no, not on you, dear; never on you. Your mother would never get you into trouble.’
‘I wasn’t thinking about me. I’d rather she told on me. I’m used to getting into trouble with father and I don’t mind.’
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