by Ann Barker
She had also put some bread, butter, and bacon in her basket, together with a few other items which she knew the family would not be able to afford. She now got these out, together with a bottle of claret, which she showed to the oldest girl, who was about eight years old. ‘Jessie, you must give your mother a small glass of this every day. Put the cork back carefully each time, and do not have any yourself.’
‘Why not, miss?’ the little girl asked. The children were simply, even poorly dressed, but looked quite clean. Mrs Kennedy was evidently doing her best, although how long she would be able to do so, given this fresh blow, Emily did not like to guess.
‘Because it tastes horrid,’ Emily replied seriously. ‘At least, you will think so.’
Dr Boyle soon came back into the room, and eyed Emily’s preparations with approval. ‘That tea will do her good,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you take some in to Mrs Kennedy, and I’ll cut some bread for the children.’
As she picked up two cups of tea, one for Mrs Kennedy and one for herself, she marvelled again at how much more attractive the doctor became when he was being professional. He ought to marry a nurse, she thought to herself, then his wife would see the best side of him all the time.
Mrs Kennedy was much calmer when Emily took her the tea, and she was soon willing to talk. ‘I knew it would come to this, miss,’ she said wretchedly. ‘I knew it would; but would he listen? Hundreds of times I’ve tried to tell him, over and over, not to have anything to do with them scoundrels, but he always thought he was too cunning to be caught. Well, now, he’s been proved wrong.’ Emily was silent. After a few moments, Mrs Kennedy spoke again. ‘No doubt you’ll think me unfeeling, miss, but I’m not. I shall weep on the morrow, just as I’ve wept today, but it will be for the man he was, and not the man he is now. The lad I married disappeared long since.’
‘Is there anyone you wish me to inform of this sad business?’ Emily asked her. ‘A friend or relative, perhaps?’
Mrs Kennedy opened a small box which stood on a rough chest next to the bed. ‘This is where my sister lives,’ she said, handing Emily a piece of paper with an address written on it. ‘She married a man who works on the land out through Newport Gate and on a bit that way. She might help me.’
‘Would you like me to write to her for you?’ Emily asked, looking at the address.
‘Yes, if you would, miss. I can write a bit, but I can’t seem to get my head to it at the moment.’
A short time after this, one of Mrs Kennedy’s neighbours came to sit with her, and Emily and the doctor departed. ‘I am glad that the poor woman does not want to attend the execution,’ said Boyle as they began the return journey. ‘I do not think that that would have been at all wise. Would you like me to bring you down here in the gig?’
‘No, thank you, there is no need,’ Emily replied. ‘I will walk. In any case, you will be needed at the execution, no doubt.’
He sighed. ‘Yes, I fear that it is my turn,’ he confirmed. ‘It’s not a duty that I relish at all, but someone has to be there.’
It had not been so hard after all, Emily reflected as she toiled up Steep Hill the following day. Unlike yesterday, Mrs Kennedy had been calm, and she had already told the children that their father had gone to Heaven. ‘Not that I suppose he has really, miss,’ she said confidentially when, after saying the Lord’s Prayer with their mother and listening to a passage from the Bible read by Emily, they had gone outside to play for a few minutes. ‘Oh, my poor Rob! What would his mother have said, God rest her soul? Thank heaven she’s not alive to see this day!’ She did shed a few tears then, and gladly drank the cup of tea that Emily made for her.
Before leaving, Emily pressed a small purse of money into her hands. ‘It’s just a little from the church poor fund,’ she said. ‘It’s not much, but perhaps you will hear from your sister soon. I sent the letter as soon as I got home.’
‘God bless you, miss,’ said Mrs Kennedy, waving her off at the door.
No, it could have been much worse; like the time when a woman whose son was being executed had insisted on going to the hanging. Emily had felt obliged to go with her and had had to restrain her from climbing onto the cart with him.
Thoughts of the morning’s events, together with other sombre memories occupied her mind while she walked, so that she was surprised to discover that she was entering Castle Square already. She looked at the castle. It had been around the back of it, just to the right of the north gate, that Rob Kennedy had so recently been hanged. She could not repress a shudder.
‘Why, Miss Whittaker!’ exclaimed an affected society voice. ‘How very energetic you are!’ Emily looked around blankly to see Mrs Hughes, exquisitely dressed in powder blue with a white parasol trimmed with blue ribbons. One daintily gloved hand was resting on Sir Gareth’s sleeve and a frivolous bonnet framed her face and contrasted charmingly with her dark curls.
‘Good day, Miss Whittaker,’ said the baronet, touching his hat politely. She looked weary, he thought, and not just because she had climbed the hill. She seemed inflicted with a weariness that had somehow seeped into her bones.
‘Good day,’ she replied, sounding as if her heart was not in it.
‘Are you going to the prison again?’ Mrs Hughes asked, eyeing Emily’s dove-grey gown with barely veiled contempt. ‘You certainly look dressed for it.’
At this, Emily’s shoulders straightened and her eyes flashed fire. ‘No, I am just returning from visiting a woman whose husband has been executed today. She was very distressed, as I am sure even you can imagine, Mrs Hughes. I need to go home and change, if you will excuse me.’
Without waiting for a response, she hurried away from them towards the Exchequer gate and the cathedral beyond, ignoring Sir Gareth calling after her.
‘Well, really!’ declared Mrs Hughes. ‘Such provincial manners!’
At this point, Miss Wayne, who had been walking a little behind them, drew closer.
‘Forgive me, my dear Annis,’ said the baronet, his courteous tone at variance with the cold expression in his eyes. ‘I have recalled an urgent errand that must be performed immediately.’
‘Why, what upon earth can it be?’
‘Do not concern yourself with it,’ he replied smoothly, with a slight bow. ‘It’s just a provincial matter.’
After he had left Mrs Hughes, he went through the Exchequer gate and walked around the south side of the cathedral, heading for the Whittakers’ residence in Priorygate. He was half expecting to discover that she had gone to the cathedral, but she had said that she was going home to change, and he did not think that Emily would deliberately tell lies.
‘Yes, sir, she is in,’ said Mary, dimpling up at him. ‘I think she went into the drawing-room.’
Mary was opening the door, when they heard an enormous clatter from inside. They were just in time to see Emily picking up a cushion. She looked around at them, a guilty expression on her face. The fire irons were strewn at her feet.
‘Thank you, my dear,’ said Sir Gareth firmly, looking at the maid. ‘Perhaps you could bring us some wine.’
‘Yes, sir, at once,’ replied Mary with a curtsy, before leaving the room, closing the door behind her.
‘I suppose you have come to upbraid me because I was rude,’ said Emily, still clutching the cushion. ‘But I am afraid that I have no time for your silly society chit-chat.’
‘Miss Whittaker—’ Sir Gareth began, but Emily would not allow him to finish.
‘I am sure that you both looked very fine this morning, just as I know that I look exceedingly dowdy. I do not need Mrs Hughes’s affected remarks or your admirable guidance on good taste to tell me so.’
‘Ma’am—’ the baronet began again; but once more Emily interrupted him.
‘But,’ she said emphatically, ‘I cannot see that a gown like Mrs Hughes’s would have fared very well had she had to go where I have been. I am equally certain that Mrs Kennedy did not care two straws what I was wearing.’
At this, she did pause to draw breath, and Sir Gareth took advantage of this by simply remarking, ‘Quite right. I agree with you entirely.’
This was such a surprise to Emily that all she could do was stare at him open-mouthed. At that moment, the door opened and Mary came in with a tray bearing the wine that the baronet had asked for. ‘Thank you, I will pour,’ he told her. Then when Mary had gone, he said, ‘A glass of this will do you good after your ordeal.’
At this, Emily put down the cushion and busied herself with setting the fire irons to rights, her face aflame. She had spoken hastily and emotionally; now she was remembering the infelicitous nature of some of the things that she had said and her criticisms of the baronet in particular. But, because he had startled her so much, she said, whilst still looking down at the fire irons, ‘You agree with me?’
‘Yes, of course,’ he answered. ‘I won’t pretend that I’ve visited people in prison as often as you have, but I have made such visits at times, and would never wear my best clothes for those errands.’
‘You have visited people in prison?’ she echoed in surprise.
‘Certainly,’ he responded, giving her a glass of wine, which she accepted. ‘Sometimes members of tenant families or relatives of servants get themselves into trouble and I find myself obliged to try to sort things out. On one or two occasions I have been to see someone in the condemned cell. On both of those occasions it fell to my lot to break the news to some family members.’ He paused briefly, allowing this information to penetrate her mind. Then he smiled and said, in a tone of gentle reproof, ‘You really shouldn’t tar all of us with the same brush, you know. May we sit down? I cannot unless you do so as well.’
Emily looked at him blankly for a moment or two then said breathlessly, ‘Oh yes; yes, of course.’ No sooner had she done so, however, than she sprang to her feet again. ‘Sir Gareth, I must ask your pardon.’
‘For what?’ he asked teasingly. ‘For making me bob up and down like a jack-in-the-box?’ He, too, had risen.
She had to smile at his words. ‘For that as well,’ she agreed. ‘But my apology is chiefly for the terse way in which I spoke to you in the street, and then my incivility to you when you came here just now.’
They sat down again. ‘Your attitude was understandable,’ said the baronet. ‘You had just come from a scene of grief and hardship, and were confronted with two society people out enjoying themselves, who had no idea what your feelings might have been.’ He paused briefly. ‘You will have to excuse Annis. I fear she is not very sensitive.’
‘No, but it was not fair of me,’ Emily persisted. ‘Had I given the matter but a small amount of thought, I should have realized that it was not for me to judge another person’s actions. In any case, you are on holiday here, and I am not. I dare say that if I were staying on your estate, I should find that you would be very busy and I would feel idle.’ It had seemed to be such a sensible comment when she had begun to make it. Now, she feared that he would think that she was angling for an invitation and she coloured.
He was sorely tempted to tease her, but his instinct told him that now would not be a good time. Instead, he said, ‘I hope that you are feeling a little more yourself. I will take my leave, but I look forward to seeing you tomorrow on the outing to Gainsborough.’ She looked at him, biting her lip, then glanced away. He narrowed his eyes. ‘You are not thinking of forgoing that because of the tragedy you have witnessed today?’ he questioned. ‘You of all people need a little diversion, if only to refresh yourself so that you are ready to deal with the next crisis.’
They both stood up. He crossed to her side, took her hand and looked down at it for a moment or two. ‘You know, if you were visiting my estate – and I trust that you will do so, before too long – I would set aside my tasks from time to time in order to show you around. Tomorrow, you will simply be doing the same.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, smiling as he lifted her hand to his lips.
He turned to leave, but before he did so, he looked back and said with a twinkle, ‘By the way, I’m glad Aurelia taught you that thing with the fire irons. It always helps her, I know.’
She went up to her room early in the evening and sat by the window, taking up the hem of the yellow gown. While she was sewing, her mind was free to go over the incidents of the day. She was sorry that she had been so unguarded in her words to Mrs Hughes, and yet that scene had brought unexpected benefits. It had brought Sir Gareth round; had he not come, she would no doubt have spent all her time thinking about the Kennedy family. She recalled Sir Gareth’s suggestion that she might visit his estate. Did he really mean it, she wondered?
Going to sleep proved to be difficult that night. It seemed a very long time since she had arranged to go out for the day on an expedition of pleasure, and she found herself feeling excited, almost like a little girl again.
Suddenly a memory came back to her from the recesses of her mind. She could not have been more than five years old, when she had wandered into the kitchen and had found cook very busy, working at the table and calling instructions to another servant. She must have asked what was happening, because cook had turned to her, red-faced and flustered, and had said, ‘Why, Miss Emily, Master Patrick is coming home, and how I am to get all this done, I shall never know.’
Then Emily’s memory did a little skip, and she now recalled being in the nursery, and hearing the sound of a door slamming, then footsteps coming up the stairs two at a time. The next moment, the door had opened, and suddenly she was flying through the air, screaming with laughter, and grasping at a head of wavy fair hair with her chubby hands.
That must have been Patrick, she thought to herself. Somehow, her father’s constant emphasis upon the young man’s virtues had fostered memories of which he would approve, and pushed others to the back of her mind. She thought of the recollections of her brother which came to her easily: of Patrick sitting decorously at the table; going to Father’s study to read some Greek; sitting next to her in the cathedral.
Oh, but there was another memory! She had been sitting in the angel choir during the service, and getting very bored, when she had chanced to look up at where the Lincoln imp was perched. Then she had glanced at Patrick and in a flash, he had pulled a face at her of such unparalleled hideousness that she had started to giggle, and Patrick had hurriedly covered her face with a handkerchief, insisting later that she had been sneezing.
Lying beneath the covers, she laughed at the memory, then suddenly, driven by a sudden impulse, she got out of bed, lit a candle, wrapped a shawl about her and tiptoed downstairs to the drawing-room. Holding the candle so that it would throw light upon her brother’s portrait, she stared up at the young man depicted there. Imagine him in the red and gold mess dress that he so much desired, Sir Gareth had said. As she contemplated the picture, she tried hard to do that very thing. Then, picking up the candle, she turned to go. Later, she decided that it must have been a trick of the light; but at that moment, she could have sworn that those hazel eyes sparkled with merriment.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
When she woke up, the yellow gown was the first thing that she saw. The colour seemed to bring sunshine into her room, even with the curtains still closed, and after a few moments, she realized that she was lying in bed smiling.
A short time after this, there was a knock at the door and Mary, the maid, came in with a tray. Emily had told her father that she would be going out with the Trimmers and their party. Not wanting him to see her gown before it was time for them all to leave, she had taken the very unusual step of asking for breakfast to be brought to her in her room the next day. This meant that she would not have to go downstairs until she heard the door bell ring.
‘It’s a fine day, miss,’ Mary said, putting the tray down on the bedside table, then adjusting Emily’s pillows behind her when she sat up. ‘I think you’ll have a good run to Gainsborough today. Just enough rain in the night to lay the dust, I reckon.’ Having spread a little clot
h over Emily’s knees, and given her the tray on which there was a slice of ham, a poached egg, some toast and a cup of tea, she turned to go. ‘Oh, miss!’ she exclaimed, halting in her tracks. ‘What a lovely gown! Is that what you’re planning to wear today?’
‘Yes, it is,’ Emily replied. Then, a little uncertainly, she added ‘It is quite unlike anything I have worn before.’
‘I should think it is, miss,’ Mary replied approvingly. ‘You’ll look very becoming, too, if you don’t mind my saying so. May I come up and dress your hair for you before you go out?’
‘Thank you, Mary, I should be glad of your help,’ Emily replied, almost shyly.
‘I’ll just be getting your hot water, then.’
Reminding herself sternly that it was only small, spoiled children who insisted that they were too excited to eat, Emily applied herself determinedly to her breakfast, and by dint of telling herself that she could not be sure when or where they might be eating next, she managed to get it all down shortly before Mary came back in with the hot water.
Once out of bed, she lifted the corner of one curtain and saw that, as Mary had said, it promised to be a fine day. Humming to herself, she washed and dressed, taking a little more time than usual, so as to put off the special moment of donning the buttercup-yellow gown. Then at last, when she could delay no longer, she pulled it on over her head and fastened it, trying not to look at her reflection until it was on properly. Then, quite deliberately, she crossed to the window, opened the curtains, then went to the mirror, and looked at herself.
The gown might have been made for her. The neckline was demure, much to her relief, but the way that it was cut seemed to give length to her neck, and the bodice made the most of her curves which were, in truth, a little more modest than those of Mrs Trimmer. The colour brought out golden lights in her hair and gave warmth to her eyes; and if she had had any doubts in her mind as to whether the gown became her, Mary’s cry of ‘Oh miss, you look beautiful!’ immediately allayed them.
