by Valerie Wood
‘The pink, Miss Lucy, it enhances your colour.’
She had turned and given Sarah a bright smile as she left, but no hug as she might once have done, and no message for the sick at home.
Sarah settled back against the soft leather upholstery and prepared herself for the long journey.
‘I’m sorry that your visit has been cut short, Sarah, but I’m sure there will be other opportunities to come to London.’ John gave a thin smile, ‘I don’t think we shall be able to keep Lucy away.’
‘I don’t think so, Mr John. I’m no longer necessary to Miss Lucy. She can manage quite well with a personal maid. She no longer has any need for a companion, except perhaps when she returns home to Garston Hall.’
She saw the frown on his face. ‘It’s perfectly all right, sir. I’m not sorry to be returning. In fact I’m so happy I’m almost bursting.’ She smiled, her face radiant, then it clouded as she thought of her sick mother and Ma Scryven.
‘But if you are not to be Lucy’s companion, then what will you do? You cannot become merely a housemaid, you have more to offer than that.’ His tone was anxious and he rubbed his chin thoughtfully as he looked at her. ‘What must we do with you, Sarah?’
‘I haven’t yet decided, sir. I only know that I’ll not leave Monkston. The time spent here in London has determined me on that. I belong there, nowhere else.’
John had told Harris to go as fast as possible, changing teams when necessary, and they would travel through the night stopping only briefly for food and rest. But on the second evening he decided that they would stay overnight at an inn. Harris was tired and he could see that Sarah was quite exhausted, though she was anxious that they didn’t stop on her account.
‘I’ll see to ’osses and then go to bed, sir,’ said Harris wearily. ‘We’d best have an early start again in ’morning if we’re to reach Hull before nightfall as tha wants.’
Sarah’s body trembled with tiredness from the jolting of the carriage, but she ate a little supper and then asked John to excuse her, saying she would go to bed.
‘I shall go to my room also,’ John rose from the table. ‘I’ll read for a short while. I’m not yet ready for sleep, even though I’m tired.’ He looked drawn and troubled, and she longed to smooth his forehead, to soothe away his weariness.
She paused at her door, her hand on the doorknob. ‘I have some herbs with me which would help you sleep,’ she urged. ‘They only require hot water.’
He laughed at her and refused. ‘You’re turning into another Mrs Scryven. God bless her,’ he added soberly, ‘I hope we are in time, Sarah.’
She smiled sadly. ‘I pray we are. Good night, sir.’
She undressed slowly, folding her gown and petticoat neatly so that she could dress quickly in the morning, and slipped her nightshift over her head. She lay on top of the bed and drew just a sheet over her. Although the weather was cooler as they came further north, the room was stuffy. There had been a big fire burning when they arrived which she had damped down with water from the jug on the washstand, making it spit and hiss and send out columns of sooty smoke into the room.
She must have dropped asleep instantly, for she hadn’t blown out the candle which was still burning, its flame flickering steadily, when she awoke with a start some time later. She sat up shivering and drew the blanket around her. The room was cold and the fire was almost out, the red embers burnt away to fine grey ash.
A cup of camomile is what I need to warm me and make me sleep, she thought. But I have no hot water. Could I, I wonder, find a maid to ask for some? I’ll see if there is someone about.
She put her shawl around her shoulders and taking the candle she padded barefoot to the door and looked out. A lamp was burning low on a table in the corridor, and she saw the shadow of someone coming quietly up the stairs. She drew back into the doorway in case it was another guest at the inn, then spoke a whispered greeting to John as he passed her door.
‘What’s wrong, Sarah? Are you not well?’ He was alarmed at seeing her there in only her nightclothes and shawl, her hair loose and hanging down her back.
‘I was going to find someone, to get some hot water for an infusion.’
He looked down the silent corridor. The inn was quiet and all he could hear was the regular sound of the pendulum clock in the hall below, which seemed to keep time with the thump of his own heartbeat.
‘Wait there, Sarah. My fire is still in, I’ll bring you some.’
As she stepped back inside her room she realized that he must have been out, for though he was bareheaded, his greatcoat was draped around his shoulders. Perhaps he, too, had been unable to sleep.
He knocked quietly on the door a few minutes later, a dish of hot water in his hand.
‘May I make you a cup of camomile tea?’ She opened the door and indicated the table where she had placed two cups and the bag of dried flowers. ‘I have enough for two and it will help you sleep.’
‘Sarah!’ He put the dish down on the table. He tried not to look at her as he spoke, but his eyes were drawn to hers, to her white throat and the narrow ribbons round the neck of her thin shift below the shawl which she held discreetly about her.
He glanced away to the floor so that he might not embarrass her, but she appeared to be unabashed as she poured water into the cups, and unaware of his discomfiture as he gazed at her small brown bare feet.
‘I shouldn’t be here, Sarah. Don’t you know that it isn’t wise to invite a man to your room?’
His voice cracked hoarsely as he spoke. He wanted to stay. He wanted to stay all night. There was within him a wildness which desired to capture her innocence, but also a tenderness which wanted to protect; and he knew he was bound on his honour as a gentleman to leave her here, and go back down the corridor, frustrated and wanting, alone to his room.
‘But you wouldn’t harm me, John? I wouldn’t have invited you otherwise.’ His name slipped so easily and familiarly from her tongue. There was a softness flowing from her, a glow which lit her upturned face.
‘I wouldn’t harm you.’ Impulsively he traced with a finger the wispy curls on her forehead, her freckled nose, her lips, where he tenderly drew their outline. ‘I would not harm you, Sarah, because I love you.’ He spoke softly, his blue eyes lingering on her face. ‘I love you, Sarah. But you know that already, don’t you?’
She nodded, her eyes following the strong curve of his cheeks, the straightness of his nose, and she raised her hand to stroke his beard.
He caught hold of her hand and gently kissed it. His fingers stroked her bare arm, and with a soft groan he gathered her into his arms. ‘It seems as if I have waited a lifetime for you, Sarah.’
She smiled, her lips apart, as she felt their love reaching out, entwining and enfolding their receptive minds and bodies, and reached to touch his mouth with hers. ‘You have,’ she whispered tenderly, ‘only it is mine, not yours.’
It was growing dusk as they clattered through the familiar streets of Hull on the third day and swiftly changed the sweating horses at the yard so that they might continue the last part of the journey with more speed.
They sat smiling at each other, sitting close that they might touch or whisper, but as they drew nearer to Monkston and saw the patchwork of brown earth and green and yellow fields, and the streaked evening sky above them, they drew apart and grew silent, each lost in their own thoughts.
Presently John spoke quietly, taking her hand in his, ‘I love you, Sarah, and I want to marry you. I want you to be with me always.’
She leant towards him and kissed him. ‘And I love you. I always have, ever since I can remember. Not like this, not the same, but I have always loved you.’ She turned sadly away from him. ‘But we can’t marry. You know as well as I do that it is impossible.’
He started to protest, but she put her hand over his mouth. ‘They wouldn’t allow it, not your family or mine. Not Mrs Masterson, nor my father.’ Her dark eyes were wet. ‘We would be shunned. We would ha
ve no friends, nor family, we would be quite alone; and it’s family which gives meaning to our existence, without it we couldn’t endure life!’
‘You would be my family, and I yours,’ he said passionately. ‘Without you, Sarah, my life has no meaning – has never had, when I think about it. I have not had the advantage of a long, loving relationship with my parents as you have.’
‘Are you not content,’ she wept softly, ‘that we have this love? Is it not enough to know? Do we have to make it commonplace, to talk of marriage, when we have a union in our love for each other?’
‘No,’ he cried angrily, and she was shocked by the violence of his manner. ‘It isn’t enough. I need more. I need to have you near me, to show you off on my arm, to introduce you as my wife, not hide you away as if we were ashamed!’
She said nothing, but gazed out into the darkness so that he couldn’t see her distress.
As they pulled to the top of the Aldbrough hill, her voice broke as she said, ‘I can see the sea. We’re almost home.’
He put his arm around her and kissed her wet cheek. ‘There have been times when I wished never to see the sea again,’ he said. ‘But it gladdens me now to know that it welcomes you back.’ He turned her face towards him so that she had to look at him. ‘We must resolve this matter, Sarah. We can’t just leave it like this. When shall I see you again?’
‘In time, John, all in good time.’ It was as if she were the older, wiser person, consoling him. ‘I must first see to my mother and Mrs Scryven, and to Mr Masterson. We have plenty of time in which to decide.’
They were passing the churchyard at Tillington. The grey stones of the new spire built on to the old church the year before pointed skywards like a cautionary finger and she gave an involuntary shudder.
John too looked out at the white gravestones leaning sombrely in the darkness. ‘I haven’t the time, Sarah. I’m already over thirty. I’ve waited long enough, I want you now.’ He put his arms around her and kissed her passionately. ‘I want you now, not next week, next year, but now.’
‘I knew tha would come home, if tha could.’ Will greeted them as they drew up at the door, relief showing on his lined face. ‘Thy ma’s a bit better, Sarah, ’fever has passed, but Ma Scryven’s only just hanging on, it’s as if she’s waiting for thee.’
He touched his forelock to John. ‘I thank thee for bringing her safely home, sir. I would’ve been worried about her travelling all that way, it’s not safe for a young woman alone.’ He lifted their bags down and carried them inside. ‘Mr Masterson is still abed, he said to go up as soon as tha got here. He’s been in a lot of pain and we did what we could for him, but it’s not easy with Maria and Ma being so poorly.’
He shook his head wearily and put his hand to his eyes. ‘You wouldn’t believe how fast ’fever took hold, Sarah, half ’village has been sick. I thought we were going to lose thy ma.’
‘Don’t worry now, Fayther.’ Gently she took his arm. ‘I’m here to help you. Together we’ll pull her through.’
John stood and watched them as father and daughter turned and went through the kitchen door. She looked back before she entered and gave him a small, still smile, then with a stony face he climbed the stairs.
Sarah was quite unprepared for the marked difference in her mother. It was just over two weeks since she had left for London but it seemed like a lifetime as she sat by her bed and gently stroked her pallid cheek. Her once thick dark hair hung thin and straggly, and wisps of white framed her gaunt features.
‘I’m much better, Sarah,’ she whispered. ‘Just a little weak, that’s all. I’ll soon be up and about. But look to ’maister, poor man, wilt tha? And to Ma Scryven. I haven’t seen her, they wouldn’t let me get up, but I think she hasn’t long.’ Maria’s voice trembled as she spoke of the old woman who had been like a mother to her for the past sixteen years.
Sarah climbed the stairs to the top of the house where Ma Scryven had her room and quietly opened the door. Lizzie had kept the curtains closed during the day to keep the brightness of the small square window from hurting the sick woman’s eyes. There was a dim lamp burning on the table by the bed and Sarah turned it up to be able to see the small bundle of humanity curled up in the bed.
The old woman looked like some small animal who in its pain had crawled for comfort into its final resting place. Her hand was under her cheek and her knees drawn up to her chest. Her eyes were closed as Sarah bent over and listened for her breathing. Softly she touched her cheek and instantly she opened them. She gazed as if unseeing and then closed them again with a small, quiet sigh.
‘It’s Sarah, Ma. Can you hear me?’ She sat on the side of the narrow bed and stroked her hand. There was a faint but perceptible movement of the head and Mrs Scryven opened her eyes again.
‘Sarah!’ Her name was uttered softly and with effort. ‘I’ve been waitin’ for thee.’ Again she closed her eyes as if the effort of speech was too much.
Sarah waited again, not wanting to disturb her, and presently got up from the bed and moved across to the window and drew back the curtains. There was no cloud and the deep vault of night-blue sky was scattered with stars. In the silence she could hear the steady rhythmic thrash of the waves as they beat on the shore. There was a sudden quiet movement behind her and she turned to see Ma Scryven looking at her, her small eyes bright.
‘Sarah?’
‘Yes, I’m here. Can I get something for you?’ Sarah knelt down so that her face was level with the small wrinkled one in the bed.
‘I’ve everything I need,’ said the old woman. ‘I don’t need much for my journey.’
Sarah felt a great emotion rising up in her as she faced the sight of death before her.
Mrs Scryven must have sensed her fear for she gave her a small twisted smile. ‘Don’t be afraid, Sarah. When ’time is right, death is welcome. It’s only in youth that we spurn it.’
She put out her hand. It was still and cold in Sarah’s. ‘Tha must tek my place here after I’m gone. Tha knows about herbs and potions and there’s many folks who’ll need thee, poor folk who don’t know how to fend for the’selves.’
She must have seen the hesitation on Sarah’s face, for she added softly, ‘Tha must put on one side thine own desires.’ She looked as if she wanted to say more, but the effort was too great and Sarah bade her not to tire herself.
‘I am going to rest,’ she said wearily. ‘I’m ready for it.’ She closed her eyes again and then suddenly said in a clear voice, ‘Open ’window, Sarah. I’ve a great want for a breath of sea air.’
Sarah rose from the floor and slid open the window. The thin curtains billowed as the air blew in with a rush and she leant out and took a deep breath. How good it was to be home again. There was a sharp coldness, as if autumn was meeting winter for the first time and she could taste the salt on the air. She smiled as she inhaled. Yes, this was where she belonged. She felt happy and full of vibrant life. She was home, and she was loved and loved in return. She turned back into the room to tell her old friend her secret but her smile slowly faded. Ma Scryven had slipped silently away.
* * *
‘You’d better get back to the office, John. There will be decisions to be made that the clerks can’t deal with. I’m much easier now.’ Isaac sat in an armchair, his swollen legs on a footstool. ‘Sarah’s made me comfortable.’
She had made him a potion of herbs, and wrapped his sore joints in comfrey leaves, and to please her he had submitted to her administrations. However, he found that his discomfort had eased. Whether it was her medicine or the fact that he was being cared for he couldn’t decide for, although Lizzie and Janey had done their best, he knew they were nervous of him and scuttled out of his presence as soon as their duties were done, whilst Sarah made sure that everything was within his reach, that his cushions were plumped up and his books were by his side. The only thing that she had moved away so that he couldn’t get at it was his brandy decanter, and she laughingly refused to give it
to him.
‘That’ll be a treat to look forward to, sir,’ she’d teased. ‘Just as soon as you are moving about again.’
John stood with his back to his uncle, gazing out of the window. Yesterday they had buried Mrs Scryven. Will and Tom, Martin Reedbarrow and his son Joe had carried the small coffin in front of this window so that Mr Masterson might pay his respects, and then taken it round to Maria’s window where she leant, pale and unsteady, on the sill and said a silent goodbye to her old friend. He and Sarah, Lizzie and Janey had walked behind, to be joined by the villagers, who followed them to the small church which sat precariously on the headland only yards from the sea.
He had not had a chance to speak to Sarah alone until that same evening, when, as he went out for a stroll, he’d chanced to see her walking towards the churchyard with a bunch of flowers.
‘Be careful here, Sarah.’ The graveyard stretched to the cliff edge. ‘I can’t think why they still use it, why they don’t use the graveyard at Tillington.’
‘Ma Scryven asked that she should be buried here. She said she was within sight of home and all of us. We were the only family she had.’ She’d smiled sadly then, and he’d known that it wasn’t the right time to talk about their future.
‘I wanted to talk to you, Uncle, before I leave.’ He sat down beside Isaac. ‘I wanted to ask you what would be expected of me should I decide to marry?’
‘Oho,’ Isaac’s face brightened. ‘So, there’s something in the wind, hey? My word, your aunt will be pleased to hear that.’
‘No!’ John got up in some agitation and his uncle looked at him in surprise. ‘I’d rather you didn’t discuss it with my aunt, not yet. Nothing has been decided. I merely wanted to hear your views.’
‘If that is what you wish, John. I know, women do tend to get carried away over these issues. Well, you must make a good contract, of course, that goes without saying. Heaven knows we don’t need the money, but a suitable dowry enhances the alliance.’ He smiled. ‘I imagine there won’t be any difficulty there?’
