The Forget-Me-Not Girl

by Sheila Newberry

  ‘Why did she choose Harbottle, I wonder?’

  ‘She lived in the castle, which the Granville family built in 1075 to protect against invasion from Scotland, but it was twice taken by the Scots, the last time after Bannockburn. And the Drake stone is near Harbottle . . .’ Isabella was an avid reader of local history books.

  ‘That’s enough of the history lesson,’ he teased. ‘Let’s get some sleep before TF wakes us up.’

  Over the next few weeks, the family settled well into their new home, with Irish Tom happily painting houses up and down the street. And soon their second child, another big, blond boy, was born with the help of a midwife paid for by Aunt Nesbit. They named him Robert Nesbit in her honour.

  THREE

  Emma

  Spring, 1843

  Emma was three years old, a determined little girl who had a mind of her own. She loved living on the farm and often spent time outside with her brother William, who hoisted her on his shoulders and introduced her to all the animals on the farm. ‘Don’t spoil her, Will,’ Sophia counselled him, but she was glad her second daughter was having a freer childhood than she had had.

  Martha was six and had daily lessons with her mother in reading and writing. She already helped with minor household chores, like her half-sister, Lizzie, who seemed very grown up at almost ten years old. Martha would pause in poring over the Bible on the kitchen table and glance enviously out of the window when she heard her little sister exploring outside in the yard.

  One afternoon Martha was supposed to be keeping an eye on Emma but didn’t notice when the little girl toddled off outside following William. He was on his way to the milking parlour, so turned and told her, ‘You can’t come with me this morning. Perhaps later on, eh?’

  Martha came and stood at the back door now. ‘Come back now, Emma!’

  ‘Off you go,’ William said, giving her a little push in the right direction.

  Emma already had a mind of her own, as her mother often said. She appeared to be obeying Martha’s call, but climbed into the dog’s kennel instead. He wasn’t there because he always accompanied William or Tobias as he was useful when it came to rounding up the pigs when they slipped out from the enclosure and went to investigate the vegetable patch. The pigs were easily spotted, but hard to catch.

  Martha was cross and decided to ignore her. Emma will come crawling out of there directly; I can spot her from the window while I’m doing my arithmetic, she thought to herself.

  Half an hour later she suddenly became aware that she had not spotted Emma for some time. Realising in a panic that she had not shut the gate, she rushed outside to the kennel. It was empty. Her mother’s words echoed in her mind, ‘Remember she’s only young, not old enough to be sensible like you, Martha.’ Martha looked round frantically: the washing was blowing on the line, high up because of the big prop. The pushcart William had made for his little sister on her last birthday was there, with her rag doll inside. She looked to the left of the enclosed yard at her mother’s vegetable garden, and then to the flowerbeds on the other side. There was a mass of lavender there, and the honeybees would be busy in the summer. Emma, when she was two, had stroked a furry little bee buzzing on the lavender, causing her mother to panic, but she hadn’t been stung. However, Emma was nowhere to be seen.

  Just then, her mother came into the kitchen, looking weary after making the beds. ‘Where’s Emma?’ she asked immediately.

  ‘She’s outside, she was in the kennel, but—’ Martha floundered, her face red as she attempted to hold back the tears. ‘Mother – the gate was left open!’

  ‘Come on then, we must find her. Suppose she went down to the pond . . .’ Sophia desperately needed a cup of tea, but she was panicking now.

  They met William on his way back to the house, and he joined them in the search. After some frantic searching, it was the dog who found her. She was not far away, under a big bush, which had concealed her. She was talking to herself as she watched a caterpillar balancing on a large leaf.

  ‘Bring her out – now! I can’t bend to get under there,’ Sophia cried to Martha.

  Martha crawled under the bush, getting scratched in the process, and seized her sister. ‘Come out, you bad girl!’

  ‘It’s you who are the bad girl, not keeping an eye on her as I asked you to,’ Sophia told Martha. She held firmly on to Emma’s hand. Martha walked behind them. It’s unfair, she thought, I am supposed to be doing my sums, and watching Emma at the same time.

  ‘The child is fearless,’ said Tobias when Sophia told him about the events that night. ‘And growing up so fast.’

  ‘Well, soon Emma will not be the baby of the family. You may have a new little son to spoil,’ Sophia said hopefully, patting the bulge hidden by her capacious apron. Martha, she suspected, might have guessed that her mother was expecting another baby, but she was not old enough to become Sophia’s confidante yet. Lizzie had guessed, of course, and helped Sophia as much as she could. She always thought of Sophia as her mother, not a stepmother.

  *

  Emma had until now slept in a cot in her parent’s bedroom. But everything changed for her one day a few months later when she was taken upstairs to bed and discovered that she was now in a corner of Lizzie and Martha’s room. Instead of the cot, she had a little single bed and the only familiar thing was that her rag doll, Rosy, lay on her pillow as she did every night.

  It was Martha who tucked her firmly into bed, not her mother, saying, ‘Don’t call out to Mother, she is not well, and has gone to bed herself. Goodnight. You aren’t a baby now.’ And she closed the bedroom door firmly. Emma cried herself to sleep.

  Much later, Lizzie tiptoed into the bedroom, candle in hand, and looked down at Emma. ‘Don’t cry, Emma,’ she said softly, ‘I have something nice to tell you . . .’

  ‘Where’s Martha?’ Emma sat up, peering over at the big bed opposite, shared by the two big girls. ‘Mother din’t kiss me goodnight, cos I was a bad girl.’

  ‘Martha is having her cocoa in the kitchen. Emma, we have a new baby sister, and Mother is looking after her, so she can’t come to say goodnight. Would you like to see the baby for a few minutes? She is only an hour old.’

  Lizzie was tired; it had been a long day for her too. She was glad she had been able to help her mother, and she was now aware of the true facts of giving birth. ‘I shan’t get married, because I couldn’t go through all that – Mother is so brave!’ she thought to herself.

  Emma scrambled out of bed and followed her sister out of the room. There was more light in the big bedroom from the large oil lamp, and Emma moved cautiously toward the bed. There was a little bundle, wrapped in a white shawl, cradled in her mother’s arms. Sophia was propped up with pillows behind her.

  She managed a smile when she saw Emma. ‘Oh, Emma, my darling, this is Jerusha, your special little sister.’

  ‘Rusha,’ Emma repeated. ‘Ru,’ she added firmly.

  Jerusha would indeed be a very special sister to Emma, who would always call her Ru.

  FOUR

  Abraham

  Newcastle, 1842

  Isabella’s father, Abraham, who appeared grey and elderly like his biblical namesake, was in fact only in his early fifties. Living apart from his wife for many years, by mutual consent, he had thrown himself into his work and built up his business, but he was a lonely man. He missed Isabella. He had indeed hoped she would join him permanently in Newcastle and take over the business in due course. Perhaps, he thought, he had been too indulgent with her. It had been a bitter blow when she left home as she did and his obstinate pride prevented him from attempting a reconciliation.

  He now pinned his hopes on his only son, Charles, who was fifteen, only to be disappointed again when the boy declared he had no interest in working in an office after boarding school, where his scholastic prowess had disappointed, but instead intended to go to sea. Charlie was at present staying with his father while he waited to join the naval training ship
in the harbour. Like Isabella and his youngest sister, Anna, he rebelled against his mother’s strictures. When Anna had earlier appealed to her father for help, he’d arranged for her to be employed as a parlourmaid in the grand house of an old friend, a prosperous mill owner in York. She kept in touch with her brother as they had always been close.

  Charlie was out and about and somewhat bored when he called in at the office to see Abraham on a balmy autumn afternoon. He was surprised to find his father sitting motionless at his desk, with his head in his hands. ‘What’s wrong, Pa?’ he exclaimed, concerned.

  ‘Headache . . .’ was the tetchy reply. ‘Letter here addressed to you. Your orders.’

  Charlie saw that the envelope had been opened. He suppressed his indignation, for he could see that his father looked drawn and ill.

  ‘Brandy, boy – fetch me a glass, will you?’ Charlie noticed that the bottle was almost empty.

  ‘Medicinal,’ his father said, seeing his concern. ‘Only thing that helps.’

  The clerk at his desk in the corner had his back to them, ostensibly concentrating on his ledger. ‘Don’t worry,’ Abraham told his son, as the man must obviously be able to hear their conversation. ‘Nothing goes beyond these walls. There is something I need you to do for me before you go away. I heard from my Aunt Nesbit some time ago that Isabella, the Irishman and their children are living near her. I replied today that I have booked you a seat on the first stage coach to Harbottle tomorrow and have asked her to arrange that your sister and her children will be with her when you arrive. You will return the same night.’

  ‘But Pa – won’t you visit them yourself? Why don’t you come with me?’

  Abraham shook his head. ‘I don’t wish Isabella to see me like this. You can deliver a letter.’

  TF and Isabella, Harbottle 1842

  Isabella was happy living in Harbottle, and to be wearing smart clothes again. She had no worries about money now, for Tom was busy working. She liked keeping Aunt Nesbit company each afternoon when she would visit with her two little boys.

  One afternoon, Isabella was unaware, as she ushered her children along the path to Aunt Nesbit’s house after dinner, that she was about to have a pleasant surprise. TF followed after his mother, holding on to his small brother’s chubby hand. Robbie was eighteen months and a determined toddler. ‘Stay on the cobbles, Robbie,’ TF warned, ‘or you’ll be runned over!’ A large cart, drawn by a dray horse, clattered past.

  Robbie held out his arms to his mother as they arrived at Aunt Nesbit’s front door. ‘Up!’ he commanded, eager to bang the knocker. He was a boy of action, but few words.

  The door opened almost immediately and when she realised who was smiling and welcoming them in, Isabella exclaimed, ‘Charlie! Is it really you? What on earth are you doing here?’

  ‘I came to see you! I hope you’re glad to see me?’

  ‘Of course I am! But you’ve grown so much – you were just a little boy when I saw you last!’

  ‘I was bigger than these two – aren’t you going to introduce us?’

  Isabella hung her cloak on the hall stand. ‘Charlie, this is Thomas Frederick, known as TF, and this is Robert Nesbit, who is known as Robbie. Boys, this is your Uncle Charlie!’

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ Charlie said politely as he bent to shake their hands.

  ‘You’re winking, Uncle Charlie,’ TF said, trying to wink back.

  ‘Well, you are the first to call me that, and I must say I approve!’

  ‘You don’t look like an uncle; you haven’t any whiskers on your face!’

  ‘When are you coming in to include me in the conversation?’ called Aunt Nesbit.

  She was a small lady, wrapped around with blankets and sitting in a chair with a footrest. Her snow-white hair was covered by a frilly cap, which was tied with ribbons under her chin. She wore a black dress with a shawl round her bowed shoulders fastened at the front with a sparkling brooch. Tiny diamonds surrounded a lovely blue stone, which she told a curious TF was lapis lazuli. It had been left to her by her grandmother. ‘They say it aids the memory,’ she added. ‘I suppose you could say I am of an age to need it now.’ She was actually very perceptive still, and had a lively interest in the world at large, even though she never stepped outside her house nowadays.

  TF and Robbie were patted on the head in turn and Robbie said hopefully, while trying to dodge this attention, ‘Pep’mint?’

  ‘TF, fetch the tin, please, let’s see if I have any left,’ Aunt Nesbit said indulgently.

  ‘Rob is Aunt Nesbit’s favourite,’ TF said to Charlie without rancour. The two of them were already inseparable.

  Her gnarled fingers opened the tin with some difficulty. ‘Ah, here you are, one each for you and one for me.’ The peppermints were soft as they were left over from last Christmas, but the boys sucked them without complaint. Robbie climbed on Aunt Nesbit’s lap for a cuddle, but TF joined his mother and uncle on the couch. He was eager to find out more about Charlie.

  ‘What do you do, Uncle Charlie? My dada is a house-painter,’ he said proudly.

  ‘Have you left school?’ Isabella asked, she’d noticed that his boyish mop of hair brushed his stiff collar and his voice lapsed on occasion into a squeak. Charlie is not yet a man, she thought.

  ‘Yes, and I am about to become a mariner,’ he said proudly.

  ‘What’s that?’ TF wiped a dribble of peppermint from his chin with his sleeve, hoping his mother wouldn’t notice.

  ‘A sailor – and you must know what sailors do—’

  ‘They go to sea in a big ship. Mama sings about them climbing the top rigging – what’s that?’

  ‘Rigging is what sailors do with the sails. I haven’t practiced that yet. I join the training ship next week. I can’t wait to go to sea and sail to faraway places – my ambition is to go to New Zealand, a newly discovered island on the other side of the world. Who knows, I might encounter pirates or cannibals on the journey.’ Charlie ignored Isabella’s warning glance.

  ‘You might have to fight the – cannonballs,’ TF said. He wasn’t sure what they were, but he seemed to have said something funny, for they were all laughing, so he giggled too.

  ‘Dada came over from Ireland on a big ship – he was very sick because the sea was so rough. He said you need bow legs to walk on the ship’s deck in a storm. Have you got bow legs, Uncle?’

  Even as Isabella was about to reprove her son for asking such a personal question, Charlie cheerfully rolled up his trouser legs, with some difficulty, because they were tapered elegantly to fit his high boots. ‘See for yourself. They are, I’m afraid, unbowed.’

  ‘Your legs are not like my dada’s; he’s got ginger hair on his. He can whistle – can you?’

  Charlie obliged, putting two fingers in his mouth to produce a shrill whistle. Aunt Nesbit clapped her hands over her ears in protest.

  Isabella was saved from more embarrassment by the arrival of the maid, pulling a little cart with refreshments for them all. Lemonade in special little glasses for the boys. ‘Be careful with those,’ Aunt Nesbit warned them. ‘They are the last two of my wedding set.’ There was tea for herself, Isabella and Charlie and a plate of small hard-baked biscuits.

  ‘We must go soon, Tom will be home and I haven’t made him any supper,’ Isabella said.

  ‘It’s getting dark, the days are drawing in.’ Aunt Nesbit caught Charlie’s eye. ‘You’ll walk them home, won’t you, Charlie? You ought to say hello to Tom, he’s a very nice fellow. Be back here in good time to catch the coach. Remember it will be along here at seven thirty.’

  Tom was indeed home, and in the kitchen. ‘I got some kippers in the market – there’s enough for one more,’ he said, after Isabella had introduced them.

  ‘I will be eating tonight with my father, thank you.’ He held out his hand to Tom. ‘It’s good to meet you at last.’

  ‘I’m glad that you can tell your father that we are well and happy living here,’ Tom said. �
��I’ll see to the boys, Isabella – take your brother in the parlour, you can talk privately there.’

  The lamp was lit, the fire flickering into life in the grate, and Isabella and Charlie were alone. ‘Has Papa forgiven me?’ she asked.

  ‘I believe he has, but he is far from well, Isabella. I don’t think he will be able to visit you. But he gave me a letter for you. Here you are.’

  The letter was written in a shaky hand.

  My dear Isabella,

  I so often think of you. Please accept this gift from your loving Papa, Abraham.

  Tears rolled down her cheeks.

  ‘He doesn’t say much, but he has enclosed a five-pound note.’

  Charlie took another piece of paper from his pocket. ‘This is Anna’s address. She would be happy to have a letter from you and promises to write back. And I will keep in touch from now on.’

  *

  Later, in their room, Isabella showed Irish Tom the brief note from her father. ‘Look, we are rich!’

  ‘Come to bed,’ he whispered. He wrapped his arms around her and hugged her close. ‘You are too thin, Isabella. You need a little more flesh for me to squeeze.’ She smiled, knowing what this was leading up to.

  ‘Ah, you’d like me to fall again, I know – you’d love a little daughter! So would I, but not yet.’

  ‘Spend that money on yourself, I’m sure that’s what your pa intended.’

  ‘No, I’ll keep it in the trunk for a rainy day.’

  *

  It would be a year before they saw Charlie again, although he wrote to them when he was in port. There was no further communication from her father, but Isabella exchanged letters regularly with Anna, who sounded happy in her situation. She was coming up to her twenty-first birthday, Isabella realised, but there was no mention of a young man in her life.

  TF was not yet at school, but he had already learned to read and write, encouraged by his mother, and one day, when Robbie picked up one of his brother’s books, she discovered that he could read too, having listened to TF reading aloud and watching his finger move along the printed words. Aunt Nesbit urged caution, ‘Too much learning too early addles the brain . . .’ Isabella didn’t agree, but she would never argue with dear Aunt Nesbit.