The Lonely Wife

by Val Wood

  Beatrix spoke up when Mrs Fawcett showed no sign of doing so. ‘That will be fine, thank you, Mrs Newby,’ she said, taking her cue from her mother. ‘There’s nothing more inviting than a cosy kitchen, is there?’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t call it cosy, miss,’ Mrs Newby responded. ‘Kitchen has been little used since Mr Dawley’s funeral, God bless his soul.’

  Mm, Beatrix thought. A different view from that of Charles’s father, who seemed to regard his uncle as a nuisance for living so long.

  ‘Aye, he’ll be sorely missed in these parts,’ Mrs Newby went on. ‘Would you come this way, ma’am, miss?’ She led them to the door at the side of the candle holder and they entered an enormous kitchen, with every kind of cooking accoutrement hanging over a heavy iron range. ‘I’ve made soup and cooked a ham, so perhaps you’d like that with bread and mustard? I’m not a cook, but I know Mr Charles likes that for his supper when he visits.’

  ‘Indeed, that will be very nice.’ Mrs Fawcett softened. ‘It’s difficult to know what to offer strangers, is it not?’

  ‘Aye, it is, but I understand you won’t be strangers for long?’ She lifted an enquiring eyebrow towards Beatrix, who blushed.

  ‘That’s right,’ she said shyly. ‘Charles and I are betrothed.’

  ‘Aye, so I hear.’ Holding a thick cloth, the housekeeper lifted a huge black pot from the kitchen range where the fire burned low and placed it on a mat on the large wooden table, then turned to reach into one of the many cupboards and bring out three bowls.

  ‘Shall I serve you now, ma’am, or wait for Master Charles? Ah, I hear him coming now. I’ll dish up and it’ll be cooling.’

  Beatrix had heard nothing, but Mrs Newby was obviously attuned to every squeak or footfall in the house, for a minute later Charles pushed open the door.

  ‘Do start,’ he said. ‘You must be famished.’ He sat on a stool at the head of the table. ‘The famous soup of Mags Newby! What is it today?’ He bent to sniff the bowl’s contents. ‘Ham, celery? What else?’

  ‘Oh, onion, potato, anything to hand, Master Charles. You know me, nothing gets wasted.’

  She sliced the ham into thick and succulent slices and placed three large plates, a small bowl of mustard and another of horseradish on the table, with slices of bread and a pot of butter to the side.

  ‘If you’ll excuse me now,’ she said, ‘I’ll pop upstairs and check the fires, for I’d guess you won’t want to be late out of bed. Master Charles, I’ve put you in owd Uncle’s room. I hope as you’ll be happy with that? It’s well aired and ’linen’s fresh.’

  They ate their soup in near silence, Beatrix and her mother almost too tired to talk, but both managed to say how good it was, and how tender the ham.

  ‘Mrs Newby said she wasn’t a cook,’ Mrs Fawcett remarked, ‘and yet that was delicious. Was she your great-uncle’s housekeeper for very long?’

  ‘Yes, I believe so,’ Charles answered. ‘Certainly I remember her from many years ago. The Newbys are a local farming family.’ He hesitated. ‘They were good friends of my great-uncle. They took great care of him as he became older and more infirm. Much more than his own family did.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  Beatrix and her mother were in adjoining bedrooms; a fire was flickering in each room and thick curtains hung at the tall windows, whilst soft sheets and blankets covered the beds, topped by feather quilts.

  Mrs Fawcett was asleep in minutes, but Beatrix, having thrown back the quilt and pulled one of the curtains aside a few inches, lay in semi-darkness listening to the silence.

  In London there was always some sound after dark: the clip-clop of hooves or rumble of a cart, or drunken voices singing or shouting; and then, as dawn broke, the clank of milk pails over a dairy maid’s shoulders, or a whistle from a baker’s boy as he passed with a basket of freshly made bread, and always the reverberation of cabs and delivery carts, the hammering and crashing as old buildings were demolished to make way for new, and the constant hum and throb from the nearby streets of the world’s largest city.

  Here, she couldn’t hear anything but the buzz of her own ears; she lay still, listening: surely there was something? She drew up the quilt and closed her eyes; when she opened them she saw that it wasn’t completely dark after all, for the pale light of the moon she had seen earlier was filtering through the gap in the curtains.

  She lifted her head when she heard a rustling and twittering below the window. There must be creeper on the walls, and birds nesting within it, perhaps shuffling in their nests to get comfy, she thought. Then a bark of a dog, or perhaps a fox, she couldn’t distinguish which; a few minutes later she heard the hoot of an owl, a sound she rarely heard from her bed at home. He’s on the hunt. Gone out to look for supper. The thought pleased her and she turned over on her pillow, tucked her hand beneath her cheek and was instantly asleep.

  When she awoke, daylight was streaming through the gap in the curtains and she turned on to her back to take in the size of the room, which was large, and its contents: the wide wardrobe with a drawer beneath it, much like her own at home, a chest of drawers, a marble washstand bearing a bar of soap in a saucer, a jug and a bowl, with a towel hanging from the rail beneath.

  She slipped out of bed and put on her dressing robe, then dipped a finger into the jug, which contained cold water for washing. If Mrs Newby lives next door, which wherever it is must be quite a way, she mused, I suppose we can’t expect her here early enough to bring up hot water. She poured water into the bowl and soaped her hands, then splashed her face and picked up the towel. Drying her face and hands, she went to the window and looked out.

  ‘Oh,’ she breathed. ‘How lovely!’

  Below her was a green meadow fringed on either side by thickets of bushes and trees and leading down to a wood below; beyond, between gaps in the trees, she caught glimpses of the long estuary with ships and barges plying in each direction. On the southern bank was a low rise of tree-lined hills and tall chimneys issuing thick smoke.

  It looks as if the estuary has cut through the land at some time in the long ago past, she contemplated. I wonder if from the other side, Lincolnshire I think it is, the people looking across the water at us will see a mirror image.

  Seabirds were wheeling and dipping in flight over the meadowland, some with black heads and wing tips; others, noisier than the black-headed ones, were grey-feathered with white underbelly and black wing tips, and these she thought were herring gulls like the ones she had seen on Brighton beach.

  She was eager to explore and dressed quickly, taking from her travelling bag the stout walking shoes that she used for wet weather when at home. She had packed them at the last minute as she was sure she had read or heard that the weather in the north was much colder and wetter than in the south. She wrapped a shawl across her shoulders, quietly opened her door, and listened to hear if anyone was about.

  There was no sound from her mother’s room and she didn’t know where Charles was sleeping; she guessed that it was still very early. As she crept down the stairs, a grandfather clock at the bottom showed her it wasn’t yet six o’clock, so she tiptoed to the front door. In the daylight she could see it was made from a massive slab of oak that she hadn’t noticed last night as they came in. She stood on tiptoe to slide back the bolt and then turned a heavy iron key, which she thought would screech but didn’t, and pulled open the door. Feeling the rush of air, she breathed in the scent of grass and greenery and bonfires and stepped outside, closing the door quietly behind her.

  There were half a dozen wide steps leading to the drive and she walked down them and on to the damp grass, then turned to gaze up at the big, square, stone-built house with its tall chimneys. Georgian, maybe, she thought; older than our London house. Her eyes tracked from left to right, from the windows above and those below on either side of the door, and came to rest on an attached lower-roofed stone building set slightly back from the main façade, with its own front door.

  The sun, risen n
ow in the wide sky, shed a rosy golden glow over the stone and the autumn hues of wisteria, and she heaved a breath. Oh! It’s huge and old and lovely! Am I really going to live here? To be mistress of all this? How will I manage such a house? I have no experience, so who will help me? Charles? I haven’t heard him express any enthusiasm.

  He told me that he would have to go back to London from time to time, to attend to bank matters. Does that mean he needs to earn a salary, and if so, will there be money to spend on the house? But he will receive the inheritance, so surely there will? I must ask him. I need to know.

  She turned again to look down the long meadow. Though the grass was long, there were imprints of circles as if there had once been flower beds or even ponds. ‘There has been a lawn, I think,’ she murmured, and wondered if it had all been put to grass for ease of labour and whether sheep or cattle had grazed here.

  It would be nice to have flower beds, and maybe a pond with water trickling over a statue. I don’t know how that could be achieved; could water be pumped from the house, or from a water tank?

  She sensed a movement behind her and turned her head.

  ‘Ma’am – erm, sorry; miss? I didn’t mean to startle you.’ Removing a floppy hat to reveal thick and curly reddish hair, a tall broad-shouldered man dressed in grass-stained trousers and a dark brown shirt, with a short beard and blue smiling eyes, stood before her.

  ‘You – you didn’t,’ she answered. ‘I was lost in thought. Do you work here?’

  He laughed. ‘No. At least, yes, sometimes, if there’s a job that needs doing. We keep an eye on the place now that Uncle Nev has gone.’

  ‘Uncle Nev? Do you mean—’

  ‘Sorry,’ he said again. ‘It’s what we called Mr Dawley, or sometimes Squire. He wasn’t really our uncle, though it felt as if he were. We miss him,’ he said softly. ‘I’d known him all my life.’

  She felt the scrutiny of his deep blue eyes and said, ‘I’m Beatrix Fawcett, and you are…?’

  ‘Edward Newby. You met my mother last night.’

  ‘Ah, yes!’ She smiled, feeling more comfortable now that she knew the connection. ‘She fed my mother and me with delicious soup.’

  He nodded. ‘She’s famous for her soups. Did you have a good journey, Miss Fawcett? It’s a long trail from London.’

  She agreed that it was, and then said, ‘Your mother told us last night that she lived next door, but I don’t see any other houses. There are the barns behind, but—’ She shrugged, and glancing at the attached building nodded towards it. ‘Or perhaps that’s where she meant?’

  ‘No!’ He grinned. ‘There’s a door inside there that leads into the main house. Owd uncle used to put his relatives there on the rare occasions they came to visit. We live a mile up the lane; it was part of Dawley land at one time, until …’ there was a mere fraction of hesitancy, ‘until my father bought it from Uncle Nev.’

  ‘Next door is a mile away!’ She smiled. ‘I can’t imagine what my friends will say when I tell them.’

  ‘Are you a city g— Erm, young lady?’ he asked.

  ‘London born and bred,’ she said shyly, and then glanced up as the front door opened and Charles stepped out, saw them and ran down the steps.

  ‘Good morning, Beatrix. Forgive my mode of dress.’ He had come out without his jacket. ‘Morning, Eddie.’ He nodded to Edward Newby.

  ‘How do, Charles. Brought Miss Fawcett to view the house? You’ve chosen a good time, weatherwise.’ Edward raised his eyebrows. ‘We’ve finished harvesting; we could have done with an extra pair of hands!’

  ‘Another time, perhaps. It’s only a brief visit to show Miss Fawcett and her mother the house.’

  ‘Am I led to understand that congratulations are in order? My mother said there were.’

  ‘Oh, yes, certainly.’ Charles affected surprise at the question. He took hold of Beatrix’s hand. ‘Miss Fawcett has agreed to be my wife after only a short courtship.’ He lifted her hand to his lips. ‘And why should a man wait when there is the delightful prospect of marriage to such beauty and poise before him?’

  ‘Why indeed.’ Edward Newby’s eyes were veiled as he answered. ‘A Christmas wedding?’

  ‘No, no!’ Charles gazed tenderly at Beatrix and put a hand on her shoulder. ‘We decided on a spring wedding. A bride needs time to prepare, so I’m told; although,’ he gazed at Beatrix as if he couldn’t tear his eyes away, ‘next week wouldn’t be soon enough for me.’

  There’s something happening here that I don’t understand, Beatrix considered. They have had some confrontation, I would guess, but they are not likely to tell me.

  ‘Have you known each other long?’ she asked, looking from one to the other. ‘You seem to know each other quite well.’

  ‘I used to come when I was a boy, as I’ve mentioned,’ Charles said. ‘Eddie’s father taught me to shoot.’

  ‘To shoot?’ Beatrix’s eyebrows rose in alarm.

  ‘Rabbits,’ Edward Newby broke in. ‘My father was a good shot. Still is. He’s never maimed any animal.’

  ‘Poor rabbits,’ she murmured.

  ‘You wouldn’t say that if you were a famer, Miss Fawcett,’ he commented, ‘and I’d reckon you wouldn’t say no to a slice of rabbit pie either.’

  She conceded that she probably wouldn’t, and on the topic of food Charles said that there was breakfast waiting in the range so they had better go inside.

  Edward Newby put on his hat again and tapped his finger to it as he said, ‘It’s nice to meet you, Miss Fawcett. I expect we’ll meet again in the spring when you come to live here. I hope you’ll like the area; it’ll be a lot different from what you’re used to, but you’ll find folk welcoming, especially when they hear you’ve come to live in Neville Dawley’s old house.’

  ‘Charles Dawley’s house now, Eddie.’ Charles looked at him pointedly. ‘The deeds are signed and sealed.’

  ‘Aye, I’m sure they are,’ Edward held his gaze, ‘but it’ll be a generation before folk round here will call it yours: as I said to Miss Fawcett, owd uncle is sadly missed.’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  ‘If you’re prepared to walk I’ll show you the estate,’ Charles said after they’d finished breakfast. There was a fire burning in the large black range in the kitchen; Mrs Newby had come early and cooked bacon, sausage and eggs and placed them in the bottom oven to keep hot. She’d left a note to say she was sorry she couldn’t stop but she had to prepare food for the workers who would be arriving at the home farm.

  Beatrix thought that she would have liked to see what the men were doing now that harvest was over, and where it was stacked, but as they were only here for a short stay she wanted to explore the house and gardens. Remembering the barns she had seen, she asked Charles if there was farmland with the estate as well as the long meadow.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ he told her, ‘but much of it is rented out. There were three other farms, until Neville Dawley saw fit to sell one of them to the Newbys some years ago.’ His mouth pinched as he spoke. ‘The Newbys were always cosy with him, even back as far as Eddie’s grandparents. Or maybe he thought that we, the city Dawleys, might break it up or sell it off after his death.’ He shrugged. ‘Which we might. He also renewed the rental terms for the other farms just six months before he died, so their rents can’t be increased for another twelve months.’

  ‘That was a very nice thing to do, wasn’t it?’ Beatrix responded. ‘His tenants must have been grateful, especially the Newbys, who had helped him out over a very long period of time.’

  Charles threw a quick glance at her, a small frown above his nose, and murmured, ‘I’m sure they were.’

  Was that a touch of resentment she heard? Was there some animosity between the families? Mrs Newby didn’t seem aware of it; she was at ease in the house at any rate, almost as if it were her own judging by her comings and goings. More likely there might be antipathy between Charles and Edward Newby. Charles would be the elder by five or six years, she thought, s
o it was doubtful that they’d played together as boys. Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps I’ll find out once we’re married and maybe I’m totally wrong.

  Beatrix asked her mother whether she would like to join them, but she decided she would have a wander around on her own. She said she’d like to explore the house and the attached cottage if Charles didn’t object, which he didn’t.

  ‘Perhaps you’d look at some of the old curtains, Mrs Fawcett?’ he said. ‘Some seem quite threadbare in places, as do the carpets. They will perhaps only be fit for burning. The whole place has been neglected and needs a lot of work.’

  ‘Of course. I’ll have a look at them,’ she said. ‘But if the curtains and carpets have some wear left in them, then a cottager might be glad of them? They will no doubt have been of good quality.’

  ‘Originally, yes, though I doubt if my great-uncle would have bought new even though he lived here all his life. I gather that he wasn’t a great spender. Typical Yorkshireman,’ he added.

  Beatrix kept on her sturdy shoes, realizing how useful they were, and took her shawl out with her. There was a cool breeze, even though the sun was warm. A beautiful day, she thought, except for the small black insects that tickled her forehead and tangled in her hair.

  ‘They’re what the locals call thrips,’ Charles told her as they stood outside the door. ‘Harvesting has disturbed them. You might be more comfortable wearing a bonnet.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’ll get one from my room. I won’t be a moment,’ and she turned and went inside. ‘I don’t know what I was thinking of,’ she told her mother, who was in the hall, about to start her tour of the house. ‘I never go out in London without a hat.’ She ran upstairs towards her bedroom.

  ‘You’ve tasted freedom,’ her mother called out.