by Clara Barley
Mr Lister didn’t manage to hide it in time. He couldn’t help but start at it when he read it. We gathered to see what it was he’d seen and he tried to close the paper but Anne snatched it from him, gasped and threw it down. I picked it up, foolishly, and I too had the shock of my life to see it.
An announcement in the paper.
Once we’d all had a look, Marian left the room, always one to avoid Anne’s temper. Aunt ordered more tea and busied herself with her sewing. I sat and cried, and Mr Lister ranted about small-minded folk, sounding much like Anne, who herself paced back and forth and then with a flourish threw the entire paper on the fire. Mr Lister had only read a few pages, but he showed his allegiance to Anne well enough by not commenting and then taking her out for a long walk around the grounds. I admire him more and more.
The announcement was for the wedding of Sir Jack Lister of Shibden Hall and Miss Walker of Crow Nest on election day. It was a slight against us both and our families.
No one but us two know of the wedding that really took place. I wonder if they could imagine the irony of it, that she is in fact wed to me. I wonder if they knew that it was true or if they simply meant it as an insult, that neither of us are now worthy of marriage to anyone but each other. If only we could be really married, legally! Perhaps we should put in a real announcement – but if we cannot even tell our own families, what chance do we stand? The businessmen we have riled and any opposition to her party will come and burn down the Hall with us all inside if they should find out.
A few weeks then passed, and I had hoped it was all over. Bullying, as Mr Lister had termed it. It was bullying, plain and simple. The lowest of the low. It comes from a place of jealousy and inferiority, he had stated loudly on more than one occasion.
He’d explained to me that those men see her, and me too, as a threat to their power and so resort to name calling, by which he meant the name Gentleman Jack, a name given to Anne years back when she first started to manage her own estate and sink her own coal pits, which has now resurfaced.
The situation seems to have worsened after the effigies. As we walk in town or attend church, men nod their heads and say, ‘Sir, Miss,’ to us, or call from afar: look who it is, Gentleman Jack! We do not recount this to the family of course; Anne never wants them to be concerned with it. But to publish in the newspaper, knowing everyone will read it, seems beyond cruel. We have received letters too, full of insults, one of them even offering to rescue me from the Listers. We try to laugh at them and ignore them. They are just words.
If only it had just remained as name calling.
But Anne comes home bloodied and will not tell us what happened. At night, once the candle is out, I feel her sobbing and hold her in my arms. It takes a lot for Anne to cry. I do not ask her about it, I just hold her and cry too, for when she hurts, I hurt. What they do to her, they do to me too; we are one in this. I am as angry as she is. Having now physically hurt her, I become afraid. What will they stop at?
Miss Lister
My father dabs the gash on my head with some stinging ointment and reassures me I will be all right, as if I am one of his men in battle. He does not seem to know what to say and I do not say a word. I wish I’d been out on a horse and could simply say I had fallen, but one does not just fall over when walking; not unless someone comes at you with a stick.
Father gets me drunk on brandy and I finally calm as the anger is drowned out by a numbness induced by the alcohol, which I rarely touch under normal circumstances. He holds my hand, an oddity for him, but I do not pull away. I do not call him a sentimental fool or ask him what he wants; he’s holding my hand because he cares for me and so I let him. I do not want him to let go. I am a young girl again who has fallen from my horse and am trying to be brave so that he will continue to let me ride, but inside all I want to do is cry.
I had let myself feel immortal. I believed that it was just name calling, that the effigies and the letters meant nothing, that they would never dream of really hurting me. The assault is a reminder of my sex, my size, my weakness. At least they could have sent someone my own size so I had a fair fight, but no, he was a giant of a man. I tried to push him away, but he caught me with his stick which sent me to the ground like a struck skittle. I curled up tight thinking he would come again and rain down blows on me and, as I feared for a moment, end my life. But he did not. Fortunately, he just wanted to scare me and left me cowering in the dirt until I regained my senses and staggered home.
I did not want the others to see, but I could not hide the blood pouring down my face and onto my clothes. I was shaken and half senseless and fell into my father’s arms. How weak of me; I am embarrassed.
How do I react to this, how do I move on? Now afraid to walk on my own land. Afraid to go outside. They want me to be afraid, to be a recluse, to hide away.
It is a reminder that what I reassure Ann and Marian, that we are safe, is a lie. We like to think that our place in society protects us, but the truth of it is we should all be afraid of them, of men, all of the time, as the only way to keep ourselves safe is to remain on our guard. I had let my guard down.
I shall have to carry a loaded pistol from now on. Damn them. Damn them all, is what I think. But I know not how I can win this.
Father sent an angry letter on my behalf to the newspaper for printing the wedding announcement, as the editors surely knew it would offend the Listers, long-standing supporters of the paper. He told them they should have checked with him first and should do so in future before printing any matters pertaining to the Listers. I let him write on my behalf. They replied with an apology. Now he wants to report the assault, but I beg him not to. It would not do any good. I never saw the man’s face anyway. He could have been anyone.
He is angry for me, but he can never understand what it’s like to be a woman. That we live with the constant fear that half the population is stronger than us and can overpower us at any time, without the slightest provocation. We women are the lion tamers, aware that our safety is an illusion, that the wildness can creep in any moment and the lion will remember his strength.
The next Sunday we all go to church in the carriage together. My father, my aunt, my sister and my wife. I let Father assert his protectiveness over the Lister clan as he escorts us into the church, leading his Lister women and our adopted Ann into his pew. He stands taller than I have ever seen him and looks quite fearsome as the folks around us stare on at the Captain who served his country. He is the Lister lion and we are his pride, following behind him, protected. Let them see the redness and bruising they have caused me.
Hidden from view behind the wooden pew, he squeezes my hand and whispers that he is proud of me. I have to hide my face in the hymn book, as it’s all too much to be required to be so brave all the time, for all of them, and for Ann, when one has been reminded so brutally that it is all just an act; that anyone bigger than me can dash away at me with a stick.
I wonder if the culprit is sitting in the church, watching. I wonder if he’ll be sent again to finish the job. I wonder about all the things he could have done to me.
I remember a time when the name didn’t hurt me and I wanted to claim it as my own, but now it saddens me to my core. I do not wish to be Gentleman Jack. I hate the sound of it and all it encompasses. They have won. I will have nothing more to do with politics.
Miss Walker
Winter is upon us and whoever it was that had set against our quiet peaceful family with no malice towards anyone, will not let it end. Not even with the shedding of Anne’s blood.
Not content with burning our effigies, insulting us in the newspaper, anonymous letters, even striking Anne, we are called out one night by the groom and race after him to see the flames tearing apart our Moss House. We stand helpless, the family, the servants, for what else can we do but watch it burn? There is no reason for it to burn other than malice. We all know, but do not sp
eak it; this was no accident.
Our joyous little sanctuary goes up in smoke into the night sky. Everything we had created, enjoyed and loved, our little heaven, our haven, our home, becomes reduced to ashes. We had been in there only that morning.
The heat of the blaze warms us against the cold winter air that surrounds us as we stand there; a line of Listers silhouetted against the bright flames in the dark night.
After a while, without words, Mr Lister leads Aunt and Marian and the others back up to the Hall. I remain with Anne. I never wish to leave her side. I hold her hand as she stands, motionless, watching the flames. I do not know what she is thinking but I fear its outcome.
It takes some hours to burn and my back aches and my feet freeze but I will not leave her. I too want to see it end, every last piece of it destroyed, the full extent of someone’s cruelty towards her, us, all of us.
In these hours, my mind races with questions. What if it had been Shibden itself? What if we’d been inside? Do they know what went on here, is that what this is about? What do they want from us? To withdraw entirely from life? To leave here? To die? Or is this the end of it? The final attack? Will we give them what they want? Close our doors to outsiders? Live out our days here and care not what happens outside our walls? Forgo our places in church, our familiar streets and haunts, our trips to York, give up the carriage, put high walls around our house?
But in time, as I stand and watch our Moss House burn, my mind quietens, and the flames become beautiful and I am lost instead to the idea of the two of us, standing here, our faces hot from the fire and our backs cold against the winter night, paying our respects to our own little chapel of sorts. I fall calm and wonder what our lives will bring next.
In the days that follow I worry that I may lose her; that some part of her may close to us. She defends herself from these attacks by not reacting, but in doing so removes herself from us too. She buries her pain deep inside and never speaks another word of the Moss House. I wonder if she is defeated and this is her acceptance, or whether she is biding her time, coming up with a plan. Is she plotting her revenge? It she planning a war?
Chapter Seventeen
Spring, 1836: The ruin of the Moss House and departures from Shibden
Miss Lister
Snow fell on the remains of the Moss House and for a for a short while made the ugly pile disappear; but after the snow thawed, I had not the strength to rebuild it and now simply avoid going near it altogether.
Winter has passed, and we have been left alone for some time now. Life ticks on at Shibden with our daily routine that protects us and keeps us together like the cogs in a clock, keeping time and order with an occasional chime.
With all the stresses on our family last year, I imagined I’d lose Aunt first. But the winter was harsh and even though the days grew longer and some warmth returned, Father seemed to have lost all his strength. Of all the days to die he chose my birthday, tarnishing the day for the rest of my life. It was warm that morning, warm enough to go for a long walk with Marian after his body had been taken away.
He died in the night. I found him in his bed in the morning, looking surprised, a present for me wrapped next to his bed. I opened it to find a beautiful compass with a note: ‘For Anne, so you can always find your way home’.
Perhaps it was not Shibden that was my anchor but Father. His presence since my birth, unfaltering, a devotion to me, of sorts, always on my side. His generous soul that let us all find our own path, never judging, never questioning.
Marian seems unable to cope. She clings to Aunt and to Ann; I am left to watch on as the women mourn and I keep my own tears to myself. I now step into the breach and must remain strong for them. I am in charge.
It is all left to me now, excepting my aunt’s share. There are no more Lister men.
I am closer to what I wanted when I was young, to be the sole heir, the owner outright, the decision maker; but having it now feels hollow. If the last few years here had been different, perhaps I would feel more satisfied. If I had felt part of my class, accepted as a fellow landowner and businessman, if I’d been on committees as I should have been and not barred because of my sex, perhaps…
Now I have no place in society. They will not let me in. Even now, taking Father’s place as the official head of our estate, there is no place for me. They keep me locked out, as if I am a plague that will infect them all.
Ann assumes I am all confidence, but she does not see what it takes to stand in a room full of men. To ignore the jibes, the eyes on you, knowing that if they should decide, any one of them could snap my neck and have done and they would not be accountable for it, because they are the law, and any power we women have is merely in the hope that they respect us enough not to hurt us, or that they do not realise how fragile and weak we are.
As I walk beside his coffin to our Lister corner of the church with my three charges following sadly behind me, the responsibility for them bears down on me and I worry that I cannot protect them from anyone who may try to take away our freedoms. Anyone who may insult us. Anyone who may wish to damage our property like they did the Moss House. Anyone who may try to strike them.
Aunt is frail and Marian seems older, more gaunt, past any chance of a match now, beholden to me entirely. My Ann, so beautiful still, but carrying the weight of the world on her gentle shoulders. Eyes are on her throughout the service; they cannot look away as she weeps for Father. They cannot understand the grief of this wayward Walker; who was he to her, they question? When, if life was fair, he would have been her father-in-law and they would sympathise.
Even familiar faces, the Priestleys, the Norcliffes, Mariana and old Lawton, who have all journeyed over for the service, look upon us as a sorrowful sight. All four of us now dressed in black, like a Lister uniform. I look around the church and note how they have all dressed like me for this saddest of occasions. I no longer stand out; all of us are joined together on this one day where my colour is everyone’s.
He is lowered into the ground, watched and mourned by his two single daughters, his single sister, and a single stray who was swept into his home and fell under the Lister curse: to be an outsider.
None of us knows what to say. People whom I have known my entire lifetime give me their condolences, but do not look me in the eye.
How brave of Father to have accepted us as we are, to have created a home for us and taken us all in. I shall miss him terribly.
Miss Walker
To try to stop myself from crying in the church, I busy myself looking at Mariana and Isabella, the women who have had orgasms with my wife. It should have been just us four left alone to grieve, but funerals are a spectacle, an event; even military folks turned up, all uniforms and medals, people we’d never seen before who pledged they knew Mr Lister well, and there she stood, having to smile and thank each one of them, hear their condolences. She is so brave, my love. I later sit with Aunt who also seems so frail now, the last of her generation, as the sisters go out for a walk after the funeral.
No sooner is Mr Lister buried than pother starts up again. Even in our grief, after we believe all the election nonsense is over and done with, someone poisons our well and then our coal mines are sabotaged. We are defenceless and can do nothing to stop them or retaliate. We let our stewards fight our corner and clear up the damage on our behalf. We do not go to see for ourselves, but hide away in Shibden as they want us to. Will they never leave us alone?
Marian confides in me that she is glad she is the youngest and does not have to deal with all this. She is happy she has Anne, and I squeeze her hand and tell her I am glad we both have her.
Aunt soon takes to her bed and does not seem to improve. Doctors come and go with little to offer. Marian sits with her for hours and hours and says she will not lose her too, but all our will and prayers cannot save her.
Miss Lister
As the
temperature drops and the days shorten, my aunt breathes heavily. I send Marian away to get some rest. She kisses her and clings to her and then drags herself away.
Summoning her remaining strength, my aunt tells me that I am braver than she was, and I laugh. She tells me how pleased she was that Marian and I came to live with them, that we gave her and my uncle a new life. She grips my hands and tells me to look after Marian and I promise I will try. Then she lectures me that I should make sure I am surrounded by family, that being alone is no good for me, and neither is being with just one person, by which she means little Ann. It is other people, friends, family, she says, that make us who we are. Put that in your diary so you do not forget it, she tells me.
Only a few days after this and the three of us sit around her after the doctor has left with a sorrowful shrug. We watch on helplessly as she lies there, barely aware of us, our hands holding tightly onto hers, as she struggles to breathe and in a moment we all witness, stops. She falls still, as though something has left her body and all that is left is a vessel, an empty corpse. I think of the spark of new electricity that could revive her. Whatever it was that had given her form life, been our aunt, has gone and does not linger.
I try to write in my diary seeking solace in the words, but they are splashed with tears which flow as my words dry up.
As my aunt joins her brothers in Heaven, I wonder what they think when they look down at us three that are left, pacing the house, none of us speaking, breathing in the cold air which tastes of melancholy.
Shibden Hall now finds itself inhabited by three orphans, all of us in black.
Miss Walker
I notice at the funerals that Anne is no longer separate from us as we are all of us in black, all as one – yet Anne’s head remains high, her face fixed. Anne, I realise, will never blend in. Perhaps she should have worn red, or white.
