The house had changed beyond all recognition, for the horsehair suite no longer adorned the sitting room, nor was there linoleum on the floor, but a new chesterfield suite now stood on a patterned carpet, and there was never a day in the winter but a fire was lit in this room. Jane no longer sat in front of the kitchen fire warming her feet and knees before going up to the freezing bedroom, but she and Constance usually ended the day sitting side by side on the couch, slippers on their feet, and a hot drink to their hands. On extremely cold nights there was the welcome glow of a fire in their bedrooms, an extravagant innovation this, and there was always a fire, except on days that were really warm, in the room that was now called the nursery.
So in the late summer of 1866 when Constance did her books and found that the profit for the year was well up on the previous one, and this in spite of having to engage extra labour for the threshing and the haymaking, which crops were the first results from the land that Donald had so proudly acquired, she decided with a little glow of excitement, to give a harvest supper. She would bring Anna, Mary, and the child over; they would enjoy it. Then besides the Waite family there would be the Twiggs, the father, mother and the three children—they had been very helpful. Then there were Bob and Peter Armstrong, two brothers who had a farm in the next valley. They had been most kind from the beginning, going as far as to come over and offer her advice; and it hadn’t stopped there, for their help had also been practical. She liked the Armstrongs, Bob in particular, he had a merry twinkle in his eye.
The supper had not been lavish as some harvest suppers tended to be. She had provided plenty of wholesome food, and a certain amount to drink; and no-one had overstepped the mark in this direction, except perhaps Mary. Two glasses of ale always led to three with Mary, and three to four, and then she became very merry; but she had caused a great deal of laughter tonight and she had got everyone dancing. Constance herself had danced for the first time in years. It had been strange feeling a man’s arms around her once again. At first she had felt stiff, resisting both touch and movement in such close proximity; then Bob’s merriment, and young Jim’s fiddle playing, seemed to melt the aloof encasement within which she had remained for the last three years, and she had ended the dance with her head back and laughing as she used to do years ago when life had spread out before her like a never-ending series of bright paintings.
But now the visitors had gone. Peter Armstrong, shaking her hand as if he would never let it go, had told her in fuddled tones that she was a grand lass, which had caused great hilarity. Bob had not taken her hand, he had just stood before her and had said simply, ‘We’ll have to have a night like this again, but not wait till next harvest supper, eh?’
In reply she had said formally, ‘I’m so glad you enjoyed it,’ and his eyes had laughed at her, but in a kindly way.
And now she and Anna were seated before the fire, to use Mary’s term, taking five minutes off, and they were alone, for Jane always tactfully gave place to Miss Brigmore during her visits.
Turning her head from where it rested on the back of the couch, Constance looked at Miss Brigmore and asked quietly, ‘Did you enjoy it, Anna?’
‘Enormously, enormously, my dear. Now I can understand why there’s so much fuss made about them. And to think that years ago when I used to hear of the excitement surrounding them on the Hall farms I used to turn my nose up.’
Constance looked towards the fire again as she said softly, ‘We turned our noses up at so many things in those days, didn’t we? Life is strange; you’ve always said that it’s a pattern that is already cut. I wonder what shape mine’s going to take from now on?’
‘A good shape I should think, dear.’
‘I’d like it to remain exactly as it is now; I’d like to keep everything and everybody static, Michael forever small, Jane happy and content, and all the Waites so loyal and good, and myself at rest.’
‘You are too young to be at rest, you’ll marry again.’
‘No, Anna, no.’ Constance’s voice, although low, held a definite ring.
They were both looking straight ahead into the fire when Miss Brigmore said, ‘I like that Mr Armstrong, the younger one; I should say he’s an honest man and he has a great sense of humour.’
Constance did not move as she replied, ‘I like him too, Anna. He is as you say an honest man, and his company is enjoyable…but that’s as far as it will go; I wouldn’t risk a repeat of what I’ve been through.’
‘Well, time will tell. You are so young yet and life, in spite of the pattern being already cut,’—she slanted her eyes towards Constance—‘no doubt has some surprises in store for you…as it’s had for me. Now who would have thought that I’d ever sit in the Hall schoolroom again! In your wildest stretch of imagination, would you have said that was in my pattern?’
‘No.’ Constance shook her head as she laughed, then added, ‘And you know, I still don’t like the idea of you being there. I’ve always considered you belonged to Barbara and me exclusively, I mean with regards to education. But it would appear that he was determined to have you in the end, and his motto seemed to be: “If at first you don’t succeed”.’
Miss Brigmore laughed gently and nodded towards the fire. ‘Indeed, indeed, that is his motto, which he applies to everything, I should say. He’s a strange man, Mr Bensham; you dislike him, yet at the same time you admire him, except that is when he’s speaking to his wife, for he not only considers her a numskull but tells her to her face she is one, using that very word. Poor Mrs Bensham. Yet it’s odd but I find no need to pity her, she’s a woman who can hold her own in her own way. As I told you she’s such a common type, it’s almost impossible to imagine her in the Hall as one of the staff, let alone its mistress, yet it’s very strange you know,’—she turned her head now and looked at Constance—‘the staff don’t seem to take advantage of her. She bustles, shouts, fumbles her way through each day, but there at the end of it she sits in the drawing room quietly knitting. I think she must do this every evening after dinner; and he, when he is at home, sits there too, smoking and reading his newspaper…’
‘Smoking in the drawing room?’
‘Yes, smoking in the drawing room, and not cigars but a long, smelly old pipe.’
‘Have you been to dinner? You didn’t tell me.’
‘Well, there hasn’t been much time. But yes, I went to dinner to discuss the new arrangement. And you know, Constance,’—Miss Brigmore’s voice had a touch of sadness in it now—‘it was the first time I had sat down to dinner in the dining room of the Hall. It was a strange experience; I felt most odd.’
‘Oh, Anna, it is unfair when you think of it, isn’t it?’
‘No, no.’ Her tone became airy. ‘Yet it did strike me as peculiar at the time. It was a very good meal by the way, and well served. The butler had not the dignity of Dunn of course; apparently at one time he had worked in Mr Bensham’s mill and ill-health had prevented him from continuing, which doesn’t speak well for the conditions there, yet such is the make-up of our Mr Bensham that he took him into his house service when they were in Manchester. Mrs Bensham addresses him as…’Arry as she does her husband. Oh, I shouldn’t make fun of them, because they have been, and are still, very good to me.’
‘It is to their own advantage.’
‘Perhaps, but to mine also because I am using them for my advantage, or at least for little Barbara’s. I was adamant at first against going every day; I said I had my ward to see to and couldn’t possibly think of leaving her except in the mornings for three hours as the arrangement stood, and then it was he who said, as I hoped he would, “bring her with you, woman, bring her with you”.’
‘Does he call you woman?’ Constance was laughing.
‘Yes, very often. The only time he gave me my title was when he came to see me, and then that was only after he had said, “You’re harder to get at, woman, than the Queen herself. I’ve written you three times. What is it you want, more money? A pound for six mornin
gs a week, you’ll not get an offer like that again.” It was then I said, “My name is Miss Brigmore. Won’t you sit down?” and for the first and only time he gave me my title, “Aye, well, Miss Brigmore,” he said, “now let’s be sensible. I hear you’re a good teacher an’ I want you to teach my young ’uns. Three of them, I have; a boy of seven, another six, and a girl coming five. Three so-called governesses the missus’ had for them in a year, an’ what’ve they learned, nowt. The boys will be going off to school in a year or so, private like, but I don’t want them to go with nothing in their heads, you understand?”’
Miss Brigmore now stopped her mimicking and leant her head against Constance, and as they laughed together she recalled, but only to herself, how Mr Bensham had ended that introduction by saying, ‘I’ve heard all kinds of things about you but it makes no difference to me; I’ve always said, a man’s reference is in his hands or his head. They say you’re a good teacher, and ladylike at bottom, and that’s what I want, someone ladylike.’
Strangely she had not taken offence at the man. He was a common man who had made money—there were many such these days—but she saw it was to his credit that he was wanting to educate his children above his own standards. Moreover, as he said, a pound a week for morning work was a very good offer indeed. She now knew security in so far as she owned half the cottage, Constance having transferred to her her own share by deed of gift together with fifty pounds a year, and this with the child’s income of a hundred pounds enabled them to live better than they had done since she had left the Hall. Even so this new addition to her income would be a means of carrying out the vague plans that had been formulating in her mind with regard to Barbara’s future.
A young lady’s education could not be accomplished without money. She regretted that there was no musical instrument in the cottage; Barbara must have music lessons. Then there were languages; she unfortunately had only French to her credit. Moreover, a young lady needed dancing lessons if she was to fit into any civilised society; added to this, riding lessons were necessary; and there were many, many more things her child—as she secretly thought of Barbara’s offspring—would need before she could take her rightful place in society, and this she was determined she should do. God sparing her, she would see to it that Thomas’ daughter was educated to fit into the life that was rightly hers.
She was recalled to the present when Constance, chuckling said, ‘So you cornered him.’
‘Just that, just that.’
‘Does he know that she isn’t yet three?’
‘Yes; he’s seen her.’
‘And when do you start to take her?’
‘She’s already been there. I took her along on Thursday and I must say that the first meeting didn’t augur well for the future,’ Miss Brigmore pursed her mouth and her eyes twinkled as she added, ‘Barbara ended her visit by attacking the daughter of the house.’
‘No!…What happened?’
‘Well, she had never seen so many toys in her life before. She has three dolls you know, Betsy and Golly and Fluffy, but the nursery at the Hall is now stacked with toys and dolls of all shapes and sizes. Barbara became fascinated by a Dutch doll. It was neither big, nor small, nor outstanding, it was just a Dutch doll, but apparently it was Katie’s favourite. She went to take it from Barbara, but Barbara refused to let it go. When Miss Katie forcibly took possession of her own Barbara gave way to one of her tempers, and oh dear, before we knew what had happened she had slapped Katie and pushed her on to her back, and Katie yelled as she is apt to do when she can’t get her own way. Then…’ Miss Brigmore now stopped and bit on her lip and, her expression serious, she looked at Constance before adding, ‘Something strange happened. There had been no surnames used between the children, just Christian names; “This is Barbara, Katie,” and “Katie, this is Barbara.” But when I lifted Katie to her feet she ran from the room crying, “Ma! Ma! the Mallen girl has hit me. The Mallen girl has hit me, Ma.”’
They looked at each other in silence now; then Constance said quietly, ‘You never told them her name’s Farrington?’
‘There was no need, the occasion hadn’t arisen when I was required to give her full name, but it proved one thing to me, she’s known already as a Mallen. Mrs Bensham must have spoken of her in front of Katie as the “Mallen child” and Mrs Bensham would have heard it from someone else. I think it’s going to be difficult to get people to realise that her name is Farrington, and it’s going to be awkward as she grows older. It’ll have to be explained to her.’
Constance sighed now and, pulling herself to the edge of the couch, she dropped on to her knees and, having taken up a shovel, scooped from a scuttle some small coal and sprinkled it on to the dying embers; then she patted it down before saying, ‘There’s a lot of things that’ll have to be explained to her. But in the meantime, let her be happy…And she will be happy,’—she turned and nodded her head—‘because she’ll be all right. She has you, so she’ll be all right. Come, let’s go up; we’ll look in on them before we go to bed.’
A few minutes later they stood in the nursery between the cot and the bed. The candle glowed softly in its red glass bowl, showing to one side the boy lying on his back, his fair hair curling over his brow and around his ears; the bedclothes were under his chin, and his body was lying straight; he looked in deep relaxed sleep. But on the other side the small girl lay curled up into a ball; her forearms were crossed above her head and her black straight hair half covered her face; the bedclothes were rumpled down to her waist; she looked as if she were pulling herself up out of some dream depth.
As Miss Brigmore gently brought the clothes up around the small shoulders she thought that, even in sleep, the children looked poles apart. They were full cousins yet showed no apparent blood link in either looks or character.
The two women turned and tiptoed quietly from the room, and on the landing they kissed each other goodnight.
Constance went into the bedroom which now held no resemblance to the one she had shared with Donald, and Miss Brigmore went into the room that had been Matthew’s.
Strangely, their thoughts were running along the same channel now, for they were both thinking they would be glad when tomorrow came, Constance so that she could fall back into the daily routine when she and Jane would be alone together and the older woman would become her relaxed and motherly self again. Anna’s intellectual presence always put something of a damper on Jane, indeed her whole outlook was foreign to the farm atmosphere. It was lovely to have her for a short time but it was, and Constance hated to admit this, a relief when she went.
She did not probe this feeling too far for it seemed to be linked up with the day of Donald’s death and Matthew’s act. Would Matthew have taken the step he did if Anna hadn’t come to the farm begging to keep the child? If? If? If?
But there was another reason why she was glad when Anna departed. It concerned little Barbara, for the child, as young as she was, dominated Michael and in a way that annoyed her. The little girl had an attraction that was unusual, to say the least, in one so young. Yet she herself had never been able to take to the child, and this seemed strange because she had loved her mother dearly. Anyway, she told herself, she’d be glad when tomorrow came.
Miss Brigmore too thought she’d be glad when tomorrow came for then she’d be home where she was mistress, really mistress now, and in the cottage she would have the child all to herself.
It was very nice visiting the farm but the atmosphere was—well, how could she put it, a little raw. And Constance was changing, changing all the time. She noticed it on each visit. She wouldn’t be surprised if Constance did marry that Mr Armstrong, and it wouldn’t be a case now of marrying beneath her for, of late, she had become very farm-minded. She wasn’t being disloyal to Constance, oh no, no, she loved her and would always love her, she was just facing facts.
Almost the last thing Miss Brigmore told herself before dropping off to sleep was, I go to the Hall on Monday. It was exciti
ng being back at the Hall. There were moments when in the schoolroom she thought she had never left it. Already she had a status in the house, and it would grow; oh yes, it would grow, for she was needed there. She had sensed this from the beginning. Mr Bensham needed her. ‘What’s the best way to tackle an invitation like that?’ he had said to her on one occasion as he handed her a gilt-edged card; and then on another, ‘Who do you think’s the best for running a house, a housekeeper or a steward?’ Yes, Mr Bensham needed her.
And Mrs Bensham needed her. ‘Do you think this is too flashy-like to go to tea in? What happened in the old days when you lived here and they gave parties? How did they go about it, were they flashy-like or selectish?’ Yes, Mrs Bensham needed her very badly.
And Katie needed her. Oh yes, Katie needed her to discipline and train her, and in the coming years to stand as a buffer between the young lady she would become and the parents she would undoubtedly look down on, as was usual in such situations.
And the boys needed her, but their need would only be for a short time. Her influence on them would be felt mostly during their holidays; yet they were very important in the future she was mapping out.
As the necessity for her presence at the Hall grew with the years so would Barbara’s future become more and more assured, for ‘the Mallen girl’ would always have one asset the young Benshams lacked, breeding; but they, in their turn, would have one thing the Mallen girl lacked, money.
Who knew, who knew but Thomas would reign in the Hall once again—through his daughter.
Happy, she went to sleep, forgetting as she did so the adage she so often quoted, that the pattern of life was already cut.
The End
The Mallen Streak Page 28
