She went first to the village rubbish dump and found an old tobacco tin with a tightly fitting lid. Then she went to the field behind the farmhouse and pulled some sheep’s wool off the hedge, stuffing it into the tin and making a little nest for her coin, which she laid reverently among the greasy folds of wool. When the lid was closed tight she ran to her favourite hiding-place beneath the thick hawthorns and squirmed down to reach her sanctuary. She was growing fast and it was getting harder to squeeze between the twisting trunks, but she succeeded at last and dug a hole with her hands in the soft, loamy earth. The tin was laid in, earth piled back on top of it and a flat stone put down as a marker. It would be safe there and in no danger of being turned up by a plough.
One day, when she really needed half a sovereign, she’d dig it up again.
* * *
Tim and Emma Jane went to Camptounfoot every day to see Tibbie. If it was dull or threatened rain, they travelled in a dogcart driven by Tim, but on fine days they went by foot, which was the way they preferred for they liked to be on their own with baby Christopher. This annoyed the nanny, who was a great snob and had already decided that, in spite of their titles, Sir Timothy and Lady Maquire were not the sort of people she preferred as employers, for they were far too informal in their ways.
Their favourite excursion was to the big railway bridge which they had built together. Christopher obliged them by staring up with wide eyes and raising his hands in an attempt to touch the massive arch over his head as his father carried him beneath it and exhorted him to admire his parents’ mutual achievement. Though they knew it meant nothing to a child, they showed him where Emma Jane’s hut had stood during the months of building and together remembered the long hard hours of bone-aching toil that they had endured there.
Their second stop was at Tibbie’s and, on what was to be the last day of their holiday, they found her working in the kitchen with Marie. As soon as she saw them, Tibbie threw down the knife with which she’d been peeling potatoes and held out loving arms to Christopher.
‘Oh come to your – Tibbie,’ she cried, biting back the word ‘granny’ in the nick of time.
She was as fond of this child as if he were her own flesh and blood but when she realised how near she’d come to making a faux pas, she flushed. Neither Tim nor Emma Jane, who had heard the stumble and knew what it meant, minded. They were happy to share their beloved son with her.
While the women were conducting a session of baby worship, Tim went into the garden to smoke a cigar among Tibbie’s roses. He was sitting in the sun with his eyes closed when the garden gate creaked open and Kitty walked in.
He looked at her through a curl of blue-grey smoke and said, ‘Everyone’s inside admiring the baby.’
She whipped round, about to leave again, but Marie appeared in the kitchen door with Christopher in her arms and called out, ‘Kitty, come in and hold this adorable baby. He’s so sweet.’
The red-headed girl was visibly shaken. ‘No, no, I’m no’ any good wi’ babies. I’m feared I’d let him fall,’ she said, backing away.
In truth babies were about the only thing Kitty was afraid of, for she felt acutely awkward under their penetrating stare and couldn’t understand why sensible people made such a fuss about the little things. They frightened her far more than intimidating adults.
Soon the time came for Tim and Emma Jane to go. Before they left, Tim told Tibbie, ‘We sail from Liverpool to New York at the end of next week and we’ll have to be away from here tomorrow. I’m sorry it’s so soon.’
She looked sad. ‘How long will you be gone?’ she asked. She was approaching the age when every departure frightened her, for she was afraid that she might not live to see the people she loved again.
‘About eighteen months,’ he said. She sighed and kissed his bearded check. It seemed incredible to her now how upset she’d been when Hannah ran off and married this fine man.
* * *
Marie and Kitty spent the rest of the day together and when she finally went home to Tibbie’s Marie found that David had walked over unexpectedly from Maddiston and was impatiently waiting for her. As she came through the door, face flushed and eyes dancing, he burst ot with, ‘Where have you been?’
‘Down by the river.’
‘Have you been with some boy?’ he demanded.
She flushed scarlet. ‘Of course not. I was with Kitty Scott!’ It came out without a thought.
Then he rounded on her as if she’d uttered an obscenity. ‘How can you be so stupid?’ he shouted. ‘I told you I don’t want you to have anything to do with her. Her sort’s the wrong company for you. Keep away from her.’
She rarely stood up to him openly but now she did. Her cheeks were scarlet and she felt a strange pounding in her ears as she faced him. ‘I’ll do what I want, David! I’ll pick my own friends.’
He was extremely agitated. ‘But you don’t know about her!’
‘I do. I know she’s a bastard. It doesn’t matter. I think it’s terrible the way everybody looks down on her because of it.’
Her brother was stammering. ‘It’s not just that. It’s other things…’ He was staring at Tibbie as he spoke and she shook her head in warning at him. To Marie’s surprise, he closed his mouth firmly, grabbed his cap off the back of the chair and stormed out of the door.
She was shaking when she looked from the doorway to Tibbie.
‘What did he mean?’
Tibbie turned away. ‘I think he must mean that Kitty’s a bit ragged, dear. Something like that.’
‘He’s very stupid. She can’t help being ragged. Her grandmother never buys her any clothes. I’d be ragged if you didn’t get me dresses to wear,’ said Marie in a wavering voice.
‘Don’t worry about it. He wants you to keep nice company. Just don’t tell him that you play with her,’ counselled Tibbie.
Chapter Five
It was more than a year after her miscarriage before Lady Bethya Godolphin felt strong enough to undertake the journey from Berkeley Square to her vast estate in Scotland.
Although she was coddled and protected like a baby on the journey, she was on the point of collapse by the time she saw the minarets of her mansion, Bella Vista, rearing up from its embowering trees. The sight was like a glimpse of an oasis in a waterless desert and she tottered up to bed where she remained for three days without once going downstairs to see how the servants had taken care of her inheritance.
At last, conscious of her husband’s dark glare and growing exasperation, she roused herself to descend to the drawing-room. Next day, she ventured out into the grounds on his arm.
She had forgotten what a lovely place it was. The rambling house, built by Colonel Anstruther in memory of some distant Indian palace, had little towers and turrets, an intricately carved portico and arcaded walk along the south-facing side. Lawns stretched before it and it was completely surrounded by trees, now turning to their stunning autumn colours of bright yellow, russet, dark red and gold. As a backdrop the house had three purple-flanked hills that stared over its roofs to the river in the valley floor.
She drew in deep breaths of air that tingled in her mouth like champagne and it seemed to work a miracle on her.
‘I feel much better,’ she told Sydney. ‘I really believe I’m better at last.’ She was grasping eagerly at the first sign of recovery and he backed her up for both of them were growing impatient with her intractable feebleness.
‘You look better too. It’s been a long time,’ he told her and she smiled in delight.
When word reached Rosewell that Lady Godolphin was walking in the grounds, every delivery of mail brought cards of invitation, but Sydney refused to allow her to accept any of them. ‘We’ll announce that you’ve come up here for rest and seclusion and that all invitations will have to be refused for the time being,’ he said, grimly seizing the pile of deckle-edged cards and throwing them in the fire.
The one invitation she did accept, however, was to the school at Ca
mptounfoot because as owner of Bella Vista she was its patron. It was arranged that she should pay a short visit one morning in company with the school governors, the Provost of Rosewell and Mrs Stewart, wife of the town’s doctor.
On the day this visit was due to take place, the school was in a ferment of excitement. Its windows had been open since early morning to allow fresh air to blow through the classroom and Bella Ferguson, the oldest pupil and class monitor, had brought a small bunch of roses to put in a vase on Mr Arnott’s desk and a larger bunch to make a bouquet for Lady Godolphin.
The pupils had all been warned to turn up in their best clothes, with clean faces and fingernails and were told that Mr Arnott intended to inspect them before the official party arrived.
Trembling at the thought of incurring his displeasure, they sat in their places, well brushed, stiffly starched and smelling of soap, anxiously anticipating his scrutiny as he walked round the benches, lifting locks of hair or eyeing hands that were spread open palmed on the desktops. When he found a set of fingernails that did not meet his rigorous requirements, he thumped his cane down on the back of the offending hand, saying, ‘That won’t do, Sammy! Go out and wash again, Tom.’
Eventually he came to Kitty Scott and rolled his eyes upwards with a heavy sigh. ‘How do you expect Lady Godolphin to see you looking like this? he asked, standing back and swinging his cane in an arc around her, indicating that everything about the girl failed to come up to scratch. She glowered back at him from beneath tumbled hair but said nothing.
‘You’ll have to sit in the corner behind the blackboard and hope nobody sees you,’ he said, for obviously there was no point in starting a clean-up operation on Kitty so late in the day.
Behind him Bella giggled, setting her friends off too, and Kitty flushed scarlet. It was unfair, she thought, because she’d made a special effort, untangling her hair with the pony’s grooming brush and washing her legs in the burn, but that was obviously not sufficient.
She stood up and stalked to the stool reserved for dunces behind the teacher s board, conscious of Marie’s eyes following her with unspoken sympathy.
The children did not have long to wait because a few minutes later Lady Godolphin wafted into the schoolroom on a cloud of scent. The fringed skirt of her taffeta gown made a lovely soft whispering sound as it swept across the bare wooden boards of the floor and her shallow-brimmed bonnet was trimmed with silk roses so realistic that they looked as if they had only just been plucked off the bush. Though her ladyship’s face was pale, her graciousness matched her elegance. Mr Arnott was reduced to a stumbling, mumbling jelly by her adorable smile and the children sat hypnotised, watching everything that was going on in front of them as if it were happening on a stage.
Even Bella, who was sceptical about everything and everyone except herself and her immediate family, could find no fault with Bethya, who walked up the narrow aisle between the desks and bent over the books that lay open before the pupils.
In her sweet singsong voice she said nice things like, ‘What lovely handwriting’ or ‘Can you really read that book? It seems so grown up for someone of your age.’
She never made any adverse comments and the people she congratulated flushed with pride. When she came to where Marie was sitting, she paused and looked at two drawings laid out on the desktop.
‘Did you do these, my dear?’ she asked in surprise.
Marie nodded, blushing bright red with confusion. ‘Yes, madam,’ she whispered.
Bethya leaned over and gazed again at the drawings for what seemed an age. Then she straightened up and stared over the children’s heads at Mr Arnott. ‘This girl is very talented indeed,’ she announced.
He came hurrying up, exclaiming, ‘Yes, I know, your ladyship. She’s got great facility.’
‘Oh it’s more than that. She’s really gifted. I’ve seen artists in London being fêted with much less justification.’
Bethya lifted up a watercolour of the hills that rose behind the schoolroom and told everyone, ‘This one in particular is really beautiful.’
Then to Marie she said, ‘Let me see what else you’ve done,’ and spent a long time poring over the pictures, making enthusiastic noises and showering praise on the artist. Eventually, however, she realised that the class was growing fidgety and their teacher was throwing them threatening glances.
‘I’m sorry if I’m holding things up,’ she exclaimed. ‘What other things do you want to show me, Mr Arnott?’
He had coached the children in a spelling bee and a mental arithmetic display so, while the visitors sat on chairs by the door, he fired questions at each pupil, who was expected to reply just as quickly. Things went reasonably well till, during the mental arithmetic display, he reached the front of the class where the dunces sat.
‘What’s seven times nine with three away?’ he asked Sammy, son of the village carter. Sammy stared back at him with round blue eyes like marbles and muttered, ‘Dinna ken.’
Arnott should have passed him by but he was swollen-headed with success and persisted, ‘Come on, Sammy, what’s seven times nine and then take away three?’ Sammy continued to stare and his eyes slowly filled up with tears.
Suddenly a voice hissed out from behind the blackboard, ‘It’s sixty-three minus three, Sammy. Dinna greet. Say sixty.’
‘Sixty-three,’ said Sammy with triumph.
‘Oh, Sammy!’ said the voice.
Bethya laughed. ‘Do you have a prompter behind that blackboard?’ she asked Arnott whose face was like thunder.
‘No,’ he protested. ‘It’s one of the pupils who’s been put in detention…’
‘It couldn’t have been for not knowing how to count,’ joked Bethya. ‘Bring out the mystery mathematician.’
Arnott nodded to Bella who ran forward and hauled Kitty from behind the board. Unfortunately, she looked even more dishevelled than before because she’d managed to get herself covered with chalk dust and spiders’ webs as well as dirt.
Arnott felt rage rise within him at her for having brought shame on his school.
‘She’s a bondager’s bairn and she’ll be leaving school next year,’ he explained to no one in particular.
‘Well at least she’ll know how to count,’ said Bethya, who had not drawn away, smiling at Kitty.
But she was more interested in art than in counting and before she left she said to Arnott, ‘We must try to do something about that girl who draws so well.’
He bent over her hand, making polite noises but he was thinking, ‘What do you expect me to do? I’m here to give girls the basic skills of reading and writing. The best they’ll ever be is an upper housemaid. The others, like Kitty Scott, will go on the land. Even Marie Benjamin, with her pretty drawings and nice manners, won’t be able to step outside her class.’
Mrs Stewart was thinking the same thing. As the visiting party drove away, she said reprovingly to Bethya, ‘It would be a pity to fill that girl’s head with false ideas, Lady Godolphin.’
‘But she’s very gifted,’ Bethya sounded sharp.
‘My dear, do you know who she is? Her mother was one of those loose navvy women. The one who got herself murdered! A woman in the town took in her children but she’s dead too and the girl’s living in Camptounfoot with her foster mother’s friend.’
Bethya hated to be thwarted. ‘But there must be parish funds to provide a bursary so that she can study art properly. It shouldn’t be impossible.’
Mrs Stewart looked at the silently disapproving Provost and sighed. It was all very well for Lady Godolphin to talk like that when she only lived in the district for a few weeks every second year or so. Someone should point out to her that money was hard enough to find without throwing it away on a girl who wasn’t even from a local family.
After the visiting dignitaries left the school, Mr Arnott gave vent to his pent-up nerves by boxing the ears of both Kitty and slow Sammy for no specific reason except that he felt like hitting somebody. Neither of them mind
ed very much because they were used to being the butts of his aggression.
Before they were turned loose, the class settled down to listen to self-important Bella reading them a passage from a book about a young Red Indian brave and a settler’s son who sealed their friendship by mingling their blood and becoming blood brothers.
When they were eventually released, Marie and Kitty walked up the street together, a disparate couple – one excessively neat and tidy with flaxen hair falling as straight as a skein of silk to her shoulders; the other dusty and daubed with corkscrewed hair like a Medusa.
Kitty was the one who did most of the talking while Marie listened. ‘That was great what Lady Godolphin said about you being a real artist. She liked your pictures a lot,’ she exulted, for Marie’s triumph delighted her as much as if it had been her own.
Her friend sighed. ‘It was nice of her but it won’t make any difference. David’s got everything planned for me. As soon as he’s able to rent a house, I’m to go and live with him. I’ll not be doing much painting after I leave school.’
‘He’ll maybe get married and his wife won’t want his sister living in the house,’ said Kitty who was more aware of the possible conflicts of family life than Marie.
‘He’s promised me he won’t. And he says I’ve not to get married either. It’ll just be him and me. He’s going to be very rich one day, he says.’
David’s attempts to control his sister were unremitting. He hated the idea that she might have a life or interests of her own which he could not share. Even though he lived for most of the week in lodgings in Maddiston, he came back every Sunday to keep an eye on Marie and, from time to time, made unexpected visits, as if to catch her out in doing something wrong. When they were together he talked of little else but his plans for their future. Her destiny was intertwined with his as far as he was concerned, and he spared no time wondering if that was what she wanted.
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