‘I…I don’t think so, unless the matter was very urgent.’
‘Well, as I see it, this matter is very urgent. But then it is up to you; the burden seems to have fallen on your shoulders. But you know my advice, sell the chandler’s, and by doing so you will clear the mortgage, and if the sale is propitious then there might be a little over to pay a little off some of the debts and help you along for the next few months. Anyway—’ he again rose to his feet—‘it is for you, or Master Roland, to make the final decision. And—’ once more he was holding her hand—‘with regard to your father and this unfortunate business, try not to let it worry you too much. These things happen; unfortunately they happen all the time, but I can well understand what a shock the revelation has been to you.’
She wetted her lips twice before she asked, ‘Do you think many people are aware of, of the matter, I mean in the town?’
He veiled his eyes for a moment, then said, ‘Well I cannot but say truthfully there was some interest as to why he sold the hatter’s and his share in the glove factory, but most of all why he got rid of the mill, and having done so still did not settle his debts in the town. There were, I am afraid, rumours and guesses; but I don’t think anything concrete came to light.’
There was a pause before she said, ‘Thank you for your help, Mr Paine, I am very grateful. I will do as you suggest and…and think the matter over with regard to, to explaining the situation to Roland, and I will call again if I may.’
‘Any time, any time at all, Miss Crawford.’ He opened the door and himself led her across the outer office and showed her into the corridor.
In the street once again, she stood for a moment looking towards the Abbey. She had in her mind arranged to go to the bookshop and see Lawrence, as she secretly thought of him, because she had felt in need of personal comfort and support. But that was this morning. Looking back to this morning, her troubles then compared to those of the present seemed paltry, and what she needed now was more than the comfort directed by a warm glance or a clasp of the hand; what she needed now was someone’s arms about her, a voice to say, ‘Don’t worry, leave everything to me.’ And if she went to the shop she felt, in fact she was certain, that his arms would come out to her, but that this would only be after she told him the reason for her distress, for in the telling the social barrier which had kept them apart would be broken down.
But she couldn’t do that…not at the moment she couldn’t. Later, when they knew each other better, then she would tell him as someone who was close to her, and in the telling perhaps this awful feeling of hate that had come alive in her would dissolve.
She turned about and went towards the chandler’s shop, and fifteen minutes later she climbed into the trap and made for home.
It was Peg Thornycroft who greeted her as she stepped stiffly down into the yard. ‘By! You look froze to the bone, Miss Martha Mary,’ she said. ‘Eeh! You look like death on wires. Come on in an’ get your things off. Leave him—’ she jerked her head towards the horse—‘I’ll get Nick to see to him in a minute; you get inside, miss. Eeh! you do look froze.’
As Martha entered the kitchen, Peg yelled across the yard in a voice that seemed to come from someone three times her size, ‘You! You Nick there! You Nick! Come and see t’animal.’ Then hurrying into the kitchen where Dilly was now helping Martha off with her coat, she said, ‘Eeh! Miss looks like death, doesn’t she, Dilly?’
‘Less of your chatter and brew some tea, an’ strong.’
Dilly did not question Martha now in any way, but, chaffing her stiff white fingers between her rough palms, she made a statement, ‘Them trains,’ she said, ‘I knew it, them trains. An’ it’s my bet you haven’t had a bite inside you since you left this mornin’. Now get yourself into the sitting room. There’s a good fire on; take your shoes off and put your feet to the blaze. I’ll be with you in a minute.’
Like someone who had lost the power of speech Martha went slowly from the kitchen and across the hall, and she had just entered the sitting room when she heard a door close overhead and footsteps coming running down the stairs. And she knew they weren’t Nancy’s, for they didn’t pound.
She was sitting before the fire when Mildred came rushing into the room. Mildred gave her no greeting but cried at her, ‘She hasn’t come back yet; four hours she’s been out. As soon as she finished her turn with Aunt Sophie she went out. It’s four hours or more. Instead of always going for me you want to go for her when…’ Her voice trailed away as she looked down into Martha’s upturned face and, her tone softer now and holding some concern, she ended, ‘What is it? Are you ill, Martha Mary?’
‘I’…m ve…ry col…ld.’
‘Oh, I’ll get you a hot drink.’
‘Dil…Dilly is seeing to it.’
‘You look—’ Mildred didn’t say how she thought her sister looked but, now kneeling by her side, she took her hand and said, ‘Oh, you are cold, frozen. What is it? Was it a dreadful journey?’
‘Not…not very pleasant.’
‘Did…did you see Great-Uncle James?’
Martha closed her eyes. ‘No, no, I didn’t see him.’
‘Then he’s not going to help us?’
‘No; we need expect no help from…Gr…eat Un…cle James. Now let me be quiet for a while until…until I get warm.’ She held out her hands to the blaze; then after a moment turned and looked at Mildred who was sitting back on her heels staring at her, for once seemingly forgetting her own needs, and she said, ‘You say Nancy has been out a long while?’
‘Yes.’ Mildred’s voice was quiet now. ‘I was getting worried. That’s why I…well, it’s over four hours and it’ll soon be dark. I was worried.’
‘Yes, yes. As soon as I get warm we’ll…we’ll go out and…and look for her.’
‘You’ll do no such thing, not while I’m here.’ It was Dilly entering the room and behind her Peg, her arms stretched wide, carrying a tray on which there was a pot of tea, milk and sugar, a plate of cut cold meat and another of new bread and butter.
The tray having been put down on the side table, Dilly poured out a cup of tea and handed it to Martha, saying, ‘Drink that up. No talking now, just drink it up.’
When Martha sipped at the tea she wrinkled her face and, looking up at Dilly, said, ‘It’s—’ she paused—‘it’s got a strange taste.’
‘I…I know it has a strange taste, there’s a drop of whisky at the bottom. Now we won’t have any talk. It’s either gettin’ you unthawed, an’ quickly, or you’ll be in bed for the next week or so. Now drink it up.’
Martha sipped at the whiskyed tea and by the time she had finished it she felt somewhat better, at least physically. She looked from Dilly to Peg, and then to Mildred, as she said quietly, ‘Don’t worry; I’m…I’m all right, I feel much better now. It turned so very cold. I…I think we’re going to have more snow.’ As she finished speaking there was the sound of running footsteps across the hall and the door burst open and Nancy bounded in, her cheeks rosy, her face bright. She made straight for Martha, saying, ‘Oh, you’re back then! How did the visit go?’
She paused now, taking in the scene; then looking from one to the other, she asked, ‘What’s the matter?’
‘Everything!’ Mildred was barking at her. ‘Martha Mary came back almost dead with the cold and you’ve been gone over four hours and it coming on dark and we were worried, and you don’t care. All you think of is riding, riding, and yourself.’
‘I don’t! I don’t! It’s you who always think of yourself, or your cats. I had to walk Belle back; she got a stone in her foot.’
‘There. There.’ Mildred was wagging her head at her. ‘More trouble. You rode her too hard; you’re mad when you’re on a…’
‘Be quiet! Be quiet both of you!…Where have you been all this time, Nancy?’ Martha was looking up at Nancy now, her face straight.
‘I went for a ride and…and I crossed the river. It was low then, but when I was coming back, well, I thought
I’d better not come over that way so I went to the toll bridge. Oh, what does it matter?’ She turned round and rushed from the room in a manner that caused Martha’s mind to lift from the present situation and think that it did matter. Four hours. Where had she been during the four hours? From the yard to the stepping stones where the water was usually shallow would not have taken her more than ten minutes, and even if she had to return by the toll bridge as she said, she could have covered the whole journey in an hour.
Her thoughts were brought sharply back to the present by Dilly shouting at Peg, saying, ‘Well! What you standin’ there for gapin’? Get about your business, miss!’ and as Peg obediently scampered from the room, Dilly, looking now at Mildred, pointed towards the ceiling, and Mildred, after a moment’s defiant hesitation, flounced out of the room too.
Alone now with Martha, Dilly looked down on her; then, seating herself on the edge of a chair, which privilege she had accorded herself for years when with the children, as she still thought of the girls, she bent her swollen body towards Martha and asked simply, ‘Well, what happened?’
Martha stared back into the face of the woman who had known her since birth, and whom she had become aware of very early in life as a sort of mother comfort, and what she answered was, ‘Oh! Dilly.’
‘Like that, is it?’
Martha nodded her head twice.
‘You got your eyes opened then?’
‘Yes, yes, indeed, I got my eyes opened, Dilly. It was horrible…He was horrible…horrible.’ She screwed her eyes up tightly against the image of her father and the young woman as Dilly, shaking her head slowly from side to side, said, ‘Aw, don’t take it to heart like that, lass. You would have twigged how the wind blew sooner or later; you couldn’t help but.’
Martha’s eyes were stretched wide now and her voice was a mere whisper, ‘You knew all about it?…I…I mean before?’
‘Aye, it’s nothin’ new. He’d been at it for years, practically since he was first married.’
‘Dilly!’
‘Aw, don’t sound like that now, Miss Martha. It’s the truth. Your mother knew of it long afore she died.’
‘No, no!’ She was shaking her head in emphatic protest.
‘But aye. Aye, lass, aye. There was one thing he couldn’t do though as long as she was about, he couldn’t get his hands on the money.’
Martha was leaning back in the chair now, her hands gripping the arms. ‘But they seemed so happy. They…’
‘I suppose they were in spasms. When a woman thought as much about a man as your ma did about him she’d forgive him anything. As you yourself know, with his manner like warm butter spreadin’ over you he could get you climbin’ greasy poles. He’s had you on one since your ma went.’
‘But…but you seemed to like him, and…’
‘Well, tell me who didn’t…An’ don’t go an’ tell me I should have told you. What good would that have done, I ask you, eh? It’s bad enough now, but if you’d had to look him in the face and know that…well! I ask you.’
‘And he went through all the money and the businesses on…on…?’
‘Aye, he went through all the money and the businesses as soon as he got his hands on the reins. That was one thing your ma did hold fast to when she was alive, was the business. She wanted you brought up decently; she wanted Roland to go to a college an’ you lasses to the private school in Hexham, right until you were young ladies. An’ she planned havin’ parties for you here an’ people drivin’ out, people with sons—’ she nodded her head now—‘so you could all be wed to men of standin’. But there—’ she spread her work-worn hands wide—‘as she used to say herself, Man proposes and God disposes…What was she like, this one?’
Martha’s chin was buried deep on her chest now and it was some seconds before she muttered, ‘Young, not much older than me. Pretty…stylishly dressed but…but common. Did you know that Uncle James died four years ago?’
‘No. No, I didn’t lass. No, I didn’t. But on the other hand I’ve had me own opinion lately as to whether he was still above ground or not, especially when your father could hardly let a week go by without riding off to Newcastle. Of course, he had visited your Uncle James afore, ’cos he had his eye on the main chance; your mother being your uncle’s only living relative, there was money there. Oh, your father was a very…’ She cut her description short and pursed her lips instead, but Martha ended it in her own mind, ‘Cunning man.’
He had used her from the day her mother was buried, when, taking her face between his hands, he had said, ‘Now you must be a real Martha and Mary as in the Bible,’ and she had gazed up at him and answered with a full heart, ‘Yes, Papa.’ She had never liked her name, considering it old-fashioned, but at that moment she became proud of it when with his voice, his touch, and his smile, he had, as Dilly said, pushed her up the greasy pole.
Her eyelids were closed tight now, the scalding tears were running down her cheeks. Dilly was kneeling at her side, her arms about her, her voice soothing, saying, ‘There, lass. There, lass. Cry it out. Go on, cry it out.’
But she couldn’t cry it out, not yet. She drew in a long deep breath, dried her eyes, then looking at the kneeling figure she said, in something of her old manner, ‘Do get off your knees, Dilly, you won’t be able to move your leg tomorrow.’
Now she was standing helping Dilly to her feet and when, face to face, Dilly asked quietly, ‘What do we do now, lass? Have you any plans?’ she answered, ‘Yes. Yes, Dilly, I have plans. I’ve been to see Mr Paine and he suggests that we definitely sell the chandler’s. It would clear off that mortgage and pay something off the debts. He also suggests that I dismiss Miss Streaton, and put Mildred in her place.’
‘Aw, well now, that’s the best suggestion yet. It’ll give that young madam something to think about…An’ what about here? The house, is it all right?’ There was a deep anxious note in her voice.
‘Yes, yes, I think so, Dilly.’
‘Good.’ Dilly turned away now and as she shambled towards the door she said, as if to herself, ‘As long as we’ve got The Habitation, we’ll get by.’
But would they? Martha asked herself this question as she went to resume her seat near the fire to snatch a few moments respite alone, but it wasn’t allowed her for the door opened almost immediately again and Mildred entered the room, and coming straight to her, pointed upwards and said, ‘She’s asleep.’ Then went on without pause, ‘Now, our Martha Mary, what’s happened? Something’s happened today and I want to know what it is.’
‘Nothing’s happened. It’s just business, the state of our affairs.’
‘It isn’t. It isn’t. I’m not a child, I should know. What’s happened? What happened today in Newcastle?’
They stared at each other; then Martha, her voice harsh now, cried back at her, ‘Yes! Yes, you should know, and the first thing you should know is that you are going to work.’
‘Work?’
‘That’s what I said, work. You are going to take Miss Streaton’s place in the bookshop.’
If Martha had said that she was going to have her transported, Mildred could not have looked more shocked. Her lips were forming the words, but soundlessly. Work in the bookshop? She stood stock still watching Martha go towards the door. The world was tumbling about her. Lady Brockdean was falling, falling away out of her ken forever. But more so were the people she hoped to meet at the Hall after the time of mourning was over when she felt sure Lady Brockdean would approach her again. But now! A shop assistant! She couldn’t believe it. She wouldn’t have it. Her life, her whole future would be ruined. Martha Mary had never liked her. She was doing this on purpose. A governess would have been low enough, but a shop assistant!
Like someone who had received a fatal blow she sat down and cried. But her crying was not sorrowful, mere tears of vexation and frustration. She hated their Martha Mary. She did, she did, and she said so, ‘I hate you our Martha Mary. And I see it all now, it was you who put Roland up
to suggesting it. You’ve never liked me. You want to see me brought low, but you shan’t, you shan’t.’ And she sprang up and rushed from the room.
And Martha sat staring straight ahead.
Later that night Aunt Sophie had a number of her…turns, and for her own safety had to be strapped down on the bed. It was well past midnight when she ceased to struggle and fell into a death-like sleep. But Martha continued to sit by her. Her dressing gown fastened well up around her neck, a rug over her knees, she sat writing a letter. It was the longest letter she had ever written to Roland, in fact it was the longest letter besides the most difficult she had ever written in her life.
After what had come to light that day, but particularly since she had talked to Dilly, she now felt in no way bound to keep her promise to her father. There was growing deep within her a mounting feeling of loathing towards him; apart from everything else she felt he must have looked upon her as a simpleton, and, of course she had been one. Here she was at the age of twenty, and up till yesterday her knowledge of the world had been garnered from novels and the slight information they imparted on life. There were, she supposed, books that could have enlightened her more fully, but she had always been most careful and conservative in her choice of authors.
But now she told herself she was ignorant no more, today her education had been furthered in such a way that she would never feel the same again. And she did not mince her words in her writing when speaking of her father’s mistress and of her predecessors, and she ended her letter by relating Mr Paine’s advice with regard to selling the chandler’s shop. Finally, she said, ‘You must think hard about the future during this last term, for as things stand now you will have to forego the university.’
She added a postscript, ‘Mr Paine iterated your suggestion regarding Mildred taking the place of Miss Streaton in the bookshop, and our circumstances being such I put this to her, with what result you can imagine.’
Miss Martha Mary Crawford Page 9
