‘But yes, Martha Mary.’ Nancy’s tear-stained face was upturned and her expression pathetic. ‘Yes, on familiar terms. We…we were going to be married; he promised as soon as he came of age. We were secretly engaged, we were. We have been for over a year now.’
Martha drew back and stared open-mouthed at this young and beloved sister before she exclaimed in a tone that held deep reprimand, ‘Oh, Nancy!’
‘Well, I knew how you’d look upon it, but…And I wanted to tell you, I did, I did, but I promised him to keep it secret. And he promised me faithfully. He did, he did.’ Her head was now wagging from side to side. ‘Only a few weeks ago when we met and he—’ Her head now drooped deep onto her chest, but almost instantly it was jerked upwards by Martha gripping her shoulders and hissing, ‘You didn’t, Nancy! You never allowed him to…?’
‘No, no, Martha Mary, not that, but’—the face crumpled like a child’s—‘but nearly, because he promised…Please, please don’t look so shocked, don’t, please.’
But Martha was shocked, profoundly. So she had thought a moment ago that they were all simple, but Nancy was no longer simple in that way. And she was forced to wonder, too, now if Mildred was, for sometimes her conversation inferred that there was nothing she didn’t know. It would appear that she herself was the only simpleton among them.
She stared down into Nancy’s distressed face, seeing her now in a new light as if she were much older than herself; and she was older, in that she had studied duplicity and carried it through, not for just a few weeks or months, but, as she admitted, for years. What had she said? ‘No, no, Martha Mary, not that, but nearly.’ What liberties had she allowed William Brockdean to take with her that she could say but nearly? Yet did she really realise the seriousness of her conduct, for she had said those words, but nearly, as a child might confess to some small misdemeanour?
Nancy had picked up her letter from the table, and was now saying, ‘I’m going to write to him and ask him…’ But Martha cut her words off, demanding now, ‘What happened today when you met?’
‘He…he didn’t come. He left a letter.’
‘A letter? Then let me see it.’
‘No, Martha.’
‘Let me see it.’
Nancy now put her hand inside the bodice of her dress and slowly withdrew the envelope, and she watched Martha’s face as she read the letter, but when Martha looked at her and said slowly, ‘This is a breaking off, a dismissal in fact,’ she cried back at her, ‘No! No!’
‘But it is, Nancy.’ Again she was gripping Nancy’s shoulders. ‘It’s as plain as a pikestaff. He is telling you that the association is ended.’
‘But Martha Mary—’ Nancy’s voice was almost a whimper now—‘you don’t know what he said, what happened, what…’
Martha drew in a long breath before she spoke again. ‘I have a very good idea, Nancy.’ Her words coming from deep within her throat, she went on, ‘I know that he has deceived you. To my mind he’s a young scoundrel and this letter proves it; it is a polite and heartless dismissal…And remember what Mildred said last night about the French visitor. Doesn’t he say here…?’ She brought her hand from Nancy’s shoulder and held out the crumpled letter, shaking it almost in her face now as she repeated, ‘Doesn’t he say here that he is going abroad? Nothing could be more evident. And…and you mustn’t write that letter.’ She was now pointing down to the desk, ‘You mustn’t demean yourself any further. Have a little dignity.’
‘Dignity!’ Again Nancy’s head was shaking from side to side. ‘What does it matter about dignity when you are going to lose someone you love? You don’t know anything about it, Martha Mary, you don’t know…’
‘I do know.’
The tone brought Nancy’s head to a stop and they stared into each other’s eyes, and Nancy whispered, ‘You do?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘But you haven’t known any men, except Mr Ducat…Was…was it Mr Ducat?’
‘Yes, it was Mr Ducat. Now this is between you and me. I am telling you this in order that you will recognise you are not alone in being humiliated. Mr Ducat gave me the impression that he was only waiting for my permission in order to speak. And you know something, Nancy? I would have given it willingly last year if it hadn’t been for Father and fear of his displeasure. Thank God I was afraid of that displeasure. It saved me from taking an action that I know now I should have regretted for the rest of my life.’
Again they were staring at each other; and now Nancy slumped in the chair and, her hands joined tightly between her knees, she began to rock herself as she murmured, ‘But how am I to live, Martha Mary? I love him so. And’—her head drooped lower now—‘I was looking forward to being married. I keep thinking about being married because…because I don’t want to end up like Aunt Sophie. I love her but…’
‘Don’t be silly. Don’t talk stupid. You won’t end up like Aunt Sophie. Aunt Sophie was rejected because of her ailment, because of her fits.’ There, she had called them fits. He said they were fits and they were fits.
She shut off her thinking and went on, ‘The man did not want to be hampered with a wife with an ailment that she’d likely pass on to her children. It’s understandable. But you, you are so young and beautiful and healthy…’
‘And I’ll die an old maid right here in this house, in this isolated house.’
‘Oh, Nancy! Nancy!’
‘You can say, Nancy, Nancy, like that, Martha Mary, but I know that will be my lot in life. Anyway you know that no-one visits us except the coalman, the grocer and of course the doctor…and Mr Paine when someone dies. Does Roland ever bring his friends here? No, he goes out riding and visits houses but he never asks any of his gentlemen friends back.’
‘He has no gentlemen friends about here, you know that, his friends are in Scarborough. He has lived most of his life in Scarborough. Anyway, you know we are in no position to entertain; and haven’t been since Mother died.’
‘That is what I mean, we are in no position to entertain.’
Nancy rose to her feet. There was now a strange sort of resignation in her manner. She looked down at the letter lying on the desk before picking it up and slowly tearing it into shreds.
As Martha watched her she became enveloped in sadness. It was as if her dear sister had, in the last ten minutes, added ten years to her life. Gone was the young impulsive girl; the person who walked past her was a woman, and she sounded as such when she said, ‘I can’t take my turn with Aunt Sophie today, will you see to her?’
‘That’s all right, dear. Go and lie down for a while and I’ll bring you up a cup of tea.’
When the door had closed, Martha sat down in the chair near the escritoire, and she looked at the fragments of the letter lying there. Men were cruel. All men were cruel. Poor Nancy. Poor dear Nancy. What could she do to lighten her present burden? If she’d had money. Oh yes, if she’d had money she could have sent her away for a holiday; if she hadn’t been so reckless in her gift to Roland then she could have done something about it in that way. Oh, if only she had someone to discuss things with, someone to turn to for help and guidance. She missed Dilly, Dilly’s homespun philosophy had usually been able to clarify most troubles, now there was no-one.
Yet there was someone she could talk to if only she could bring herself to do it. He had shown that he had her, no their, interest at heart by sending the boy. She saw herself opening the back door in answer to a knock to see standing there a fifteen-year-old boy. He said his name was Dan Holland and he had heard she was looking for a lad to work out of doors and to do heavy chores around the house…She had never had the courage to ask the outside man to do any chores around the house.
‘How do you know I need outside help?’ she had asked the boy, and he had answered, ‘Doctor Fuller, he ‘tends me ma. There’s no field work now and we’re hard put to it. It’s a five-mile tramp but I don’t mind that, an’ I’ll work hard for me wage.’
She had said, ‘It’s a small
wage,’ and at this he had answered, ‘Well, four shillings a week is better than nowt, an’ I’d be grateful for it. As I said I’ll give you good value; I’m strong. As long as I get me grub, I’m strong.’
Four shillings! She had paid Nick Bailey only three shillings a week, but now she needed someone badly because she was feeling physically worn out, and so she had said, ‘I’ll give you a trial, one month. When can you start?’
‘Right now, miss,’ he had answered. And he had started there and then, and since, the whole of the outside had taken on a cleaner, brighter look. What was more, he was clearing the land.
So there was someone she could turn to if only she would allow herself to do it, for hadn’t he solved the management of the shop as well? In fact business was better than ever it had been in Lawrence Ducat’s time.
But, of course, she couldn’t speak to him about this latest trouble for this was a private family matter, and there was nothing he could possibly do with regard to it. So she had best put him out of her mind as a possible source of help and deal with the matter herself. And what that meant, after all, was simply trying to console Nancy …
And so she put him out of her mind while she took a tray of tea up to Nancy, while she attended to Aunt Sophie, while she made the evening meal; but then he was recalled sharply to her attention again when Mildred came in almost half an hour before her usual time, and in such a good mood that her sharp features had taken on a look of prettiness. And what had caused the change? Doctor Fuller had driven her right from the town to the end of the lane.
Mildred took off her bonnet and swung it around by the strings and she laughed with her thin-lipped mouth wide as she said, ‘I find I like him more and more every time I see him. He isn’t the dragon you make him out to be. Well, anyway, he doesn’t act like that with me.’
She went down the length of the kitchen now towards the door leading into the hall, her step was almost a prance, and she held her bonnet in both hands, her arms fully extended in front of her, as if it were an offering. At the door she stopped and, turning around, she put her head on one side and seemed to muse for a moment before saying, ‘Do you know, he can be very amusing; he says the most outrageous things in the quaintest way. He came into the shop three times last week.’ Again she paused and mused, her chin tilted upwards, but with her eyes directed now towards Martha, their slanted gaze cold and without merriment as she ended, ‘You may not have been so far wrong after all about a gentleman coming into the shop and whisking me off my feet. It’s odd how things come about, isn’t it?’
Their gaze held through the dim light of the room, each reading the other’s expression, when finally Mildred’s attention was diverted by the mewing of the cat rubbing against her shoe. She stooped slowly down, picked it up and cradled it in her arms before opening the door, and leaving the kitchen.
Martha lowered her head, laid her hands flat on the table and looked down on them. In this moment she was hating Mildred almost as much as she had done their father…and him. But she no longer hated him. Dear God! Oh, dear God!…And Mildred was cruel. What was more, she was cunning and perceptive. She always saw more than was good for her.
She raised her head, gulped deep in her throat, then reaching out, she grabbed up the knife she had been slicing the meat with, and so quickly did she bring it through the joint that she cut deep into the top of her thumb.
Four
The spring had passed, the year was well into summer; for eight days in succession there had been bright hot sunshine. The roads were baked hard and here and there showed wide cracks. The air was heavy and thundery, and when the clouds did burst it would be a deluge, everyone said so.
Nancy walked slowly up the drive towards the house. She had been to the main road to meet the post van and collect the letters. Less and less she made the journey now with hope, yet her resignation was in no way strengthened.
As she approached the house she stopped abruptly and looked at it. The centre block looked more sunken than ever; like everything else it seemed to be wilting in the heat. The front door was wide open and all the windows too. This time last year she would have thought how homely, how comforting the whole place looked, but not any more. She hated it; every time she entered it now she had the desire to turn and run as if out of a trap. She felt so unhappy; in comparison everybody about her seemed to be enjoying some form of happiness. Martha Mary seemed a little more content now she had the outside boy, and Peg was very content and also possibly because of the outside boy. And there was Mildred. Mildred was just beaming. She dreaded the evening conversation which would alternate between Lady Brockdean and the doctor. And Aunt Sophie, Aunt Sophie was singing all day long. At one time she had loved Aunt Sophie, but now she got on her nerves. Yet she no longer saw herself ending her days like Aunt Sophie. Oh no! No! Not if she could do anything about it. She would suffer anything but that.
She went up the steps and into the dim and cool hall, then turned towards the kitchen where she expected to find Martha.
Martha was at the table preparing some fruit for a pie. At the far end of the kitchen below the shelf that held the iron pans Peg sat in her usual place peeling potatoes, her scarred fingers moving with their former dexterity now. She raised her bright face and looked towards Nancy, saying, ‘Eeh! You look stewed, Miss Nancy.’
Nancy did not, as at one time she would have, come back with some laughing quip such as, ‘Well, I’d be nice served up with custard,’ instead, putting the letters on the table, she looked at Martha and said dully, ‘There’s one from Roland.’
‘Oh, open it, my hands are stained. Read it out.’
Nancy opened the letter and began to read:
Dear Martha Mary,
I am sorry I’ve been unable to write before but I’ve been so busy. As you know, a fortnight sees the end of term and the end of my time here, and I’m not sorry, in fact I’m delighted, and for more reasons than one.
I shall not be returning home directly, but when I come I shall be bringing a guest with me. Would you mind having Papa’s room freshened up? I may tell you now I have some surprising news for you. I hope it will delight you as it has done me. I cannot say more at the moment.
My love to Mildred and Nancy and, of course, to your dear self.
Your affectionate brother,
Roland.
‘He’s bringing a guest!’ Nancy looked straight into Martha’s face and, her tone slightly caustic, she said, ‘He’s starting late, isn’t he? It’s the first time he’s ever brought anyone home. We should feel honoured.’
Martha nodded slowly. ‘It’s likely this friend he calls Arnold.’ She did not say ‘Oh dear me, I wish he wasn’t’, but her mind stressed the words. And he wanted his friend to have their father’s room, and only three weeks at the most to see to everything. What could she do with that room to freshen it up? It needed all stripping and redecorating. And what about food? The young man would be used to all kinds of special dishes. Oh dear, dear, he shouldn’t have done this knowing the circumstances, it was thoughtless of him. Still. She turned and looked at Nancy. This man’s visit might be a blessing in disguise, it could be an answer to her prayer with regard to Nancy’s happiness. And so she must see what she could do with that room; besides which, she must look up her cookery book.
Forcing a note of pleasure into her voice she said, ‘Well, that’ll be nice, won’t it, to have a guest in the house again. We’ll have to start scurrying round, all of us.’ She glanced back at Peg who was grinning at her, but when she looked towards Nancy again it was to see her walking out of the kitchen, her body limp, her shoulders stooped. She no longer ran everywhere.
She returned to her pie making and she prayed directly to God asking Him to make the coming guest so nice that Nancy would forget William Brockdean. And when she finished the thought entered her mind as to what Roland’s surprise news might be.
By three o’clock in the afternoon the air was so heavy that it seemed to scorch the throat. Marth
a, seeing Nancy crossing the drive, went to the window and called, ‘You’re not going walking in this heat, surely Nancy, it’s bad for you!’
Nancy slowed her step but did not stop and she spoke to Martha over her shoulder, her manner off-hand, detached. ‘It’s cooler down by the river,’ she said, then she walked on.
The river was low, there was merely a trickle flowing between the stepping stones. She crossed them but instead of mounting the wooded bank she walked for almost half a mile further along the river bed which now looked like a boulder-strewn beach; then she went up the incline, which was actually the river bank, crossed a field and began to climb upwards, until she paused panting and sweating on a rise that overlooked a winding road and a valley with low hills beyond.
She stared at the hills. She had seen him driving the sheep down them on Monday in the direction of Hexham, but he hadn’t been alone, there had been another man with him, likely his father, most assuredly his father because he often spoke of him and how they worked together. He seemed to be fond of his father, he seemed to be fond of both his parents, yet he laughed at his mother and said she didn’t know Sunday from whistle cock Monday, whatever that was supposed to mean, but that she could count silver quicker than a money-lender.
She had seen him at least once a week since their first meeting on that dreadful day, that seemed but yesterday, yet when she tried to recall the events in it they fused into the past like old history, and she could get nothing clear in her mind concerning it.
She liked the drover…Robbie. He was twenty years old and could neither read nor write, he had told her so, but without any shame. There was something about him that attracted her with an irresistible force. He was so alive, his litheness, his movements, his voice, they all spoke of vibrant youth. Then his eyes, and the way they looked at her, sparkling from their depths with that precious thing she had lost when William spurned her. She knew that something was going to happen between her and the drover, she didn’t know when or exactly what, but she knew that he would make it happen, and soon.
Miss Martha Mary Crawford Page 20
