Turning the Stones (11 page)

Croft charged our cups again. The beer was sour and tasty and made me feel as if I were leaning slightly to one side. Another toast was made, this time to Sir Joseph. Abby asked, ‘Now but who is he, though?’ and Mr Otty explained, ‘Sir Joe is the spigot who augments the flow of cash. He is the uncle of our mistress, head of the Felling family and a man bowlegged with brass.’ Mr Otty speared a flap of mutton and used it to emphasise his remark that it would be a strange thing if young Johnny did not get a legacy when Sir Joseph shuffled off. ‘A handsome one it will be too,’ he said, ‘and when that comes to pass not a cloud will darken Sedge Court never no more.’

‘I would not count your chickens, Mr Otty. The Fellings were always right snooty about the Waterlands.’ In response to Miss Broadbent’s enquiring gaze, Mrs Edmunds added, ‘The Waterlands come from millwrights, but the Fellings on the other hand have always been much further upstream, if you get my drift. They were right flummoxed when Henrietta Felling condescended to Bernard Waterland, but it wasn’t such a surprise to me. Her branch of the Fellings had very dry pockets and it seemed he had a fortune.’

‘That is not so unusual, is it?’ Miss Broadbent observed. ‘A pedigree in exchange for cash.’

‘Leave something for the poor footman!’ Rorke slogged into the dining hall with another basket of used plates. ‘It’s all right for you lot; I’m the one obliged to be in and out like a fiddler’s elbow, but I will dip my beak now, if I may.’

‘Go on, man –’ Mr Otty poured Rorke a foaming draught of the beer – ‘take a quick sup on the wing.’ Then he turned to Miss Broadbent and said, ‘The master’s father, Jack Waterland, was a terrible canny man. My dad was a ploughman time back on Sedge Farm and he knew all about it. The farm was a place oozing springs and swamps when Jack Waterland bought it, but he would have none of their mischief. He found ways of removing wetness from the land by making drains, you see.’

Mrs Edmunds chipped in. ‘Parkgate weren’t nowt but a village in them days and just a few shrimpers and fisherfolk living there and a bad, chocky road between the village and Chester.’

Mr Otty scratched the grizzled nap of his head and went on, ‘The old master contrived all sorts of drainage machines and sold them all over the kingdom as well. He was desperate keen to get on top of the difficulty of the Dee and make Parkgate a reliable stop for trade.’ He paused to remove a well-masticated lump of gristle from his mouth, and lobbed it into the fire before going on. ‘He made a powerful penny out of his machines, and levered himself up and Parkgate along with it. When the old quay at Neston was finally jacked in because of the silt, the trade came up here and Jack Waterland found himself in right good buckle.’

Miss Broadbent said, ‘Why did the Waterlands’ fortunes dwindle then? I wonder.’

‘Old Jack Waterland planned to build drains under the Dee, so that Parkgate would not succumb to sludge, but he died before he could realise his design. A committee of Chester men, who were after business themselves, had the New Cut dug in the river instead. That pushed the course of the Dee over to the Welsh side and Parkgate fell into difficulties with the loss of trade.’

Rorke said, ‘In any case, the Dee cannot hold a candle to the Mersey. They can ram any amount of two-hundred-tonners up that waterway.’

Mrs Edmunds said, ‘You must not dawdle your time away down here, Rorke. They will be wanting the cheese taken from the table.’ Rorke slugged the last of his beer and wiped his chops with the back of his hand.

Miss Broadbent said, ‘Do you think, Mr Otty, that the present master walks in the shadow of his father?’

‘Our master is no dullard, but he wants the ability of his father to convert his brains into brass. Her upstairs, nor her father, didn’t know that when they accepted Bernard Waterland. He, of course, had given her to expect that he had the moon in his pocket.’

Mrs Edmunds said with lowered voice, ‘He was a different man in them days. He was bowled over by Miss Felling something fierce and it was all right merry at the outset of the marriage. But by the time Master Johnny was born she was coming to see there was nowt but a few shillings rattling round at Sedge Court.’

Miss Broadbent said, ‘And the lady was brought up to a certain style, of course.’

‘Oh aye, she will want things when she wants them and it is not in her make-up to do without. All credit to her silver tongue though, because she went to her aunt Lady Paine in Derbyshire, who was the older sister of Sir Joseph, God rest her soul, and she coaxed the lady into settling an annuity on her, a good amount of which went into schemes to revive the master’s fortunes.’

‘They went off travelling hither and yon,’ said Mr Otty. ‘They were up and down every coast of the kingdom and beyond. The master went to look on the way that tides circulate. He was pondering after the success of his father and the plans for drains that went under the sea. But his studies came to nowt, him not being the type who is much of a manifester, and it is many a year now since he went abroad. Not since they brought young Em back for Miss Eliza to play with.’

‘Where did they get you from, Emma?’ Abby asked.

‘My name is not Emma,’ I said. ‘It is M for Mary. Eliza coined the name when we were little and she saw M. Smith written on my conduct book.’

Miss Broadbent said, ‘Mrs Waterland brought you from London, didn’t she?’

Downes said in a lofty manner, ‘In point of fact, I have heard quite a different story about the origins of Smith here.’

I stiffened myself against a tale that was bound to mortify me.

‘Mrs Waterland got her from Chester,’ Downes said darkly, as if Chester were Hades itself, ‘in the days when she and Lady Broome went out of charity to pray for prisoners at the
assizes. On one such occasion the mistress came across a condemned man who was to be hanged as an incorrigible poacher. This scurvy wretch was lamenting his fate and that of his motherless child, and what do you think the mistress does out of the kindness of her heart?’ Downes aimed her beady gaze at me. ‘She brought the poacher’s daughter to live at Sedge Court.’

Miss Broadbent said crisply, ‘What nonsense, Miss Downes.’

‘I had the story from the mistress herself!’

‘I doubt that very much. If Em were a poacher’s daughter we should have heard about it before now. You ought to be ashamed of yourself for impugning the poor child.’

I felt less impugned than reminded how likely it was that I was the progeny of a lowly felon rather than – and this was my sustaining pipe dream at the time – the clandestine child of Mrs Waterland. I had once heard Mrs Heswall ask Hester, with a raised eyebrow, if I had been made ‘on the other side of the blanket’. It was the first time I had come across the phrase but its meaning was clear enough to me. In a high tone, Hester rebuked the laundress for her presumption, but when I asked her myself, Hester said that she had never heard anything so batty, which was the same as saying she knew nothing. Sometimes I dared to let myself imagine that Mrs Waterland and I were united by a shared tragedy, where I was the child she could not acknowledge and she the mother I could not claim.

The conversation had rushed on, leaving Downes high and dry, to the topic of Mrs Waterland’s aunt, Lady Paine. Hester recalled how deeply grieved the mistress had been when the aunt expired.

‘As well she might be,’ declared Mrs Edmunds. ‘When Lady Paine ceased to exist, so did the annuity that she had put on the mistress. That money has been sore missed in this house. Late-whiles it has been a devil of a business to reconcile the accounts, or the ones I deal with, any road. I have had to codgel and mend just to keep the fires burning.’

Hester said, ‘No wonder the master is oft so out of sorts. He was beholden to the mistress all those years to pay the bills and it has preyed on him.’

Miss Broadbent said, ‘It is a pity Sir Joseph could not have found it in himself to take up where his sister left off. He might have offered assistance to his relations.’

‘Sir Joseph is a heckle-tempered fellow, by Jove,’ said Mr Otty. ‘He ever opposed Bernard Waterland. He never reckoned our master good enough for a Felling, but the mistress’s father was still alive at that time so Sir Joseph could not thwart the marriage. And then the master has been so troubled these last several years, there was nothing in his situation to alter Sir Joseph’s low opinion. Sir Joe thought him good for nowt.’

Miss Broadbent said, ‘Then it is miraculous that Sir Joseph has agreed to prosper Mr Waterland’s son.’

‘Mayhappen he sees in the young master something of himself, for isn’t Johnny an up-and-comer in the Felling vein?’

Downes said, ‘We are all under an obligation to the mistress. She it was who swallowed her pride and begged Sir Joseph to sponsor Johnny Waterland.’

Mr Otty said, ‘That’s true, I will uphold.’

Mrs Edmunds said, ‘Happen it was the begging that did it. Sir Joseph would not be the first man to savour the sight of a high woman lowering herself to him.’ She drained her cup,
and then observed in a tone that scored a line under the discussion, ‘In the long run, families come up and go down like the grass and there’s no end to it.’

After supper, I accompanied Miss Broadbent to the door of her chamber to bid her goodnight. She resided in a cramped closet off the schoolroom. She bent to kiss my cheek and then she laid a light hand on my arm. ‘Em,’ she said, ‘do you know that the foundling hospital in London would have made a record of your admission. Perhaps you could ask the mistress if she has the document. It will show your original name, and the date of birth.’

‘My original name?’ My voice caught in my throat. It had not occurred to me that Mary Smith might not be the name bestowed on me at birth.

Miss Broadbent said in her quiet way, ‘Every foundling is baptised with a new name on being admitted to the hospital and they are entered in a register.’

I might have asked Miss Broadbent how she knew such a thing, but there was an unusually closed look in her eye and I did not dare to put the question to her.

*

I trembled with anticipation at the thought that I could learn my identity from an official record. But did I want to know? To discover that I came from dishonoured stock – my fantasy of belonging to Mrs Waterland was much more appealing. And yet, if it should turn out that my mother was a worthless person, oughtn’t I to know that? At the same time I felt that I must tread cautiously. I did not want Mrs Waterland to interpret an interest in my origins as an aspersion on her generosity in supplying me with an alternative life. However one
afternoon she called me to her parlour to help work embroideries for one of Eliza’s new gowns and I found a way to chisel an opening for the topic. I asked her whether fashions had changed very much since her entry into society. I hoped that talking of her youth might bring her to the subject of parentage, by which I could bring up mine.

Mrs Waterland worked her needle for a minute or so without acknowledging my enquiry, but then she began to describe rather dreamily an ensemble she had once appeared in at a ball: the petticoat of silver tissue worn very bouffant, the stays cut breathtakingly low, the tight sleeves making the most of her slender arms, her headdress a cloud of snowy gauze and falling from her shoulders a train of ice-blue shagreen that imitated sharkskin. She sighed, ‘I was seventeen and never was more beautiful, I freely admit. I felled the heart of a young viscount that night. He was terribly handsome. I have always been hopelessly drawn to good looks, you know.’

It was a statement that begged the question of the master’s appearance, but of course I could not remark such a thing.

She bent over her tambour and tugged at a thread. I hesitated to ask more about the viscount. Evidently a match had not been made and I feared probing a wound. I said, instead, ‘I imagine you were always beset by admirers, madam.’ I suppose I expected her to counter with something prettily self-deprecating, but she did not say anything at all for a few minutes. She looked in silence towards a window. Her emotions seemed very near the surface, which was not something in her that I was used to.

She said flatly, ‘Beauty is a great benefit, but it is not a reliable currency. He was madly in love with me, but my lack
of fortune was a stumbling block. He married an heiress with a shape like a barge. When I saw in the newspaper that he was dead of an accident from his horse quite soon after his marriage, I was glad.’ Her smile was tight. She resumed her needle, adding, ‘It is pointless to dwell on the past.’

I said, picking my way carefully, ‘I must admit that I cannot help wondering about my own past. I am rather curious about my people.’

I thought she stiffened rather as she said, ‘But, my dear Em, you know the story. You were abandoned at the hospital.’

‘It crossed my mind that you might have been given my certificate of birth.’

She said, ‘I believe no such document exists.’

I did not wish to quote Miss Broadbent’s assertion that the foundling hospital kept records. I intuited that it would not advantage her. ‘Oh. I assumed there must be something on paper. Perhaps we could send away to ask at the hospital. You know, dear madam, that I am not even sure of my correct age.’

Mrs Waterland said, ‘Alas, child, the births of foundlings are rarely recorded.’

You see how she did not quite answer the question. I had the impression that she did not want to be pinned down, but it may have been that she was dwelling still on those dashed hopes of her youth. I wondered if Miss Broadbent had been wrong about the records, although it was not like her to be inaccurate.

The mechanism of the clock on the chimney piece whirred loudly and chimed the hour.

Mrs Waterland said, ‘You must accept, my love, that you will never know your provenance. Were I in your shoes, I
should tell myself that my parents were of high rank and fallen, alas, on hard times. Just because such a tale is the fanciful wish of every foundling does not mean it cannot be true.’ She laughed her tinkling laugh and I found myself grateful for the shelter of her regard.

*

When I told Miss Broadbent some of what had transpired between the mistress and me, largely that there was no certificate of birth, I saw at once by her almost infinitesimal shake of the head that she did not believe this to be the case, but she said only, ‘That is rather surprising.’ I thought she was about to add something else, but then Eliza came back into the room with some boisterous request or other.