Miss Mary Martha Crawford (31 page)

she cried, digging her fingers into her chest, 'through scraping and saving over the household, and on clothes for us all, and denying

myself and the others the small comforts of life; if I hadn't. Father wouldn't have had enough money to spend on his mistresses and his

whoring...." My God! what was she saying, using a word like that aloud? But she had said it, she had brought this foul thing into the open, this thing that in her distress she had written to him about the night she had sat by Aunt Sophie's bed. But never once in his letters had he referred to it, and she could see now the reason for his silence on the matter; he had thought little of it, and it was more likely he was at the same game himself.

Oh dear, dear! why were her thoughts so raw? She was thinking as

Dilly might, and she had been talking as Dilly might. And why not! It was a pity there weren't more people in the world like Dilly. She now thrust her face towards his red flaming countenance and cried, "Whoring I said, and whoring I mean. You ignored the implication of this in the letter I sent you after he died. But now I'm giving it a name, its

right name, and because of it there were times when we almost starved here. Yes, starved, and that's no exaggeration, in order that you and he should live your lives as prescribed for a gentleman, so called, and his son...."

They were glaring at each other in open hate, yet his hatred was but a weak shadow of the emotion that was tearing her to pieces; and this was proved when, his head suddenly drooping, he turned from her and sank into a chair. But she wasn't finished with him, for now she cried,

"There's one thing I accomplished which pleases me mightily at this s-mwo-m 221 moment; I don't know how I had the sense to do it, I must in some way have been forewarned, but I opened a banking account of my own, and put Dilly's money into it. I remember thinking it would be

nice if only for a short time to imagine it was mine. But it is mine, two hundred and eight pounds, and now it will stand me in good stead while I am choosing a career for myself."

He turned his head and looked at her. The flush of anger had gone from his face leaving it almost deathly white except where the spots stood out. He was gaping at her openmouthed and his voice had a tremor to it now as he said, "Martha Mary, you wouldn't, you couldn't, you couldn't leave me in the lurch."

"What did you say?" Now her voice was low, but weighed with disdain.

"Leave you in the lurch? Leave you in the . lurch, you say? What exactly do you mean? Tell me. Tell me."

"Well, there's the house ... I... I told Eva that you were so good at managing everything, and you are, you're wonderful, Martha Mary, I've always said it, and ... and Eva would be quite willing to let you run things as they are now. She wouldn't interfere. She would just see to the educational side. She's ... she's rather brilliant that way; she speaks three foreign languages fluently. And she ... well, she

wouldn't--' he hung his head for a moment before ending, " She wouldn't be cut out for. for . "

"Well, go on. Tell me what she wouldn't be cut out for. I suppose you mean she wouldn't be cut out for household chores."

When he raised his eyes to hers but remained quiet, she said on a

bitter laugh, "Well, that's a great pity, Roland, because she'll have to learn, won't she? As you know. Peg cannot do half the work that

she used to, and the hall floor is so very large, and it always seems larger when you're on your knees scrubbing it; it's much worse than the kitchen, but I'll be quite pleased to show your future wife the best Way to prevent calloused knees. I made special pads for myself;

of course, Peg has always had her own . "

"Shut up! I forbid you to go on. Shut up!"

His face now looked ugly and she stared back into it, her own

expression grim and her voice equally so as she said, "You cannot forbid me to do anything, I am not in your employ, Roland." She paused; then again came the bitter laugh as she went on, "I am just trying to be helpful. If I don't meet your future wife to give her

some practical advice as regards how this particular household is run then I must give it to you to pass on to her.... And, oh, we mustn't forget there's Aunt Sophie; she'll have to be told how to deal with

Aunt Sophie."

As if he had suddenly remembered there was an Aunt Sophie he gripped his chin in his hand and murmured something under his breath, and

Martha repeated it aloud.

"Yes," she said, 'it is a case of Oh my God!

But I shouldn't worry unduly, she may find Aunt Sophie amusing, and no doubt her fits will be an experience. Of course, Some people are

afraid of those who have fits, but you must tell her that Aunt Sophie is utterly harmless. "

"You won't do this, Martha Mary. You can't do this." His voice sounded like that of a pleading child until he ended, "I forbid it."

"Huh! Don't make me laugh, Roland, You forbidding me! You forbidding anybody! In fact you, Roland, are a weakling. Do you know that? You

are a weakling. You are like our father, you are a good-looking

weakling. But take a word of warning, don't let your fiancee see you as such or she'll despise you.... Now, dear brother, if you will excuse me I shall go to my room and get my things together because I don't

intend to be here when your future wife arrives."

But when she went to pass him, he gripped her arm and, his face now

white with passion, he ground out between his teeth, 'you mean to ruin me out of spite, don't you? You're a bitch. Do you hear? A bitch!

It's as Mildred said, you're like a frustrated spinster. "

"Leave go of my arm!"

When he didn't release his hold but even tightened it she took her

other hand and brought it with a resounding blow

across his face. As much from surprise as from the force of the blow he staggered back against the mantelpiece and only stopped himself from falling backwards into the fireplace by spreadeagling his arms.

From this position he glared at her and she at him, then in a voice

that sounded eerily calm, she said, "And don't forget, brother, you still have the business of Nancy to straighten out."

On this she left the room, went through the hall and up the stairs and into her own room, where she did not sit down and cry, for the fury in her was still keeping her upright, but she stood rigid staring out of the window. The wind had gone down and it had started to rain. It was a straight, steady rain, blocking out the river and the woods beyond, blocking out all concern for everyone but herself, and what faced her at this moment.

She had told him she would take up a career. What career? She

couldn't even be a governess. No, the most she could hope for was that of a housekeeper. Well, if she took up such a position she would get paid for it, wouldn't she? And that would be something.

She turned and looked about the room which had been hers alone since she had taken over the management of the house after her mother died.

She recalled her delight at having a room to herself, and the honour of being on the main floor and what was more, her bedroom door being right opposite that of her father's room. And he himself had supervised the moving of special pieces of furniture into it, such as the Sheraton

dressing-table, and the mahogany tallboy chest and the carpet from the guest room, and when the time of mourning was over he had taken her

into Hexham and let her choose some chintz for the curtains and to

cover her easy chair. The room was still the same, except that the

chintz was faded a little. And now she was going to leave it. The

enormity of the change appalled her for a moment, but only for a

moment, for she told herself in deep bitterness that she was leaving this house tomorrow and no one would stop her.

As she pulled out a dressing case from a cupboard to the

side of the window the question came at her, "What will happen to Aunt Sophie?" and she answered without a pause, "That's his

responsibility."

But he might put her in a home! This thought did bring her to a

halt.

No, no, he wouldn't, because he would have to pay for her and he was in no position to do that. No, Aunt Sophie would remain here, but without the love and care she herself had lavished on her for years.

She stood stock still now in the middle of the room looking back down those years, the years in which she had played the mother, the

housekeeper, the mistress of the house. It was only six years in time but it was six lifetimes of youth. She had given her youth, her

girlish days, to this house and them all. She'd never had any fun, any joy except that of service;

and after all what joy did that bring in the years between fourteen and twenty? Those years were never meant for service, they were meant for growing, for searching, for experiencing, for enjoying that particular period of life that would never come again because this should be a

time of wonder, of phantasy, of dreaming, but when it was over, they were over, the wonder, the phantasy and the dreaming. Life never

offered you that period of experience again. Life from twenty was

reality, looked at with eyes wide open; the dream period when with lids half closed the mind outdid the fables in imagining the wonders that life could hold was over.

She had once read a very cynical remark by one of the modem writers who said that the teen years held days of disillusionment, weeks of

heartbreak, months of bodily torture, and years of false values.

Perhaps he was right, but she wouldn't mind at this stage looking back from the saneness of twenty into the magic madness of youth if she had been allowed to experience it.

She went now to the bed and, slumping on to it, she buried her head

into the pillow and filled her mouth with it in order to prevent

herself crying out aloud.

the rain was coming down heavy and steady as Harry neared the turning that led to The Habitation. Since setting out from Hexham he had been in two minds whether or not to call in. His last visit had been but

three days ago; to call so soon might look a little marked as if he

were nosing into the doings of the house, yet she had asked him to

interfere in the matter of Miss Nancy, hadn't she? And more than

once.

But being of the temperament she was, she would doubtless look upon

today's visit as yet another fee to be added to the bill. And he could hardly say he was visiting unprofessionally. Good Lord no, not that.

But the rain decided him against breaking his journey to Nolan's Farm, and so he went straight on past the turning.

But still he could not help wondering how the odd affair was

progressing between young Robbie Robson and Miss Nancy. Twice on his travels during the past fortnight he had espied her in the distance; and she had seen him too, but she had made no move to speak to him.

The first time she actually turned and ran. She had been on the open hillside then. The second time, she was walking along the main road

that led to the Robson's cottage, but again on catching sight of him she had climbed the bank and disappeared.

Then, as if his mind had conjured her up, he saw her, he saw them both.

They were seated side by side in a trap which Robbie was driving into the main road from a side lane that led back over the hills.

Harry drew Bessie to a standstill as he came abreast of them, and

Robbie, too, pulled up his horse. It was Harry who spoke first.

"Summer seems to have left us," he said.

"It does, doctor." Robbie nodded back at him. His face

although running with rain had a bright look about it, and if the same expression had been on a woman's features it could have been termed

starry, and he went on, "But winter's a long way off yet. Still, I like winter, long nights by the fire, a good roof over your head,

something warm inside an' the door closed tight an' a wife by your

side. What more could a fella want?"

The smile slid from Harry's face. He was looking at Nancy, her head

was bent. His gaze now lifted to Robbie, and Robbie nodded back at

him, saying, "Aye, doctor, yes, we did it the day in Newcastle, right and proper with a licence."

"No!"

"Oh, but aye, doctor, aye."

"But she's not of age. They can ..."

"She's old enough to wed. Anyway, she's an orphan, doctor, she has neither mother nor father. Now who would she get her consent from, I ask you? Don't let it worry you, doctor, she'll be happy, I'll see to it." The expression on his face had changed now, it was serious, stiff.

"By the way, you can do me a service. Are you callin' in at The Habitation on your way back?"

"I didn't intend to." His voice was cold.

"Well, as I said, doctor, it would do me a service, both of us, if you'd tell her, Miss Martha that is, that Nancy here has gone home,

she's married an' gone home. An, if she's got a mind to let her have her things well an' good, if not, 'tis no matter, I can buy her things.

I bought her this dress the day."

When he touched her cloak Nancy tugged it from his hand and drew it

closer about her, at the same time bowing her head deeper on to her

chest.

Robbie stared at her for a moment, his face stiff; then glancing in

Harry's direction, he said, "It's soaked we're all getting'. I'll bid you good-day, doctor. An' if you can't do me that service 'tis no

matter." And with this he cried, "Get up there!" and his horse trotted off smartly.

Harry continued on his journey towards the farm. As the saying went, possession was nine points of law, and after

tonight who would want to break that law as regards those two? Yes,

he would call in at The Habitation on his way home.

Martha had been in her room for almost three hours. Twice Roland had knocked on the door and she had told him to go away. She had been up to the attic and brought down a trunk, a hat box, and small valise.