The River Charm (18 page)

Mamma stormed up and down in the kitchen, her skirts swishing. ‘I swear I would scratch someone's eyes out before I would let them take away my children.'

Mamma sat down suddenly and lay her head on the table, her eyes closed.

‘Mamma, it will be all right,' Emily soothed. She rose and took off her mother's lace cap, loosening her tightly pinned hair. The long, black hair, with a thin streak of grey at the temple, tumbled down Mamma's back. Emily took up a hairbrush from the dresser and began to run it through her mother's hair.

When did Mamma get that streak of grey?
Charlotte wondered.
I don't remember seeing her with grey hair before. Boarding school? How can they possibly think it would be better for us to be apart from our family and sent to boarding school?

Charlotte went to the sink and filled the kettle with water. She added some timber kindling to the fire to stoke up the heat and placed the kettle on the hob. ‘Who would like a cup of tea?' she asked brightly. No one really felt like it, but somehow it made them all feel a little better.

They sat sipping on their tea around the kitchen table in silence, everyone thinking over the contents of the letter. Eventually Mamma began to speak, her voice taking on the tone she used when she told them stories.

‘My mother, Elizabeth, died when I was twenty months old,' said Mamma. ‘She was only twenty-eight and she died giving birth to my younger sister Jane. According to my father, she was a tiny woman of exquisite beauty. I inherited her height but sadly not her exquis-ite beauty!'

Mamma laughed and pulled a face of self-mockery. The show of merriment softened the lines and angles, making her eyes bright. She looked youthful again, especially with her hair falling around her face instead of bound in its usual severe bun.

‘Mamma, of course you are beautiful,' Emily cried. ‘You are the most beautiful Mamma in the world!'

Charlotte thought how sad it would be to lose your mother as a baby. Mamma clasped Emily's hand.

‘My father, Albert Waring, came from a wealthy, landowning family in Kent,' Mamma continued. ‘The Warings were descended from a Norman knight called William de Warenne, who came to England from France with William the Conqueror in 1066, and he was rewarded for his valour by becoming the first Earl of Surrey.'

‘He must have been very brave,' decided James. ‘I wish I could have seen him fight.' He jumped up and began swishing an imaginary battle sword over their heads.

‘James, let Mamma tell the story,' Charlotte admonished.

Mamma took up her work basket and began to sew. ‘My father was the sixth son, but had enough fortune to possess a large house in London, and to live in style,' she explained. ‘My father amused himself drawing and rearing many pet birds and animals.'

‘Just like us,' said Louisa with a gap-toothed smile.

‘Exactly,' Mamma agreed. ‘When my mother died, she left behind four daughters under the age of nine. Soon afterwards, my father met with an accident, and he found it too much to care for us, so I was reared by an aunt, Mrs Fisher. Eventually my father remarried, so when I was ten I was sent away to a “superior school” in Kent, where I stayed until I was fifteen. My father thought it was important that girls should also have a thorough education, which is quite an unusual notion, even now.'

Charlotte and Emily nodded. They had heard Mamma's views on the importance of education for girls many times.

‘My father had another two children, a daughter and a son, Thomas Albert – and of course all my father's property and fortune were to be inherited by my half-brother.'

Mamma snipped the cotton with her silver scissors.

‘The school in Kent had an excellent reputation and I received lessons from the finest masters, including the celebrated landscape artist John Glover.' Mamma gestured over to the wall, where two of her own landscape paintings were hanging. ‘However, I arrived there at the age of ten, leaving behind my family. I was terribly homesick.

‘The discipline, as in most schools, was harsh. Children were regularly beaten, starved and made to stand on stools for hours for the slightest infraction. My dearest friend Eliza died at the age of eleven from consumption caused by poor food and cold dormitories.

‘While I believe it is absolutely vital for girls to have an outstanding education, I know what it is like to be torn away from your family and sent away to boarding school, and I would
never
allow that to happen to you.'

Mamma gazed at them all in turn. ‘I will do
everything
it takes to convince the Master-in-Equity that you must stay here with me.'

Emily, James and Louisa looked up at Mamma, their faces reflecting the trust they had in her power to protect them. Charlotte wished she could have their confidence – she could only feel sick with fear.

‘You tell the best stories in the world,' said Louisa.

‘Especially the ones about shipwrecks and cannibals and castaways,' James added.

‘You should write them down, Mamma,' said Emily. ‘You could make a book of the stories you tell us. That way, other children could enjoy them too.'

‘You could sell the book and make a fortune,' James said.

Charlotte felt impatient with her brother and sisters. ‘When would Mamma have time to write a book, James?' Charlotte asked. ‘Mamma is working day and night as it is to look after us, writing petitions to the court and visiting the lawyers. She hardly has a moment to herself except when we're asleep.'

‘You are right, Charlotte,' Mamma said, smiling at their enthusiasm. ‘I could write at night-time while you are sleeping. I rarely sleep well at the moment, and it would give me something to do other than rewriting petitions for the lawyers. I will write some stories and see how it progresses.'

‘Be sure to put in some stories about the Aborigines near Oldbury,' Louisa said, clutching her mother's sleeve. ‘And some about beetles,' she added.

‘Beetles?' demanded James in disgust. ‘Who would want to read a story about
beetles
?'

‘I would,' said Louisa, crossing her arms and pouting.

Everyone laughed.

‘Poppet, I will be sure to write a story about beetles, just for you.'

20

Unwelcome Visitor

 

Outside, the rain drummed down relentlessly, as it had all day. It had been too miserable to go for a walk. The sky was so dark that Charlotte had lit the lamps early, and James had started a fire in the grate. They were all sitting around the cedar breakfast table, working on various pursuits.

Mamma was writing one of her stories about the shipwreck of the
Stirling Castle
and the experiences of one of the survivors, Eliza Fraser, living with the Aborigines. There was a growing pile of paper at her left elbow, written in her precise calligraphy. Emily was testing Louisa on her French verbs, while James was building a model of the
Stirling Castle
from scraps of wood and glue. Charlotte was sketching a bouquet of white daisies and scarlet geraniums from the garden, arranged in a crystal vase.

Samson lay in front of the fire, snoring gently. Suddenly he pricked his ears and listened. He jumped up and ran to the back door, barking loudly.

‘What is it, Samson?' asked Charlotte, putting down her pencil. ‘Is someone there?'

A loud clang sounded from the rear yard. Mamma frowned, peering out the window into the heavy downpour.

‘Who in their right mind would be visiting in this dreadful weather?' Mamma asked.

‘Perhaps it is Mrs Fisher?' suggested Emily. Their well-meaning neighbour sometimes looked after the children when Mamma had to go to town on business and was prone to dropping in to see if everything was all right.

Mamma shook her head and straightened her heavy skirts.

The back door flew open, smashing against the wall. Mamma had not locked it yet for the evening. A stooped figure swathed in a saturated greatcoat stumbled into the corridor, leaving puddles of rainwater on the floor.

Samson growled, baring his fangs, the fur on the back of his neck standing on end. The children raced to stand beside their mother. The man grabbed the dog by the collar and hauled him outside, slamming the door. Samson barked furiously, his claws scratching frantically at the back door.

‘George?' asked Mamma in disbelief.

‘Mr Barton?' said Charlotte in disgust.

Mr Barton leered at them. Charlotte could smell the reek of him from where she stood – raw spirits, unwashed body, stale tobacco and foul breath. Since she had last seen him, he looked older – grey skin; lank, unkempt hair; his nose rosy with broken capillaries.

‘What's for tea?' demanded Mr Barton.

Mamma slipped her hand into her pocket. ‘There is nothing here for you. Would you please be so good as to leave us in peace?'

Mr Barton staggered down the hall towards them. He had obviously been drinking heavily.

‘Emily, take Louisa and go next door to fetch Mr Fisher and his son,' Mamma whispered. ‘Hurry.'

Emily obediently grabbed Louisa by the hand and rushed towards the front door.

‘Stop, brat,' called Mr Barton. ‘Don't you go anywhere.' Emily paused obediently, looking back, her hazel eyes round with fear. Charlotte could feel her heart thumping and her mouth become dry.

Mamma glared at Emily. Soundlessly she mouthed an urgent command: ‘Go. Now.'

Emily turned and ran, dragging Louisa by the hand. Mr Barton charged after her, shoving Mamma and Charlotte out of the way. Fortunately his reflexes were slow and his movements clumsy. Emily slammed the door shut in his face.

Mr Barton grabbed Mamma by the wrist and dragged her into the sitting room. Charlotte yelped. James backed away towards the fireplace.

‘I want food and I want money,' Mr Barton demanded, spraying spittle as he slurred. ‘And I want it
now
.'

‘We have not had any money since you forced us out of Oldbury all those months ago,' said Mamma indignantly. ‘We barely have any food either.'

Mr Barton scowled and twisted her wrist savagely, forcing Mamma down onto her knees. Mamma struggled futilely.

‘Don't hurt her,' Charlotte begged, grasping Mr Barton's arm. ‘Let her go. Leave us alone.'

Mr Barton shoved Charlotte away so forcefully that she fell hard against an armchair. James darted forward, brandishing the fire poker as a weapon.

‘James, please put that down,' insisted Mamma. ‘Mr Barton is leaving immediately.'

James paused, torn between obeying his mother and defending her. At last he dropped his hand, but not the poker.

‘Don't tell me you have no money,' scoffed Mr Barton, letting her wrist go. ‘Your mealy-mouthed first husband left you and the brats a fortune. Now give me some.'

Mamma stood up with difficulty, her shoulders sagging. ‘Look at us, George,' she demanded, gesturing around the tiny sitting room and at her faded gown. ‘Do we look like we have money? Would we be living here, dressed like this, if we had a fortune? We are virtually starving.'

‘Empty your pocket,' insisted Mr Barton.

Mamma glared at him but slipped her hand through the slit in the side of her skirt to the separate pocket she wore tied around her waist over her petticoats. Mamma pulled out a linen handkerchief, a set of three keys and a small brown pebble that she held out on the flat of her palm. There were no coins.

Mr Barton whacked her hand, sending the items flying. The keys jangled to the ground and the pebble skittered across the floor, lodging under the sideboard.

Mr Barton swept his fist across the breakfast table in frustration, scattering Mamma's carefully stacked sheets of paper and smashing the vase of flowers to the floor. The water puddled on the floor, ruining Charlotte's sketch and threatening Mamma's stories.

Charlotte fell to her hands and knees, scrabbling to pick up the strewn papers and place them out of harm's way.

‘Get out, George,' Mamma insisted, her voice tight with barely restrained anger. ‘There is nothing for you here.'

Suddenly, Mr Barton struck Mamma across the face violently. Charlotte jumped up, her fury bubbling over, and ran straight at Mr Barton. She drove into his belly with her forehead, sending him sprawling among the broken crystal and strewn flowers.

Mamma grabbed the fire poker from James and raised it, ready to let it fly if Mr Barton moved. Charlotte rolled out of the way.

The back door flew open for the second time and a black shadow streaked down the hall, followed by Emily, Louisa and two burly fishermen. A growling Samson leapt on Mr Barton's chest, water dripping from his shaggy coat, his bared fangs pressed against Mr Barton's nose.

‘I'm going,' Mr Barton whimpered, covering his face with his arms. ‘Call the dog off. I'm going.'

Charlotte lay curled up against the skirting board, fear and anger churning inside her. James pulled Samson off the quivering Mr Barton, who was dragged out the back door by the two fishermen. Emily locked the door behind them. Mamma came to check on Charlotte.

‘Charlotte, dearest,' whispered Mamma, lifting her up. ‘Are you all right?'

Mamma had a livid red mark on her face and her eye was puffing up.

Charlotte's anger and fear were too great to contain. She shook off her mother's arms.

‘Don't touch me!' Charlotte shouted. ‘It's
your
fault. Why did you marry him? Why did you betray Papa's memory by marrying that disgusting drunkard?
How could you?
None of this would have happened if you hadn't married him.'

Charlotte collapsed back against the skirting board, sobbing.

‘We'd still be living at Oldbury,' Charlotte murmured. ‘We'd still have our home.'

‘Charlotte, you mustn't talk to Mamma like that,' Emily implored. Charlotte looked up. Louisa was glaring at her. James looked disgusted. Mamma looked beaten.

Mamma hushed Emily with a wave of her hand. ‘Charlotte is right,' she admitted. ‘If I had not married George Barton, none of this would have happened. One day I will try to explain . . . One day I hope you will understand . . . and forgive me.'

Mamma turned away and went to her bedroom, closing the door softly behind her.

Later, when Charlotte was sweeping up the broken crystal and spilled flowers, she found the small brown pebble under the sideboard. She rolled it between her own fingers, feeling the smoothness of the polished stone. The thought crossed her mind whether to throw it away, or keep it for herself.

She hesitated, then wrapped the pebble in the handkerchief with the set of keys and left it on the breakfast table, on top of the straightened pile of slightly damp writing paper. Mamma would find it later.