Without a Mother's Love (6 page)

‘I’m hungry now,’ Olivia whined.

‘So am I.’ Harriet took her pupil into the scullery to clean her boots and wash her hands. ‘We’ll have some bread and cheese in a minute,’ she reassured her. ‘You must remember your manners in the dining room later, and show your uncle how well behaved and grown-up you are.’ Harriet hoped he would be satisfied with the child’s progress.

‘I don’t like Uncle Hesley,’ she said.

‘Hush, you must not say that. He is your guardian and you must do as he bids you.’

‘He smells nasty.’

‘That is how gentlemen smell. It comes from the cigars they smoke. It is a gentlemanly pursuit and quite pleasant when it is fresh.’

‘I don’t like it.’

And I don’t like the master, Harriet thought. She remembered their last meeting in the library and how he had threatened her. He demanded obedience, and would be ruthless with anyone who crossed him. She felt fearful of the forthcoming meeting.

‘You will curtsy to your uncle when we go into the dining room, just as I have shown you. If he speaks to you, you will reply politely with a smile. And truthfully.’

‘Even about the novels?’

‘You need not mention them unless he asks.’

‘What if he is cross with me?’

‘He won’t be. If he becomes angry it will be with me, not you, I promise.’

‘Why does he have to come back? It’s been so nice here with you.’

Harriet was pleased to hear her say that. ‘I’m still here,’ she reassured her. But she agreed. Without the master’s grim presence, teacher and pupil had formed a bond. A fragile one on Olivia’s part: her reluctance to trust anyone was Harriet’s biggest hurdle. But Harriet had persevered. There was a determination in her charge that echoed her own and gave her strength.

She guessed she would need to be strong. Even though she had not yet seen the master, his presence at Hill Top House was inescapable. Mrs Cookson fussed and flapped about the dinner and Olivia became more fractious as the light faded. Harriet quelled her misgivings and put the finishing touches to her own and Olivia’s appearance.

‘Remember what I’ve taught you,’ she said, and opened the dining-room door.

The master was sitting at one end of the oak dining-table with a tankard of ale in his hand, and his feet, clad in fancy Oriental shoes, resting on a nearby chair. He wore no jacket and his waistcoat was unbuttoned, so clearly the meal was to be an informal affair. His lined face was more weatherbeaten than Harriet remembered, and his wiry grey hair was shaggy and in need of a barber, as was his stubbled chin. But his eyes were sharp and bright as they swept over her.

‘Turn towards the light,’ he said, as they stood before him. ‘I do believe you have grown, Olivia. Has she, Miss Trent?’

‘Yes, sir. She measures herself by the yardstick on the wall when we do numbers.’

‘You, too, have grown, I see, in girth.’

‘A little, sir.’

‘More than a little. Mrs Cookson’s doing, no doubt. Sit, both of you.’ He gestured towards two places, one on either side of him, at the table and poured ale into another tankard when Harriet took her seat.

‘Tell me about your lessons.’

‘Well, sir—’

‘Olivia will speak.’

The child looked at her, and Harriet gave her an encouraging nod.

‘In the morning I do my letters and numbers first, and then I learn some Bible—’

‘Bible, eh? Well, I suppose that’s the only book you had at Blackstone.’

‘We have been going to the church on the moor, sir. The congregation is small, coming only from the few houses still left there, but the discipline of the service has been a good influence on Olivia’s behaviour.’

‘I told you to be quiet.’

Harriet sank back in her chair and sipped her ale.

‘Go on, Olivia.’

‘After dinner I learn about history and geography and nature.’ She paused. ‘And, I am reading Cousin Hesley’s books.’

‘That’ll please your aunt Caroline.’

‘Is she coming to see me?’

‘Not if I can help it,’ he growled.

Mrs Cookson brought in soup, made from leeks thickened with potatoes, and a plate of bread. ‘The birds are about ready, sir.’

‘Good.’ He reached across for bread and took up his spoon. ‘Continue, Olivia.’

Olivia sat very still and silent.

‘Well?’

Harriet took a deep breath. ‘Olivia has been saying grace for several weeks now, sir.’

He grunted and chewed some bread.

Harriet smiled and nodded. Her pupil was word perfect and she wished she could have kept her eyes open to watch the master’s reaction.

When Mrs Cookson came in with the meat, he exclaimed. ‘At last! I’m starving.’

He doesn’t know what starving means, Harriet thought. She did. Starving was being unable to satisfy your hunger at any meal. Starving was being frightened to start eating because if there was not enough it only made you more hungry when what you had been given was gone. She watched him eat and drink noisily, with appetite.

She had eaten a lot when she had first come here, but not so much now: she no longer had that constant hunger and was confident that the next meal would be substantial. She would not have to let out her old gown again.

However, she enjoyed the roast fowl, bread sauce, the carrots, potatoes and greens that went with it. Olivia behaved as Harriet had taught her, and Harriet was pleased that the child’s table manners put her uncle’s to shame. Mrs Cookson came in with a bowl of pears and some walnuts.

‘Shall we leave you now, sir?’ Harriet suggested.

He grunted and waved her away with his tankard.

She stood up and nodded to the child.‘Olivia, you ay bring a pear with you.’

When they reached the door the master called Harriet back. ‘Come to the candles, where I can see you better,’ he said.

She hesitated, wanting to be out of the room and away from him. The meal had gone well and he seemed pleased with Olivia’s progress. But she did not wish further discussion with him. He had been drinking ale before and throughout dinner, and Mrs Cookson had advised keeping out of his way when he was drunk.

‘I have schoolroom work to do, sir.’

‘That can wait. Or would you rather come back . . . later?’

His tone alarmed her. His speech was slightly slurred and his question had made her uncomfortable. Olivia had left quickly, no doubt as anxious as Harriet to be away from him.

Reluctantly, she moved back to the table where the candles gave more light. His unshaven chin moved up and down as his eyes travelled over her. There was no mistaking his meaning. It was as though he were sizing her up at a hiring fair and she felt embarrassed by his invading stare.

‘Turn around,’ he ordered.

‘Sir, I must protest!’

He stood up so quickly, knocking over his chair, that she jumped. He kicked aside another chair and reached across the table for the candelabrum, which he held near as he walked around her. He stopped in front of her. The candles cast weird shadows on his lined features, making him look fearsome and quite menacing.

‘Good living becomes you, Miss Trent,’ he said.

She did not reply. She was clenching her fists and holding her breath, wondering what he would do next. Then he dismissed her with a jerk of his head towards the door. ‘Go and prepare your lessons, then.’

She was out of the room in a second, but lingered in the darkening hall to allow her heart to slow. How could he treat her like that? As though she were one of his - his
women
! She was a
governess
in this house, responsible for the moral well-being of a
child
! She went into the kitchen where Mrs Cookson was stacking crockery on the dresser.

‘Does the master take pleasure in humiliating all his servants?’ she asked.

Mrs Cookson gave a half-smile. ‘Only the young females as a rule. It’s just his way.’

And perfectly acceptable to his housekeeper, Harriet thought. She took a few deep breaths to calm herself, then asked where Olivia was.

‘I sent her upstairs. Something’s up with the master, mark my words.Things haven’t been right since that ruck at the pit.’

‘Is that why he has come back?’

‘Matt told me he got rid of the troublemakers and that quietened things down.’

‘But did he not need all his men to mine the coal?’ It was not the miners’ fault that the coal seam was poor and it must take just as many men to dig it out. ‘With fewer colliers, won’t there be less coal to sell?’

Mrs Cookson looked at her sideways with an expression of puzzlement. ‘That’s nowt to do with you. This is summat different, though. The carter told me last week that the town bank was in trouble and the master would never have left his shooting and rode all the way on horseback if it hadn’t been serious.’

‘Oh.’ Harriet had nothing to do with the bank so she could not comment.

Mrs Cookson went on, ‘Will you help me carry hot water up to the landing? The master will take a bath before he goes out.’

‘Of course. Shall you need help when he’s finished?’

‘One o’ the farmhands’ll see to it. But you could clean his riding clothes for me.’

‘Bring them into the schoolroom. I’ll show Miss Olivia how to do it.’

Mrs Cookson nodded. ‘Wear your new gowns every day while the master’s here,’ she added.

Harriet was teaching her pupil how to use a flat-iron on woollen cloth when she heard a horse on the cobbles outside. She crossed to the window and saw Matt taking a letter from the rider. A few moments later, she heard his boots on the stairs, then a shout of rage from the master. He was on the landing and she heard him quite clearly:‘Tell him I’m going to the mine now,’ he yelled.

Harriet watched as Matt returned to the messenger in the yard, then led out one of the hunters from the stable. Minutes later, the master emerged, dressed smartly in a fine dark coat and high hat. For a man of his advancing years he was still quite agile and sat well in the saddle.

She watched him ride away into the fading light and was aware of relief washing over her. She had not liked the way he had scrutinized her in the dining room. His return to Hill Top House had unsettled her more than she cared to admit.

Chapter 4

Jared Tyler watched quietly from the back of the crowd. Dusk was falling and the Mexton miners had not gone home after their shift. Instead they were hanging about in groups at the back of the Navigator Inn by the canal. Some were already shouting but few had been drinking for most were feeling the cut in wages earlier that year.

‘It’s not right and we’re not standin’ fer it!’ someone called out. He jumped up on to the back of a cart, waving his hands in the air. ‘We’ve done t’work an’ we wants us pay!’

‘Aye!’ the gathering crowd yelled in agreement.

A lone voice responded: ‘Well, ’e can’t do that wi’out money from t’bank, lads.’

‘Thee shurrup. Owd Mexton can allus find money for ’is drink and ’is women. We know that.’

‘Tha can bet ’e’s ovver at his whore’s house now!’

‘Aye, while our wives and little ’uns’ll go wi’out their dinners!’

‘Aye, an’ winter just round t’corner.’

‘Manager said he wa’ working summat out,’ the lone voice responded.

Jared stretched his neck to see who it was. It was a brave man who went against a crowd like this. Or a stupid one.

At sixteen Jared was tall for his age and had learned how to fist-fight at school. He enjoyed the cross-country runs and games that filled his Wednesday and Saturday afternoons and missed them when he was home for the holidays. His father’s forge further up the canal in town was doing well. One day he’d be running it for him. He couldn’t wait. His father had promised him his own horse for his next birthday.

But Jared knew something was wrong when Father had sent word that he would not be home for his tea as he had to see his bankers. He should have stayed with his mother and sisters but he didn’t. He had gone down to the canal and followed a group of ironworks men to Mexton, where the miners were gathering.

‘Work summat out?’ another voice repeated. ‘Like ’e did when we got to that slack? He worked summat out then!’

‘Aye! Cut us wages, ’e did, and got rid o’ them that complained!’

‘Aye, an’ ’e’ll do t’same again!’

‘Shurrup, thee.’

‘Shurrup, thissen. Who says we all go to t’ pit’ead now, an’ ’ave it out wi’ ’im?’

‘I do!’

‘Me an’ all!’

‘Come on, then, lads. Let’s see what ’e ’as ter say this time.’ The man jumped down from the cart, took up a heavy stick and led the way.

Jared felt alarmed. Although he didn’t like Hesley Mexton any more than the next man, this crowd was baying for blood. He stayed back, skirting around to get to the pithead first. But there was no way he could reach the mine office before the other men. Lamps glowed from a couple of windows in the stone and slate building, and a couple of horses were tethered at the side. He kept his distance, watching the crowd grow in size. Someone lit flares, which made the scene even more sinister.

Jared recognized one or two of the ironworkers joining the march. They knew that pit problems also meant trouble for the furnaces and forges that paid their wages. Besides, they were supporting their kin. Fathers, sons, brothers and cousins, whole families depended on coal and iron in this part of the Riding. The crunch of their heavy boots blended with their mutterings and shouts.

Jared stayed out of sight. His mother might not have much to do with old Hesley Mexton, but she was his half-sister even though she was thirty years younger. Jared’s grandfather, old Samuel, had died soon after his mother was born and his grandmother, Samuel’s second wife, had been ill-provided for in Samuel’s will. She had been shunned by Jared’s uncles and had taken her infant daughter back to her own family in town.