Down Weaver's Lane (26 page)

Her nurse stared into the fire and sighed. ‘Your mother has forbidden me to tell you anything. It seems you’ve been asking her as well.’

‘She won’t know.’

The two looked at one another and Aggie said suddenly, with tears in her eyes, ‘Och, lassie, I’ll miss you sorely.’

‘If it’s at all possible I’ll bring you to live with us once I’ve settled in. I’ll have to wait and find out about that, though. I can’t promise you anything until I see how things - work out. But whatever happens, I will continue to help you.’ She looked at the old woman expectantly. ‘So tell me about it. Please.’

‘Well, it’s like this ...’ Aggie explained simply and straightforwardly how children were made.

Jane sat there in amazement, staring into the fire as she listened, unable to believe that her father actually did this to her mother. ‘I hadn’t realised it was so like animals,’ she said at last. ‘Does it - hurt?’

Aggie shrugged. ‘Depends on the man. If he’s skilled he can make it pleasant for a woman. If he doesn’t bother it can be uncomfortable. It’s not normally painful, though.’

‘I don’t think I can bear Marcus Armistead to touch me like that.’ Jane shuddered.

‘You’ve no choice, hen.’

Determination rose in her. ‘We’ll see about that. Maybe he won’t
want
to touch me.’

‘Oh, he will. He’s young enough to need it regular.’ Aggie paused and looked sideways at her young lady, then said, ‘I’d better tell you the rest.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Your intended has a reputation with the ladies. They say no woman is safe with him, that his mother employs only old and ugly maids, that he visits houses of ill repute. Some men are like that. Always needing it. So he
will
want to touch you, I’m afraid.’

‘I’m still bigger than he is.’

‘Och, lassie, you can’t keep him off by force. It’s his
right
to have you in his bed. The church says that and so does the law.’

‘Is there no way women can live without men?’ Jane demanded bitterly.

‘Only if they have money, hen. And men don’t often give that to a woman. It makes them too independent.’

‘I certainly have none, though my father has given me some expensive jewellery now that I’m engaged to be married. Part of my dowry, he says. I’d rather have had half its value in money and gone away to live quietly somewhere.’ She sighed and changed the subject to her wedding clothes.

When she went home, she was very thoughtful. Marcus Armistead was
not
going to have things all his own way after they were married, whatever his behaviour was like with other women. But perhaps later she could find some way to strike a bargain with him and keep him away from her bed? Surely he’d prefer women who were not reluctant to have him touch them?

She’d have to bear him a child or two first, however. Tears rose in her eyes. She didn’t know how she was going to bear being married to him. Even to have him touch her hand made her feel uncomfortable.

Tibby Oswald stood by the window of her bedroom in the Grange staring across the moors. They looked as bleak today as she felt, with rain sweeping across them like ragged swathes of dirty gauze and black clouds racing to shed more moisture on the damp, rain-darkened land. She was extremely comfortable in her old home and though she missed Emmy, at first had loved being back here, waited on hand and foot. But now she was feeling the lack of a suitable occupation to fill her time.

She looked down, stroking the material of her skirt. The new clothes had been provided only to suit her station as an Armistead of Moor Grange, not to give her pleasure, but she did enjoy wearing them. There were several simple but elegant gowns for the daytime and a real silk dress for evenings. She had forgotten how soft silk was against the body.

Now that the novelty had worn off, however, and the friendly dressmaker from Northby had stopped calling for fittings, Tibby was feeling lonely. She kept wondering how Emmy was, but didn’t like to ask Eleanor because her sister-in-law would think it strange to take such an interest in a maid. And since they attended the local church in Padstall village, she didn’t see dear Mrs Bradley any more either.

Claude wanted to take over her tiny income and manage it. What difference could such a small sum make to a man as wealthy as him? That was the only time she had stood up for herself, for she had refused to sign a piece of paper giving the annuity into Claude’s keeping and leaving it to Marcus when she died. It had made him furious and she had been unable to hold back the tears. Eleanor had overheard the end of their conversation and said brusquely that it was a great deal of fuss about nothing, so Claude had let the matter drop after that, thank goodness.

Tibby hadn’t mentioned the other money sitting in her savings account at Northby Bank or the few items of silver still lying in the vault there unsold. She had written to Mr Garrett to ask him to keep her money and possessions safe and not to give them to anyone but her. She had also begged him not to reply to her because she was quite sure Claude checked all the letters that came to the house, though not those that went out, and would want to know why she was receiving one from the bank.

He was out most days, thank goodness, managing his various ventures or meeting gentlemen of similar stature in the Manchester business community. Some of the so-called business meetings brought him home unsteady on his feet and with slurred speech, but no one commented on that, least of all his wife. In fact, her sister-in-law seemed to regard Claude with cool tolerance and he always appeared slightly uneasy in her company, doing as she asked without a quibble when she spoke in a certain tone of voice.

Eleanor was polite enough to her. You could not fault her on that. But she was cool and distant in her dealings and had made it plain Tibby was not welcome to join her in receiving daytime callers unless expressly invited and was to dine with the family in the evening only when no guests were expected. The maids let Tibby know about that, knocking on her door to say, ‘I’ll be bringing you up a tray tonight, ma’am.’ It was a further humiliation, she felt, to be told this by a servant.

As for her nephew Marcus, he treated her like a half-wit, speaking slowly and mockingly when he did condescend to notice her existence. And she had seen the hot way his eyes devoured any young female he encountered. She could understand Emmy’s wish to stay out of his clutches far better now and, although she was sure Eleanor would have allowed it, she would not even ask to bring her former maid here.

While this lack of affection between members of the family reminded Tibby of exactly why she had run away to marry her dearest James, it also reminded her of the girl who had been brave enough to do that. When she compared her younger self with the timid old lady she had now become, she felt downright ashamed. Age made you frail in more ways than one, it seemed.

She could not run away again because she had little money, could not walk far without assistance and had nowhere to go. In fact, her world had dwindled to a comfortable room where maids popped in now and then to suggest a tray of tea or to help her get ready for bed. There was not even anywhere close enough to walk to and the gardens were presided over by a surly fellow who would barely give you the time of day, let alone discuss the flowers she loved so much. Tibby’s only entertainment was to read the novels Eleanor supplied her with, which was the only human weakness her sister-in-law seemed to have, or to watch the comings and goings in the stable-yard below the wing where she was housed.

‘There must be a way to escape,’ she muttered, then realised she was talking to herself again, something which had made Claude stare at her suspiciously the other evening. She would have to guard against that. But the thought of getting away from this velvet prison went round and round in her head for the rest of the day. Not that she could see a way to do it, but dear James would have said, ‘Let it go round. Maybe it’ll find a new turning one day.’ He had been so sensible and had made her feel sensible too.

That evening she was told the family wished her to dine with them, so she asked for help with her hair, dressed carefully and walked downstairs on the arm of one of the capable middle-aged maids because the stiffness in her hip was no better for soft living.

‘We have excellent news for you, my dear Matilda,’ Claude said over dessert, examining the port wine in his glass against the excellent light shed by the ornate colza oil lamps and nodding in approval of it.

She waited to be enlightened, silver spoon poised over her fine china dish.

‘Marcus is soon to be married - to Jane Rishmore.’ He raised the glass in a silent toast to his son.

Tibby saw Marcus’s sour expression and was intrigued. Was he not pleased about his betrothal, then? ‘I’m sure she must be a delightful girl. I shall look forward to meeting her.’

‘She’s invited to dine here with her family tomorrow evening,’ Eleanor said. ‘You must join us, Matilda - as long as it’s not too much for you?’

‘I’d be delighted to join you. I find myself in much better health these days.’ Tibby took a deep breath and ventured to make her first small stand against the way they treated her. ‘And I should like a small glass of port as well, Claude, if it’s not too much trouble? I find it very fortifying.’ Her heart was pounding in her chest as she waited for a response.

He waved a hand and the maid served her.

‘Make sure a decanter of port is kept in Mrs Oswald’s room from now on,’ Eleanor ordered.

Tibby enjoyed the port and began to wonder if she was imagining restrictions on her life where there were none. When the meal ended Claude told Marcus to escort his aunt to her room, but she declined hurriedly, saying the maid’s pace suited her infirmity better.

That brought her a thoughtful stare from Eleanor, who then frowned in Marcus’s direction.

 

The following evening Tibby was again escorted downstairs by the maid. ‘It’s good news, is it not, that Mr Marcus is to marry?’ she said, feeling desperate for conversation.

The maid sniffed. ‘Good news he’ll be leaving and us maids will be safe to walk about the house.’ Then she realised what she had said and gasped in dismay. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Mrs Oswald. I don’t know what came over me to say that.’ She did know, though, an encounter with Marcus on the back stairs which had made her flee shrieking to the safety of the kitchen and had filled her with outrage that he would so treat a woman old enough to be his mother. Though if she’d borne a son as nasty as him, she’d have smothered him at birth, ’deed she would.

‘It’s all right, dear. I shan’t tell anyone what you said. And I’d guessed what he was like anyway.’

‘Thank you, ma’am.’

‘I do wish you’d call me Mrs Tibby. It’s the name I prefer. And you’re Katy, are you not?’

But they were now descending the main stairs and the maid said only, ‘Yes, ma’am. But Mrs Armistead prefers to address us by our surnames. Mine’s Beggley, if you please.’

No sooner had Tibby settled in a chair in the drawing room than the visitors’ carriage drew up outside. A cold draught swept in from the hall as the front door was opened and Claude turned to fix his son with a stern glance and say, ‘Make sure you speak pleasantly to Jane tonight. You hardly said a word to her last week.’

‘Of course, Father.’

The Rishmores greeted Tibby politely then seemed to forget her existence. Eleanor made sure Jane sat next to Marcus on a sofa and the two pairs of parents stared at the ill-matched pair in obvious satisfaction.

To her surprise Tibby liked the look of Jane Armistead, who might not be a beauty but had clear, steady grey eyes and an intelligent look to her. You could tell so much from the eyes. Mrs Rishmore’s were pale blue and vacuous, and she looked to be a foolish creature. She had topped her corkscrew curls with one of the fashionable silk dinner berets Tibby had read about in Eleanor’s ladies’ magazines but had never seen until now. The beret was far too large for Mrs Rishmore’s narrow face and the vivid colour did not suit her, either. Jane was wearing a bright pink gown, which was also wrong for her, and the poor girl was far too tall for Marcus. He was bound to feel that, being such a short man, very like Tibby’s own father in appearance.

Jane’s expression remained tight and controlled and she contributed little to a conversation with her betrothed. Marcus was unable to hide his impatience with this.

At table Jane let out a muffled yelp and Tibby guessed that Marcus’s hand must have strayed under the table. A minute later he gasped and glared at his fiancée. What had Jane done to him? Tibby wondered in shocked amusement. Pinched him hard where it hurt a man most, she hoped.

She was glad to see the young woman standing up for herself, and it was a further impetus to make Tibby do something for herself as well. She was going to try, she really was. She could not go on living this lonely, useless life.