Down Weaver's Lane (39 page)

 

Cynthia Dalby sat waiting in her comfortable parlour, hoping this girl would prove more satisfactory than her last two maids. John Garrett and a parson’s wife had both vouched for her, and Mrs Bradley has written of the great devotion Carter had shown towards her previous mistress. Cynthia sighed, bored by her own company. No one had come calling on such a rainy day and her son rarely drove across from Manchester to see her. If he’d marry and settle down, she might move to live near him and his family. She’d like to have grandchildren, but Edward laughed whenever she raised this matter, saying there was plenty of time for marriage. She suspected he had a rather hedonistic nature, unlike her late husband. Though at least Edward worked hard in the bank in which he and his uncle were now partners.

When she heard the sound of carriage wheels and hooves smacking down wetly on the muddy ground then stopping outside her house, she got up and went across to the window, watching through the lace curtains as John Garrett got out and turned to help the girl down. She looked to have a pretty face, which was not always a good thing in a maid, but there was no time for more than a brief glimpse because the two of them hurried towards the shelter of the front porch.

On days like this Cynthia wished she had not chosen to come and live in her old home in the village where she had grown up after her husband died. She should have stayed in Manchester where there was so much more to see and do and rented a house there. But she still had friends in the neighbourhood and could be sure of their support. She went and seated herself by the fire, waiting for her maid to show the visitors in.

‘Mr Garrett,’ Babs announced, not leaving the room until she had studied the young woman accompanying him.

Cynthia didn’t reprimand her because she was always a little nervous of Babs who was an excellent worker but of an independent turn of mind. She noted that the new girl knew her place well enough to stand with hands clasped and eyes lowered just inside the door while Mr Garrett came across to greet his hostess.

‘My dear John, it’s been a long time since we’ve seen you,’ Cynthia said. ‘Too long. You and your wife must come and stay with me soon and I shan’t take no for an answer.’

‘As soon as our latest grandchild is born, Cynthia, my dear.’ He kept hold of her hands and now held her at arm’s length to study her face. ‘You’re looking well.’

‘I am well, though I still miss Henry.’ She looked over his shoulder. ‘Well, aren’t you going to introduce your companion?’

‘Of course, of course! This is Emmy Carter.’ He beckoned and she came a little closer.

‘Are you a good worker, Carter?’ Cynthia asked.

‘I believe so, ma’am. Though I shall have to learn your ways, shan’t I?’

Cynthia decided this was not impertinence, simply a direct way of speaking. A bit like Babs. She sighed sometimes for the meek maids of her youth. ‘What duties did you perform for your last mistress?’ She did not miss the sadness this question brought to Carter’s face and watched with interest as the girl answered. She had a horrible accent, not at all refined, but kind eyes which looked at you directly. And the way she spoke of her late mistress pleased Cynthia, too.

‘Very well, my dear. We’ll give you a try.’ She rang a bell. ‘Babs, please take Emmy to the kitchen and give her some refreshments. And you may bring in the tea tray now.’

When they got to the kitchen the other maid and an older woman who must be the cook both stared openly at Emmy.

‘Well, you’re a pretty one, and no mistake. She don’t usually hire pretty ones,’ said the cook.

‘What’s your first name? Mine’s Babs and Cook’s Mrs Porter, but she prefers to be called Cook.’ As she was speaking Babs was pouring boiling water from the kettle standing on the big modern range into two teapots, one china and one earthenware. She cast an expert eye over the tray of cups and small cakes. ‘I’ll just nip this through to the missus, then we’ll have a sup ourselves. Sit down and warm yourself, love.’

Emmy sat down on one of the wooden chairs and stared around her. The house was smaller than the Parsonage but just as luxuriously appointed. It had a Leamington kitchener, a wonderfully modern appliance Emmy had seen advertised in the newspapers. How conveniently it was arranged! A saucepan was simmering to one edge of the hob and the kettle was standing on a trivet on the table waiting to be refilled.

Cook gave her a half-smile but said nothing, continuing to knead a big lump of dough with muscular hands and rhythmic movements that Emmy found soothing.

Babs came bustling back in. ‘There, that’s the mistress settled for a while. Eh, take your outdoor things off, love. Mucky old day, isn’t it? We hang our cloaks over there. Now, let’s have our tea before it gets stewed.’ While she was talking she poured out three cups, setting one down beside Cook. ‘All right if we have some of your scones?’

The woman nodded. ‘Take yesterday’s, though.’

Babs got out a big butter dish and a smaller dish of jam. ‘Help yourself, Emmy. We all eat well here. Cook’s a dab hand at baking. I never saw a better.’

‘And you’ll never meet a lass as knows how to get her own way better than Babs here,’ Cook laughed.

When she’d drunk a cup of tea and eaten a scone, Babs looked at Emmy. ‘Well, tell us about yourself, then. Who have you been working for and why are you changing places?’

‘My mistress died.’ Emmy blinked hard because tears still welled in her eyes every time she had to say that.

Babs’ voice softened. ‘Fond of her, were you?’

Emmy nodded, taking a sip of tea to give herself time to control this stupid tendency to weep.

‘Well, it’s not every mistress as makes you feel like that. I’ve had some terrible ones, I can tell you. Mrs Dalby’s all right. A bit fussy and under the thumb of that son of hers - though luckily he don’t come to visit us very often so he don’t interfere all that much - but she has a kind heart and feeds us generously. I can’t abide a mean mistress. I left my last place because of the poor food. I’m not a pauper and I don’t eat fish head soup for anyone, and so I told her.’

Emmy gaped at her. ‘You told her!’

Babs tossed her head. ‘Of course I did. Where would they be without us? I’m a good worker if you treat me right, and if you don’t treat me right, I’m off.’

Emmy had never met anyone of her own class who seemed so confident and began to look forward to working with this young woman. Babs was older than she was, probably about thirty, not pretty, but lively, with an infectious smile and bouncy black curls. She was plump, but it suited her. You simply couldn’t imagine her thin. ‘What will my duties be?’

‘You an’ me will share the cleaning, I suppose, but she likes us to fuss over her as well. She likes someone to go shopping with her and read the newspaper to her - her eyes are getting worse, but she won’t wear spectacles. Too vain. I’m no good at reading aloud. Well, it gives me the pip, squinting at an old newspaper does. We have a scrubbing woman, so there’s no heavy work. Well, I wouldn’t be here if I had to do the scrubbing myself. I did it when I was first starting out as a maid, but I’m past that sort of thing now.’

Emmy found that if she kept nodding and murmuring agreement, Babs would do most of the talking. The warmth and cheeriness of the kitchen were very comforting and she began to hope that if she gave satisfaction, she could settle into a quiet life here for a while.

Babs took her upstairs for a lightning visit to her new bedroom, a small place in the attic but decently furnished. Emmy unpacked her aprons and indoor shoes then went down to start work, happy that her mind would be taken up with learning her new duties.

It wasn’t until she was getting ready for bed that misery swept over her again. She had lost not only Mrs Tibby but Jack. She had resolved to shed no more tears, but could not prevent a few from sliding down her cheeks.

She lay wakeful, listening to the rain still falling outside, and its soft pattering sound lulled her to sleep eventually.

But she dreamed of Jack.

 

Back in Northby he was also wakeful. He had found out that Emmy had left the town, but no one would tell him where she had gone or how she had managed to leave without anyone seeing her go.

Isaac commented on her departure in the office the following day. ‘I hope my niece has found a good place. Mrs Bradley told me they’d decided it would be safer to tell no one where she’d gone. That poor girl’s had too much to bear.’ He sighed. ‘I’d have liked to say goodbye before she left, though. I’ve grown quite fond of her.’

Jack got on with his work, but he was upset that he had lost his chance to persuade Emmy to marry him. Mr Bradley had been adamant that her leaving was the best thing for them all. Jack wasn’t so sure.

Luckily Mr Butterfield had some new jobs for him which entailed his going into Manchester to deliver messages. Jack tried not to let his distaste show when he found that some of the messages were to Marcus Armistead’s rooms, but to his relief he was too lowly to be shown in to see that gentleman and only had to wait in the outer office for replies then carry them back to Northby. Which suited him just fine. It surprised him they didn’t use the post for this, but like his father, Mr Rishmore didn’t trust the postal services since they had once lost some important letters, Mr Butterfield said. And anyway, with a messenger, they could be sure of getting an immediate reply.

Travelling into Manchester was tiring and the coach rumbled along so slowly the return journey seemed to take for ever. By the time he got home Jack wanted only to eat and seek his bed.

But as the days passed he could not help being aware of the increasingly acrimonious bickering between his mother and Meg. Sometimes he would sit with his eyes closed in front of the fire, trying to let their sharp words pass over his head. Other times he would go out for a glass of ale. Once or twice he was driven to shouting at them both to be quiet.

 

On the first Sunday after Emmy had gone, Jack came out of the church hall after taking his reading class and noticed her dog lying in the back garden of the Parsonage, looking dispirited and thin, with a dull coat. As he was staring across at the poor creature, Mr Bradley came out of the church hall and joined him.

‘He’s fretting for her. Nothing we’ve said or done seems to have cheered him up.’

‘Perhaps I could take him for a walk?’ Jack offered. He certainly didn’t feel like going home yet and he felt a certain sympathy with the animal.

He took Hercules up the back lanes to the edge of the moors, it being a fine day, and sat there, stroking the animal’s head and running its silky ears through his fingers. For some reason this made him feel closer to Emmy and after a while the dog sighed and pressed itself against him, as if it too needed the comfort.

After that he took Hercules back to the Parsonage and persuaded him to eat.

‘Look at that!’ Cass marvelled. ‘He’s really taken to you, that dog has. Poor thing still sleeps by her bed.’

Jack broached the idea to his mother of bringing Hercules home to live with them, but she refused point-blank and slapped Joey when he added his pleas. After that Jack went to see the dog several times a week at the Parsonage, spending even less time at home and ignoring his mother’s complaints about that.

‘You can’t have it every way!’ he snapped one evening, goaded beyond endurance. ‘You deny me the girl I love, you won’t even let me have a dog. This place feels less like a home every day.’ As he went out, he slammed the door hard behind him.

Meg smiled. ‘You’ve gone too far, Mam. You’re losing him.’

Netta raised her hand.

‘If you hit me, I’ll hit you back twice as hard. And if I catch you hitting my Nelly again, I’ll take a stick to you.’

 

For the next few weeks Jack kept an eye open for Emmy whenever he went into Manchester. He didn’t know where she’d gone, but remembered her talking about the ladies at the Mission, so it seemed as if the city was the most likely place. Once he saw a young woman who looked a bit like her from the back and rushed across the road, nearly getting trampled by a cart horse in the process and causing the driver to brandish his whip and swear at him.

When it wasn’t Emmy, Jack had to stand still for a moment and pull himself together before he could move on.

What if he never saw his darling girl again? How would he bear it?

The following Sunday after church he stopped Mrs Bradley and asked if she’d heard from Emmy, hoping she’d tell him more than her husband who kept saying it was God’s will and all for the best.

‘No, I’m afraid not, Jack. She didn’t dare keep in touch, thought it better to make a completely new life for herself.’ But the young man looked so anguished that Prudence could not help adding, ‘She asked me to tell you she’d always think of you fondly.’ She laid her hand on his arm. ‘Emmy thought it was safer for those she loved if she went away, as well as for herself. Never doubt that she cared for you.’

He was miserable enough to let his feelings show. ‘If she really cared about me, she’d have stayed and we’d have faced things together.’

‘It wasn’t only the danger, Jack. Your mother came to see her. Cass could see them talking from the kitchen and she said your mother was - well, shouting. And Emmy was very upset when she came back into the house.’

‘I didn’t know. My mother never said a word about it.’ How could she have done that?

He made his way home, completely forgetting about his Sunday School class because he had to know what his mother had said to drive Emmy away. He stopped dead in the street as the idea came to him and with it a sense of determination and purpose - he was going to look for Emmy and persuade her to marry him. However long it took.

The decision lifted his spirits slightly and the anger carried him rapidly down Weavers Lane towards his home.