Off the Rails (11 page)

‘Now I want your opinion of it,’ he said, still holding her hands. ‘Could we walk out to look at it, do you think, or are you too busy?’

‘Well, as to that,’ she said, trying to be sensible, which was very difficult when her heart was racing fit to leap out of her chest, ‘’twould depend on Mrs Hudson an’ how she’s feeling. If she needs me to be here, I must stay with her.’

‘Happen you could ask her,’ he hoped.

But there was no need, for the door was opening and Sally was making an entrance, her face bright with importance. Her expression changed to a scowl when she saw that her unnecessary nuisance of a visitor was holding Mrs Smith by both hands but she stayed perfectly proper and gave her message notwithstanding her disapproval. ‘If you please, ma’am, Mrs Hardcastle said to tell ’ee, Mrs Hudson is still asleep.’

‘Good,’ Jane said, retrieving her hands. ‘Then I shall be free to inspect this house of yours, Mr Cartwright, and give you my opinion of it. If you will just wait till I get my bonnet.’

When they were through the crush at Monkgate and out in the welter of the crowds pushing their way along Goodramgate, Nathaniel offered Jane his arm and smiled with satisfaction when she took it. There was a warmth and intimacy between them now that neither could ignore. As they stepped into the darkness under the low archway beside Mr Nicholson’s shop, he put his
arm round her shoulders and pulled her protectively towards him and he left it there for several happy seconds when they emerged into the sunshine of Priest Row.

‘It’s not very far,’ he said, as they passed the dilapidated frontage of St William’s College.

Jane didn’t mind how far it was. There was such an extraordinary sense of unreality about this day she felt that anything could happen. A walk was nothing compared to what could be coming. They passed the humped shoulders of Bootham Bar, strolled through the central arch, were out in the quiet fields and there was the house he’d bought, warm-bricked in the sunshine, its windows gleaming. She loved it at once.

He escorted her from room to room, opening every door with a flourish and watching her face to see if she approved. And eventually, he led her out into the meadow that would one day be their garden and they stood together among knee-high grasses and looked out at the fields where they’d walked and talked together in their short, extraordinary courtship. It was time for his declaration.

Now that the moment had arrived, he was horribly nervous, afraid that he might say the wrong thing or that this was, after all, the wrong time. She was smiling in a dreamy sort of way, which might be taken as an
encouragement
, but on the other hand …

‘’Tis a fine house,’ she said.

‘I thought so as soon as I saw it.’

‘And you’ve bought it,’ she prompted.

‘There are still some legal matters that will require attention,’ he told her, ‘but Mr Leeman has it in hand and, to all intents and purposes, ’tis mine.’

Then he was lost, for it wasn’t the house he wanted to talk about or, at least, not in this serious businesslike way. He cleared his throat. ‘What I mean to say—’ he said and then stopped.

She waited, her face bright with expectation, although she was doing everything she could to keep her expression under control. Was he going to propose? Or was she being foolish? Oh do go on, dear Mr Cartwright. This waiting is too much for a body to bear.

‘What I mean to say,’ he started again. ‘The thing is. The thing is …’ And then because she was smiling at him so hopefully, the words came tumbling out. ‘I knew this was the house for me the moment I saw it. I mean, I knew I wanted it to be my house. I wanted to live here. With you. I do not wish to alarm you, my dear Mrs Smith, I would not alarm you for the world, but the truth of it is, I have loved you ever since I first set eyes on you. I knew then that I wanted to marry you, that I
would
marry you if you would have me. I know this may sound unlikely – possibly not even
proper – we have known one another such a very short time, but it is the truth notwithstanding. I loved you as soon as I saw you standing on the doorstep in your grey gown. You cannot imagine how much I loved you. You cannot imagine how much I love you now. More than I can possibly tell you. Oh, say you will have me, my dear, dear Mrs Smith. Say you will have me and live with me here in this house. I will make you a loving husband, I promise you.’ And then he had to pause for breath for he was quite overcome.

For a few seconds she was speechless. ‘My dear heart alive!’ she said at last and smiled at him with such transparent happiness that he knew she was going to accept him.

He took her hands in his and looked down at her glowing face. ‘Is that an affirmative or a negative?’ he asked. It was a needless question.

Their troth was sealed with a kiss for they were blessedly private out there in their garden and there was no one to see them. It was as if they had the world to themselves. And naturally, after that first kiss, they took another and another, until they’d kissed one another breathless. Then they exchanged Christian names and agreed that they would marry as soon as the house was ready for them and, naturally, they had to kiss again. It wasn’t until they were walking slowly back to Monkgate, arm in happy arm, that she remembered Milly and Lizzie and her mother and all the people she was responsible for.

He smiled at her happily, his mind full of plans. ‘I will arrange the wedding as soon as Mr Leeman tells me that the house is mine,’ he told her. ‘How long will you need to prepare? You must have a wedding gown, of course, and a bonnet and they must be the best that money can buy. How if we say a fortnight from completion?’

It
was
a dream, an unbelievable, dizzying, totally delightful dream. They had barely known one another a fortnight and yet here he was planning their wedding. She held on to his warm, solid, loving arm, feeling she would turn faint and fall without his strength to support her.

He was still planning. ‘We will send our invitations as soon as we have a date,’ he said. ‘You must give me a list of all the people you would like to be there. We shall have our wedding breakfast at the house. Now as to your daughter.’

‘Milly,’ she told him.

‘Aye indeed, Milly. She shall come and live with us, naturally, and have a room of her own and be the daughter of the house, if that is agreeable.’

It was very agreeable.

‘Then ’tis settled,’ he said. ‘She shall want for nothing, I promise you. I will treat her as though she were my own.’

His generosity was all-enveloping, overpowering. He seemed to have thought of everything. She could just see Milly in that elegant house. What a total change of fortune this was.

‘As soon as I know that the house is mine, I will send to tell you,’ he went on happily, ‘and then you may hand in your notice to Mr Hudson and be the lady of your own house.’

Talk of handing in her notice made Jane remember poor Lizzie, lying
abed
with her newborn baby beside her. She hadn’t given the poor lady a thought since she’d left her and it was a jolt to her mind to remember that the baby had been born such a short time ago. Was it really only this morning? If he means us to be married within a fortnight, she thought, I shall be leaving her just when she’s up and about again. And she wondered what Lizzie would say and how she would manage without her. I must tell her as soon as I get home, she thought. I’ll write to Ma first and then I’ll go straight up to the bedroom.

L
IZZIE
H
UDSON WAS
sitting up in bed eating a sugar plum and looking stickily contented, when Jane gentled into the room. She knew at once that something significant had happened and smiled when Jane said, ‘I’ve summat to tell ’ee.’

Her face was all encouragement. ‘Aye?’

‘Mr Cartwright has asked me to marry him.’

Lizzie clapped with delight. ‘I knew it,’ she crowed. ‘I’ve know’d it all along. I saw it on his face when we met in t’garden that time. Clear as daylight. Do ’ee remember? All those dratted wasps after the plums and plaguing me summat cruel, crawling and buzzing all over t’place and the sun that hot I thought I were ready to suffocate, I truly did. And Mr Hudson introduced us and he looked at you with such affection – Mr Cartwright, I mean, not Mr Hudson – I knew it straightaway. Such
affection
. It did my heart good to see it. You’ll make him a fine wife, my dear. The best. And who knows that better than I do?’

Jane’s conscience was tugging in her chest. ‘I shall have to leave you when I marry,’ she warned.

‘Of course tha will,’ Lizzie agreed, ‘and I shall miss ’ee, my dear, dear friend, there’s no denying it for tha’s been uncommon kind to me since I came to this house. Uncommon kind. But what happiness! Anyroad, I’ll still have thy Milly, won’t I? Such a treasure. I couldn’t manage wi’out her, and that’s t’truth of it.’

It was the wrong time to tell her that Milly would be leaving too so Jane kept quiet. Let her digest my news first, she thought. I can tell her all that later, when she’s rested. Not that Lizzie noticed. She was still happily babbling on.

‘We shall still see each other,’ she said, ‘for tha’lt come and visit me as often as tha can, if tha’s not too far away, that is.’

‘We’re to live in York by Bootham Bar.’

‘How splendid! That’s no distance at all. Oh, how I do wish ’ee well! Have ’ee told Milly? No? Well, she’s in t’garden wi’ young Richard. You must go there at once.’

She was on the lawn, playing catch with Dickie, who was doing his best to hurl the ball into the bushes so that she had to go down on her hands and knees and crawl about to retrieve it. To Jane’s love-dazzled eyes she looked quite delectably pretty in her blue gown and her frilled cap and apron. But when she heard her mother’s news, instead of being pleased, she opened her brown eyes wide with astonishment.

‘Married!’ she said. ‘What
do
you mean, Ma, married?’

‘To Mr Cartwright,’ Jane explained.

‘But whatever for?’ Milly said, tossing the ball towards the waiting child. ‘Not in the bushes this time, young man.’

‘Because he asked me,’ Jane said, with some pride.

It was incomprehensible. Mothers didn’t rush off and get married. They stayed at home and ran the house and looked after the mistress and her
children
. She picked up the ball that Dickie had flung rather wildly back at her. ‘What about poor Mrs Hudson?’ she said. ‘What’s she got to say about it? You can’t just go haring off and getting married. Not when she’s just had a baby. Hold tha hands right out, Dickie, like this. See? Then tha can catch it. Good boy! That’s the way!’

‘I shan’t leave her just yet,’ Jane said. ‘Not for a week or two anyroad. Not till she’s finished lying in. And I’ll not leave thee at all for tha’rt to come wi’ me and live in my new house and have a room all to thyself. What do ’ee think of that?’

‘I think it’s silly,’ Milly said. ‘Who’ll look after Dickie during the night if I’m not here?’

‘They’ll find someone else,’ Jane said easily.

‘He’ll not want someone else,’ her daughter said stoutly. ‘I can tell ’ee that. He’s used to me.’

‘Aye, well,’ Jane said, amiably, ‘there’s no need to make decisions yet
a-while
. Tha’s not seen the house yet. ’Tis a grand place. ’Twill be gradely there.’

But her daughter pulled a face and turned away from her. ‘If tha throws yon ball in t’bushes one more time,’ she said to the little boy, ‘tha’lt have to get it out thassen. I’m not a-clamberin’ in after it
no more
.’

‘Shan’t!’ Dickie said.

‘Oh yes tha will,’ Millie told him sternly, ‘or we’ll not play. Now try an’ throw it straight.
That
’s the style! Good boy!’

How well she handles him, Jane thought, as she walked into the house, and she was full of pride in her daughter’s good sense. I’m not surprised she says he’ll not want anyone else. But he’ll have to learn to live wi’ that, once she sees the house and decides to live in it.

It seemed dark indoors after the brightness of the sunshine in the garden but the kitchen was full of light and movement for Mrs Cadwallader and the kitchen maids were hard at work preparing dinner. But everything came to an instant halt when Jane told them her news.

‘Don’t surprise me in the slightest!’ Mrs Cadwallader said. ‘What did I tell ’ee, Sally? Didn’t I say ’twould be a wedding. When is it to be?’

‘As soon as he can arrange it,’ Jane told her.

‘Well good luck to ’ee both,’ Mrs Cadwallader said, and echoed her mistress. ‘And if you’re thinking to hire a cook when you’re the lady of the house, don’t forget me.’

‘Would you like to work for me?’ Jane asked.

‘Give me half the chance,’ Mrs Cadwallader said. ‘We’d get on like a house a-fire.’

‘I’ll talk to Mr Cartwright about it,’ Jane said, ‘and see what he says.’

‘In the matter of servants,’ her beloved told her, ‘I trust you to make your own decisions which I know will be wise ones. Hire whomever you think fit.’

So Mrs Cadwallader was hired and so were several other servants. Then there was furniture to buy and cloth for her wedding dress, which was to be in the latest style with a neat waist, exactly where your waist should be, instead of under your bosom where the old style had it, and a very full skirt, instead of the old straight ones, and the most elaborate sleeves topped by a collar so wide it looked like a shawl. And then it was time to send out the invitations – to her mother and father and Aunt Tot and Audrey Palmer, the milkmaid, and dear Lizzie, and dozens of his friends from the railway.

By the time George Hudson learned what was going on, the house was completely furnished, Mrs Cadwallader had taken up her new position in it, the wedding breakfast was cooked and the guests were travelling to York for the ceremony.

He and Lizzie were breakfasting late that morning. He’d been up until past three in the morning mixing with the York worthies at a prestigious dinner at the Guildhall and now he was overtired and crabby and in no mood to be served burnt kidneys and bacon that, as he complained, was ‘nobbut a shrivel’.

‘What’s the matter wi’ Cook this morning?’ he said. ‘Damned woman. Ring the bell. I’ve summat to say to her.’

‘She’s a new one,’ Lizzie said timidly. ‘Happen, she hasn’t quite got the hang of things.’

The information put him in a temper. ‘New one?’ he shouted. ‘What are you talking about?’

Lizzie explained as well as she could for trembling but her explanation only made him shout louder.

‘Gone?’ he roared. ‘What’s the matter wi’ the woman? I pay her enough in all conscience. Allus have. Never stint any of my servants. Never have. You know that. She’ll not get the same wage elsewhere, I can tell ’ee that. Where’s she gone?’

Lizzie tried to dissemble. ‘Well, as to that,’ she said, ‘I couldn’t rightly say.’

‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’ he said, his anger rising. ‘Either you know or you don’t. Out wi’ it! A woman can’t have secrets from her husband. Where’s she gone?’

‘Well,’ Lizzie said in a very small voice, ‘she’s working for Mrs Smith. At Bootham Bar.’

He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. ‘Mrs Smith?’

‘She’s going to marry Mr Cartwright,’ Lizzie said, nervousness making her babble. ‘Such a nice house they’ve got – well, it would be, wouldn’t it, being he’s an engineer, but you know that, of course, that he’s an engineer, I mean, not that he’s going to marry our Mrs Smith, which he is and we must wish her well, mustn’t we, George? I mean to say getting married and everything.’

‘I never heard the equal!’ her husband shouted. ‘What does she think she’s playing at? Blamed fool! There’s no need for her to go running off getting wed. No need at all. She should think on’t. She’s got everything she could possibly want here, rooms, good vittals, wardrobes full of clothes.
Think of all the clothes she got when the old man died. What’s the matter with her?’

Lizzie picked at her shrivelled bacon and tried to ignore him. It was no good arguing when he’d got a rage on.

George was in full, red-faced flow. ‘Now we shall all be put to the fuss of finding another,’ he complained, ‘which is unnecessary and inconvenient. Stupid woman! I’ve enough to do wi’out that. Well, you’ll have to do it, that’s all. I haven’t time for hiring and firing.’

That was alarming. ‘I don’t think I could, George,’ Lizzie said, looking up at him anxiously. ‘I mean to say, I’ve never hired a housekeeper, not in all my life. I wouldn’t be equal to it.’

‘Then you’ll have to make do wi’out one, that’s all,’ George said. ‘I’ve to go to Whitby. I’m off on the first stage out this morning.’

That made Lizzie’s heart sink. ‘Couldn’t you do it afore you go?’ she said. ‘I mean for to say, couldn’t this trip wait till…?’

He silenced her with a peremptory wave of his fat hand. ‘No, it could not,’ he said. ‘Have you no sense, woman? This is
business
I’m talking about. Railway business. Mr Stephenson is like to be there – they said so in t’paper this morning –
the
Mr Stevenson, the one what invented the Rocket, and if
he
’s there I mean to be there too and catch him. I can’t hang about here hiring and firing housekeepers.’ And he smoothed down his waistcoat which had been crumpled by the exertions of his tirade and marched out of the room.

Lizzie waited until he’d banged the front door after him, then she set her plate aside and rang the bell.

‘Ah!’ she said when Sally came in all bright faced to answer it. ‘Are you all ready?’

‘Rarin’ to go, ma’am,’ Sally said. ‘Only got to take these old aprons off an’ put our bonnets on an’ we’ll be fine an’ dandy.’

‘If you’ll just clear the table,’ Lizzie said, heading for the door, ‘while I see to t’baby, what shouldn’t take more than a minute or two. What a blessing he’s such a good little soul. Dear little man. We mustn’t be late, whatever we do.’

‘No, ma’am,’ Sally agreed, starting work at once. ‘Not for our Mrs Smith.’ And when she saw that Mrs Hudson was looking anxiously at the clock, ‘Don’t ’ee fret, ma’am. We’ve plenty of time. ’Tis an hour yet an’ Dickie’s washed an’ dressed an’ looks quite the little man – Millie’s seen to that – an’ our Betsy’s all ready to help ’ee to dress too. ’Tis all took care of.’

‘Oh what a happy day this will be,’ Lizzie said, as she opened the door.

And a happy day it indubitably was. One look at the bride as she walked along the uneven stones of the aisle on her father’s arm was
enough to lift every heart in the church, for her face was glowing, and when she and Mr Cartwright exchanged their vows, there were tears in every pew. Mary Jerdon, in her seat of honour in the front pew, wept freely to see her daughter so happy and so did Milly, rather to her own surprise for she hadn’t expected a wedding to bring such a rush of emotion. Aunt Tot and Audrey Palmer let their tears run and didn’t bother to wipe them away and so did Lizzie Hudson, who’d forgotten all about George’s nasty temper and simply gave herself up to the pleasure of the occasion. Even Nathaniel’s work mates from the railways, who were the toughest bunch of men it was possible to imagine, found they needed to blow their noses and blink a bit. And Jane herself was caught up in such joy and pride and excitement it was like all the good feelings she’d ever experienced all wrapped up in one.

Afterwards, as she and her new husband strolled together through the town towards their waiting feast, with the sun on their faces and their guests bubbling and chattering behind them, she held his arm and smiled into his eyes.

‘Happy?’ he asked unnecessarily.

‘So, so happy,’ she told him. ‘I don’t want this day to ever end.’

‘There is better to come, my dearest, dearest Jane,’ he said. ‘This is just the beginning.’

George Hudson was standing in front of the Angel Inn by the harbour at Whitby, feeling jaded. He’d had a long wearying journey and was glad to be out of the coach. Far too many of the roads he’d travelled were in need of repair, which meant that he’d been bounced and jolted in the most painful way, and there had been far too many hills that the horses couldn’t manage, which meant that he’d had to get out and walk along with the rest of the passengers. What we need in these parts, he thought, as he toiled up one steep incline after another, is a railway – and if it weren’t for those blamed fools in York I could be building one this very minute instead of enduring all this. It aggravated him that the wealthy men of his home city should still be dragging their feet. God knows he’d wined and dined ’em enough, and told them over and over again what fortunes they could make, yet they were still dithering and saying asinine things like ’Twill never catch on’ and ‘We must be cautious. There’s no need for a rush’. Rush! he thought, irritably. They don’t know the meaning of the word.

Whitby turned out to be a small, dishevelled fishing village, consisting of a few run-down houses clustered together on the cliffs on either side of the river Esk, the ruins of an ancient abbey looking romantic on the northern
cliff-top, a harbour full of well-used fishing boats with stained and faded sails, and the Angel Inn which was where the stage set them all down.

The air was full of gulls, wheeling and screeching above their heads and dipping perilously close to their faces, and the place smelt of fish and tarred rope and the pungent smoke of coal fires and tobacco. There was a swing bridge over the river, which was the most rickety contraption he’d ever seen. It was made of sea-stained wood and seemed to be held together by ropes that were so old they were black and frayed and looked as if they would snap at the least exertion. Here’s a place that needs waking up, he thought, and I’m just the man to do it. The thought cheered him. He stood at the quayside and watched as a boat set out to sea and the bridge was opened for it. It was done by pulleys and such a muddle of dangling ropes that one of them got caught in the rigging and boat and bridge were both brought to a standstill. The sight of such incompetence made him feel
superior
– and then laugh out loud. He left the crew struggling to disentangle the muddle and walked into the Angel, ready for ale and sustenance and feeling equal to anything.