The Mallen Girl Page 10

  Miss Brigmore looked helplessly at the woman gazing at her now with tears in her eyes and found it impossible to make a reply. Her throat was full, her heart was full. People who followed no rules with regards to the course that conversation, even of the most personal kind, should take, disturbed you; flummoxed you, Mary would have said. She gulped audibly as Matilda went on, her voice thick now with emotion, ‘It’s not because I don’t want to leave all this, ’cos this hasn’t meant more than a pennorth of drippin’ to me; I’d have been just as happy in a two-up, two-down, an’ I’ve missed Manchester, I have, I have, but I wouldn’t let on to him. No, no. But why I don’t want to go is ’cos of him. You see, I don’t know what he’ll do, lass; I only hope to God Florrie Talbot doesn’t get her hooks into him. I would hate to see her in me place here. By God! I don’t think I could stand it, just the thought…’

  Miss Brigmore again swallowed audibly, then asked on a cough, ‘Flor-Florrie Talbot? I haven’t heard of her.’

  ‘No, we don’t speak of her very much, it’s his cousin. When his first wife died she made a dead set at him, an’ she was younger than me by over six years. She’s just in her late forties now, but she’s a blowzy bitch. An’ she’s no better than she should be; when she was young her father had to go an’ bring her from the yards more than once.’

  Miss Brigmore’s eyes narrowed questioningly and Matilda said, ‘You know, I told you about them, where the whores hung out; daylight, starlight, midnight, made no difference to that lot. Eeh! they were brazen; an’ she was among them. Her father hammered her black and blue from head to foot an’ kept her for three days in a room without a stitch on to cure her. But I doubt if she was ever cured. Still, she married respectable after that, a gaffer on the Liverpool docks. When he died she came back to Manchester. She’s there still, an’ the minute I’m gone she’ll be on my ’Arry like a bloodthirsty leech.’

  ‘Oh no! no! Don’t worry, Matilda. Mr Bensham would never dream of putting anyone in your place.’

  ‘No, not for a while he wouldn’t. An’ I’ll always have a corner of his heart, I’m sure of that, but human nature’s human nature all the world over as you an’ I know, lass, an’ when needs must the devil drives. It was that I wanted to ask you about. If she should turn up here—and I wouldn’t put it past her, I’d hardly have time to settle in me grave afore she’ll be comin’ up that drive, I bet what you like. Well, if she should, you have a talk with him, will you, and tell him to wait; wait for a year, say, eh? He’ll listen to you. He’s got great respect for you, you’ve no idea.’

  ‘I’ll do what I can, don’t worry about anything. Oh’—she turned toward the door with relief—‘Here’s the wine. A glass of wine will make you feel better.’

  ‘Aye, lass, aye; there’s nothin’ like a glass of wine for puttin’ new life into you.’ Matilda now blew her nose while managing to wipe her eyes at the same time, and she smiled at the stiff-faced nurse as she placed the tray on the bedside table.

  Two

  ‘You knew I was coming.’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘You got my letter?’

  ‘Yes, but only yesterday, and it was too late, the arrangements were already made.’ Michael spoke quietly and slowly.

  ‘The arrangements!’ Barbara tossed her head scornfully. ‘To go into the town with the Waites! Arrangements! Who are the Waites anyway? You’d think they were royalty. They’re servants.’

  ‘Now stop it, Barbara.’ He mouthed the words widely.

  ‘What do you mean, stop it? I said they’re servants and they are servants; you know they’re servants.’

  ‘We’re all servants.’

  ‘Don’t start on that philosophical tack, you know what I mean.’

  ‘I know what you mean and it can’t be done; Jim and I have business to do.’

  ‘And Sarah makes three.’

  ‘Yes, and Sarah makes three, as you say.’ As she stood looking at him, her eyes wide and glistening with unshed tears, his tone, as always, immediately softened as he took her hand and said slowly, ‘Oh Barbara, Barbara, don’t be silly, there’ll be other times. And look; you’ve brought John over with you.’

  ‘Simply because Brigie wouldn’t let me come alone.’

  ‘All right then, I’ll come over next Saturday and fetch you.’

  ‘You will?’ Her face brightened.

  ‘Yes; that’s a promise.’

  The prospect of spending hours alone with him caused her face to shine with uninhibited pleasure of love, until she thought that that was a week ahead and if Brigie could stop her being alone with Michael she would, even going as far as to accompany them herself. She was back with today’s problem.

  ‘Michael.’

  ‘Yes, what is it?’

  ‘Do something for me.’

  ‘Anything, anything, Madam.’ It was strange that he should use the same title for her as Dan Bensham did. He didn’t know if he had copied Dan or Dan him.

  ‘Don’t, don’t take Sarah with you.’

  ‘Now, now.’ He turned half from her, then slowly back toward her again, ‘You’re being ridiculous. Sarah goes into town with us every week. Why should I stop her today?’

  ‘Every week! Always?’

  ‘Yes, every week, always.’

  ‘I…I didn’t know.’

  ‘Well, you know now. Look, Barbara, this is all nonsense. You’ve got to get over this.’

  ‘Get over what?’

  The question nonplussed him. He did not say, ‘Your jealousy of Sarah,’ but neither did he say, ‘There is no reason for you to feel like this.’ Perhaps last year or the year before he might have said that, but as he had grown older his feelings had changed; not entirely, oh no, he still had a deep affection for her, and sometimes he thought it was more than affection, for she fascinated him, and she was beautiful. Her handicap did not mar her in any way. She was full of life, vital, and she was so attractive and pleasing, when she was in a good mood. But she had this obsession about Sarah that marred her, and it had grown so strong of late that it raised some disquiet in him; he would not term it fear.

  ‘I hate that girl.’

  ‘You mustn’t say that, Barbara; she’s never done anything to you to deserve it.’

  ‘She inveigled herself into the household and into Aunt Constance’s good books.’

  ‘She’s done nothing of the sort; she’s worked hard and made herself pleasant, she’s naturally pleasant.’

  ‘Oh, is she? I’m glad you find her so. And you intend to take her with you?’

  ‘Yes, I intend to take her with me…Oh no I don’t, I mean I’m not, I’m not taking her with me, she’s coming along with Jim as she always does. And look’—his face became stiff—‘when you’re acting like this I could get on my high horse about him.’ He pointed toward the dining room door and in the direction of the sitting room where John was talking to Constance.

  ‘Why don’t you then?’

  ‘Because…’ Could he say, ‘It doesn’t bother me who you ride with,’ because in an odd way it did? He was concerned for her, concerned about her, it could not be otherwise with the association they’d had since they were children. And it wasn’t only that, his feelings went further. Oh, he just didn’t know what he felt. But he knew how his mother felt; she didn’t like Barbara—would it have made any difference to his feelings if she had liked her? He ended lamely. ‘Because I don’t like rows. We don’t row, except when…’

  ‘Except when I visit. I suppose Aunt Constance says that, and I suppose she hasn’t objected to you associating with a maid?’

  His tone matching her own now, he answered, ‘No, she hasn’t voiced any objection because I’m sure she doesn’t feel any. She’s got no feeling about class. Anyway, who are we to be uppish, we’re simply farmers. You’re the only one who’s got ideas about class.’

  ‘And rightly so’—she drew herself up as she ended childishly—‘as I’m from class on both sides.’

  This was
too much; he’d have to get away from her before he said something that would set her thinking. He was aware of his father’s parentage—his mother had told him last year that his father had been the natural son of Thomas Mallen. She had not told him this until after his grandmother had died so that he would not think less of his grandmother. He thought it was from this time too that his feelings toward Barbara had changed; he had just had to change them when he realised that he must be just once removed from being her half-brother. He also knew that she was not aware of her real parentage but had been given some fairytale version by Brigie.

  ‘Where are you? Michael! Michael!’ It was with relief he heard his mother’s voice, and going to the door, he called, ‘Here we are.’

  Constance came and stood within the threshold and looked to where Barbara was standing, her face stiff and white and as always appealingly beautiful, and as always she thought, Oh that girl! Then turning to Michael she said, ‘They’re waiting.’

  ‘Oh! Well, I’m ready.’ He glanced back at Barbara. ‘I’ll be over next Saturday,’ he said, then hurried away.

  Constance now went toward John, saying, ‘They’re off to the market, usual routine.’ Together they walked across the hall and through the kitchen; and it wasn’t until they had been in the yard for a few minutes that Barbara joined them.

  Standing apart, she looked to where Michael was sitting at the front of the wagon with the reins in his hand, and from the ground Jim Waite with one sweep and heave was lifting Sarah onto the seat beside him. Then he himself mounted the cart.

  When Constance waved Sarah waved back. Then John raised his hand while he said quietly, ‘I hardly recognised her; she’s grown so tall in the past year, and pretty with it. She still seemed a child last year at the harvest supper. Does she still dance?’

  ‘Like a linty; she’s so light on her feet.’

  Constance had turned in Barbara’s direction and so she caught the last words: light on her feet, like a linty!

  Constance was still facing her but, addressing John, she said, ‘I don’t know what I would have done without her over the years. I have played Brigie to her; you know what I mean?’

  ‘Yes, yes, indeed.’ He nodded as he laughed.

  ‘Did you know Mr Ferrier was home?’ Barbara’s voice was low, her speech blurred.

  The question obviously startled Constance, and caught her off her guard; she looked straight at Barbara and it was some seconds before she made a slight movement with her head and said, ‘No.’

  ‘Oh, I thought he would have called; he’s been home for some days. He went riding with Katie yesterday and he’s bringing the coach for her today to drive her into Hexham…It is Hexham, isn’t it, they’re going to?’ She appealed to John, but he made no answer; he just stared fixedly at her.

  ‘Shall I give him your regards if I see him?’

  Again there was a moment’s pause before Constance said, ‘Yes, do that. Please do that.’

  ‘Well, we must be off.’ She moved a step forward, then stopped. ‘Oh, I did tell you that Brigie sent her warm regards and says she’ll be over some time next week?’

  ‘You did tell me.’ Constance’s face was expressionless.

  ‘Michael’s coming over for me next Saturday; we’re going for a run.’

  Constance made no reply.

  ‘Well, we really must be off.’ She went toward where the horses were tethered to a standing post, calling over her shoulder, ‘Help me up, John.’

  Unsmiling, John performed the task of putting her in the saddle; then he mounted his own horse, and they were about to move off when Barbara reined her horse sharply in again, and now looking back down on Constance, she said, ‘Oh, I knew there was something I meant to tell you. It was odd, but I saw a man in Hexham when I was last there. He was dark but had a fair streak down the side of his hair.’ She demonstrated by running her finger down her riding hat. ‘Brigie says it’s called the Mallen streak; Michael’s father had one, hadn’t he? Mary tells me his hair was as black as mine except for this white piece; she tells me it’s always passed on to the male offspring; isn’t it odd that Michael should be so fair?’

  The young face looked down into the older one; their eyes poured their animosity each into the other.

  The years of polite courtesy were swept away and what was revealed was hatred.

  It was John who urged the horses forward, saying hastily, ‘Goodbye. Goodbye, Mrs Radlet.’ He knew that he had just witnessed an asp using its barbed fang. What poison was in the venom he could only guess at, but from the look on Mrs Radlet’s face it might mean death. She was a young devil, Barbara, she was vicious…And they imagined he might marry her. Not him!…

  Constance, back in the house and alone in it, felt so overcome by her emotions that she thought for a moment she would collapse. Going into the dining room, she went to the sideboard and took up a bottle of brandy from which she poured out a good measure and sipped at it as she left the room and hurried up the stairs and into her bedroom. Dropping into a chair, she took a longer drink from the glass, then leaned back and closed her eyes.

  That girl! That vixen, for she was a vixen. There was something in her that was bad, equally as bad as that which had been in Donald. Both sired by the same father, they may not have inherited their wickedness from him for, as she remembered, he was not a bad man, but somewhere in his lineage there was evil. How did she know about Michael? How had she found out? Not through Anna. No. No. Anna would never have told her. Oh God! If Michael should ever find out, how would he then act toward her? He loved her. You could say he adored her; and more, he reverenced her as an ideal woman. She put down the glass, then turned and buried her face in the wing of the chair.

  Sometime later, after dabbing her face with cold water, she stood before her mirror and her mind touched on the other humiliation. Pat in England; to be near and not to call, but to visit the Hall two days running and to see that young girl. But then she was no young girl, she was a woman; she was older than she herself had been when she had married. Katie Bensham was nineteen, or almost, old enough to marry and to consider a man fifteen years her senior quite suitable…Will Headley, and Bob Armstrong, and now Pat. Why, why was she treated so? She seemed fated to be spurned by the men who attracted her, and desired by those she couldn’t stand. But she must not forget Matthew Radlet. She had loved Matthew, and he her. But the need in her, the loneliness in her, was nothing compared to the new threat hanging over her. That girl! That girl! How had she come by the knowledge of Michael’s real parentage? No-one had ever questioned it before, either by hint or look: Michael took after his grandmother’s side of the family, and his grandmother’s side was fair. That had been all there was about it until now. She felt almost physically sick as she realised the girl’s knowledge had wiped away the last defence she had against her and Michael coming together. If the worst had come to the worst and Michael had declared his love for her then she would have felt forced to beg Anna to explain to the girl the close relationship between them, even knowing she was asking her to countenance a lie. But as it stood now Barbara was aware that there was no blood tie between her and Michael. That scene in the yard had in a way been a declaration of war.

  There swept over her the feeling that had been constantly with her while Donald was alive, the feeling that he had her trapped and that she could never escape him. Yet she had escaped him. But in the present case there was no-one willing enough to free her from Barbara as to do murder. It wouldn’t be the case of Donald and Matthew over again.

  Three

  ‘You are late in getting back.’

  ‘Am I?’

  ‘Barbara, please don’t answer me in that manner.’ Miss Brigmore’s mouth went into a tight line; and when Barbara remained silent she asked, ‘Did you have an enjoyable ride?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then I assume the fault was yours?’

  ‘Yes, you would assume that, wouldn’t you? You’re lining up on the other side.’
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br />   ‘Barbara, don’t talk in that fashion to me; I’ve told you. Come, tell me, what has happened?’

  ‘Nothing has happened, what could happen?’

  ‘Don’t raise your voice, Barbara.’ Miss Brigmore now spoke rapidly on her fingers, and looked to where Brooks was mounting the main staircase. Then she turned about and walked quickly toward the gallery, through it and up the flight of stairs that led to the nursery floor, and she did not look around until she’d actually entered her sitting room. Here she stood stiffly in the middle of the room awaiting Barbara’s approach.

  Barbara entered the room slowly, and when she did not turn and close the door behind her, Miss Brigmore, forming her words with extra precision, which was a definite sign of her annoyance, said, ‘Be good enough to close the door behind you…Now then.’ She looked at the tall, thin figure clothed in the green cord riding habit, her jet hair lifted high from her pale face, a brown velvet stiff-brimmed hat perched on top of her hair, and even in her annoyance and irritation she could not help but be aware of the girl’s beauty. Her tone a little gentler now, she asked, ‘What is all this about? What has put you in a temper? Have you quarrelled with John?’

  ‘Quarrelled with John?’ Barbara’s eyes widened in mock surprise. ‘Whoever quarrels with John? I left him at the cottage and galloped across the fells; gave him a run for his money, as Mary would say; and when he caught up with me all he could pant was, “Barbara! Barbara! You! You!”’

  ‘It’s to his credit that he kept his temper. Remember what happened the last time you decided to take a run over the fells?’

  ‘I knew he would follow me. Anyway, the sun was shining.’ She pulled off her hat and threw it aside.

  If it were someone other than her beloved child who was talking and acting in this manner Miss Brigmore knew that she would dislike her intensely, but because it was her beloved Barbara she laid the blame for her attitude on the affliction; that one so beautifully endowed should be so cursed could create nothing but conflict inside. She took a step toward her now, saying gently, ‘John is very fond of you, you know that.’