The Mallen Litter Page 2

  She turned in through the iron gates and after walking halfway up the curving drive she stopped and stood looking towards the sombre, bay-windowed house and asked herself sharply, what was she going to do? There were only two months to the wedding. The presents would start coming in shortly; if she didn’t do it soon, she wouldn’t be able to do it at all. She wished her dad were here, or Brigie, or John or someone.

  When she entered the house she was panting as if she had run up the drive. She walked through the small conservatory and opened the amber-paned glass door into the hall. It was a small hall, half-panelled, with the stairs leading up from the end of it. To the left were doors going off to the kitchen, dining room and morning room. To the right were those which led to the sitting room and study.

  The sitting-room door was open, and as she stood unpinning her hat before the hallstand the voice coming from the room caused her to turn her head, stop withdrawing the hatpin, take two steps backwards and glance into the sitting room. What she saw was her future husband standing in the middle of the room talking to someone, and what he was saying concerned the furniture…the removal of it, the scrapping of it. Pulling the second long pin quickly from her hat, she jabbed it in again before throwing the hat onto the hallstand and walking swiftly towards the sitting room. Pausing in the doorway, she looked at Willy. He had his back to her, his arm was stretched out wide, and standing near the table, a tray in her hand, was Bella Brackett, the house-parlourmaid, and Bella’s eyes flicked apprehensively from the man who was to become her master to her mistress as the former said, ‘Yes, that’s what I intend to do, Bella, make a clean sweep of the lot.’

  ‘Indeed!’

  When Willy Brooks turned sharply about he showed no sign of embarrassment, nor did the high colour of his square, roughly handsome face heighten or lessen; quite casually he said, ‘Oh, hello there.’

  Katie did not answer him but walked briskly into the room, saying to Bella as she passed her, ‘I’d like a cold drink, Bella, please.’

  ‘Yes, miss. Yes, miss.’

  She did not speak again until the door was closed; then casting a sideward glance at him she said very quietly, ‘So that’s what you intend to do, make a clean sweep?’

  ‘Now, Katie.’ He came towards her, his arms outstretched, and attempted to draw her to him, but not only did she resist his embrace, she also struck at his hands, and, her voice no longer quiet, she cried, ‘Mr Willy Brooks has spoken. I’m interested to hear you’ve decided to make a clean sweep of this room. And, of course, that will go for the rest of the house I presume. My needs, my opinions, my tastes are of no account. You have made up your mind as to what you want. The law is passed; the master has spoken. You tell Bell…’

  ‘Now look here! Come off your high horse.’ His voice was harsh now. ‘What’s got into you? Coming in like that. It’s that blasted dung heap you insist on sitting on; you’re always like this when you come back from doing your good works. All I said to her was…’

  ‘That you were going to make a clean sweep.’

  ‘All right, all right.’ He wagged his head at her. ‘That’s what I said, a clean sweep, an’ that’s what it wants, the whole bloomin’ house.’

  ‘Really!’ Her tone was again studiously quiet.

  ‘Aye, really. And don’t give me any of your Miss Brigmore manner ’cos I won’t stand for it, you know how it maddens me. We’ve been through all this. You’ve said yourself you were sick of antimacassars, bobbled mantel borders’—he flicked his hands towards the velvet drapes surrounding the fireplace—‘overmantels, oilcloth in the bedrooms. You said yourself you were going to have carpets.’

  ‘Yes, I said I was going to have carpets. And yes, I admit that I said I was tired of antimacassars, et cetera. But I said this to you, I did not say it to the maid. I consulted you, but what I didn’t say was that I was going to make a clean sweep. There are some very good pieces of furniture here. This couch’—she patted the head of the couch—‘is beautifully upholstered. Do you intend to replace it with a horsehair one? Or are you going to the other extreme, is it to be chaises longues and choice Louis pieces? Perhaps you’d like to take a trip across the Channel and inspect the décor of the French salons?’

  ‘Stop it! Stop it!’ His face was flaming now. ‘I’ve told you, haven’t I, there’s one thing I can’t stand an’ that’s your High Banks manner.’

  ‘Oh, really!’ She half turned from him and looked towards the window and into the deepening twilight before she said, ‘I should have thought you would have encouraged me to use it permanently so that I could live up to the style you are aiming to adopt once we’re married.’

  ‘Style? What are you getting at? What’s up with you? You’re the one who’s preached that it’s every man’s duty to drag himself out of the mud. You go down town three times a week preaching just that an’ rousing the women up.’

  ‘Yes, yes’—she turned on him now, all her calmness gone, her voice as strident as his—‘so that they can better themselves, live decently, read, write, be clean, but not with the idea that they’ll forget themselves and…’

  ‘Well, well, now!’ His lip curled. ‘That’s the idea, Tory to the end. Give them a leg up but just so far ’cos they mustn’t be allowed to forget themselves, they mustn’t overstep the mark an’ put a foot on your level, or else…’

  ‘Don’t twist my words. And don’t try to tell me you advocate otherwise, because you don’t. You’re an advocate for just one person, and that person’s Willy Brooks. Your trouble is you’ve got too big for your boots. And yes, your head’s got too big for your hat, literally, because you’re no longer content to wear a billy pot, it has to be a tall one, and silk, hasn’t it? You’ve dropped all your old friends; you’ve even got your father installed with his sister in Doncaster, not for his good as you’d have me believe, but because you didn’t want him under your feet. He was a servant, the one-time butler at High Banks, he could be pointed out as such and that would never do for Willy Brooks, the mill-owner. Because that’s what you’re aiming at, isn’t it? And my brother Dan’s not on the scene now. Like the prodigal son, Dan has left the fold and shows no sign of coming back. There’s only John, and me, and when I marry what’s mine is yours, isn’t it? By law what’s mine is yours…And what hasn’t gone unnoticed by you for a moment is that John hasn’t been well of late…’

  ‘Shut up! Stop it afore it’s too late. You’ve already said things you’ll be sorry for the morrow.’ He grabbed her by the shoulders, and when he shook her she tore herself from his hold and, scrambling around the couch, she looked across at him and cried, ‘I won’t be sorry for anything I’ve said because it’s the truth and you know it. And there’s just one more thing I’ve got to say.’ She stared at him while she pulled the ring from her finger. Then holding it out to him, she muttered, ‘It’s over.’

  His colour changed again. It drained from his cheekbones; it left his mouth startlingly white against the day’s stubble on his face. He hunched his shoulders until he looked like a bull about to charge, and his voice sounded like a growl as he said, ‘Oh no. Oh no, you don’t, Katie Bensham. You’ve led me up the garden, haven’t you, right up the garden to the house door. Two months afore we’re to be married an’ you do this. I played fair by you an’ your dad; I told him I wouldn’t put it to you until you were twenty-one and here we’ve been almost three years engaged, and now you tell me.’

  His head bent lower still, his eyes became slits and he peered at her as he asked now in a demanding whisper, ‘Why? Why?’

  She did not speak for the simple reason that she couldn’t; his manner and appearance frightened her. And this was a strange experience, for having walked the slum areas of the town for years now, meeting up with every dissolute grade of humanity, she had never felt afraid; disgusted, nauseated, but never afraid. Now, as she stared round-eyed at the distorted face of the man she had once thought attractively handsome, she knew that in a way she was lucky for she was about to e
scape from an association that would have become unbearable. This man glaring at her was the Willy Brooks that she would surely have encountered some time after marriage, and here was a man who would stand no interference, here was one who would act not only as lord and master in his own house, or hers, but also as God.

  Her voice shook slightly as she said, ‘I…I made a mistake and I’ve found it out in time. It’s…it’s well for both of us that I have done so.’

  ‘You’ll not get away with this, you young bitch you! By God you won’t. I’ll see to that. You’ll keep that ring an’ we’ll be married, we’ll be married or I’ll…’

  ‘Don’t you dare speak to me like that.’ Her fear of him was swept away on a gust of anger. ‘And we won’t be married ever. And now I’ll thank you to leave. And…and I don’t want to see you again at my house…My house, remember, my house. Father gave me this house, this house which you have coveted since you were a boy…’ She stopped suddenly and stared at him; he was shaking from head to foot as if with ague. The shock had been too much, even for one of his tough character. The little empire he had pictured himself ruling had been destroyed in battle, and it had been a battle.

  As if he had picked up the last word in her mind he now muttered, ‘Don’t think I’m beaten, don’t think this is the end of me. There’s mills in this town that would jump at me. And I’ve got influence, influence you know nowt about. If I left the mill I could halve your trade in six months, I could that. But I’ll not leave, not till I’m ready, right and ready, an’ then we’ll see.’

  As she watched him buttoning his coat as if he would wrench the material apart there came into her mind the thought, the surprising thought, that there had been no word of love mentioned. He had not said, ‘But I love you, Katie,’ or, ‘Why have you stopped loving me?’

  She had imagined it was because he was so deeply in love with her that she had these past years overlooked so many objectionable traits in his character, traits that she had not seen when, as a young impressionable girl, she had allowed her fancy to be caught by his looks, his fearlessness, and his arrogance of manner, which was so like her father’s, and all of which had shown themselves from his early visits to the Hall.

  She realised now she was being shaken by the fact that whatever feelings he’d had for her had been used as a means to further his ambitions, and that in this moment he was not missing her as a lover should, but only as a businessman might who had seen the foundations of his plans swept away through the foibles of a female. She could have been any female.

  He had reached the door and had turned and was glaring at her again. His face looked blanched with bitterness; he looked years older than twenty-nine. He said now, ‘I’m goin’ along to see your John. This business isn’t goin’ to be dropped lightly, I can tell you that. But I’ll also tell you that if you come to your senses I won’t hold it against you.’

  She knew she was doing the unforgivable thing when, adopting what he called her Miss Brigmore manner, she gave a soft laugh before saying, ‘Thank you, thank you, Mr Brooks. I shall always remember your clemency, and should I in future regret the severing of our association I shall know that I have but myself to blame.’

  Again she knew a moment’s fear for he had taken a step back towards her, and she could see now he was striving to fight down an anger, an anger that, under other circumstances, could have brought his fist lashing out and into her face, for he had been brought up in an environment where such a reaction was natural.

  Being unable to avail himself of this outlet he had to have the last word. To his mind, it was only right that a man should have the last word, and what he said sounded, to her ears, childish in the extreme but quite in pattern with an inherent part of him for he used the idiom of the mill. ‘By God!’ he said, ‘I’ll see me day with you, Katie Bensham. An’ if me prayers are answered you’ll never know another minute’s luck. You’ll remember this night an’ you’ll live to regret it. You’ll sup sorrow with a big spoon afore you die. By Christ, you will, you bitch you!’

  The banging of the front door resounded through the house and its impact seemed to take her feet from beneath her, for she stumbled, and only just managed to grab at a chair and fall onto its seat. She closed her eyes and joined her hands tightly on her lap, and her head fell forward onto her breast. She was rid of him. She hadn’t done it fairly, she had taken advantage of the opportunity his conversation with Bella had provided; but what matter, it was over. It was over. She was free. There was only her father and John to face now.

  Two

  Harry Bensham turned over and dropped into another valley in the feathered tick of the huge four-poster bed and grabbed at his wife who was about to rise, saying, ‘What’s your hurry? Lie a bit and let’s have a little crack.’

  ‘It is half past seven.’

  ‘What of it! Look’—he pulled her round—‘this is our house, our home, we haven’t got to get on the job afore the buzzer blows.’

  ‘I always like being down to breakfast by half past eight, you know I do, and it keeps the…’

  ‘Aye, it keeps the servants on their toes. But Mrs Kenley is quite capable of keeping the servants on their toes until half past nine…or ten, or eleven for that matter. You know something?’ He put out his hand and gripped her chin gently. ‘There’s a part of you that’ll be Miss Brigmore till the day they carry you downstairs in a box. And I’d like to bet, as they drop you into the grave you’ll push the lid up and say’—he now gave a good imitation of her voice—‘Keep me level, please.’

  ‘Oh, Harry!’

  They both lay back on the pillows now and smothered their laughing.

  After a moment Harry’s hand again went out to her face. And now he stroked her cheek as he said gently, ‘Aye, lass. How long have we been married?’

  ‘Long enough for you to have got over your frivolity.’

  Again he was laughing, but chuckling deeply now. ‘Frivolity! The words you use. Me and frivolity. Three years and eleven months, isn’t it, come next Saturday? You see I know it even to a day. And you know something else? I’ve never known such days. You’re a wonderful lass…that’s when’—he nodded at her—‘that’s when you forget you’re no longer Miss Brigmore but Mrs Bensham. But I guess you’ll be governessing to the end of your days. Mind you, I’m not grumbling at that either. I like your governessing, except’—he now dug her gently between her breasts with his doubled fist ‘except at half past seven in the mornin’. If Matilda had even dared suggest gettin’ me out at half past seven when not at the works I’d have brained her…I often think of Matilda you know, Brigie.’

  ‘I do too, Harry.’

  He half turned onto his back and gazed up at the canopy over the top of the bed. ‘She knew all this would happen. I keep remembering things she said afore she died, and I know now it was in her mind that we would come together. I’m lucky, I’m a lucky man.’ He again turned his face towards her. ‘I’ve been lucky all me life even with the first one, ’cos if I hadn’t got her I wouldn’t have got the mill, would I?’ He grimaced at her. ‘Then I got Matilda. She was a good lass was Matilda. I used to go for her hell for leather, call her all the numskulls on the earth but she never held it against me, she loved me till the end. Do you know something?’ He turned fully onto his side and faced her. ‘That’s something I’ve never asked you, but I’ll do it now. Do you love me, Brigie?’

  It wasn’t Miss Anna Brigmore, the governess who had come to High Banks Hall in 1845 to teach Thomas Mallen’s wards, who now looked back into Harry Bensham’s eyes, nor was it the woman who had become Thomas Mallen’s mistress and served him for twelve years after he had lost everything, nor yet the woman who had brought up his tragic daughter, Barbara. Barbara who, as a means of escape, had married Dan Bensham and gone away and left her desolate. Nor was it the woman who, at that particular stage when loneliness had enveloped her, had accepted this man’s offer of marriage with gratitude but without love. But it was the woman made new by ma
rriage and the dignity of the title Mrs which upheld her, that looked at him now and could say in all sincerity and with gratitude redoubled, ‘Yes, Harry, I have learned to love you.’

  ‘Aw, lass.’ When his arms went about her and he pulled her into the billowy hollow of the bed-tick her body merged into his and they lay pressed close, his lips hard on hers.

  When she released herself from him and said softly, ‘Breakfast,’ he said, ‘Damn breakfast!’

  Firmly lifting herself from his embrace she sat up, but when she went to put her legs over the side of the bed he caught at her gown. She remained still for a moment. Then turning her head slowly towards him she said primly, ‘Will you kindly leave go of my nightgown, Mr Bensham?’

  ‘It isn’t a nightgown, it’s a shift. Go on’—he slapped at her buttock while still keeping hold of the gown—‘say shift. Go on, woman, say shift.’