Endure My Heart (8 page)

“G’day, Miss Anderson,” he said, with a good imitation of the provincial accent. “A lovely day, isn’t it? What can I do for ye?”

“I came to inquire if the calico has been delivered. I expected to see it at the rectory some days ago.” I knew full well it sat on the table in the church porch, but I had directed him to deliver it to myself.

“I had it taken over to the church,” he answered. “I understand that’s where it’s measured up and handed out.”

“Yes, it is, but I
did
particularly ask you to deliver it to the rectory.”

“I’ll have it sent right over to ye. Why, I’ll take it myself, ma’am, as I am about to go for my luncheon.”

“That won’t be necessary, Mr. Williams, but next time, perhaps you would be kind enough to follow my orders.” I then peeped over his shoulder to the giggling Turner twins. “Mr. Williams is free now, girls,” I told them. “Sorry to have disturbed your little cose,” I apologized to him. “So nice to see you are finding some congenial friends in town.” I hastened out the door before he could think of a retort, but not before a certain pugnacious jut had taken over his jaw.

The delivery boy came to the door of the rectory within ten minutes to hand me the bale of calico. When you are a working lady, the weekend is not long enough to attend to the dozens of little personal chores that accumulate. There are your laces and collars to see laundered and ironed (by your own hand, as these rare treasures are not trusted to just anyone), broken shoelaces to be replaced, sewing and mending, the hair to be cut, coiffed or rearranged, and so on. If you happen to be a teacher, there is a pile of badly written work to be looked over and corrected as well. I had wrung a dispensation out of Andrew to do the schoolwork on Sunday. I consider him quite a Solomon in all religious matters, and as he considers me the judge in anything of a practical nature, we all three—Andrew, God and I—go on quite happily.

On Sunday morning I was in the gallery with my choir boys and musical group. I had arranged for them to come early that we might greet the congregation with music on their way in, and hopefully rid them of the habit of gossiping quite loudly before the service started. I kept a sharp eye below me, particularly on the Owens box, to see if Wicklow planned to attend. When I saw a dozen bonnets turn around, I suspected he had arrived, as he had. He carried no hymnbook, but arose and sang with the others at the appropriate times. Once early on in the service he turned around and looked up to the gallery, and again on his way out he craned his neck quite openly up, staring at us.

We in the gallery sang the congregation out the door as well as in, after which we nipped smartly down the staircase to receive compliments on our performance. I was usually the last to get away, as I had the job of rounding up the music and storing it in the cupboard. As I finished up this chore, I heard a heavy tread on the stairs. I turned to see Wicklow coming toward me, hat in hand, greasy smile in place.

“Good morning, ma’am,” he said, bowing politely. He had switched from the local g’day, using Sunday manners.

“Good morning, Mr. Williams. Did you wish to see me?”

“Aye, I did. That was grand music ye provided. I enjoyed it very much.”

“Thank you. It was kind of you to come and tell me so.”

“Not at all. A good performance ought to be congratulated.”

He deserved congratulations on a pretty good performance himself, but I could not bestow the earned praise. “You must excuse me. I have to go down to the porch. This is calico Sunday,” I reminded him.

“Ah yes, ye got the calico all right?”

“Yes.” Oh, and had forgotten to have it returned to the porch for distribution! I hastened to the stairs as though the place were on fire.

“I was hoping to speak to ye a minute,” he called after me.

“Later,” I said over my shoulder, then caught Billie Marson by the elbow to go and fetch the material back to the porch, lest Mr. Williams should begin to wonder at my having had it removed.

There is a certain etiquette involved in the giving out of calico, which is as follows. Those
not
receiving stand around to see which of their neighbors are, but do it with all possible finesse, only flickering their eyes to the door as each recipient comes out with her length carried as inconspicuously as possible under her arm, or stuck into a reticule if she has one large enough. Those who are ashamed of receiving aid have a son or daughter stand by their side to dash off home with it, while the mother returns to the yard to chat with the non-receivers, as though she is unaware this is calico Sunday at all. When you see a small handful of women remaining behind long after all the others are gone, you know they are the handful who would want and could well use a length, but are too proud to go on the parish record. They will saunter into the porch, looking over their shoulders, and mention having dropped a glove or left a book behind, if an overseer has been at my shoulder, this is his time to depart.

“Oh, Miss Anderson,” they will say in surprise, “You are here! But it is calico Sunday, of course. It quite slipped my mind. What quality is it?” They come and feel it, and if the woman has the good fortune to be alone with me, she will then proceed. “All this left over? There must be six ells at least. What will be done with it?”

“I haven’t a notion, Mrs. Samson,” is my line. “Would you care to take a piece?”

“Oh, I am not on charity!” she will exclaim, offended.

“Seems a shame to waste it. But it may find a use before long.”

“If you are
looking
for something to do with it...”

The scissors are already snipping off a length, soon the hands (Mrs. Samson’s) are folding it into a parcel of the smallest possible dimensions and stuffing it into a recticule of the largest possible, carried on purpose on this day. Then Mrs. Samson goes to pick up the glove she carefully forgot behind, while Mrs. Carr comes to comment with surprise that several yards are left over, and what will be done with it?

The process was speeded up today as Mr. Williams, not on to our routine and the privacy desired, stood at the doorway waiting to speak to me. I cut the overlength up and folded it myself to give to the unentitled poor with only a nod and a smile as they went to get their glove. “Left over,” I said, as they each snatched it up eagerly.

“Ye certainly keep yourself busy, Miss Anderson,” Wicklow said as the last woman departed, her calico miraculously disappeared into some fold of her pelisse or pocket. The reticule was not bulging as it ought.

“Be not solitary, be not idle.
You
follow the first rule, I the second.”

“I follow both when I can.”

“What is it you wish to see me about?” I had an idea he meant to ask me to walk or drive out with him. It had been discovered during the week that besides a handsome mount, Mr. Williams also possessed a whisky, a one-horse open carriage. I prepared my refusal with an inward smile.

“About the choir,” he surprised me by replying.

“You have already complimented me on the choir.”

“Aye, so I have. It’s so fine I’ve a mind to join, if ye’ll have me.”

I hastily considered this. It would be inconvenient to have him in the gallery, where I often managed a quiet word with Jemmie, as I had done this morning, discovering Crites knew nothing of the one landing at Lord Aiken's place, so that we could use it for the next delivery.

“How is your voice?” I asked, to give myself time to think. There were advantages to his joining. I could not be forever running into the shop like the Turner twins, and if I were to get at his brain at all, this would be an opportunity.

“It’s considered fair,” he replied. “Good and loud at least.”

“If you like, Mr. Williams, why do you not come to the practice next Wednesday evening, here in the gallery.”

“I’ll do that, miss.”

Let it be understood from henceforth that when I was “miss,” Mr. Williams was smiling and flirting with me; when I was “ma’am,” he was most formal. It will save a deal of repetition. “I hope it will not cut too severely into your socializing,” I said, with a little bit of encouragement.

“It’s a sociable town surely. Everyone very friendly.
Almost
everyone, that is to say,” he added with an arch look.

“You must refer to the men, sir, for I’m sure
all
the girls have been very friendly indeed.”

“Yes, the
girls
have, but the
ladies
are not so kind. I hope to sing myself into charity, ye see.”

“Let us see how prettily you sing, sir, before we speak of charity.”

“Ye are active with the charity work in town, I see.”

“As the rector’s sister, many small duties come in my way.”

“It’s an awkward way the business is arranged, to give the calico so publicly, is it not?”

This was a bone of contention between myself and the Parish Council, but no better way had occurred to me. A visit to the doors of the poor, or they to the rectory at calico time, would be equally well noted.

“If you have a better idea, I would be happy to hear it.”

“The best idea is to obviate the need of charity entirely.”

That high-flown “obviate” had slipped out unnoticed by him.

“Is there a great deal of poverty in the town?”

“You would not be inclined to think so from the hordes who pass their days in the drapery shop, but there is plenty of poverty.”

“I wonder how the poor people keep body and soul together. There is quite a bit of unemployment around, but I suppose here on the coast the men are into a spot of free trading.”

“Very likely,” I answered innocently, while my heart beat faster. He was angling for information. I must take care that he learn nothing from me.

“How is it done, do ye know?”

That he was asking me so openly was a relief. He would not do so if he suspected for an instant I was in any way involved. “It comes in on ships, I believe, Mr. Williams,” I answered, feigning surprise at his obtuseness. “Brandy comes from France—it must come in on ships.”

“To be sure, but I meant once it is landed, what is done with it?”

“It is sold.”

He nodded, and finding me singularly uninformative, changed his tactics once more to dalliance. “Nice day for a drive, miss,” he said leadingly.

“A lovely day. My brother and I plan to drive up to Felixstone to visit friends.”

“Do ye usually drive out with your brother?” he asked.

“Why no, I more often drive out with my companion, Miss Halka,” I replied, arising to indicate the meeting was over.

He frowned in open displeasure at the putting off, as he held the door wide for me to exit. There were no less than three groups of common girls
still
hanging about outside the church, three quarters of an hour after the service was ended. They were waiting for a chance to try their charms with Williams.

“If you dislike driving alone, Mr. Williams, I cannot think you will have any difficulty filling your gig,” I told him, looking at the girls.

“Ye
are very kind, ma’am, but I do not stand in need of any charity.”

As I took a peek from the window of the rectory, I noticed he had taken Mary Slack up in his whisky to carry her home, leaving all the others behind to agree how forward Mary Slack was become. And so she was too. I believe she
asked
him for a ride. She spoke to him first, and he nodded his head as though in agreement. From such a distance, with the cut of his coat concealed, Williams gave a very good impression. I could not but wonder how he looked and behaved when he was being Sir Stamford Wicklow.

Chapter Six

Monday after school I drove the gig and Babe down to Aiken’s place to see just where the brandy would be brought in, and of equal importance, where it would be stored till Phillips picked it up Sunday night to take it off to London. Lord Aiken had a sailboat, a great white schooner it was, beautiful. It bobbed at anchor at his dock, the spars sailing straight up into our beautiful blue hazy skies. I was curious to learn whether His Lordship was in residence. This was only a summer home for him. In September it was probable he would be in London. I invented a sudden thirst to have an excuse to seek out his housekeeper, Mrs. Hilbury, for a glass of water.

She was extremely helpful, not only in giving me wine in lieu of water, but in informing me His Lordship was in London, with no intention of returning here in the near future. He planned to go on to his country seat in Oxford when he left the city. Before leaving, I asked casually, “Would it be all right if I went down to have a look at Lord Aiken’s sailboat? It calls to mind the old days...” I finished with a wistful sigh, to make her believe I was recalling my golden youth, when I had been a little rich lady, being taken out for sails on His Lordship’s boat.

“Go right ahead, Miss Anderson,” she replied immediately. “The lads are in the boathouse this minute getting the rollers ready to put it up for the winter, as Lord Aiken doesn’t plan to use it before spring.”

Away I went, to scout out the dock and boathouse, to see if the latter might hold the brandy for a couple of days. A glance told me the impracticability of this scheme, with the ship to take up the better part of the covered space. I rambled in the warm autumn sun over the grounds in a pointless way, my eyes darting hither and thither. At the stables, I took a peek in, and knew I had found my spot.

The only nag in the stable was the gig horse that Mrs. Hilbury herself occasionally drove into Salford. Aiken had removed all his mounts and carriage horses, leaving large spaces, with plentiful piles of hay that could give concealment. With only a very small staff in the house, privacy was secured. The stables were well set away from the house too, to prevent even the least sound from being heard.

I allowed myself one quick glance in the window of Mr. Owens’ drapery shop as I passed by, grinning inwardly at how well I had outwitted Williams-Wicklow. He stood at the door, carrying on with Mary Slack in a bantering way. The girl had no more sense than to be chasing after him before the whole town. No doubt the evening would find him in Slack’s parlor, trying to pick the brains of her brother Joe, one of my best boys. As close as an oyster, Joe. Indeed, the boys and men were all chosen for their closeness. Williams was wasting his time playing up to Mary Slack.