Lydia Trent (4 page)

And
so the weary days and weeks rolled on, until weeks turned to months,
and the summer, which seemed to have ended in June for the younger
members of the household at Allingham, slipped inorexably into
autumn. Mr Trent's tenure on Earth was slowly becoming fainter and
fainter. There was a worrying time in September when he became quite
wild and frenzied, and though he was too weak to rise, he would
exhaust himself by his restless and desperate movements – on some
occasions it had taken all the strength of both Lydia and the hired
nurse to prevent him hurling himself out of bed entirely. During
these frenzies he would shriek and moan incoherently, showing no
recognition of Lydia, the dear daughter he loved so well. Lydia began
to think they may have to have him committed, and at this she thought
her heart would well-nigh break.

But
now the fits and frenzies had abated, and the poor old gentleman
slept for a great deal of the time, if sleep it was, and not just
another species of fit. Lydia had by this time established a routine,
whereby she would watch in the sickroom until the clock struck three,
to allow the nurse, who had the hard physical parts of nursing to do,
to get some rest. At three of the clock, she would retire to snatch a
few hours sleep, then rise at eight to prepare the invalid's
breakfast – though more often than not it would remain uneaten.
Then she would relieve the nurse for an hour or two, after which time
they watched together until dinner time, and the patient's evening
dose – after this the nurse would retire for some well-earned rest,
though always within call, and the whole dreary round began again.

One
night, during this quiet period, Lydia was sitting by the fire in the
sickroom, knitting to keep herself awake. It was almost two of the
clock, and there was barely a sound except the soft breathing of the
patient, and the rather more stertorian exhalations of the nurse, who
lay within call on a couch in the next room. There was little to do
until her father's next dose, at three, and Lydia began to find
herself drifting into a reverie.

Her
thoughts were carried forward into the dreary future, and she began
to bethink herself of what might become of her. Without her father,
all that made home a bright and happy place would perish. To be sure,
there was still her sister, but she had begun to see how the land lay
between Alfred and Adeline, and she was sure that before very long
Adeline would depart to a home of her own. What then? The thought of
living in solitude with her stepmother was not to be borne, and
though she might be assured of a home with her sister and
brother-in-law, playing the gooseberry may soon pall. The idea that
she may marry herself had never crossed her mind – simple duties,
simple pleasures, were all she had looked to as her happiness in
life, she had never yet been disturbed by longings for romantic
passion. Good books, good work, and lively and intelligent
conversation with a congenial mind, such as she had enjoyed with her
father, were her ideal of a happy life. Not for the first time, she
wished she had been born a man, or at least a poor woman – for
though not an heiress she would yet inherit a couple of thousands
which would ensure her a comfortable, if not extravagant, income. She
longed to have some work to go to, where she might be of the world
and in the world – to be a lawyer, a doctor, a writer, even to go
out as a governess or a nurse, to bring her able mind into contact
with other intelligent souls. To spend her life mewed up here with
her knitting, and her stepmother's bitter complaints and monotonous
converse, was a doom the most awful to her, though she would face it
cheerfully enough, and none should ever know how she longed to break
out.

Lydia
was awoken from this dismal train of thought by a slight sound, as of
a door closing. Had she not known that it was her stepmother's
nightly habit to lock and bar every door and window in the house,
before retiring, she would have sworn to it having been the 'snick'
of the latch of the garden door.

She
had just made sure of the sound that disturbed her having been a
loose coal in the fireplace, and taken up her knitting, which had
fallen unregarded in her lap, with renewed energy, when she became
conscous of a stealthy tread on the stair outside the room, and a
faint rustle, like the whispering of a silk dress, in the passageway
beyond the closed door.

On
a bold impulse, she sprang to the door, candle in hand, and opened it
to confront her stepmother, cloaked and carrying a pair of walking
shoes which were damp with dew, passing to her bedroom a few doors
beyond that of the sick man.

“
Why,
Mamma!” said Lydia in surprise, gently pulling the sickroom door to
behind her, lest she disturb the sleepers within, “Whatever is the
matter? What keeps you abroad so late?”

“
I
cannot see,” said Evelyn, with some asperity, “what concern my
movements can possibly have for you.”

“
None
at all, Mamma, only you surprised me so. I had been sure you had
retired to bed hours ago.”

“
If
an explanation will give you any satisfaction, then perhaps I should
beg to inform you that I found myself stuffy and unable to sleep, so
I took a couple of turns on the terrace (for so she designated the
broad gravel walk behind the house) in the hopes that a breath of
fresh air would refresh and tire me. Finding that it has had the
desired effect, I wish you would allow me to retire. And I might
remark, young lady, that in my younger days, it was not thought
proper for a young person to question the comings and goings of her
elders.”

“
Of
course Mamma, I did not mean to be impertinent. I bid you goodnight.”

Evelyn
passed into her bedroom, and Lydia went to wake the nurse, it being
close upon three o clock, and time for Mr Trent's medicine.

In
the distress of Mr Trent's illness, Adeline's alarm had been all but
forgotten. The subject was renewed, however, by a report from one of
the stable boys that his brother, who was ostler at the Crown, the
village's principal – indeed, only – inn, had reported seeing “a
foreign-talking gent – not so rough-looking as 'im who was so rough
to our dear young leddy”, but, excepting his apparel, answering
fairly to Lydia's description, using the coffee-room at the inn,
though by all accounts he was not and had not been staying there. It
was thought best not to apprise Adeline of this worrying rumour –
other concerns had wiped all trace of that one moment of horror from
her daily thoughts, but Lydia did bethink herself to warn one of the
housemaids, Bessie, who had been absent from the house at the time
due to illness in her family.

“
Stop
a moment, Bessie, I want to talk to you.” said Lydia, the next time
she saw the girl about her work.

“
Yes,
Miss?”

“
I
merely wished to ask you to keep your eyes open for any stranger
hanging about the gates, as Miss Adeline was troubled by a strange
man while you were absent. Pray take care when you are out and about,
as we have reason to believe he is still in the neighbourhood.”

“
A
stranger you say, Miss? Well, to be sure, I do believe as I've seen
more than one of that sort about here lately, and whats more I seed
the Mistress a-talking to 'em.”

“
Why
Bessie, whatever can you mean? How could you have seen Mrs Trent
talking to strangers?”

“
Well
Miss, it's like this. The fust time was mebbe a month or so back –
you recall I have my evening out once a month, and last month I went
into the village to 'ave tea with my sister what is lately married.
Anyway tea led to dancing, and dancing led to supper, and supper led
to talking and telling stories, til before I knew it twas arter one
in the morning and there was me expected back afore eleven. Well as
soon as I seed what time it was, I bid my friends goodnight and set
off walking as fast as my legs could carry me. When I got to the
quietish bit of road just beyond the oak at the turning of the lane,
I swear I seed the Mistress standing talking to some ill-looking
fellow just before the gate, only off to one side a bit. I didn't
have time to hang about, so I cut in through the side gate where I
was fortunate as Maisy the scullery maid was still awake to let me in
– you know she's been waiting up o nights since the Master was took
bad, in case he should want anything, though she's half-asleep on her
feet most of the time in consequence.”

“
I
did not know that Maisy waited up – I must make sure the poor girl
gets some rest, for her work is hard enough without her keeping awake
half the night. But tell me, are you sure you recognised Mrs Trent?
And what of the man?”

“
Well
I didn't see her face, like, as she was cloaked and hooded, but I'd
swear to it being the mistress's dark blue cloak, and her very way of
standing and walking. As to the man, it were moonlight so I got a
fair enough look at him. He were dark-skinned, with a beard, and sort
of deperate-looking, if you call to mind what I mean. What the
mistress could possibly have to say to the likes of him I don't
pretend to understand. They was talking too low for me to hear, but
they both seemed agitated, like.”

“
If
you say you did not see her face, then it is possible you may have
been mistaken – however bright the moonlight, it was still night,
and things do look very different by night. But stop, you say you
have seen my stepmother out more than once?”

“
Yes
– the other time was a week or two since. I'd been on an errand or
two in the village, to fetch a trifle of ribbon or some such for
Estelle (Mrs Trent's French ladies-maid) and a few bits and bobs for
Cook, and I took a shortcut through that bit of copse. To be sure I
wouldn't go such a lonely way of a night, but it was broad daylight
so I thought it no harm. Anyway, this time I seed her a-walking and
talking to a different man. This one was sort of cockney-looking,
with a purple neckerchief and a swagger, like those folks at the
races or the fair who tries to ape the gentry. He had black hair and
a scar on his face – a broken nose too, if I'm any judge, for I
have a brother as used to be a boxer, and has just such a nose.
Anyway, this time I heard them too. 'Something must be done,' she
said, 'You will not fail me?'

“
Then
he says, 'not if the money's all square – whisht, there's someone
coming' – that were me, like, and the pair of them whisks off
behind the trees.”

“
Are
you sure it was my stepmother? Could you not be mistaken?”

“
Well
again I didn't see her face, her being cloaked as before, and having
her back to me all the while, but I seed a corner of her hair as she
was walking – there's none other hereabouts as have that dark
reddish-like hair, and I'd swear to her voice at the assizes, if I
were hung for it, so I would.”

“
I
do not disbelieve what you though you saw, Bessie, but I find it hard
to reconcile what I know of my stepmother's tastes and habits with
her creeping around talking to strangers. On neither occasion did you
see her face, so it is possible you were mistaken. In any event, I am
sure you see the importance of not mentioning this to anyone else –
whether true or not such a rumour could do much harm to my
stepmother's reputation. Remember she is Miss Adeline's mother.”

Bessie
was fiercely indignant at the imputation that she might be, in
kitchen parlance, a 'tattle tale'.

“
Of
course Miss – I would not dream of saying a word that could harm
the poor young lady, angel as she is. Whatever my feelings for my
mistress, I wish I could call down all the blessings of heaven on my
poor master and you two young ladies.”

“
Thank-you
Bessie. Your loyalty is greatly appreciated by us all. You may go
about your work now.”

Though
Lydia was somewhat troubled and very much mystified by this account,
she settled the matter by setting it all down as a case of mistaken
identities.

“
After
all,” she said to herself, “Whatever would take Mamma out into
the woods, or creeping around in the dead of night, let alone having
secret interviews with ruffians? The idea is laughable.”

She
briefly bethought herself of the occasion when she had indeed found
her stepmother 'creeping around in the dead of night', but quickly
dismissed the recollection with a shrug, and went in search of her
faithful scullery-maid.

This
youthful person, Millicent Stubbs by name, known to all as 'Maisy',
was a girl of fourteen years of age, though she looked about twelve,
and made one of a family of numerous children, for whose wants a
mother who took in washing and sewing, and went charing and nursing
at all hours, and a father who was unable to work due to an
unfortunate accident several years ago, could barely provide. As soon
as her brothers and sisters were old enough to contribute to the
family's inadequate income, off they went to work. Maisy spent not a
penny of her small wages on herself, her quarterly stipend going
instead to bring comfort to the babes still at home. Lydia found the
dutiful girl wearily engaged in scrubbing a floor.