Without a Mother's Love (8 page)

‘I’ll come home on Sundays.’

‘Let’s see what Sir William can do for you first. And, for heaven’s sake, brush your jacket and clean your boots before your mother sees them.’

‘Yes, Father.’

Chapter 5

Harriet Trent was in the schoolroom when she heard a horse on the cobbles, followed by shouting and the sound of boots running.When she looked out of the window, Matt was helping the master down from his horse. He looked dishevelled and - injured? He was holding one arm close to his body and stooping awkwardly as he shuffled, with Matt’s help, towards the kitchen door.

‘What’s happening?’ Olivia asked.

‘Stay where you are.’

‘Oooh, is it a visitor? Who is it, Miss Trent?’ She put down her book and darted to the window before Harriet could stop her. ‘It’s Uncle Hesley. He’s hurt himself!’ She ran out of the room, leaving Harriet to hurry after her.

They reached the kitchen at the same time as the master.

‘Cookson!
Cookson!
Where is that woman?’ he demanded.

Harriet knew she was drinking with the farmhands in the stables and would be the worse for it by now. ‘I believe she is in the wash-house, sir,’ she answered.

‘Fetch her. No, you’ll do. Get some water and towels for this bleeding.’

He had a cut on his head and another on his hand.

‘What happened, sir?’

He ignored her and sat heavily in one of the kitchen chairs, giving a strangled groan.

‘Shall I send for your physician, sir?’

‘I’m not dying, merely bruised. By God, one of those rocks got me square in the back.’

A stone? Had he been down his mine? Surely not. He was wearing the smart clothes he had gone out in. They were rumpled and dusty, but not blackened with coal dust.

‘Get on with it before I bleed to death!’

Harriet thought there was no risk of that. He was holding himself stiffly in the chair and winced when he tried to change position, but there was no sign of blood soaking through his clothes. She said briskly, ‘Olivia, put some cold water into a bowl and bring me clean linen.’ Matt hovered by the back door until she added, ‘Please go and tell Mrs Cookson. Or fetch her keys, and then take a message to the master’s physician. At once.’

Hesley Mexton’s face was pale and tense with pain. His eyes were watering and rolling, but he muttered, ‘I don’t need him.’

‘You are hurt, sir, and you should not have ridden.’

He grunted and his head fell forward. Wordlessly she and Olivia attended to the raw grazes on his hands and the cut on the side of his head. It was near to his eye and must have been quite a blow.

The cold water revived him and he even smiled the wry sneer she was becoming used to. ‘Ah, the virtuous Miss Trent. What do you think of your master now, eh?’

‘That he is injured and should be in bed. Mrs Cookson - at last, thank goodness. Fetch some brandy, would you? Then help Matt get the master to his chamber.’

 

Olivia obeyed her governess as she tended her uncle’s wounds. Slumped in the kitchen chair, he was not the overpowering giant she was used to seeing in the library. He was angry about his injuries, to be sure, and grumbled constantly, but he did not shout, except when Matt and a wobbly Mrs Cookson helped him to his feet, and then it was more like a scream. His gasps and groans continued as they inched him through the gloomy hall and up the stairs.

She followed them, as instructed, with brandy and more linen, and watched with Miss Trent through the open door as they eased him, still clothed, onto his large, four-poster bed. Her hand crept up towards Miss Trent’s and grasped it. Olivia felt safe with Miss Trent. She was strict in the schoolroom, but sometimes, like now, she was kind.

Her uncle gave a prolonged sigh, saw her with the brandy, beckoned her over and snatched the bottle from her hand. She stared at him as he swigged and wondered if he would die. She thought she wouldn’t be too sad if he did, now that she had Miss Trent.

‘Come away, Olivia,’ Miss Trent ordered. ‘Your uncle needs peace and quiet. Go to the schoolroom and get ready for bed.’

She opened her mouth to protest and Miss Trent glared at her. Olivia closed her mouth and obeyed.

 

When the apothecary arrived Harriet let him in and introduced herself.

‘My name’s Harvey, Adam Harvey. How d’y’do? I’d heard in the town what happened. A bad business, very bad.’ He shook his head and followed her up the wide wooden staircase.

‘What did happen, sir?’

‘He hasn’t said? Proud man is old Mexton. But it’s not his fault the bank failed - and he’s not the only one being mobbed by his workers.’

‘By his own miners? But surely it is the people he laid off who hate him.’

‘You know about that, do you? And that he cut the wages of those he kept on? Now there’s no money to pay even them. The constable has a riot on his hands. Mexton’s lucky to live so far out of town, and well away from his colliers.’

Harriet was shocked into silence.

Mr Harvey looked about him as he climbed the stairs. ‘Is Mrs Cookson about?’

‘She - she’s not too well, sir.’

‘Drunk, I suppose. What about the grandson?’

‘He’s in the North Riding for the shooting.’

‘When will he be back?’

‘I don’t know, sir. He hasn’t been here all summer.’

‘Just you, then?’

‘There’s Matt in the stables.’

‘Best place for him,’ he replied shortly. ‘Wait on the landing.’

He was with the master for a long time and Harriet was dozing in a chair when he came out of the bedchamber. ‘He’ll rest now and I’ve left a sleeping draught for when he wakes. Five drops in a glass of wine. He has deep bruising on his back and his ribs are cracked. He must rest.’

She nodded.

‘Mrs Cookson will know how to keep him quiet. When she’s sober, of course.’ He paused. ‘Hesley Mexton is no longer a young man, yet he behaves as if he is. It’ll be a while before he’s right again. I’ll be back to see him tomorrow.’

 

Adam Harvey had left after his third visit since the pit disturbance and the governess stood in the doorway of the master’s bedchamber. Shall I send for your grandson, sir?’ A large fire raged in the grate. Hesley could feel the heat from his bed. He wondered how long the coal would last.

‘What can he do?’ He was propped up with pillows in the middle of his four-poster. He tried to shift his position but the pain was too great. The laudanum was wearing off again.

‘He would wish to know that you are ill,’ she answered.

‘I am not ill.’

‘Mr Harvey said your ribs are hurt, sir, and your back.’

‘It’s nothing I have not suffered before.’ But he had been younger then, and stronger. ‘Leave young Hesley to his pleasures. They’ll be over soon enough.’ For me too, he thought. The mine is already losing money. And now no hope of investment from the bank. But the sight of the governess in her chaste grey gown with its puritan white collar brought a wry smile to his lips.
She
would not notice a little hardship at Hill Top House.

‘I’ll go back to the schoolroom, then,’ she said.

‘Wait. I shall write to young Hesley. Help me to the desk.’ It was by the window and had the best view in the house, with an outlook onto the track down the valley where distant chimneys belched smoke. Today, as often, it swirled away to the east and did not reach the clear air at Hill Top House.

‘You really should not, sir. Mr Harvey said—’

‘I know what he said!’ Hell and damnation! The pain was bad. Every movement hurt. He flopped back against the pillows and closed his eyes. If he took the draught he would sleep. But he had affairs to put in order if he was to avoid the bailiffs at his door. ‘You will write to Hesley for me.Tell him only of the pit troubles. He must stay away from here until this business is settled.’

She wrote as he directed, sitting stiffly on his leather chair. He guessed she was ill at ease in his bedchamber and it diverted him to imagine her dressed in one of Mrs Wortley’s ornate silk gowns. Mrs Wortley . . . He had not paid the rent on her house that was due last Michaelmas. Or her draper’s and milliner’s bills, languishing in his desk. It was time to draw a line under that particular liaison. She would soon find herself another rich old patron and he would have to make do with the whores.

The governess put down his pen. ‘Is that all, sir?’

‘No. There is another letter. To Mrs Wortley.’ As he dictated, he saw a blush rise to her cheeks, which amused him. She did not know who the woman was, but she had realized what she was to him. He was sorry to be ending his arrangement, terminating the lease on her house and telling her to leave, but there would be others.The governess’s cheeks were still pink and her brow was furrowed when she brought the letters to the bed for him to sign.

He managed a twisted grin. ‘There’ll be another like her soon. Tell Matt to deliver the letter to her.’

He supposed she was wondering if she would be the next to go. She was not one-and-twenty until April and the principal at Blackstone would expect his payment for her until then. He would have to persuade him to make do with the free slack for this winter.

‘Do not frown, Miss Trent,’ he said.‘You have not my worries. I am deep in debt, with no credit at any bank. I cannot sell my meagre coal to the ironworks and my colliers are up in arms because I cannot pay them.’

His face contorted with pain as he handed back the pen. He had already sold everything that was not entailed by old Samuel’s will, and he could not raise another mortgage on what was left. There was Olivia’s income, of course, and that was significant. It had paid for young Hesley’s education and his own pleasures with Mrs Wortley, but he needed it now to keep Hill Top House going.The clever lawyers for her grandmother’s family had tied up her capital so tightly that he couldn’t get his hands on any of it. And it was capital he wanted. He decided to review the trust document.

He must have more money now. There was his half-sister, Caroline, married to that dull ironmaster. Her mother’s folk had been shopkeepers and he came from the labouring classes. Neither of them had much influence in the Riding, but Benjamin Tyler’s cast iron was the best and his credit was good. And he had a contract with the railway company.

Before the bank had collapsed Benjamin had agreed to invest in his mine project. He wondered how much his brother-in-law was good for. As soon as he was up and about again he’d write to him. He’d pen that letter himself. The governess knew too much already.

Adam Harvey had said he would recover and he supposed he would. But how long would it take? He’d die of boredom, cooped up in this house. He wanted his drive and vitality back. The irony! Mrs Wortley would soon have taken his mind off his worries and seen him to rights.

He dare not go into town and risk another attack. The constable himself had ridden out to Hill Top House to warn him to keep away, saying he had no militia to deploy at Mexton. There was a decent whore-house on the Mansfield Road. It was discreet enough, but too many of his creditors took their pleasure there. He was trapped in his home and he did not like it. Until his strength returned, he supposed he would have to sit it out.

 

‘I have recommended that he stop taking the sleeping draught. He should not become dependent on it and his pain has lessened. His usual nightcap will suffice.’ Adam Harvey was sitting in the warm kitchen, sipping a hot rum toddy before he made the journey to town on horseback. He had attended the master diligently for a month. ‘I shall visit only once a week now, unless he sends for me. He should keep to his bedchamber for another fortnight.’

‘You have told him so?’ Harriet queried.

‘He does not wish it, I know. Perhaps the child can help.’

‘How? He - he does not seek her company.’

‘She could read his news-sheets for him. His eyes are ageing and I think he might welcome that.’

Harriet pondered the idea. If he agreed, the master might appreciate what a bright and gracious girl his great-niece was, rather than think of her as a tiresome child to be tolerated at best. Her only misgiving was that she would have to supervise Olivia, and Harriet preferred to avoid the master. But, then, so did her charge.

‘This injury has taken its toll on your master’s health. He needs to change his ways.’ The apothecary had finished his toddy and stood up.

Harriet walked into the yard with him. He was not much younger than the master and used the mounting stone to climb onto his horse, then walked the animal carefully towards the hardened, rutted track. They were into December now and it would soon be dusk. A light covering of snow had dusted the hills and frozen puddles crackled underfoot. She pulled her woollen shawl close about her shoulders and went to the coal-house to collect another bucketful for the master’s bedchamber. They were well overdue the next cartload.

He was sitting at his desk in the window, wrapped in a heavy gentleman’s dressing robe with his Oriental slippers on his feet. The documents spread in front of him looked formal and legal to Harriet.

‘Sir?’ she ventured.

‘What is it?’ He sounded tetchy and she hesitated.

‘Mr Harvey has suggested that Olivia read you the news-sheets. ’

He growled, and began to shuffle and bundle the thick paper. Then he pushed it into a drawer, which he locked, and slid the key into his pocket. He placed a hand over his eyes and said, ‘Bring me the brandy.’

‘The news-sheets, sir?’

‘I said bring me the brandy.’

‘Very well, sir.’

Harriet returned promptly with Olivia, who was clutching a recent news-sheet, and a small bottle of rum with a glass on a tray that she placed on the desk.

‘What’s that?’

‘Rum, sir.’

‘I told you to fetch brandy,’ he shouted.

She jumped. ‘Mrs Cookson says there is none left.’