Burnt Norton (6 page)

Finally Thomas came into her room. ‘Dotty, please come down. I am worried about Lizzie; she has taken to her bed.’

Dorothy was ashamed. In her need to be alone, she had forgotten her sister. She washed her face and went to her. ‘Lizzie, will you forgive me?’ she asked. ‘In my selfishness I put my own misery first. I don’t deserve your love.’

‘Darling, of course you do. We all miss her. I don’t understand any of it, but we can only get through this together.’

Later that evening, when Elizabeth was asleep, Dorothy returned to the room at the top of the house. Opening the door, she stepped inside. The last of the day’s sun filtered through the leaded windows, making patterns on the wooden floor. The crucifix remained, and though the wardrobe was empty of her clothes, the faint smell of lavender lingered. She sat down on the floor beside the bed and pushed the small cotton rug to the side. Lifting the floorboard, she removed the book, Miss Byrne’s gift to her, and cradled it to her chest. Before long she entered a world of fairies and unicorns. When the writing blurred on the page and the drawings danced in the shadows, she returned the book to its hiding place and went downstairs to bed.

Molly Johnson sat on the platform at the top of the granary steps. From this position she could see the world – which, to her mind, consisted of her back garden. It was her favourite place. With the hens pecking beneath her, she swung her stubby legs, absorbing every detail with a capacity far beyond her seven years.

From here the black timbers and tall chimneys of the Charter House, a coaching inn in the county town of Warwick, looked large and important. The courtyard on the other side of a low wall stabled at least thirty-six horses. The grooms worked there, and her friend Seth, the stable boy, ran from stall to stall doing the chores. When she saw him now she waved; unfortunately for Seth, whose enthusiasm proved greater than his coordination, he dropped the buckets he was carrying and they clattered to the ground. The horses snorted indignantly, Seth’s clothes were soaked, and Molly couldn’t help laughing. It was an infectious laugh, and her reddish curls bounced around her pretty face, her tawny eyes shone with vitality.

She was disturbed by her mother. ‘Molly Agnes Johnson, you get down here this minute before I tan your backside! If the fall doesn’t kill you, I will.’

‘Coming, Ma,’ she said. ‘Sorry, I was feeding the hens.’

‘You were feeding nothing, and no more fibs. God will strike you down, so he will.’ Mrs Johnson tried to look fierce but failed miserably. Somehow her eldest daughter always managed to make the world a brighter place.

Molly grew into a taller version of the same agreeable child. The future promised adventure, and she found plenty to fuel her dreams. Everything was as it should be, except for one small injustice. ‘No, you won’t go to school. There is no need for books when you’re clearing tables in a Warwick hostelry; you need different skills, woman’s skills.’

‘But Will goes to school, Da. It isn’t fair.’

‘Life isn’t fair, Molly. Now be off with you, and up the hill with your brother.’

She walked Will to school, climbing the steep cobbled streets towards the castle, and left him at the classroom door. ‘One day,’ she swore to herself, listening to the hum of children’s voices. ‘One day, I’ll read and write with the best of them.’

Life was eventful at the Charter House. There were horses to be fed and watered, stables to be cleaned. It never stopped. When the stage arrived at noon, her mother would pull her from the window. ‘It’s nigh on midday. You’ve had your lunch, now get on with your work. Dreaming won’t clean the rooms, and we can’t give a lady dirty sheets. Go and help the housemaids with the beds, otherwise it’s the chamber pots for you.’

Molly would run away laughing, but when the next coach arrived, and the passengers spilt down the steps, she was back at the window. The women’s dresses caught her eye, so tight she wondered how they breathed. She wanted to make beautiful dresses like that and sell them in a shop with a sign outside:
Molly Johnson, Seamstress
, in blue with gold letters.

When she wasn’t serving she washed, and when she wasn’t washing she mended. There was plenty to mend: her mother’s stays, stiffened with glue; her sister’s stockings; the sheets and pillowcases – enough to keep her sewing for ever.

‘I’ll be fifty when I have finished, Ma.’

‘You’re a good girl, Molly. God will favour you, so he will.’

And God did favour her, for there were few beatings in the Johnson house. Shouting was another matter; Mrs Johnson yelled at her husband, and he yelled at everyone.

When Mrs Johnson wasn’t stretching her lungs, she grew flowers, which Molly tended with love. There were flowers for scent, and flowers for colour, but the herbs grown in terracotta pots most captured her imagination.

‘For affairs of the heart there’s naught better than a pinch of rue,’ her mother taught her, ‘and for loosening the stool it’s camomile and liquorice.’ Their plants could cure any ailment.

As the landlord’s daughter, Molly amused the customers and became skilled at avoiding unwanted advances. ‘She has a tongue like a greyhound, but the face of an angel,’ her father admired.

The first sign of trouble was Dan Leggat from the butcher’s shop. ‘Hello, Molly.’ He put his thick fingers over her hand as she tried to lift his mug. ‘Come and sit with me.’ He patted the bench beside him.

‘No, thank you. I’m busy.’ She disliked Dan Leggat. He was a blustering oaf with a mean streak. He pulled wings off insects and laughed at the fun of it, and he bullied poor Madge Hartly because of her crooked legs and simple mind. Molly had seen him lick the blood from his hands after butchering a calf. No, she didn’t like Dan Leggat at all.

‘Don’t come over all prim and proper, it’s time you wed. I’m a good match for you, better than most. If you treat me right and show us a little favour now and then, I might even take you down the aisle.’

‘Leave me alone. I’m this side of fifteen, and I’m not for marrying anyone.’

When his arm darted forward and he caught her breast, Molly whipped round. ‘You get your hands off me this minute,’ she hissed, ‘or I’ll slap your ugly face.’

‘Are you bothering my daughter, Dan?’ Her father appeared by her side. ‘By the look of her she wants none of it. Now get out of my house.’

Dan slunk off, his face red with anger. ‘You’ll pay for this,’ he said.

Molly flung her arms around her father’s neck. ‘Thank you, Da.’

‘He’s not good enough for you, Molly, not good enough at all.’

Each June, the whole town went to the castle for the midsummer celebrations. Lady Brooke and his lordship provided pies and pasties, and young and old danced in the meadow by the river. Molly always dressed with care. For three successive years she had altered her pale blue muslin dress, until at last there were no more seams to ease. Using the lace collar from her mother’s wedding gown, she inserted a panel at the front. A linen sheet with fancy edging became a petticoat, and with patience and tiny stitches, daisies adorned the bodice and hem. With a garland of flowers on her russet curls and the prettiest dress in the meadow, Molly Johnson was never short of a partner.

She even caught Lady Brooke’s eye.

‘You’re the Johnson girl,’ she said, looking into Molly’s untroubled face. ‘What a complexion. My skin was like yours once, but now . . .’ She sighed and turned away, but Molly had seen the marks. No paste or lead could hide the blemishes.

‘Never put anything on your face, my dear,’ she said, taking Molly’s hand. ‘Leave it natural; it would be a crime to ruin such lovely skin.’

‘Yes, my lady,’ she answered, both flattered and confused.

‘Be careful, Miss Johnson,’ Lady Brooke continued, her grip tightening, until Molly winced. ‘Your looks will bring you everything, but everything comes at a price.’ She dropped her hand, and Molly ran through the grass to her next partner. When she turned, Lady Brooke was still watching her, with a strange look on her ruined face.

Mrs Johnson came to her bedroom in the attic that night.

‘It’s late, my girl. Shut your eyes and dream of all the lads courting you today. You could do far worse than the Potter boy. He’s a handsome lad with a good future.’

‘He doesn’t interest me. I want someone special, someone different, and it’s not about money. Look at Lady Brooke. She has all the money in the world and it can’t mend her face.’

‘You’re right there, love. The pox is the pox – it doesn’t know rich from poor.’

‘When I marry, it has to be for love. Nothing else will do.’

Her mother stroked her hair. How could they hold on to this bright and beautiful girl?

Molly saw him immediately; she noticed the cut of his coat, the highly polished boots. He was a gentleman.

‘Can I get you some ale, sir?’ She stopped at the alcove by the fire, straightened her dress. Flames rose up, casting shadows around the stranger. She noticed his even white teeth, his unpowdered hair and his fine brown eyes.

‘Thank you, young lady. A pint of your best.’

‘It’s only the best here, sir.’

She learnt he was the Member of Parliament for Warwick.

‘He has our vote,’ her father said. ‘Sir William Keyt, now he’s a gent if ever there was one.’

Sir William stopped by the Charter House more often after that. Seth told Molly he owned several estates and a large carriage. He said people like him kept their gold under the mattress.

As the weeks went by, Sir William Keyt became a regular fixture at the Charter House.

‘Ah, here you are, Molly. I’ve been waiting for you; I’ve missed your company.’

Of course Molly was flattered. He said she had a bright mind and a quick tongue. When she learnt of the tragedy in his family she felt sorry for him, for Molly’s heart was warm and generous.

‘It goes to show,’ her mother said. ‘ In the eyes of our Maker we are all the same.’ But there weren’t many men of Molly’s acquaintance who wore silk stockings, and velvet coats with fine embroidery. There weren’t many men who wore rubies and lace and a golden snake on their little finger.

As she got older, he asked for her more and more. She accepted his interest with the innocence of youth, as she appreciated his courteous words and enjoyed looking at his fine clothes.

‘Come and talk to me on this day of all others. It is the anniversary of my hell, Molly. You’re a good listener.’

‘Doesn’t your wife listen to you?’ she asked.

‘No, not really, but certainly not today; today she will be on her knees asking God’s mercy. When has God ever been merciful?’

Molly refilled his mug.

‘Everything changed with the accident. Lizzie gets all my wife’s time now. It’s difficult to begrudge my poor crippled daughter. Have I told you that it was John who died, my beautiful John? As God is my witness, I wish that I had been taken instead of that precious child.’

Molly had never known despair; her life, though humble, was rich in a different way.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Really sorry. If our Will was taken, I would hang myself from the nearest tree.’

‘That would be a great loss to the world.’ Sir William smiled, and for a brief instant he was able to forget his suffering and relax in the light of the young woman before him. When he took her hand, she didn’t pull away.

‘My other two children seem to hate me.’

‘Of course they don’t hate you; they’re just angry. My mother says that I see things in black and white, and that all young people are like that. I bet you were no different when you were young.’

‘I’m not that old, Molly. Forty-three is not old.’

‘Forgive me, sir, I must be off. There’s a pile of chores waiting, and I’ve not done the half of them.’

On Molly’s fifteenth birthday, Sir William brought her a present. Molly looked at the fine woollen cloth, stroking the soft blue folds. ‘You can make a waistcoat for your brother Will. You said he’s always cold.’

‘Thank you, Sir William,’ she said. ‘I’ll make him something really fine.’

When she ran from the public rooms to show her mother, Mrs Johnson raised her eyebrows. ‘Watch it, Molly. He’s clever, that one.’

Molly laughed. ‘Come on, Ma, it’s hardly a romantic present. I don’t have many friends, so let me be.’ In Molly’s eyes this was true. There was Seth, but he didn’t have time for chatter; her sisters were too young; and the local girls, on reaching puberty, were kept away. Molly found this baffling. ‘It’s not as if we’re a bawdy house, sir,’ she explained to Sir William, and he had laughed and patted her hand.

Even with her sharp tongue and quick wits, Molly was at first naive. She was oblivious to her effect on Sir William. She did not realise that his stifled emotions were returning, and that the wall he had built to protect him after the death of his son was crumbling. But when she mulled over her mother’s warning, she wondered at her stupidity. She was a simple girl, an innkeeper’s daughter. How could she have believed that her wit and intelligence kept Sir William amused?

‘Come and sit with me, Molly. You seem to avoid me.’

‘I will, sir, but just a minute.’

‘I have brought you something. A bracelet. The amber will complement the colour of your eyes.’

For all his fancy clothes, Sir William Keyt was no better than Dan Leggat from the butcher’s shop.

By the time Molly was sixteen she had taken to avoiding the gentlemen in the front of the inn; she ran errands for her mother, helped in the kitchens and took food from the steaming ovens. But it did not go unnoticed. One day her father called her. ‘You’ll get out in front, girl. What do you think you are doing?’

‘But I don’t want to. I’m doing a good job helping Ma.’

‘You’ll do as you’re told, or I’ll lather your backside. Get out there this minute.’

Her father’s harsh tone hurt Molly. When he summoned her to the parlour, he avoided her eyes. ‘Sit down and listen clear. You’ve been acting strange of late. Now you can show me what a sensible girl you are. Sir William Keyt, our valued guest, has honoured you with a position as his wife’s lady’s maid. It’s a step up the ladder, and who knows what it may lead to?’