The River Folk (22 page)

‘Now,’ said Bessie briskly. ‘Will one of you please tell me what is going on?’

‘I’m afraid it’s my brother, Randolph, up to his old tricks, Bessie,’ Edwina began as she took the cup and saucer handed to her.

Mary Ann felt them both look at her and then exchange a knowing glance between them. Then they began to talk almost as if Mary Ann were not present.

Edwina sighed heavily. ‘You know what he’s like. What he’s always been like. Two young girls have been dismissed in the past because they were pregnant, and in each case they swore that Randolph was the father of their babies. Another left, also pregnant, but loyally refused to name the father.’ Edwina sighed. ‘But I always had my own suspicions. Goodness knows how much my father must be paying out even now to help those poor girls.’

Mary Ann saw Bessie’s lips tighten and felt her glance upon her, but for the moment, she said nothing.

‘It seems,’ Edwina went on sadly, ‘that he has filled Mary Ann’s head with the notion that he is in love with her. The poor child believed he would marry her. Then she found out that he had gone to Yorkshire. She locked herself in her room. Not one of us could get her to come out. I was on the point of coming to you for help, Bessie, but then Randolph returned.’

‘Yorkshire?’ Bessie looked puzzled.

Edwina nodded. ‘That’s where Celia Thompson lives. Randolph’s fiancée. He’d gone to see her to . . . to discuss plans for their wedding.’

‘And does this Miss Thompson know about his philandering?’ Bessie asked harshly.

Edwina smiled wryly. ‘You don’t mince your words, do you, Bessie?’

‘Never have, miss, and I doubt I’ll start now.’ For a brief moment the two women shared an intimacy borne of their long knowledge of each other, which excluded Mary Ann. Then Edwina sighed heavily. ‘I doubt it. And I expect he’ll carry on just as before even once they are married.’

Bessie gave a snort of disapproval.

‘You know how it is, Bessie. Randolph is now the son and heir to our family’s estates. He must make a good marriage.’

‘I thought all that sort of thing had been swept away by the war. Seems I was wrong.’

‘I wonder if it will ever be completely swept away, as you put it. Not in our – forgive me, dear Bessie – in our class.’ She reached out and touched Bessie’s hand and for a moment, despite the gravity of their conversation, she smiled impishly. ‘You know I have always considered myself most fortunate to have been born the girl in the family. At least I can choose whom I marry. And I did.’ Her eyes clouded. ‘My only misfortune was to lose him.’

‘Yes, miss. I know. Your Mr Christopher was a lovely man.’ Bessie leant closer to her. ‘But what would have happened if you had chosen someone of whom your family disapproved, eh? Just you tell me that.’

Edwina wrinkled her forehead and sighed. ‘Yes, I suppose you are right. Things might have been very different then, if father had not approved of Christopher.’

‘I’m sure they would have been,’ Bessie said wryly. ‘And it happens in other walks of life, an’ all. Look at our Dan, for instance. It’s taken Jack Price long enough to decide that Susan can start walking out with him again.’

‘Is that what you’re saying,’ Mary Ann blurted out now. ‘That Randolph won’t marry me because his father won’t approve?’

Mary Ann saw them turn to look at her, surprise in their eyes as if they really had forgotten, for the moment, that she was sitting there listening to every word they said.

Carefully, Edwina put her cup on its saucer and set it down on the table. ‘My dear, I cannot hide the fact that Randolph is entering into something of an arranged marriage. There has been an understanding between our families for years that, eventually, Celia would make a suitable bride for . . . for . . .’ she faltered and tears came to her eyes, ‘for the heir to the Marsh estates. She has no brothers and her father wishes her to marry into a family of equal standing to the Thompsons, who have extensive estates in Yorkshire.’

‘She was promised to Mr Arthur, wasn’t she?’ Bessie put in.

Edwina nodded. ‘But after Arthur was killed, Randolph agreed to marry her instead.’

‘And she agreed?’ Even Bessie, who was versed in the ways of the gentry, sounded amazed. As for Mary Ann, she could scarcely believe what she was hearing.

Edwina shrugged. ‘Evidently, yes.’

‘So he doesn’t love her then?’ Hope sprang briefly again in Mary Ann’s breast. ‘He can’t do, if it’s all been arranged by their parents.’

‘I expect they have become very fond of each other,’ Edwina said carefully. ‘I’m sure neither of our families would press them into a loveless marriage.’ Though she said the words, even Mary Ann could detect that Edwina’s tone lacked conviction. Always a truthful woman, Edwina was obliged to add with ill-concealed disapproval, ‘Although I expect that Randolph, once he has produced an heir and a spare, will still feel able to find his pleasures elsewhere.’

Mary Ann shuddered. The revelations of the past hour had been a dreadful shock to her. She had understood nothing of the ways of the gentry, yet she knew that Miss Edwina would not lie to her. And Bessie, too, understood every word that was being said and, worse still, accepted it as being the truth.

Although she was calmer now, tears poured down Mary Ann’s face as she said bitterly, ‘With the likes of me, you mean?’

Neither of the women answered her and Mary Ann bowed her head in shame and cruel disillusionment.

‘Hello, love. What are you doing here?’

Dan came into the house, the first home. As he looked more closely at her, his welcoming smile faded. ‘Whatever’s the matter?’ he said at once, unknowingly echoing his mother’s first question.

‘There’s been a bit of bother at The Hall,’ Bessie said, bustling between her scullery and the table as she set the tea. ‘Can’t tell you now, Dan. Bert’ll be home in a minute and his tea’s not ready.’

Dan sat down opposite Mary Ann, who was sitting huddled close to the range, shivering miserably and, from time to time, still shedding tears.

‘Are you poorly, love?’

Again Bessie spoke for her. ‘No, she’s not. At least, I hope she’s not. I’ll have to sort that out later. Oh lor’, heaven forbid we’ve that to deal with an’ all.’

‘Ma? What are you on about?’

‘Later, lad. We’ll tell you later.’

Suddenly, Mary Ann jumped up. ‘Stop talking about me as if I’m not here. And I’m not staying here while you tell them all. I don’t want them all laughing at me. Duggie and . . . and . . .’

Bessie set a meat and potato pie on the table and turned to face her. ‘Now you just look here, m’girl. There’s no one in this house going to laugh at you. You’re part of this family. They’re like brothers to you and don’t you forget it. Duggie may be a little scallywag at times, but ’is heart’s in the right place and, besides, it’s no more than you deserve. You’ve been a silly little girl and—’

Mary Ann covered her ears. ‘Stop it. Stop it. I won’t listen.’

With that she stumbled towards the door, knocking against furniture as she went. ‘I won’t stay here another minute. I won’t stay where I’m not wanted. I’ll chuck myself in the river. Nobody cares . . .’

She flung open the back door and flew across the yard, her running feet echoing back into the house as mother and son stared at each other, stunned into silence.

Mary Ann hid behind a stack of barrels on Miller’s Wharf. She curled herself into a ball, hugging her knees to her chest and burying her face in her skirt.

She heard Dan’s urgent, frantic voice. ‘Mary Ann? Mary Ann, where are you?’ Then she heard Bessie, puffing and panting, arrive. They were standing just the other side of the barrels now and Mary Ann could hear every word they said quite plainly.

‘I’ve just passed ya dad coming home. He’ll leave a note for the lads to follow us and he’ll be here himself in a minute.’

‘She can’t have got far.’ Dan’s tone was distracted. He was hardly listening to what his mother said. ‘I was right behind her.’ He was moving away from Mary Ann’s hiding place, his voice fading as he neared the edge of the wharf over the water.

‘She wouldn’t really do what she said, Mam, would she? I’ll never forgive myself if anything happens to her.’

‘It’s not your fault, lad. It’s that devil at The Hall up to his tricks again. Ee, it’s me to blame if anyone is. I should have known better than to let a pretty little thing like her go up there, but – well – I thought with Miss Edwina looking after her, he’d leave her alone.’

There was a pause and then very faintly, so that Mary Ann had to strain to hear her, Bessie said, ‘Poor little lass. She only wanted to be loved. That’s all it’d be.’

Mary Ann held her breath as she heard Dan say, ‘That’s what I mean. That’s why I feel so badly. I should have . . .’ His voice faded completely as they moved on, searching the riverbank.

She stayed hidden for a few moments longer, then she crept out and tiptoed towards the edge of the wharf, standing right on the tip of the planking. She looked down at the dark, swirling water, wondering just how deep it was. She couldn’t swim and it would be very cold. She might get swept away by the current, but Dan was only a few yards away anxiously scanning the banks of the river. She could see them, vague shapes in the gathering dusk.

Mary Ann tensed herself, gave one last glance towards Dan and Bessie, and then drew in a deep breath. As she jumped into the water, she let out a piercing shriek that penetrated the night and brought Dan running.

The dark, cold water swirled around her, the strong current carrying her downriver, dragging at her clothes and sucking her beneath the surface. She struggled, pushing upwards, her lungs bursting. She didn’t mean it. She hadn’t meant to die. She didn’t want to die. She just wanted . . .

And then strong arms were reaching for her. Safe hands held her and pulled her upwards and she gulped in the sweet, cold air.

There were no angry words as Dan carried her home, Bessie puffing alongside. No recriminations. Only loving, tender concern from each member of the family. Even Duggie fetched the tin bath and filled it with water from the boiler and then stood outside in the scullery whilst Bessie stripped Mary Ann’s wet clothes and helped her into the bath. Then the older woman knelt on the peg rug and soaped her gently.

‘There, there, lass. It’s over now. You must forget all about him. He’s not for you.’ She gave a snort of condemnation. ‘He’s not for any nice girl, if you ask me. But then I suppose that poor lass they’ve chosen will have to take him on. Me heart bleeds for her, whoever she is.’

Mary Ann had been silent from the moment Dan had plunged into the river and pulled her out, spluttering and coughing. She had clung to him, burying her face against his neck as he had carried her home. She had not cried, had not spoken, but now she lifted her face and looked into Bessie’s eyes as she said, ‘Celia. Her name’s Celia and she lives in Yorkshire.’

Bessie nodded. ‘Aye, I know. Celia Thompson.’ Her mouth was a tight, grim line.

‘But why, Auntie Bessie? Why’s he going to marry her if he doesn’t love her?’

Again Bessie snorted in a most unladylike manner. But Bessie Ruddick would have been the first to admit that she was no lady and, by her next words, it was clear that she had no wish to be. ‘Love’s got nowt to do with it, lass. Not in their circles. Arranged marriages, that’s what happens in their class. Well, all I can say, Mary Ann, is that I’m glad I was born on a ship on the river to plain and ordinary folk. Miss Celia Thompson’s got my sympathy.’

‘Do . . . do you know her? Have you ever seen her?’

‘No. I haven’t been up to The Hall since Mr Arthur got killed. ’Course I see Miss Edwina. I’m very fond of her, but I haven’t much time for some of the others. Mrs Marsh is all right, in her way, and Mr Arthur was a nice young man, but he’s gone now, poor feller.’ She paused and then sniffed disparagingly. ‘I never did think much to the master, to tell you the truth, and as for that other devil, Mr High and Bloody Mighty Randolph Marsh, well, I wouldn’t spit on him if he was on fire.’ She levered herself up from her kneeling position and added, ‘Come on now, lass. Get yasen out of that water. Let’s get you dry and let poor Dan get into the bath. He’ll catch a chill, else, and you wouldn’t want that now, would you?’

An hour later, the whole family was seated around the fire, Mary Ann holding a steaming mug of cocoa with a drop of whisky in it that Bert had fetched for her from The Waterman’s Arms. Dan sat close by Mary Ann, casting anxious glances at her every few seconds.

‘You can have my bed tonight. I’ll sleep on the couch in the front room.’

‘Up you go, then, lass,’ Bessie said kindly and, as if adding the second part of the same sentence, Bert said, ‘And have a good night’s sleep, love. You’ll feel better in the morning.’

Mary Ann put her mug down and stood up. She swayed a little and put her hand to her forehead. She gave a little gasp and, immediately, Dan was at her side.

‘I’ll carry you up.’ Without waiting for any protest, he picked her up in his strong arms. ‘Duggie, open the doors for me, will you?’

Duggie sprang up and leapt towards the door leading to the stairs. Then he bounded up the stairs ahead of them to open the door to his brother’s room, Dan being the only one of the three brothers who now had a room to himself since Mary Ann had moved out to live in at The Hall. He went to the bed and pulled back the covers so that Dan could lay her down. Then gently he pulled the bedclothes over her, tucking them warmly around her.

‘Thanks, Duggie,’ Dan said, ‘I’ll be down in a moment.’

For the first time that evening, Duggie grinned, knowing himself dismissed. He nodded down at Mary Ann. ‘Good night, Mary Ann. Sleep tight. Watch the bugs don’t bite.’

Mary Ann smiled weakly at him, but she did not speak.

As the door closed behind Duggie, Dan sat on the edge of the bed and took her hand into his. His touch was warm and comforting and Mary Ann closed her eyes.

‘Now promise me, Mary Ann,’ Dan said, his voice even deeper with anxiety, ‘that you won’t ever do such a thing again. No man’s worth that.’

Mary Ann squeezed two tears from her eyes. Her chin quivered and then she opened her eyes and looked at him, hoping she looked the picture of abject misery. ‘I . . .’ she began, her voice cracked and thick with hurt. Then latching on to the words she had heard Bessie utter, she said, ‘I just wanted someone to love me.’