They buried Harriet Easter in Rattlesden churchyard on an idyllic summer afternoon, while the young corn ruffled like green fur in the fields below the village and skylarks rose in rapturous spirals of song into the clear blue sky above their heads.
To Nan’s surprise Matilda had taken full charge of the event, inviting their friends and relations, organizing a supper, arranging flowers and even dealing with Mrs Babcock and the undertakers. ‘’Tis little enough for me to do in all conscience,’ she said to Nan, ‘and it helps make amends, so it does. I was uncommon cruel to her once, to tell ’ee true, when we were all first wed, and I regret it sorely now.’
So Nan handed over the entire affair and was thankful to do it. After that first terrible sorrow had kept them all awake and weeping until long after daybreak, and frightened poor little Will so much that he’d been sleeping in her bed ever since, she’d been torn with concern for her poor John.
His grief was so extreme it made all the others she’d ever seen or experienced seem mild by contrast. He had sat by Harriet’s bedside for more than twenty-four hours, weeping and groaning and refusing to be comforted, with the curtains drawn and the candles lit and the smell of death growing steadily more and more oppressive all around him. Annie had tried to talk to him, and so had Nan and Bessie, but in the end it was Matilda who had persuaded him out of the room.
‘Come along, my dear,’ she said, speaking to him as though he were no older than Matty or Will. ‘Take my arm. There now. That’s the way. No one will blame ’ee for taking a rest. I’m sure she wouldn’t, when she loved ’ee so. Why you’re so fatigued you can barely stand.’ Which was true enough for he tottered as he walked, like an old man.
But although he allowed himself to be led to the spare room and, for all they knew, slept there for an hour or two, his grief was still extreme. From then on he stayed locked in the room, neither eating nor speaking, but simply sitting beside the window, staring out at the village as though he were a stranger and lost. Which in many ways he was, for her death was a gaping void that had removed all feeling from his heart, all power from his limbs and all thoughts from his head, save one, and that was too unbearable to think, even though it filled his entire being. Oh, how could he live without his own dear love? What was the point of life now she was gone?
On the day of the funeral he got up and washed himself and put on the black clothes that Matilda had laid out for him, and followed the bier, his face expressionless with control. And when everybody else was weeping at the graveside he was silent, although Annie and Matilda sobbed aloud in one another’s arms, Will burrowed his head into Nan’s black skirt, Bessie covered her face with her kerchief, and Cosmo and Evelina stood hand in hand with the tears running down their faces. Mr and Mrs Sowerby made much of their grief, of course, dabbing at their eyes with two most ostentatious black-rimmed handkerchiefs. But John had no tears left to shed. His life was over. She was dead and buried and there was nothing left.
After the service, Matilda’s coaches carried them all off to Bury and her quiet supper in Chequer Square, which, as she explained to Nan, ‘will take us all out of it, don’t ’ee think?’ But John was still silent.
‘What shall ’ee do now?’ Annie asked him gently, when the supper had been picked at and the Sowerbys were holding forth to the Teshmakers, and Matilda had removed Miss Pettie to the garden, because she had embarked on a long upsetting tale about how she made the match between John and Harriet. ‘Billy goes back to London in the morning. Shall you travel with him?’
But it was a question impossible to answer. He had no idea what he would do. There was no point in doing anything as far as he could see. ‘I cannot see,’ he said dully.
‘Perhaps you would rather stay with me for a day or two?’ Annie suggested.
‘Perhaps,’ he said, in the same dull tones. ‘It is of no consequence since I have nothing left to live for.’
‘Come now,’ Nan said, trying to cheer him up, ‘there’s always things to live for, John. It don’t always seem so at the time, but I give ’ee my word there is. I felt much the same when your father died, but see how we’ve all got along since. You have a son, don’t forget.’
He roused himself to accept what she was saying and to answer correctly. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I have a son.’ And after a visible effort, he added, ‘And a daughter, too. I must care for them.’
What strength of character he has, this son of mine, Nan thought. ‘I always knew I had three fine children,’ she said, putting up her arms to hold him about the neck, ‘but I tell ’ee, John, you are the best of the bunch, my dear.’
He looked down into the open affection on her face and knew at last and in the unfeeling calm of his grief, that she loved him every bit as much as she loved the others. And he knew that he ought to rejoice at such a discovery. But rejoicing was beyond him. The most he could do was to smile back at her bleakly. But then she said something else which gave him the first glimpse of hope since Harriet died.
‘And besides,’ she said, ‘there is always work.’
Yes, he thought, that is true. There is always work. There is comfort in work well done.
‘I shall stay here in Bury,’ Nan said pressing home her advantage, ‘and look after Will and keep an eye on baby. In all likelihood I shan’t be back in London ’til the autumn, so you will have to run the firm on your own. I see no reason why you should not take over full responsibility for our affairs. ’Tis time you were in charge.’
‘Yes,’ he said, and there was just a little life on his face.
‘Here’s Miss Pettie back from the garden,’ Annie warned. Really the old lady should have more sense than to be telling everybody about their meeting. It was wanting in tact, so it was, and yet she was still at it.
‘Time we were all off to our own homes,’ Nan decided briskly. ‘Shall you stay here with Billy then, John my dear?’ And seeing from his face that he would, she went off at once to organize departures.
Cosmo was quick and discreet, gliding from the room with Evelina tucked beside him, and all Billy’s subdued friends trailing after. And Miss Pettie went quickly, too, finally aware that she had overstepped the mark with her romantic story. But the Sowerbys tried to delay.
‘What is to become of the children, ma’am?’ Mrs Sowerby asked, instead of saying goodbye. ‘Are they to live with their father?’
‘I couldn’t say,’ Nan said vaguely. ‘Time enough for all that later. Now John should be resting. He is grievously upset.’
‘We will visit you again,’ Mr Sowerby threatened, ‘when I trust suitable arrangements may be made.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Nan said, shepherding them to the door. Couldn’t they see they weren’t wanted, wretched critturs?
And at last they went, walking off into the evening sunshine, stiff and black and disapproving, using their umbrellas as walking sticks.
‘And let’s ’ope we seen the last of ’em,’ Bessie said. ‘Nasty horrible pair.’
But they hadn’t.
John and Billy caught the early morning coach back to London, with the rest of their family standing about in the clear sunshine to wish them God speed.
‘Where am I to go, Nanna?’ Will asked, when the coach had turned out of the square.
‘Why, you’re to stay with me, so you are,’ Nan told him, holding his hand firmly. ‘You and Peg Mullins and old Rosie. And a rare old time we shall have together, I can tell ’ee.’
‘Papa won’t die in London will he?’
‘No. He most certainly will not. He’ll write us a letter this very evening. You’ll see. ’Twill be beside my plate by tomorrow morning. You shall read some if it if ’ee’ve a mind to.’
But his anxieties persisted, making him pucker his forehead and bite his lip like a pale copy of his mother. ‘You won’t die, will you, Nanna?’
‘No, lambkin. I en’t the dying kind. I shall live to see you married, depend on’t. Now let us go back to the house and see what Bessie has cooked for our breakfast.’
The letter was delivered the very next morning, just as she’d predicted. It was a very long letter and full of facts and figures which Will found rather boring, although he didn’t think he ought to say so, especially as Nanna was so pleased with it. And there was another the next day, and another the day after that, and they were full of facts and figures too and even longer than the first one, so he didn’t bother to do more than glance at them, which Nanna said was very sensible.
And so his new life in Angel Hill began to establish a pattern, with visits to Matty and Edward and trips to market and a very grand church on Sundays. Aunt Annie came to visit twice a week too, sometimes with Jimmy and sometimes with the girls, but always with Pollyanna and little Hannah and the new baby, who never seemed to do anything except suck and sleep, but grew bigger every time he saw her.
‘Ain’t she jest a little duck?’ Bessie said.
And he agreed that she was, although secretly he much preferred his cousins, who could talk and shout and run about with him and play all sorts of games once they were out in Nanna’s garden on their own.
It was only the nights that were unhappy now, and they were still full of nightmares and the most terrible yearning to see Mama again. But he knew he could walk across the landing into Nanna’s room if he felt too unhappy, and climb into her bed, taking care not to wake Mr Brougham if he was there too, and be cuddled to sleep again.
‘Oh Nanna,’ he would say, as she gathered his head onto her shoulder. ‘I do love you. I shan’t have to leave you ever, will I?’
‘No, my lambkin,’ she would answer. ‘You won’t. Not ever. Now just ’ee close up those little eyes and go on back to sleep.’
In Fitzroy Square John was wakeful, as he was night after night. By day work kept him occupied and removed the need to think or feel, so he stayed on in the office for as long as he possibly could, dining at his desk and sending out for various drinks whenever he realized he needed them. But even when he stayed in the Strand until the early hours of the morning, there was still the rest of the night to be got through, and got through alone.
The house was excessively quiet, for even by day the servants spoke in whispers whenever he was near them and crept about as though they were afraid of their own footfall, and in the long bleak watches of the night the silence was total. He took to wandering about the empty rooms, remembering how she had sat in that particular chair, or stood beside that window, or written letters at that desk. And it didn’t seem possible that she would never do any of those things again.
At night he could weep unseen, and rage against the God who had allowed her to die so young, and curse the world for continuing when she was gone. And when he had suffered to exhaustion he would slump to sleep in the nearest chair or fling himself down on the nearest bed, providing it wasn’t his own, and there Tom Thistlethwaite would find him at six o’clock in the morning. He would cover his master with a blanket and leave him to sleep for as long as he could.
‘Best thing, sleep,’ he would say when he was back below stairs, reporting on the night’s events to the rest of the household. ‘I’ll take up the cards presently and leave ’em for him when he wakes.’ For every day brought a batch of calling cards and sympathetic messages from Harriet’s friends and acquaintances, and Mr John was most particular about them, reading and answering every single one, for although it was painful to be made aware of how much she was missed and valued, there was comfort in the reminder.
But it was Sophie Fuseli’s visit that was the most comforting. She arrived in the Strand late one afternoon when a soft rain was obscuring the view from John’s office window.
‘Oh my dear,’ she said, kissing his cheek in greeting, ‘what can I say to ’ee? How you must miss her.’
‘Yes,’ he said, choking back his emotion.
‘Put her portrait where you will see it every day,’ Sophie advised. ‘There’s a deal of comfort in a portrait.’
‘I do not have a portrait, Mrs Fuseli,’ he said gruffly. ‘We never commissioned one.’
‘Then you must do so at once,’ Sophie said. ‘And I know just the man. Shall I send him to ’ee? You’ve but to say the word.’
So the word was said and the painter sent. He turned out to be a quiet sympathetic man who lived just around the corner. He told John he had seen ‘your pretty wife’ at the opening of the Regent’s Canal, ‘besides a-coming and going hereabouts’ and added that he would be only too happy to paint her portrait if Mr Easter would be so kind as to correct him when it came to ‘the likeness’.
So a tailor’s dummy was brought into the drawing room and adjusted for size and stance until it was as slender and straight as Harriet had been herself. Then it was dressed in her favourite blue and white gown and given a parasol to hold in one china hand and a glove to wear on the other and the artist set to work.
For three weeks he toiled and observed and remembered, taking such pains over every detail and working with such tender concern that his canvas soon became the focal point of the house. Now John came home every afternoon to see how it was progressing and to give his advice over the shape and colour of the emerging face, ‘her nose a little longer, so,’ ‘her blush rather nearer to the colour of apricots I think.’ ‘Yes. Her hair was so fair, fairer than any I have ever seen.’ Until one miraculous afternoon when he arrived home to find that the painted eye had been given light and life and that his beautiful Harriet was looking straight at him out of the greeny-grey shadows behind her.
It gave him a shock, but there was pleasure as well as pain in the emotions that raced through his mind and made his heart throb and his eyes sting with tears. ‘Oh my darling,’ he said. ‘You are not gone for ever.’ And then he had to sit down, because his legs were suddenly no support to him at all.
He hung the completed portrait in his bedroom, where it would be the first thing he would see when he woke in the morning and the last to ease his misery before he slept. The painted figure glowed like moonstone against the warm red of Harriet’s chosen wallpaper and wherever he was in the room her loving eyes seemed to follow and watch over him. The comfort it brought him was quite extraordinary.
And then just as he was beginning to sleep without nightmares, a letter arrived from his mother to warn him that the Sowerbys were out to make trouble. She enclosed a letter from them in which they demanded to be told ‘if any arrangements for the upbringing and education of Harriet’s two children has been taken in hand, it being imperative that they should both know as soon as possible what plans are being made for them.’
He looked from their black underscoring to the pale patience of their poor dead daughter and made up his mind at once. Billy could care for the company for a day or two while he went to Bury to look after his children.
He took a seat on the next available coach, and arrived in Angel Hill just as Will and Nan were eating their supper. ‘We will see them,’ he said, ‘and settle all this for good and all.’
‘Yes,’ Nan said grimly. ‘We’ll all see ’em. Now then, Will, eat up sharpish. We’ve preparations to make. Grandpa and Grandma Sowerby are a-coming.’
‘What for?’ he asked fearfully.
‘Well now, my dear, as to that, we shall see.’
Poor Will worried about it for the next two days. What if they were coming to take him away? Their letter had said, ‘upbringing and education of Harriet’s two children’. He knew because he’d looked. Did that mean they were going to bring him up? Oh he couldn’t bear that. It would be terrible. But Nanna had promised he should stay with her for ever. And Nanna always kept her promises. So perhaps they weren’t coming for him. Perhaps they only wanted the baby. And if that were the case, everything would be all right. They could have the baby and welcome. It wasn’t a bit interesting. And it was only a baby.
Even so, when Thursday afternoon arrived bringing Pollyanna and Hannah and the baby, and he was sat on the low stool in the parlour, between Nan’s blue chair and his father’s black one to await his other grandparents, his heart was beating so violently it was making his jacket tremble.
‘They’re ’ere!’ Bessie said, peering round the door. ‘Bold as brass if you please. The nerve of ’em!’
‘Show them up, Bessie,’ Nanna said. ‘Tell Pollyanna I’d be obliged if she’d bring baby down. Sit up nicely, there’s a good boy, Will.’
He obeyed, taut with apprehension, sitting bolt upright on the stool, his pale hands spread like lilies against the grey cloth of his trousers. Grandma and Grandpa Sowerby! It chilled him to the marrow just to think of them.
They were in the doorway, smiling their horrible false smiles, expecting to be kissed. Grandma Sowerby’s nose was longer than ever and there were three new bristles on her chin. Oh I can’t go and live with her, Nanna. You mustn’t let me!
‘Well now,’ Nanna was saying, ‘I believe you wished to speak to me on the matter of the upbringing and education of these two children. That was the case, was it not?’
Papa was sitting very still in his black chair, not saying a word.
‘Indeed it was, ma’am,’ Mr Sowerby said, folding his hands across his waistcoat and considering them thoughtfully. ‘High time, ma’am. High time. So many children go to the bad these days, ma’am. We must do all in our power to ensure that these two unfortunate little ones do not number among them, must we not?’
‘The boy is already entered for the grammar school,’ Nan said smoothly, ‘as I daresay you know, since it was Harriet’s doing. Did you have another establishment in mind?’
‘No, no,’ Mr Sowerby hastened to assure, glancing at Papa, who still didn’t say anything. ‘I am sure his academic education could quite safely be left in the hands of that establishment. It has an excellent reputation. How-somever, his moral education is another matter. Oh yes, quite another matter indeed.’
‘And into whose hands would ’ee suggest that we commit that?’ Nan asked, smiling just a little too sweetly.
‘Well now, ma’am,’ Mrs Sowerby said, ‘as to that, it would appear to me that we should endeavour to find two persons of the highest and most Christian sensibilities, who would make it their life work – I think I may safely say that – their life work to foster the very highest moral tone in both these unfortunate children.’
‘Such as yourselves, for instance,’ Nan smiled.
‘Well,’ Mrs Sowerby preened, ‘if you say so. We are peculiarly well qualified in this regard.’
She can’t mean it, Will thought, beginning to panic. She’s not going to make me live with Grandma Sowerby. Not after her promise. And he tried to catch Nanna’s eye, and couldn’t do it.
‘Do tell me,’ she was saying calmly, ‘do ’ee have a moral code, Mr and Mrs Sowerby? A set of precepts, perhaps, by which you would ensure that no child in your care would ever go to the bad?’
‘Ho, indeed we do,’ Mr Sowerby said. ‘Spare the rod and spoil the child you know.’
‘So the children will be beaten if they are placed in your care?’
Oh no, no. Please, Nanna.
‘Of course. Whenever it is necessary.’
‘As you beat your daughter?’ Papa said suddenly and his voice was as cold as ice.
Mr Sowerby showed a flicker of surprise at John’s sudden intervention, but he answered stoutly, ‘Chastisement is a necessary part of correction, sir. All children need chastisement.’
‘You will lock these children in dark rooms, I daresay?’ Papa went on.
‘When they require such treatment.’
No, no.
‘And feed them on a diet of bread and water?’
‘When it is necessary, yes, indeed we would. Children have such tempestuous spirits. They are like wild horses, sir, like wild horses. They need a deal of taming.’
Papa please, look at me. I don’t want to be tamed like a horse. Nanna, say something!
‘As you tamed, Harriet?’ Nan mused, looking at Mr Sowerby sharply.
‘In my opinion,’ Mrs Sowerby put in, sensing criticism, ‘we were altogether too lenient with Harriet. We should have dealt with her with far greater severity.’
‘That’s as may be, my dear,’ Mr Sowerby said, feeling that they were getting sidetracked and that he ought to change direction while he could. ‘Howsomever, we did not come here this afternoon to discuss our Harriet. We came to settle the future of these two poor unfortunate little ones. But there you are, Mrs Sowerby, perhaps we are wasting our time. Perhaps Mrs Easter does not intend to allow us our rights in this matter.’
‘On the contrary,’ Nan said, grinning at him. ‘I have every intention of allowing everybody’s rights in the matter.’
They were both very surprised and looked at it.
‘What ’ee both seem to have forgot,’ Nan went on, ‘is that others have opinions too.’
‘Others?’ Mrs Sowerby said.
‘Others, ma’am. The children. Will and Caroline.’
‘Caroline is a babe-in-arms, ma’am.’
‘But Will has a mind of his own. Don’t ’ee, my lambkin?’
‘Yes, Nanna.’
‘So Will shall tell us. Would ’ee like to go and live with Grandpa and Grandma Sowerby?’
‘No, Nanna. I would not.’
‘And what of your sister? Should we let her go, do ’ee think?’
Will looked across to where the baby was lying in Pollyanna’s arms, holding onto her forefinger with its entire fist. She looked very small and soft and vulnerable. ‘She is my sister,’ he said, understanding what he meant as he was saying the words. ‘No, Nanna. She mustn’t go.’ He couldn’t allow her to be beaten and starved and locked in dark rooms. ‘She is my sister and I love her.’
‘Well that’s settled then,’ Nanna said, dusting the palms of her hands against each other, swish, swish. ‘The children stay with me. I wish you good day, sir. Good day, ma’am.’
‘If you imagine for one moment,’ Mrs Sowerby said furiously, ‘that we intend to allow this matter to be settled on the word of a child, you are very much mistaken. A child! I never heard of anything so preposterous. I shall take this to the highest court in the land.’
‘Where you will be roundly defeated, ma’am. Good day to ’ee,’ Nan said, holding open the door.
‘We are well and away the best people to be entrusted with the care of these children,’ Mr Sowerby said fiercely, ‘as any magistrate would allow. When you consider how we brought up their mother …’
‘Oh yes?’ Nan said acidly. ‘And how would ’ee describe her manner of upbringing, pray?’
To Will’s amazement, Papa suddenly sprang up out of his chair and strode across the room. His face was so angry that for a few wonderful seconds Will thought he was going to pick Grandpa Sowerby up by the scruff of his neck and throw him out of the window.
‘Short of killing her,’ he said, ‘I don’t see how you could have treated my poor wife any worse than you did. Except that now I come to think of it, I’m not at all sure you haven’t done something every bit as bad. You took away her will to live, dear gentle creature that she was, and that amounts to much the same thing. I don’t forget your visit to her when this baby was being born, nor how badly you treated her then. And I certainly don’t forget any of the dreadful things you did to her when she was a little more than a child. You beat her, sir. You starved her. You locked her in dark rooms. You ought to be ashamed of yourselves, the both of you, not strutting round here demanding another child to torment. You haven’t an ounce of love in your natures.’
He was so splendid in his anger that Will was lost in admiration for him, for he knew now, and beyond any doubt, that his father would love him and protect him, always and always, and never let him go to anybody else, no matter what might happen.
Mrs Sowerby sucked in her breath with fury. ‘Do ’ee accuse us of killing our own very own daughter?’ she said, her voice rising in disbelief and anger.
‘Have a care, sir,’ Mr Sowerby blustered. ‘We could take ’ee to court for such unseemly utterances.’
‘And have your wrong-doing emblazoned in every newspaper in the land?’ Papa mocked. ‘Oh, I think not. You are not such fools as that.’
‘Aaagh!’ Mrs Sowerby shrieked, flinging herself backwards onto the carpet. ‘Now I’ve took a fit! Look! Look! See how ill you make me!’ And she began to writhe about, arching her back and groaning. ‘Did I not tell ’ee t’would come to this?’ she asked her husband.
‘Now see what you’ve done!’ Mr Sowerby said, with great satisfaction as the shrieking and frothing progressed.
‘I’ll soon have her cured of that,’ Nan said. ‘Don’t ’ee fret.’ And she stepped round the body and strode to the door. ‘Rosie!’ she yelled above the din. ‘Rosie! Jug! Quick as you can!’
Rosie was so quick she must have been hiding just round the corner. She was in the room before Nan had stopped shouting, and she’d brought the jug, which was the biggest ewer in the house. It was full of water and so heavy it was making her stagger.
‘Thank ’ee,’ Nan said. And she took the jug and balanced it on her hip. ‘You’ve played this trick for the last time, my lady,’ she said, ‘it might ha’ worked with your poor Harriet, but it don’t cut ice with me.’ And she emptied the water all over Mrs Sowerby’s writhing body, drenching her from head to knee.
The fit was cured at once. It was quite miraculous. The screaming stopped instantly. Mrs Sowerby gulped, sat up, and stared at her opponent with disbelief. ‘I am soaking wet,’ she said.
‘And like to be even wetter,’ Nan promised, ‘if ’ee don’t get up this minute and leave my house. Another jugful Rosie, if you please.’
‘One for the lummox, eh Mrs Easter?’ Rosie said happily. ‘One for the great lummox, eh Mrs Sowerby?’ And she went cheerfully off for fresh supplies.
‘This is an outrage,’ Mrs Sowerby said. But she stood up and tried to shake the water from her sleeves. ‘Do something, Mr Sowerby. Or do ’ee mean to stand by like a post and see your wife insulted?’
But Nan didn’t give him the chance to say or do anything.
‘As to you, Mr Sowerby,’ she said, standing right in front of him with her arms akimbo and the air of a woman who would knock him to the floor as soon as look at him, ‘if you’ve any sense at all in that ugly head of yours, you’ll be off out of this town on the very next stage. There en’t a thing to keep ’ee here, either the one of ’ee, and I’ve took such a rare exception to ’ee both, I shan’t be answerable for the consequences if you stay.’
‘You cannot tell us where we are to go, ma’am,’ Mr Sowerby began, but then Rosie came staggering back with the second ewer, and he decided it would be politic not to provoke. ‘Howsomever …’
‘You got two seconds to be out of my house,’ Nan warned, taking the jug from her grinning servant, ‘or damne if I won’t drown the pair of ’ee.’
‘We leave under protest, ma’am,’ Mr Sowerby said, but he was walking towards the door.
‘You may leave how you please,’ Nan said. ‘’Tis all one to me, so long as you leave. Show ’em the door, Rosie.’
But they knew where the door was and stalked through it, Mrs Sowerby dripping water as she went, and they paid no attention when it was shut after them. Their feet clumped down the stairs, the front door opened and shut. They were gone.
‘Jolly good riddance!’ Bessie said.
Will and Pollyanna ran to the window to watch them slink across the square, for now that the drama was nearly over and they were all quite safe, they could enjoy it to the full. Their rush woke baby Caroline, who opened her eyes and looked over Pollyanna’s nice cushiony shoulder straight at Nan and Bessie and John.
‘Pretty dear,’ Nan said, admiring her. ‘Just as if we’d let her go to be beaten and starved by those two varmints. The very idea!’
‘How will she make out, I wonder,’ Bessie said, stroking the baby’s cheek, ‘all on ’er own with no mammy?’
‘How can you ask such a thing?’ Nan said. ‘With your Pollyanna to feed her and you and me and our dear John to bring her up and love her. We’re survivors Bessie. She’ll survive.’