‘How are you settling in with the Jessups?’ Tim Maquire asked Christopher Wylie on a bright morning about six weeks after he had moved into the lodgings at Camptounfoot.
‘Every morning I waken up I can’t believe my good fortune at being so comfortable. Thank you so much for finding me such a pleasant place to live,’ was the heartfelt reply. Wylie’s face was less harried and he looked far more relaxed and healthy than he had done for a long time. He stared around at the scene of activity on the high ground where the bridge embankment was being heaped up by navvies pushing barrows and wielding picks and shovels. Horses straining before huge, heavily-laden waggons were carrying in load after heaped-up load of red earth; the air was filled with the thud, thud, thud of steam engines and the shouts of labouring men.
‘I don’t like tempting fate but strictly between ourselves, Tim, this job’s going far more smoothly than I anticipated,’ said Wylie, pointing over the river valley towards more men who could be seen labouring on the point of land where the first pier of the bridge would soon be built.
Tim nodded. ‘They’re working well because they want as much as possible done before the Queen comes. Jopp told me that they’re bringing her up here to look at the place where the new bridge is to be built. Are you going to Maddiston station to meet her, Mr Wylie?’
‘Yes, but I’m not keen on that sort of thing. They expect me to be there, though.’
Tim glanced at him and asked, ‘Is your wife coming from Newcastle for it? Women usually like that kind of affair, dressing up and everything.’
The answer was a shake of the head. ‘My wife’s too unwell to travel far. She’s not over James’ death, you see – and my daughter has never travelled on her own.’
From the way he talked Tim imagined that Wylie’s daughter was still a child and he said, ‘Ah, that’s a pity. You must have been hoping you could show this place to them.’
Wylie stared out over the valley, his eyes distant under furrowed brows. ‘Yes, but that’s not possible.’ He was thinking of James and the sorrow returned to his eyes but he shook himself and said briskly, ‘Anyway, I’m pleased it’s going so well. Our troubles seem to be disappearing one by one. Even in Camptounfoot people are nice to me now. They’re getting used to the idea of having a railway at their back doors.’
‘And they like the money,’ Tim said less charitably. ‘I’ve got twenty Camptounfoot men on the wage roll now. They’re making more money in a week than most of them made in three months before we came here. Today a young fellow called Rutherford arrived looking for work. He’s a likely enough lad so I hired him.’
‘Yes, Mr Jessup told me about him,’ Wylie said thoughtfully. ‘Robbie Rutherford’s his name and his family are the village weavers. Apparently they were very much against the railway, but the lad’s clever and he’s decided he wants to be an engineer – that’s why he’s come to us. Jessup says he’s only sixteen, so keep an eye on him, Tim.’
‘I’ll do that, Mr Wylie. And now will you come on down to the river bank with me? The men are starting to dig the first foundations in the water and I want you to make sure they’re right.’
On the morning of the royal visit, the sun rose in a cloudless sky and larks were singing in cornfields that made patches of gold on the lower slopes of the hills. In houses large and small throughout the district, people were in a state of high excitement for, since the days of the Stuarts, it was rare for a ruling monarch to be seen on the Border roads.
William Strang’s wife Effie was up at first light scouring every corner of her cottage till it gleamed and sparkled. When he came in for his breakfast from the forge, her husband looked around in gratification. ‘My word, Effie, this place is looking awfu’ bonny.’
‘That’s because the Queen’s coming,’ she told him, tying on her largest and whitest apron.
‘But she’s no’ coming in here, is she?’ he asked.
Effie bridled. ‘She’s passing by the end of the lane. She’ll be driving through Camptounfoot. It’s up to us to make sure the place is looking its best.’
William lifted his tea cup in a genteel fashion and said, ‘My word, they’re great folk these royals. I didnae ken they could see through walls, though.’
His wife bristled anew. ‘You’re as bad as that sister of yours! I told her about the Queen and she said she didn’t think she’d bother going out to see her. And her front door opens into the street too! I said, “Tibbie, if you don’t open your door and look at the Queen, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.”’
‘What did she say?’ asked William.
‘Oh, she only laughed but I’ll get her out when the procession comes by. I’ll make sure I do,’ said Effie with determination.
In Bella Vista the Colonel and his family were preparing to mount their barouche for the drive to Maddiston. The two males in the party were resplendent in military uniforms, booted, spurred, gold-trimmed and laced, buttoned, sashed and be-medalled. At least the Colonel was be-medalled. His son was merely bemused – and already half-drunk. The senior Mrs Anstruther was dressed in a gown of Prussian blue with a deep-brimmed bonnet from which trailed three enormous ostrich feathers dyed the same shade as her dress. Her jewellery was magnificent and even though it was not yet noon, she sparkled with diamonds. There was a brooch in her bonnet brim, another on her breast and a massive choker around her neck with huge droplets nestling on her comfortable bosom. She was considerably annoyed because the Colonel had given his daughter-in-law her pick of the family jewellery as well, and Bethya had chosen long emerald earrings surrounded by tiny seed pearls. The colour of the stones matched the bows and loops on her ivory silk gown which had been specially ordered from a London modiste and had arrived in a box the size of a small house. With it she wore a cheekily cocked hat in green that made her artfully arranged curls gleam like a raven’s wing. In her hand she carried an ivory silk parasol to keep the rays of the sun from her face. In its shade her eyes leapt and danced with excitement.
After they had driven off, Allardyce the butler told his staff, ‘The Colonel said you’re all to have the day off so that you can go and see the Queen. When the family return they’ll go straight to bed.’
Madge the kitchen-maid nudged Hannah and whispered, ‘Then we’ll be able to go to the dance at Rosewell, won’t we? Ask him, Hannah.’
‘Can we go to the dancing, Mr Allardyce?’ asked Hannah shyly.
The butler was in a good mood. ‘If all your work’s done, you can go,’ he acceded. ‘It’s not every day the Queen comes, is it?’
The girls rushed back into the house giggling at the prospect of an unexpected holiday. Not only could they put on their bonnets and watch the Queen pass by, but they could go dancing as well. For weeks everybody in Rosewell had been talking about the big dance to be held that night. All the unmarried lads and lassies wanted to be there. Only Francine showed no excitement as she walked behind the other maids and Madge turned to say to her, ‘Will you be coming with us, Francine?’
Jessie, Madge’s friend, jeered, ‘She’s no’ the dancing kind.’ Jessie always made a butt of the French girl, imitating her accent, teasing her about her devotion to her mistress and criticising her reserve.
‘I’ll stay to put my lady to bed,’ said Francine stiffly.
‘But we won’t be going down to Rosewell till half-past nine. She’ll be in bed by then,’ said kind Hannah.
‘You never ken, she might even have company. Maybe that husband of hers’ll get in beside her for once,’ said Jessie wickedly.
They all laughed and Madge joked, ‘That’ll be a special occasion – as rare as the Queen’s visit.’
Francine went red but made no reply and Hannah said diplomatically, ‘You’ll enjoy the dance, Francine. Come with us – there’s grand music.’
But Madge interrupted, ‘Dancing’s not for the likes of her. She’d rather stay here and comb her mistress’ hair. She’s not normal.’
Stung, Francine whipped round and shouted, ‘I am normal! I’m perfectly normal. What do you know about it?’ Her large eyes were fixed furiously on Madge’s face and Hannah stepped in to make the peace.
‘Oh Madge, that’s not fair. Francine’s just shy.’
‘There’s a difference between being shy and hating men. That yin hates men. You’ve just got to watch her speaking to them to see how she feels. She backs off as if they’re going to bite her. I tell you, she’s not normal.’ Madge’s temper was up too by this time.
‘That’s a terrible thing to say,’ sobbed Francine.
She was furiously angry and Jessie challenged her: ‘If you’re so normal then, come to the dance.’
Hannah reassured the shaking French girl. ‘There’s nothing to be feared of. I’ll stay with you and make sure nobody makes fun of your accent. Come to the dance, Francine. You can walk down with me when Mistress Bethya’s gone to bed.’
‘She’ll not come, she’ll not come,’ chanted Madge and Jessie, dancing about like impish children. Francine let loose a flood of angry French words.
‘What’s she saying?’ sniggered Madge, but nobody could tell her and she went on: ‘I know – she’s saying she won’t come to the dance because she’d rather hide here where nobody can see her funny face and queer ways.’
‘I will come. I’ll come and I’ll dance just to show you I’m normal.’ Tears glittered in Francine’s prominent eyes as she spoke, and Hannah’s pity was evoked.
‘Oh, don’t take on, don’t listen to them. You stay at home if you want. I’m sorry now that I asked you to come.’
But Francine’s face was set. ‘I will go to the dance with you, Hannah, if I may. I’ll meet you in the kitchen at half past nine. Please wait for me.’
Jessie couldn’t resist having the last word. ‘You’ll have the bonny Bethya settled in bed by then, will you? You’ll have her curls all combed out and perfume on her pillow? I bet you wish you could get in beside her but it’s men she likes…’ It was her last tease, for Francine hit her full in the face with an open palm. The blow left a red mark on Jessie’s fair skin and she jumped forward with her fists clenched but the other maids and Hannah held her back.
‘You asked for it, Jessie. That was a terrible thing to say,’ Hannah told her struggling friend.
Francine stalked away as if nothing had happened and called back over her shoulder, ‘I’ll meet you here at half past nine, Hannah. I shall go to the dance.’
The cheering began even before the dark-green and gold-painted engine hauling two green and gold carriages stopped at Maddiston station. The welcoming party, seated on a sort of dais on the platform overlooking a broad red carpet, all sat forward in eager anticipation, all that is except for Gus Anstruther, who reached into his pocket, withdrew a silver flask and applied it to his lips. The door of the first carriage swung open and a magnificently uniformed equerry jumped down to the ground. He held the door back and revealed a tubby little figure in pink with a fussy bonnet decorated with roses. She looked like a cook on her afternoon off. The cheering grew hysterical and drowned out the oom-pah-pahing of Maddiston Brass Band which was attempting to play God Save The Queen.
The little person stepped down on to the platform, accepted a pair of golden scissors from Sir Geoffrey Miller and rushed forward with them in his hand, and smartly snipped in half a long red ribbon that had been stretched across the middle of the platform. ‘I declare this station open,’ she intoned in a high, fluting voice. The cheering began again and the Duke of Allandale, with a long-suffering air, walked elegantly along the stretch of carpet to show the Queen and her husband Albert, who had appeared at her back like a threatening stormcloud, to his carriage which was waiting to convey them round the local beauty spots. Sir Geoffrey was left, staring at the trailing ends of ribbon, with a disconsolate look on his face. The Queen took the golden scissors with her, smartly slipping them into her reticule, a shirred pink satin affair, before she paused on the steps to admire the baronial-style station. ‘Very nice,’ she said, and climbed into the Duke’s carriage. Then they drove off to even more deafening adulation.
The sun was shining as they headed for the baronial mansion built by a famous novelist on the banks of the Tweed. Albert was particularly interested in the novelist’s collection of antiquities, especially the things he had picked up from the battlefield of Waterloo, and the Duke had to cool his heels while these were minutely examined and commented upon. It was after midday when their cavalcade headed for Greyloch Palace, going through Camptounfoot on the way.
‘What a picturesque old place,’ said Queen Victoria, leaning forward in her seat. Seated at her side, her attentive husband pulled her shawl back over her shoulders. Once again she was in what was euphemistically called ‘an interesting condition’, and he always took great care of her when she was pregnant.
‘People say it’s the oldest village in Scotland,’ the Duke told her. ‘It’s always been a village where masons live. They’ve left their legacy behind, too. Look at all the sundials on the walls, ma’am.’
‘Ah, tempus fugit,’ sighed Albert, who had an excess of Germanic gloom but his wife was more cheerful.
‘I think it’s very pretty,’ she said, waving to some women who were standing at the side of the road.
One of them shouted out, ‘God bless you, ma’am,’ and fell down in a faint, overcome by patriotic emotion. It was Effie, and the woman beside her was Tibbie, mortified by her sister-in-law’s loss of control.
‘Pull yourself together woman, pull yourself together,’ she was urging in a whisper as she chafed Effie’s hands.
Seeing the woman fall to the ground, the Queen ordered her carriage to stop and leaned down from her seat to enquire after the casualty. ‘Is she all right?’ she asked.
Tibbie looked up and bobbed her head. ‘She’s fine, ma’am. There’s nothing to worry about,’ was her reply.
Then, when the Queen’s retinue had rolled on its way, Effie opened her eyes, stared up at the sky and heaved a sigh of sheer delight as she whispered, ‘I’m in heaven. I’ve died and gone to heaven. The Queen asked if I was all right!’
‘You’re a daft besom,’ snapped her exasperated relative. ‘Get up. You fair black affronted me.’
The Duke ordered his coachman to drive along the road from which the works of the emergent bridge could be seen. ‘You’d better see this,’ he advised the monarch, ‘because they’re sure to ask if you noticed it when you go back to Maddiston.’ With a disapproving expression he pointed out the earthworks that were beginning to scar the horizon but Albert was very interested.
‘That’s a considerable project,’ he said in his heavily accented English. ‘Could we perhaps drive a little closer and take a better look at it?’
‘We’ll have to go over on to the other bank of the river again,’ said the reluctant Duke, but Albert’s wish was law and they retraced their route through an empty-looking Camptounfoot and back by the road-bridge to the area where the navvies were working. At the sight of the line of carriages, the men raised their loud huzzahs in honour of Victoria, throwing their hats and caps in the air as they did so. The Duke looked at the cheering gang in disgust and then turned his head away but as he did so, he once more caught a glimpse of the man he’d seen through his spyglass. The fellow was cheering more loudly than the others and, by God, he was the spitting image of his old schooifriend Godders! The only difference was that this navvy chap was leaner and harder-looking, more burned by the sun. ‘If I ever see Godders again, I’ll pull his leg about having a double who works on a navvy site,’ resolved the Duke.
It was after five o’clock when the royal progress was finished and Albert and Victoria were driven back to Maddiston to reboard their train for Edinburgh. Once more the official party were in their places on the dais, less immaculate than they had been in the beginning in some cases. Once more the band played stirring music and the gathered populace cheered as with a thump and a shriek, a shudder and a shake, the royal train started up and pulled the gleaming carriages out of the station. The great day was over and Maddiston station was officially open for business. Christopher Wylie, who had been given a place at the back of the dais, climbed wearily down to ground-level and found himself beside Sir Geoffrey Miller, who deigned to smile at him and say, ‘Well, that’s that, Wylie. All we’ve got to do now is get the line down to the bridge and over the river. Then the project is completed, isn’t it?’
‘That’s right,’ agreed Wylie. ‘It’s not going to take too long.’
‘Good chap, good chap, then the money’ll start rolling in,’ said Miller, clapping him on the shoulder.
By the time Colonel Anstruther and his party arrived back at Bella Vista, only Gus was cheerful because, as usual, he was drunk. The others were tired and short-tempered, anxious only to seek the solitude of their rooms where corsets could be unlaced, shoes taken off and pent-up frustration unleashed. When Bethya reached the sanctuary of her chamber it was a relief to see Francine, as cool and remote as ever, rearranging the bottles on the dressing table. The strain of keeping a sweet expression on her face all day had exacted a heavy toll on Bethya and she was ready to lash out. ‘For God’s sake stop tinkling those bottles like that… Fetch me some hot water and wash my face. I’m exhausted, utterly exhausted, and my head is throbbing fit to burst,’ she gasped as she threw herself on to the bed. Silently Francine did as she was bid, washing her mistress’ face and hands and then sponging her brow with a piece of flannel soaked in aromatic liquid.
‘Ugh, that’s stone cold. What is it? It’ll make my headache worse,’ complained Bethya, who was lying with closed eyes accepting these ministrations but Francine said, ‘No, it will help. It’s rose vinaigre. We use it in France for headaches. Lie still and the pain will go away.’ As she spoke she laid a cool hand on top of Bethya’s head and in time the response was a remorseful sigh.
‘You’re right, it does. You’re a magician, Francine. I don’t know what I’d do without you. I’ve had such a horrible day, sitting for hours in the same carriage as Gus and his mother. It’s “Dear Gus” this and “Dear Gus” that all day long. She was the only person in the whole gathering who couldn’t see he was rolling drunk.’
‘She’s his mother… Did Sir Geoffrey like your dress?’ asked Francine.
‘Oh yes, I think so. He kept looking at me, anyway – and so did several others including the Duke of Allandale. What a smart-looking man, Francine – so very elegant and well-bred! I wish I could get to know him. The others are far too easy. I feel like a big-game hunter going after rabbits when I turn my charms on Sir Geoffrey and his friends.’
Francine said, ‘I saw the Duke with the Queen and her husband when they drove past our gates. You’re right, he is a good-looking man but haughty.’
‘At least he’s a real man,’ Bethya mused. ‘Oh, how I wish I had a lover, Francine. You’ve no idea how I wish for one. I saw the maids all getting ready to go out to meet their beaux tonight and I wished I was going with them, I really did.’
Francine said softly, ‘I’m going to the dance, madam. If I find a nice man, I’ll bring him back for you.’
Bethya laughed. ‘What a strange idea! How naughty. If you find a nice young man, Francine, you keep him and enjoy him and tell me about it later. I console myself with the idea that Gus can’t last for ever. His liver must be almost worn out by now. With any luck I’ll be a widow soon, a rich widow, I hope, and I can go man-hunting on my own behalf. Then I might not have to settle for Sir Geoffrey – I might set my sights higher. But are you really going dancing, Francine? That’s not like you.’
‘The other maids asked me to go with them.’
‘What will you wear?’ Bethya had never seen her maid in anything other than a plain black dress with a white crocheted collar.
‘I don’t know,’ said Francine, frowning. ‘I thought I’d go in this dress with a shawl.’
‘Oh my dear, that won’t do at all. You must dress up if you’re to catch a beau. Take your pick of my gowns, borrow any one you like. Show those girls downstairs how pretty you can look.’
That was the telling remark. With the words ringing in her head, Francine busied herself preparing her mistress for the night. It was after nine o’clock when Bethya had eaten her supper off a tray carried up from the kitchen and slipped into her bed. When her mistress was asleep and breathing deeply, Francine began her own toilette.
The three girls sitting at the big deal table in the kitchen had their eyes fixed on the large clock on the end wall. ‘When is she going to make an appearance? It’s half-past nine already. I’ll bet she doesn’t come,’ said Madge.
‘Give her another five minutes. If she doesn’t come then, we’ll go,’ said Hannah, but before the time was up the kitchen door opened and a vision in cerise satin stood framed in it. Francine’s dress was cut low on the shoulders, showing a generous spread of naked chest and emphasising her tiny waist. It fitted well because Bethya and her maid were almost the same size. Francine’s hair was dressed in two long ringlets falling flirtatiously down each side of her strange face and she was carrying a large ostrich-feather fan which she opened coquettishly and held up before her face. The girls round the table were all astonished.
‘Oh bless my soul! I’m no going out wi’ a freak like that! What’ll folk think? She’s like one of them street women in London,’ gasped Madge. She stood up and backed away as Francine advanced on her with the fan held out like a dagger.
‘You invited me, you challenged me. I’m going to the dance with you,’ she said.
Madge and Jessie looked at each other and clucked in terror. ‘But it’s no’ that kind of a dance. It’s no’ a ball,’ they protested. ‘It’s only a dance. Folk don’t dress up like fashion plates for it.’
Hannah was giggling in the background and in a spluttering voice she said, ‘You look very grand, Francine. That’s one of Mrs Bethya’s gowns, isn’t it?’ Then to Madge and Jessie she added, ‘You asked for it. This is your own fault. Come on, let’s go or we’ll be too late.’
The maids pulled black woollen shawls over their sprigged cotton gowns but Francine produced a long, multi-coloured Paisley shawl which she draped over her shoulders. Like a peacock with farmyard hens, she set out to walk to Rosewell with her reluctant escort. Madge was running alongside Hannah and whispering, ‘You can look after her if you’re so keen for her to come. I’m not going to stay with her. The minute we get into the hall, I’m off.’
‘Please yourself,’ said Hannah. ‘She’s playing a game with you and I think she’s the winner.’
It was already growing dark when they reached the middle of Rosewell and the square was crowded with young people, most of whom knew Hannah, Madge or Jessie and greeted them with waves and calls. When they saw Francine, their jaws dropped and some of the girls started giggling behind their hands. ‘Who’s the Duchess?’ a bold lad enquired of Hannah as she passed, but she shot him a baleful glance and swept on her way. As the four of them approached the hall door, Hannah noticed out of the tail of her eye that a party of men on the far side of the square were watching everything that was going on. They were noticeable because of their clothes – bright coloured waistcoats and neckerchiefs. Some of them wore skullcaps with tassels and embroidery around the edge. ‘There’s some navvies,’ whispered Madge, who had seen them too and was impressed by their muscular nonchalance. She drew herself up and pranced along with her head held high, for she was a pretty girl and well aware that she drew men’s eyes.
Tim Maquire’s gaze was fixed on the red-haired girl he’d seen at Camptounfoot and who had haunted his thoughts ever since. Suddenly he turned to his companions, Sydney, Naughten-The-Image-Taker and Jimmy-The-New-Man to say, ‘I feel like dancing tonight, lads. Let’s go in there.’
Jimmy grimaced: ‘They’ll not let us in, Black Ace. Sure, they close the door against navvies. Look, there’s a policeman standing there. He’ll turn us away.’
‘Let’s try anyway,’ said Tim and, with Sydney close behind him, he made for the door. Their way was barred by a held-up hand and the words, ‘Nae navvies.’ Before Tim could protest, however, Sydney stepped forward and said in his purest tones, ‘My dear man, what makes you think we’re navvies?’
‘Your get-up. Only navvies dress like that.’
Sydney threw back his head and laughed. ‘It fooled you, didn’t it? I’m down here staying with my friend Dicky Allandale and we had a wager that we’d dress up like navvies and get into the dance. Come on, help us win it. There’s half a sovereign in it for you.’
He drove a hand into his breeches pocket and pulled out a golden coin which he adroitly palmed into the constable’s fist. ‘You’re a friend of the Duke?’ stuttered the guardian of the door. Sydney nodded and bent his head towards the constable’s ear. Then he whispered into it. The constable laughed. ‘Oh, all right. In you go, but see you cause no trouble. The local lads might think you’re real navvies and try to pick a fight with you.’
Sydney clapped him on the shoulder. ‘The last thing we would do is fight, old chap. Come on, you fellows…’ In they went, all of them except Sydney looking somewhat sheepish.
‘It’s a good job he didn’t speak to any of us. Our accents would give us away. What did you say to him to make him change his mind?’ whispered Tim.
‘I pretended I’d been the Duke of Allandale’s fag at school. I told him the Duke’s nickname.’
‘And how did you know that?’ asked Tim suspiciously.
‘My dear chap, I made it up. I just said the first thing that came into my head. He wouldn’t know the difference.’
The Corn Exchange hall was long and narrow with a platform at the far end on which were grouped two fiddlers and a woman playing a battered piano. They were just finishing a rousing reel when the girls entered. Immediately they were inside, Madge hissed in Hannah’s ear, ‘Well, I’m off. You’re on your own wi’ her,’ and grabbing Jessie by the hand she fled to the back of a cluster of giggling, red-faced girls who were grouped like penned sheep on the left-hand side of the room. The air was heavy with anticipation as bashful-looking males, wiping their brows after the last exertion, lined up along the other side staring at the girls. One or two of them had got their eye on Hannah Mather and brightened considerably.
Madge and Jessie were giggling and whispering to their friends, pointing out Francine and describing her strange ways. The French girl stood beside Hannah with her head high, pretending not to notice or care what an object of derision she was. If she rued the wearing of such a noticeable gown – for it stood out among the simple cotton dresses of the other girls – she did not show it. Tenderhearted Hannah tried to help her. ‘Do you want to sit down, Francine?’ she asked, indicating a line of benches along the wall on which one or two wallflowers were sitting all forlorn.
‘I will stand,’ was the stoical reply. Francine was determined to show Madge that she was capable of coping with this experience, though privately she found it horrific.
When the music started again, she stood staring bleakly at the hustling crowd as men converged on the girls in a rush to get the best partners. Three swains were heading for Hannah when they were thrust aside by a tall, darkhaired man dressed like a navvy. As he approached he could see from the terror in Francine’s eyes that she thought he was going to ask her to take the floor with him, but his glance swept over her and landed on Hannah. ‘Will you dance with me, please?’ he asked.
She held out a hand and took his. It was a gesture of natural grace and when their fingers made contact, the colour flooded into her cheeks making her face glow like a summer rose. Then she smiled her tranquil smile that seemed to make time go more slowly. ‘I’d like to dance with you,’ she said.
All around them people were scampering on to the floor, for dancing was a wonderful release from the strictures and uneventful tenor of their days. Milkmaids danced with masons, cooks with carpenters, ploughmen with girls who served behind the counters of Rosewell’s shops. In a far corner Hannah saw Wee Lily stamping her feet and giving staccato ‘hoochs’ of delight as she whirled round in the arms of an orra man from Falconwood’s farm.
She knew that the man she was dancing with herself was the one who’d been with the bridge contractor when Craigie tried to shoot him, the same one who had asked her mother to take Mr Wylie in as a lodger; she speculated on how outraged Tibbie would be if she knew her daughter was taking the floor with such an object of terror. But what was the harm? Anyway, she realised with delighted surprise, he was a wonderful dancer.
Tim Maquire had romance in his soul. When dance music began, his feet itched and something joyous wakened deep within him; an innocent sense of joy and delight, the optimism and wonder that had been suppressed in him after he left Ireland as a bewildered eight-year-old and which he had since kept well-hidden. It was only when fiddlers struck up and he could swing a pretty girl around in giddying circles that he forgot to maintain his usual dour facade. Smiling, he stepped and swayed, took Hannah’s hand and guided her around the floor. She was a good dancer too and moved with him like a flowing river, bending and swaying as elegantly as he. They made a striking couple, black head and red head inclining towards each other, for Hannah was tall and he did not have to bend to look down at her. They did not speak, they only danced, their bodies communicating vibrantly with each other. When the sweating fiddlers drew their brows over the strings in a last crescendo, Tim stopped dead in the middle of the floor, surprised at how much he had forgotten himself. He wished he could go on dancing with her all night. In a strange way he felt as if he knew her, had known her for a long time.
‘Dance the next one with me too,’ he asked urgently, but she shook her head.
‘Oh no, I can’t do that. I’m promised to other people. Come back and ask me in a little while.’
For the next three dances, he did not take the floor again but stood watching from the door with his brow-lowered expression back in place. He observed Sydney skipping like a dervish with one girl after another, his elegantly booted feet flashing and his arms in the air. Sydney was still a mystery to Tim for, though he had integrated completely with the other men and did as good a day’s work as any of them, he was obsessively secretive and told them nothing about himself. Normally when men worked together in a gang and lived together too, they picked up facts about each other’s lives but next to nothing had been revealed by Sydney. Tim noticed that his clothes must all have been very expensive when bought new, and his boots had the labels of a Parisian boot-maker stitched inside the mahogany-coloured tops. He also owned leather-bound, gold-tooled books which he occasionally brought out of his satchel and lay reading. They were strange books, full of poetry, but when one of the men asked him what the poems were about – for navvies loved yarns and yearned to be told stories – Sydney only laughed, closed the book and put it away. Looking at him, whirling in the middle of the hall with his lean face laughing and his strange eyes glittering, you would not have thought him anything more than a joker, a jackanape.
Tim’s eyes sought out his other friends. There was that silver-tongued devil Naughten spinning the tale to a round-eyed girl who looked like a housemaid. Tim knew what he was saying. ‘I’m a travelling artist, so I am, and if you sit for me I’ll draw you a likeness that’ll bring tears to your mother’s eyes, it’ll be so lifelike and natural.’ The girl was nodding and staring at him, her eyes filled with uncomprehending admiration. Tim hoped for her own good that she didn’t have a silver florin in her pocket, for she might lose that as well as her virtue.
Tim started searching the dancers on the floor for Jimmy. He always felt responsible for that lad, for Jimmy was a vulnerable and credulous youth. To his surprise he eventually located him dancing with the odd-looking girl who had been standing beside Hannah when Tim took her on to the floor.
In fact, when Tim first made his bee-line for Hannah, Jimmy-The-New-Man had followed him across the floor heading for the same girl, but Black Ace got there first, so soft-hearted Jimmy extended his hand to the strange, frightened-looking girl who stood beside the red-headed beauty because he felt sorry for her. She accepted him silently, but as they danced he had the feeling that she was trying to keep as far away from him as possible. ‘I don’t bite,’ he told her with a laugh but she did not laugh back until they danced over to the top of the hall where they found themselves beside a group of giggling girls. They all seemed to know Jimmy’s partner. ‘Give him a kiss, Francine!’ called one of them in a jeering voice, and that seemed to have a miraculous effect on Jimmy’s partner. She stepped closer to him and put an arm round his neck. He was so surprised that he nearly fell over backwards. After that he could not get rid of her, for she fawned over and flattered him all night, fluttering her eyelashes and patting his hand like an accomplished flirt.
He could not believe his luck, for though she was an oddly-dressed lassie and spoke very queer, there was a strange allure about her and she seemed besotted with him. Jimmy was a shy lad, but quite successful with women, and in the past he’d enjoyed some tender adventures. This, he thought, might be another one waiting to happen.
When the hands of the big clock on the back wall of the hall neared midnight, Tim Maquire walked over the floor and positioned himself beside Hannah. ‘I’ve come for my dance,’ he said with a smile. She stood up, smiling too, and said, ‘You took your time.’ She knew he’d waited till the last dance, for whoever took a girl on to the floor for that had the privilege of walking her home. The band played a waltz with a wistful theme and as they moved around the floor, Tim found he was thinking about Ireland. A wave of terrible nostalgia hit him and he longed to be able to talk to the girl in his arms about the thoughts that filled his mind. Astonishingly, at that moment, she glanced into his eyes and said softly, ‘You look sad. Are you homesick?’
‘Homesick? Me, of course not!’ he robustly replied. He did not know why he denied his inner self but he was still keeping up his hard exterior, not yet ready to let her see what was inside, and he shivered at the thought of how nearly she had exposed him. ‘Can I walk you back to wherever you’re going?’ he asked her but she shook her head.
‘I’ve come quite a long way and there’s four of us. We’ll all walk back together.’
Tim looked over the tops of the dancing heads and asked, ‘Did you come with that girl in the red dress?’
Hannah nodded. ‘Yes, I did.’
He grinned. ‘Well, from the looks of it she’ll not be walking back with you. She’s got a stranglehold on my friend Jimmy.’ He whirled Hannah round at that moment so she could see Francine with her arms tightly clasped round a blond-haired navvy and her dark head lying on his shoulder.
‘Oh my heavens, I thought she was feared of men,’ gasped Hannah, totally amazed, for this was a side of Francine that she had never dreamed existed. Then the idea struck her that the French girl might be drunk. The man could have been plying her with alcohol – things like that did happen. ‘Is that man your friend? He’s one of the navvies, isn’t he?’ she asked her partner. ‘Is he – is he safe?’
Tim bristled. ‘You mean because he’s a navvy you think he’s some sort of devil?’
Hannah was embarrassed, though that was almost what she had meant. ‘Of course not,’ she protested. ‘It’s just that Francine’s foreign and a bit strange. She might not understand… She doesn’t usually act that way.’
Tim glowered. ‘She’s putting on a good act, then. Of the two of them I’d say it’s Jimmy who has the most to worry about. We’re navvies but we’re not all wild animals, you know.’
Hannah was not easily put down. ‘I didn’t say you were,’ she snapped and walked away from him.
When Hannah with Jessie and Madge emerged from the hall, they had their arms linked and were giggling together about the things they’d seen and heard during the evening. At the door Hannah drew back. ‘I must find Francine,’ she said. ‘We can’t leave her to walk home on her own.’
‘Oh, you needn’t bother about her. She set off earlier with a yellow-headed navvy and said to me that we weren’t to worry about her,’ said Madge. Then she added, ‘My word, she changed her tune tonight. Did you see her, grabbing at him as if he was the first man she’d laid hold of in years? I still think there’s something odd about her, though. She doesn’t act natural.’
Hannah felt concerned. ‘I hope she’s all right. I feel responsible for Francine. She wouldn’t have come with us if you hadn’t gone on at her like you did, Madge.’
‘Maybe I’ve done her a favour,’ giggled Madge and clutched at Hannah’s arm again. ‘Come on, hurry up. It’s late.’
They were turning a corner in the East Port of the town that led to the road towards Bella Vista when a dark figure stepped out of a doorway and faced them, blocking the narrow roadway. ‘I’ll escort you girls back home – just in case there’s any wild animals about,’ said Tim Maquire’s voice.
Madge giggled. ‘The wildest animal round here is my mither’s dog.’
‘Never mind, I’ll walk with you anyway,’ said Tim. Hannah did not protest but neither did she speak as they walked the mile and a half to the big house, though Madge and Jessie prattled on. When he left them at the servants’ door of Bella Vista, Tim said nothing about meeting Hannah again, and though she had given him no encouragement, his failure to do so made her angry and disappointed.
‘Ssh, don’t make a noise. If Mr Allardyce hears us, he’ll give us a terrible talking-to for waking folk up,’ whispered Hannah when the three girls crept into the dark kitchen.
‘I hope he didnae hear that navvy speaking out there,’ Madge whispered back. The maids were not meant to bring back ‘followers’, and transgressions could be punished by dismissal if the butler was in a liverish mood. Hannah said nothing to that so Madge added, ‘That one has a real notion of you, Hannah.’
‘He’s too cheeky for his own good. I wonder where Francine is?’ said Hannah in a worried tone but Madge replied, ‘She can look after herself. Don’t worry about her.’
What they did not know as they slipped up the backstairs to the attics where they slept was that Francine was standing in a corner of the kitchen corridor listening to them. Her heart was racing and her fists were clenched so tightly that the fingernails cut into the fleshy pad below the thumbs. She was waiting for them to go to bed so that she could run up to Bethya’s bedroom.
When all was quiet, she slipped like a shadow up the main staircase and silently opened her mistress’ chamber door. Bethya lay as she had done when Francine left, hair piled on the white pillow and one arm thrown out by her side. A little candle in a glass holder burned by the bedside. Bending down, Francine breathed softly into Bethya’s ear, ‘Madame, madame, wake up, wake up.’
Bethya stirred and slowly opened her eyes. She stared at the maid’s face for a few moments as if she was having trouble remembering who she was, and then she yawned and said, ‘It can’t be morning yet. It’s still dark.’
Francine’s eyes were glittering strangely. ‘Madame, waken up. I’ve brought you a present.’
‘A present?’ Bethya turned in her bed and yawned again. ‘What sort of a present? Do go away, Francine, I’m sleepy.’
‘Madame, I’ve brought you a lover. He’s down in the summerhouse now, waiting. I brought him specially for you. You’ll like him.’
Bethya was wide awake now and she stared at her maid in disbelief. Then she said, ‘Go to bed, Francine. You’ve been drinking.’ There was indeed a smell of alcohol coming from the maid, who had needed its help to brave the dance.
She did not go away, however. Instead she pleaded almost tearfully, ‘But you said you wanted a lover so I went to the dance and brought one home for you. He’s young and strong and very handsome with bright yellow hair. He’s a navvy, one of the men you’ve seen working on the bridge site.’
Bethya was shocked. ‘How could you even think of such a thing? I wouldn’t take a navvy as my lover! I might admire them, but I’m aiming higher than that. You can’t seriously imagine that I’d get up and go out to meet a completely strange navvy in the middle of the night, do you? You’re mad. Go to bed.’
‘But he’s waiting for you,’ pleaded Francine.
‘If he is, get rid of him. Don’t let him wander round the house. We might all get murdered in our beds,’ snapped Bethya and shoved her head under the pillow.
Francine ran back down the stairs and out through the open kitchen door. The moon was shining brightly and the trees surrounding the huge lawn cast velvet black shadows on the grass. She flitted over the expanse like a wraith till she came to a white-painted summerhouse set in a grove of trees by the side of a little ornamental pool. There was a man sitting on a low seat with his head in his hands and when he heard her approaching he stood up and stepped towards her, intending to embrace her as soon as she stepped into the summerhouse’s sanctuary. But she paused on the grass before the threshold and hissed like a cat, ‘Go away! Go away this minute and never come back.’
Surprised, he sat down again and gasped, ‘But you told me to wait for you!’
‘Go away, go away!’ There was a note of hysteria in her voice and she did not seem to understand what he was saying. In a furious voice she went on, ‘I want you to go away. If you don’t, I’ll rouse the menservants and have you thrown out.’
‘You’re mad!’ he shouted back. ‘You’re raving mad. You were all over me half an hour ago – leading me on, promising me things. Now you’re a different woman.’
She clenched her fists as if she wanted to hit him. ‘I hate you. I hate all men. Go on, go away and never come back.’ The silver moonlight lit up her face and turned it into a primeval mask. He was awed by her exotic, fearsome beauty, for in rage she did look beautiful.
‘Aw, don’t be like that now. If this is some sort of a game, I’ll play it. Just let me hold you again,’ he pleaded but she gave a strangled scream.
‘Go away – go away. There’s nothing for you here, go away!’ Then she turned and ran back over the grass. He watched until she disappeared into the house with a flash of skirts.
A little later Tim, wandering back along the moonlit lanes with his hands thrust deep into his pockets and thinking about the red-haired girl, was surprised to hear running feet coming up behind him. He turned, alert and defensive, but his shoulders relaxed when he saw Jimmy bearing down on him. The young navvy was running as if he was being pursued by the devil and there was a look of fury on his face.
‘That cock-teasing bitch,’ he gasped when he drew up beside his friend. ‘You wouldn’t believe how bold she was, Black Ace, but when we got back to the house, she went all funny on me – acted as if she’d never seen me before, shouted and told me to go away, said if I didn’t she’d get the men of the house to throw me out.’
Tim was interested. ‘That odd-looking one, was it? She’s a funny piece.’
Jimmy nodded. ‘Sydney said she’s French. She kept calling me “cherry” or something. Maybe all the French are like that – loving one moment and hating the next.’ He was totally confused by what had happened to him.
‘Forget about her,’ advised Tim.
But Jimmy shook his head. ‘I can’t. She made a funny sort of impression on me. In a way I was sorry for her – I want to know why she’s behaving like that.’
Tim paused and put a hand on his arm. ‘Believe me, it’s best to put her out of your mind. You’ll just get into trouble if you follow it up,’ he said earnestly, but the moonlight and the strangeness of Francine had enchanted Jimmy.
‘She was like a witch – I think she’s put a spell on me. I want to see her again.’ he said.