OTHER BOOKS BY CATHERINE COOKSON NOVELS Kate Hannigan The Nice Bloke The Fifteen Streets The Glass Virgin Colour Blind The Invitation Maggie Rowan The Dwelling Place Rooney Feathers in the Fire The Menagerie Pure as the Lily Slinky Jane The Mallen Streak * Fanny McBride The Mallen Girl greater-than Fenwick Houses The Mallen Litter The Garment The Invisible Cord The Blind Miller The Gambling Man Hannah Massey The Tide of Life The Long Corridor * The Girl The Unbaited Trap- The Cinder Path v Katie Mulholland The Man who Cried The Round Tower Tilly Tilly Wed THE MARY ANN STORIES A Grand Man Life and Mary Ann The Lord and Mary Ann" Marriage and Mary The Devil and Mary Ann i Mary Ann's Angels Love and Mary Ann was Mary Ann and Bill His "OR CHILDREN Matty Doolin Our John Willie Joe and the Gladiator Mrs Flannagan's Trumpet The Nipper Go Tell It to Mrs Golightly Blue Baccy Lanky Jones AUTOBIOGRAPHY Our Kate UNDER THE PSEUDONYM OF CATHERINE MARCHANT Miss Martha Mary Crawford The Fen Tiger The Slow Awakening The Iron Facade tft a novel by CATHERINE to I WILLIAM MORROW AND COMPANY, INC. Copyright [*copy] 1982 by Catherine Cookson Originally published in Great Britain in 1982 by William Heinemann Ltd under the title Tilly Trotter Widowed All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the Publisher. Inquiries should be addressed to William Morrow and Company, Inc., 105 Madison Avenue, New York, N.y. 10016. Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data Cookson, Catherine. Tilly alone. Sequel to: Tilly and Tilly wed. I. Title. PR6053.O525T54 1982 823'comiad 81-11203 ISBN 0-688-00455-5 AACR2 Printed in the United States of America FIRST U.s. EDITION Contents PART ONE The Veneer PART TWO Below the Skin PART ONE The Veneer Mrs Matilda Sopwith stood against the ship's rail and watched the waters darken as the sun slipped behind the rim of the horizon. It had been an unusually calm day, in fact the weather had been clement for most of the journey, so different from that time almost three years ago when she had left Liverpool for America in this very same ship. Then, she and her small child and her friend, Katie Drew, had been tossed and tumbled about and made so sick that they had wished to die, and her small son had almost achieved this; yet the stormy sea and the plunging, rearing ship had not in any way affected her husband; he had seemed to revel in it, buoyed up by the fact that he was going back to the land he loved, the land, he had once said, in which he wished to die. And his wish had been granted him, but much, much sooner than he could have expected. She swung her mind away from her husband and sent it spinning fast into the future that would begin on the morrow when the boat docked. She'd be met by her brother-in-law, John Sopwith, and his wife, Anna, both young, little more than boy and girl, at least to her mind; and there was no doubt that they would shower her with affection because she knew they were truly fond of her, for hadn't she been the means of bringing them together; two people who felt themselves scarred with defects over which they had no control, for what control had a young girl over hideous birthmarks? Perhaps in the man's case there was some measure for control for his cross was merely a bad stammer. She could see them all taking the long journey back in the train; she could see the carriage meeting the train; she could see it bowling through the iron gates and up the drive to the manor house that lay on the far outskirts of South Shields be and she could already feel the welcome of Katie's mother, Biddy, and also "Witness the keen disappointment on her face when she realised 3 DL'Ccccness Public Ubran that her daughter had not returned from America. But above all the pictures in her mind there stood out in sharp relief the faces of the whole Drew family and of the other servants when she entered the house accompanied not only by her small son Willy but also by a smaller child whose features claimed the ancestry of a Mexican Indian. "This is my adopted daughter," she would say to them. But why, their amazed gaze would ask, had she to adopt one such as she, for everyone knew creatures like her weren't really human beings, not like English human beings, and were merely born to be slaves. Could she then say to them.. . could she even ever say to Biddy Drew, Biddy who, like her daughter Katie, knew all about her and had been her friend and confidante for years, could she say to her, "I did not adopt her, Biddy, she is my husband's bastard" his No, no; she could never put a slur on Matthew's name, although in the ordinary sense a bastard was no slur on the man, simply on the woman who bore her, that is if the child was white; but to be dark-skinned with strange unblinking eyes, a skin that seemed to flow over the bone skeleton beneath it, a mouth whose lips lay with gentle firmness one on the other seeming to forbid the tongue to speak, and then the hair, black, straight, its sheen making it shine like a military boot, and all encased in a tiny body. There could be no acceptance whatever for such. Yet she wasn't worried so much about Josefina's acceptance into the house as she was worried about her effect on the villagers. It was unfortunate that the child, who was as far as she knew about four and a half years old, should have the stature of one hardly three, unfortunate because she knew what would be the outcome of the villagers' diagnosis once they looked on the strange piece of humanity: Tilly Trotter had been up to her tricks again. She could even hear their concerted voices: "My God! To think of it, having the effrontery to bring back another of her bastards. Wasn't it enough she had been the cause of the death of two men before disgracing herself by becoming the mistress of a man old enough to be her father? Then, when he was hardly cold in his grave, what did she do his She married his son and goes off to the Americas; and here she is come back as brazen as brass and showing off her latest effort." As if she could hear the voices and see the faces, she turned sharply round from the ship's rail and leant against it for a moment before walking quickly away up the deck. As she made to go down the companion-way the captain stood aside at the bottom of the steps and waited for her, and bowing his head slightly towards her, he said, "Only another few hours, ma'am. You'll be gkd when the journey is over," "Yes, I shall, captain; but I would like to thank you now, in case I don't see you later, for the effort you have made to make us comfortable during the journey." "No effort at all, ma'am, it was a pleasure. And! yet I wish I hadn't had the pleasure, that circumstances had turned out differently for you, for you've been so tried in your short time away from the old country. I remember your husband well. Pardon me for speaking of him, ma'am, I don't want to arouse any memories, but I'd just like to say we, my officers and the crew, thought he was a very fine gentleman." "Thank you." "Will I see you at dinner tonight?" "Would you excuse me, captain? I don't like to leave the children for too long." "I understand. Yes, yes, I understand; and I'll have something substantial sent to your cabin." "It is very kind of you and I thank you." She inclined her head towards him, and he, in return, bowed his, and she went down the steps, along the corridor and into het cabin. The cabin was the largest on the ship and one which the captain had allotted to her use much to the chagrin, she had discovered, of a Mr and Mrs Sillitt, a couple who were used apparently to making sea voyages and who had travelled on this particular ship a number of times. It was as much to avoid Mrs Sillitt as her need to be with the children that had caused her to refuse to join the captain in the last meal on board. Mrs Sillitt was partly of French extraction and, therefore, her loyalties were divided. Scarcely a meal had passed during the voyage without she touched on the subject of the recent Crimean war, at times delving into it as if she had actually witnessed the battles of Alma, Balaclava and Inkerman. The lady hated the Russians with a fierce hatred, and some of her hatred seemed to have rubbed off on to the English for which r husband bore the brunt. It appeared at times as if she was accusing the poor man of having ordered the weather to freeze soldiery to death, for everything that had gone wrong was attributed to the British, and was not her husband English, in fact Dorset English; and being apparently ineffectual inasmuch as he suffered in silence, he represented for her the inefficient British Command. The captain had at an early stage given up the fruitless argument, but not so the first officer who was a Scot. This man had confided in Tilly privately that he had little time for the English as a whole but God knew he had less time for the Frenchies whose main occupation seemed to be causing revolutions and making Napoleons. The latest one, who called himself Napoleon the Third, strutted around like a little bantam cock on a midden. No, the English, be what they may, were preferable to the Frenchies, And what's more, he could name a dozen women from the Liverpool dock front whom he'd be pleased to eat with in preference to sitting down opposite to Mrs Sillitt. Mrs Sillitt's chatter had in a way floated over Tilly's head, that was until three evenings ago when she brought up the subject of "the blacks". She had brought Tilly sharply out of her reserve by saying in her naturally loud overbearing voice, "Do you think it's wise, Mrs Sop with, to take a black child into the country? Although slavery has been abolished in England since the beginning of the century, there's still a suspicion in some quarters that black children are being used in the old way." Her remark had stilled the conversation at the table and also caught the attention of the diners at the other six tables in the room. Tilly had stared hard at the woman, then said stiffly, "I am returning home with my adopted daughter, madam," but before she could continue Mrs Sillitt, smiling tightly, said, "Yes, yes, I know, my dear, we know of your situation, but I'm only offering the suggestion that it may not be wise seeing that she will be brought up in close proximity to your son. Black and white don't go together. Never will. I merely put it as a suggestion... ."'* "Then I would rather that you kept your suggestions to yourself." This rebuff did not penetrate the hide of Mrs Sillitt, and she was about to make another retort when her husband, seeming to drag himself out of obscurity and making his entry as explosive as a gunshot, glared at his wife as he hissed, "Mind your own business, woman! Just for once, mind your own business and get on with your meal." As the first officer said later, if everybody had burst into cheering he wouldn't have been at all surprised, but oh, he wished ieaence could have put his ear to the keyhole when the couple were alone in their cabin. Yet, he pointed out to Tilly, did she notice that the bold lady actually did as her husband bid her, although, mind you, she had looked as if she was going to bur equals t asunder at any moment. Since that meal a few nights ago the problem of Josefina had taken on a more definite shape in her mind, and the shape encompassed the years ahead and what might come out of the close proximity between the children. Mrs Siiiitt had opened up another avenue of concern. Yet as she sat on the side of the bunk and looked down on the sleeping face of Josefina she asked herself what else she could have done, and the answer came, she could have done what Matthew told her she must do, return home alone wccth Willy and leave his flyblow behind. And it was strange to think now that that penultimate request of his had been unthinkable, whereas his dying request, the request that had made her swear that she would never marry again, had been easy to comply with. She put her hand out and stroked the black shining plait lying over the small shoulder; then she rose to her feet and looked into the other bunk that was now on eye level with her. Her son was sleeping soundly, one fist doubled up under his chin. He was beautiful to look upon, so beautiful that the sight of him always brought an ache to her heart. Although when he was born he'd resembled his father there was now no trace of that resemblance in his features. He had her eyes. Oh, his eyes. The ache turned into a sharp stab that seemed to pierce her ribs. Perhaps in a very short while he'd be unable to see what she loc ked comike; one eye was already sightless, the other gave him but dim vision, and yet no one looking into them would guess that they were not capable of normal sight. For a moment the incident that had injured his eyes rose before her. She saw herself in the market place, the child in her arms, and there was Mrs McGrarh drunk and brawling, and when the sodden woman wielded the stick at her, she had ducked her head to avoid it, only for her son to take the blow. A baby of but six months he had been then. Oh, those McGraths. They had been the curse of her life. All except Steve, the youngest of them and now the under-manager of the Sopwith mine. He had been her friend from childhood days. He had suffered for her, as his crooked arm proved, he had suffered for her because he loved her. Yes. Yes, Steve McGrath had loved her. And three years ago she had almost taken advantage of that love and offered to marry him to escape the passion of Matthew, be'cause even in her own eyes it seemed a sin to be marrying the son of the man to whom she had acted as mistress for so long and whose child she had only recently borne. Would she be pleased to see Steve his She got no answer to this question, except to give herself another question; Would she be pleased to see anyone? Although she had recovered from the breakdown that followed on Matthew's death, there was a great void in her which she felt would remain with her always for she could never see anyone filling it, except her son. She now touched Willy's hair; it was getting fairer every day. She lingered a moment longer gazing at him, then she turned from the bunk and attended to the packing. A few hours now and she'd be in England, home, home which meant Highfield Manor, the place where she had gone as nursemaid all those years ago, the place from which she had been twice turned out, the place to which she was now returning, not as mistress of Mr Mark Sopwith, or as wife of Mr Matthew Sopwith, but as a widow and owner of the house and estate and the mine besides. She was financially a very rich woman ... rich in everything that didn't matter. "S ... s ... soon be there, Tilly. S ... s ... soon be there . . . s . . . soon be home." John Sopwith turned from the window of the swaying coach and looked across at Tilly and his wife sitting hand in hand; then with his arms out he encircled the two children kneeling up on the seat beside him, and when Willy, bobbing up and down, shouted excitedly, "Horses, Mama. Look, horses, galloping horses!" John said, "Yes, horses, my boy. Why are you so ... so surprised? America is not the only pi... place that has horses." "We had lots of horses, sir." Willy had turned and was looking up into John's face, and he, bending towards the child, said, "I am Uncle Jo ... John. Say Uncle John." And the boy glanced at his mother, and when she gave a little smile and a small movement of her head he looked back at John and repeated, "Uncle John." Josefina had now turned from the window and was looking at John, and she too repeated, "Uncle John." Her words were clearly defined. She was speaking English yet the inflection of her voice stamped her as foreign as much as did her dark solemn appearance. When she put up her hand and tapped John gently on the nose he burst out laughing. Then looking across at Tilly he said softly, 'She's an unusual child . . . child. I can understand why you wanted to br . . . br . . . bring her b . . . back with you." Yet even as he spoke he knew he was merely being polite because for the life of him he couldn't think what had possessed Tilly to bring this coloured child, this strange looking coloured child, back home. This child did not look like any coloured person he had seen before. But he had seen pictures and drawings of American Indians, and there was something of the Indian in the hair and eyes. Yet she did not appear altogether Indian. He now lay back against the quilted leather of the seat and with only half his mind he listened to his wife explaining the changes she had made in the house and stating that she hoped they would meet with Tilly's approval. For the rest, a strange thought had entered his head and he was chiding himself for it, albeit at the same time expanding it. Four years old, Tilly said the child was, yet she had the stature of a child not yet two. To his mihd she was too tiny to be four years of age, she was more like an infant. Tilly had left this country almost three years ago. . . . No, no! He now thrust the thought from him. There was the child's voice; she certainly spoke as a child of four might. He centred his gaze on his wife now. She was so pleased to have Tilly back. There was little female company of her own age or station near the Manor. There were neighbours, yes, but Anna didn't make friends easily; she was still very conscious of her affliction, especially so with anyone outside the household. Yet looking at her now from his position there was just the merest sign of the purple stain rising above the lace collar of her blouse. It was only when she was undressed that the frightful birthmark fv covering one entire shoulder and part of her breast gave evidence of the burden she had carried since she was a child. Yet he loved every inch of her skin with a passion that seemed to grow in him daily. He had known when he married her that he loved Anna, but he had never imagined himself capable of the feelings that possessed him now. In a way he felt his feelings for his wife almost matched his dead brother's mania for Tilly. Why had Matthew to die his And how had he died his He was longing to talk to Tilly about his brother, to know every detail. All she had told them so far was that he had been wounded in an Indian raid and had died of his wounds. "I never thought to see these gates again." The carriage had turned into the drive and Tilly was now bending forward looking at the line of rowans, their greenery about to burst fresh and bright. Spring wasn'tfar off. For a moment she felt a stirring within her as if the coming season itself had touched her. Then it was gone, replaced now by a quivering anxiety, for in a few minutes she'd be meeting Biddy and, however pleased Biddy would be to see her, she wouldn't be able to understand that she'd come back without her daughter, forof all her children, Tilly knew, as strongly as she would deny it, Biddy had favoured the one she had chastised most. She had boxed Katie's ears as a child, shouted her down because of her chattering, ordered her about as if she were still a child when she was a. full-grown woman, and had done all this to hide the fact from the rest of her family that she favoured this particular plain, podgy-looking daughter. The carriage came to a stop at the foot of the steps aud there they all were, all the members of the household, most of whom she recognised: all the Drews, Biddy looking the same as when she had left her, her work-worn back still straight, her big lined face, usually unsmiling but now with a look of bright expectancy on it that caused Tilly to gulp in her throat against the disappointment she was about to bring to her. There was Peg, the eldest of the girls -- she must be near to forty and she was the best looking of the bunch. She had been married and widowed. And there was Fanny, the youngest. What was she, twenty-five? And Arthur, a sturdy man in his thirties; and he was the youngest but two of the seven Drew men. And that was Jimmy, who must be about twenty-eight now. Bill, she understood from one of Anna's letters, had left and had gone to sea. That had been a surprise. She had thought he might have joined his three older brothers in the Durham mines. Betty Leyburn was still here, and Lizzie Gamble. She had been engaged as under-housemaid just before they went to America. And there were two strange men. The younger of the two, a man of about forty, was now opening the door. He was the new footman then. And the portly man with the grey hair at the top of the steps must be the butlei. At one time she would have smiled to herself at the evident way he was showing to all those present that he knew his place in the servants" hierarchy. The children had scrambled to the open door of the coach and she watched the footman extend his arms and lift Willy down to the drive. She also noticed that he hesitated for more than a moment at the sight of the dark child, and that when he did place her beside Willy his eyes remained on her before he swung about and extended his hand to help her down from the coach. Almost immediately now she was engulfed by the whole Drew amily. caret This was not a meeting between mistress and staff, this was a meeting of friends. But as quickly as it had begiin so it ended. w"...h one arm around Tilly's shoulders, Biddy Blew looked to caret ards the carriage and to where stood the young master and caret stress she had served during Tilly's absence; and then she was.