Bitter Herbs Page 6

  “I dunno. Do I have to marry?”

  Annie’s eyebrows shot up in shock. “Well of course you must. You’ll be a by-word else. They’ll call you whore, don’t you understand? Whatever ‘ull your poor Mum say?”

  “She unna be cross. My cousin Sall had a little ‘un two years back and ‘er wanna married. Mum never said anything hard to ‘er or Auntie Sue. They gave the babby away in the end – some rich lady took it for her own. I could do the same, per’aps. I do remember poor Sall crying fit to bust but it were better for the babby and ‘er, Mum said.”

  “But you’ve lost your Dad since then and your poor Mum can’t earn much. What ‘ud you live on? There inna so many fairy godmothers or rich ladies about willing to take their maids’ by-blows, my wench, even supposing their sons did father ‘em. You’d better talk to Frank and your Mum and as soon as may be, before the family takes notice. The old lady will eat you for breakfast if she finds out.”

  Dilly started. This was a new aspect of the case. Strangely though, the acerbic old lady was occasionally kind to the guileless Dilly, who put up with her ways quite cheerfully compared to the other staff. Being a fitful sleeper and early awake, already Mrs Wood had come across her poor little maid retching in the early morning and had for once been sympathetic, albeit in a sardonic way. She had unbent so far as to take her back to her own room and to brew some camomile tea over her fire, to make her feel better. Dilly felt that her employer would be unlikely to overlook this mishap however. She must speak to Frank, she supposed. She was reluctant to face marriage with him just as much as he might balk at tying himself to her. A bit of fun was all well and good but handfasted for the rest of one’s days? No, it would not do, she thought. As she left the room to go and help Annie lay the table for dinner, after Annie had availed herself of some of Dilly’s unused sanitary napkins, she mused over the difficulty and other possibilities began to suggest themselves. The exciting story the younger mistress had told her once recurred to her and a secret smile began to play about her lips as she dreamed of a castle in the air, so that Annie had to recall her sharply to her duties. As they walked away from the dining room, Dilly’s mind was made up. She knew what path she wanted to pursue.

  Chapter 8

  “Let us leave the gentlemen to their port, ladies.” Lady Ashfield rose and led the way to the drawing room where coffee was served in fine cans of Coalport porcelain. Once all the guests had what they wanted and she was ensconced in her favourite chair, feeding sweetmeats to her wheezy little pug, she seemed to feel that her duties as a hostess were at an end and lapsed into a bored silence after a few insipid remarks to Mrs Bredwardine. Edmund’s mother stolidly drank her coffee, her expression a study in neutrality, albeit with some sharp thoughts going on in her head about Lady Ashfield’s manners, but her face lightened with pleasure when Miss Aurelia, evidently feeling embarrassed at her sister-in-law’s neglect, responded warmly to Harriet’s quiet praise of the dinner, and took care to widen the conversation so that she drew all the guests in to an enjoyable discussion about table linen, leading on to the price and quality of muslins at Mr Hartin’s shop, about which everyone had an opinion. She went on to talk cordially of homely Wenlock’s virtues, despite its dirty streets, which caused some to call it ‘Muck Wenlock’, and to highlight the contrast with her life in London, which she brought alive to them in her animated conversation but without making them feel overwhelmed by the contemplation of her superior wealth.

  A second invitation to dinner, after Miss Ashfield had received the hospitality of the Bredwardines at a quiet supper, had soon been forthcoming. As on the first occasion, dinner had been enlivened by her friendly chat, supporting her brother in all his efforts to make the family feel truly at ease. When, at the earlier meeting, the squire had required them all to charge their glasses to drink to Miss Morrall and her bravery on one memorable occasion last summer, it made the poor lady tremble and stammer, and Aurelia had been so tactful in changing the public subject as soon as possible to spare Cecily’s blushes and tremors but without in the least belittling her achievement, that Edmund had been pleased and grateful that he has not on that occasion been obliged to fill his usual role as protector of his little aunt.

  Mrs Bredwardine too watched this considerate behaviour with much satisfaction. “What a shame the squire had married again after his first lady had died. Miss Aurelia would be a much better hostess and helpmeet to her brother,” she thought on this occasion.

  “Yes, I had a lady companion for many years, a Miss Fenton,” Miss Ashfield replied to a question from Harriet. “We agreed together very well. Dear Rachel!” She sighed. “When she died last autumn I found London lost so much of its savour without her. We always used to talk over the day at supper and it told upon me very much when she was no longer there to share our confidences. Instead of the liveliness I had always enjoyed, there seemed to be just so much bustle and jostling in the streets. I started to feel quite bruised, somehow, as though I had lost some bright burnished armour that had always protected me in the daily jousting.” She smiled wryly at the company, as if in exasperation at her own folly. “You will think me full of strange and idle fancies now, I fear.”

  “Indeed not, ma’am. Such sensibility does credit to you and your friend’s memory. It seems very natural to miss one with whom you enjoyed such a bond,” rejoined Mrs Bredwardine, who spoke feelingly, for she could not imagine life without her timid sister at her side. Aurelia bowed over her coffee cup to the stately old lady. She went on: “I decided that as the anniversary of her death in the autumn approached that I would retreat to my old home for a space rather than brood on the scene alone and I am very glad I did. I find it very peaceful here: so many memories of our dear parents, of course, but the sight of the woods and bright skies after rain bring me much solace.” Shy Miss Morrall looked at Miss Aurelia’s mannish, kindly face as she spoke these words, the latter clearly looking into a lost past for a few moments, and longed to press her hand in sympathy. Even as she thought this, Miss Aurelia looked up and caught her glance. She smiled and reached out for Cecily’s hand just as though the latter had spoken her thought. “It is very pleasing to return and find such pleasant society so close by. I understand from Dorothy my maid that you and Miss Bredwardine taught her to read at Sunday School. She was full of your praises. I had asked her to read a lengthy message that had arrived for me when I could not locate my spectacles and she did it so well that I could not but exclaim. I would very much like to visit the school, if I might do so without inconvenience to you,” she said, turning to Harriet. “Education of children is a most estimable calling and I admire anyone who can undertake it well. I am particularly interested in the education of girls. We are left too much in ignorance in our youth, I feel. People like yourselves who light the lamps to counter our darkness will always earn my esteem.” She spoke passionately and both Harriet and her aunt blushed deeply but both unconsciously sat up a little straighter and more proudly as a result of this warm speech.

  “We would be delighted to welcome you at any time to suit you, Miss Ashfield, would we not, aunt Cecily?” Miss Morrall nodded eagerly in reply to her niece. “Oh yes, my dear. It would be such an honour, though I fear you would find that the light you speak of so kindly is a mere rushlight,” she added deprecatingly. Harriet turned back to Aurelia with a smile that made her look many years younger. “Would you be able to attend after communion next Sunday?” she suggested. Miss Ashfield bowed. “That would be utterly delightful. I shall look forward to it.”

  As this conversation was passing so pleasantly on all sides in the drawing room, the squire was taking time to get to know the curate of his parish better. He was well acquainted with the Rector, the Reverend Enoch Moore, who shared his political outlook but seemed somewhat too sour and harsh in his view of humanity. Moore had spoken disparagingly of his curate as one who had disappointed him, being too inclined to foster ambition in the lower orders by allowing his sister and aunt to teach rea
ding and lettering even to girls, rather than simply concentrating on making them biddable, conformable, and adept with their needles. He was inclined too to give them too much of his time and attention, as though they had as much right as the gentry to think of heaven. In the Rev Enoch’s mind, his gardener would still be his gardener in Paradise. Edmund’s attitude was quite otherwise and it exasperated his employer. The squire had given little thought to the impecunious young man he had often seen riding about on his sturdy Welsh cob on parish visits in all weathers, but praise of the priest had reached his ears from many of his tenants and after hearing of Edmund’s courageous stance against a mob intent on lynching a prisoner in Much Wenlock last summer, he had determined at the first dinner engagement to talk to him directly and quiz him about his views. He had been impressed by Edmund’s good sense and the intelligent interest he took in agricultural matters. He noticed too that Edmund appreciated the port judiciously and kept pace with him, not abstaining like a milksop, according to the squire’s view, but taking care also not to over-indulge, even when offered such ambrosia as he was unlikely to taste again unless he were invited to dine at Tickwood once more. The squire had fallen in readily with his sister’s suggestion to give him that opportunity. Once again the young man talked sense, calmly and without toadying or too much insisting on his own way in arrogant fashion, like some clergymen of the squire’s acquaintance. As the squire had found on the first occasion, Edmund proved to be a much more congenial dinner companion than Moore. After a very agreeable interlude, he proposed that they should join the ladies and led the way out.

  * * *

  Later that night in her mistress’s house, Dilly bit her lips to redden them, and pushed her nightgown off her shoulders. She held up a bit of mirror that Nan had lent her and tried out a number of angles until she had seen a shattered image of herself and she was content. A gentle tap at the door made her hastily hide the looking glass and pat her hair before bidding the person to enter. She flushed as Edmund entered the chamber. He had received her message at home as he came in from dinner at Tickwood Hall. She had been ill, the poorly spelled note said, and it had made her feel sad about her sins. It begged him to come and see her, to comfort her. Edmund had been perplexed and half-amused. He could not believe that Dilly would have much to weigh her conscience down. He knew her only a little, as a shy and pretty maid, a little simple, the last child of poor parents who had seen many of her siblings to the grave. As his family made preparations for bed, much pleased with their reception despite Lady Ashfield’s indifference, he donned his coat again and started out. His family knew better than to urge him to depart from his duty, but they sighed that he must turn out again, after an enjoyable but tiring evening. His mother left a candle and matches by the door against his return, and his aunt hurried to add some wafers, while Harriet left a decanter of her elderberry wine, so that he might refresh himself upon his return.

  He had been admitted at the back door by Annie, who had also been puzzled by Dilly’s desire to see Mr Bredwardine so late, and who was cross that she would have to remain in the kitchen until he was ready to go, in order to let him out and lock the door after him, for her feet ached and she longed for her bed. If she had seen Dilly’s dishabille, she would have been crosser still.

  Edmund smiled at the rosy girl in the bed, a pretty sight, the room lit by a solitary candle.

  “Good evening, Dilly,” he said.

  “Good evening, sir” she said, blushing. “’Ull you sit down?”

  He took a stool near at hand and looked enquiringly at her. She felt her mouth to be horribly dry. For a moment she could not speak; seeing her hesitate, he thought he had better begin.

  “I received your note. How may I help you, my dear? What troubles you?” he smiled at her encouragingly.

  “Well, sir,” she gulped, taking a sip of water, and then rushed headlong into her prepared speech, “well, sir, it is right kind of you to come. I ‘anna bin very well lately and I was afraid I’ve bin a bad girl. I thought you might ‘elp me. I was thinking about you, sir, after your sermon in church last Sunday. It was a very nice text, sir, all about us loving one another. I liked it a lot. Nan had said you were always good to poor folks and didn’t look down on servants like us, like some of the gentry, begging your pardon, sir. You looked so fine, sir, in the pulpit with the light shining on you, and your eyes were full of kindness when you looked round at us all. It was like you welcomed us all in, somehow. I kept my eyes on you all the time. You will think me very forward sir, but I think you are very handsome.” Her blush deepened and Edmund’s eyebrows shot up as he grew more uneasy and perplexed at Dilly’s offering of praise. She had paused to take another drink before she lost all her courage, but her hand shook so much that she dropped the cup to the floor. Grateful for the diversion, Edmund instantly stooped to pick it up and mop up the little water it had contained, wondering what Dilly could be thinking in addressing him thus.

  As he looked up to hand her the cup he gasped and rocked back; for she had lowered her night gown so far as to expose her bosom, pearly as soft white roses. She looked beseechingly at him, offering herself. Edmund exhaled slowly and, lowering his gaze, slowly stood up, averting his eyes from the sight, tempting as it was to any man with red blood in his veins. He stood with his back to her for a moment and rubbed his forehead in consternation while he collected his thoughts, which were very much perturbed. He regained command of himself.

  “Dilly, my dear,” he said at last, calmly and gently, “pray re-arrange your gown, it has come untied.” He paused. “Have you done that?”

  A stifled sob came from the bed and he heard a rustling. Then a whispered: “Yes, sir.” He turned back to face her, trusting that she had obeyed him. She had done so instantly.

  “Dilly, you must never show yourself like that to any man except, in time, your husband, you know, even by accident. Did your mother never tell you so?”

  “Well, sir, she told me not to go with bad men, sir, but you inna a bad man. I meant no harm, sir,” she started to panic as the implications of what she had done began to dawn on her. “You won’t tell of me, sir? I wunna have to go to prison?”

  “No, no, my child. Do not fear. I will tell no one. Just promise me you will not do this again, until you are married.”

  “Must I marry ‘im then, sir? I dunna really want to. I thought you might fancy me.”

  “What do you mean, Dilly? Who is ‘he’?” Edmund’s perplexity grew.

  “Frank Marsh, sir. Annie says I have to, because she says I’m going to have a babby – that’s why I’ve bin poorly in the mornings. We’ve been keeping company for over two months now but I don’t want to marry ‘im. He is not as kind as all that, only when he wants a cuddle, but it never stops there. I thought you would be kind, if you would care for me.”

  Edmund stood appalled, angry at the man who taken advantage of Dilly’s naïveté, and shocked at her own lack of understanding of her situation. He passed his hand across his brow. He was still puzzled as to why of all people Dilly had selected him as a potential husband. He thought wryly to himself that clearly money could not be her motivation, for he had none. He hated to crush her unduly, for though they were far apart in station, thoughts, and education, her trusting and simple admiration of him as a man could not but touch his heart.

  “My dear child, I cherish all the souls within my cure. But the love between a man and woman needs a strong foundation to lead to marriage. We do not know each other and I am unlikely ever to marry, with my family to support, you know.” He tried to be as gentle as he could.

  “And if you did, it would be to a lady. I see that now, sir. I’m very sorry.” Dilly broke into sobs as shame at her silliness washed over her. “It was only that the young missus is fond of me and she told me one night as we had a little sip of cowslip wine together that she had got the master to marry her and he was above her too. She told ‘im she was having a babby and got ‘im to the altar, but it wanna true. She wa
s laughing when she said it. All sorts of folks tell me I’m pretty so I thought you might like me, and I’ve not told you a lie, neither.”

  Edmund felt it would be wise not to put his arm around the sobbing girl and so perhaps revive any fading idea in her head that he might respond to her undoubted charms, but his heart did go out to her. Her story threw much light onto the marriage of Mr Wood, but he was alarmed that Dilly might spread gossip about the town and bring the younger Mrs Wood into disrepute. The repercussions on her daughter-in-law and maidservant from the elder mistress alone would be more than the maid at least deserved.

  “You must not tell anyone about your mistress, Dilly, promise me that. No one at all, not even your mother or Annie or Jessie, you know.”

  “Yes sir, I promise. She is good to me, sir and ‘as such pretty things. She’s kinder than old Mrs Wood; I wouldn’t want to hurt her.” Satisfied, Edmund returned to the most pressing problem.

  “You are certainly very pretty, Dilly, no one can say otherwise. But you must plan carefully now, for the baby’s sake and your own. Will Frank marry you? Will you need anyone to speak to him for you?”

  “I dunno. He might.” Dilly scrubbed ineffectually at her wet and miserable face. “If ‘e dunna, it wunna matter much.” She spoke with an indifference all the more shocking for its innocence. “I’ll go home to Mum. We’ll manage somehow. I got quite a bit saved. She can look after it with that and I’ll find another job.”

  “You might find it harder to get work if people think you have been ruined, Dilly. You must give this very careful consideration. Marriage will give you respectability again, but if you cannot be happy with him, then why ever did you allow him to get you with child?” Edmund was aware of the frosty faces and pursed lips of some of the less generous hearted matrons that would meet the silly girl as they crowed and gossiped with relish over her condition. As a clergyman, he could not condone her heedless sin but he knew that from whispered confessions he had heard in the past that women could not always fend off a man intent on his pleasure, even if they were strong-minded, which Dilly clearly was not.