Without a Mother's Love Read online

  ‘Aye, well, now she’s growing up and, what with her wild ways, he has to protect her from herself.’

  ‘She not really feral.’

  ‘You saw her, didn’t you? She goes out on the moor to heaven knows where, taking up with passing vagrants and the like. It’s not right.’

  ‘She is still a child, Mrs Cookson. There is no worldliness about her. As far as I can tell.’

  ‘And what would you know of the world?’

  ‘We had all sorts of girls come to us at Blackstone, including some who were far more knowing than they should have been for their years. I do not see the same signs in Miss Olivia.’

  Mrs Cookson snorted. ‘You’d better tell that to the master. He thinks all men are like him where women are concerned.’

  Harriet tried not to show her anxiety at the way Mrs Cookson was speaking about her employer. ‘Olivia is not a woman yet.’

  ‘No, but she’s growing fast.’

  Harriet pursed her lips. ‘Perhaps. Is there a Mrs Mexton?’

  ‘There used to be. Two of ’em. But the master’s wife passed on more’n thirty year ago.’

  ‘And he married again?’

  ‘No. T’other one was his son’s wife. Long gone, she is. He lost his son early on, you see. Thrown from his horse. I think that affected the master more than anything. Made him worse with his drinking and his women.’

  ‘The master has women?’ Harriet’s shock was evident in her voice.

  ‘Notorious around here. Hadn’t you ’eard?’ Mrs Cookson gulped from her tankard.

  ‘But what sort of example is that for Miss Olivia?’

  ‘Oh, he doesn’t bring ’em here. I suppose he thinks I don’t know why he goes off into town of a night and doesn’t come home until morning.’

  ‘Well, how do you know, Mrs Cookson?’

  ‘Because Matt from the farm goes into town now and then. And he tells me anything I want ter know for a drop o’ rum.’ Mrs Cookson jangled her keys ‘The master trusts me wi’ these, you see.’

  Was this why none of the other teachers had wanted to come here? Harriet asked herself. No wonder they had been surprised when she was so eager. But she was determined to stay, whatever it took. She would guide and protect Olivia for as long as she could. Whether or not Mrs Cookson was right and this was an ungodly house, Harriet most certainly was not. And, if the master did not interfere, she would make sure that Olivia was not either.As a charity girl, Harriet knew the importance of her virtue. The school had made it clear to her that her good name was all she had.

  She said, ‘I shall make a point of teaching Miss Olivia to value her virtue. Blackstone may have had its faults but it taught its girls the worth of moral conduct and duty.’

  ‘Aye. Pious lot, they are. All folk aren’t like that, though. You’ll find that out now you’ve left.’

  ‘I am aware of sin, Mrs Cookson, and of its consequences.’

  ‘Aye.’ Mrs Cookson half laughed as she said it and her speech was becoming slurred. ‘We’ll all be damned in hell.’

  ‘I hope you do not speak like that in front of the child!’

  ‘Miss Olivia? Bless ’er, she’s the only decent thing living here. You keep her decent. That’s all I ask.’

  Well, of course I will, Harriet thought irritably. That was her task. ‘Do you think you should be taking quite so much rum at this hour? It will interfere with your sleep, surely.’

  ‘When you’ve been living up here for a year or so, you’ll understand the need of a drink or two of a night-time.’ Mrs Cookson was becoming maudlin.‘Both the same, the Mextons. Their bellies and their cocks, that’s all they’re interested in.They get their bellies filled here and their cocks serviced in town . . .’

  Harriet was shocked but knew it was the rum talking. ‘Shall I help you to bed, Mrs Cookson? Where do you sleep?’

  The older woman did not reply. She picked up the stone bottle and went out of the kitchen door, locking it behind her. ‘Don’t bolt it,’ she called, as she crossed the yard.

  In the fading light, Harriet watched her go into the stables, no doubt in search of a drinking companion. She went upstairs to her tiny bedchamber, planning Olivia’s salvation from the self-indulgent ways that seemed to be the custom at Hill Top House.

  That night the breeze rose to a full-blown wind. It crept in around the windows and door frames. Unfastened gates and trees creaked outside and heavy rain beat on the roof. Harriet lay awake listening, imagining the wildness of the exposed moor and wondering if Mrs Cookson’s disposition was the result of living in this inhospitable place.

  In the darkness, when the house was quiet, she feared for the life she would have to live here. She had not warmed to Mrs Cookson and shivered, suddenly feeling very much alone. But the Lord had led her here, and she said a prayer for the pupils and teachers she had left behind at Blackstone, asking Him to find them suitable positions as He had done for her. She fell asleep eventually, secure in the knowledge that she was safe indoors, warm and well fed, and able to repay her betters for the shelter they had given her over the years.

  In the bedchamber next door, Olivia fretted about the wind and rain and wished it would go away. She put a pillow over her head and imagined she was shut up in her imaginary castle, safe and sound from the storm. But, even then, she could still hear the wind, howling around her ears . . .

  It whistled through the crevices, rattling wooden doors and shutters, tearing relentlessly at her bonnet, which was sodden with rain, the lashing, thrashing rain. She was crying. ‘Mama, Mama, I want Mama.’ But nobody came. Timbers creaked and groaned, canvas ripped and flapped.

  The ship listed violently and she was thrown to the deck among all the crashing and grinding. She clutched at a piece of rope. Men were shouting and women crying, and there was water, so much water, everywhere, salty on her lips and all over her so she couldn’t breathe. And the creaking and groaning, crashing and crying . . .

  ‘Wake up, Olivia.’ Miss Trent was bending over her with a candle, shaking her shoulder.

  ‘Mama, Mama.’ She had been crying in her sleep again. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

  ‘It’s just a dream, Olivia.’

  Olivia wept. Her mother was never there in her dream. Nor her papa. Just the men who had rescued her. They had black faces and spoke to her in a strange language. That was when she screamed. But Miss Trent had woken her before that bit. She looked at her calm, pale features and was glad she was there. The black men had been kind to her, but she had not known that at the time.

  ‘Would you like some milk?’ Miss Trent asked.

  She nodded.

  ‘And I shall read to you.’

  ‘In the middle of the night?’

  ‘I don’t see why not.’ Miss Trent lit the candle by her bed. ‘Will you be comfortable for a few minutes?’

  Olivia sniffed and nodded again. When Miss Trent brought the milk, it was warm and sweet. Then she told Olivia about the kings and queens of England. And it was interesting, but she was tired and her eyes kept closing. She must have fallen asleep for the next thing she knew it was daylight and someone was out in the yard, pumping water into the horse trough.

  The next afternoon. Miss Trent took her on what she called a ‘nature walk’. They followed a track past the farm buildings that led to the moor. It went by the old garden, and when Olivia saw the overgrown wall she quickened her step. She did not want questions about her secret wilderness.The gap where the door had been was filled with brambles except where she had pushed through, and as Olivia hurried by, Miss Trent asked what was behind the wall.

  ‘Nothing,’ she answered, then added, ‘but there might be dragons.’

  ‘Dragons? Do they breathe fire?’

  ‘I expect so.’ She took Miss Trent’s hand and tugged.‘Come.’

  But Miss Trent could not be budged. ‘Shall we explore?’

  ‘No!’ Olivia let go of her hand and ran up the track towards the moor. She scrambled over
a dry-stone wall, ducked behind it and crawled back in the direction of Hill Top House until she rolled into a hollow in the ground and was out of sight. She heard Miss Trent calling, sounding frantic. Olivia peered carefully over the wall. With satisfaction, she saw her governess moving up the track away from her and settled back, leaning against the wall to recover her breath.

  She wondered briefly if she’d be beaten for this. But Miss Trent hadn’t beaten her last night when she had disturbed her sleep. Instead, she had been kind. Mrs Cookson was like that sometimes, although it never lasted long. Her governess would be the same as all the other grown-ups, she thought.

  When the voice calling her became faint she climbed back over the wall, ran across the track and behind the old walled garden. It was a long way round through the scrub and she flopped on to her belly as she neared the spot where Miss Trent was standing, shading her eyes and scanning the moorland.

  She crawled on all fours, pulling herself along the ground with her arms and legs, trying to imitate the farm cat as he stalked rats in the barn. She narrowed her eyes, prepared to pounce, and was disappointed when she raised her head to see her governess retracing her steps down the track. She had stopped calling her name and Olivia panicked: Miss Trent was heading for the door to the old garden.

  She jumped to her feet, and cried,‘Over here! Come quickly, there’s a snake!’

  Miss Trent turned and ran towards her. ‘Where? Did it bite you?’

  ‘No, it’s gone.’ She watched the older woman’s face change from relief to - well, Olivia wasn’t sure. Not anger, she thought. Miss Trent’s gentle smile disappeared and the grey eyes stared without blinking.

  ‘I expect it was frightened of you. Vipers usually are,’ Miss Trent said. ‘Why did you run away? Are you frightened of me?’

  ‘No. I gave you a fright, though, didn’t I?’ Olivia thought this would make her cross, but Miss Trent merely continued to gaze at her.

  ‘You most certainly do now,’ she responded.‘You’re a dreadful sight, with twigs in your hair and your gown dirty and torn. You will have to mend that tonight instead of listening to a story. Shall we finish our nature walk?’ Miss Trent took a firm grip on Olivia’s hand and set off up the track at a brisk pace.

  Reluctantly, Olivia followed her, growing warm with the exercise. She was relieved when Miss Trent suggested they rest on a boulder. Olivia sat beside her, watching the sheep graze and the rabbits romping in the scrubby pasture.

  ‘Do you know what they’re doing?’ Miss Trent asked.

  ‘The rabbits? They’re fighting.The doves fight like that sometimes. They chase around and jump on each other’s backs.’

  Miss Trent didn’t say much more but she asked Olivia to pick some flowers: they would take them back to the schoolroom. ‘We shall find out their names from a book,’ she said.

  Olivia didn’t reply. She knew some of them already from Mrs Cookson, but she wasn’t going to tell that to Miss Trent. It was easier walking down the track, and Olivia was pleased to hurry as she was hungry. As they passed the old garden Miss Trent asked her if she wanted to go dragon-hunting.

  ‘No!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘Another day, then.’

  Olivia became thoughtful. Miss Trent wasn’t like Mrs Cookson, who told her to be seen and not heard and not to answer back. Mrs Cookson soon lost patience with her, when she had to get back to her work, leaving Olivia to do as she liked as long as Uncle Hesley didn’t find out.

  Miss Trent was different. She didn’t give up like Mrs Cookson and she was quicker in every way. Olivia wouldn’t be able to escape from her governess so easily. She hoped Miss Trent wouldn’t be with her every minute of the day or she would never again be able to go to her wilderness. If her governess was here to stay, would she ever have any proper freedom?

  A few days later Olivia was copying letters on her slate in the schoolroom when Harriet heard horses on the cobbles in the yard. Out of the window, she saw the master return with a gentleman in his middle years. Both looked angry and dishevelled and they left their horses loose when they went indoors. Matt came hurrying out to gather up the trailing reins and tend the steaming beasts.

  An hour later, Harriet hurried past the sound of raised voices coming from the library as she went to fetch water for Olivia to wash before dinner. The kitchen was filled with a delicious smell of roasting pork and tangy stewed apple.

  Mrs Cookson was busy laying a tray.‘You’d better have your dinner up there today. The master’s in a rage. I should stay out of his way,’ she said.

  Harriet remembered how irrational the principal at Blackstone could be when he was angered. She considered this good advice but was curious none the less. ‘What’s happened?’ she asked.

  ‘There’s been a ruck at the pit.’

  ‘An accident? Is anyone hurt?’

  ‘Nay, nowt like that, thank heaven. Keep the child upstairs. Yourself too. He’s got his pit manager with him and the pair of them are already on the rum.’

  Harriet ate the savoury duck in gravy with peas, and planned how she could occupy Olivia in the schoolroom for the rest of the day. The child hated to be cooped up in good weather and looked forward to her afternoon nature walk.

  ‘I want to go to the privy,’ Olivia whined.

  ‘Use your chamber pot,’ Harriet suggested.

  ‘I might wet my drawers.’

  ‘Take them off and roll down your stockings.’ She rummaged in the cupboard for a book. ‘Then I shall read to you and you must close your eyes, imagine a picture in your head and draw it for me on a slate.’

  As Olivia occupied herself with chalk, Harriet realized there might be an innocent explanation for why she had taken off her drawers outside. Had she simply been too far away to come back to the privy? But she was not a lazy child and preferred the outside privy to the chamber pot. In summer, at least. Later, when Harriet had to go downstairs, the library was quiet and Mrs Cookson was dozing by the kitchen fire.

  ‘Has the pit manager left?’ she asked.

  ‘They’re sleeping it off in the drawing room. But it’s a bad do.’

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Matt said the coal seam is worked out and it’s mostly slack what’s left, so the master’s cut his colliers’ wages and they’ve been complaining.’

  ‘Well, I’m not surprised. I suppose they have to work just as hard to mine it.’

  Mrs Cookson gave one of her snorting laughs. ‘Aye, and the master can only sell it for half the price.’

  ‘When shall I bring Olivia down for tea?’

  ‘Best not to when the master’s been drinking. He’ll be wanting his own tea when he wakes. Come for a tray and I’ll cut you some cold meat.’

  It must have been late when the pit manager left because Harriet did not hear his horse on the cobbles before she fell asleep.

  In the morning Mrs Cookson was out of sorts, and Harriet guessed that the master would be the same when he woke, so she took her pupil straight outside after breakfast.

  ‘We’re going dragon-hunting,’ she explained.

  ‘I don’t want to,’ Olivia protested.

  Harriet had to take her by the hand and pull her along until they had left the house and its outbuildings behind them. She stopped by the old walled garden. ‘This is your garden, isn’t it?’ she asked.

  ‘What if it is?’

  ‘It must be special to you.’

  ‘It’s a secret.’

  ‘Will you show me if I promise not to tell anyone?’

  Olivia looked at her resentfully and Harriet wondered if she would run away again, but she was already learning how to punish her without beatings - or restricting her diet to bread and water as they did at Blackstone. Rather, she had noticed how much the child enjoyed being read to and used that to reward her improving behaviour.

  Harriet smiled. ‘Shall I go in first?’

  ‘No! You can’t! It’s my secret!’

  ‘Oh. Will you invite me in?’

/>   ‘You’ll tell Uncle Hesley.’

  ‘I have promised that I shall not.’

  ‘Not even if he beats you?’

  Harriet Trent was alarmed by that, but answered, ‘Not even if he beats me. It will be our secret, ours alone.’

  Harriet found some fallen branches to hold back the brambles, observing that a few shreds of fabric were caught on the thorns. She followed Olivia through the gap into what must once have been a productive garden. Brambles, ivy and bindweed grew everywhere, except in the far corner where a gnarled spreading apple tree seemed to be winning the battle for sunlight. The ground underneath was dry and scattered with kitchen implements, including a wooden bucket, a large long-handled spoon and a metal tankard big enough for ale. Beside it, the brambles had been cleared to reveal the low stone walls of a seed bed, its glass covers long gone. An old spade was stuck in a patch of soil. ‘I don’t see any dragons,’ she remarked.

  ‘I only said there might be.’

  Harriet surveyed heaps of dried mud at regular intervals along the seed-frame walls and detected a passing resemblance to the battlements in the book illustration. ‘Did you build this castle yourself?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes. It’s mine.’

  ‘Of course.’ Harriet picked up the heavy wooden bucket and sniffed, withdrawing her nose sharply. ‘Are you building your castle with this mud?’

  Olivia picked up the tankard. ‘I use this to make the turrets and I collect water in the bucket when it rains. But sometimes it doesn’t rain enough and the mud doesn’t stick together.’

  ‘So you provide a little more yourself.’ A childish pastime, she thought, born of boredom. ‘Is that when you take off your drawers?’

  Miss Olivia stared at her. ‘How did you know?’

  Harriet plucked a fragment of white cotton from a bramble on the path. She was relieved that she had judged the child correctly. ‘I shall keep your castle a secret, Olivia,’ she said, ‘but now that you’re nearly thirteen, I think I can find more interesting things for you to do outdoors. Shall we go back?’

  When they arrived at the house, Mrs Cookson was agitated. ‘Why weren’t you in the schoolroom? The master’s leaving after dinner and he wants to see you first. Go in there now.’