Every Mother's Son (8 page)

The water was surging against the path outside the cottage as he approached. The property belonged to the Hart estate and was once the home of Mrs Marshall, a former cook, after her retirement from the manor. It was to Mrs Marshall that Ellen had gone scurrying in pique and defiance when Christopher Hart had told her that he had changed his plans and she could no longer stay at Marsh Farm, that he had another purpose for the land. She had never left, even after Mrs Marshall’s death, and Christopher Hart, feeling guilty for turning her out of the farm, charged her only a peppercorn rent.

She’d have been better accepting the cottage in Brough that Hart had first offered her, Fletcher considered as he climbed down from the cart and made the horse fast. She’d have been more comfortable, and safe from the estuary waters if they should flood over the path and into the cottage. But some devilment within her had made her defy them all and choose to live a lonely life by the Haven; it’s so that we’ll worry about her, Fletcher concluded as he tapped on the locked door. It was a challenge, he’d decided long ago, but a challenge that no one had taken up.

He was kept waiting as always; it was as if she wanted whoever was disturbing her to go away. But she would know his familiar knock; it was just another idiosyncrasy that she deployed, another eccentricity to show that she didn’t care a jot about anyone.

After waiting a few more minutes, he walked round to the back of the cottage and found his mother standing by the open back door with an axe in her hand. ‘In God’s name, what ’you doing!’ But he knew what she was up to. She had heard him at the front door and intended giving him a fright.

‘Chopping wood, what does it look like? I need to keep a good fire. It’s cold by these waters.’

He looked towards the log pile that he had chopped the last time he was here. There was plenty of wood, enough for two weeks at least, and Christopher Hart often sent a sack of coal.

‘You don’t need to do this, Ma. You’ve plenty of fuel. Put the axe down and I’ll split some more before I leave.’

She grunted but leaned the axe against the wall. ‘Talking of leaving as soon as you get here,’ she grumbled.

He didn’t retaliate. He needed her in a reasonable humour. If they ever argued he always left feeling disgruntled and frustrated. He followed her into the small porch and then into her only room, where a pan of stew was bubbling over a bright fire. At least she cooked, he thought. She wouldn’t starve. He unfastened his coat and unwrapped his scarf.

She sat down in the chair that had been his father’s when they’d lived at Marsh Farm. Her bony hands rested on the worn upholstered arms as she gazed at him. He had often noticed that she seemed to take a perverse pleasure in sitting in that chair, as if by doing so she was claiming victory over Nathaniel, her long dead, much maligned husband.

‘Are you all right?’ he asked, sitting opposite her.

‘Have to be, haven’t I? There’s nobody to care if I’m not.’ Her voice was forthright, her straight back uncompromising. ‘And to what do I owe ’pleasure o’ this visit?’ There was no delight or joy at seeing him and he knew that she was hoping for some indiscretion or misunderstanding that she could pounce upon.

‘Do I have to have a reason to come? Am I not welcome?’

She blinked. ‘In my experience folk who call generally have a purpose in mind. They don’t come to talk about ’weather.’

I won’t argue with her, he decided. It’ll spoil my day. ‘Well, I didn’t think that I counted as
folk
,’ he said genially. ‘Who else has been who wanted summat?’

She gave him a sharp look. ‘So you do want summat?’

He shook his head and sighed. ‘It was a figure o’ speech, Ma. A joke.’

She turned her face away. ‘I don’t understand jokes,’ she muttered. ‘Never did. Life isn’t funny.’

‘You spend too much time on your own,’ he told her. ‘Why don’t I look for a cottage in Brough or Elloughton for you? You’d see more people, have—’

‘I don’t want to see more folk,’ she snapped. ‘Nosy busybodies most o’ them. I’m all right here. I’ll decide when I want to be somewhere else.’

‘I’ve brought you some eggs and a bacon shank, and bread,’ he ventured. ‘I think we’re in for some snow.’

‘Who baked ’bread?’ she demanded.

‘Maria,’ he lied, knowing that she’d throw it out for the ducks and geese on the Haven waters if he’d said that Harriet had baked it, which she had.

She nodded. ‘It’ll save me baking,’ she said grudgingly. ‘And my hens have gone off lay so I’ll use ’eggs. Now tell me why you’ve really come.’ The question was sudden and he was taken aback.

‘Next time I’m coming I’ll send you a postcard with a list o’ reasons on it,’ he said tersely. ‘Then you can be prepared.’

She didn’t answer and Fletcher drew in a breath. ‘If you don’t want me to come, I won’t,’ he said abruptly; the only time his temper rose was when he was with his mother and it was rising now. ‘So if this is to be ’last time, then yes, there are some things I want to ask you.’

He saw by her expression that she knew she had gone too far in her cat and mouse game; if he didn’t come to see her there would be no one she could use for her whipping boy, no one else who would tolerate her moods, her bitterness and resentment that life had treated her unfairly, for the fact was that no one else did come, not even his children, although they would have done if they’d thought she was glad to see them.

She waited for him to continue and he in turn waited to order his thoughts, to decide on the best approach, knowing already that there wasn’t a best way or a right way; she was going to be angry however he said it.

‘My children,’ he began.
My
children, not
our
children; she wouldn’t tolerate even a vague reference to the mother of his children. ‘My children are growing up, and as you might know they have been friends of Christopher Hart’s children since they were very young.’

He had her attention now: her eyes narrowed, and her forehead creased into a frown. ‘You mean Noah’s son, not your bairns,’ she corrected. ‘She used to tek him to ’manor.’

‘No,’ he said softly, ‘all of them. Mostly Daniel, I agree; he’s a similar age to ’twins. But lately Maria too; she went with him to ’twins’ sixteenth birthday party up at ’manor.’

‘And?’ she said. ‘What’s that to do wi’ owt?’

He held her gaze. ‘It’s to do with what you once said. About me. About my parentage. I want to know if what you said back then is really true.’ Or if you were speaking out of spite, he thought. As we know that you can and do.

Her mouth twisted and she grunted. ‘Why would I lie?’ she muttered. ‘What would be ’advantage o’ that?’

‘But can you be sure?’ he hedged. ‘My father, Nathaniel – surely he would have guessed?’

‘Of course I’m sure!’ Her voice was strident, outraged, censuring him for such an unseemly suggestion. ‘Huh! Mr Tuke believed me all right. He was that proud that he’d sired a son.’ She paused, and then smirked. ‘At least he was at first. He might have had doubts as you got older cos you looked nowt like him. But it was too late by then.’

Fletcher closed his eyes, defeated. What was to be done? He opened them to find her staring at him.

‘You’ve spoiled your chances, o’ course,’ she muttered.

‘What?’ Baffled, Fletcher stared back at her.

‘Spoiled your chances. You should have gone to him – Christopher – like I said all them years ago.’ Ellen nibbled her nails. ‘You should have told him afore his wife gave birth to them twin babbies, you’d have been ’eldest son then, seeing as his first wife onny gave him a daughter. It might still work,’ she rumbled on. ‘You’d still be heir to ’estate even if from ’wrong side o’ blanket, but she might mek trouble; his second wife, I mean. She’ll want it for her sons.’

‘Mother!’ he shouted, and stood up. ‘Don’t you understand? I’m not talking about
me
. I’m talking about my
children
and what it means to them!’

She looked up at him. ‘They’ll be way down in ’pecking order,’ she sneered. ‘Especially with a mother like they’ve got and wi’ knowledge that she was once married to Noah.’

He lifted his hands in exasperation. ‘Are you being obtuse or do you really not understand what I’m saying? I’m telling you, Ma, that
my
children are friends of Christopher Hart’s children. What if they should form an attachment?’

He thought of Maria’s animated conversation when he had collected her and Daniel from the party. He’d pretended he wasn’t listening as she described the talks she had had with Stephen, but he was, and he’d grown afraid. Nothing would come of it, he had persuaded himself. They are way out of our class, but then so had his mother been, and Christopher Hart had gone dallying where he should not.

‘They’d not,’ she said. But her voice trembled.

‘They have three sons,’ he exploded, his voice breaking. ‘And I have three daughters! And are you telling me, once and for all, that their father Christopher Hart is also
my
father? Is it true or not?’

She looked at him for only a moment before turning her head away so that he could only see her profile, which told him nothing. She lifted her chin, in pride or defiance he couldn’t tell, but there was no shame, no regret for what had gone before or the future consequences of her actions.

‘It’s true.’ She turned back to face him. ‘I knew he couldn’t marry me, but I didn’t care about that. Men like him don’t marry for love, but they can marry to please their family and take a mistress elsewhere, and that’s what I wanted and expected.’

Fletcher saw his mother’s face slump and crease and she suddenly looked very old. ‘I loved him,’ she whispered. ‘And I thought he loved me and mebbe he did, but he’s such a principled man.’ Her voice grew bitter. ‘And his principles meant more to him than I did and so he didn’t betray his wife. Men!’ she scoffed. ‘You’re all ’same in ’long run. You tek what you want and then leave. Even you,’ she added scathingly. ‘You said you wanted ’truth but what you really wanted me to say was that I lied ’first time I told you. But I didn’t lie. You are Christopher Hart’s son and every time I see you I’m reminded of him and it’s like a knife driven through my heart.’

CHAPTER TEN

Fletcher said nothing to Harriet about his mother until they’d gone upstairs that evening and then he sat on the edge of the bed with his chin in his hands. Harriet was propped up on her pillow waiting for him to speak.

‘She’s confirmed that it’s true,’ he muttered. ‘She thought that Hart would keep her as his mistress after he married. I can’t—’ he stopped. ‘I can’t … think of her in that way. She’s my mother, for God’s sake!’ he said bitterly. ‘I can’t think of her being – being—’ He broke off.

‘You can’t think of her being young or willing to consider being a gentleman’s sweetheart when he was married to someone else?’ Harriet murmured.

A doxy we’d have called her in ’streets of Hull, she thought. A drab, a young man’s bit on the side. But I know how devious she can be, I’ve had a taste of it, and I wonder if Christopher Hart saw through her too, perhaps even realized that she would want more of his time, more commitment than he could ever give. And did he ever guess or did she tell him that her child was his?

‘No,’ Fletcher said at last. ‘I can’t. And yet for all those years he gave her ’tenancy of Marsh Farm.’

‘To keep her quiet,’ Harriet said, and saw Fletcher’s pained expression. ‘I’m sorry, Fletcher, but that would be ’way it was.’

He gave a wry sigh and climbed into bed. ‘You women.’ He kissed her cheek. ‘How is it that you know everything there is to know about men?’

They lay sleepless for an hour, murmuring about what to do, and finally decided that there wasn’t any real threat. Maria wasn’t likely to see much of Stephen after he went back to school, and, Harriet thought, Melissa Hart has her suspicions. I don’t know how or why she does, maybe she’s questioned her husband about his life as a young man and Ellen Tuke’s name cropped up more than once, or more often than a servant girl’s should, but she knows something, I’m convinced of it; and that’s why I went to see her all those years ago before Fletcher and I got married. I have no doubt that she will keep her sons away from our daughters.

‘Tom,’ Daniel said, ‘seeing as we’ve got a quiet spell, can we go out in your boat one day?’

‘Fishing?’ Tom asked. ‘It’ll be a bit choppy to go out of ’estuary.’

‘I didn’t specially mean fishing, but I suppose if we caught some supper it’d be a bonus. No, I meant to find out if I could spend time in a boat without being sick again!’

Tom had taken him out on other occasions and Daniel had thrown up over the side of the boat as soon as they’d hit rough water.

‘Mine’s onny a small boat,’ Tom said. ‘That’s why you’re sick. In a bigger boat or a ship you might not be. Are you still considering being a sailor?’

‘Well, mebbe not, but I’d quite like to travel – onny don’t tell my ma yet – and wherever I go, if I want to travel abroad I’ll have to go across water at some time.’

‘Unless you climb aboard a herring gull’s back,’ Tom laughed. ‘Aye, all right. But have you thought that if you do go away we’ll be a man short on ’farm?’

Daniel nodded. ‘I’ve thought of that but it won’t be yet, not for a couple of years, and by then Joseph will be able to do a few jobs to help Lenny, won’t he?’

‘Aye,’ Tom said thoughtfully, ‘so if you’re not careful, Dan, you’ll be mekking yourself redundant!’

‘I’ve thought of that too, and I’ve wondered if ’farm is going to keep all of us.’

‘Ah, I get it, so you’ll go off and mek your fortune and come home and keep us all in luxury?’

‘That’s it,’ Daniel agreed. ‘So you don’t need to worry about your old age, Tom. I’ll tek care of you.’

‘Will you find me a nice little wife as well?’ Tom asked. ‘One who can cook and keep house just like your ma?’

‘That’d be impossible,’ Daniel said. ‘She’s one in a million. There’s nobody in ’world like my ma.’

In January at Hart Holme, Charles and Beatrice were preparing to go away. Charles was looking forward to being back at school; he enjoyed the company of his schoolfellows and was doing well with his studies, but when he thought of his future here on the estate and eventually taking over from his father he had a few misgivings as to whether he would settle down in the country. He thought often of the conversation that he and Daniel had had about travelling abroad together and considered that they would be ideal companions. Daniel was practical and easy-going, optimistic and always ready with a quip to lighten a conversation, whereas he regarded himself as more serious, with an interest in people, history and art. Above all, he spoke French and had the option next year of taking another language. As yet, however, he had said nothing to his parents of any of this.