Miss Mary Martha Crawford

by

Catherine Cookson

Also by Catherine Marchant

HOUSE OF MEN HERITAGE OF FOLLY THE FEN TIGER

and published by Corgi Books Catherine Marchant

Miss Mary Martha Grawford

C0R05 BOOKS A DIVISION OFTRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS LTD

MISS MARY MARTHA GRAWFORD A CORGI BOOK o 552 10321 ^

Originally published in Great Britain by William Heinemann Ltd.

PRINTING mS TORY William Heinemann edition published 1975 . Corgi

edition published

Copyright Catherine Cookson 1975

Conditions of sale i: This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

2: This book is sold subject to the Standard Conditions of Sale of New Books and may not be re-sold in the U.

K.

below the net price fixed by the publishers for the book.

This book is set in Intertype Baskerville

Corgi Books are published by Transworld Publishers Ltd, Century House, 61-63 Uxbridge Road, Baling, London W5 5SA Made and printed in Great Britain by Cox & Wyman Ltd, London, Reading and Fakenham Contents PART ONE 1879.

THE HABITATION Page 7

PART TWO THE DOCTORS Page 93

PART FOUR THE RIVER DECIDES Page 283

i8^g. The Habitation

'martha mary! Martha Mary! it's beginning to snow again. " The young girl racing down the broad, shallow oak stairs almost overturned her sister who was crossing the hall, her arms full of freshly ironed

linen, and Martha, steadying herself, cried harshly, "If I had dropped Papa's shirts I would have shaken you, Nancy. I know it is snowing

again; it has been for the past hour. Where've you been? " After throwing her loose fair hair back from her shoulders, Nancy bowed her head slightly as she said, "In the attics with Mildred; she was hoping to find a dress she could turn. "

Martha, about to walk away, stopped again and said slowly and quietly,

"Both you and Mildred know that there is only one trunk of Mama's clothing left up there and Papa will not allow these dresses to be cut up for whatever good reason you might propose. We have been through

all this before, Nancy."

"Oh--' Nancy now shrugged her shoulders 'it doesn't matter to me, I don't care what I wear, but it's Mildred. She says she'll soon be

ashamed to go out, we're all like rag bags

Again Martha paused from turning away and her voice, lower now, had a sad note to it as she said, "For the kind of people we meet when we go out it doesn't matter much what we look like."

"She's... she's hoping for an invitation.,.."

"An invitation! From whom? Where?"

"The Hall. The Brockdeans. They always give a dance at Christmas and"

Martha's expression now changed, as did her voice.

"And whom do they-give it for?" she asked flatly.

"Their staff, their servants.

Does she want to be invited as one of them? "

"She... she wasn't meaning the staff ball, Martha Mary." They now stared at each other until Martha, easing one hand from the bottom of the pile of linen, placed it on the top and gently pushed back into

position a white silk shirt and without lowering her eyes to it nicked an imaginary speck of dust from the collar; then she asked a quiet

question of Nancy, "Have we ever been invited to their January ball?"

Nancy made no reply to this, but she continued to stare at her elder sister and Martha said, "So what makes Mildred think that this year will be any different from others?"

"Lady Brockdean spoke to her when they met in Hexham last week."

"Lady Brockdean acknowledged us when passing through the Market Place in Hexham last week."

Instead of accepting this as the last word on the matter, Nancy stepped close to Martha and whispered, "It wasn't only then, Martha Mary. She didn't tell you, but they met in Bell's Bell & Riddle, the chemists they had a conversation Lady Brockdean asked how Father was, and she said she was going to visit our shop because there was a book she

wished to order, and when they parted she expressed a wish, well, I

mean she made a sort of statement, Mildred said, that they would meet again."

"Nancy!"

"Yes, Martha."

"You and I know that Lady Brockdean is a kindly, well- intentioned woman, and we know that Miss Rosalind is a nice girl, and Master

William a very nice young man, but we also know that Sir Rupert is a hard, implacable, domineering arrogant individual." Her voice rose as she ended, "So why can't Mildred realize once and for all that no one is invited to the Hall except through Sir Rupert.... Oh, what am I

wasting time for. And where's Mildred now?"

"In her room."

"Well, go and get her this very minute, and then both of you take wood and coal up to Papa's room and keep the fire banked, and as soon as he enters the yard help Peg carry the hot water up," "Yes, Martha."

Nancy's tone was resigned, and she turned away and ran back up the

stairs holding her long faded serge dress almost up to her knees so as not to impede her progress. But she hadn't reached the top before she stopped and, leaning over the banister, she called down, "Will you ask Papa if I may ride Belle tomorrow, that is if the snow doesn't lie?"

Without turning round Martha called back, "Yes; if the snow doesn't lie."

"Oh, good. Thanks, Martha Mary."

As Nancy's feet pounded away up the remainder of the stairs and across the landing, Martha left the stone-flagged hall, went down a short

passage, turned her back to a black oak door and with a thrust of her buttocks pushed it open and entered the room which was known in the

house as Papa's study.

The room was long and narrow. It had a marble-framed fireplace, and in the open grate a fire was burning brightly. Unlike the rest of the

house it was comparatively free from falderals. Apart from the

antimacassars on the two leather chairs and the long couch fronting the fire, the velvet mantel-border, and the deep be-tasselled pelmet

bordering the faded blue velvet curtains at the long window, it had an austere appearance. It was definitely a man's room, as was indicated by the hunting prints on the wall, the two standing pipe racks on the mantel shelf and the littered desk to the side of the window. Martha put the laundered washing very gently on to the round mahogany table that stood behind the couch. After dividing it into two piles in order that it shouldn't tumble, she looked down at it for a moment before

turning and going slowly towards the chair at the right-hand side of the fireplace.

Once seated, she lay back," closed her eyes, and let out a long drawn breath. She was tired, she was weary, and she was irritable. She

admitted to feeling all three, but at the same time she told herself that she must overcome these feelings before her papa came in, for her papa couldn't stand a long face; as he was wont to say, he lived on

smiles. Un fortunately, she was finding she was smiling less and less these days.

She looked back to the time when she saw herself as a happy, laughing girl, being often chastised for giggling; but that was before her

mother died giving birth to her seventh and last child. The child, a boy who was christened Harold, lived only one month; and a year later their youngest sister Jeanette died at the age of six years. This was the second sister they had lost in five years.

She was fifteen when her mother died, and from that time she had taken over the management of the household. Was it only four and a half

years ago? At times it seemed that she had always managed the house, always chastised the girls, always worried over Aunt Sophie, and for ever asked questions of herself, questions that she wanted to put to her papa but couldn't, even though last year when he sold the mill she had dared to ask why. But as usual he had treated her as a young girl who wouldn't understand anything that went on outside the running of the house. And that is what he had said. Holding her chin in his

hand, he had looked into her eyes and said softly, "If I were to tell you, you wouldn't understand, little mother."

The term, little mother, didn't, she considered, apply to her in any way and she wasn't flattered by it, for she did not see herself looking plain and homely as a little mother should. Yet she had no bust or

hips to speak of, at least not now. Since she was seventeen she seemed to have lost her shape, due, she thought, to two things:

she had grown taller, and she was never off her feet from morning till night running here and there.

Apart from Peg Thornycroft, who rose at five-thirty, she was the

earliest about in the household. Very often before Nick Bailey, their one and only handy lad. At one time she could remember Dilly Thompson rising at five, but now Dilly was nearing seventy and was worn out with work, a lifetime of work in this very house, for, like little Peg

Thorny croft, she had started in service here when she was eight years old. But Martha doubted very much if Peg would be ii here when she

was Hearing seventy. Peg now, at fourteen, was a quick-tongued,

high-spirited little miss who would likely make for the town before she was much older. And when that happened what would she do without her, for she was an excellent worker and what was more, she helped with Aunt Sophie. Poor Aunt Sophie, what was to become of her?

"And what's to become of me?"

She said the words aloud and they brought her ramrod straight in the chair. This was the third time of late she had spoken to herself, and words along these very same lines. There was something wrong with

her.

Her sleep was disturbed, she was having dreams that weren't quite

nice.

What was the matter with her?

Of a sudden she slumped back in the chair and put her hand over her

eyes. Why was she hoodwinking herself? She knew what was wrong with

her. She would be twenty on New Year's Day. She wanted to be married, she was ready to be married. And she could be married. Yes, she

could, but would her papa countenance an alliance between his daughter and the manager of his book-shop? She doubted it. Yet Mr. Ducat was

in every sense a gentleman; he spoke like a gentleman; he acted like a gentleman; his manners were perfect, and he was the most intelligent person she had ever met, so well read. She had said as much to her

papa, but he had laughed at her. There were gentlemen and gentlemen, he said, and how would she define the difference? Of course she had to admit she had met very few men other than tradesmen, for they had not entertained at all since her mother died. And not very much before, if she remembered rightly, part of the reason being, she supposed, they found all the entertainment they required within the family. And then, of course, there was the situation in which The Habitation was

placed.

She did not think of her home as Morland House but al ways as The

Habitation. Her mother was born in this house and she had loved it,

and it was she who had explained the reason why those in the cottages and shacks along the river bank always referred to the house as The

Habitation. It was because, she said, their houses being

single-storied and situated on still lower ground than the house were always flooded when the river rose, and so at such times, they would make for the house, and in the upstairs rooms and the attics they would be safe until the waters subsided. It was a sound habitation they used to say. What was more, although it was built in a hollow it had the

protection of a built-up river bank.

And they still said it today, although there were few people now left in the cottages, or even the hamlets, for over the past years most had made for the towns where the work and money was to be had. The

Habitation was situated seven miles from Hexham and almost twenty from Newcastle; the nearest places to it being Riding Mill to the west and Prudhoe to the east. The house itself stood at the end of the hollow with a hill rising sharply at some distance behind it, and about a

hundred yards from the river. The far side of the river was banked in most places by woodland, the trees coming almost down to the edge of the water, but apart from one or two copses, the land on this side of the river merged into meadows, almost up to the toll bridge two miles away.

There were six acres of ground attached to the house, mostly rough

paddock land. Years ago two acres had been given over to an ornamental garden surrounding the house and almost an acre to the growing of

vegetables and fruit. Now, less than a quarter of the latter was

cultivated, and the picturesque gardens were overgrown and in many

places were almost impregnable with blackthorn and bramble. The house had been originally bought in 1776 by Jacob Low-Pearson, Martha's

great-grandfather. It was then not anywhere near its present size, the thirty-foot-long stone- flagged hall being the main living-room, with a room at the back and a kitchen to the side and three bedrooms on the first floor, with small attics above. But over the years the house had been added to on both sides, and because of the river's unreliability these additions had been built on i3 higher foundations, but without the addition of more attics. Yet the extensions made the original

house appear as if it were sinking in the middle. To conform with the original structure the ceilings of the new parts had been kept low,

giving to the whole interior the illusion of great length.

Year could follow year when, if the river flooded, the water would

reach no further than the steps leading to the main front door; but

there were also times when it would swirl up the steps and flood the hall. It was said that one time it had reached the upper floor and