Never Look Back Read online

  ‘It’s so lovely,’ Matilda said, suddenly feeling very awkward about arriving here unannounced. She could see that the bright rag rugs and the curtains were Cissie’s handiwork, her appearance too was much more matronly, with her dark curly hair pulled back tightly into a bun. Now that Cissie had become respectable she might just have developed a prudish nature too!

  Cissie seemed to sense her friend’s anxiety, so instead of questioning her further, she suggested Sidney should take Tabitha outside to unyoke the oxen, sat Susanna on the floor with some wood blocks, took Amelia from her mother’s arms, quickly changed her napkin and tucked her into a wooden box to sleep.

  It was some time later over tea and thick slices of freshly made fruit loaf that Matilda gradually found herself able to explain what had happened since she last wrote, before Giles was killed.

  ‘I can’t tell you how terrible it was when he was killed, and then I found I was carrying his child,’ she blurted out. ‘I couldn’t stay in Independence, I’m sure you know how it would have been. But I can see how you’re fixed here, Cissie, just say if you want us to go. I only came because there was no one else to turn to.’

  Cissie stood up, putting her hands on her hips with that familiar defiant expression in her green eyes. ‘Now look here, Matty,’ she said. ‘Don’t you go thinking I’ve got all stuck up, I’m still the same old Cissie even if I’ve got a wedding ring on me finger now, and a house of me own. I ain’t never going to forget who the person was that helped me out of that cellar. I owe you, and now’s my chance to pay you back. So don’t you go talking about moving on. You and yours is staying here, for as long as you need us.’

  By the time John came in, supper, a big pot of chicken stew, was on the table, and Cissie had moved Susanna’s cot close to the bed Sidney shared with Peter, got the mattress out of the wagon, and made up a bed for Matilda and Tabitha on the floor. She said John would soon make another real bed, and they’d all be snug as bugs over the winter.

  John’s welcome was every bit as warm as Cissie’s. He was terribly shocked to hear of Giles’s death, even more so to find Matilda had a baby, but he quickly recovered and his words echoed his wife’s.

  ‘If it wasn’t for you and the Reverend,’ he said, reaching out to pat her hand reassuringly, ‘I doubt Peter would have survived, and I wouldn’t have met Cissie. So I’m glad to be able to take care of you and your children, Matty. Besides, Cissie and me love company. I really appreciate those fruit trees too, I can’t believe not one died on the way.’

  ‘I thought I was going to sometimes,’ Matilda admitted with a chuckle. ‘But I guess the trees didn’t have to do anything other than guzzle up the water.’

  Over supper they compared horror stories about their trips, all laughing at them now they were well behind them. It warmed Matilda’s heart to see how happy John and Cissie were together, and how Sidney was as important to them as Peter and Susanna. He spooned food into the little girl’s mouth as he ate his own, and it was he who changed her napkin and put her to bed in her cot.

  ‘We’d have found it very hard when we first got here without him,’ John said, smiling fondly as the boy tucked Susanna under a quilt. ‘Cissie couldn’t do much with the baby always in her arms. He chopped trees down with me, chained them up behind the oxen to haul them here, and worked like two grown men. Now I’m out at the sawmill getting that going, he does almost everything around here. I just hope he never wants to leave us.’

  Sidney’s head jerked up at that last statement and he grinned sheepishly. ‘Nothing would make me leave you,’ he said. ‘You’re my family now.’

  Matilda’s last thoughts as she drifted off to sleep that night with Tabitha and Amelia beside her were about Sidney’s remark. She too felt as if she was with family. It was a good, safe feeling, as if nothing could ever hurt her again.

  The next morning after John had gone off to the sawmill, and Sidney had taken Peter and Tabitha out to feed the animals, Matilda was sitting by the stove feeding Amelia while Cissie began to clear away the breakfast things.

  ‘Tell me more about this Captain Russell?’ Cissie suddenly asked.

  ‘I told you everything about him last night,’ Matilda replied in some surprise.

  ‘No you didn’t,’ Cissie retorted. ‘You said who he was, and that he was kind to you, but it sounded to me as if he were a bit more than a wagon master.’

  Matilda giggled. Cissie had changed beyond recognition since her early days at the Home, yet even sober clothes and her dark hair tucked under a cap couldn’t quite eradicate the street girl within her. There had always been her rather sly sideways glances, the ribald comments, the flash of mischief in her green eyes. To a certain extent it had still been apparent in Independence, but so muted that only someone who knew her well would notice it.

  Now there was nothing to distinguish her from any other wife and mother. She was plump, and gently spoken, and her grey dress, spotless apron and the way her dark curly hair was restrained all spoke of complete respectability. Yet that last incisive remark about Captain Russell proved she hadn’t quite forgotten her roots.

  Oh Cissie!’ Matilda exclaimed. ‘I was hardly likely to think of any man in that way in my situation. I just liked him. He became a real friend.’

  Cissie rolled her eyes impatiently. ‘You ain’t talkin’ to one of them Bible-punchers now,’ she said. ‘It’s me you’re talkin’ to! You took a fancy to him, I know you did, and from what you’ve said he was sweet on you an’ all.’

  Matilda blushed, but knowing Cissie wouldn’t let the subject drop she told her a bit more about him, including that he was the only one on the wagon train who knew she wasn’t a widow.

  ‘Well, how did you leave it then?’ Cissie asked, sitting down at the still uncleared table and looking hard at her friend. ‘Did he say he would look you up?’

  Matilda shook her head. ‘When we parted at The Dalles, he kissed all of us and wished us well. I asked him to write. He nodded. That was all.’

  Cissie smiled. ‘That’s good enough. He’ll turn up one day’

  Matilda laughed, she thought her friend was getting carried away. ‘Of course he won’t. He’s got better things to do than look up a woman like me with two children in tow.’

  Cissie could only smile knowingly at her friend. Her time as a prostitute had taught her a great deal about men. From everything Matty had told her she guessed this Captain Russell had fallen for her. She wondered if Matty had any real idea how truly lovely she was, not just her looks, though her blonde hair, pretty face and blue eyes would be enough for most men, it was what came from within that was her biggest asset.

  In Cissie’s view, Matty had an intriguing blend of innocence and earthy sensuality. She looked prissy and demure in her shapeless shabby dress, her hair all braided neatly, until she spoke and fixed people with that direct unwavering look that said she was afraid of nobody. It wouldn’t take any man long to see her strong will, courage or kindliness, especially one as smart as Captain Russell sounded.

  ‘Take my word for it, he’ll turn up,’ she repeated.

  Amelia had fallen asleep at Matilda’s breast. She gently lifted her away, buttoned up her dress, and then wrapping her in a shawl laid her down in her box.

  ‘I can’t love another man,’ she said with a sigh. ‘There’s nothing left inside me now.’

  Cissie heard the truth in that statement and saw the depth of sadness in her friend’s eyes. She got up and went over to her, laying one hand on her shoulder. ‘You might think that now, but it won’t be that way for ever,’ she said softly. ‘Six months’ time everything will be different.’

  On 1 April 1849, Matilda stood at the door of the cabin sniffing the good earthy smell of spring, and those words of Cissie’s when she’d first arrived six months earlier came back to her sharply. Cissie was right, everything was different now. She might still not want a man to love – Amelia, Tabitha and Cissie’s family were quite enough for her. But she knew the time had
come when she must think of her future.

  A pale green haze of new leaves was on the trees, the grass was growing again, and the stream was heavily swollen from ice melting in the mountains. The winter had been very mild here compared with New York. There hadn’t even been frost, just a great deal of rain, and she had heard men could grow corn all year round. The sow had produced fourteen piglets the other day, and the cow had two calves, and Tabitha was so entranced with them it was hard to drag her away. They would never starve here, the rivers were full of fish, there were rabbits, hares and deer everywhere, and so many different berries to pick they were spoilt for choice.

  She loved it here, the beauty of the scenery, the cosiness of the cabin, the feeling of security in sharing a home with Cissie and John, and the happiness of watching the children playing together. Tabitha was nine now and shadow to fourteen-year-old Sidney. She’d become quite the little tomboy, choosing to wear a pair of boy’s dungarees instead of a dress. Amelia was almost sitting up on her own now, and she liked nothing better than to be lying on a blanket near Susanna and Peter so she could watch them.

  By day Matilda worked alongside Cissie, digging, planting vegetables, washing, cleaning and baking. By night they mended and made clothes for the children, as John worked away making something. He’d made a bed for Matilda and Tabitha, a fine pine one with the wood as smooth as a piece of satin. Amelia had moved on into Susanna’s cot, when her father made her a bed of her own. He’d made a swing chair for out on the porch, and a cherrywood dressing table for Cissie which was as fine as anything Matilda had ever seen back in New York. Almost every day he talked of enlarging the cabin and making real bedrooms, his way of telling her he expected her to stay for ever.

  On top of all this contentment there was the joy she got from Amelia. She was such a happy, contented baby, full of smiles and baby chatter. Often late at night Matilda would hang over the cot, just watching her sleeping. Her eyelashes were black, thick and long, like fans on her plump rosy cheeks, her eyes were dark blue, and her hair had remained as dark as Giles’s and curly like his too. But even as she looked at her, Matilda knew Giles would want more for both her and Tabitha than growing up half wild in a log cabin.

  Both Lily and Giles had often spoken of Tabitha’s future. It had been their intention to find a good school for her once she got to eleven. Lily would perhaps have been content for her to learn lady-like pursuits and marry well, but Giles had wanted much more. Tabitha was very intelligent, her old ambition of becoming a doctor had never left her, even on the wagon train she’d mentioned it often. Matilda didn’t think the medical profession allowed women to become doctors – if they did she’d never heard of one – but she did know that even to try for such a career meant getting the right education first.

  ‘How on earth are you going to find the money for that?’ she said aloud.

  A letter had eventually arrived from the Milsons in England, sent on from the Treagars in Independence. Matilda had been shocked that a father replying to the news of his son’s tragic death could show so little sorrow or compassion. He barely mentioned Giles, saying only that it had come as a tremendous shock that their son should end his days ‘gunned down in a frontier town’. He dismissed Matilda’s request to become Tabitha’s guardian as ‘kindly meant, he was sure, but inappropriate’, and said that he believed there was an orphanage for children of clergy in New England which would be an ideal home for her, where she would have the benefit of a good, Christian education. He suggested Matilda get in touch with the local Dean to this end. There was no mention that he or any of his family intended to keep in touch with Tabitha, or even any offer of financial aid. He ended the letter curtly saying he hoped Matilda would soon find a new position.

  That last cold line said everything, a reminder she was a lowly servant and that she could keep her place. It was also confirmation that he was a stupid man as well as heartless, because he preferred to think his grand-daughter would be better cared for in an orphanage than with someone who had loved her since babyhood.

  Matilda burned the letter without ever telling Tabitha it had arrived. In her view it was better for the child to believe any reply was lost, or even that her grandparents were dead, than to know the truth. As nothing came from the Woodberrys, Lily’s parents, she had to assume they cared even less.

  Yet her anger at these people was tinged with relief, at least they hadn’t snatched Tabitha away from her. But a little voice at the back of her mind kept warning her too that Mr Milson might very well have written to the Dean himself and stated his wishes. That might cause trouble at a later date.

  It was all this and more that Matilda thought about as she made her way down to the stream to collect some water. She knew Cissie and John loved having her and the children here, they claimed the work she did was worth far more than the food they ate, and this was probably true, but just the same she couldn’t stay with them indefinitely, it wasn’t right.

  But what could she do to make herself independent? She had forty dollars, that was all, and that had come from the sale of the oxen. She might be able to claim a parcel of land, but how would she build a cabin and buy seeds for crops, tools and animals with so little? Her idea of being a teacher had been dashed some time ago when she made inquiries in Portland. Such jobs went to spinsters, and paid so little they had to live with their families. No one would take her on as a maid, housekeeper or for any other domestic job because she had children.

  ‘You’ve been strange all day,’ Cissie said in an accusing tone as they were preparing the supper. ‘What’s wrong?’

  Although Cissie could read no more than the simplest words, Matilda had found her to be very astute. John had once lovingly said, ‘She knows how many beans make five,’ and she did. She did everything by instinct – cooking, raising her children and growing crops – and her instinct served her far better than those who studied books. But her greatest talent was with people, she could tell just by the look of someone if she could trust them or not. She sensed even the best-hid anxiety or secret.

  Knowing she wouldn’t rest until she’d dug it out of her, Matilda told her what was on her mind.

  ‘I love being here with you, Cissie,’ she finished up, terribly afraid she might have offended her friend. ‘But I can’t stay for ever.’

  Cissie surprised her by agreeing. ‘I loved it at the Waifs’ and Strays’ Home,’ she said. ‘Just after you’ve had a baby you want nothing more than security and to be fed. But I got to want something more, a home of my own, a man. Maybe we ought to look around for a husband for you.’

  Matilda riled up. ‘Finding a man to look after me and the girls isn’t an answer to me,’ she snapped. ‘I want a life of my own.’

  ‘Whatcha gonna do then?’ Cissie retorted, putting her hands on her hips, eyes flashing with irritation. ‘Sell flowers on the street again?’

  ‘I doubt anyone in Oregon would buy flowers,’ Matilda said, putting her nose in the air. ‘From what I’ve seen of your neighbours they are too dull to want a little beauty in their lives.’

  ‘That ain’t fair, and it ain’t true neither,’ Cissie snapped back. ‘You know city folks only buy flowers to cover up the stink under their noses, so don’t you get all high and mighty with me.’

  Matilda was ashamed then, she knew Cissie thought she was implying she was dull too. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘There’s nothing wrong with anyone around here, least of all you. I guess I’m just getting nasty because I don’t know what to do. How can I earn enough money to get my children a good education?’

  Cissie shrugged. ‘To me giving them good food and loving them is enough,’ she said with a look of bewilderment in her eyes. ‘I don’t know nothing about education.’

  ‘You’ve done all right without it,’ Matilda said soothingly. ‘But things are changing, Cissie, by the time our children are grown up it will be necessary for everyone. Don’t you worry about Peter and Susanna?’

  ‘They can go to the litt
le school near the sawmill when they’re old enough,’ Cissie said stubbornly. ‘And their pa and me can teach them everything else they need to know.’

  Matilda fell silent then, she knew Cissie hoped her children would never go near a city, that they’d stay here, and eventually in the fullness of time take over the sawmill. She couldn’t sneer at her simple ambitions, Cissie knew the dangers in cities, and perhaps she imagined education would make them too curious about the world beyond these mountains and pine forests. Yet while she understood Cissie and knew she and John had worked so hard to create this safe haven for their children, it was their haven and dream, not hers.

  Chapter Sixteen

  One afternoon around the middle of May, Matilda and Cissie were just collecting the dry washing from the clothes-line when John came riding up the lane in a fury, his horse steaming with perspiration from being ridden so hard.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Cissie called out, dropping the clean washing into the basket and running to him.

  John worked long hours at his sawmill and he rarely came home before six-thirty in the evenings, so Matilda immediately imagined the worst, that he’d heard hostile Indians were heading this way. She looked nervously towards the cabin where the children were playing on the porch.

  ‘Gold!’ John yelled as he leaped off his horse. ‘They’ve found gold out in California, bucket-loads of it.’

  Matilda laughed, mostly in relief that it wasn’t Indians, but also because it was unusual to see staid, sensible John in such a lather. Yet as she looked to Cissie, she saw alarm in her face at such uncharacteristic behaviour.

  ‘Is that the reason you’ve left the sawmill, you great oaf?’ she yelled at him. ‘Don’t you know any better than to believe in fairy-tales?’