Town End, Grasmere
Dora felt a gust of relief when the tower of Grasmere church came into sight. Knotte had not been lying– he had taken her on a scenic circular walk past an idyllic tarn hidden high over the village and she had panicked for no reason. They came down the hill above Dove Cottage, the former home of the Wordsworths, now let to a Mr De Quincey, another of the Wordsworth circle and not a person her escort admired. He was apparently too cosy with the ladies of the family and was treated like a cousin or brother when there was no blood relationship between them. Dora sensed a deep jealousy that didn’t bode well for the man. Fortunately, De Quincey wasn’t in residence, but the cottage next door had been let to Thomas Wright who, according to Knotte, had wanted to get as close to where the poet had lived as possible.
‘His father is prepared to fund his writing holiday for this summer,’ said Knotte, ‘lucky beggar, but then it is into the business for poor Wright where he has to learn the ins and outs of cotton manufacturing.’
Was this case about fathers– or those who were thought of as father figures?
‘Tell me about your father,’ she asked, remembering Knotte’s odd comment up by the sheepfold.
‘Which one?’ said Knotte archly.
‘Er… the one who raised you? Is that not the same?’
‘Do you think a plodding farmhand like Michael Knotte could sire a child like me?’
That seemed a loaded question, dripping with arrogance. ‘As I didn’t know your parents, I’m afraid I can have no opinion on the subject. Is he still alive?’
‘He drowned. In fact, he drowned in Loughrigg Tarn, close by your cottage door.’
The creepy feeling she’d had in Knotte’s presence at Michael’s Fold came back. ‘I didn’t know. How very sad for you.’
‘We used to live in the other cottage in that valley. You must’ve noticed it?’
‘I thought it was empty.’
‘It might well be as it’s got an unhappy reputation locally. First my mother dying of a canker in her stomach, and then my father choosing not to save himself when he went into the water one summer night.’
‘When was this?’
‘Two years ago. I was due back from university but when I reached home, I found, rather than a celebration, I had a funeral to arrange.’
‘I’m truly sorry for your loss of both your parents.’
He flashed her a strange smile, all teeth and no humour. ‘Still, more fodder for my pen, is it not? Rural suffering?’
‘I suppose that life experience does make for a better writer.’ Though the way he put it sounded heartless.
‘We were at odds you see, Michael Knotte and I. He wouldn’t admit that he wasn’t my natural father; he gave me harsh words for casting aspersions on my mother’s character.’
As well he might if his son was deluded. ‘Then who…?’
‘My mother was from Hawkshead. There was only one poet there at the time when I was conceived.’
‘Surely you can’t think…?’
‘Can’t I? A young man destined for Cambridge, a pretty girl who loved reading and stories– no, I don’t think my imaginings are too farfetched. I even look like him, don’t you think?’
Dora glanced at him with this new information in mind. He did have a high forehead and curly fair hair, that was true, but the resemblance was not striking. ‘I’ve only seen Mr Wordsworth two times and both very briefly.’
‘He’s not how he presents himself to the world. He has his secrets. I heard him talking to his sister at a time when he might’ve guessed I was listening, talking about his illegitimate child and the responsibility he feels towards it. That was when I realised that he had been telling me this all along in as many words in his poetry. Choosing Luke as the name for the shepherd’s son! I know that he knows that I know!’
That sounded entirely wild, but he did not look as if he would welcome a dash of common sense. She’d been told it was dangerous to wake a sleepwalker and Knotte was wandering far in his reveries of poetic genealogies. ‘I see, but he’s never spoken to you directly about this?’
‘How could he? His wife would make him repudiate me. Like this I can receive his encouragement without her interference.’
‘What encouragement would that be?’
‘He listens to my verses and offers advice. You should see him: he has such a paternal air of concern.’ His eyes sparkled with feverish enthusiasm. He had seized on this idea and driven himself into a frenzy with it, not listening or wanting any gainsaying. ‘I’m sure he was the one who sponsored my education. He had to use a local gentleman to funnel the payments, but I’m sure it was him behind it.’
