by Kate Ryder
The trees on either side swayed eerily in a silent wind. It seemed the world was quietly alert; straining to hear the slightest noise. I imagined eyes amongst the dense foliage watching our every move and I heard Elisabeth catch her breath. She was a spirited child, gutsy too, but I knew she possessed a vivid imagination and that in this half-light it would play tricks on her.
‘It’s all right, child,’ I whispered. ‘There’s nothing to fear.’
Fit though they were, Nat and the mare were blowing hard by the time we passed the old fort, but eventually we emerged from the wooded hillside onto the level approaches to the village of Shipton Gorge. Suddenly Nat stopped. Raising his hand, he alerted us to remain silent. We stared into the darkness, listening intently. Was that a muffled cough? I felt Elisabeth stiffen. Bess’s ears pricked and she fidgeted against Nat’s restraining hand on the reins. And then a figure emerged out of the gloom. On seeing us, it stood firm with feet apart and a stick in its right hand.
‘Who goes there?’ a boy’s voice called out in panic.
‘Nat Carbayne.’
‘Oh thank the Lord.’
As the figure ran towards us I recognised Jacob, one of my father’s stable boys. He stopped when he saw Elisabeth and me.
‘Mistress Okeford!’ he exclaimed, ‘I— I mean Carbayne.’ He was overcome with shame but Nat placed a comforting hand on the boy’s arm.
‘It’s all right, lad. Where are you away to?’
‘Waldyke. The King is at Maiden Newton and the master has been despatched to oversee the royal visit. We had word the Roundhead army was closing. The mistress instructed me to watch their movements and report back.’
‘Then Sir Richard is not at home…’ Nat said in a worried voice.
‘Nay,’ confirmed the boy.
Glancing at Elisabeth, my husband lightened his tone. ‘We are away to the Hall now. Mary and Elisabeth will be staying awhile.’
I thought I was going to be sick, so deep was my dread.
In low voices they muttered an urgent exchange, which I couldn’t catch, and then Jacob bade us farewell and carried on past us down the track. I knew Nat was trying hard not to frighten our daughter, but when he looked up at me his face was etched with concern.
‘Father, how long will we stay with Grandmother?’ asked Elisabeth.
‘A short while,’ he replied, squeezing her knee. ‘But you must be strong, Elisabeth, and promise to look after your mother for me until I return for you both.’
She nodded and I saw her smile proudly down at Nat, feeling important to have been given such responsibility. ‘Aye, Father.’
My throat tightened and I prevented a sob from escaping. I, too, had to be strong… for my last remaining child.
We continued through the village. It was eerily quiet – all the occupants holed up behind closed doors – and stray dogs wandered the streets, scavenging amongst the dwellings, as we made our way silently past the church and down into the valley beyond. Presently, we turned up a track and, after a while, came to the great iron gates and stone pillars that announced Hammiton Hall. I should have felt relief, knowing we would be safe once behind its walls, but, as we passed through the gates and made our way up the drive, some premonition told me that I would never leave this place again. Each step that Bess took brought us closer to our destiny and I had the strongest urge to gather up what was left of my family and flee in the opposite direction.
As we approached the front entrance, I saw Duncan, my parent’s faithful manservant, standing loyally beside my mother who was dressed in her finery, awaiting the arrival of her daughter and granddaughter. She looked older, though still handsome, but without the gaiety of spirit she once possessed. This war had made old maids of us all.
‘Mary, Elisabeth,’ she called.
My daughter slithered from Bess and ran to her. Nat took my bundle from me and put it to one side and then, looking up into my face, he held out his hands. I slid from the mare’s back and into his arms. With my back pressed against Bess’s warm flanks, my husband hugged me hard. I breathed in his masculine aroma and tried to gain some slight comfort, but the story was unfolding and there was little reassurance to be found.
‘Won’t you stay?’ I asked, already knowing the answer.
‘Nay, Mary. Your parents have never accepted me. They know there could have been a better marriage for you.’
I looked deep into his eyes and proclaimed, ‘You know that’s not true! I loved you before I ever knew your name.’ Tears slid down my face. ‘As soon as I saw you, you had my heart,’ I said in a small voice.
‘Hush, my love.’ He wiped away my tears. ‘It’s not safe at the forge, you know that. You are better protected here at the Hall, for the girl too.’
He kissed me tenderly and held me close. The mare shook her head and stamped a hoof, impatient to be on the move.
My heart was heavy with foreboding but I tried one more time, in vain. ‘But, Nat, I need you. We need you. If I pleaded with you not to go, would you stay?’
‘Cromwell’s men demand a farrier. They know where I am and will expect me to go with them.’
‘You know I will always love you,’ I said, my heart breaking.
He kissed me again, his hand lingering gently on my face. ‘Mary,’ he spoke the name like a prayer, ‘you are the most beautiful woman I have ever known. Should we find ourselves parted I promise to look for you.’
Again, he hugged me hard and I clung to him, as if drowning. Then he tore himself away. With agility the envy of younger men, in one leap he was on Bess’s back. As he gathered the reins, the mare’s head came up sharply.
Softly he said, ‘I will love you for eternity, Mary. For eternity…’ And with that, he kicked Bess into a canter and away up the drive into the fog.
‘Please stay, don’t go!’ I called out into the cool night air.
But there was no reply.
*
I awoke to a sharp knocking at the front door. Storm was no longer on my lap and through the curtains I could see daylight. I unlocked the door and opened the top half. The postman looked up in surprise.
‘Oh, thought you weren’t in, what with the curtains all closed. I was about to leave this over at the pub.’
He screwed up the card he was writing and handed me a large brown paper package, casting me an inquisitive glance as I stood dishevelled in my dressing gown. I knew he was just itching to ask.
‘Hangover,’ I said. ‘What time is it?’
‘Gone eleven,’ he replied with a smirk.
I took the parcel and placed it on the dining table. It had a Dublin postmark. Immediately recognising Mo’s handwriting, I opened it carefully to reveal a large box canvas picture. It was one of the photographs she’d taken of me posing as the French Lieutenant’s Woman. The composition was stunning. The Cobb took up most of the width of the canvas, diminishing to the horizon, with my lone figure standing at its end glancing back furtively over one shoulder. The photo, itself, had wonderful depth but being printed on canvas gave it an added texture. I picked up the note that accompanied it.
Dear Maddie,
Thought you might like to hang this in your charming cottage – a bit of contemporary to complement the old.
Off to New York to see how they do St Patrick’s Day celebrations over there!
Keep well.
Your loving sister, Mo xx
I walked around the cottage, trying the canvas in various locations and eventually decided on the rear wall of the dining room. Having found a hammer and picture hooks, I hung the canvas and stood back to admire my sister’s work. Mo was right. Although obviously modern, the colours of that gloriously bright January day and the subject matter captured in the photograph looked perfect in the room.
Realising the day was marching on, I was about to run a bath when the phone rang.
‘Is that the delectable Irish lass?’ a rich, chocolate-smooth voice enquired.
‘Depends who’s asking,’ I said, hopi
ng I didn’t sound too rude.
The man chuckled. ‘Charles Bosworth at your service.’
I was taken aback as I’d planned to phone him that very day.
‘Helen said you were going to phone me,’ he explained, ‘but I grew impatient waiting so thought I’d get things moving.’
‘This is strange. I was just about to phone you.’
‘Well there you are. I pre-empted you. Now, I hear you are a writer “extraordinaire” and that you wish to do a piece on my little patch of organic heaven.’
‘Yes, that’s the idea.’
‘Well, I’m a busy man but I’m sure I can find a slot for you in my hectic schedule.’
I couldn’t tell whether he was being serious or teasing.
‘My time is currently flexible,’ I said. ‘You tell me when you’d like me to come over.’
I heard him flicking through a diary. ‘What about this Sunday afternoon, say around three?’
I wrote it on the calendar, jotted down the directions to his house and said goodbye. If I ever had the need for a lawyer to represent me in court then someone with a voice like his would be the one to choose; that voice could charm the birds from the trees.
I ran a bath, added a good measure of bubble bath and luxuriated in the silky, warm water, doing nothing more taxing than amusing myself making mountains out of the bubbles and gently blowing them across the surface. In that somewhat meditative state of mind, I returned to my vivid dream.
Hammiton Hall. I couldn’t have made the name up, could I? I’d have to look at a map of the area and check if there was such a property in the valley beyond Shipton Gorge. My thoughts turned to Nat. Although Helen hadn’t yet shown me the Corbin family tree, my gut instinct told me that he was a direct ancestor. But, there was something more, and a thought began to form in my mind. If true, then my current situation was as sad as the story unfolding for the original inhabitants of the cottage.
Later, I texted Mo and thanked her for her generous gift, telling her the canvas was already hanging in pride of place on the dining room wall.
She texted back:
Knew it would be perfect. Any developments on your research? Are you celebrating St Pat’s Day?
I replied:
Story emerging. I have a theory. If true very sad. Working at the pub on 17th.
She texted:
All work no play! Come to New York. Mo xx
I responded:
No time. Writing a book. xx
I stared at my last text message. Indeed, it would be a good idea to write a book about Nat Carbayne and Mary Okeford, if only to keep everything that was happening to me in perspective… As I hit the send button I stopped in my tracks. Mary Okeford – the woman in my dream. The gimmel ring was inscribed NC & MO. I was being so slow! I rushed upstairs and removed the precious wooden casket from the bedside cabinet drawer and stared at the top carved with the letters M C – Mary Carbayne.
‘I have found you,’ I said softly.
Placing the box carefully on the bed, I lifted the lid and saw Nick’s letter lying with the other keepsakes. I took it out but didn’t read it, and laid it to one side. I picked up the ring and carefully opened out the hoops. I read each declaration of love and my eyes lingered on the inscription, NC & MO, 8 May 1635. Closing the hoops, I slipped the ring onto my wedding finger.
‘Mary, show me what happened,’ I said out loud. I imagined I heard an imperceptible sigh. ‘Show me and Nat will have salvation,’ I whispered.
Was it an illusion or did a warm current of air caress my body?
For a long while I sat stroking the wedding ring and didn’t notice the hours pass and the afternoon turn to dusk. I considered everything the cottage had shown me since first moving in. I knew I was linked to The Olde Smithy and that I’d been called here for a purpose. I now believed that purpose was to help Nat’s restless spirit find a way to finally be at rest. However, although I had travelled a long way, I still had some distance to go…
22
Charles Bosworth’s organic smallholding was at Higher Bockhampton, the village formerly home to Thomas Hardy, the writer. Even though Helen had warned me, I was ill-prepared for Charles Bosworth’s charm and was surprised at how easy it was to like him. In his mid-forties, he had a pleasant, boyish face topped off by a mop of thick, dark brown hair and the clearest brown eyes, which twinkled at me as I stepped out of the car. As I’d noted before, what was it about these Dorset guys?
‘Maddie O’Brien, welcome,’ he said in his rich, chocolate-smooth voice with more than a hint of familiarity. I shook the offered hand and experienced a warm, firm handshake. ‘You found the little place OK?’
I looked over his shoulder at the imposing, three-storey Queen Anne property surrounded by majestic oak trees.
‘Your directions were impeccable.’
He smiled and, immediately taking my arm, walked me around the side of the house. ‘First, I will show you around the farm and explain the set-up and what we are working towards. Then I propose to take you to dinner, if you have nothing else planned.’
It was a question; though not. He did not expect an answer.
I nodded and smiled, wondering if this was to be a dinner for two or whether he’d invited me to dine with the family.
Charles Bosworth’s smallholding extended to just under twenty acres and backed onto Puddletown Forest. A short distance away from the main house stood a stylish stone building, which I had, at first, mistaken for a substantial range of garages. On closer inspection, however, I noticed the central clock tower stood proudly above a series of dormer windows and four front doors. This, Charles informed me, was staff accommodation, and at the far end stood a large solar array supplying electricity to all the properties.
‘We have a back-up diesel generator and there’s mains electricity as an option if all else fails,’ he explained.
I gazed at the terrace of cottages. If I was one of Charles Bosworth’s employees I’d be more than happy with the living arrangements.
‘I purchased Pine Lodge eight years ago when I first went into practice with Peter Moore. It was rather rundown when I bought it. A divorce settlement. Actually a client of mine.’ He smiled at some memory. ‘She’d let the maintenance lapse during the previous five years. Too busy having affairs!’
He laughed, and it occurred to me he could well have been one.
‘Anyway, the land was left to do as it pleased but, fortunately, she was into horses and sheep, and the grazing was in good heart. No pesticides or chemical-based products were used for a number of years so I had a good basis from which to start.’
He held open a tall wooden gate set within a high stone wall and we entered a walled garden situated to the rear of the main house. I gazed across a semi-formal flower garden to the mansion. Along its full length ran a stone terrace with a hot tub situated to one end. On the south-facing garden wall was a large, traditional, wooden greenhouse. Proudly, Charles showed me the vines, fruit bushes, early vegetables and seedlings growing under protection of the glass.
‘This greenhouse is heated by low-level, green energy, soil heating via the woodchip boiler located at the end of the staff cottages. The boiler also heats the hot tub – a very popular distraction at dinner parties!’
I grinned. I could so easily imagine Charles Bosworth throwing dinner parties where the guests ended up in that hot tub on the terrace. Dragging my mind back, I concentrated on what he was saying.
‘We all benefit from the smallholding’s produce. All members of staff have the option of eating what we’ve grown, but it is by no means compulsory.’ He beamed at me. ‘It’s all part of an effort to make the smallholding more self-sufficient and sustainable.’
‘Do you mind if I write and take photos as we walk around?’ I asked.
‘Please do.’
I rummaged in my bag for a pen and notepad, disconcerted by the positive energy emanating from Charles Bosworth. Perhaps this was what Helen meant when she’d wa
rned me he was a lovable rogue.
I scribbled notes as Charles talked about his plans, the ultimate objective being to reduce his carbon footprint and work towards a more sustainable future. As he talked, we walked, and, presently, we passed through another gate leading out onto a grassed walkway running alongside the walled garden. This overlooked a series of neatly fenced, level paddocks; the furthest bordering Puddletown Forest. In the paddock nearest to us, I saw a large, open shelter and a couple of hen houses. Twenty alpacas of various colours and sizes grazed peacefully in the afternoon sun and a dozen or so rare-breed chickens busily scratched the earth around them. Charles held open the field gate for me. At the sound of the latch, two alpacas broke away from the herd and headed towards us.
‘They’re inquisitive by nature but harmless,’ Charles assured me.
As they gambolled ever nearer, I wondered just how harmless.
‘They’re only eighteen months old and just testing out their masculine prowess. Don’t run, you’ll be fine,’ Charles said, as the young males circled us.
His words did nothing to reduce my dry mouth or heightened adrenalin. He spoke to the animals in a mellow tone and the larger of the two, a sandy coloured alpaca, cheekily picked up my camera strap in its teeth and pulled.
‘Now, Boris, put that down,’ Charles scolded.
‘Three guesses why you called him that,’ I commented.
He laughed. ‘They do share the same hairdresser!’
The alpaca continued to pull and Charles firmly removed the strap from its mouth. The smaller of the alpacas, dark fawn in colour, came around to my elbow and nuzzled against me. I stroked its long, flexible neck. I’d not experienced these animals close-up before and was surprised by the softness and thickness of its fleece.
