Daughter of the River
Page 9
‘Why should that have aught to do with my brothers?’ Maddy demanded indignantly. ‘Be you’m saying they sought it out deliberate?’
‘Who else was abroad with yew in a sack last week? Has the entire village taken a fancy to wandering about carrying bits of yew tree?’
‘Don’t take that sneering tone with me,’ retorted Maddy, incensed. ‘I idn’t impressed. And I don’t sees why it should have been my brothers. They wadn’t no more likely to know there was yew in George’s shed than anyone else.’
‘They weren’t any less likely, either. You can be blind if you wish, but I don’t need persuading.’
‘You’m got a down on the boys, that’s what ’tis. It wouldn’t matter if the Archangel Gabriel swore they was innocent, you’d still reckon they’m guilty.’
‘Because they are,’ retorted Cal. ‘Prison’s where they’ll be if I get my way. They think they’re the lords of creation, yet they’re nothing but a nuisance to the entire village with their drunkenness and rowdy ways. A week or two in jail would drum some sense into them. I give you fair warning that you can pass on to your precious brothers: I mean to see they get the stiffest sentence possible.’
He swung himself into the saddle and, urging his horse into a swift trot, left Maddy standing in the lane.
For a while she was too furious to move as angry thoughts rushed through her mind. Everything detrimental she had ever heard about him was true – and she could not recall a single person having a good word to say about him; the best she had heard was that he was hard-working.
‘An ass can be hard-working. That idn’t naught marvellous!’ She was so angry that she spoke the words aloud. The sound of her own voice on the empty air brought her to her senses. She had tackled Cal Whitcomb and given him a piece of her mind; she had better things to do than waste any more time on him.
As she went on her way she wondered whether to mention the encounter to the menfolk or not. Upon consideration she decided against it. The atmosphere at home was fraught enough as it was. She had had her say, let that be enough.
* * *
When her brothers were finally summonsed to go before the magistrates at Totnes she stayed at home. Despite her protestations, Jack stayed too.
‘Us be having to spend out for they four to go, that be more than enough,’ he had stated doggedly. ‘Us bain’t be made of money, maid.’
‘But how do us knows the verdict?’ she protested.
The boys’ll tell us when they get back, of course.’
‘But if they don’t?’ She hardly liked to put her worst fears into words.
‘Then they won’t come home, and us’ll knows that way. Constable Vallance’ll tell us the details tomorrow, I dare say. ’Sides, there idn’t no magistrate’ll send them to prison for flinging rubbish.’
Maddy was not so sure. Her father had not seen Cal Whitcomb’s grim expression. Although she had been determined to put the confrontation with Cal from her mind, she had found it impossible. What if he proved as good as his word and had her brothers sent to prison? The humiliation and shame would be terrible, for them and the whole family. There were practical considerations too: how would they manage financially? Her father could not manage the net, and a week or a fortnight without income would be a terrible strain.
That day of waiting seemed interminable. Not even the pages of Jane Eyre could take her mind off her impatience or her anxiety. It was with intense relief that she heard her brothers’ footsteps approaching the cottage.
‘Well?’ she demanded. What happened?’
‘We was fined ten shillings each and bound over to keep the peace,’ growled Bart.
Maddy let out a sigh of relief. ‘I was affeared it might be prison,’ she breathed.
‘Tis no thanks to Cal Whitcomb it weren’t,’ Bart retorted. ‘If ever a man were set upon getting us jailed it were him.’
‘He nearly managed un too,’ said Lew. ‘The magistrates hummed and hawed while he went on with some nonsense about someone breaking into the sexton’s shed. In the end they decided the evidence wasn’t strong enough, but it were touch and go. Us could see it on their faces. As if any of us knowd old George kept yew clippings in his shed.’
‘Where’s us to find another two pounds on top of aught else? That’s what I wants to know,’ said Jack.
‘Us’ve got to find un or it’ll be prison and no mistake,’ replied Bart sourly.
‘You’m got your bail money back, though, habn’t you?’ asked Maddy.
‘That be gone already,’ Bart retorted. ‘Us had to pay costs, and such.’
And no doubt some scrumpy to drown your sorrows, thought Maddy silently. Aloud she said, ‘Tis going to be kettle broth for everyone for a spell, unless you catches your supper. There idn’t going to be money for aught better.’
‘And all because of Cal Whitcomb!’ Bart spat. ‘He idn’t satisfied with taking our birthright, he’m out to persecute us too!’
Maddy nodded her head in agreement. After the incident with Victoria Fitzherbert, she had harboured the flickering hope that perhaps the old feud had run its course and that it was time to let it die. Not any longer. After the vindictive way Cal Whitcomb had gone after her brothers, the feud was as alive and bitter as ever.
Chapter Five
‘Tell me, who owns the orchards right in the middle of the village?’ asked Victoria. ‘Is it Farmer Churchward?’
The housemaid paused in her dusting and bobbed a curtsey. ‘Oh no, miss. That be Farmer Whitcomb’s land,’ she replied.
‘Is that so?’ Victoria looked vaguely interested. ‘There is a jenny donkey in one of them with the dearest little foal. I wonder if Farmer – Farmer Whitcomb, you say? – might sell it to me when it is weaned.’
‘He might, miss,’ replied the surprised housemaid. Miss Victoria wasn’t usually one to be friendly with the servants. Spurred on by her young mistress’s unexpected affability she added, ‘But the price won’t be cheap. They say he drives a hard bargain, does Farmer Whitcomb.’
‘Does he indeed? In that case, perhaps I won’t bother.’ Victoria wandered away, leaving the housemaid to get on with her work. She had not been interested in the foal, that had been a mere subterfuge. What she had been after was information about Cal Whitcomb.
The local gentry were slow in forgiving the Fitzherberts for Victoria’s misdemeanour; the mantelpiece at the White House remained remarkably devoid of pasteboard invitations. But while her mother might weep and her father curse, Victoria amused herself with her pursuit of Cal Whitcomb.
She planned her campaign with the precision of a general at war. It was obvious that ‘chance’ encounters would be the only way she would meet him, and to do that she had to know as much about him as possible. For the first time she was beginning to appreciate the benefit of having local people as servants. Most of them had been hired along with the house, and now they were providing her with a host of invaluable scraps of information.
Thanks to her cunning she knew the extent of the Whitcomb land, and much about the man himself. He was efficient, and kept to a routine as rigidly as was possible in the country.
‘Does the rounds of his land every day, does Mr Whitcomb,’ the gardener informed her in an accent she could barely comprehend. ‘Goes round both his father’s land down to Church Farm and his mother’s land up to Oakwood near enough every day. There idn’t many as still does that. The best muck on the land be the farmer’s boot, that’s what he believes, begging your pardon, miss.’
Armed with this information, Victoria did not need to take many rides into the countryside to establish when she was most likely to encounter Cal Whitcomb. For a while she contented herself with giving only the frostiest of salutes, which Farmer Whitcomb, in all courtesy, was obliged to acknowledge. The grim lack of enthusiasm with which he bowed in return did not escape her notice.
Little do you know it, Mr Clodhopper Whitcomb, but you will soon change your tune, she vowed.
It was like a
ngling for a fish. At the moment she was no more than trailing the bait in the water by these seemingly accidental meetings – accidental and not too frequent; she did not want to frighten off her quarry too soon. Before long, though, she would begin dangling the bait in earnest, and then the fun would begin, for her at least.
‘Victoria, my love, where can you be going, dressed like that?’ asked Mrs Fitzherbert, encountering her daughter in the hall one day.
‘I am going walking, Mama. Have you any objections?’
‘It is your dress, my love. Don’t you consider it to be somewhat – somewhat brief?’
‘Not at all, Mama. This is the fashionable length for walking dresses this year.’
‘In Hyde Park perhaps.’ Mrs Fitzherbert looked doubtfully at her daughter’s outfit. The two-piece in blue barathea was certainly attractive, and the darker braid trim on the fitted jacket made it very elegant, but it was the shortness of the wide skirt that she had doubts about. ‘But isn’t it rather… short for the countryside? My love, your ankles are clearly visible.’
‘What could be more practical for these messy lanes?’ demanded Victoria. ‘You know the trouble it is getting this red mud off hems, the colour stains so. Besides, I understand Princess Alexandra wears skirts as short as this for walking.’
‘Oh, if Princess Alexandra wears them…’ Mrs Fitzherbert gave way, though still sounding uncertain.
‘If you have no more to say on the matter, Mama, I’ll be on my way.’ Victoria did not wait for her mother’s further comments, she was already making for the front door, her maidservant in her wake. Although her skirt was less than a crinoline its hooped fullness swayed provocatively.
Her mother watched her go with misgivings. If only Victoria were not so headstrong. Her skirt did look indecently short, but if Princess Alexandra wore skirts above the ankles…
Had Mrs Fitzherbert given the matter more thought she would have realised that there was not much mud about. It was an exceptionally dry year and the lanes and footpaths were not at all muddy – as Victoria well knew. That was why she had chosen to make a circuit of Oakwood Farm on foot for a change, wearing a provocatively short skirt and displaying neatly turned ankles. If she should come face to face with Farmer Whitcomb she was determined to be looking her best.
Her first tour of the lanes surrounding Oakwood was a dismal failure. The sole living creature she passed was an elderly dog taking itself for a leisurely stroll. As she set off round again there was a faint groan of dismay from her maid trailing behind.
Mary was one of the few servants the Fitzherberts had brought with them. She had been afforded this privilege because, as well as being good at her job, she had managed to weather the storms of Victoria’s uncertain temper for severed years. In addition, if she had been turned off, the Fitzherberts would have been obliged to pay her back wages, something they regarded as a totally unnecessary expense. At that moment her London-bred feet were finding the stony trackway uncomfortable and tiring.
‘Can’t we stop for a rest, please, miss?’ she begged. ‘There’s a nice grassy bit there that’d do.’
Victoria’s first reaction was to refuse, then second thoughts suggested that to pause might be a good idea. It was quite likely that Farmer Whitcomb would come this way, and if he did, there was a better chance of hearing his approach if she were sitting quietly.
‘Very well,’ she replied. ‘But for goodness’ sake keep quiet while we rest. I am in no mood for your idle chatter.’
Mary, who had hardly spoken on the walk, kept her feelings to herself as she helped her mistress to sit as decorously as possible, then she sank down thankfully herself.
In silence they stayed there for five minutes, ten, fifteen… Victoria consulted the small enamelled watch pinned to her bosom. Another few minutes and she would return home.
It was then the regular clip-clop of hooves reached her ears. There was no guarantee that it was Farmer Whitcomb, of course, but she had her fingers crossed. At the same moment the elderly dog appeared from the other end of the lane, sniffing its way contentedly along the hedge.
Victoria rose, pulling the reluctant Mary with her. Impatiently she waited to see who the approaching rider might be. Her hopes were answered. It was Calland Whitcomb, on his chestnut gelding. At the sight of her he slowed his horse to a walk, intending to pass by with nothing more than a bow from the saddle. Victoria, however, had other ideas.
‘Mr Whitcomb, if you please, will you be kind enough to help me?’ she asked, looking up at him.
Cal brought his horse to a halt. ‘Certainly, Miss Fitzherbert, if I can,’ he said cautiously.
‘It is the dog,’ said Victoria. ‘It makes me nervous.’
They looked in the direction of the animal which was now having a comfortable scratch. As an example of ferocious beast it was a pretty unlikely specimen.
Cal gave a cough to cover his snort of disbelief and said, ‘It’s only one of my farm dogs. He’s quite harmless.’
‘Are you sure?’ Victoria was careful not to let any unsightly frown pucker her brow. ‘One hears such appalling stories of rabid dogs.’
‘I promise you he’s not rabid. Simply rather old and somewhat flea-ridden,’ Cal assured her.
‘Then it is safe to pass him?’
‘Quite safe,’ replied Cal gravely. ‘However, since he bothers you, I will remove him at once.’
‘I would be so grateful if you would.’ Victoria looked purposefully at his riding crop, but it remained idly in Cal’s hand. He had no need of it.
‘Home, boy!’ he ordered. ‘Home!’
The dog’s response was obedient if slow. It rose and wagged its tail at the familiar voice, approached Cal’s gelding and sniffed round its hooves in greeting, then finding a gap in the hedge dutifully climbed through it and ambled homewards.
There,’ said Cal. The danger is over.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Victoria’s upward gaze grew more limpid. ‘I find dogs very frightening. It is silly of me, I suppose, but I’ve always been so, haven’t I, Mary?’
‘Yes, miss,’ replied Mary with a complete lack of conviction.
‘You surprise me, Miss Fitzherbert. I would have thought very little frightened you,’ replied Cal dryly. ‘However, after such a major fright will you permit me to escort you on your way? Or if you feel faint after your experience I could fetch transport to take you home.’
For a moment Victoria was tempted, then she noted the wry disbelief lurking in Cal Whitcomb’s eyes. He was no fool, he recognised the artificiality of the situation. It did not do to push too hard too soon. She decided she had sufficiently exploited the circumstances for the time being.
‘No, thank you, sir, you have already been more than kind. Pray do not let me detain you any longer. I’m sure you are frightfully busy.’
‘If you are certain I can be of no further assistance? Then I will bid you farewell.’ Raising his hat to her he rode away.
Victoria set off for home well satisfied with her day. She had made contact with Cal Whitcomb and had carried out a reasonable conversation with him. From now on he could no longer pass her with just a curt greeting; the rules of common courtesy would not allow it. As far as she was concerned, the enemy had been engaged, an odd way of regarding the start of a flirtation perhaps, but it was exactly how she felt.
* * *
As the spring days lengthened Maddy’s regular trips into the village were always tinged with happy anticipation at the prospect of seeing Patrick. She did not mind that they would exchange no more than a smile and a few words, that was enough to feed her love until they could be together in a more private, secluded place. On this particular occasion she was disappointed to see no sign of him, although she made a quite unnecessary detour past the Church House Inn. By the time she had started her shopping she was conscious of an atmosphere of subdued excitement hanging over the place.
‘What’s been happening?’ she asked Mrs Cutmore who kept the grocery shop.
‘But who?’ demanded Maddy. ‘And what be un all about?’
‘Harry Ford and Sam Watkins, that’s who,’ Mrs Cutmore said. ‘And the reason was that incomer, who’m such a friend of youm. You knows as he’m been working up to the Church House? Of course you do! Who better? Well, seemingly Sam Watkins have been trying to persuade him to go down the Victoria and Albert instead. Offered him another half-a-crown a week. My, I wishes someone’d offer me another two and six for doing naught different. Any road, Harry Ford got to hear of un, and you knows what his temper be like. Stormed down towards the Victoria and Albert he did, like a man possessed, but he met Sam coming up the hill. That was how they come to have their set-to out in the street with the world and his wife looking on.’
‘And what happened?’ asked Maddy, anxious for Patrick’s wellbeing.
‘Naught, as far as I knows. Constable Vallance sent the pair of them on their way with hefty fleas in their ears, telling them not to be two such gurt fools.’
‘And Patrick?’ persisted Maddy.
‘Patrick? Oh, the incomer. Last I heard he were still serving up Church House, same as usual. Makes you wonder what be there as is worth giving up an extra half-crown for.’ Mrs Cutmore gave her a sly prod in the ribs, then suddenly remembered Maddy’s relationship with the young man and looked embarrassed. ‘Now then, was that a large block of salt you was wanting, my dear?’ she asked hurriedly.
Maddy neither heard her nor noticed her gaffe, she was too concerned for Patrick. As the unwitting cause of trouble, she hoped he would suffer no backlash.