‘I doubt Aunt Mary would approve of you blaspheming, whatever she thought of the English Church. There’s worse to come, though.’ His eyes glinted. ‘They wouldn’t accept Annie and me as members of the Church of England although we had both been joined as members of the Presbyterian Kirk back home since we were teenagers.’
‘Why ever not?’
‘They don’t accept our religious ceremonies.’
‘But surely a promise to God is the same wherever you make it,’ William said incredulously.
‘It seems not. If we wanted the bairns christened, we had to go to confirmation classes and make our vows all over again before the bishop. A very solemn ceremony it is. The young girls wear white.’
‘Are ye telling me I’ll need to do the same? And Emma? Her parents are as strict about the kirk as mine are.’
‘Aye, well, if ye want to go to church it’s what ye’ll both have to do. There’s some things we have to accept whether we agree with them or not.’
‘I see,’ William said. If he wanted to prosper in his new surroundings, he didn’t think he could do it without God’s blessing and his Bible, even though he had often railed against the strictures of his parents.
Two things happened which concentrated all William’s thoughts on the future. He was not expecting a reply from Maggie so soon, so it was a shock when he opened it and discovered Emma had given birth to a son. The news made it more urgent that he should be able to offer her a home and make an honest woman of her. He was still awaiting her reply to his proposal and he felt a frisson of anxiety. Supposing she didn’t want to marry him and move so far away?
The second surprise was when Drew rode over to see him one evening a fortnight later. It was mid-June and he had been mowing hay all day. He wanted to finish the field before dark. Cook had sent him out with a can of tea and thick slices of fried bacon, sandwiched between wedges of newly-baked bread. He had stopped to eat it in the shade of the tall thorn hedge when Drew cantered along the side of the field and sprang from his horse.
‘Fred Black said I’d find you here.’
‘You havena brought bad news, have you?’ William asked, preparing to get to his feet and nearly upsetting his precious mug of tea. Rivulets of sweat were running down his cheeks, making paler streaks in the dust. He rubbed it out of his eyes with the back of his hand.
‘No, why should there be bad news?’ Drew said. ‘I was at the blacksmith with one o’ the horses this afternoon and Tom Wright thought you might be interested in a farm to let, though we hope you’ll not want it, or at least Annie does.’
‘That’s a strange thing to say,’ William said. ‘Well, spit it out!’
‘Och, ye’re the image o’ Uncle James. He used to get impatient,’ Drew laughed. ‘It’s not the best of places according to Tom, so we think you should wait for something better, that’s all, and Annie would like you nearer to us. It’s six miles the other side of Wilmore village and it’s to let at Michaelmas. The tenant has gone bankrupt so he’s giving up the lease.’ Drew’s expression was serious now. ‘Annie and me – well, we hope you’ll not rush into it, but we know how keen you are to rent a farm, rather than go on working for a wage, so she said it was only fair to tell you.’
‘I should think so. How do I make arrangements to see it? You’ll go with me to walk over the land, give me your opinion?’
‘Of course I will if you want me there, but if you could be patient there’s bound to be better farms come up, maybe even on this estate.’
‘What’s wrong with it?’
‘It’s called Moorend Farm. Tom’s cousin is blacksmith in the village there. He says the farm is well-named. It’s the last farm in the village before the moors. The gypsies often camp on the common land.’
‘They wouldna bother me.’
‘It’s about ninety acres. Tom’s cousin, Joe Wright, reckons the present tenant has only farmed the paddocks next to the house for the last five years or more. He’s an old man. He’s lost heart since his wife died a year ago. He’s going to live with his widowed sister over Doncaster way.’
‘Sounds as though it will take a bit of getting back into cultivation but I can’t afford to miss an opportunity, Drew. I need to look at anything that’s available. I’ve had a letter from Maggie. Emmie has had a baby boy. It’s time I brought her down here.’
‘Ah, ye’re a father! Congratulations! Ye’ve got a son and heir, eh,’ Drew teased. ‘Well that does make a difference.’ He clapped him on the back. William didn’t mention that he had not heard from Emma. ‘There’ll be no holding ye back now,’ Drew chuckled then he sobered. ‘But don’t rush to take the first farm that’s available and lose all your money.’
‘I hope I shall have more sense than that.’
‘How about showing me the Clydesdale filly you’re to get? I heard Mr Frame is well pleased with the geldings you’ve handled. He would keep you in this area if he could. I think you should bide your time.’
‘I want to finish mowing this field before dark. Fred Black brought me a change of horses specially. I might ride the filly over to your place on Sunday, if that’s all right?’
‘Aye, of course it is. She can graze with our horses until you’re ready for her. I might find her a bit of light work to keep her fettled.’
Emma couldn’t believe what a relief it was to be back home, sleeping in her own clean bed without Milly’s gangly legs pummelling her in the back, or wrapping around her waist. The whole house smelled fresh and clean after Aunt Vera’s, and her mother’s cooking tasted like manna from heaven. The tastiest meal she’d had was Mrs Donnelly’s soup, except when she had done the cooking herself.
Bit by bit, with a careful question or two, Eliza learned the sort of existence her bairn had had and she bitterly regretted sending her away. She hadn’t the heart to insist Emma must write to William Sinclair and tell him she wanted to marry him and live in Yorkshire. Each night when the house was quiet, Eliza would tell Bert another tale about the misery of living with Vera.
‘I ken what Vera’s like and I dinna ken how Dick has put up with her, but Eliza, you have to tell Emma she must reply to William’s letter.’
At the end of the second week, Bert could see his wife was growing more and more fond of her grandson, as they all were, but he had to harden his heart and speak out. He saw Emma carrying a basket of clothes to hang on the line and followed her into the garden. He couldn’t afford to choose his words.
‘Emma, lass, have ye replied to William Sinclair’s letter yet?’
‘N-no, Da. I–I dinna want to go away again.’
‘And who do you think will feed and clothe you and the bairn?’
‘I-I’ll find work.’
‘Now listen to me, Emma.’ Bert had to look away from his daughter’s pleading eyes and harden his heart. ‘Your mother and me are not going to be here for ever and you’ll find it hard to get a decent job when you have a bairn to look after. Either you marry William Sinclair and do your best to be a good wife to him, or I shall take your bairn to the orphanage. Maybe Vera was right. Maybe we should have done that straightaway.’
‘No! No, Da,’ Emma shrieked, ‘y-you couldna be so cruel.’
‘I dinna want to be cruel. A bairn is better with his ain mother and his ain father. William Sinclair comes frae a decent family. I ken he shouldna have taken advantage, but it takes two. Ye’re as much to blame as he is. He’s paying a high price too, away frae his family. At least he’s decent enough to offer you his name, and he’s willing to make a home for you and wee Jamie. You’re luckier than many a young maid in your situation. You might have ended up in the workhouse, or on the streets.’
‘Dinna say that, Da!’ Emma pleaded.
‘Well, it’s up to you to give your bairn a home and a father and a decent upbringing. Write a letter to William Sinclair.’
When her sons had gone to the Saturday football match and Bert was working at his vegetables in the garden, Eliza sat down with the baby on her lap and soothed him
to sleep while Emma finished washing the dishes and putting them away. Every now and then, Eliza heard her give a sniff or a stifled little sob and her heart ached for her only daughter, but she knew Bert was right, even if he had been a bit blunt.
‘Come and sit down for a wee while, Emma, if you’re finished.’
Emma sat on the other side of the fire and picked up her knitting automatically. She was seldom idle, Eliza realized, and she had become a good cook under Maggie Sinclair’s guidance.
‘You know it wouldn’t be the same as living with Vera if you marry William Sinclair, Emmie. You would be mistress in your own home.’
‘You don’t know that. He has not got a house yet.’
‘No, but he is looking for one. He says in his letter he will send for you as soon as he can give you a home. All he wants right now is to know whether you will marry him and live with him in Yorkshire. Surely he deserves a reply to his letter? Many men in his position would have gone away and forgotten about you and your bairn. He didn’t need to admit it was his in fact. You don’t realize how lucky you are to have this chance to give your baby a name and a father.’
‘Y-you’re as b-bad as D-Da.’ Emma stifled a sob. She couldn’t understand why she felt so low and tired and out of spirits. All the time she had been expecting Jamie she had felt an inner glow, a feeling of optimism. Even Aunt Vera had never managed to quench her secret joy. If she hadn’t felt so good, she might have realized earlier that she was having a baby, or so Maggie and her mother had said. She looked across the hearth and saw her mother watching her with troubled eyes.
‘Emmie? D-did William, did he force himself on you that night on the Torr?’
‘Oh no,’ Emmie said, remembering. ‘He cuddled me between him and the dog to keep me warm. I felt safe. Then …’ She broke off, colour staining her cheeks, as she remembered her night with William. He had shown her how good it could be between a man and a woman.
‘So he was not cruel to you, Emmie?’
‘Oh no, no, he’s not a cruel man, Mother,’ Emmie assured her quickly. ‘Though he does lose his temper sometimes.’
‘All men lose their temper sometimes, but you’re not frightened of him? That’s not why you don’t want to marry him, Emma?’
‘I was a bit frightened o’ Mr Sinclair sometimes but I was never frightened of William.’
‘I’ve heard he is like his father. I believe James Sinclair can be very impatient, but your father reckons he was always fair.’
‘I suppose William is like him.’ Emma nodded.
‘Then you must be honest, Emmie. At least tell him about his son.’
Emma’s eyes brightened as she looked at her baby, sound asleep in his grandmother’s arms. He was beginning to lose the mop of dark hair and she thought the fine hair beneath would be reddish-brown like William’s.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘I’ll tell him all about Jamie.’ She looked up at her mother and smiled. Eliza heaved a sigh of relief. Any sort of communication was a start.
William opened Emma’s letter eagerly, expecting her to tell him they could be married. She was a neat writer and she described the baby in detail, but she didn’t say she would be his wife, or even mention marriage. He felt frustrated and more disappointed than he had thought possible. He longed for Emmie to join him, to talk together about the places and people they both knew. More than that, he wanted to feel her in his arms again, see the slumberous expression in her big blue-green eyes and feel her arms, soft and warm. He wanted to see her cheery smile and bright eyes. He needed her. He wanted to see the baby too – his son, the cause of his and Emma’s troubles.
Ten
Drew arranged that he and William would catch the train to Silverbeck where Mr Rowbottom, the agent for Moorend Farm, would meet them and drive them to the farm. William was buoyed up with anticipation in spite of Drew’s warnings about the farm’s neglected state. His heart sank when they drove into the untidiest, most overgrown, farm yard he had ever seen.
‘Good God, what a mess!’ he exclaimed involuntarily, seeing a hen coop buried in weeds with grass growing through the wire netting, an upturned cart without a wheel and various other implements which looked as though they had been there for ever.
‘Aye,’ Mr Rowbottom sighed heavily, ‘I have to admit it’s a disgrace to the estate, though it only takes a couple of years for the weeds to take over. Old Ed should have given up when his wife died. Lord Hanley has been patient because the Dixon family have been tenants for generations but Ed has no family. He needed somebody to make his mind up for him. Now we have. He seems content to live with his sister now she’s a widow.’
‘Does he intend to have a sale?’ Drew asked. ‘It doesn’t look as though there will be much to tempt folk.’
‘There’s nothing worth buying except his two milk cows and a decent mare. He has a gelding but I don’t think he’s paid for.’ William was silent, his heart heavy. He had lived a dream since Drew mentioned the tenancy but this was worse than anything he could have imagined. What would be the point of putting all his energy into reclaiming a place like this if Emmie didn’t want to marry him?
‘I’ll take you round the land and show you the boundaries, now that you’re here,’ Rowbottom said. ‘The four fields around the farm yard are in fairly good shape but Ed hasn’t enough stock to graze them now.’
‘These three would yield a crop of hay if we got a good spell of weather,’ Drew reflected. ‘I wish they’d been nearer to me. We can always use extra hay.’
‘The rest of the fields are down either side of the lane as far as the Common. Moorend has free grazing rights on the Common if the tenant has stock to graze it. These fields furthest from the farm have not been farmed for a good few years now. If it had been up to me, I’d have been asking Ed Dixon to give up the tenancy before his wife died.’
‘I expect the house will be in a mess too then?’ Drew asked.
‘He only uses the kitchen. He reckons it’s warmer sleeping by the fire. He hasn’t changed a single thing since Doris died. He says we can put a match to it all once he’s gone. The only thing that upsets him is leaving his two cows and his mare but he knows he can’t take them with him.’
‘Ye’re very quiet, Will,’ Drew said, ‘but I did try to warn you Tom Wright’s cousin said things were in a bad state.’
‘I know, but I didn’t think they could be this bad. Anyway, we may as well see what else there is now we’ve come.’ William’s mind was racing but he was not going to mention anything good or positive in front of the agent. He was not afraid of hard work and if it was possible to strike a good deal, the place might have possibilities eventually. If only he knew whether Emmie would marry him.
‘If the tenancy doesn’t begin until September things will be even worse by then,’ he muttered.
Drew’s comment about the hay had made him think it might have been possible to mow three of the fields and sell most of the hay to bring in some cash. The agent was shaking his head at Drew. He had misinterpreted William’s morose expression and knitted brows.
‘Your young relative is not impressed at all, Mr Kerr, but I can’t blame him. The tenancies don’t change until Michaelmas but Ed has not paid any rent for eighteen months. The sooner someone takes it on the better pleased we shall all be now he’s made up his mind to go. As I said, the only thing which troubles him is sending his animals away. Whoever takes it on could move in as soon as Ed moves out of the house.’
‘Would they pay rent? Or wait until the end of September?’ Drew asked. William gave a harsh laugh.
‘From what we’ve seen so far, I shouldn’t think any tenant would be ready to pay rent until a year come September.’ Rowbottom raised his eyebrows at William.
‘At least it’s an experience,’ Drew said resignedly. ‘Show us the rest of the fields now we’re here.’ They walked over the fields on one side of the lane. ‘We’ll see the other side on the way back.’
At the edge of the Common, there we
re several gypsy caravans and about half a dozen piebald horses tethered. Some half-naked children chased each other with glee round one of the larger caravans and several dogs ran around or lay sleeping. An elderly woman came towards them, offering to tell their fortune if they crossed her palm with silver but when she recognized Mr Rowbottom, she backed quickly away.
‘I beg pardon, good sir,’ she said. ‘We were not expecting to see you.’
‘It’s not you or your men I’m after today, Rosa, but if I catch you poaching—’
‘No, no, good sir, you know we would never be doing such a thing and you are so good to us. Can I sell the handsome young gent some clothes pegs to take home to his wife?’ she wheedled.
‘Not today, thank you,’ William said politely.
‘Butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth,’ Rowbottom muttered as they turned away from the boundary and made their way back along the lane.
‘It looks as though the landlord will need to erect a new boundary fence,’ William remarked.
‘Oh, so ye are taking notice then, Will?’ Drew chuckled.
‘I couldn’t miss the neglect if I was half asleep,’ William said with some asperity. ‘I haven’t seen a decent fence anywhere on the farm, but I imagine the landlord is responsible for the boundaries.’
‘Aye, he is, but there’s been no point while we had a tenant who didn’t farm the far fields,’ Rowbottom said a little huffily.
‘Some of the neighbouring farms don’t look too bad,’ Drew remarked.
‘Oh, the land is pretty good on this part of the estate, that’s why it has grieved me to see it so neglected. I’m sorry for old Ed but he needed to face facts. Most of our tenants are hardworking farmers.’
When they got back to the farm yard, Ed Dixon was turning his two shorthorn cows out to the nearest paddock. A light roan calf followed one of them on wobbly legs, clearly wanting to suckle.
‘I didn’t know you’d put your cows back in calf, Ed.’
‘She done it herself, Mr Rowbottom. I ’spect she went to see Tindal’s bull. Tis a fine calf though. Born last night. I ’spect you’ll be wanting to see the house?’
Moorland Mist Page 11
