Drifting Shadows

by Christine Green

  ‘And I probably will. I always do. Freeman, that’s me, by name and by nature. My life’s my own. I don’t have to kowtow to any maister.’ The smile had gone and he looked at her with determination written all over his handsome face.

  Becky nodded. She was irritated by this unusual, far too self sure man. She took the empty bottle from him and moved away, but something made her turn, look over her shoulder. He was watching her, smiling again, pulling his hat down over that mop of thick fair hair and making her feel – how did she feel? Shock filled her. She discovered she was pleased, glad to be noticed, willing to be made fun of if that was what he wanted. As she tried desperately to sort out these strange emotions, suddenly the deep, quiet voice, broke into her thoughts. ‘But wherever I go, I’ll remember you, Miss Becky Yeo, Miss Freckles. Because not every maid has all those lovely sunkisses. No, don’t blush.’

  But yes, she was blushing. How terrible. She felt the colour sweep up her throat and into her cheeks, and had to look away in embarrassment. She dropped the bottle into the basket and kept looking down at the grass and for once was thankful when Nat Briggs said, just behind her, ‘Ready to start work, then, Becky? You and Thirza do the tying and then stook the bundles.’

  He pulled her round to face him, grinned, looked back at Joseph Freeman, still standing there, and then said, as if he understood how she felt, ‘Don’t trouble with this chap, Becky, reckon he’s got maids on every farm where he goes.’ And then, his voice sharp and edgy, ‘So what you waitin’ for, Freeman? Get on wi’ it.’

  No reply, just a nod and then the tall man turned away, sharpening his sickle and taking his place behind Will and George, already at work.

  Such heat. The sun blazing down from a cloudless sky, insects flying and buzzing, tormenting the horse standing in the shade of the hedge, the dogs yapping, occasional rabbits bolting from the oncoming blades and a linnet singing in the far hedge. Becky felt her cotton dress, tied up around her knees, grow damp and uncomfortable as she and Thirza began gathering the bundles of cut corn, tying them and then putting into stooks of seven or eight, to stand in rows through the field.

  She was thankful when Dinah Meldon appeared, carrying her father’s dinner in a basket. Becky stopped, looked at the plump, plain girl who nodded back at her.

  ‘Morning, Dinah,’ she called. ‘Give me a drink, will you? I’m so hot and thirsty. Oh, that’s good.’ She straightened up as she swallowed down the cold tea, smiled at Dinah and then looked up at the sky. ‘Must be nearly dinner time. Sun’s overhead. Let’s sit down for a while.’ In the shade of the oak tree she called over to Thirza, still tying and propping up the stooks. ‘Come on, Ma, have a rest. Men’ll be stopping in a minute.’

  The three women sank gratefully onto the rough grass beside the hedge and Becky said, as they took food out of the baskets and shared it, ‘Heard about the harvest supper have you, then, Dinah?’

  Dinah nodded. ‘Father has,’ she said and Becky knew that was all she’d get in reply. If one word could be used instead of two or three, then Dinah used it. But now, even as she sank small teeth into a lump of bread, she smiled at Becky and added, ‘Lookin’ forward to it.’

  Becky gave Thirza, beside her, a quick glance as she said, ‘So’m I. Gonna have a new dress, too. What’ll you wear, Dinah?’

  A long thought while the bread was slowly chewed and swallowed. Then – ‘Me ole blue.’

  Becky hid her grin. ‘Nothing new? I’m going to see what Mrs Hannaford’s got in the market on Friday. The maister’s got a new woman, so we need to look smart for the supper. Want to come with me?’

  ‘You’re not goin’.’ Thirza’s voice was slow and purposeful.

  Becky stared at her mother. ‘Yes, I am. And you.’ She watched the tired face become suddenly more alive than usual. ‘Why not, Ma? Give me a good reason.’

  ‘I’ve nothin’ to say.’ Thirza met her eyes and frowned as she shook her head. And then, reluctantly, contradicted herself. ‘Maid, long ago there’s things been done as shouldn’t have – so it’s better we don’t meet Mr Fielding.’

  Becky watched the colour on her mother’s face flame. It was all wrong to upset Ma like this – but she tried a last time. ‘Something he did? But he’s old so it’s probably years ago. All forgotten. Come on, Ma, of course we’ll go….’

  Now the men were around them, sitting down, taking off sweat-stained waistcoats and neck scarves, reaching for drinks and filling the quietness with loud voices. Becky looked up, saw Joseph Freeman talking to Will as he put a bucket of water down for Ruby, the work horse standing patiently in the wagon shafts, and then watched Nat Briggs making his way towards her, cider jar in hand and a grin on his sweating face. Quickly she got up, finding an excuse to move away, to take bread and cheese across to Will, and offer some to Joseph. She avoided meeting his watchful eyes and instead went back to sit beside Dinah, stolidly munching her way through a hunk of rabbit pie.

  Dinah looked sideways at her and said, between mouthfuls, ‘Course we’re goin’ to the harvest supper. An’ you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Becky replied forcefully. ‘I’ll be there.’

  Harvest continued for three days, by which time conversation of any kind had seized up as the exhausted men and women worked side by side, completing the cutting and carrying of the field. Becky only knew that Joseph slept in the barn at night, for Thirza had taken him a blanket and he had eaten a huge meal with them every evening before disappearing into the humid darkness. She thought she heard his low voice singing sometimes, but perhaps she imagined it. If she had any thoughts of him, they were confined to the few times when the work was thankfully finished and before the next day began. Her mind, instead, was full of the coming harvest supper and her determination to be there with Will, even if Thirza refused to go.

  Nat Briggs ate dinner with them and did all he could to corner her in the cross passage afterwards, or as she went into the pantry, even following her into the yard when she went to shut up the hens. But Becky was sharp with him and stepped away when he accosted her.

  ‘Mr Briggs, I’m busy – let me pass please …’ and then stepped around him, hurrying back to the kitchen as soon as she could. She knew from his expression that she was causing his quick anger to grow, but it was necessary to keep her distance. But, on the last evening, he was too quick for her.

  ‘Becky, you an’ me gotta talk.’ He snatched at her as she tried to pass and suddenly his arms were around her. She kicked at his legs and he swore. ‘You little bitch – I’ll give you somethin’ for that.’ She was pulled close, the breath almost knocked out of her body. She smelt his dirt, tobacco and cider fumes, saw the light in his small eyes and felt wiry arms tighten around her. ‘I’ll scream if you don’t let me go, Nat.’ Her voice was shrill, but her courage quickened and she fought to free herself.

  ‘Let her go, Briggs. You hear me?’ On his way to the barn, Joseph Freeman saw them and his voice fell on Becky’s ears like comforting honey. She cried, ‘Help me, help me, please!’

  Nat’s arms dropped and she pulled away from him, turning to see Joseph’s great fist striking out, hearing it connect with bone and flesh, followed by Nat’s shout of pain and rage. He almost fell over but recovered his balance, glared at them and then instantly plunged towards the stable where his cob was stalled. Obscenities and threats filled the air, but she was only aware of Joseph at her side, nursing his fist and looking at her with concern in his light eyes.

  ‘You don’t want to have no more to do with that clodhead, Becky Yeo.’ His deep voice was quiet and she heard a note of something that made her shiver.

  She looked up at him and nodded, trying to control her breathing. ‘I know. But he followed me.’

  ‘He won’t do that no more. Not while I’m here. Didn’t hurt you, did he?’

  ‘No,’ she said, wondering. ‘No, it was just that he held me so tightly … and I was afraid.’

  ‘You’re with me now. No need to be afraid no more. I’ll take you int
o the house.’

  His big hand enveloped hers as he led her back, through the shadowy cross passage, into the lamp lit kitchen where Thirza was making the last pot of tea and Will was already snoring by the fire.

  Joseph said nothing, but nodded at her as he let go of her hand, then gave her a hint of a smile. ‘Don’t dream no bad dreams, Miss Becky.’ The words were quiet and just for her, she knew. And then, louder, ‘So I’ll say goodnight, all.’ And he was gone.

  Thirza looked at her. ‘Something wrong, maid?

  Becky swallowed and bit her tongue. ‘No, Ma. Just a bit of a row with Mr Briggs, but it’s all right now.’ She went to the dresser and got down the mugs, avoiding her mother’s anxious eyes. Thirza said nothing, but once the tea was drunk and Will was stomping upstairs to his bed, she put a hand on Becky’s shoulder, and said, very carefully, ‘Try and keep in with Mr Briggs, maid. He’s got an eye for you, and he’s a good man under all that temper, you know.’

  By now Becky had recovered her self control. She smiled tightly at her mother, and said, as they left the kitchen together, the oil lamp doused and candlesticks in their hands, ‘He’s not a good man, Ma, and I don’t plan to keep in with him. I’m sorry, but I’ve decided.’ She halted at the door of her bedroom, before adding, ‘And I don’t reckon he’ll be keeping his nasty eye on me much more now.’

  ‘Why, what happened out there?’ Thirza’s face was taut.

  Becky kissed the cheek that had paled beneath the day’s sunburn. ‘Nothing to worry about, Ma, now get a good sleep. We’ve still got to work in the morning.’

  The last sheaf cut, dried stooks loaded on the wagon, Ruby heaved it out of the field and towards the rick yard. Will, poised on the top of the wagon, waved the last handful of corn and shouted, ‘We got ’un, we got ’un!’ his words taken up by the harvesters following behind. A joyful, satisfied time with smiles overtaking the weariness etched on sunburned faces, and a glow of pride replacing sore backs and aching arms. The harvest was gathered in and another year’s living safely stored.

  Becky, Thirza and Dinah followed the men to the rick yard, but then went into the house, longing to sit down and thankful for its shade and coolness. As the humming kettle was pushed closer over the flames and they waited for the tea to be made, they smiled at each other, relishing the quietness and the serenity of the old house. Yes, the rick would be built by the men outside, but here, in the stillness of home, they could return to age old women’s work and push thoughts of the long hard hot days they had just endured behind them. It was a good feeling.

  And so, with the burden of the harvest taken off their minds, the thoughts of Mr Fielding’s feast at High Cross Manor began to be talked about, bodies stopped aching and thoughts grew freer. In the evening George Meldon and Dinah traipsed home, Nat Briggs rode off with a last leery grin at Becky and Joseph Freeman vanished.

  But Will took out what was left of his usual ill temper on Becky even more than usual. ‘Don’t think you’re going to the supper. I told you no and it’s still no. You’ll stay ’ere and keep Ma company.’

  Becky glared as she watched him shaving over the sink, his red face seeming to cast a shadow over the whole kitchen. ‘I’ve worked hard, I’m going. I don’t care what you say.’

  He turned, glowering back at her. ‘You ’eard me!’ he shouted. ‘Ma don’t want you to go and that’s it. I’ll lock your door, see if I don’t. Now get outta here an’ go to yer bed.’

  No point in arguing, but her mind made itself up. Of course she would go. New dress or the old faded just-for-church-and-market brown check, she was going to the harvest supper. Lock the door, indeed! She laughed aloud. She knew a thing or two about escaping from locked doors. Just let him see.

  Thirza fussed around Will as he put on his best coat. She brushed hay seeds from his dark beaver hat and smiled at him. ‘You looks really smart, Will boy. Enjoy yourself. Becky an’ me’ll be all right here.’

  He nodded, and pecked her cheek. ‘That’s it, Ma. You wants a rest after all that harvesting – don’t want a crowd of rough men around you, do you?’ He grinned as he opened the door. ‘Reckon your days of dancing are over – I’ll tell the maister as how you’re too tired to come.’

  ‘And me? What will you tell Mr Fielding about me, Will? Perhaps I’m too tired and too old, too – but give him my apologies, please, and say as I wanted to come but there was something about a locked door.’ She laughed at the rough face he pulled, then joined Thirza in the open doorway, watching him mount the pony and clatter off out of the yard.

  ‘So what’ll we do, Ma? Get out our darning? Make some harvest dollies to sell at market? Give ourselves a nice meal without having to keep some for Will?’

  Thirza looked at her with a puzzled expression. ‘I’m meant to lock you in your room, Becky, but o’ course I can’t – no lock, is there? So just promise me you’ll not open that door once it’s shut, maid.’

  Becky closed her eyes, hiding the secret excitement welling up inside her. ‘I won’t open the door, Ma. I promise.’

  They parted on the small landing at the top of the stairs, Thirza kissing Becky and smiling at her. ‘You’ve worked well, maid. Now have a good rest.’

  Becky nodded. ‘And you, Ma. See you in the morning, and let’s hope the old cockerel don’t crow too early.’

  Thirza’s door shut and Becky sat on the edge of her bed, eyes agleam, mind working out the best escape route. She looked towards the window and remembered childish pranks of climbing down the honeysuckle that grew all over the cob wall. Were her feet too big nowadays to find those old thick stems that provided safe footfalls? Getting up, she washed herself, brushed and knotted her hair and put on the faded brown checkdress that had seen better days, but would now enjoy itself at Mr Fielding’s harvest supper. The hope of getting to market had been just a dream, a ruse to irritate Will enough into agreeing to her going to the supper. Now it no longer mattered. She was going, and the brown dress would have to do.

  Looking down from the window the ground below seemed a long way off, but she was determined. One foot over the sill and yes, the old safe branch was there, waiting for her, she thought, and grinned happily as she climbed down and then jumped the last three feet.

  She was on her way to High Cross Manor and no one was going to stop her.

  CHAPTER 3

  Instinct told Thirza something was wrong. Not that Becky would break her promise, but….

  Hurrying across the landing, she found the small window opened to its fullest extent, not latched and clearly offering extra space for someone to put a foot on the sill and then step out onto the sturdy honeysuckle limb. Standing staring out into the silent landscape, memories of the small, mischievous Becky escaping this way flashed through Thirza’s disturbed mind.

  She must go, find her, bring her home before anyone at the harvest supper gossiped. It must be kept clamped down in the past. No one must tell Becky. Mr Fielding mustn’t see her, mustn’t have a reason to trail his thoughts back into the long ago years. Dear Becky mustn’t be hurt – she mustn’t know.

  A shawl snatched up and thrown around her shoulders, the faded work frock dusted down and shoes hastily cleaned with a wet rag, Thirza pulled her shabby straw hat on to her head and set off down the lane towards High Cross Manor. She went as fast as her aching legs let her, thoughts in chaos, and with each step becoming more and more aware of the shadows of oncoming dusk rolling up around her.

  Shadows, she thought wildly; there had always been shadows, and now they seemed to be overtaking her.

  The big barn was filling as all the tenants and workers from Mr Rupert Fielding’s many estate farms crowded in, voices ringing through the lofty timbers. Old friends caught up with gossip and the latest harvest news, while their women, all in best dresses and flower bedecked hats, chattered and laughed. It was a time of reunion, and a celebration of the satisfaction of hard important work which wove its way through the merry cacophony of noise as they awaited the coming of
the maister and his new lady.

  Becky paused at the door before entering. Yes, she knew some of the farmers and their wives there, and Dinah was not far away so she could go and talk to her, but something kept her waiting. She hoped Will wouldn’t see and order her home; and that Nat Briggs wouldn’t make a nuisance of himself. Secretly, she wondered if Joseph Freeman was here. Then someone behind her pushed and she was in the barn, swept along by a new crowd of shouting harvesters from the farm up the valley, and she lost her sense of shyness.

  She made her way to the bench where George Meldon, his wife May and Dinah were sitting and smiled at them, nodding as they squeezed up and made room for her. ‘Thank you,’ she said, voice rising above the noise all around them. ‘What a crowd. Time the maister came, isn’t it?’

  Suddenly, the voices hushed and quietness fell. Heavy boots crunched aside, women took deep breaths of excitement and then there they were, a tall well dressed man with grizzled hair and hooded dark eyes, his arm supporting one hand of the woman beside him. No one said anything but caps and hats were doffed and instinctively, the body of people moved away, leaving a space at the top of the barn. Becky saw Nat Briggs following on behind Mr Fielding, and grudgingly realized that Nat was an important figure in the running of the estate. Hate him as she did, she knew he had a good position, and, for all his personal faults, fulfilled it well. As long as he kept away from her.

  Rupert Fielding was looking around his workers, recognizing them, nodding, and then speaking, his gentrified voice friendly. ‘I welcome you here this evening, and thank you, too. Harvest’s been brought in without any trouble and we’re stocked for the coming year so I feel you deserve a celebration. But before—’ Here there was a movement of men and women turning and grinning at each other, quickly stopping as he went on. ‘But before the feast begins, I want to introduce my fiancée – my bride to be – to you all. Mrs Felicity Richards lives in Moretonhampstead, but before long she will come to High Cross Manor as my wife. Now, will you please welcome her?’