The smallest pause and then the voices rang out. Cheers, saucy, even bawdy side remarks about him finding a likely widow at his age, all hidden beneath gales of laughter, and finally quietness growing as expectations rose. Becky stared at the woman standing by Mr Fielding’s side and at once envied everything about her. She was a little younger than him – and personable in a way that Becky knew she would never be.
Such clothes. Smart, close fitting, with a high collar and small waist. Large sleeves in a pale almond green dress that, thought Becky critically, drained the colour from the rather long, thin face. But such posture and poise. A contained smile as brown eyes looked from face to face, nodding and smiling almost regally. And then the voice, high and lazy. ‘Thank you all very much for your welcome. I so look forward to being here at High Cross Manor and meeting you all.’ A pause, a moment when again everyone grinned and nodded, and then Mr Fielding stepped in.
‘So now we can start eating!’ he said heartily, ‘and afterwards Mrs Richards and I look forward to some entertainment.’
That went down well. Old Charlie Hobbler fished his mouth organ out of his shirt pocket and waved it in the air, while a couple of lithe, heavily booted youngsters kicked out a couple of raps on the ground beneath their feet. Becky joined the Meldon family in fighting for a place at the laden table in the middle of the barn, and knew that once all the food had gone the evening would become loud, louder and uncontrollably wild. She just hoped that Will wouldn’t drink too much cider and ale. The thought made her look around for him, and there he was, at the far side of the long table, sitting down and talking to his neighbour.
And then she stopped smiling because Ma had appeared, her careworn face over his shoulder creating a hush of sudden silence in the people sitting nearby as she bent over and whispered to him. Becky held her breath and automatically got ready to run. As she watched, she saw Will arguing, and Ma shaking her head but then Will’s next door neighbour, a burly old chap from a farm lower down in the valley, took her by the arm, pushed up along his bench, and pulled her down beside him. ‘C’mon, maid,’ he roared, ‘always fancied you, so now you’re here we’ll make the most of it, eh?’
There was loud laughter from onlookers, and Becky saw Thirza’s face crumple, as if she didn’t know whether to smile or shout. But then all attention was turned to the arrival of the goose on the table, decorated with apples, followed by pies and hams, chickens and pastries, jellies and fruit, and even Thirza began to smile. Becky watched her mother slowly settle down, her plate piled with slices of everything passed down the table. How good it was, she thought, as she ate and chatted to Dinah, that Ma had come after all, and, by the look of things, was enjoying herself.
When the gargantuan meal came to its close, plates emptied, ale mugs refilled and an atmosphere of easy jollity filling the barn, the entertainment began. The mouth organ piping out some of the well known tunes, The Old Grey Mare, Off to Widecombe Fair, John Barleycorn, and several others of doubtful content with the audience joining in with enthusiasm; the two Ridge brothers doing their heavy, noisy dance on a large slab of timber; Bert Hannaford telling his old tales, well known but always welcome at such celebrations, and then a deep voice rising above the others, singing The Sprig of Thyme.
In my garden grew plenty of thyme … o’er the wall came a lad, he took all that I had … and the audience grew quiet, as if caught in the spell of the old words and the richness of the voice.
Becky knew that voice. She looked around her and saw Joseph Freeman at the back of the barn, leaning against a piece of rusted machinery, catching all eyes as he sang the song that she had known and loved from birth. Her song. So why was he singing it? Did she imagine it or was he looking at her, grey eyes seeking hers above all the other faces? Instinctively she bowed her head, wondering why she did so. Dinah, beside her, caught the movement, turned to her. ‘He’s lovely – he’s lookin’ at you,’ she whispered, plain face caught in a transforming smile.
Becky shook her head. Something made her want to run. She took the chance as Joseph’s song ended and applause burst out. Dinah caught at her arm, but too late. Becky pushed her way out of the barn. In the cooling dusky air she breathed deeply, wondering why she was behaving in this way, and then pushed away the memory of Joseph’s voice and his eyes looking for her, forcing herself to return to an old, childish longing: to see inside High Cross Manor, to know how the maister lived, what the rooms were like, and were the comforts greater than the neglected old cottage that was home? And then, like a whisper from an unknown world, what made it possible for one man to live a better life than another?
It only took a few minutes of concentration to find her way through the farmyard to the entrance of the old house, standing grey stoned and a bit mysterious in the deepening shadows. A dog barked, horses whinnied in the stables, but Becky crept in through the unlocked door and found herself in the huge kitchen. That enormous sink and wooden draining boards. The huge dresser, piled with handsome blue and white china, copper pans and bowls catching the last sunlight drifting through the big bare window. She imagined herself working here; what would it be like? Better than scraping about in the small kitchen at home. But what lay beyond? Too late now to realize that she was trespassing, that she might be caught and a huge fuss made. Will would be furious. Ma would weep and say she should have known better. But to be here – to see how other people lived…. Becky, wandering through the big marble floored hallway and looking up at the sweeping stairs, at the mercy of her desire and forgetful of any caution, had the strangest feeling that she felt at home in this ancient house.
She walked into what she supposed was the parlour. Perhaps the drawing room that she had heard a girl who had once worked here talk about. ‘The Manor’s got pictures in the drawing room, all the maister’s family. Talk about lovely furniture … and oh, that carpet….’
Now she stood in the middle of the spacious room, and felt a sort of joy sweep through her. And a decision. She wanted to work here, to be part of the Manor with its wonderful decorations and heavy, shining furniture.
Yes, she would seek out Mr Fielding and ask politely, but firmly, for a position in his household. Perhaps in the kitchen to start with, but then, because she had been educated, why not as a housemaid, or even a parlour maid? Working here, in these beautiful surroundings, this was what she wanted. Well, she could only ask. She smiled and all the niggling doubts were dismissed. Never mind what Will and Ma might say, what the villagers would think, this was where she wanted to be. Turning away, Becky swiftly made her way towards the kitchen and then heard footsteps approaching.
Instinctively, she stopped, heart racing. What should she say, found in here without permission? Was it a servant returning? Someone who might agree to say nothing about her appearance here? Even as she thought so furiously, a figure appeared, and she looked straight into the dark, hooded eyes of Rupert Fielding. She let out her breath in a gasp and his frown deepened.
‘Who are you? What are you doing here?’ His voice was raspy and quick and immediately her excuses fell away. She could only stare at him and feel telltale colour rush into her cheeks.
‘Well? Answer me. Are you deaf, girl?’
And suddenly her head was clamouring with words. ‘No, I’m not deaf. I’m Rebecca Yeo, Will Yeo’s sister. And I was just – just….’
The long, lined face lifted into an expression of distaste. ‘Looking around? For something easy and useful to filch? Is that it?’
‘No.’ Courage grew. He was clearly very angry, but she might not see him alone again, so perhaps this was the moment to ask….
She drew herself up very straight and smiled nervously. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Fielding, I know I shouldn’t be here. But I haven’t taken anything, of course not. I just wanted so badly to see the Manor. And it’s – beautiful….’ Her voice faded.
There was a pause and she watched curiosity replace the unpleasant expression on his face. He seemed not to know how to reply. She waited,
holding her breath and then, when at last a hint of a taut smile lifted his thin lips, said very quietly, ‘I would like to work here, Mr Fielding. In any sort of position. Please forgive me for coming in like this – but do you need a kitchen maid? Or perhaps – ‘she tensed even further – ‘a housemaid? I can read and write, and I work well. You see, I have to, helping my mother and my brother at High Cross Farm.’
Rupert Fielding twisted his mouth and stared at her. ‘You’re an unusual girl, Rebecca Yeo. But I can’t excuse you for breaking in like this. ‘
Without thought, she said, ‘I didn’t break in. The door was unlatched.’
Again, that controlled smile and a new expression in the dark eyes. ‘Yes, well – I’ll think about your request. Now go back and join the party – your brother will wonder where you’ve got to, and I don’t want any search parties coming along. Very well, I’ll say no more about your appearance here. And I may just have a word with Mr Briggs in the morning, as to your character and so on.’ He turned away and then looked back at her. ‘If I do employ you – mind you, only if – how will your brother manage without you?’
‘He could get an apprentice from the workhouse. A strong lad would work even harder than me.’
A brief flash of amusement. ‘Got it all worked out, haven’t you?’
Becky swallowed and bowed her head. ‘Just that I want to come so bad,’ she muttered and then, looking up, saw him nod, give her another very straight stare before going up the staircase and out of her sight. She let out all her pent up breath, looked around her for a last time and then fled.
Outside she heard revelry continuing in the barn, where the oil lamps were lit and voices were raised as all the old songs were sung. Becky stopped in the yard, suddenly wondering what to do – go back and join Thirza and Will? Or go home and keep out of their way when they finally rolled home, full of food and ale? She knew there would be something to pay for her wickedness in not obeying Will – but he could only shout at her, which she was used to. But Ma, who had been so firm that she mustn’t go to the Manor, what would Ma say – or do?
The sky was heavy now with dark night rack rolling up from the east. Becky slowly walked out of the farmyard and across the rough grass path leading to the yard where the shadows of the newly built rick loomed black and tall. She felt she wanted to be alone, to think, to imagine, perhaps to come to some sort of decision.
But, even as she stopped, instinct told her that someone was near, and arms came out of the night and wrapped themselves around her. ‘Becky. Miss Freckles.’ The deep, velvety voice, softened now by ale fumes and tobacco.
She gasped, twisted around and stared into Joseph’s eyes, their lightness dimmed but still powerful enough to keep her staring. They looked at each other for a long moment and he shifted his arms to pull her closer. ‘You shouldn’t be out here alone,’ he murmured as he pulled off her hat and lifted her face towards his. ‘Bad men about after all that drinking and rowdiness….’
‘Are you bad?’ she whispered, feeling the heat of his body reaching into hers, enjoying it but knowing that this was the way young girls should never allow themselves to go.
He chuckled and whispered into her hair, ‘Of course. All men’s bad. But some’s badder…. I won’t hurt you, Becky, just want to love you a bit….’
She had never known such feelings that swept through her. Such swamping emotions longing to say, Yes, she felt the same … but Thirza’s slow, anxious voice was there, telling her, Never let a man take advantage of you, maid, and so, slowly, grudgingly, she pulled out of his arms, stepped away, put a hand on the sturdy rick beside her as if seeking help, and said, ‘You’re wicked, Joseph Freeman. And you’ve drunk too much. Go on your way and let me be.’ But the last words died in her throat, unwilling to emerge.
Through the half darkness she watched his face slowly change to an expression of regret and then, surprisingly, to lighthearted humour. ‘But you don’t really want me to go, do you? Sending me away without knowing any more about me? Want to know if all Mr Briggs said is true? A girl in every farm, have I? Well, why not find out for yourself, Becky? Just a kiss? Just one? It’s there in your voice, in your eyes – that want – so what’s the harm, eh?’
How could she stop herself? She closed her eyes, longing again for the arms that had been so warm around her; the big body overpowering her with its strength, and yet, at the same time, such gentleness. Slowly now she moved nearer while he waited, until she dared slip an arm around his neck and breathed out all her doubts and knowledge of her wickedness as he lowered his head, found her lips and kissed them.
A moment of wonder, of joyous sensation, and then Dinah’s voice, calling, ‘Becky? Where you to? Father ses you must come home with us.’
Becky drew away from Joseph, looked around and saw Dinah entering the yard. When she turned back again, he had gone.
CHAPTER 4
Thirza slipped out of the hot barn before the last songs were sung, the final tales repeated and embroidered still further and before people began drifting homewards in various degrees of drunkenness. The noise had left her a bit moithered, but one thought pounded through her aching head. Becky had disappeared from the barn and was still missing and Will had been too far gone to even listen when she told him. But thank goodness, Mr Briggs had seen how confused she was and had put a hand on her shoulder as he said ‘Don’t worry, Mrs Yeo, I’ll find the maid and see she gets home. Now, you go on. You wants your bed, I’m sure – it’s bin a long day an’ a half, all right.’
So Thirza slowly walked down the dark lane, praying that whatever Becky had been up to, she would soon be home and safe again. Yet her thoughts still roamed. Had anyone gossiped to Becky? Tongues could well be loosened on a night like this – she caught her breath: Was it the time to tell the maid the truth? Or continue to keep quiet, as she had done for the last nineteen years?
She felt old and tired. The harvest had left her depleted and anxious. One thing crowded into another – what should she do? But, even as she reached the farm and left the night behind her, she knew that she was going to carry on in the same way – keep quiet and hope no one would ever talk about what had happened.
Nat Briggs found Becky as she joined the little crowd of returning harvesters walking up the lane back towards the village. She was with the Meldon family, so she was safe, and he knew it wouldn’t do to drag her off and ask what she’d been up to. But he shouted goodnight as he passed them and then turned to see Becky, taller than Dinah, upright, and with a curving bosom pushing up her old faded dress. He felt his lust stir and knew that tomorrow he would find out where she’d been this evening, all on her own. By God, she needed a man to take her in hand. He nodded and told himself it was time to ask the question – why wait any longer? So he halted until she reached his side and then bent down, his face close to hers. ‘I’ll be along tomorrer, Becky. Some’at I got to ask you.’ She made no response, except stepping away and not bothering to look at him. Nat kicked the cob into a fast trot up the lane, throwing stones and dust as he went. Little bitch. She’d be sorry soon.
In the morning farm noises aroused late sleepers, Will frowned and pushed aside his breakfast, saying he’d never go to a harvest supper again, didn’t do any good, all that food and drink and chatter. ‘Give me some’at for me head, Ma,’ he growled as he paused at the open door, where Thirza had a herbal drink all ready. She knew about harvest suppers.
‘This’ll do it, boy. Betony’ll help. An’ take things easy.’ She watched him snatch the cup and drink down its contents, his face reacting to the vile taste, before shouting back at her, ‘An’ tell that lazy maid to come an’ help. Why’s she not down yet?’ He strode out into the yard and the waiting work and Thirza, retrieving the empty cup, sighed. The day was going to be a difficult one.
But Becky was in a new world. Something wild and almost wanton had leaped into life within her, and she felt she would never be the same. She was a woman now, no longer a girl, a woman who had
found something wonderful and would always be searching, longing to find it again. She went about the usual duties and while she was feeding the pigs, pausing finally to scratch Flower’s broad back, her ever present thoughts of Joseph strayed to the chance meeting with Mr Fielding last night and what he’d said about talking to Nat Briggs. Character, he’d said. Well, hers was good. Apart from a few childish scrapes and rebellions she had done nothing to be ashamed of. She gave a final pat to Flower, then picked up the empty bucket and returned to the farmhouse. Even the dairy work didn’t stop her dreaming, although the butter was slow to come and Thirza’s anxious questions about last night pushed aside those memories of Joseph.
‘Stop going on, Ma. I didn’t do anything wrong. It was just so hot and rowdy that I had to get out. And anyway, Dinah came looking for me and we all walked home together. No, I don’t care if Will did see me—‘She stopped, grinned to herself and decided not to tell Ma about meeting Mr Fielding and what she had asked him. Let things lie and see what might happen. At last the butter came, the eggs in the dairy were all washed ready for market, the whortleberries taken out of their baskets and made into pies, and then it was dinner time. Becky counted the hours. No sign of Nat Briggs.
He came just as Becky and Thirza were piling empty plates into the sink. Will was by the door, looking back over his shoulder. ‘Taking the cart down to the field,’ he told them. ‘Shovelin’ all that dung and then forkin’ it in – hot work. Bring George an’ me some tea later, Becks,’
Becky nodded. No need to answer, she knew she’d have to be there or else. And then Will’s voice changed as he went into the yard, polite, eager to please. ‘A’ternoon, Mr Briggs. Good feast, eh?’
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