Drifting Shadows

by Christine Green

  And Nat’s voice, surly as usual. ‘Something to say, Will. Leave your carting for a bit.’

  Hands about to plunge into hot water and soda, Becky stopped, her body stiffening. Iron-tipped boot steps on the cobbles of the cross passage and then the two men came into the kitchen, eyes at once finding her. Her pulse raced, but she simply nodded at them and carried on with the washing of the dishes. Thirza, beside her with a linen cloth, raised an eyebrow and then picked up the first wet plate.

  ‘Better if you come an’ listen, Mrs Yeo. An’ you, Becky.’

  The women exchanged glances, stopped what they were doing and crossed the room to stand, looking at Nat Briggs as he took the chair Will gestured him towards. Becky saw Will frowning, guessed that he expected a rebuke for not keeping an eye on her last night. Quickly she glanced at Nat, sitting with his feet outstretched and apart, hat on the back of his head, clearly preparing to say something important. Her breathing quickened. Come on, tell me, tell me….

  ‘Word from Mr Fielding, Becky. He’s offerin’ you a situation in the house while it’s being done up. Talked about a month. What d’you say, then?’

  A second’s pause and she felt the room instantly fill with thoughts, fears, memories – but then, in a flash of brightness, her own hopes overwhelmed everything. Thirza gasped and all but collapsed onto a stool beside the table. Will frowned and slowly said, ‘What? Becks goin’ to work at High Cross Manor? But I can’t do without ’er.’

  Nat Briggs twisted his mouth and said roughly, ‘Maister said as how you can get an apprentice.’

  Will let out an explosion of breath. ‘But that’d be just a lad – and I needs a worker, not a skinny little hedge boy from the workhouse.’

  Silence and Nat Briggs shrugged his shoulders. Excitement pulsed through Becky, dismissing any difficulties. Nothing must stand in her way. ‘Yes, Mr Briggs,’ she said quickly, her smile radiant, ‘I’ll take the situation. For as long as it lasts. Please thank Mr Fielding.’ She smiled into the narrow set eyes watching her so keenly, for once at peace with what she saw. ‘I’ll start tomorrow.’

  Thirza grabbed her arm, looking up at her. ‘No! You can’t go – not up there. No, Becky, no. You must stay ’ere.’

  Becky pulled her arm free. She saw Thirza’s wild anxiety, but could only think of her own excitement. ‘Of course I’ll go, Ma. It’s what I want – to work somewhere better’n an old farm like this. An’ I’ll be paid – a few more shillings, not so much pinching and scraping, Ma.’

  ‘But—’ Thirza wailed as she slid from the stool, falling to the floor, arms scrabbling and sounds of her despair filling the room.

  Beside her, Becky’s guilt overflowed. What had she done? Why was Ma in such a state? What was it about High Cross Manor that so upset her? But at once the men were pulling Thirza from the floor, looking at each other for a few seconds, and then clumsily carrying her up the narrow stairs.

  On her bed, Thirza blinked up at them, shook her head and wiped her eyes. ‘I got some’at to tell her. Where’s Becky?’

  Nat stepped back. ‘Here she be, Mrs Yeo. You lie quiet like – got any brandy, Will?’

  Becky heard Will clump downstairs and then return with the bottle always hidden in the cupboard in case of accidents and illnesses. He gave his mother a cupful and they all watched as she sipped, saw the colour return to her face. She stared up at Becky. ‘Want to tell you….’

  Becky shook her head dismissively at the two men, heard them go downstairs and then turned to her mother. ‘What is it, Ma? Tell me.’

  ‘Just that you mustn’t go to High Cross Manor. Not while he’s there.’ Thirza struggled to sit up, clutching her skirt with twitching fingers. She looked at Becky with wide, wild eyes. ‘He’s bad all through. I don’t want you goin’ there, maid, in case he – in case….’ Words died and she sat there, staring at Becky with tears running down her cheeks. ‘Don’t go—’

  Becky had never in her life had to make a decision like this one. Now she knelt down beside Thirza and took her hands in her own, warming them, smiling into the wan face that stared at her so desperately. She felt torn in half. Of course she wanted to go to the Manor to work. It was the chance of her life. But how could she disobey Ma who so clearly was in fear of what might happen there? And what could happen? She thought back to last night, when Mr Fielding had stood beside her, talking to her, and immediately cast aside Ma’s fear that he might, well, what did ‘in case he’ really mean? She guessed it was another way of saying keep away from that bad man, Rupert Fielding, in case he tries to take advantage of you.

  Becky hadn’t lived in a small village for nineteen years without hearing all the gossip, all the fears and hopes and scandals that naturally erupted. She knew that Rupert Fielding was disliked as the squire of his estate and was said to care only for drinking, hunting and the associated social events. There had been whispers about women, too – well, what was so dangerous about that? All men were that way inclined. Just for a second she remembered what Joseph had said – some men are bad – and at once her determination grew. If Mr Fielding tried to take advantage of her then she would resist. She had physical strength resulting from the hard labour of farming. He would have no chance with her. Ma must realize that and let her go.

  ‘You don’t want to worry about me and Mr Fielding, Ma,’ she said firmly, but with a smile. ‘I’ll be a match for him if he tries anything. No, stop worrying – there’s no need. And think, I’ll be paid a wage, even if it is only for a month. Come on, Ma, cheer up and think of what we can spend a few extra pennies on.’

  She and Thirza looked at each other, Becky nodding her head and smiling, until finally Thirza sighed deeply, patted the hand that still held hers, and said weakly, ‘If you’re sure, maid. Then I’ll have to let you go, I reckon. On’y,’ she paused, looked into Becky’s eyes, and then added, ‘tell him you wants to sleep at home. Then you can come back before it’s dark.’

  ‘I don’t know about that, Ma – we’ll see what he says. Now, up you get an’ I’ll make you a nice pot of tea when you come down.’ Becky left the room and went down to the kitchen, where Nat Briggs and Will were sitting looking at each other across the table, their conversation stopping the moment they heard her footsteps. Becky looked from one to the other. ‘What’s up? More trouble?’ No answer, both men looking down, and so she said, ‘Will, go and talk to Ma and tell her it’s safe for me to go to the Manor. Tell her that Mr Fielding isn’t the big monster she imagines him to be.’ She thought for a moment as, grudgingly he got up and walked towards the door. ‘An’ tell her that soon she’ll have a skinny little orphan from the workhouse to fuss over. That’ll make her forget I’m somewhere else.’ And then, with a straight look at Nat, ‘Well, Mr Briggs, stopping for a cup of tea, are you?’

  He stared, frowned, opened his mouth, then clamped it shut and she knew that whatever he had been saying to Will when she was up with Ma was not to be shared. ‘No,’ he said shortly, getting up. ‘Got work to do. I’ll tell the maister you agreed.’ He walked to the door, looked back at her and added, ‘So make sure you’re there at eight o’clock, Becky, an’ no nonsense.’

  As he left, she wondered what it might have been they were talking about, but then pushed away any ideas that came into her mind. At the moment all she must think about was persuading Ma that everything was all right, and then, tomorrow, going to the Manor and starting work there. Making the tea, she smiled at the smoky range and let herself imagine what the kitchen would be like at High Cross Manor.

  The morning was hazy with a threat of storm clouds beating up from the southwest. Becky was thankful that the harvest was safely in as she left the farmhouse, bundle of belongings in her hand, kissing Thirza and saying she would be back for a visit when she could manage it. Thirza seemed less worried, but still had a word of warning. ‘Don’t forget what I said, maid.’ Becky smiled, said ‘Stop worrying, Ma, I’m a big girl, you know,’ and went down the lane feeling as if she were walking on air. />
  Everything seemed brighter and more interesting this morning. She looked at the ferns on the roadside walls and loved their sharp greenness and sword-like shapes. Small flowers of sheeps’ bit and chickweed caught her eye and, hearing the music of a gentle wind sweeping down from the tors, and the lark singing in the field beyond the hedge, she thought of her favourite song, The Sprig of Thyme. Her voice rose as she sang a few lines, clear in the quiet air, and then she remembered Joseph singing it, too. ‘O’er the lane came a lad, he took all that I had….’

  She added the final line, and stole my thyme away, thought about it, and then walked on silently, wondering just what it was that Joseph had stolen. Because she knew now that he had taken a bit of her – some secret part that she had never shown to anyone before. Something warm and yearning that she still preferred to put aside. Then she told herself determinedly that her position at High Cross Manor was more important than a brief kiss with a man who never stayed still long enough to have an address.

  It was with a mind full of hope and restrained excitement that she presented herself at the kitchen door of the Manor and was met by an old woman whom she had never seen before, although the whole village knew that Nellie Mudge was the only servant left from the many who had kept the Manor going when Rupert Fielding’s parents were still alive.

  ‘You’re Rebecca Yeo? Maister said you were comin’.’

  Becky thought the hooded eyes, almost invisible among folds of wrinkles, were not welcoming. She stepped inside the doorway and looked around as the old woman turned and limped across the room.

  She knew that this had once been a kitchen full of maids and steaming pots and pans. Gossip said that dinners at High Cross had been popular among the gentry of twenty years ago. Ma had once chatted about working there herself when she was a girl. How Mr Fielding had been a handsome young man who charmed everyone but then, after his parents died, had seemingly let himself go, allowing the house to become neglected, dismissing most of the servants, living in a few rooms and not seeing friends any more. He’d let himself go, said the village, forever watching and tattling.

  Becky put all this out of her mind and stood beside the huge scrubbed table in the middle of the big kitchen, watching Nellie turn slowly and stare at her. ‘You looks strong,’ was all the old woman said before turning again and leading the way through the house. She stopped at the foot of the grand staircase which circled the vast hall, leading to a gallery above, looked back at Becky and said, in her cracked old voice, ‘Your room’s in the attic. More stairs above these. Put your things there and then come down. I got a list of things for you to do. Maister gave it me just now. Said as ’ow you can start right in on them.’

  Becky nodded, still looking about her. ‘Get on, then,’ said Nellie Mudge roughly. ‘No time to lose if this ole house is goin’ to be made tidy again. I don’t want no fly-by-nights ’ere, so move sharp, maid.’

  Up the stairs she went, noticing the carved oak banisters, looking at the huge portraits hanging on the wall, wondering who these aristocratic people were. Across the landing with its many closed bedroom doors and on to another flight of stairs, uncarpeted, narrow and creaking, with knots in the old wood, and finally there was her room at the top. Becky saw an iron bedstead with a grey blanket and an uncovered shabby bolster. There was a chair, a small table and a washstand with a cracked bowl and matching ewer. Something made her shiver. It was a cold, lonely room with a bad feel to it. She didn’t want to sleep here. She wondered if Nat Briggs had given Mr Fielding her message, if the maister would find her, tell her she must do as he wanted and dismiss her own wants. Indeed, for the few minutes it took her to look around the attic, put her few clothes in the rickety drawers, soap and hairbrush on the washstand, then go down the stairs again, longing to explore some of the rooms with their closed doors but knowing she shouldn’t, Becky wondered about being here at all. Had she been right in accepting the position? The house seemed unwelcoming and she feared she and Nellie would never get on.

  But then her natural brightness banished the bad thoughts and she returned to the kitchen more sure of herself and willing to do whatever work was needed. Maister’s list, Nellie Mudge had said – so what would the first task be?

  ‘I needs wood for the fire,’ said the old woman, frowning and nodding her head towards the door. ‘Out in the carpenter’s shop there’ll be a heap o’ bits. Take this basket and bring in as much as you can. An’ get a move on,’

  Becky took a deep breath and went into the yard. So she was to be treated just as harshly as at home? What on earth had made her come here? Tonight she’d leave. This was no place for a decent girl to work. Maybe Ma had been right.

  Outside she looked around. There was a clutter of buildings spread down the yard, sheds and outhouses, stables and a granary – so which could be the carpenter’s shop? And then, slowly, all her fears and annoyance died, for someone was humming in the furthermost shed. A deep, low, contented sound which made her smile and run towards it.

  The shed was unlit but a weak sun filtered through a bleary window on its far side. It smelt of wood and tar and paint, and with each step she took her feet were covered in shavings. But nothing mattered because she saw that the big figure leaning over a bench with a chisel in his large hand was someone she knew, just as she knew that lovely, velvety voice.

  Joseph Freeman, of course, singing as he worked.

  CHAPTER 5

  He stopped working, looked over his shoulder, turning to meet her gaze. ‘Miss Freckles! So – come to find me, have you? I knew as you wanted my address.’

  Excited as she was to see him, Becky’s mouth pursed. His words were cheeky, but his eyes, a silvery light in the dim building, held an irrepressible gleam she couldn’t ignore. Sharply it dawned on her that there was much about this attractive man that she had to discover. Casual kisses were all very well, but what went on in his head? In his life?

  She stood quite still in the doorway, stiffening with irritation. ‘What a thing to say! I work here, didn’t know as I’d find you here as well. What’re you doing?’

  Joseph leaned against the bench which held tools and a big carved piece of wood. He grinned, stood up straight, rubbed his back and stretched his arms, still looking at her. ‘Might say the same to you, Miss Becky. I’m taken on to do some joinery. Didn’t expect to see you. Last time ’twas at the harvest supper and then … afterwards.’ His deep voice died away, the final words lingering with a resonance that sent colour flushing up her throat and into her cheeks, remembering.

  ‘Yes, well.’ She cleared her throat, put a hand to her face to hide the blush and decided to bring this cheeky clodhead to heel. ‘I’m employed by Mr Fielding to help as he renovates his house. Like you, I expect.’ Already she had forgotten her earlier decision to leave once the day was over. For now she knew, like it or not, that if Joseph was to be here, then life would be much more exciting, intriguing even. She couldn’t go home, not now.

  He moved towards her, a big shadowy presence, and she stood still, captivated by what was happening. ‘So we shall be seeing a bit of each other, shall we, Becky? That’s good.’ Gently he put a hand, large and strong, on her shoulder and she felt again that extraordinary sense of meeting someone who understood her, who would help her on her way, who would be good to her. And even good for her. But Joseph was an unknown labourer with perhaps, as Nat suggested, a girl in every farm. Becky’s natural defiance brought a speedy warning. If he thought he could treat her in the same way as all the others, then he was wrong.

  With a sudden burst of knowledge, she realized that, one day, when she met and loved a man, there would be no other. So she must be careful with Joseph, with this stranger. Not allow herself to appear easy and flirtatious. She took one step away from him, felt his hand leave her shoulder and instantly regretted it.

  He was watching her, not moving, and she could find nothing more to say to him. It was as if she had become stricken down, like a rabbit when the ferret searche
s it out. This man was powerful and too attractive to be any good. Perhaps, after all, she should change her mind yet again, and leave High Cross Manor and return home. She took in a deep, noisy breath and frowned. But then she might not see him again and that was unthinkable.

  Joseph turned to the bench, body bending as his left hand picked up the chisel, right hand reaching for the mallet, and began working again on the oak panel. But as he did so, he said quietly, ‘No need to be scared, Becky. I’ll do you no harm. But we must be together again, like the other night. So wait for me, eh?’ And quickly he glanced over his shoulder, the message in his eyes forcing her into speech.

  ‘All right. I’ll be working here, at the Manor. I’ll be busy, but – when I have time off, I’ll wait….’

  A last gleam in the green-grey eyes and the soft, seductive voice, saying, ‘That’s good. I’ll find you – when I can.’

  And then, abruptly Nellie’s cracked voice ringing through the yard. ‘Rebecca, where’re you to, for goodness? Bring in that kindling, quick as you can.’

  Becky felt the spell shatter. Hurriedly she went towards the corner of the shed where a huge pile of offcuts of timber and broken branches stood and grabbed handfuls, filling her basket. She didn’t look at Joseph, but sensed that he watched. She went back to the kitchen and Nellie’s grumpy rebukes with a light heart and a sense of adventure. He would find her, she was sure of it. And then – her heart raced – what would happen?

  Rupert Fielding returned from escorting Felicity Richards back to her home in Moretonhampstead. It was early evening and he felt the need of his usual drink, but once the carriage had been drawn into the mews, and the horses taken to the stables, he found time to speak to Tom Butler, the groom who was working with the stable lad, Eddy.

  ‘How’s that new young gelding coming on, Tom? I’d like to try him out next week when we go cubbing. Promising, is he? Steady? Getting used to moorland work?’