Tom Butler nodded, pausing in his work. ‘Yes, sir. Justice seems a likely young’un, I’d say. Next week, is it? Friday, as usual?’
‘That’s it. I’ll see how we get on. Goodnight, now.’
Rupert stopped momentarily at the stall where Justice was standing, pulling hay from the tallat above and whickering as he heard voices. A hand on the smooth, firm rump, and Rupert smiled to himself. Hunting season again. Good. The summer had been boring without the customary adventures over the moor and the ongoing conviviality of his country friends. Returning to the house and his shabby, comfortable study, he wondered briefly if Felicity, when they were married, would resent his many disappearances during the hunting season. She was certainly a very social woman, always out somewhere with her many friends. He sank down into the old leather chair by the fireplace and reached for the bottle Nellie had, as usual, put on the table beside him. He lit a cigar, took a long, relishing sip of the whisky and felt himself ease into the familiar, drowsy, shadowy evening state when he could forget the world and its problems and sink back into the simplicity of taste, smell and comfort.
If, during the evening, Felicity entered that world then she was quickly cast out again. He had told her bluntly that this proposed marriage was simply a convenience; he needed an heir and she had said she was keen to have a child, which should be possible, as she was a good fifteen years younger than him.
Felicity. Still pretty and nubile enough to excite him, even though he found her determination and bossiness hard to deal with. He shut his eyes. It would be pleasant to take a woman to bed again. Something he had been used to doing frequently in his youth, but nowadays – well – perhaps he was getting too old for it. He opened his eyes, smiling at the foolish thought, and memories began coursing through his mind.
There had been so many pretty little maids, some in the house, others daughters of his parents’ farming tenants. It had all been so easy – and no problems. No comebacks, no arguments. A handout and a stiff warning about the future of the tenancy usually dealt with any possible complaints. Although…. Suddenly his smile died and he eased himself up a little straighter in the creaking chair. There had been one, of course, who had come back and said defiantly that he’d made her pregnant and what was he going to do about it? Rupert poured another measure of whisky and tried to push the unpleasant memory out of his mind. All gone. All done, in the past, and today just the faintest memory, so easy to forget.
But something still nagged at him. He frowned, forcing himself to confront it. That girl, the one who had had the audacity to come into the house uninvited and then asked him for a situation. Freckles, a clear speech, and that thick chestnut hair.
Something about her.
Yawning, he drooped back into the welcoming chair. Cigar ash fell unheeded on his chest as the evening light faded, the sun slipped away and the comforting shadow land returned. He slept.
Becky worked hard all morning, stopping only for a meal in the kitchen at crib time when she was thankful to sit down. Now she was able to go anywhere that she chose in the house, it had become increasingly clear that Mr Fielding had let things go for too many years. Dust, cobwebs, even dry rot in some of the panels and beams of the main rooms – she wondered why she had ever thought their homely farmhouse old and dirty. Thirza would be shocked if she saw this neglect.
As she sat at the long table, with Tom Butler and the lad, Eddy, opposite her, she listened to Nellie wheezing on about the past. ‘Once this was all clean and shining. When Mr Rupert were a boy. His parents were fussy, oh yes, they was. But after they’d gone, well, the maister seemed not to care about the house any more. Always out, hunting, parties….’ Nellie frowned as she paused, a hunk of bread spread with dripping in her hand. She stared at Tom. ‘What you grinning at, then?’
‘Nothing,’ he assured her. But the grin grew. ‘Just remembering all the stories ’bout the women… likes a bit of warm flesh, does the maister.’
Becky saw the lad drop his bread and bend down to hide his laughter. She looked at Tom, who met her gaze, then said apologetically, ‘Sorry, maid, but that’s how it was. Nellie knows.’
But Nellie looked at her plate and said nothing, leaving Becky to understand that Mr Fielding’s reputation was in no way different from the tales she’d heard in the village. Perhaps it was worse than that. She recalled Thirza’s anxiety, and told herself that she must be careful. Not that he would ever think of her as a possible victim. Needing reassurance, she looked at Nellie and said, ‘He’s old now. He can’t do things like that any more.’
But her thoughts raced on, wondering what made a man behave in such an uncontrolled way. Surely he must have been unhappy in those days? Uncertain what life held for him? She even felt slight pity for such a man and the thought surprisingly made her want to see him again. To find out what he was really like.
Nellie drank her ale, pushed the empty plate away and scraped back her chair. ‘Time to get on.’
In the afternoon Becky worked in the main guest bedroom, sleeves rolled up and a hessian apron tied around her waist. The four-poster headboard was carved with angels and flowers and leaves and the dust had become engrained. One pillar of the board was missing and at once she knew what Joseph had been working on. With difficulty she took down the faded, musty bed curtains and carried them down to the scullery, ready for the next wash. Up again to clean the big mullioned windows, at the same time looking down into the neglected garden and stretching paddock and meadows beyond.
She was ready to stop work, ready for a cup of tea and a breath of outside clean air after all the dirty, musty atmosphere up there, when Nellie called up the stairs, ‘Rebecca, come down ’ere.’
Nat Briggs stood in the hallway, watching her. ‘Workin’ hard, then, Becky? I reckons you owes me something fer getting the maister to take you on.’
His smile sent a shiver through her and she stiffened. ‘I don’t owe you nothing, Mr Briggs. I spoke to Mr Fielding myself and asked and he said—’
Nat cut in quickly. ‘Asked me ’bout your character, he did, Becky, and I gave him a good account of you. Course you owes me.’ He came closer to her as she reached the bottom of the staircase and looked into her eyes, his leery smile repulsing her. ‘But not now. There’ll be other times. Soon, I reckon. And me being around, ’cos Maister needs me to help out with his papers, he says. So I’ll be here. Like you. Plenty o’ chances to be together. Proper, eh?’
‘No!’ He made her feel dirty, the way he looked at her. She pushed past him and almost ran into the kitchen, his voice following as she went. ‘You wanted to be here, Becky, so you can’t blame me for charging my payment, can you?’
Nellie looked up as she entered. ‘What you doing with that Briggs? Keep clear of him, maid. Always after the girls, he be. Now – done that bedroom, then?’ And, looking at her more closely, ‘Sit down an’ rest now. Kettle’s on the boil. We’ll have some tea, get ready for the next job.’
Becky was grateful for the understanding and the chance to stop working. She wondered again just what secrets Nellie knew about the house and its occupants. Perhaps she could get the old woman talking one day…. Mr Fielding’s image flashed into her mind, and she felt again the urge to find out more about him. Smiling at Nellie as she poured water into the big enamel teapot, she knew she must make the old woman her friend.
She could hardly believe it when the day ended. Working on the farm had always been in accordance with the routine duties, the weather and the seasons, but here, contained in four stone walls, time passed without her noticing it. Straightening up after removing dirt and fluff from under the bed in what Nellie called the second guest room, Becky’s thoughts were suddenly full of home. And Thirza. And how she must, somehow, get a message to Ma that she wouldn’t be coming back this evening, or any evening, until she was given time off.
Back in the kitchen, glad to sit down and watch Nellie preparing dinner for the maister, she asked quietly, ‘Can I have an hour off, Mrs Mudge?
I need to tell my mother that I’m sleeping here. She didn’t want me to, you see.’
Nellie looked up from basting the chicken in the big black pan set on top of the range.
‘What, Thirza nervous for you, was she?’ She chuckled and Becky thought, Why? Carefully, she asked, ‘You remember Ma working here, I expect?’
Nellie turned and looked at her. ‘I remember lots o’ things,’ she said sharply. ‘Yes, she was here.’
Becky thought she was going to say more, but abruptly she moved away to the dresser to get down dishes and plates and put them to warm.
‘So – can I go, for an hour or so, Mrs Mudge?’
‘Work’s done fer the day – yes, you can go – but door’s locked after ten o’clock.’
Rising, Becky said, ‘Thank you,’ and went up to the attic to change her stained dress for the old print hanging in the curtained cupboard, wash her hands and face, brush her hair and then escape.
Outside it was nearly dimpsey, with rooks shouting in the elms nearby and a scent of gorse sweeping down from the moor. Becky left the yard without wondering whether Joseph was still at work, for her mind was full of other things. She walked down the lane towards home, filled with anxiety. How had Will got on without her help? Had he forced Ma into taking her place? Was anything being done about getting an apprentice from the Union? Had Mr Briggs helped in any way?
And then, like a sinister cloud darkening her mind, she remembered that Nat Briggs was going to spend time at the Manor, so he said. How could she avoid meeting him? And would he really demand payment for his small service? As she walked, Becky increased her speed, as if to escape from the image of him, thankfully reaching the farmhouse before any more anxieties mounted up. The yard was empty, but Prince barked and then gave her a mad welcome, while the cob whickered in the stable shed. Becky smelt cow dung and hay and wood smoke and breathed it all in with a sense of relief. She went in through the open kitchen door and smiled, knowing she was home and safe. The thought puzzled her for a second: Safe from what? But she pushed it aside, as Thirza came to greet her.
‘So you’re back! Oh, maid, I’m that glad to see you.’
It took a while to let Thirza understand that this was just a visit, and Becky patiently softened the blow by telling her mother about the work she had been doing all day. ‘So you see, Ma, there’s so much to do, and I’ve been given this little room, which isn’t bad.’ A small lie, but necessary. ‘And Mrs Mudge is good to me.’
‘Nellie Mudge? Her still there? My soul, she must be gettin’ on now. Her was there when—’ Thirza bit off the words and Becky said quickly, ‘When you were there? Yes, she remembers you.’
There was silence for a moment while Thirza sat down, apparently lost in thought. Until Will came stomping in, stopping in the doorway when he saw Becky.
‘You back, then? Didn’t last long, that job.’ With his familiar lack of manners, he pushed past her, heaving himself into the chair by the fire and beginning to unlace his boots. ‘Got the sack, did you?’
‘No,’ said Becky sharply. ‘I’m just here to tell Ma that I shan’t be coming home nights. I’m to sleep there.’ She frowned at her brother. ‘It’s a good position and I like it so don’t you go saying bad things.’ She stopped, remembered what her loss must mean, and then added, ‘Done anything about getting an apprentice, have you?’
Will turned and looked at her, boots slowly being kicked off. She thought he seemed reluctant to answer, but slowly, he said, ‘No. Gettin’ a ’prentice is too much of a to do with indentures and suchlike, so Dinah’s comin’ to help.’ He paused, blinked. ‘I know she’s slow, but she’ll learn. An’ she said it’s right for you to get a better sort of work – you can read an’ write. So I thought ’bout it and well, all right then, Becks. I hopes as you’re happy at the Manor.’
Becky was taken aback. She had never thought Will would come round to saying such brotherly things. And then she wondered at Dinah, making him change his mind; it was all very surprising. She felt a new warmth as she looked at him, and said slowly, with a wry smile, ‘That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said.’
Will sat back in his chair, eyes on the beams overhead. And then he looked at her and nodded. ‘You’re a good worker, Becks, I’ll give you that, an’ like Dinah ses, all your education gone for nothing if you stay here. Well, no need for you to worry ’bout leavin’ us any more.’ Surprisingly, he smiled. ‘Come fer supper, have you? Ma’s got a plump rabbit – shot it this morning. Let’s sit down, then.’
It was a good hour later when Becky knew she must leave and go back to her cold, musty attic. But now she was full of hope and all the worries about Ma and Will had slipped into the background. They would manage without her and she could give her wages to them, which would be something in place of her work. She walked down the dark lane, pulling her shawl about her shoulders, for August was rapidly slipping into autumn and the evenings growing cold.
The hedges threw dark shadows and the rough road was a thread of moonlit stones taking her back to High Cross Manor. Shadows, thought Becky, walking quickly and surely along the old familiar way. Life seemed full of them. But she was recognizing, slowly, that very often shadows lightened and became different. Just think of Dinah talking to Will. It was almost as if they could even become sunlit paths, easy to follow and enjoy. Her mind lightened, and she hummed a bit of The Sprig of Thyme as she walked.
She found the key in the door waiting at the Manor, the kitchen empty, but a kettle was on the fire, and a mug stood on the table holding milk and she knew that Nellie had left it out for her. Going up first the elegant staircase and then, with her candle wavering in the draught, up the narrow creaking stairs above, Becky accepted that being here at High Cross Manor could well become one of those newly sunlit paths – if that was what she truly wanted.
CHAPTER 6
The days slipped past increasingly rapidly. Becky found the work hard but satisfying, seeing the dusty and neglected house becoming once again the elegant home Nellie Mudge told her it had originally been. Even her attic was more welcoming after a good clean, with some wild flowers on the creaky washstand, an extra blanket. and the one window cleared of raindrops and bird spatterings. And Nellie was more inclined to be friendly, and talk. Or so Becky thought.
‘How’s Thirza these days, then? Don’t never see her now.’ Nellie’s sharp eyes fixed on Becky. ‘Must be gettin’ on a bit. Not all that young when she were here.’
‘I don’t know.’ Becky found the idea of Ma getting on surprising. To her Thirza, with her grey hair and slight cough had always been the same figure. ‘We don’t count birthdays much at home, too busy. Except that I was nineteen in January.’
Nellie’s wizened arms worked at the dough on the table in front of her. She said nothing but Becky watched the expression on her face and wondered where these questions came from.
She waited, uncertain whether to ask, but Nellie was silent, immersed in bread making, her face intent, her lips tight, and so Becky slowly learned to be quiet and not ask anything.
But vaguely, she realized that Nellie knew secrets and was unlikely to share them. The knowledge gave a sense of frustrated excitement to her hard work, a source of wonderment when arms and legs and back ached and the day seemed never ending.
Gradually, too, she accepted that Rupert Fielding was a complex man who spent periods sitting alone in his study, drinking, smoking cigars, eyes closed, but seemingly aware of what went on in the house, in the yard, around the estate. When Nat Briggs came, which was every few days, Mr Fielding became more active and Becky heard their voices in the study as she passed the closed door. At those times she made sure she was upstairs when Nat arrived and when he left. She had a fear of meeting him again, of seeing something in his small, close set eyes which scared her. And she remembered the looks passing between Will and Ma not long ago when Nat was around. It was as if they had arranged something – about her? Becky put all her energy into her work and banished Nat Br
iggs from her mind.
Joseph was still working in the carpenter’s shop. She heard him whenever she went into the yard for something, but he never appeared, looking for her. And, although she wanted to do so, she didn’t allow herself to go and find him, because if she did, and he showed no more interest in her, how would she feel?
He’s a wild man. No good. He’ll be off somewhere before I know it – all that about coming to find me was just rubbish. But, oh, the memories of his kiss, of his voice and of the wicked smile on his handsome face refused to disappear. Becky swept, dusted and polished all the harder, resolving never to think about such a useless fly-by-night again.
When Rupert Fielding came into the kitchen one morning after breakfast, she and Nellie stood up, at once seeing something different about him. Dressed in tweed jacket, breeches and riding boots, bowler hat in hand, he was clearly the man of means, the owner of the estate.
Even his voice was different, clearer, crisper. ‘I’m bringing some friends back for dinner, Nellie. We’ll be ravenous after hunting – do one of your tasty dishes, please, and plenty of it.’ He stopped in the doorway, glanced back at Becky, and gave her a stiff smile. ‘I understand you work well. Mrs Mudge is pleased with you.’ A pause, and then the stiffness resolved slightly. ‘Like it here, do you? Want to stay?’
Becky almost gasped. He hadn’t spoken to her since that awful confrontation in the kitchen after the harvest supper. And now there was a hint of a more open smile on his long, lined face.
‘Yes,’ she said quickly and bobbed neatly, ‘Yes, sir. Yes, please, I do.’
‘I’m glad you’re happy here.’ Rupert Fielding nodded, turned away and disappeared into the yard where she heard him shouting for Tom Butler.
She went to the door, watching as Justice, the gelding, was held and Mr Fielding mounted. She saw him clip clop out of the yard with Tom Butler on the cob behind him, before she turned back to Nellie. ‘Hunting? Cubbing, is it? End of August, killing the young foxes? Meeting his friends and then hacking out somewhere?’
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