‘Yes,’ said Nellie, pushing her dough into a pan, covering it with a cloth then putting it close to the fire. ‘They generally meet up by Swallerton Gate. Dunno where they goes then.’ She sighed. ‘Company for dinner, so I’d better get that cockerel you plucked yesterday and get it ready to cook. You can do the ’taties.’
Rupert Fielding rode away from the Manor, wondering at his remarks to the new kitchen maid. She was an attractive and lively young woman with a clear voice and good manners, but she knew her place. Then the disturbing thought returned; something about her. An air of vitality and charm. He frowned; she had a presence that seemed to lighten the old house.
But then Tom was at his side and they discussed the venue of the morning’s meet. And soon then they were passing Bowerman’s Nose, standing huge and grey beyond the Gate where already a group of horsemen had gathered. Forget the girl; this was the time of his favourite pastime and nothing must intrude.
‘Morning, Squire.’ Doffed hats from the estate farmers.
‘Morning, Fielding,’ from the gentry and a patronizing nod from the master, holding court, hounds restless beside him, and then they were off and everything in Rupert’s mind fled, save the moment. The rhythm of the horse and his body responding to it; sweat on his forehead as the sun beat down and the scent of heather in the air as hoofs left the road and plunged across open moorland.
Hounds found and one young fox ran so they let it go, to grow into good healthy maturity. But then hounds were in the covert, noisy and ready to kill. Enthusiastically the inexperienced and excited gelding headed down the rough, pitted slope towards the copse. Abruptly off balance, Justice fell, Rupert clinging on for the first seconds, but then falling heavily while the gelding stumbled to its feet and stopped, confused.
Rapidly Tom Butler dismounted, took hold of Justice’s reins, shouted for help and for someone to find a hurdle, on which Rupert was carried home, eyes closed and his back causing him what was clearly agonizing pain.
Becky and Nellie waited in the kitchen while the doctor, brought from Moretonhampstead, arrived to examine Rupert. Tom and Eddy were in the stables, Nat Briggs hovered on the stairs, and Becky saw that Joseph, hearing the commotion, had left the carpenter’s shop and was outside the kitchen door. No one spoke, for the hurdle and its occupant had been enough information on its own. The maister was badly hurt and no one could do anything until the doctor spoke.
When Dr Gale came downstairs he stood in the hall and called for Nellie. Wiping her hands on her apron, she quickly went out of the kitchen. Becky followed, loitering in the shadowy passage between kitchen and hallway. She listened, anxious about the maister’s progress, and surprised at herself for feeling such an emotion.
‘Mr Fielding needs rest,’ said Dr Gale gruffly. ‘His back will recover – slowly – but he took a fall on his head and I fear might suffer concussion for a while. I’ve given him drugs to help him sleep, but someone should be in attendance. Have you a girl who can sit with him?’
Nellie said slowly, ‘There’s only Rebecca here with me. I s’pose she could do it.’
‘Is she sensible? Capable of making decisions if necessary?’
Becky was about to step through the doorway, when she heard Nellie say grudgingly,
‘She’ll do that all right, Doctor.’ A pause and then, her voice softening anxiously, ‘Will the maister – will he be all right?’
‘I hope so. A fall at his age needn’t be fatal, but his heart isn’t all that strong. We can only hope for the best, Mrs Mudge. And now I’m off. Send the boy for me if I’m needed.’ He went out into the courtyard where Tom waited with the pony and trap.
Nellie turned, saw Becky behind her and said slowly, ‘You heard then?’ She sighed heavily. ‘Go on up and see that he don’t want for anything – just sit there and watch. And so I reckon I gotta do the best I can on me own. Just when I was getting used to having you help out. Well, at least there’ll be no big dinner tonight.’
Alone in the passage, Becky stood still for a moment, thinking. And then she took off her apron, smoothed her work dress, pushed some wayward hairs under her cap and went up the sweeping staircase. If Mr Fielding needed her care, then she’d give it to him, and willingly.
She met Nat Briggs at the head of the stairs, standing there watching her. He said, very sharply, ‘You an’ me gotta do the best we can. Maister can’t do nothing for himself for a while. So you to sit with him and me to see to the estate. Understand?’
‘Yes.’ Becky saw the start of a new expression on his tanned, leathery face, and knew it was a growing realization of power. Her mind seethed with words of distaste, of warning, of her hatred of him, but then realized this wasn’t the moment to confront him. She had a duty to do, and caring for Mr Fielding was more important than bringing Nat Briggs down a peg or two. She walked around him, knocked lightly on the bedroom door and entered, closing it behind her.
Rupert Fielding lay there, stretched straight out on the length of the four-poster bed. A green quilted coverlet rested over his chest and arms and his head was slightly turned to one side, his closed eyes and pallor making him almost unfamiliar.
Becky was shocked. She had only known him for a short while, but his long frame and once handsome face had already become familiar, and now he had suddenly changed into an old man whose unsteady breathing filled the silence of the big room and made her own heart start to race. What could she do to help? Surely there must be something, other than merely sitting beside his bed and waiting for him to open his eyes?
Her mind flew in circles, suddenly remembering Thirza’s husky voice from childhood, crooning to her when she was poorly, and then words came unbidden, and she began, very softly, to sing.
‘In my garden grew plenty of thyme, it would flourish by night and by day.
O’er the wall came a lad, he took all that I had, and stole my thyme away.’
Sitting there in the large, sunlit room, her thoughts slipped back to the warmth of her childhood. To memories when Will was more friendly and of both of them playing around the farm. And then, growing, working together, helping out by holding the horses, rounding up the sheep, feeding poultry and washing eggs for market – all the common tasks of a small farm struggling to keep the family alive, striving for as much comfort as they could afford.
As she reached the last word she sighed. The thyme in the song had gone, and so had her childhood. Yesterday, gone for ever, and here was today and poor Mr Fielding lying beside her, eyes still closed, breathing shallow and slow. What could she do for him other than sit here and wait patiently until he regained consciousness? And why should she feel this unexpected sympathy for him? She got to her feet, walked to the window and looked out across the garden to the stretching moorland beyond. Something moved along the rough path leading from the adjacent yard to the road and she looked more intently.
A man, tall and heavy, with a bag over his shoulder and a hat clamped down over his wind-blown corn gold hair. He carried a staff and she thought he looked eager to get away into the freedom of the moor. Joseph, of course. Going, and without a word to her.
Becky sucked in a huge breath, trying to stop the anger and the depth of longing that suddenly raged through her. She had known the sort of man he was, a traveller, a fly-by-night, so why feel like this? Why waste her thoughts and feelings? She was here at High Cross Manor with a special duty to perform. Her situation was confirmed. No need to worry about her future. She turned back to the bed and sat down, looking again at Mr Fielding whose breathing had become noisier.
As she looked she saw his eyelids fluttering. And then suddenly he was awake, dark eyes looking directly at her, a hint of a smile lightening his grey, lined face.
‘Grace,’ he said. Just the one word.
Anxiously, Becky leaned over him. ‘Mr Fielding? Can I get you something?’
No reply. Eyes closed, and the suggestion of a smile vanished. He slept.
Becky remained where she was until, later in th
e afternoon, Nellie came with a dish of beef tea and a drink. ‘I’ll sit for a while. You can go down – get some fresh air.’
Becky nodded. ‘Thank you. I’ll come back soon.’ She felt the need to get up and move away from the sick bed. From the uneasy thoughts that were swirling around inside her. Who had the maister thought she was? Who was Grace?
She went downstairs quickly, eager to get out of the house with its strange echoes of what she sensed were haunting secrets. Passing the study she heard movement and knew it was Nat Briggs, reading papers and books that he had no right to read. But someone must run the estate while Mr Fielding was ill, so it had to be Nat, just as he had said. And she was the one to look after the maister. So she supposed there was a sort of unwanted bond between them.
Out in the breezy air of the yard, Becky took in great lungfuls and felt herself respond to more cheerful thoughts. She went into the carpenter’s shop and saw the wooden slab of timber Joseph had been working on propped on the bench. It was finished, a cleverly restored part of the panel forming the head of the bed in the guest room. His tools had disappeared, so had his jacket hung on the door and the big bag beneath it, but his presence remained. She could sense him there, turning, looking at her, smiling, saying wicked words that he had never meant. And although she knew she must forget him, she also knew that she had to find him again. Somewhere. Somehow.
It was a happy thought, and enabled her to return cheerfully to the patient’s bedside an hour later where she found Mr Fielding awake and looking around him, with Nellie and a half-emptied bowl of beef tea at his side. ‘He’s come to,’ whispered Nellie, standing back from the bed. ‘Ses he must get up, see to things. I told him as doctor ses he has to stay there, but he wants to get up. Asked where you was – where’s the girl, he said, clear as anything. Well, see what you can do, maid.’
She left the room and Becky stood by the bed, saying quietly, ‘Can I get you anything, Mr Fielding?’
He drew his arms from beneath the coverlet and asked harshly, ‘What happened?’
‘You took a fall. Dr Gale came from Moreton. He said you must rest.’
‘Good God! I can’t rest.’ He pulled himself into a sitting position, wincing as pain struck. ‘My back, is it? Well, it’s not the first time. It’ll mend.’
Becky thought she should reassure him after the shock of the accident, so she said, ‘Mr Briggs is here, looking after things, Mr Fielding. No need for you to worry about anything….’ And then the words died away as he stared at her, dark eyes wide and intent.
‘I know you, don’t I? Seen you before somewhere.’ His voice was rough and hoarse.
She smiled, trying to calm him. ‘I’m Rebecca Yeo, your new kitchen maid.’
Silence, and she saw thoughts tightening his pale face. ‘Rebecca? Not Grace?’
Again, Grace. She took a deep breath. ‘No, sir, I’m Becky.’ And then sympathy for what he was obviously suffering made her add, ‘You had a blow to the head, sir. Can I get you something to help the pain?’
He dropped back onto the pillows, grimacing as he allowed his body to slide downwards. ‘Nothing. I don’t want anything. You can go.’
‘But the doctor said—’
‘Damn the doctor. I’ll be up tomorrow. Just want a good night’s sleep. And then, so much to do. Must tell Felicity. Get Briggs to go to Moreton, I’ll write a letter and tell her….’ The words weakened and died.
Becky nodded her head. She had tried to help but all he wanted was to get his life back. She walked to the door and then stopped as he called after her, voice suddenly weak and only just audible. ‘Stay here. Till I sleep.’
‘Yes, of course.’ She went to the window, drew the curtains against the afternoon sun, and then returned to the bedside.
She felt him watching her every movement. When she sat he nodded and turned his head to look at her, dark eyes taking in every feature, freckles, her strong chin and thick chestnut sparked hair. What did he see in her, she wondered uneasily and wished she was somewhere else. Safely at home, perhaps. Somewhere with Joseph. Anywhere away from this haunted room and the unsaid thoughts flickering in Rupert Fielding’s dark eyes. ‘Grace,’ he murmured, and then turned away.
She sat there, wondering, imagining, until at last the curious eyes closed, he slept and then she crept from the room, thankful to escape.
Going downstairs, two words echoed through her uneasy mind.
Grace. Escape.
But – escape from what?
CHAPTER 7
‘Mrs Mudge, who is Grace?’
Becky asked the question quietly, looking at the grey haired woman bending over the hot range in the kitchen. The stirring hand stopped abruptly and Nellie turned, looking over her shoulder, narrowed eyes and wrinkled face tight with a grim expression that surprised Becky.
‘Why d’you want to know?’ Her voice was quick and harsh.
‘Because Mr Fielding said her name. He’d just woken up, then he looked at me and said, “Grace”.’
Nellie turned back to her stock pot and the steady stirring. ‘Just a girl who worked here once.’ It seemed a casual remark, but Becky heard her voice crack. ‘Oh, long ago. Now, we must think about something for the maister’s dinner – I wonder if he might like a bite or two of that old fowl if I makes it really tender. Fetch it out of the larder, maid.’
Knowing she was being put off, Becky went to the larder with determination hot inside her. Nellie wouldn’t tell her. Very well, she would ask Ma, who had also worked here, if she remembered Grace and what was so special about her. Well, special enough to make Mr Fielding remember her. And it would be easier to make Ma tell than keep questioning awkward old Nellie.
Returning with the fowl and putting it on the table, she smiled and asked politely, ‘If the maister doesn’t need me for an hour while he’s asleep, I’d like to run home, Mrs Mudge. I expect Ma and Will have heard the news and they’ll want to know how he is. Can I go?’
Nellie stared across the table, hands already busy about the bird. ‘Well – wait till he sleeps proper after his meal and then p’raps you can. Wonder if we can get Mr Briggs to sit with him – or p’raps Tom, though he do smell of the stable.’
Becky started cleaning potatoes in the scullery, her thoughts busy. Perhaps tomorrow the maister would like her to carry on sitting with him – at least until he could manage on his own. She breathed deeply, saw him in her mind’s eye, pale and tense with pain, and knew she would gladly give time to looking after him. Uncertain why, she felt at ease with him. And she sensed that he liked her enough to allow her to be beside him. She shook her head. Everything was very strange today.
Returning to the kitchen she put the potatoes on to cook, aware of Nellie watching her, and suddenly she turned to meet the thoughtful gaze, hoping for something about Grace, but then Nellie turned away and the moment was gone. By the time the meal was cooked, she had laid a tray to take to the invalid and was about to carry it up the stairs when Nat Briggs came down, forcing her to step back and wait. He looked at her very keenly, deep set eyes seeming to pierce her mind. ‘So he’s awake, is he? Tell him as I needs to see him. Things he must decide.’
Becky said firmly, ‘He’s not ready yet. He needs to rest more.’ And then she remembered what Mr Fielding had said. ‘But I know he wants you to take a letter to Mrs Richards in Moreton tomorrow.’
Nat frowned, stretched out his hands and took the tray from her. ‘Give it here. I’ll take it to him. Then he can tell me what I gotta do.’
‘But—’ She hated the idea of Nat forcing the maister to try and think straight when clearly he wasn’t ready for it.
‘Never mind but,’ he growled. ‘Go on back and tell Nellie I’ll be down for me dinner soon as I can. Tell her to keep it hot.’ His frown grew more ferocious; watching her, he waited and she could do nothing but obey. Seeing him go up the stairs and barge straight into the maister’s room without bothering to put down the tray and knock, she knew she hated Nat Briggs with
a force that frightened her.
Downstairs, Nellie looked at her. ‘Some’at wrong? Not the maister?’
Becky told her about what Nat had said. Nellie snorted. ‘That’s him, all right. But the maister’ll tell him off, I don’t doubt. He’s a strong man, maister is, and that little hayseed’ll have to give in if he wants to keep his job. Now,’ She smiled at Becky. ‘Sit you down, maid. You deserve a good meal and then you can go home fer a bit. I’ll watch the maister meself if Nat don’t do so.’
It was in the middle of the shared meal around the kitchen table that they heard a knock at the door and a deep voice called out, ‘Joseph Freeman. I gotta message for Mr Briggs.’
Nat, deep in his chicken and gravy, growled, ‘What a time o’night to come.’ He nodded at Becky and gestured towards the door. She rose quickly, avoiding his knowing eyes, and opened the door. ‘Mr Briggs is here,’ she said curtly into the shadowy dusk, and turned back into the room, not letting herself look at the man standing in the doorway. But, even as she returned to the table, something warm and urgent flashed through her. Joseph here; would there be a chance to talk together after he’d given Nat the message?
Nellie looked at the remains of the carcass on the big dish on the table, and then across the room. ‘There’s a few scraps left if you’re hungry,’ she said, and allowed herself a slight smile as she met Joseph’s eyes. ‘Just get the talkin’ done first and then you can sit yourself down.’ She turned to Becky. ‘Leave ’em be. We’ll do the dishes – an then you can go, maid.’
Go? thought Becky, full of confusion. But I don’t want to go anywhere while Joseph’s here. And then, suddenly, she caught the full force of Nat’s eyes, staring at her, his mouth down slanted and his hand clumsily wiping gravy from his thin lips. He knew, she thought wildly. He knows that I want to see Joseph. And he’ll stop me doing it.
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