‘I shall write a letter to Mrs Richards and you can ride over and give it to her, Briggs.’ His voice was crisp and testy. Becky, pausing at the door to make sure he had all he wanted on his tray, thought that this was a different Mr Fielding from the quiet, dour man she had first met. The accident had, in some way, woken him up. Now it was clear that he intended to move on, to make his life more important, to perhaps tend to the estate and look forward to his wedding to the elegant Mrs Richards. She felt glad for him and then, making her way back to the kitchen, wondered at the feeling.
Nat Briggs appeared in the middle of the morning, the letter sticking out of his coat pocket. ‘I’m off to Moreton, back for dinner,’ he said importantly. ‘You, Becky, go up to the maister. Ses he needs you for something.’
She looked at Nellie, who sighed, nodded her head, and carried on making pastry.
About to leave the kitchen, she encountered Nat waiting in the doorway, looking at her with a grin which she immediately feared. Very low, he said, ‘I’m gonna talk to you when I gets back. Make sure you’re here, see?’
She made no reply, kept her eyes down and slipped past him into the escape of the hall. But going up the sweeping staircase her heart raced and she felt a return of the old anger and rebellion. She would have nothing to do with the man. Only one thing mattered: she would wait for Joseph to come back and save her.
Rupert Fielding looked up as she entered the study. She bobbed. ‘Mr Briggs said—’ but he cut her off at once.
‘Yes, I want you. Pull that chair over and sit down. Here, by me.’
Becky could hardly contain her curiosity. Why should she be given this unexpected privilege? She bowed her head and murmured, ‘Yes, sir,’ as she obeyed.
‘Now.’ Rupert Fielding looked at her very keenly. ‘You can write, and read?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Are you good with figures? Here, look at this.’ He pushed an open book towards her.
Becky looked at it with trepidation. What if she couldn’t please him? But as she slowly took in what the book contained, interest grew. It was a ledger, showing credits and invoices. Memories of her school arithmetic prowess rushed back – adding, subtracting, multiplying. Yes, she could make sense of all this. But what did he want of her? She looked up at him. ‘I know what this is, sir.’
He smiled, an easing of the frosty expression that had greeted her. ‘Good. Excellent. I had a feeling that you were more intelligent than the usual servant. Now….’
Becky flinched and sat back on the hard chair, but his long fingers were spreading over the page, stopping at various names and amounts, and she realized her feelings might be hurt but to him they couldn’t matter less. She concentrated hard.
‘These accounts,’ said Rupert Fielding, frowning, ‘go back several years. Years in which I have to admit I let things go. I didn’t scrutinize them sufficiently. And now I realize I must make amends.’ He sat back in his chair, grimacing with pain as he did so, but looked at her with new interest. ‘Or at least, you will do it for me. I will teach you what needs doing – it won’t be hard. You see, I shall have enough to do getting the house into better shape before Mrs Richards and I marry so you will oblige me by sorting out these accounts. And if you find any deficiencies, or suchlike, then you must tell me and I’ll do something about it. I suggest you come up here every morning to do the paperwork – we’ll do it together, to start – and then continue with the household duties after that. You understand?’
Becky drew in a strengthening breath before she replied, meeting his eyes fearlessly and raising her chin. ‘Yes, sir.’ She hesitated. ‘May I ask a question?’
He frowned. ‘Well?’
‘Forgive me, sir, but surely Mr Briggs, your bailiff, could do this for you? Isn’t it part of his job to handle your estate finances?’
Silence. Rupert slowly stretched out his legs, put a hand to his back and rubbed it, still staring at her. Becky was suddenly afraid. She had been insolent and could well be sent off without any reference. She knew that, all her life, this rebellious feeling had been her great difficulty, and now, she had probably spoiled everything.
‘A good question, Rebecca.’ He shifted again, the pain bringing a rictus of anguish across his long, grey face. ‘And one I wouldn’t have expected. But I’ll answer it because I can see your intelligence is enough to understand and do what I am asking. Well, Mr Briggs certainly does deal with the tenancy fees and suchlike, but I don’t intend to let him loose on them any more.’
They stared at each other and she had a sudden flash of knowledge that was warm and reassuring. Nat was in trouble. Which meant he could have no power over her. She smiled.
‘I’ll do what you say, sir. I’ll try hard to learn. But, please, may I have an hour or two off every day to go home and see that my mother is well? She – she worries about me.’ Their gazes remained locked until he nodded, and gave her a freer smile than she had ever received before.
‘Does she?’ He looked back at the papers in front of him. ‘You’re an astute girl, Rebecca.’ A moment’s pause, and then, ‘Briggs refers to you as Becky – so that’s what I’ll call you.’ He looked at her, direct and demanding. ‘Yes, you may go home for a short while in the evenings, but now, I’d like you to start straight away. Here’s pen and paper and the files dealing with all the farms are over there in that cabinet. I’ll explain as we go along. I’ll take a short walk – tell Nellie you’ll be here until dinner time.’ Slowly and painfully he rose, put a hand on the back of his chair and looked down at her. She saw the hint of a smile touch his thin mouth.
He looked at her in silence and then, ‘I thought I heard you singing to me, when I was just becoming conscious again,’ he said slowly. ‘You have a sweet voice. Something about a sprig of thyme, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes.’ Becky was amazed. She would have liked to ask then about his mentioning of the girl Grace, but already he was limping towards the door, looking back at her and saying, ‘When you’ve finished for the day put the book back in the top drawer, lock it and always bring me the key. I’ll be up here again very soon. In the meantime, just read through the pages and make what you can of them.’
The door closed behind him and she was left looking at the figures on the pages before her. But instead of feeling resentful, Becky instinctively knew she was being drawn towards a new step of her life’s journey. Where might it take her, she wondered, but then she looked down at the figures in the book, switched her thoughts, preparing to try and recall all the knowledge she had gained at school.
She was helping Nellie dish up the midday meal when Nat Briggs rode into the courtyard, tied up his cob and then marched through the kitchen without saying anything. Becky thought he looked important and wondered what message he was carrying to the maister. They soon found out.
Ten minutes later Rupert Fielding hobbled downstairs and stood, leaning against the door jamb, Nat Briggs a shadow behind him. In a cold, rapid voice, he said, ‘You had all better know that my hopes of bringing Mrs Richards here soon are delayed for a while. She tells me that she has had to accompany her sick sister who is going abroad for a month. Well, perhaps this is just as well. It will give us more time to get the house into better shape. But I shall need someone to organize things.’ Dark eyes rested on Becky. ‘Come to my study after dinner. I want to talk to you.’ Clumsily he turned, leaning against the door for a few seconds, and then as Nat Briggs stepped away, slowly limped towards the hall.
Nat Briggs swaggered into the kitchen, sat down in the chair Nellie always used, and said enjoyably, ‘Bad news, it were. She don’t wanna come, clear as daylight. Went white as a sheet when I told her ’bout the accident. Reckon she don’t fancy an injured husband.’ He laughed coarsely. ‘Wouldn’t be up to much, would he?’
Nellie and Becky exchanged glances. Then, ‘You got proper nasty thoughts, Mr Briggs,’ said Nellie acidly. ‘If the pore lady got to take her sister abroad for health reasons, then it makes sense that s
he can’t come here, surely. And now, if you wants your dinner, get yourself cleaned up first, if you please. I don’t like nothing dirty round my kitchen table.’
The meal was eaten in silence and Becky’s thoughts, for once, avoided Nat Brigg’s presence, although he sat opposite her. She was sorry for the maister who must have hoped so much to see his lady. Indeed, must have needed her here while he was so weak. And whether the excuse was a valid one or not, she felt that Mr Fielding deserved some sympathy. And then, suddenly, why did he want to see her again? She hurried Nellie through the washing of the dishes, and was thankful to see the back of Nat Briggs, who had tried to get a quiet word with her and then flung off in a flurry of temper when she said shortly, ‘Not now, Mr Briggs. Mr Fielding said he wants to see me, so I must go.’
He sat in the study, his dinner tray pushed aside on the table and an open letter in front of him. As Becky knocked and was bidden to enter he looked at her and nodded at the chair beside him. ‘Sit down. We have to make plans.’
She sat, watched him draw a paper towards him and read through what was written, his pencil moving from one item to the next. And, although she guiltily berated herself for doing so, she slid her glance towards Mrs Richards’ letter, open and seemingly forgotten, in front of her.
…Amazed that you expect me to come while you are in such a state. Surely you have servants who can nurse you through this foolish accident? And meanwhile, I am taking Maria to Italy because her poor lungs need the warmer winter air. I will write when I expect to come home again….
Such an unkind, unloving message was enough to instantly push Becky’s quick emotions into a depth of new compassion. She had already felt that the maister needed her help and now, whatever else he asked her to do, she knew she would at once respond with cheerfulness. Even with some odd and unasked for sense of fondness, perhaps. The idea was strange, but she accepted it.
Looking at his lined, creased face, occasionally tensing with spasms of pain as he moved in his chair, she told herself that she would be helpful and obedient. And perhaps, as they got to know each other better, he might tell her how he came to know her song, The Sprig of Thyme.
CHAPTER 9
Rupert Fielding looked at her across the desk and she saw how fast he was ageing now. Some of the brightness had gone from his dark eyes, and as he spoke, she thought that his voice was no longer so demanding, as he said slowly, ‘Things have got on top of me. And now, with this back – well, there’s so much to do.’ He pulled Felicity Richards’ letter towards him, gave it one glance and then sighed, pushing it into a drawer in the desk.
Becky didn’t know what to say, but her sympathy for him made her suggest the first thing that came into her mind. ‘I’m sure Mr Briggs will do all he can to help.’
He looked at her with a curious half smile. ‘I’m sure he will. But even Briggs won’t know about cleaning up the house. We need more help, another girl from the village, perhaps.’ He stopped, nodded, face full of thoughts. ‘A man to do the other work, see to the beams, the window frames that need mending, all that sort of thing.’
Wondering if she was speaking out of turn, she said, ‘I could find someone to help with the housework, sir. She and I could do all that’s needed with the cleaning. Would you like me to – to….’ The expression on his face made her stop. Had she gone too far?
No. Indeed, she thought she saw a brief look of relief. ‘A good idea. Yes, see who you can find – someone reliable, young, who won’t mind hard work. We shan’t need an interview if you find the right girl. Not as if she’ll be responsible for anything if she’s working with you. And Nellie Mudge can still give a few orders. Although—’ Abruptly he stopped, narrowed his eyes, continued to stare at her.
‘What I need,’ he said very slowly, measuring his words, ‘is a woman in charge of all the work. Not fair to ask Nellie to have to do it as well as the cooking and the rest of the kitchen work.’ A pause and he still looked at her. Then, slowly, ‘What about you? Think you could take on the housekeeping duties?’ A wry smile briefly softened his face. ‘You seem to know what you’re about – you’re not stupid, are you?’
Becky wasn’t sure exactly what she was. Kitchen skivvy, accounts keeper, and now – housekeeper? It was all happening too quickly for her confused mind to know where to turn. She sucked in a deep breath, thought hard, and then said quietly, ‘No, sir, I’m not stupid. But I’m not sure if I can deal with all the things you’re asking me to do. I mean, you engaged me to work in the kitchen, didn’t you?’ She paused, but it must be said. ‘And now you’re asking me to look at your accounts, still help Nellie, and then tell a new girl how to clean the house. I – I don’t know whether I can do all that.’
He sat up straighter, began moving papers on his desk and looked down at them. ‘Of course you can. You’re intelligent, and,’ he glanced at her and she saw that for once he was smiling as if he meant it, ‘there’s something about you. You’ll do it all. And I’ll give you a good wage.’
She met his eyes and felt herself returning the smile. This was all very strange and she felt as if she was becoming closer to Rupert Fielding. Could she believe what was happening? And could she do it? Still confused, she kept looking at him, saw the smile grow.
He nodded. ‘You’ll do, Becky Yeo. I’m a good judge of people’s capabilities, and I have no doubt that you’ll not only clean up the house but put my accounts right and make a thorough job of it. I think you’re an ambitious girl, so give me your answer, and then we’ll get down to making plans. Yes or no as housekeeper?’
She said ‘yes’ without further deliberation, and felt that their exchange of smiles signified another shift in their odd relationship. And then she added the final, important part of the bargain. ‘Sir, please will you explain to Mrs Mudge? Before I go back to the kitchen?’
He seemed amused. ‘Kitchen politics, eh? Very well. Ask her to come up and see me when you go down. Don’t worry, she’s a sensible woman. She knows a thing or two. I’m sure she’ll understand that this is a good move for her.’
Joseph Freeman was contented, working on the new set of pews in Manaton church. The Reverend Mr Broadland, who had engaged him, left him alone without too many visits to inspect the work. As usual, he felt at one with his woodworking tools; his long hard fingers enclosed chisels and knives, saws and hammers, and he knew he was working on something important to his being. Not just a job of work, but a piece of craft that meant more than the week’s pay and the hot meal at night. It meant he was slowly discovering what his life held. Sometimes, as he worked in the silent church, old images filled his head; the first job after leaving the workhouse with farmer Eli and his beaknosed wife Lizzie. The beatings, the coldness of the attic bed, the ever lasting hunger. Until he ran. And that brought more images: sleeping between rocks out on the moor, with bracken piled into a mattress and a blanket; eating berries when he could find them; copying the ponies and sheep and nibbling leaves and stems; stealing fruit from a farm orchard. And then the Reverend Mr Gosling, elderly antiquarian and folklore collector, and the first kind person in his life, had found him, one day, at the end of his small tether, taken him back to the vicarage, washed, fed and clothed him and then discovered that this bony little imp showed intelligence as well as a lot of curiosity. So he had learned as he grew into adolescence; so many things. The old songs the reverend collected. The pleasure of learning to read and write. To speak clearly. To treat other people with manners. And finally, to be himself. No longer the wretched little Jack Adams from the union, but a new person with a new name. Joseph Freeman. He gave himself the stimulation of this new name, knowing that Freeman would help him to find the freedom he craved. Free to discover where his life would take him. Free to travel and eventually find his future.
So, accompanied by many snatches of songs remembered from Mr Gosling’s collection, the carvings grew slowly but with pleasure and great craft. Sometimes he thought about Becky Yeo and smiled. Yes, he would find her again. Miss
Freckles. Becky Yeo with the determined mind and thick chestnut hair. The girl who wanted to be kissed, and who would be, again, sometime soon. At the moment he was too occupied to make plans. He sang a couple of snatches of the Sprig of Thyme and settled more deeply into the carving. He was content.
Until one morning, Nat Briggs came into the church and stood behind him and he saw a shadow fall across the rose he was carving. Turning, he looked into closely set, sly eyes and at once recognized the threat that puffed out Briggs like a territorial bird fighting its corner.
Deliberately, he put down his chisel and hammer and leaned against the pew, straightening his back. ‘And what can I do for you, Mr Briggs?’ There was cynical note in the words and Nat instantly picked it up.
‘More what can I do for you, Freeman, ’cos you an’ me must have words. That message you brought the other night – not so important after all, I found, going to the Reverend. He said it would’ve done next morning, he did. So why did you think to get me out at night? An’ if you got a reason it’d better be a good one.’
Joseph studied the small man standing a few inches too close to him. Saw sweat on his leathery face, smelt rankness in his breath, and knew that if he cared to do so, he could floor Briggs as easily as if he were a small annoying mouse in the flour bin. But he wouldn’t do so. The man was irritating, that was all. So, raising an eyebrow and smiling, he turned back to his work, picked up the chisel and said casually, ‘Don’t make so much of it, Briggs. Seemed a good idea at the time – free supper and a look at the pretty maid we’ve both got our eye on.’
Nat grunted, snatched at his arm, raised in the act of completing one small rose petal, and tried to pull him around. Joseph turned, said tightly, ‘Leave me be. I don’t want to hurt you, so get out of here and take your foul thoughts with you.’
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