Becky stole a glance at Joseph who bowed his head for a moment, and then looked at Rupert Fielding and said quietly, ‘All my fault, sir. I just came up to apologize to you.’ He stopped for a second. ‘And then Miss Yeo didn’t like what I told her.’ His lips set tightly together. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I’ll go now.’ He made a rough bow, turned and went quickly down the stairs, disappearing through the door into the kitchen, while Becky stared, only half believing what was happening. Suddenly her rage evaporated and she knew she had treated him badly, impossibly. She must go, find him, explain, make it up, not let him go like this with everything wrong between them. She was on the first step down when Rupert Fielding’s strong voice stopped her.
‘I think we need to talk. Come in here.’
He held the door, frowning, and she entered. Her mind was in chaos, still reeling from Joseph’s excuses, feeling anger and the piercing pain of a love that was being rejected. She sat down when Rupert Fielding nodded to the chair opposite him and simply stared at him. What he wanted to talk about she had no idea and wasn’t interested, for all her raging thoughts were of her loss and her anguish.
He brought out an extra glass, poured whisky into it and refilled his own glass. She looked at the golden liquid he watered down and then placed on the table next to her, and, as in a dream, heard him say, ‘I think you could do with a sip of this, Becky.’
Slowly she put her lips to the glass, felt the fiery spirit burn her throat, warm her stomach and almost without knowing, felt her emotions fall back into place. It dawned on her that he was looking at her rather anxiously. She managed a weak smile. ‘Thank you, Mr Fielding.’
He nodded, put down his own glass and then, slowly, as if searching for words, said, ‘Becky, you’re still a child, despite your undoubted abilities. You told me about the trouble with Briggs. Now it appears this man, Freeman, is also upsetting you. Can I help in any way?’ Becky stared. Why should he care? And indeed, what could he do to help? No one could help. Joseph had gone and it was the end of all her dreams and hopes. She took another sip of whisky and felt self confidence return. But what could she, a servant, say? He wasn’t really interested in her life. She thought hard and then said slowly, ‘Thank you, sir. I mean Mr Fielding. No, I don’t think you can help. No one can. Joseph has gone and I must forget him.’
‘I see. So that’s how it is.’ His smile was easier, different from his customary forced expression. ‘You and Joseph Freeman, eh? But you’re very young, Becky – you’ll find someone else before long. Just forget him, that’s the best thing.’
She looked at him, a long stare, thinking how little he knew about love, and then words started to pour out, startling her and clearly surprising him. ‘I won’t forget. I love Joseph and he loves me, he told me so, I thought we would marry one day. But now he’s gone off and so I must think about other things.’ She paused. Images ran before her eyes. Hope had died, reality was hard and she felt lost.
Rupert Fielding narrowed his dark eyes, then said quietly, ‘I think you need someone to advise you. Why not ask …’ he paused for a second, ‘Mrs Yeo? She will help, I’m sure.’ He paused, smiled and added, ‘And remember, there are plenty of respectable young men about who might suit you. I know quite a few—’
‘I don’t want anyone else! Joseph may not be what you call respectable but I love him! He’s strong, and has a good mind, and he knows what he wants.’ Suddenly she felt tears on her cheeks and bowed her head, fumbling for a handkerchief.
And then one was pushed into her hand. It smelt of whisky and cigars and she mopped her face, staring across at the man who looked so anxiously at her. ‘Go home, Becky,’ said Rupert Fielding almost tenderly. ‘Go home and see Mrs Yeo. Have some time off – try and get over this lover’s tiff. And then you’ll feel better.’
Stiffly she got to her feet, looked down at him, saw how his face was warm and caring, and wondered why. But her own feelings swamped his. ‘Thank you, Mr Fielding,’ she said in a choked voice. ‘I’ll be all right. But yes, I’ll go home now.’ She nodded at him, went to the door and opened it. Suddenly she couldn’t wait to find Ma, tell her, cry on her shoulder, hear words that would comfort and advise.
Closing the door, her mind fixed on going home, she missed what he was saying, almost to himself, as she left the room. ‘Poor child. Poor little Becky. What must I do?’
Joseph left the Manor without meeting the curious eyes of the women in the kitchen, or answering the greeting Tom threw at him as he crossed the darkening yard. Inside him something pounded and surged as Becky’s furious words stayed in his mind and he knew wretchedly that he must get just get on with his life. She hadn’t understood but slowly he began to realize that he couldn’t really expect her to because he hadn’t explained everything properly. But then came the defiant thought, if she loved him, wouldn’t she have tried to do so? Understood that a different, more instructive job would help him along his life’s journey? Help him to arrive at the point where he could return and ask her to marry him? She must know that he loved her, desperately and passionately; but how could she understand, when he hadn’t told her in more detail just why he was leaving? Questions rampaged through his mind – but he knew that he still had to go. If she loved him she would wait. The thought overpowered all else as he walked on.
As he neared the inn familiar voices lured him in. Warmth, rough friendship, the persuasive forgetfulness of a few pints of ale – that was what he needed. Much later, as he and Jim and Davy lurched out into the darkness, Joseph knew where he was heading: Monday morning, out to Hexworthy. An overheard stray remark that old farmer Narracott needed men to repair his newtake walls was all that he needed.
Joseph slept deeply and without dreams and on Sunday, his muzzy head ordered him to remember the Reverend Mr Gosling’s disciplines and attend church. The service soothed him, he joined in the familiar hymns and enjoyed Nat Briggs’s glowering scowl from the end of the pew. When the Yeo family came in his heart lurched. He looked across at Becky, saw how, after the initial surprise of meeting his gaze, she turned her head away and looked into her prayer book. He heard her sweet voice soar above the others as they sang and had to force his thoughts into his future. He watched her leave the church without another glance. So that’s how it was.
Well, he didn’t blame her.
Early on Monday morning, gathering his bag of tools and bundle of clothes, he started on the long journey to Hexworthy, trudging determinedly over moorland, along green lanes heavy with climbing shadow from the overhanging trees, then on into rough farm tracks, all the while trying to forget Becky and telling himself he was doing the right thing. If farmer Narracott took him on he would be working on the damaged newtake walls; working with stones, and instinct told him this was the right thing to do, the next step along the journey his life was ordering him to take.
Reaching the farm he paused for a moment in the autumn sunlight, feeling it warm his body and even lighten his thoughts. Hope clamoured and brightened the day – he could be on the way to going back to Becky.
CHAPTER 15
Becky didn’t go home. She was too confused, too hurt, and also felt all her love for Joseph changing to resentfulness. How could he just go off and leave her? All that talk about doing it for her – what on earth did that mean? And it was no help when she felt like this – sad, angry, at odds with life. Nothing seemed to make sense and so she changed her mind about going to the farm. To trouble Ma with all this stuff about Joseph would make matters worse. And, anyway, how could she explain when she didn’t understand it herself?
So she went to bed, hoping for sleep, which eluded her into the small hours. Images of Joseph and their loving embraces raced through her mind, and even into her dreams. But when, next morning, she awoke, she knew a certain new calmness and feeling of hope. Perhaps he would, after all, return. Perhaps she might try and work out why he had gone. Perhaps….
As it was Sunday, she walked to the farm and joined Ma and Will in the familiar
journey to Manaton Church. Dinah and her family came behind them, and along the rough track trotted Nat Briggs, his face a picture of thunder. Becky bent her head and refused to look up as Will and Ma responded to his rough greeting.
The church, with its age old sense of peace and quiet, calmed her a little more. She noticed the half finished pew end on the new installation and thought about Joseph bending over his work, chisel in hand, mallet lifted, and found herself saying a quick prayer for him, where ever he might be.
When the first hymn was announced and the choristers began to sing, she heard the deep baritone voice that she knew so well swelling the sound, and felt her heart start to race. Impossible, then, to stop herself turning slightly, looking back over the pews and finding him, a big man with bright, untidy hair, singing heartily and meeting her impetuous gaze.
Just for a second, that last look, and then she turned back, burying her head in the book she held and willing herself to stop remembering, for all the new hopeful thoughts had long gone. He had left her and yet he was still here…. At the end of the service she found an excuse to hurry Ma out of the church and away, hoping desperately that Joseph would understand and not follow.
‘You’re in a hurry, maid,’ said Thirza, a frown on her pale face. ‘Must be that ole duck I got stewing – smell it, can you?’
Becky saw how her mother’s usual smile was lacking, despite the jolly words. And that palor seemed to emphasize the lines and wrinkles about the unhappy eyes. Ma looked older. Ice touched Becky and she took her mother’s arm, hearing her voice grow taut and high and hoping no one saw Joseph and started wondering. She couldn’t talk about him. Rapidly, she said, ‘Just that I got to get back to High Cross Manor soon after we’ve eaten – lots of things to do.’
‘On a Sunday?’ Will was in step with her. ‘Not right, that. Day off, is Sunday – what’s maister thinkin’ of, then?’
Becky thought hard. ‘He has to rest. So I have extra to see to.’
She was thankful when the meal was finished, enabling her to make her excuses to leave. ‘I’ll be over another evening, Ma.’
She sensed that Thirza fought to produce a smile as she watched her leave the yard, and she felt disturbed because after all Ma didn’t seem to be getting any better. But mostly she was uneasy because of that worried look which didn’t go away. As if Ma had a secret. And now she had secrets from her mother, which was surely wrong, but she knew for certain that for the moment things must be left as they were. Ma would be troubled to hear about Joseph leaving, and Will would probably rekindle his anger about the man whom he suspected of playing with his sister.
At the Manor, the rest of the day was somehow filled. Of course, there was little work to do – Sunday was a day set apart from the rest of the busy week. Ruth had gone back to her family in the village and Nellie Mudge sat in the sun in the yard with a mug of tea, closing her eyes and occasionally dozing. Only Tom and Eddie remained, their voices soft and slow in the stables and linhay, mingling with the horses’ snorts and nickering.
Becky found enough to do to pass the afternoon, but by time dusk started to fall she was at a loss to fill the remaining long hours. Until suddenly, the moor called her. Looking out into the oncoming night a new feeling spread through her, coupled with an instinctive knowledge that she was beginning to find out who she really was. No longer the young, unthinking girl from the farm with no cares. No longer the entranced Becky who had fallen so quickly for strong, rough, Joseph Freeman. Now she was older – if not in countable years, then certainly in experience. She was a housekeeper who gave orders. Someone who understood accounts and household expenses. A young woman who was thought highly of by her employer. She recalled Mr Fielding praising her abilities and lifted her head a little higher. Well, now she must act for herself. Decide what she must do about Joseph, about Nat Briggs and his threats, about finding her own way through life, just as Joseph had said he must do, and those new thoughts brought new understanding.
This comforting knowledge was warm as she wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and left the house, gladly stepping out into the approaching dimpsey. She felt a fierce need to be among the moorland valleys and hills, breathing their fragrance, rejoicing in the peace and stillness, finding her way ahead.
As it darkened, a waning moon shone patchily through steepling clouds, but she knew her way. Up the lane, into the rough track, past the grave, beneath Bowerman’s immense grey pile, then out of the shadows and onto the moor itself, strong, bunchy heather beneath her feet, bracken reaching for her hands as she passed; ponies suddenly whickering as she came upon them. She walked steadily to Hound Tor, passed the huge, black rocks, wondering for a moment about the black hound said to haunt the place, then smiled to herself as she started going down the valley. Here, she knew, among these stones, was where Joseph had been working. She wished he was here, but knew that for a foolish, impossible thought. He was on his way, just as, now, she was on hers.
When a heavy, upright shape appeared through the half-darkness she stopped to examine it. A rough stone circle, with an opening at one end. Something suggested this might have been a shelter with tall stones to keep out the wind and the rain when it was perhaps thatched and cosy, but now it was open to the stars. Intuition sent a word flashing through her busy mind – home – and she smiled, knowing this to be so. Someone’s old home, now ruined but in the process of renovation. There were signs of digging, of footmarks and a forgotten earthenware bottle of water. Joseph’s perhaps? No, for she knew enough of him to be aware of his care of his tools. Joseph would never leave anything necessary and important behind him. His tools were part of his life.
Warmth slowly crept through her body as she stood, looking at the stones, and wondering what was happening to her. She walked further down the valley until she heard the singing waters of the Becka Brook and then turned back. There was a peace here among the thick heather stems and the foxy coloured dying bracken, the last sunset colours slowly leaving the vast sky, and she felt it spread through her body and mind. The peace that is necessary to help one live. This is what she needed – not advice from Ma or Mr Fielding, but a sense of the age old living in this calm, still land. Birth and death, tragedies and joys, problems and resolutions – had all been lived out here.
She felt the truth filling her mind as, slowly, she went homeward, and wondered if Joseph, digging here, had discovered the same thoughts as she now had. Perhaps it had started him on a new line of thinking: Was it these old stones which had made him refuse the offer of work at High Cross Manor? So where had he gone now? And was he thinking of her, as she thought of him?
Able now to smile, and feeling a wonderful new sense of understanding, she returned to High Cross, feeling more secure; telling herself that tomorrow was a new day and who knew what might happen then?
Farmer Narracott, elderly and bent, nodded at Joseph, small, deep-set brown eyes inspecting him warily. ‘You used to workin’ with stones?’ he asked in a high pitched, hoarse voice.
‘I’ve been working with the Reverend Mr Gould on stone circles in the valley below Hound Tor. But I’m keen to do more.’ Joseph waited. He must get the job. ‘Walls, is it?’ he asked and the old man nodded.
‘Newtake walls built long time ago. An’ now fallin’ down. Repairs, they need. Plenty more stones in the field, an my man’ll show you what to do. He’ll make a waller of you if anyone can.’
They looked at each other for a moment and Joseph felt his face grow taut. Yes or no?
‘Start right away, can you?’
Relief softened Joseph’s voice. He smiled. ‘Today if you want. Can I lodge here? And what do you pay?’
The money wasn’t much but it would do. ‘Sleep in the tallat,’ Bill Narracott told him. ‘Plenty of straw up there. An’ Missus’ll feed you two meals a day. Agreed?’
Joseph held out his hand. ‘Thank you, Mr Narracott.’ They slapped and the bargain was made. ‘Tomorrer,’ said Bill Narracott, turning away and walking his lops
ided way back to the farmhouse. ‘Seven-thirty sharp. Dan’l will be here. I’ll tell him to instruct you.’
Joseph climbed down from the tallat, washed at the pump in the yard, and then waited for Dan’l to appear. He came quickly, stocky and heavily built, striding through the yard, staff in his hand, eyes inspecting the new hand and the expression on his weatherbeaten face stern. ‘Joseph Freeman?’
‘That’s me.’ Joseph waited. He hoped they would get on.
‘Farmer ses you’re not a newtake waller by trade.’ There was doubt in the strong voice.
‘No. A general labourer. But I can work with stones.’
‘We’ll see. Let’s get on then.’ Dan’l led the way out of the yard, collecting tools before leaving the outhouses, and then strode rapidly into the open moorland opening up before them. He didn’t speak until they had crossed two pasture fields where the sheep stared and began to move away, and then, looking at Joseph by his side, he said, ‘You’ll find it hard, I dessay. These ole walls should have been repaired long ago, but Farmer, he lets things go. Now it’s made the job more difficult. You ready for work?’
Joseph nodded, aware that he was being tried out. ‘I’ll match you,’ he said, and met the other man’s speculative gaze. ‘Where do we start, then?’
‘Right here.’ They stopped beside a ruined wall, the stones covered with moss and ferns and needing only a push to drop out. ‘I’ll clear the rubbish off, you collect all the moorstone you can find. Any size’ll do to keep the stock safe.’
Joseph realized in a few minutes that the work was, indeed, hard. Moorstone lay in small heaps and clitters at the edges of the field and it took all his strength to haul the granite blocks towards the wall where Dan’l waited, eyes sharp and assessing. But he nodded. ‘That’s good. Now we’ll start building.’
They worked on as the sun rose and warmth began to build sweat on their labouring bodies. In places the old walls were five feet high and strength was needed to reach up and fix the repairing material into the right spaces. Joseph soon learned how to sort out the stones so that they balanced without the use of mortar, but it was a tricky job and Dan’l was critical. ‘We mustn’t let too much daylight through,’ he said, as he and Joseph regained their breath after heaving a large stone into place. ‘Just try and make a network o’stones.’
Drifting Shadows Page 14
