Drifting Shadows

by Christine Green

  ‘I mind how he looked for you at the harvest supper. That big man. Lovely, ’e were. You’re lucky, that’s all I think.’ Dinah bent her head and poked at the ash in the hearth.

  Quietness then while the fire hummed, until Thirza fidgeted beside Becky and cleared her throat. Then, half questioning, half nervous, ‘An’ what ’bout Mr Briggs, then, maid? Still wants to marry you, I dessay?’

  Becky took a steady, deep breath, meeting another, almost forgotten, part of the problem, now edging back into her mind. ‘I don’t know,’ she said slowly. ‘And I don’t care. Nat Briggs has no hold on me any more now everyone knows. I shall try and forget him.’

  But she knew, and guessed that her family sitting there in the quiet, warm kitchen also knew, that Nat Briggs wouldn’t forget her. And wondered if he could make any more trouble.

  Strange to be back in the attic on the small truckle bed after the comfort of her new room at the Manor. Even stranger to awaken to the cow lowing and the boasting, noisy cockerel, but she got up at once, eager to start her search. Never mind breakfast – a word of reassurance to Thirza that she would be back during the day, and please keep a bit of a meal for her, and then she was ready to leave the cottage. Thirza came after her, a small package in her hand. ‘Bread and a lump o’ cheese, maid – keep your strength up as you go.’

  Becky paused, stowed it in her pocket, kissed her grandma and then went quickly out of the yard, down the lane, pausing briefly as she decided which way to go. A moment’s hesitation and then she turned into the Manaton road, arriving soon at Easdon Farm. Smiles and easy talk, but no one there had heard of Joseph. She nodded, smiled back and continued walking. The morning was overcast with an edge of chilliness forecasting autumn. She wrapped her shawl closer around her shoulders and took time to look at the country as she walked.

  This narrow lane meandered through small pasture fields with the heights of moorland enclosing them. Even with autumn on the way, still so much colour. Fiery bracken on the verges, dying leaves and here and there a persistent flower or two; purple sheeps’ bit, golden hawkweed, tiny emerald ferns of feathery spleenwort. Becky thought as she walked and new certainties came into her mind. This was the place she loved and it was no unhappy task to just walk and walk. When she reached the end of the lane, where it crossed the road leading to Princetown, she stopped, went into a field, found a stream trickling down the valley, and drank from it. Then she went back to the lane and sat on the verge beside the old cross.

  Beetor Cross was known as the Watching Place. No one knew who, but someone in the long ago had watched here. Now, eating her bread and hard cheese, she felt she was in the right place. She would watch for a while, and then surely someone would come into sight and perhaps give her news of Joseph.

  But the man who came along the lane, trotting steadily towards the Cross, was Nat Briggs.

  He saw her at once, even although she was trying to hide away behind the hedgerow saplings that grew around the cross. Didn’t want him to see her, eh? But here they were together. Hot pleasure flooded him. So it had been worth all the fuss of hacking off some of his untidy hair, even washing and changing his clothes, after listening silently and seemingly obediently to the maister’s strict tirade earlier this morning.

  The study had been airless and hot, the maister still in pain as he edged down into his chair, face grey and more lined than usual, and there had been an unusually hard note in his voice. ‘Briggs, I know you for what you are – a good bailiff in many ways, but a man who can’t stop pilfering and cheating, as well as blustering and upsetting people. After years of trusting you I now realize you’ve made a fool out of me by taking advantage of the authority I gave you – I mean, of course, taking money which is due to the estate and keeping it yourself. Even accepting the occasional bribe without consulting me about the matter. All of which has to be repaid, don’t forget.’

  Pride had made him open his mouth at that point, words of excuse ready on his tongue, but the maister had been too quick. ‘No, don’t bother to deny it, Briggs. I have proof in the ledgers, and there have been complaints from several tenant farmers about your overbearing behaviour. But I’m giving you a final chance, so just listen to me.’

  He had listened, forcing back the hot anger rising through him. The job was a good one, and he could still make it worth his while to keep it, for surely when the maister married, he would be too caught up in his new found happiness to look at the ledgers every day, or even to believe what those lying farmers told him? So he bowed his head, nodded and stood silent at the opposite side of the maister’s table.

  And then had come the important news. The secret about Grace Yeo and her bastard was out; that young pup, Will Yeo, having found the nerve to come and face the maister. Nat had heaved in a big breath when he heard that Becky had gone off after the row and was no longer here at the Manor. Where had she gone? Was this his big chance to make her marry him? His mind whirled. Could he find her? Offer sympathy? It had been hard to keep his face straight as he listened to what the maister so threateningly had said was his last chance.

  ‘I want a complete survey of the estate. Farms and their occupants, acreage, stock, sales and purchases and so on. It’ll keep you busy and I want it before the end of the month. So get going, Briggs, and don’t be tempted by any more of your wretched little cheating thoughts. Just remember that there are plenty of likely men ready to jump into your shoes as estate bailiff.’

  That had made him swallow rapidly, forcing down the gnawing anger that grew so rapidly inside him, but seeing the sense of the job ahead. Someone else to become bailiff? Not if he could help it – and he could. So, a tone of apology in his chastened voice. ‘Yes, sir, I understand. And I’m—’ It hurt to force out the words but they had to be said. ‘I’m sorry ’bout the things you mention. Won’t happen again.’

  A hard look on the maister’s thin face. ‘They certainly won’t. All right, Briggs, on your way.’

  And now here, at Beetor Cross, with Becky sitting down again on the rough grass, not looking at him. Nat smiled gently, something he had never done before.

  ‘Morning, Miss Fielding.’ The new name hung in the air and he watched her frown. ‘What you doing here, I wonder? Maister said as ’ow you’d gone from the Manor, but I didn’t reckon on seeing you so far from home.’ He dismounted, tethered the cob to a handy branch and went over the grass, to sit beside her. He thought she looked worried, not the bright, sometimes too self confident Becky he thought he knew. Something had happened to make her look like this. Well, her unhappiness could be a help as he tried to tell her that he still intended to marry her. For a moment he couldn’t stop his smile; marry Miss Fielding? Go up in the maister’s estimation? Almost be in his world? Certainly a better pay, better living.

  ‘Becky,’ he said quietly, ‘you look sad, maid. Anything I can do to help?’

  Her head lifted, tawny, gold-flecked eyes met his and he felt himself stir with longing. ‘No, thank you, Mr Briggs. I can manage by myself.’

  What could she manage? He softened his voice even further. ‘Course you can, a bright maid like you can do anything. But I wants to help, ’cos I know you’ve just heard ’bout your mother and well, I did warn you, didn’t I? So try me – there might be something I can do to help.’

  He waited while she looked at him, thoughts clearly chasing across her peachy, suntanned face, freckles decorating the soft cheeks and making him breathe more rapidly.

  She thought for what seemed too long. Then, unevenly, as if coming to some big decision, she said, ‘You know everybody around here, don’t you?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Well, I’m trying to find Joseph. Joseph Freeman. You know, the man who—’

  ‘I know him.’ He heard his voice harden, but tried to keep looking sympathetic.

  For a few seconds he paused, thoughts suddenly racing. Then, with delight, he knew how to answer. Leaning forwards, he put a hand on hers, and sadly, almost apologetically, shook hi
s head. ‘So you haven’t heard? An’ I thought it was all about…. It’s real bad news for you, Becky, maid.’

  ‘What?’ Her voice was sharp, her face tight with alarm.

  Imagination flashed. ‘Why, he been stealing again – like the Poor Box in the church, only now from his maister’s pockets when he weren’t looking, so they ses. And so he got the push – sent on his way.’ He paused, assessing how much further he could go. A last idea sprang into life.

  ‘Seems he been seen takin’ the sailors’ path up north – goin’ to take a ship, I dessay, to get away.’ Another pause while he watched her face settle into disbelief, and then into contorted pain.

  ‘Sad, maid, but that’s what he done.’

  She said nothing, just buried her head in her hands and for the first time Nat Briggs felt a touch of guilt; but it had been needed. He’d got rid of Freeman and now, for sure, she’d be his for the taking.

  CHAPTER 18

  ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I know you’re upset, but see, the man’s a bad ’un, and you must forget him.’ A pause while he watched her face, saw her look up at him, eyes swimming. ‘And there’s others around, Becky, who can offer you better things. Like me – oh yes, I know—’

  Her mouth opened as if to argue but he shook his head smiled, and went on rapidly, ‘I’ve been bad at times, I know it. But only ’cos I were mad for you.’ He let the words float away, watched her surprise and then added very softly, ‘An’ still am, maid. So p’raps you an’ me could be together now?’

  Becky stared. The face she had always hated had softened, become almost appealing and she thought about what he’d just said. Nat Briggs, offering for her, again. And this time with what sounded like real feeling. But she would always love Joseph. Yet Joseph had gone away – and from what Nat had said, he wouldn’t be coming back.

  Her head pounded. What to do? What to do?

  She saw Nat’s hand reaching out for her, and instinctively denied the urge to move away. Where is my strength? The message came like a shaft of blazing light, invigorating her mind and refreshing her body. Strength, that’s what I need. So think hard. Reality flowered. He was probably lying about Joseph. Nat Briggs would always lie if he thought it would benefit him. And she knew Joseph Freeman well enough to recognize the lie. He wouldn’t steal. He wouldn’t run away. He wouldn’t leave her. Yes, he had gone away, but he had said he would return. Sometime.

  Becky took a deep breath and shook off Nat’s hand. She looked into his small, scheming eyes, recognized his duplicity, and slowly got to her feet. The problems were fading. ‘I don’t believe you, Mr Briggs,’ she said, her voice steady and her face composed. ‘So you can go on your way, and leave me to mine.’ Carefully she left the hedge and regained the road.

  ‘But—’ His voice followed her but she didn’t respond, didn’t even turn, simply started walking back towards High Cross Farm and home. As she walked, taking no notice of his abusive shouts, she sorted out all the churning thoughts in her head. No good continuing searching for Joseph, for, even if Nat had lied, which she was sure he had, no tenant farmer on the maister’s estate would care to argue with him, for Nat had a hidden measure of sly, underhand power which would bully them into silence.

  Stepping out down the lane, back towards High Cross Manor, she thought of what she must do next. She had bridges to build with her father. She was hurt, but must she hurt him even more? There was pride to push away, compassion to find. And then, from the farm, there was a last duty she and her grandma must perform. As she walked, she felt a wind sneaking around the bend in the lane, ruffling her skirt, but she welcomed it. She felt new and positive. Her life had taken a different turning, and she was able to deal with it.

  Nellie Mudge stared as she entered the kitchen but Becky merely smiled a little stiffly, and then walked through to the hall, shutting the door behind her. In her head she told herself she should have demanded entrance through the front door. After all, she was Rupert Fielding’s daughter with a position to keep up. Then, smiling wryly at such ideas, she went upstairs to her room and saw the green dress still lying on the bed. Quickly and without further thought she changed into it, tidying her hair and looking into the mirror, seeing a new Becky there; a more mature girl who stood very straight and had a calm expression. She felt ready for the business of apologizing to her father.

  The study door was ajar and, although she paused for a second, she entered without knocking. Rupert was standing by the high crowded shelves at the far end, his hand poised to take out a book.

  ‘Father,’ she said and watched him glance back, his expression suddenly changing from tight concentration to a slight, almost apprehensive smile.

  ‘Becky.’ His voice was warm, no longer the harsh crispness she was used to. She saw how the skin crinkled beside his eyes, knew him for an ageing man and felt herself soften towards him.

  ‘I’m sorry for all I said. It must have hurt you. But I was hurt, too, and worried about Ma. I mean Grandma. I’ve thought about it ever since. Please – forgive me.’

  He limped to her side, arms outstretched. He looked into her eyes and his smile grew. When he spoke his voice was soft, almost husky. ‘I’m the one to be forgiven, not you.’

  His arms rested warmly on her shoulders and she relaxed beneath them. This was a moment she had never dreamed about, but it seemed to be right. She returned his smile, nodded and said very quietly, ‘I accept that I’m your daughter – but I must go my own way. Can you understand that, Father?’

  He dropped his arms, stood a little straighter, and gestured to the leather chairs beside the window. ‘Let’s talk about it, shall we?’

  Seated opposite him, the light falling on his lined face and making him screw up his eyes, she tried to collect her thoughts. She must tell him about Nat Briggs and his lies. Convince him that Joseph Freeman was her true love, and that somehow she must find him.

  And, finally, offer her father the caring love a daughter should feel.

  Standing up, she twitched a curtain aside to filter the sunlight, then sat down again, feeling herself to be a part of this old house, this old family; after the storm of initial shock, a growing understanding and family feeling came. Perhaps new happiness?

  She sat down again. ‘Father, in spite of what I said yesterday, I have to ask your help over something.’ Watching his change of expression, she wondered uneasily how he would react and hoped that the anger had worked itself out.

  ‘Whatever I can do, I will. Just tell me what you want.’

  Thirza leaned on Becky’s arm as they left the cottage and climbed into the High Cross Manor carriage. Tom Butler smiled as he closed the door behind them. ‘Won’t take long, Mrs Yeo. And I see you got your flowers ready.’

  Becky watched her grandma’s weak smile as she nodded and looked down at the posy of pot marigolds picked from her small garden, edged with dying heather and a couple of still green harts’ tongue ferns. ‘They’re lovely,’ she said reassuringly, and then sat close to Thirza as they left the yard, rattled along the lane, before turning into the road leading to town.

  Thirza had no words and Becky was too full of thoughts to talk, so the journey was a silent one, broken only as they stopped outside Wolborough Churchyard and Tom helped Thirza out of the carriage. Becky followed, taking her arm and saying gently, ‘Do you know where it is, Grandma?’

  Thirza nodded. ‘Up there. In the corner. Just behind that big stone angel.’

  Just a grassy mound, forgotten and unloved. Becky felt a pang of anguish sweep through her as imagination flowered. Grace, her lonely, sick mother, who had left the baby behind and must have known she was dying. But Becky pushed away the sadness, knowing it was Thirza who needed the sympathy and love now, for Grace – Mother – was long gone.

  Together they stood by the neglected grave, Thirza looking down at the posy of flowers lying on it, and Becky saying quietly, ‘Almost looks like a bit of moorland – the turf and those few flowers. I think Mother would have liked them
.’

  Thirza nodded, wiped her eyes and then, with surprising strength, said, ‘I’m glad to be here, maid. Time and again I’ve wanted to come, to say it’s all over, let’s forget it, but couldn’t do so without tellin’ you why. And now, well,’ she turned to Becky and managed a smile, ‘Now I can go home and know she’s all right.’

  Becky felt a huge lump in her throat. ‘And we’re all right, too, Grandma – I mean Ma. I’ll always call you that, for that’s who you still are.’

  In silence they walked back down through the churchyard to the waiting carriage and then Becky said, ‘Now we’re here in town, why don’t we go and buy that dress material we talked about, Ma? I’ll put it on Mr—’ she stopped, looked at Thurza, and then went on, ‘on Father’s account.’

  They smiled into each other’s eyes and Becky knew that something had ended, but something else, old and loving, was still continuing. ‘I’d like that,’ Thirza said quietly, and accepted Tom’s help in climbing into the carriage.

  Back at the farm, Thirza offered tea, but Becky resisted. ‘I must go back and see what’s happening at the Manor. Remember, I’m in charge now.’ They laughed together and Thirza watched and waved as the carriage rattled out of the yard and down the lane. When she went back into the cottage, she put the length of pale mauve, flower-patterned material on the table and smiled to herself. A long shadow had passed and life was happier. Now she could get back to work.

  Rupert Fielding watched his daughter walk into the drawing room, followed by Ruth carrying a tea tray. He thought how Becky had changed since her first appearance in the kitchen that night of the harvest supper. She had grown up. More determined and efficient, more aware of life. She would make a good wife for the right man. She had told him she had given her heart to Freeman, but where was he? Hardly a keen suitor, if he kept disappearing. But there were plenty of suitable young man around who might fill the bill. The Master of the Hunt’s eldest son was heir to a big estate and popular with tenants and friends, and not yet spoken for. Perhaps a word in the right ear might be a good thing.