Rupert accepted a cup of tea and thought about Widecombe Fair; yes, a useful meeting place. He watched Becky drinking her tea, smiling at him with those tawny eyes, and then sitting back, quite at ease, looking for all the world what she had become, the daughter of the Manor. He said casually, ‘Widecombe Fair next Tuesday. I hope you’ll allow me to take you – and Mrs Yeo, if she cares to come. Of course your brother—’
‘Uncle.’ Her smile was full of amusement. No resentment any longer, he noticed.
‘Your uncle,’ he returned the smile, ‘will go on his own – taking stock to sell, I shouldn’t be surprised. And perhaps buying. Sales are usually good at this time of the year. What do you think, my dear?’
Becky bit into one of Mrs Mudge’s cut throughs and let the cream and jam fill her with quick pleasure. Swallowing the mouthful, she thought for a minute. Widecombe Fair. Everybody would be there. Perhaps news of Joseph. For a second bleakness filled her, but then she wiped her mouth and said, ‘Thank you, I should like to come with you, Father. And I know Ma will be grateful not to have to go in the rickety old trap. I’ll make sure we’re both ready – Tuesday, isn’t it? Let’s hope for a fine day.’
It was a day of sharp winds and shifting clouds, but as the carriage arrived in Widecombe a slant of bright sun shafted into the gathering crowds of people, wagons and traps making their way to the Green and the adjoining fields. Sheep and cattle were being driven into hurdled pens and a general noise of wellbeing and excitement spread over the whole village. Children raced and shouted and dogs barked. Every household had someone there, for the fair was the great occasion of the whole year.
Becky had gone to much trouble over her dress. The green one was the only suitable garment for such an occasion, but with Thirza’s help she had decorated it with a lighter green braid, and put a cockade of green and blue feathers in the small, matching hat. She felt well dressed, and hoped that her father would think so too. His tweed jacket and highly polished boots showed off his position as estate owner, and she thought he had more colour in his thin face as he escorted them through the gathering groups of farmers towards the tent where refreshments were being organized by the village wives.
‘I suggest you and Mrs Yeo stay around here, Becky – I need to meet my tenants, so I can’t be with you all the time. But there are seats here, and perhaps your brother – ‘that amused little smile, ‘uncle will come and find you. Will you be all right?’
‘Yes, of course, Father. Don’t worry about us. I can look after Ma and take her to see the stalls.’
There was so much to see and enjoy. Not just cattle and moorland sheep for sale, but ponies driven down from the moor, nervous and fidgety as prospecting farmers looked them over. And then, of course, all the fun of the fair. Stalls of hoopla, coconut shies, two-headed sheep, fat ladies, and men with big muscles charging a shilling for a fight which they would surely win. Becky smiled, looking around her, for she had been here every year as a child. She recognized many faces of drovers who had brought the cattle in, and dealers looking for new stock, but some were older than she remembered.
Thirza, too, was enjoying herself. Now that the awful secret of Grace’s shame, her tragic death and Becky’s birth had been faced and dealt with, she felt herself to be stronger and able to think happier thoughts. Looking at Becky, walking beside her, smiling at familiar faces, she hoped with all her heart that her granddaughter would marry a good man and settle down. That there would be no more problems.
As usual, the towering sun-burnished hills enclosing the village caught her, making her stand still for a long moment, looking around. She had been born here and the tors and valleys were home, wild and savage as they were. The quick wind was driving the clouds to cast moving shadows over the high ground and, lower down, the small pasture fields of village farmers stretched as far up the slopes of Hameldon as they could, ending before reaching the skyline, as if the high moor, isolated and primitive, denied further entry. A gleam of sunlight caught a patch of faded heather and green scrub and Thirza smiled. She knew it all, loved it. Grace flitted through her mind, but now she had built the power to release the memory. For a moment her smile faded; but then she told herself, no reason to fear any more shadows, please Lord.
Rupert Fielding walked slowly, using his cane to ease his aching back and moving from the Green to the fields where sheep and cattle were penned. He caught the eye of one of his tenants, Walter Worth, from the north of the valley, on whose pigsties Nat Briggs had filed a report saying a larger amount than he had expected needed to be spent on rebricking and reflooring. Walter Worth came up to him, touched his hat, and asked after his health.
‘Improving, thanks,’ Rupert said. And then, ‘About your pigsties, Worth – seems a lot of money you reckon must be spent on repairing them.’
The man, short and middle aged, with a furrowed brow that shadowed his suntanned face, frowned even more as he said, ‘Oh no, sir, I reckoned it cheap as possible. Gave Mr Briggs the figures, but haven’t heard nought from him yet.’
Rupert considered. He recalled the figure on the scrap of paper Briggs had left on his desk. ‘What do you call as cheap as possible, then, Worth?’
The answer didn’t surprise him. There was a difference of just over three pounds and this, he realized, would go into Brigg’s deep pocket once the work was done. He pursed his mouth and looked at his tenant. ‘Briggs get on all right with your men, Worth? Polite to your wife and family, is he?’
A moment’s awkward pause while the farmer shuffled his boots. And then, ‘Well, not what you’d call real perlite, sir, if you gets my meaning. More likely to give orders and say jump to it.’
Rupert nodded, and Worth, encouraged by his silence, added, ‘Makes my ole cow man feel bad, sir. An the ’prentice lad ready to lash out—’
‘I see. Thank you, Worth, for being so open about things. I’ll see to the pigsties next week. My regards to Mrs Worth – and, in future, come to me rather than Briggs, will you?’
‘Yessir. Thank you, sir.’ The furrowed brow relented half an inch and what passed for a smile flitted across Walter Worth’s fleshy face. Rupert nodded again, proceeded on his way to the pony sales, thinking of finding a suitable mount for Becky, and then, leaning on his cane beside the penned enclosure, stood still, ordering his plans.
Arrangements had been made for the thatcher to repair the Yeo farmhouse, for Will Yeo to buy stock and feed and for Mrs Mudge to look around for a girl to help in the farm kitchen. Yes, reparation was being made, but what could he do for Becky? There must be something else, more important than just money and position. But what?
So many people, so much noise as they walked around the fairground, and Becky saw Thirza visibly tiring. It was becoming clear that the secret of Becky’s true birth had spread through the village. There were several stares, some polite, ‘Morning, Miss Fielding’s, and just a few frowns and shakes of the head. But in general there were kind words and gestures, and she was touched and surprised by the warmth of the greetings showered on her and Thirza as they went from one stall to the next.
As they walked, her eyes wandered over the sea of faces. Would there be, somewhere here, the tall, golden haired figure of Joseph? She hoped desperately, but saw only the usual villagers and farmers, their wives and their families.
Then she saw Thirza’s weary expression and said, ‘Ma, I’m going to find you a chair in the tent and get you a cup of tea. You can rest for a while – I want to go around and ask a few questions.’
Thirza sank gratefully into a chair in the crowded tent and looked up at her anxiously. ‘You’re looking for that Freeman, aren’t you, maid? But what will the maister say – he won’t want you hobnobbing with anyone other than gentry now.’
Becky said firmly, ‘He knows I have to live my life as I want it. I told him that. Don’t worry, Ma, he’s not going to take me away from you. I promise I’ll always be here.’
Thirza smiled and nodded, then turned away to accept the te
acup passed to her by one of her acquaintances behind the long trestle table. Becky left, saying she wouldn’t be long, and then went out of the tent to mingle with the crowd. It was easier than she had thought to ask the simple question, Have you heard anything of Joseph Freeman? He’s been working somewhere on the moor, but every reply was no, and after a while she found a quiet spot on a secluded bench in the field where the pony races were getting under way, and sat down, wondering what to do next. But not just what to do next, for what to believe had become the all important, nagging question. Had Nat Briggs been telling the truth, after all? Was it possible that Joseph had, indeed, run? And if it were true, what should she do?
She sat and watched the races, listening vaguely to the beating hoofs on the turf, the shouts and the cheers as someone’s favourite won, and was still there, lost in thought, when Dinah appeared at her side. ‘I been looking for you. Your Ma said as how you’d gone off – she be worrying. Said I’d find you. Shall we have a look at ole Uncle Tom Cobley on his grey mare – it’s Ned Foster all dressed up this year in his ole smock and top hat. Go an’ see, shall we?’
Becky came back to the present, looked at Dinah, so pretty in her flower trimmed hat and newly laundered but faded blue dress and, with a surprising connection of thoughts, wondered why Will wasn’t with her. She realized quickly – of course, he would be looking at the stock, among his fellow farmers, exchanging views and opinions and even slapping hands over a sale, perhaps.
‘All right, Dinah, I’ll come, but where’s Will?’
Dinah dimpled. ‘Buying another cow. And sheep. Maister saw him this morning an’ said he must.’
Becky’s worries momentarily faded. All was going to be well with the farm. Father was keeping his word. Together then, they left the race course and its heavily breathing ponies, and went back to the Green where Dinah turned off into Gypsy Rosie’s tell-your-future stall, grinning at Becky and saying, ‘I got sixpence. Find out the name o’ my sweet’eart, I will.’ The grin grew even wider. ‘Hopes as how it begins with W.’
Becky’s returning smile was warm. Will and Dinah? Could it be? But why not? A family wedding would be lovely. But not hers…. Her smile died. She must find out about Joseph. Looking around, hoping still for a sight of him, she saw Rupert Fielding walking slowly towards a group of newly arrived gentry leaving their traps and carriages, and thought wildly that perhaps he might have some idea of how to find out the truth of Nat Brigg’s story.
Quickly, she headed in his direction and then, there was a tall man striding along with his back to her, fair hair curling over his jacket collar, walking towards her father.
Becky ran, her body suddenly warm and light and full of hope. Joseph hadn’t gone away. It was all lies. He was here. Now. Here….
CHAPTER 19
Bill Narracott harnessed the pony and told Joseph he’d be leaving for home before the end of the day. Grateful for the lift from Hexworthy, Joseph at once set about looking for Becky. Surely, among the crowds of farmers, families and villagers, she must be here? Everyone came to Widecombe Fair. Of course she was here – but it was like looking for a pin in a stook of hay. He walked slowly across the Green, and then into the Old Field where the sheep and cattle were penned. Or perhaps she was already in the refreshment tent. He turned aside and then someone bumped into him. Davy, his workmate from Hound Tor. A big grin, a rough voice, saying words he couldn’t believe. ‘Mornin’ Joe, heard ’bout the Yeo maid, have you? How her’s really Mr Fielding’s bastard daughter? Cor, the Yeos kept it quiet, didn’t they? But now ’tis all over everywhere.’ The grin broadened. ‘Sweet on her, weren’t you? I recalls her coming to the inn lookin’ fer you.’
‘What? Mr Fielding’s—’ Joseph couldn’t say the words for surely they were wicked nonsense. His Becky was a Yeo, sister of that oaf Will, daughter of gentle Thirza. He glared at Davy. ‘Don’t believe you. Where’d you hear this pack o’ lies?’
The friendly grin died. ‘’Tis true, I tell you. Heard it from Jim, who said the Reverend Mr Gould was talking to the reverend from Manaton. “Do you know ’bout Rupert Fielding’s daughter being a love child?” he said.’ A hard stare, followed by a punch on the shoulder, and then gruffly, ‘Well, if you doesn’t believe me, go an’ ask someone yerself.’
‘I will.’ Joseph swung away. Only one person to ask and that was Fielding.
He strode back into the Green and there he was; the maister, the tall chap, walking slowly with a cane, talking to someone newly arrived and just leaving his trap and groom, another man in breeches and bowler hat, gentry, all of them. Well, Fielding must stop chatting to his smart friends and talk to him instead.
And then – ‘Joseph!’ He heard her voice, turned and stared. Becky Yeo, all dressed up, running towards him, smiling, her face alight with wonder and joy, hands out, reaching for him. He stood motionless, unable to move, unable to think straight. In that long, heart-stopping moment she came to his side and, ‘Joseph!’ she said again. Helplessly he watched her smile disappear. He saw fear and anguish in her wide eyes and wondered what to say to her.
No words came but flooding emotion made him grab her outstretched hands and pull her with him as he strode towards Rupert Fielding, standing in the small group of farmers and gentry. He felt her shock, sensed she was full of fear and horror. He just needed one word – no – from the maister. Only wanted to know she wasn’t the bastard daughter, that she was still Becky Yeo who was waiting for him to return to her.
He flung himself into the chatting group, Becky still at his side, imprisoned in his calloused hands, and said roughly, ‘Mr Fielding, I gotta speak to you.’
The talk stopped abruptly, eyebrows raised, shocked faces frowned and one elbow lifted threateningly, ash plant in hand. But Rupert Fielding’s expression, as he looked first at Becky and then at Joseph, showed concern. He said rapidly, ‘Excuse me, gentlemen. I’ll see you again later,’ and, nodding at Joseph, limped unevenly away towards a free space at the bottom of the Green.
There he stopped, turned and said heavily, ‘Well? What do you want?’
Before Joseph could find words to reply, Becky pulled herself free from his grasp.
Sucking in a long breath, she caught at his jacket with flailing hands and cried, ‘I thought you’d gone! Nat Briggs said you were a thief and that you’d run, but I knew you hadn’t – I’ve been looking for you all over and now you’re here. But why are you looking at me like this? What have I done?’
Her voice died to an anguished whisper. ‘Joseph, what have I done?’
Rupert Fielding put out an arm and drew her towards him. ‘I’m sure you’ve done nothing wrong, Becky. I think that Freeman has just heard the wretched gossip and needs to have it confirmed.’ He stared at Joseph. ‘That’s it, isn’t?’
Joseph let out a slow exhalation of held breath and began searching for words. ‘Yes. That’s it. Gossip, all over the place. That she’s—’ For a moment he looked at Becky and she saw his face soften, but his voice was still a deep, unhappy growl. ‘That she’s your daughter, your love child, a Fielding, not a Yeo. That you turned her into a bit of village gossip and she’ll never live it down.’
Painfully, Rupert straightened his back. ‘Well, yes, she’s my daughter, and I’m proud of the fact. I know I wronged her mother, and I’m sorry about it. But I’m making up to Becky and her family as well as I can.’
Joseph’s face was grim, his hands balled into fists and fearfully Becky watched him trying to control his fury. A second’s pause and then he said, voice low and full of disgust, ‘They’re calling her a bastard, but you’re the real bastard, Mr Fielding, Not her. Not my Becky.’
‘Watch your language, Freeman,’ Rupert Fielding snapped. ‘Just remember, I can get you put off any farm where you look for work.’
‘That doesn’t bother me, ’cos I’m going to take her away from you, take her somewhere where I’ll look after her and love her for the rest of our lives. So you can just forget that wicked moment, all
those years ago, forget you fathered a daughter, because you’re not fit to have one.’ He reached out both hands, put his arms around Becky and drew her close to his chest.
Rupert Fielding was breathing hard. He said sharply, ‘And how do you propose to care for her? I hear you’re a wanderer, a gypsy; why, you turned down my work because I imagine you thought it too hard for you. Well, I’ll never let Becky have any thoughts of marrying scum like you.’
Becky was in tears, clinging to Joseph, pulling away from her father, full of the certain and desperate knowledge that she mustn’t let Joseph go away again. Never mind Father – he’d done without her for nineteen years, he wouldn’t miss her now. She heard Joseph say slowly, ‘You’re wrong. You don’t know anything about me. But she does. She knows I’m only trying to sort out my life, to get ready to find her a home and marry her.’
And then her father, scornful and with a sneer on his face: ‘And where will this home be, pray? A derelict barn somewhere, I suppose … burned out thatch and damp stones – just the place for my girl to settle down.’
‘No.’ Joseph’s voice was quiet and deep as the anger faded and sense returned. He held Becky in warm, strong arms and she felt his heart beating through his jacket. ‘I tell you, Mr Fielding, I just need more time and then she’ll have everything she wants, a house with good thick walls, warmth, safety, a bit of land, a proper home. If you love her, then help her wait for me.’
Becky watched Rupert Fielding’s expression gradually change. He frowned, brows beetling over narrowed eyes. She hoped he was listening properly, accepting Joseph’s words and plans. Very quietly, her voice unsteady, she put out a hand and touched his arm. ‘Father, I know what he means. And I’m willing to wait. I’ll wait till he’s ready. Please believe him.’
Drifting Shadows Page 18
