Drifting Shadows

by Christine Green

  Silently seething with rage, Nat’s reply had been quietly subservient. ‘Yes, sir. O’ course. No question of it. You should know that I’m an honest man mostly….’ The expression on the maister’s face forced an explanation. ‘I mean, money’s always hard to find, and sometimes, it’s a bit of a temptation to—’

  ‘Get out, Briggs. Get on with that work over at Worth’s farm. Those pigsties must be repaired without any more delay. And be polite to the farmer and his wife. I’ve had complaints about your behaviour.’ A last freezing stare over the desk and a final order as Briggs headed for the door. ‘Just make sure you’re up at Bonehill on the day and at the time I plan.’

  Nat stomped downstairs, thundered through the kitchen, ignoring the stares of Nellie Mudge and, outside in the yard, wary words from Tom Abbot. He kicked the cob, hardly controlling his pace as he reached the lane and headed for the main road and Hexworthy. Those bloody pigsties. That bloody farmer, Worth. And when that’s all done, he must make plans about the fight. Freeman’s name brought Becky into his mind and again his rage exploded. This was probably all due to her, the bitch persuading Fielding to look on Freeman more kindly. Well, when the fight was over, the watchers would know who had won, and who would remain estate bailiff without any more to do about it. Just wait and see.

  Becky and Thirza climbed into the trap which Tom Abbot had driven into the yard.

  Dinah, feeding Flower, the pig, waved as they headed out towards the lane and the road to Moretonhampstead and Becky said, ‘What can we buy as a present for Dinah?’

  ‘Some’at for the wedding, p’raps,’ Thirza said thoughtfully. ‘She’s got nothing new – wonder what she’ll wear?’

  They looked at each other and laughed. ‘Her ole blue,’ they said together.

  Thirza thought for a moment. ‘I haven’t started sewin’ that material you bought the other week in Newton – why don’t I make that up for her? Just make a size bigger’n you, maid, for she’s got a proper curvy figure.’

  ‘That’s a good idea, Ma. And I’ll buy something she can wear with it when she walks up the aisle – something pretty she’d never buy even if she had the money. We’ll have a good look around.’

  They did. Once the trap was left beside the White Hart Inn, with Tom saying he’d wait in the tap room for their return, Becky and Thirza went from shop to shop, enjoying the freedom of not working and of being together. They chatted as they went, as companionable and loving as they had always been and Becky saw that Thirza had left behind her much of the quiet unhappiness that had been building up over the years.

  She thought about their recent visit to Grace’s grave, understanding now that the past can easily cast a wretched spell over the present if it is allowed to do so. Just like the grave beneath Bowerman’s Nose – folk repeating the old story until it seemed to be still living. How much better, she thought, to let the past rest and just live each day as it comes. And this was what she was trying to do with her own life. Grace’s sad death was behind her, although never to be forgotten. She knew that Father would always need a part of her, and this she would never deny him, even when she and Joseph were together. She wondered how life would be if Mrs Felicity Richards came back from Italy and married Father. Would she, the illegitimate daughter, be welcome at High Cross Manor any more? Or would the new mistress push her back into the old farm home?

  But wherever she landed up, she told herself resolutely that it would only be a temporary shelter, for Joseph had promised her a home, and he would find one. And then, of course, another shadow suddenly edged into her mind – what about the fight Father had said he would arrange? Joseph and Nat Briggs fighting…. Becky blinked away the anxiety and said quickly to Ma as they entered the dressmaker’s little shop, ‘We’ll look at a pretty hat for you, Ma – Dinah’s not going to be the only handsome maid at her wedding.’

  It took an enjoyable twenty minutes or so of trying on before Thirza finally settled on an ivory coloured Leghorn straw, trimmed with ochre and pale gold braid, with a large satin bow dipping over the side. ‘But I can’t wear this,’ Thirza kept saying nervously, looking at herself in the mirror, and then back at Becky for reassurance. ‘It’s too fine for me.’

  ‘Nothing’s too fine for you, Ma. You’ve done without things for so long, you deserve a lovely hat, and I want you to have this one. A few flowers on the brim and you’ll be a picture.’

  ‘Well….’ At last the hat was packed up, while Becky searched for a gift for Dinah. The local lace school had arranged its products on a small table at the back of the shop, and there she found just what she was looking for – something expensive and rich, something Dinah would never have thought of buying. Picking it up, Becky felt the soft texture of the handmade lace collar and pictured what it would look like, an elegant decoration of flowers and flowing tendrils at Dinah’s throat, catching all eyes and enhancing the simple new dress that Thirza was making.

  ‘I’ll have this, please.’ Becky found money in her pocket and shook her head when the dressmaker offered to put both purchases on Mr Fielding’s account. She had received her wages and wanted to share them with her family. What the future held regarding money she had no idea, but this was an important moment. She longed to give something to both Dinah and Thirza to show her gratitude for all their love and help during the bleak days of the recent past.

  ‘You Freeman?’ The postman stopped in the yard, bag over his shoulder, one hand on the pony’s bridle, the other holding out an envelope to Bill Narracott, and staring at Joseph, just coming out of the farmhouse.

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Gotta message from Mr Fielding. Ses to tell you five o’clock next Saturday at Bonehill Rocks.’ The man stared, curiosity etched on his leathery face as he remounted.

  ‘Thank you.’ Joseph nodded and continued on his way across the yard, pausing as Narracott shouted after him.

  ‘What’s all that then? Sat’day afternoon? You wants time off?’

  Joseph went back to the old man. ‘Something very important. I’ll make up the time.’

  Bill Narracott’s eyes, set deep in his weathered face, held a gleam of knowledge.

  ‘Important, eh? I heard as ’ow that Briggs most likely’ll get what’s comin’ to him. That’s it, then?’

  Grimly, Joseph nodded. ‘That’s about it, Mr Narracott.’

  ‘Oh ah. An’ not before time. All right then, you gets your Sat’day afternoon.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Joseph paused. ‘But I have to take a couple of mates with me. All right for Mr Hunt to come?’

  The old man stared. ‘So that’s the way o’ it. Need your friends around you, eh? Sounds like a fighting match – is that what you’re up to?’

  So the word had got out. No secrets on the moor, thought Joseph wryly. Well, he could use it to his advantage, perhaps. ‘Yes,’ he answered shortly. ‘I’m fighting Briggs an’ I need my mates as seconds and sticklers. Dan’l has said he’ll be there if you let him off the last few hours of the day.’

  Narracott said nothing but slowly nodded. And it was only as Joseph turned away he called after him. ‘Where is it again?’

  Joseph looked back. ‘Bonehill Rocks. Five o’clock.’

  Their eyes met, Narracott nodded, and then they went their separate ways.

  Dan’l waited until crib time when they sat in the shade of the wall they were repairing. ‘Ole man said all right ’bout Saturday.’ He grinned as he bit into a chunk of hard bread. ‘Looks like he’ll be there. These ole chaps, they like a good wrestling match. It was all the rage fifty years ago but died out then. Now you’re starting it up again. But can be cruel stuff. How do you feel ’bout it?’

  ‘I’ll beat him. Briggs is all mouth, he won’t last long.’

  Silence while they drank cold tea. Then Dan’l said carefully, ‘Course, he could well be up to tricks – we know what he’s like.’ He glanced aside at Joseph. ‘Look out for a few tricks, lad – tripping, kicking, even gouging if he can get away wi’ it.’<
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  ‘I will. Thanks. And how about letting me see your dad’s, what did you call them? Skillibegs?’ They laughed at the forgotten word. Then Dan’l cut into an onion and said, ‘You want to watch out for him kicking, an they’ll protect you. Briggs’ll know all about that, probably bake his boots to make ’em hard. You don’t want no broken legs, lad, not if you’re going to follow the rest o’ your plan for the future. ‘

  Joseph leaned back against the wall, his mind busy, knife and bacon forgotten on the turf beside him. ‘You mean doing what old Satterly did? Yes, I’ll keep out of trouble all right. But I’ll need more than just you beside me, Dan’l; need a few more mates to keep control and use their sticks. Think I’ll drop into the Forest Inn this evening and ask for helpers.’

  Dan’l packed up his bag, corking the bottle and storing both behind a handy gorse bush. ‘You won’t need to ask. All round here, we wants to get even with that bloody Briggs. You’ll see. Men like Andy Burridge, who suffered from losing half his profit over timber sales to the little shit. Try him.’

  ‘Thanks. I will.’

  They got to their feet, spat on their hands, and went back to work.

  In the farmhouse at High Cross all the talk was of the wedding, arranged for three weeks’ time, after the banns had been called. In vain had Will said crossly, ‘Gotta get the ’taties clamped first and the oats stored. Can’t just be runnin’ off to church at any old time.’ But his half smile at Dinah took the edge off his words and Becky felt a new sort of warmth filling her and casting out lurking shadows. Will had changed so much since Dinah’s arrival, but on the other hand she also realized her place in the family circle was being replaced. No room now for another seat by the fire. No extra bed upstairs for the nights when she didn’t want to go back to the Manor. Thirza was busily turning out her bedroom ready for the newly married pair, putting her few belongings into what used to be Becky’s little attic. The only sleeping place now was a blanket and some pillows on the settle beside the dying fire. And because of the discomfort and the cold feeling of no longer belonging, Becky usually returned to her comfortable bedroom at High Cross Manor.

  The Manor was quiet and Rupert Fielding was out for most of the next few days. Becky waited for him to return, and filled up the time by working on the accounts and then, with Ruth, going into the third bedroom and seeing what needed to be done. But the relationship between them was different. Ruth was uncomfortable whereas before they had worked together quite happily. Becky was in charge now, the daughter of the house and after a few hours of silent, awkward work in the room, she left Ruth to finish off the windows and mirrors and went back to her own bedroom.

  After washing her hands and face, changing back into the green dress and tidying her hair, she sat on the bed, looking out of the window and wondered about life. She had to wait for Joseph to do what he had promised. A house somewhere. Their home. And slowly it came to her yet again, like warmth filling a cold body, that this was what she longed for, to be caring for her home, cooking for Joseph, sleeping with him in a small, cosy bedroom beneath the thatched roof.

  She watched the sun slowly fade as it slipped down towards the far horizon, and with its light her smile also faded. What if Joseph didn’t return? If he couldn’t find them a house? If he failed to find the job that would sustain him through the rest of his working life? And then even worse, what if he were injured in the coming fight? It took all her strength to stop thinking such black thoughts. Then there were horse hoofs outside in the yard and Tom’s voice, so she hurriedly left the room and went downstairs in search of her father.

  She must find out what he had arranged about the fight. She hated the thought of it, but of course she must be there, watching, hoping and praying. All her strength would be needed, and, leaving the house, and raising her head defiantly, she knew that somehow she would find it.

  CHAPTER 21

  Rupert Fielding met her in the hall, taking off his hat, unbuttoning his tweed jacket, and smiling.

  ‘Tea time, I think,’ he said. ‘Have it in the drawing room, shall we? I have a lot to tell you.’

  Becky nodded. ‘I’ll ask Ruth to bring it. I hope the fire’s been lit – there’s a cold wind today. Autumn’s on the way.’ She walked across the large room, sat in one of the two comfortable, chintz covered chairs enclosing the hearth, and looked around.

  Today, for some reason, she found herself being critical. It was a lovely, spacious room, paneled and full of heavy old furniture which shone with polish and smelled of beeswax. On small tables and niches china and silver glittered. A portrait over the fireplace showed a long dead Fielding, dressed in cutaway coat with a white stock at his scrawny neck, posing stiffly with a dog at his side. Long legs were encased in fawn pantaloons and on his thin, hawkish face, greying hair luxuriated.

  Rupert, following her in and seating himself opposite, saw her looking up at the portrait. ‘Your great grandfather,’ he told her.

  She felt his eyes on her but continued to look at the portrait. Yes, she understood that this old man with his elegant clothes and stiff posture was related to her, but she felt no connection. He may be an ancestor, but his home wasn’t hers. Even the comfort of this warm and beautifully furnished room gave her no real feeling of homeliness.

  She pushed aside the uneasy feelings and looked across at her father, still watching her. Leave the business of trying to explain that she didn’t belong here until later. For now, ‘What news, Father?’

  As Ruth came in with a tea tray and Becky sat up straight to lift the heavy silver teapot and pour out, Rupert said, ‘Two things. Important things.’ He waited for Ruth to leave. ‘One is that my fiancée, Mrs Richards – Felicity – tells me that our engagement has ended. She intends to live in Italy.’

  Becky waited while thoughts pounded in her mind. Then, ‘So she’s not coming here after all?’

  He reached across for his tea cup and held it in his two hands, watching her face. ‘No.’

  Becky swallowed a lump that had suddenly formed. ‘I’m sorry. You were hoping, of course….’

  ‘To be married. To have a wife to share the rest of my life with. Yes, I was.’ He smiled briefly, a lift of the straight mouth and then it was gone. ‘So I must return to my solitary state. Except that I now have you, my dear daughter.’ The smile lifted again, remained long enough for her to understand that it was a plea for comfort.

  ‘Father—’ No, this wasn’t the time to tell him she didn’t wish to share his life. She tried to copy his smile. ‘Even so, you must be feeling sad, Father.’

  He put his cup down on a small fireside table and said briskly, ‘Perhaps. But one must always find other things to remedy sadness.’ His voice rose and she saw a gleam appear in the dark, deep set eyes. ‘I must tell you about the arrangements I’ve been making for the fight.’

  ‘The fight?’ Her heart pounded and she stiffened, putting her own cup back on the tray. ‘It’s arranged? You’ve told Joseph?’

  ‘I have. The match is on, Freeman versus Briggs. I’ve been calling on my neighbours, sportsmen all of them, and there’s been a good response to the idea of a match. A long time since we saw any wrestling. And I’ve been to look at the ground – up behind Bonehill Rocks, a sort of small amphitheatre of downland, large and level enough. Ideal. Out of sight and big enough for what’s required. Oh yes, and funds are pouring in; the purse should be quite large – ten or twelve guineas, I think.’ He grinned. ‘Large enough to persuade Briggs not to flee.’

  Becky felt sick. So Joseph knew and would be thinking about it and so would Nat. Two men preparing to fight, and Father and his cronies already gloating over the enjoyment they would have from watching. And then, thankfully, the quick, wicked images of violence, of broken limbs and even worse fatalities colliding in her mind vanished, and she was able to say sharply, ‘I shall come and watch. Of course I shall. I shall be there to see Joseph win.’

  Rupert leaned forward and took a slice of seed cake. Between mouthfu
ls, he said very firmly, ‘You certainly won’t. No women at wrestling matches, against the rules. No, Becky, you’ll stay here and wait until I come back.’

  She got to her feet, stared down at him, already feeling in her mind the awful business of waiting for a result – Joseph winning? Or hurt? Rapidly she said, ‘No. I shall be there, watching, Father. Don’t try to stop me.’

  She saw his frown, watched his mouth set angrily, and knew impulsively that she must escape from this new and unwanted authority. ‘Please excuse me,’ she said with a break in her voice, ‘I have to get back to the farm. My family need me.’ She left the room without waiting for permission, found a shawl, and walked straight out of the front door and through the yard, heading for High Cross Farm; her family was there even if it were no longer her home. Because home most surely wasn’t here, at the Manor.

  Frowning, Nat Briggs thought very hard as he left the maister’s study next morning. So the fight was on. Saturday, five of the clock. Bonehill Rocks. Out of the way, but a good enough space for a crowd to gather and see him throw Freeman and break his back. Trotting down the road towards farmer Worth and his pigsties, Nat balled his fists as he rode and smiled. His boots were already fire hardened and newly iron tipped. And he knew a thing or two about kicking in forbidden places. All right, Freeman was big and heavy, but he had no idea of what his opponent could do, given half a chance. That was all he needed, just the chance. The smile grew and he kicked the cob into a canter as he turned off, heading across open moorland. Joseph Freeman, you’re gonna get all you deserve, and mebbe just a bit more.