Drifting Shadows
Page 23
Joseph caught the light-hearted note in the words, and nodded, as he smiled back at the still handsome but lined face regarding him so keenly. ‘Very well, sir, thank you and I’ll be here sharp.’ He took a step towards the door. ‘And now, as you say, I must go and find Becky. To tell her about the cottage and to ask her….’ But already he was leaving the room, urgency forcing him to leave without a formal goodbye.
Rupert’s voice followed him as he went down the stairs. ‘She’s at the farm – said she had to help make arrangements for her brother’s – uncle’s wedding. Take the trap, Freeman, she won’t want to have to walk to your cottage.’
Sitting there quietly, thoughts wandering before he delved into estate matters, Rupert came to understand that his life had mellowed to the extent even of accepting Joseph Freeman as Becky’s husband to be. A brave, straightforward man who would love her, he was sure of it. And as for the old thoughts of keeping his daughter close, well, he knew now that he was better advised to let her go. I must live my own life, she had said, and he could accept that now. No strings attached, but he knew she would never desert him. Love, he knew, for Becky, was unconditional and how fortunate he was to have discovered and come to love her, so late in life. He sat in the sunshine, and felt the new day bring with it a new sort of happiness.
In the yard Joseph helped Tom put the mare into the shafts of the trap and then left the Manor, racing along the road to the farm. In his mind, as he drove, all the past unhappy pieces of his life suddenly began fitting together – and he knew that this was the final piece which made it complete. He must find Becky.
Becky, feeling better, had had breakfast with her father and then, despite his worry as to whether she was strong enough, had taken herself off, out of the yard, down the track and on towards High Cross Farm. As she walked it seemed to her that life had begun a new pattern, her thoughts moving on from the horrors of the wrestling match and the painful blow to her head, to being here in the cool, bright day with the surrounding moorland seemingly smiling down at her. She felt she was approaching something new and distant and wonderful. Joseph was safe – that was all that mattered. He would come back when he was ready, and in the meantime she would spend time with her family on the farm.
There was a lot to discuss; how Dinah’s new dress was going, should she really wear that lovely lace collar with it? ‘Too good for someone like me,’ she said, grinning, but feeling the lace with gentle, admiring fingers. And what about Will having a new coat? ‘Go into market and see what you can find, boy,’ said Thirza, as she took some long hoarded coins from her skirt pocket and put them on the table.
Becky watched all this, listened, and made small contributions to the conversation as she helped prepare the midday meal, feeling herself content and newly happy. And then her mind told her it was time to leave. So once the pot was on the fire, with Will saying he couldn’t stay any longer – work to be done, and then disappearing outside, she remembered that Father would be waiting at the Manor, and perhaps there would be news of Joseph.
Her heart began to race. There must be – there must be.
‘Goodbye,’ she said, kissing Thirza and smiling warmly at Dinah. ‘I’ll come again soon. And of course I’ll be in church on Sunday to hear your banns being read.’ She left them with a clear mind, knowing that all was well at the farm, and then reminded herself that all was well at the Manor, too, with Father not being quite as possessive as he had been.
Her thoughts as she walked out of the yard, down the track and towards the road, were busy and serene. A cool wind, brilliant autumn light, fading greenery in the hedges, leaves falling from the roadside elms; stock in the fields and the moor stretching up into the blue sky.
And then, suddenly, the faint sounds of hoof beats approaching. A trap rounded the corner and came towards her, the large, fair-haired man driving pulling at the reins as he drew nearer, his smile a wide and glorious greeting. Joyously, she heard her name on his lips and answered him. Joseph!
He halted the mare, leaped out and ran towards her. Arms tight and safe around her willing body; flesh to flesh as his kisses warmed her face. His voice singing in her ears, his joy reaching out to her. ‘Becky! I’m building a cottage for us – Fielding has given us the land, I’m to be his new bailiff, and we shall be together. Becky, say you’ll marry me?’
‘Yes! Yes! Of course I will! Oh, Joseph, at last….’
For a moment Joseph was silent, no words able to show his happiness. And then, slowly all he could say, very huskily, was, ‘So come with me, love. I’m going to take you home.’
So much to say, so many kisses, plans to be made, thoughts shared. She sat in the trap beside him and thought ecstatically of what had to be done. The words of The Sprig of Thyme ran through her mind, and she understood that, with the gift of true love that she had given to Joseph, she had herself been given in return the greatest of gifts. The cottage he was telling her about to be finished, furnished, made liveable. The new job which she could help him with, working still at Father’s accounts. Their marriage – their life together – it was all coming true.
After hurrying the mare on from the Manor, Joseph now let her take her time and recover. They went slowly up the lane, took the rough track towards Bowerman’s Nose and stopped for a moment at the grave. Becky found a few petals of fading hawkweed and dropped them on the mound. She looked up at Joseph. ‘Poor maid, she had an unhappy life – like my mother.’
He put out his hand, helping her climb back beside him. ‘But you don’t need to think of them no more, sweetheart. Your life is quite different. You and me will always be happy. Our children will be loved and looked after.’
Dreaming, Becky let the world pass her by as they continued along the lane. She hoped he would carry her over the threshold of their new home, that they would soon have a family. She knew that she was blessed, and offered up a small word of thanks as they continued, in the sunlight, passing Bowerman’s Nose and heading for the cottage.
Going home….
With Joseph’s free hand holding hers, she looked about her and smiled. The moor – her moor – was ablaze with sunlight.
No shadows today.
By the Same Author
The Mistress of Moorhill
Village of Whispers
A House Called Sanctuary
The Song of the Pines
Garden of Hope
Bitter Seeds
Shelter from the Storm
Tide of Uncertainty
River’s Reach
The Far Land
Into the Blue
Writing as Christine Franklin
Black Witch, White Witch
The Dancing Stones
Copyright
© Christina Green 2011
First published in Great Britain 2011
This edition 2012
ISBN 978 0 7198 0642 1 (epub)
ISBN 978 0 7198 0643 8 (mobi)
ISBN 978 0 7198 0644 5 (pdf)
ISBN 978 0 7090 9357 2 (print)
Robert Hale Limited
Clerkenwell House
Clerkenwell Green
London EC1R 0HT
www.halebooks.com
The right of Christina Green to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988