by Anna Jacobs
But oh, she longed to see her family’s home. She knew Mr Jamieson had written to Mr Pursley, the agent and tenant of the home farm, asking him to get things ready at the Manor, so was hoping to stay there.
By the time they arrived in Broadhurst, it was well into the afternoon and already dusk was threatening. Sarah felt happiness spread through her just to know that her mother and several generations of her mother’s family had once lived in this village, and that gave her a sense of coming home she’d never experienced before.
The carriage stopped at the only inn, The Golden Fleece. It was an old-fashioned, half-timbered building, and stood beside a triangular village green. The inn looked tidy and well cared-for.
A burly landlord came out to greet her, took her inside and handed her over to his wife.
‘My name is Mort-er, Bedham.’ Sarah still had trouble remembering her new name.
The landlady nodded. ‘Will Pursley told us you were coming. ‘ She studied Sarah’s face. ‘Are you really Miss Elizabeth’s daughter? You don’t look at all like her.’
‘She always said I looked like her grandfather.’
‘You do, too. Eh, a fine old gentleman he was. And to think you’ve come home at last!’
Sarah found herself being ruthlessly hugged, something she wasn’t used to, but enjoyed. After that she was swept upstairs to the comfort of a cosy bedroom with a blazing wood fire. Chilled and hungry after her journey, for the heated bricks at her feet had grown cool long before they reached their destination, she ate her fill of a tasty chicken pie, some small cakes and a rather wrinkled apple. She finished this off with a dish of tea, clasping the little china bowl in both hands as she sipped, enjoying its warmth.
When Mistress Poulter herself came to clear the things away, Sarah asked if there was a gig available to take her to the Manor in the morning.
‘Oh dear, it’s hired out till noon, I’m afraid. But Jem shall drive you then, I promise you.’
‘I can walk, surely?’
‘Best not, m’dear. ‘Tis over a mile outside the village and the lane’s in a terrible muddy state after the rain we’ve had lately.’
Sarah felt too drowsy to argue, but she didn’t intend to sit around all morning when she was so close to her new home. She had never, she thought, as she snuggled down in the big, soft feather bed, felt quite so happy in all her life.
The only sadness was that her mother wasn’t here to share her good fortune with her.
* * * *
The following morning after Sarah had broken her fast, she went to stand by the window of her bedroom and stare out at the village, then took a turn around the green. She was surprised when she saw so few people, but supposed they were mostly busy at work by this hour.
Eager to see her house, she decided to walk there. ‘Can you give me directions for getting to the Manor?’ she asked the landlady. ‘It doesn’t seem likely to rain and I shall enjoy a stroll.’
‘Oh, my dear, I don’t think that’s wise.’
‘My mind is quite made up.’
Mistress Poulter opened her mouth to protest, caught her guest’s eye and closed it again. After chewing her thumb for a moment as if uncertain what to do, she gave the necessary directions.
Donning her rather old-fashioned cloak and the stouter of her new pairs of shoes, Sarah set off. The morning was cold and the ground damp, but today the sun was shining. She had no trouble following the landlady’s directions and finding the lane leading to her house. It didn’t seem well used. High banks at each side were covered in tangles of dead vegetation and there were deep ruts in places, half-filled with mud, around which she had to pick her way with great care.
For the first time she began to wonder whether she should have waited for the trap. Or at least, sent for Mr Pursley to act as her guide.
Not used to being alone anywhere, and unaccustomed to the quiet of the countryside, she looked around her a little nervously as she walked. What a fool I am! she thought after a while. Anyone would think there were wolves and brigands in the woods. The place will be very pretty in spring when the leaves are out, I dare say. But today, she couldn’t deny that there was a sad feel to the damp brown landscape and try as she would, she couldn’t shake off a feeling of apprehension.
Suddenly, a dog came bounding down the slope on her right, a great shaggy creature, barking furiously. Sarah cried out in dismay as it leaped up at her, sending her sprawling on the ground. A man’s voice shouted angrily from somewhere and the dog, which had been standing next to her, still barking but wagging its tail furiously, rushed off again.
As she struggled to her feet, she found a strong hand under her arm making the task easier. She looked up to thank her rescuer and found herself gazing at a man of about her own age, whose face might have been deemed handsome had it not been marred by a scowl. For a moment, she forgot everything as she stared at him. He looked so healthy and strong, not pale like the gentlemen she had seen in London, nor shrunken and furtive like the people who frequented Furness Road.
It was unusual to find a man so much taller than she was. It felt - strange. It must be that which was making her heart pound and her pulse race. Or perhaps it was his stare, for he had the kind of eyes which seemed to probe right into you. Such dark, compelling eyes.
She realised he’d said something and found herself blushing like a ninny and stuttering as she tried to understand his question. What was wrong with her today? She must be more tired than she’d realised. Then she noticed the streaks of mud on her cloak and skirt, and that jerked her out of her silliness. ‘Was that your dog, sir?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘You should keep such a brute under better control!’
He took a step backwards and his apologetic expression was replaced by the scowl. ‘Santo’s not dangerous! And anyway, it’s his job to warn us of strangers walking along the lane. You should have kept to the public highway, madam. This lane leads nowhere but to Broadhurst Manor.’
She gave him back scowl for scowl. ‘As the new owner of Broadhurst, I have every right to come this way, so you had better keep that ill-trained brute under more control in future, because I have no desire to be attacked every time I walk to and from the village!’ She began to limp on.
‘Wait!’ He hurried after her. ‘You’ve hurt your foot. Please let me . . . ‘
‘I’m not hurt.’ She set off again, but slipped on a patch of muddy ground and if he hadn’t caught hold of her, would have fallen again.
For a moment, she couldn’t move, because she’d jarred her bad hip. She closed her eyes and clung to him as pain washed through her.
His voice was a growl of sound from just above her ear. ‘You are hurt.’
‘I just - twisted my leg,’ she said, through gritted teeth. ‘It will pass in a moment.’
His voice was gentler. ‘Hold on to me.’
She had no choice but to do so until the waves of pain had subsided. Most of the time she had no trouble walking, but just once in a while she jarred whatever it was that was wrong inside her. When she thought she could move without stumbling, she tried to pull away from him, but he kept hold of her arm, his eyes anxious.
‘Are you sure you’re all right now?’
‘Yes.’
‘You must have hurt yourself badly.’
‘I was born lame, sir. Today’s fall has merely jarred my bad hip. The pain will soon pass.’ She could hear how sharp her voice was, but couldn’t help that. She hated to display her weakness to anyone. ‘Thank you for your help.’
‘I’m sorry about Santo.’ He turned to the animal and said, ‘Friend,’ loudly, several times, patting her arm. It wagged its tail even more furiously at Sarah and panted vigorously, its pink tongue hanging out of one side of its mouth as if it was grinning.
She couldn’t help smiling at it, then stole a quick glance sideways. The man was standing so close to her she could feel the warmth where his body was shielding hers from the chill breeze. His dark hai
r was tied back in a plain bow - his own hair, not a wig - and his skin had that fresh colour to it that came from working out of doors. His eyes were so dark as to seem almost black, and he had a straight, well-formed nose and wide, generous mouth, though this was set in a grim line at the moment to match the frown lines on his forehead. And although he was dressed in working clothes, they were not poor men’s clothes, but good, hardwearing stuff, a neat leather jerkin over a woollen overshirt to keep out the cold, knee breeches of broadcloth over knitted woollen stockings, and sturdy leather shoes with the low heels of a working man.
‘Are you really the new owner of Broadhurst?’ he asked abruptly.
She was glad of an excuse to feel annoyed with him. Anger was something she knew, something that kept you going, not like this - this other feeling he inspired, a feeling she definitely didn’t trust. ‘Why should you doubt what I tell you?’ She drew away from him, relieved to find that her leg would hold her now.
‘I’d not expected the new owner to walk up a muddy lane and arrive unannounced.’
‘Well, I haven’t got a carriage, and if the state of my house is as they tell me, I don’t suppose I ever will have. If that’s any of your business.’
He laughed, a short, mirthless bark. ‘Oh, but you do have a carriage! Two, in fact. They’re mouldering away in the coach house at the Manor. But you won’t be able to use them, because there aren’t any horses left to pull them.’
‘Well, they can just stay there and moulder, then. I’ve no money for horses, or for a coachmen to drive them.’
The scowl returned. ‘Then I take it that you’ll be selling the Manor to Sewell?’
‘That’s my business, I think.’
She saw him open his mouth as if he was going to speak, then breathe deeply and clamp his lips shut. What a surly fellow he was! Still, if he was a tenant, he had a right to worry about his future, and she had lived with uncertainty about her own future for the past year and wouldn’t willingly inflict it on anyone else. ‘I’m not selling.’ Honesty compelled her to add, ‘At least, I hope not.’
He looked at her in both surprise and distrust, as if he didn’t quite believe her. ‘You’re not? But - how shall you manage?’
‘As best I can. And I take leave to tell you that you are impertinent, sir!’
He stiffened. ‘I cry pardon! I meant no impertinence, Mistress Bedham. I was just - I should have introduced myself before now. I’m Will Pursley, you see. I lease the home farm from you and in addition, your lawyer has appointed me to act as your agent, collecting rents and so on. He said you’d be arriving, but not exactly when.’ And the lawyer hadn’t said she was so young. Will had expected an older woman, not one with pretty hair and clear grey eyes.
‘Ah, yes.’ Sarah inclined her head. ‘Mr Jamieson has spoken of you.’ Then she looked up at the sky which looked grey and full of rain. ‘Perhaps you could call on me at the inn tomorrow to discuss how things stand? For the present, I’m eager to see my house and must be on my way.’
‘You’ll be quicker if you cut through the woods. I’ll show you the path.’
She wasn’t sure she wanted to spend any more time with him, but her hip was still aching and he seemed to take her acceptance for granted. Only burning curiosity made her continue. And hunger - such a great hunger for a home of her own that it was nearly devouring her. ‘Very well. Thank you.’
Simple courtesy made him offer her his arm, but she hesitated before taking it. Touching him made her feel - strange. But in the end she laid her hand on his arm and they set off, with him letting her set the pace, thank goodness, which was very thoughtful.
He led her along the side of the lane, avoiding the worst of the mud. Since he made no attempt at small talk and she had never learned the art, they moved in silence, their breath clouding the air around them and the only sounds, the soft muddy beat of their footsteps on the ground. The sounds they made were accompanied by the panting of the dog, now loud, now faint as it quested to and fro.
At one point, a sheet of muddy water stretched across the whole lane and without asking, Mr Pursley set his hands on her waist and lifted her over it as if she weighed nothing. Sarah could feel her face grow warm with embarrassment. She wasn’t used to the feel of a man’s hands on her body.
He stared at her as he set her down and seemed about to say something, then clamped his lips shut again.
They came to a long, high wall, made of some local stone, and in it a gateway, with the wooden gate hanging useless from one hinge.
‘This leads through the woods to the house.’ He pushed the gate to one side.
Only when she thought things over that night, did she realise how instinctively she had trusted him. And yet she’d learned, in places like Furness Road, to trust no one, especially a man. But for all his surliness, Will Pursley had a wholesome air to him. One look at his face showed you an honest man.
Another thought followed that one in the safety of her bedchamber: he was a handsome man, as well.
The path through the woods was better drained, but still he kept an eye on the going, ready to point out a smoother route or guide her away from boggy ground.
‘You seem to know these woods well,’ she commented when the silence became too heavy.
‘Aye. I’ve made it my business to know them since I took over as agent. And to keep a watch for people who shouldn’t be here, but who try to make free of the game - and of other things, too, perhaps.’
‘I thank you for your care.’ What other things, she wondered, might people be seeking here?
Quite soon the trees began to thin out and the house came into view in the distance, surrounded by grassy meadows and occasional clumps of trees. She stopped, letting go of his arm to clasp her hands at her breast, unable to hold back a cry of sheer joy.
Broadhurst Manor lay nestled in the hollow below them as if it had always been there and had put down great roots to anchor itself securely to the land. It was four stories high at the front, if you counted the attics, and a storey less at the wings, which stretched backwards from where they stood. It was built of mellow red brick, with a neat portico over the front door and two broad, shallow steps leading up to it.
Sarah fell instantly in love with it, as if something within her recognised it. ‘It’s beautiful!’ she breathed, totally forgetting her companion as tears welled unheeded in her eyes. And it was hers! She who had owned so little before, who had never had even a small house to live in, now possessed a handsome manor house. From where they stood it looked sound enough, and she couldn’t understand why Mr Jamieson considered it uninhabitable.
‘It could be beautiful,’ Mr Pursley allowed, ‘If someone cared enough to look after it.’ Then he shook his head and the frown returned, not aimed at her, but as if it was his habitual expression.
They moved slowly forward towards the curving driveway and as she began to see more details, Sarah’s heart sank. The windows were dull, one or two broken and gaping open to the weather. Grass was growing in the gutters, and there were dead branches and other debris scattered over what had once been a gravelled forecourt, but which now sprouted patches of dead weeds from the previous summer.
This couldn’t all have happened in the year since her grandfather’s death. He must have allowed the place to degenerate while he was still alive. How could he have done that? She would have boarded up the windows herself rather than leave them open to the weather’s assault. There were broken roof tiles lying here and there on the ground, recent falls, by the looks of them. There must have been bad winter storms to do this. How much did it cost to get in a tiler? And a glazier? How bad were things inside the house?
Too bad for her to live there? Oh, please, no!
She stopped and pressed a hand to the hip that was aching furiously now. When she saw that Mr Pursely had noticed, she snatched her hand away, but the damage was done.
‘How did the house get like this?’ she wondered aloud to distract his attention from herself.
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He ignored her question. ‘Never mind the house, you need to rest that hip, Mistress Bedham.’
She nodded and let out a shaky breath. Useless to deny it. The house still lay some two or three hundred yards away. She might get there, but would find it difficult to return to the village on foot afterwards. ‘I think perhaps I’d better return to the inn. I need not trouble you further. I can manage on my own, now that I know the way.’ And would be able to go slowly, with rests to ease the hip.
‘Nonsense! You aren’t fit to walk far, so if you’ll sit here in this arbour, I’ll go and fetch my trap.’ He brushed the dead leaves off a rotting wooden bench and guided her to it, making sure she had sat down before he stepped back. ‘’Tis only a short walk to the home farm through the woods.’
She could only nod and admit, ‘I’d be grateful for your help, sir.’
* * * *
She looked so white, Will ran all the way home, wondering how to warn her about Sewell and how best to help her settle in. For upon this woman depended his own future, his only hope of staying in the district. And he was determined to stay there, just as he was determined one day to make Sewell pay for what he had done.
‘She looks like she needs cosseting,’ he told the horse as he harnessed it. ‘But she’s a Bedham all right. She’s not only got their height and colouring, but that stubborn chin, just like the old Squire’s.’
As the horse clopped along the track to the big house, he could see her sitting in the old arbour, heedless of the dirt and spiders, her head leaning back and weariness in every line of her body. Something tugged at his heart, as it had when she’d leaned against him, fighting to hide the pain. It was strange, this urge he had to protect a stranger, a woman he had only just met.
He jumped down and helped her up into the trap, driving it gently back to the village via the farm lane, which was the longer way round, but in much better condition than the one she had arrived by.
