Replenish the Earth

by Anna Jacobs

  Will turned to Petey, his voice gentler now. ‘You go and give Dolly a drink, lad. Give Dolly a drink. Clean water, mind.’

  Petey nodded and went outside to pick up the horse’s reins and lead it across the yard, talking to it, repeating his tale of, ‘Hit him on the head, she did,’ several times, as if the animal could understand.

  ‘Let me show you into the front parlour, Mistress Bedham. We’ll be more comfortable talking there - and more private, too. Mary, shout for me if they return.’ Will looked at Sarah as she moved towards the door. ‘I should have told you yesterday about - about the danger you’re facing.’

  ‘You should indeed.’

  He led her along a dark passage, whose only window was smashed and the gap boarded up.

  ‘Why are so many of the windows broken?’ she wondered aloud.

  ‘Sewell’s men do it.’ He opened a door and led the way out into a broad hall, which led in turn to the front door she had knocked on in vain. Striding across to the left, he pushed a panelled wooden door open and ushered her into the room behind it. ‘This is the great parlour. Your grandfather always sat here in the evening, so it’s in better condition than some of the other rooms.’ He frowned round. ‘But it still needs attention.’

  The place was filled with huge pieces of furniture, many shrouded in coarse sacking and yellowed cloth. It must have been very grand once, Sarah decided. The ceiling was patterned plaster, its white panels outlined in gold, but it was badly stained in one corner where rain had leaked in. As in the rest of the house, the windows were grimy with dirt and festooned with cobwebs. One pane was broken, another cracked. The hangings were deep red in colour, but were stiff with dust, and cobwebs stretched from their top corners to the wall. Over the fireplace hung a portrait of a lady with a sweet smile. Sarah moved over to study it more closely.

  ‘Your grandmother,’ Will murmured in a hushed, respectful voice. ‘A rare kind lady. She used to give me sugar plums when I was little. Squire adored her and was never the same after she died.’

  Sarah felt resentful that this stranger knew so much more about her family than she did. She moved across to another door that led out at the rear of the room, opened it and peered inside.

  ‘The dining-parlour,’ Will said in his abrupt way, not moving from his place near the window. ‘Though it was never used again after your uncle’s death. Your grandfather lived and ate in here. He would see no one once he’d found out about the debts, you see.’

  ‘Debts?’

  ‘Your uncle had many debts. No one knew about them until after his death.’

  ‘To whom was he indebted?’

  ‘To Sewell mainly, though to a few others as well. Squire was furious. He claimed Sewell must have encouraged his son to gamble. He felt shamed by this and that’s why he wouldn’t receive anyone afterwards, not even Lord Tarnly when he came over from Sawbury.’

  He cleared his throat. ‘Look - I need to explain. Even Mr Jamieson doesn’t know all that’s been going on here, because he wouldn’t believe me about Sewell, who puts his best face on when dealing with the gentry.’ He pulled the cover off a chair and gestured to her to sit down.

  Reluctantly she abandoned her explorations. ‘Who exactly were those men? And why did they behave so violently?’

  ‘They’re Sewell’s bullies. Since he’s offered to buy Broadlands and is not used to being denied, he already considers the estate his own and sends those two to keep people away. He also feels, I dare say, that the less attractive the house is, the lower the price he’ll have to pay, so from time to time Hugh and Izzy come over and break windows, or do any other damage that amuses them.’

  She sucked in her breath. Mr Jamieson has spoken of the man who wanted to buy her house. ‘This Sewell is - an unscrupulous man, then?’

  ‘By my lights, yes.’ Will took in a deep breath. ‘But you should perhaps ask someone else about his character. I must confess I have a personal grievance against the man.’

  ‘Oh? May I ask what?’

  ‘He bought most of the land your grandfather was selling and built himself a fine new house on it. That included,’ his voice was thin and tight for a moment, ‘buying the farm my family had leased from yours for over a hundred years. Sewell ordered us to quit our farm because he wanted to set out his pleasure gardens where our house stood - but we had a lease on the place still, for as long as my father lived. It was a three lifetimes lease, you see. So we stayed.’

  His mouth thinned into a grimace of pain and he lowered his head for a moment, then raised it to continue in a dull voice, ‘One day we found my father hanging dead in the barn. It seemed as if he had taken his own life. Only he would never have done that. Never! Sewell then claimed that debts owed to him were the reason and even produced papers with what looked like my father’s signature on them to prove it. He not only turned us out of our house, but took half our possessions in payment for those so-called debts.’

  And Sewell had laughed as he did so, while a group of strangers, hired for the occasion and led by Hugh Tenby, had taken the opportunity to beat the son who had tried to defend his mother from their cruel jokes.

  Will closed his eyes as the now familiar pain racked him, but forced himself to finish the tale because Mistress Bedham needed to know what had happened. ‘They - um, beat me senseless. While I was still recovering, Lord Tarnly himself came to Broadhurst to inquire into the matter - Parson had given us shelter, you see, so Sewell couldn’t touch us further.

  ‘Mr Jamieson found us a place to live - on your home farm - what was left of it. The tenant had died recently and his son wished to move to Bristol. But soon after that, your grandfather also died, this time of natural causes.’ He hesitated, then said bluntly, ‘If you can call an excess of port wine a natural cause.’

  He didn’t need to say that his new home was now also at risk, and depended on her good will. He could see in her face that she understood the ramifications. Admiring the intelligence that shone from her fine grey eyes, he stopped talking, watching her,. Sometimes he wondered if he wouldn’t have done better to leave the district entirely - except that he hadn’t given up hope of one day finding proof that his father had indeed been murdered and that the debts were forgeries. He was quite sure of that in his own mind. And anyway, it went against the grain to be chased away like a stray cur.

  Sarah stared at the stiff figure, outlined against the window. She couldn’t see his face, but every line of his body spoke of grief as well as anger. She, who had lost a beloved mother so recently, could sympathise with that. And having encountered Sewell’s two bullies, she believed what Will Pursley had told her. She’d have believed it anyway. He was blunt but not devious.

  ‘Well, Sewell won’t drive me away,’ she declared at last.

  ‘How can you possibly stay?’ he burst out, gesturing around him, for seeing the bullies attacking her so openly had made him realise the futility of his hopes. ‘Look at the state things are in. Can you repair all this? Of course you can’t. You’re a woman alone, and you won’t even be able to keep those louts from attacking you, unless you can afford to hire your own guards.’

  It took a great deal of vigilance on Will’s part to protect his own mother and their farm. He didn’t always succeed where the property was concerned, but he’d kept his mother safe.

  ‘I’ll find a way. Perhaps Lord Tarnly can help me? I believe he’s the chief magistrate hereabouts?’

  ‘He is. And an honest gentleman, too. But he lives over in Sawbury. Too far away to ask for help if you’re attacked like you were today, and I can’t always be on hand to drive them away.’ He shook his head, bitterness roiling within him in a greasy, acid tide. ‘You’ll not manage it, Mistress Bedham. If you had a husband and servants about the place, then maybe you could do something. There is some land on the estate which could be farmed to increase your revenue, and you do still own a few small properties. Most of the house is habitable, or could be made so.’

  After a pause, he
added quietly, ‘But you haven’t got a husband. And you told me yesterday that you haven’t got much money, either.’

  She knew he was only speaking the truth as he saw it, not trying to anger her. But she was angry at the thought that someone wanted to drive her away from her inheritance. Well, she wouldn’t give in so easily, not when her mother’s home had already touched her heart, not when she was longing to live here. She opened her mouth to speak, but he got in first.

  ‘Face the truth, Mistress Bedham. For you, the most sensible thing would be to sell to Sewell - or,’ and this was the best Will could hope for personally, ‘to someone else.’ If she could find anyone willing to buy. If Sewell’s bullies didn’t burn the place around her ears while she was trying to sell it.

  Sarah took a deep breath. That was exactly what both lawyers had said to her in London. And she’d defied them to come here. Selling might be the easy way out of her troubles, but her heart told her to stay. It told her also that she was a Bedham and had a right to live here. She drew herself up and looked him straight in the eyes. ‘Mr Pursley, I’ve never had a home of my own before and now that I’ve been given one, I’m not going to let anyone take it away from me.’

  His voice was weary. ‘It’s a valiant thought.’ If Sewell could kill his father, the man wouldn’t balk at killing this lady. That thought sent chills shivering in his belly which surprised him. Something about her continued to touch him. Her courage, perhaps, or her clear, direct gaze. And he could understand her longing for a home. Oh yes, he could understand that completely. Feeling as if someone was pulling him to pieces, too, he’d stood in a nearby copse and watched as the farmhouse he’d been born in was torn down, stone by stone.

  He glanced sideways at Mistress Bedham. She was thoughtful now, frowning into space. He remembered how she’d limped along the lane beside him, making no complaint, though her hip had obviously been paining her greatly. Even in the dimness of this gloomy chamber, he couldn’t help thinking how pretty her hair was, just the colour of his mother’s best honey.

  ‘You could try to find another buyer?’ he suggested as she continued to stand there with that stubborn look on her face.

  ‘I’m not selling. I’m staying.’

  ‘Have you been listening to a word I’ve said?’ he shouted suddenly, unable to bear the thought of Sewell hurting her - or worse.

  She drew herself up. ‘Yes. I’ve heard everything you’ve said - but it hasn’t changed my mind.’

  Silence hung between them for a few more minutes, then he threw out his hands in a gesture of despair. ‘For your own sake, I can only hope that after you’ve thought it through more carefully, you’ll change your mind. In the meantime, I’ll do my best to help you.’ He cast a glance through the window. The day was passing and he had work to do. ‘When shall I come to take you back to the village?’

  ‘Are you sure you can spare the time?’

  ‘I’ll make the time.’

  ‘In two hours, then, if that’s all right.’

  ‘Don’t try to go back on your own.’

  ‘No. I won’t do that.’

  He rode off across the meadows and through the woods, feeling angry and worried. All over a woman he’d only met for the first time the day before.

  But he didn’t forget to keep an eye open, and he decided to enlist the help of the other villagers in keeping a watch on the comings and goings of Sewell and his two bullies. Surely between them they would be able to keep her safe?

  Chapter 4

  When William Pursley had left, Sarah moved across to the windows and sure enough, a few minutes later she saw him striding away towards his farm. So much strength and energy! She envied him that free stride, something she had never experienced in her whole life.

  Was she being foolish about this house? She didn’t know. But a quiet life in Tunbridge Wells, a town Mr Jamieson had suggested as suitable for an unmarried lady of means, didn’t appeal to her at all, while the thought of living here, of bringing the house back to its old self - ah, that appealed to her greatly. But if her grandfather hadn’t been able to manage on his income, how could she? It would all need a great deal of thinking about.

  A tap on the parlour door brought her out of her reverie. Mary peered in. ‘Will says I’m to show you round.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Mary pushed open a door at the back of the dining room. ‘This was the still room, and beyond it are the store-rooms and you can get to them from the kitchen too.’

  Sarah went to glance inside them, but they were all empty.

  ‘Made some lovely perfumes, she did, your grandmother,’ Mary went on. ‘And medicines, too. Had a cure for everything, she did. Her book of receipts is in the library. She wrote ’em all down.’

  She led the way back into the hallway and across to the front room at the other side. This was a much smaller room, but still larger than any Sarah had ever lived in. 'This were your grandmother's own parlour. Used to be nice, it did. She allus put flowers round the place, an’ branches of berries an’ such in winter. But it ent been used since she died. Master wouldn’t even come in here.’

  Allowing little time to linger, she led the way briskly through yet another door into the room to the rear of it. All the main rooms seemed to lead off the hall or off one another in the old-fashioned way, Sarah thought as she followed.

  ‘An’ this were called the winter parlour. Family sat in here an’ ate their meals in here too, when there weren’t any visitors. Warm, it is. That grate throws out a good heat. Best fire in the house, that is.’

  Sarah continued to follow quietly. Afterwards she would walk round again on her own. For now, she was content to get a general idea of what the house, her house, was like and to listen to Mary's rambling reminiscences.

  Opening from the far side of the winter parlour was the library, a long narrow room, forming the west wing that jutted out to the rear, as the stillroom and storage rooms had formed the east wing. Her mother had described her old home often, but that was not the same as seeing it, especially when everything was so much bigger than Sarah had expected. According to her mother, the Manor had been built in bits and pieces, with each generation adding something new.

  There were several rows of old-fashioned books along shelves at one side of the library, but they were as dusty as the rest of the house. There were yards of empty shelves too, as if the library had never been finished. Well, she couldn’t afford to buy books, so they must stay empty.

  ‘There!’ Mary pounced on something. ‘This is your grandmother’s book.’ She opened it and ran a finger over the faded black handwriting. ‘Wish I could read it. She knew some clever things, Squire’s lady did.’

  Sarah looked at the book, promising herself to read it from cover to cover one day, then laid it down carefully, for Mary was waiting for her at the far end of the room, to show two more small rooms leading off it, one Squire’s private cabinet and the other the estate office which had a door leading straight outside, so that tenants didn’t need to pass through the house.

  ‘’Ent been any business done in there for years, though, mistress,’ cackled Mary. ‘Squire said there weren’t enough of the estate left to need a bailiff, let alone an estate office an’ he told us to shut that room up. Said it could rot, for all he cared. That Frenchie took care of most things after that – an’ Will Pursley helped some. He might be young, but he d’know more about runnin’ a farm than a dozen Frenchies what can’t even talk proper!’

  ‘Who was the - er - Frenchie?’

  ‘Squire's manservant. Looked after his clothes an’ such. Even at the end, your grandfather were fussy about his clothes an’ you never saw him outside his bedroom without his wig.’

  Up the wide, shallow stairs there were ten rooms, a number which took Sarah’s breath away, most of them opening into the long gallery which ran the length of that floor. The great chamber was really a suite of rooms over the west wing.

  ‘Just for dressin’ in, these little
rooms at each side were,’ Mary said proudly, flinging doors open and sending them crashing back into walls.

  Most of the other bedrooms were a jumble of furniture, some of it shrouded, some of it uncovered and dusty. Some had broken windows, partly boarded up.

  ‘Will comes sometimes an’ stops the worst of the weather from gettin’ in,’ Mary said. ‘But it were me an’ Petey what brung the old furniture down out o’ the attics when the roof got bad. It d’get worse every year! Squire wouldn’t hev the carpenter in, neither. Said the house’d last his time an’ after that, he didn’t care none.’

  ‘Did he - ever mention my mother?’

  ‘Wouldn’t hev her name spoke, mistress, beggin’ your pardon. Nor your uncle’s, neither, after he died - not once Squire found out how much money Mr Ralph owed. Terrible lot, it must ha’ been, an’ the master left to pay it! Don’t seem right, that don’t, do it? Mr Sewell’s got a good deal to answer for. My Harry was alive then an’ we was livin' over the stables an’ . . . '

  ‘What did my grandfather do next?’ Sarah interrupted, impatient of digression and desperate to understand how her family had sunk so low.

  Mary screwed up her forehead in thought. ‘Well, mistress, after a day or two Squire called all us servants into the hall, indoor an’ outdoor, all of us together, an’ he told us he’d hev to turn us off. Terrible shock, that were! Some of us had been here all our lives. He told us we could stay on till we found new places, but to be quick about it.’

  ‘Why didn’t you leave, then?’

  ‘Because,’ she shifted her feet uneasily, hesitating, then said in a rush, ‘Well, truth to tell, it were on account of Petey. My Harry could’ve got a job easy, but folk was afraid of Petey. They wouldn’t let us take him with us, an’ me, I wouldn’t have him put in the poorhouse. It’d kill my boy to be shut up in that place.’

  She added, almost to herself, ‘I don’t know now if I did right. Fair broke my Harry’s heart, it did, to go for a day labourer, him as had been under-coachman. When we couldn’t find nowhere to go, Squire said we could stay on here if I did some cleanin’ for him an’ such. He couldn’t pay us no wages, but we had a roof over our heads an’ the leftovers, so we managed.