by Anna Jacobs
They shared a pot of tea and sat comfortably together by the fire, for the evenings were still chilly.
When the conversation languished, she said diffidently, ‘Is there a small conveyance in the stables that I could learn to drive? And would it cost a great deal to buy a horse? I’m finding it hard to walk into the village and sometimes it’d be nice to go into Sawbury to do some shopping. Or Hannah might use it in inclement weather to go to that chapel of hers.’
He nodded slowly. ‘I should have thought of that myself.’
‘You don’t think - It’s not an extravagance, is it?’
‘No. There is a small gig you could use. We could hire Rob for a day to set that in order. And . . . ’ he considered the question of a suitable animal, which must be quiet and easy for an inexperienced lady to drive. For a moment he could think of none, then he remembered that his friend and fellow farmer, Edmund Bertil, had spoken of selling an ageing mare which was not up to the hard work he needed. Edmund wouldn’t want much for it, Will was sure, and it’d be perfect for Sarah to learn on.
Within two days, the gig was washed and made safe, and the lessons commenced. He found her an eager pupil, and an apt one. ‘You’re doing well. You need to practise, but you’ll soon have the hang of it, I’m sure.’
She glowed with pleasure at his compliment and thought how wonderful it was to sit up there and let the horse do the work - not that she intended to drive the old mare too hard. ‘I could go out with Hannah sometimes, couldn’t I?’
‘Oh, yes. She’s capable enough. But don’t go out on your own yet. I’ll come over and give you another lesson or two first.’
She watched him stride away, her eyes bright with happiness, caught sight of her own face in a mirror and gave a shamefaced laugh. ‘You must be careful not to let this go to your head!’ she told her reflection, wagging one finger at it. ‘He is just being kind.’
‘You get on well with Will Pursley,’ Hannah said pointedly that evening.
Sarah didn’t respond. She and Will did deal well together - most of the time, anyway.
But to go beyond that, did she dare even think about it? Not yet, not until she had got to know him better. It would help if he gave her some sign that he would not be averse to . . . a closer relationship.
Chapter 9
Before Lady Tarnly could pay the promised visit to Broadlands, Sarah did something which turned Mr Sewell puce with fury and sent his wife cowering to her bed, to avoid his fits of violence against anyone and anything which lay in his path.
The days following the incident with the cow continued intermittently rainy and, mindful of the difficulties she’d had last time she walked into the village after a wet spell, Sarah sent Hannah to market for her. She set Mary to work in the wash-house, where the copper boiler gave off a comforting steamy heat, and told Petey to help Daniel in the gardens, for once without Hetty's supervision, as the child loved market day and always accompanied her mother to help carry their purchases back.
Alone in the house, Sarah tried to settle to her accounts, for she was husbanding every farthing and keeping a firm check on how she spent her money. She sometimes thought the villagers would end up calling her Old Scrope, as Mary said they had nicknamed her grandfather, because after his son’s death he had apparently complained at every farthing, or scrope, to use an old-fashioned word, he had to spend on things other than his own comforts.
Well, let them call her that if they wanted; all she cared about in the short term was husbanding her money and repairing the roof. With Will Pursley's help, the worst of the leaks had been stopped, but so much remained to be done to make the house sound again that sometimes she despaired of ever managing it.
Having finished the accounts, she grew restless. After being cooped up in the house for days, she was tired of sitting down, tired of polishing, and sick of cleaning out cupboards, too. On a sudden whim, she decided to go and explore the cellars, where someone really ought to investigate the assorted piles of junk. Hannah said if they got a cat or two to keep the mice down, they could use the cellar for storing hams and preserves. It was the coolest place in the house.
Sarah hesitated at the top of the steps, which were steep, then mentally dismissed an image of Will frowning at her and began to make her way down. She moved slowly and carefully, holding her candle high in one hand to light her way. Shadows danced across the walls to greet her as the flame flickered in the draughts.
When she was only half way down, however, something that squeaked and scuttled from beneath her feet made her jump and cry out in panic. As she moved, she caught her shoe in the hem of her dress, flailed her arms wildly for a moment, then lost her balance and tumbled down the stairs.
Only the rats heard the thump as she bumped her head against the stone wall and landed at the foot of the steps in an unconscious heap.
It was some time before Mary, the first stage of her washing completed, came back to the house and went round to check the fires. Even then she wouldn’t have discovered the accident had Bella not stood whining at the open cellar door until Mary felt obliged to go and investigate, if only to quieten that dratted animal.
Taking a candle from the parlour, which happened to be the nearest room, she lit it at the fire and, grumbling audibly about ‘dogs as is favoured till they don’t know they’re dogs’, she descended the steps.
When she discovered the unconscious body of her mistress lying on the floor in the damp and darkness of the cellar, she screeched with shock and almost dropped the candle. Sucking a finger burnt by the hot wax she had spilt on it, she cautiously approached the body, whimpering to herself and calling Sarah’s name.
When she discovered that Mistress Sarah was still alive, she cried out, ‘Thank goodness! Thank goodness!’ and continued to repeat the words under her breath, because any sound was comforting in the darkness of the cellars.
She tried to rouse her mistress, but when Sarah didn’t stir the ‘Thank goodness!’ gave way to ‘Lord ha’ mercy!’ and an occasional ‘Dear bless us all! What next?’
None of Mary's rough remedies had any effect and her mistress remained unconscious so, weeping and sniffling, she decided to send Petey to the Pursleys for help. She went outside and yelled across the gardens till he came shambling back to the house, but it took a while to get the idea into his head that he must fetch Master Pursley and not return to his work with Daniel. She watched him set off through the woods at a stumbling run, then returned to the cellar.
It being market day, only Will was at home, for his mother had driven the cart into the village, taking Hannah and her daughter with her for company and protection. Will was so much alarmed by Petey's incoherent gabblings, which included the words ‘mistress is hurt’, that he was quite easily persuaded to follow him up to the big house.
Once there, Petey dragged him towards the cellar, still mouthing incoherently, and Mary, hearing their footsteps, set up a loud wail of distress, which was echoed by the whining of the two dogs. Will hurried down the steps to find Sarah still stretched out on the cold stone floor, only partly conscious, with Mary weeping over her.
His heart nearly stopped at the sight, for he thought at first Sarah was dead. And to think of the great house without her, to think of never sitting quietly enjoying her company again - no, the very idea was anathema.
Then she stirred and groaned, and he muttered, ‘Thank goodness’.
Scolding Mary for leaving her mistress lying there chilled and damp without even a blanket to cover her, he enlisted Petey's help to carry Sarah up to the bedroom. She was so cold and pale he couldn’t at first think what to do, except to chafe her hand and stroke her hair gently back from her forehead, whispering her name as he did so.
‘She’s a-goin’ to die, ent she?’ moaned Mary. ‘Oh, Lord ha’ mercy on us all! What will me an’ Petey do then?’
‘Of course she’s not going to die! Don’t be so foolish!’ But he was worried about Sarah’s stillness and pallor, and wished desper
ately that his mother or some other sensible woman was there to help.
‘She’s very cold,’ he said, thinking aloud. He turned to find Mary still standing there wringing her hands. ‘Stop your wailing, woman, and do something useful!’
Mary hiccuped to a halt and gaped at him. ‘What shall I do, then, Master Pursley?’
‘We need to warm her up. Go and put a brick to heat on the kitchen fire, then get this bedroom fire lit!’
Mary's face cleared. She brought up some burning embers from the kitchen fire on a shovel to kindle the wood laid ready in the grate, then, when that was alight, looked trustingly at Will for further instructions.
‘The brick?’
‘It’s heating on the fire.’
‘Go and fetch some brandy, then - if there’s any left!’
‘Oh, ah, there’s still some left. Old Squire didn’t hev time to finish that last barrel. Hardly started it, he had, when he died an’ nobody’s touched it since.’ Well, Mary and Daniel had shared a small jug of it at Christmas-tide, but she wasn’t going to admit to that, especially with Will Pursley looking so upset and stern. She went away to get some.
As he watched anxiously over Sarah, Will thought he could detect a little more colour in her cheeks. ‘Wake up,’ he murmured, pressing her cold hand between his two warm ones, then feeling her forehead again.
She stirred against him, just a small movement, but it sent hope shooting through him.
When Mary plonked a decanter of brandy and a rather dusty glass down on the table and again stood waiting for instructions, he ground his teeth at her lack of initiative.
She suddenly exclaimed, ‘Oh, dear Lord, I’ve left the washing a-boiling in the copper!’ and ran out of the room.
‘She’s nearly as simple as her son!’ he muttered to himself, as he tucked the blankets carefully round the still figure on the bed.
Too frightened by Sarah’s pallor to leave her to Mary's inept care while he sought help, he decided he would have to remain with her. Once or twice he moved across to put more wood on the fire or stare out of the window and wish capable Hannah would return. Or his mother.
But there was only him.
As he passed the glass, he picked it up and stared at it, then dusted it carefully on a corner of the sheet, swinging round suddenly as Sarah moved again and moaned softly.
When she opened her eyes a minute later, this time seeming aware of what was going on around her, he groaned aloud in relief.
The first thing Sarah saw was Will Pursley's face leaning anxiously over her. She tried to speak, but her mouth felt numb and wouldn’t obey her. Her eyes betrayed her panic.
‘It’s all right,’ he said reassuringly. ‘You fell down the cellar steps and knocked yourself unconscious. You've banged your head and I think you’ve also hurt your ankle, for it’s swollen. Lie still and let your body come to itself.’
She began to shiver. ‘C-cold,’ she managed to croak.
He moved away from her, but kept talking, as if he sensed she found the sound of his voice comforting. ‘That fool of a Mary left you lying on the damp cellar floor, didn’t even think to bring you a blanket. It’s to be hoped you haven’t taken a chill.’
She heard the sound of something being poured into a glass and was glad when he reappeared beside her.
‘I’ve poured you some brandy. It'll warm you up.’
Her body was beginning to obey her again. ‘Oh no, thank you. I don’t . . ’
He put the glass down, lifted her into a sitting position and then held the brandy to her lips. ‘Drink it! This is no time for your foolishness, Sarah. Do as I say!’
He wasn’t even aware that he’d used her first name, but she was. As she leaned against his chest, she found herself sipping, then choking as the fiery liquid slid down her throat. She made a feeble effort to free herself from his hold, but her head swam so much that she was forced to continue leaning against him again for support.
It was bliss to be held like this in his arms, for whatever reason.
When he bade her stay quiet and let the brandy do its work, she murmured her agreement.
He began to chafe one of her hands in his big warm one. More bliss.
‘How are you feeling now?’ he asked after some quiet moments had passed.
‘Much better. Thank you.’
‘Shall I let you lie down?’
‘No. Please don’t move. I’m very comfortable like this.’
So was he. He gazed down at her lovely hair, her soft pink lips, and treacherous thoughts began to slip into his mind. How would it feel to touch that creamy skin or even kiss those lips? He tried to tell himself not to do this, but he couldn’t stop his thoughts lingering on the warm body nestled against him. He liked having her in his arms. It was as simple as that. But he had no right to feel like this. She was gentry and he wasn’t.
‘I’ll stay with you until Hannah gets back, then,’ he said. ‘Mary's slow-witted and you aren’t yourself yet. I was wondering whether we should we send for Doctor Shadderby. Your face is still very pale!’
She clutched his hand. ‘Oh, no! Please don’t! He’ll only bleed me! That's all doctors ever do, well, that or give you a purge. I hate to be bled. I’ll be all right once I’m warm again.’
As he himself hadn’t much confidence in doctors, either, he didn’t press the point.
Mary came in with a hot brick wrapped in flannel and showed a disposition to linger and comment loudly on how terrible bad her mistress was looking.
When he saw how her loud voice was making Sarah wince, Will sent the woman away to put another brick on to warm, ordering her to wait in the kitchen till he rang for her. Sarah’s pallor still worried him, though so he bullied her into drinking another glass of brandy.
This time, she enjoyed its fiery warmth and the lazy feeling it gave her afterwards. That feeling crept into her head, too, and tempted her into allowing her secret thoughts out of hiding. She glanced up at Will and found him staring down at her. Under the heady influence of the brandy, the solution to her problems seemed suddenly so obvious and straightforward, requiring only a few words from her, that she wondered why she hadn’t done something about it before.
‘Mr Pursley,’ she said, ‘Are your - um, affections engaged with anyone?’
He gaped down at her. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I don’t know how else to put it. Are you - courting anyone - a woman, I mean?’
‘What's that got to do with anything?’ he asked in bewilderment. Perhaps the blow to her head had affected her brain. And yet, her eyes were as steady and clear as ever. Lovely eyes they were.
‘Please - would you mind answering me? It’s very important.’
Because she still looked so wan, he decided to humour her. ‘Of course I’m not courting anyone!’ He couldn’t prevent the bitterness creeping in. ‘What have I got to offer a woman? I’m short of money and will be for years. You should know that better than anyone!’
‘That’s good.’
‘Good? That I’m short of money!’
‘No.’ She could feel herself flushing as she said, ‘That you're not courting anyone, I mean.’
‘Sarah, what is the point of all this? Are you sure you’re - ’
She rushed into speech before she lost her courage. ‘The point, Mr Pursley, is that I need a husband and - and you need land. So I think it would be a good solution to both our problems if you and I were to get married.’ She was mildly pleased with the way she had expressed herself, and deeply anxious lest he scorn her, so she said nothing else.
‘What?’
He sounded so incredulous she felt impelled to add, ‘Not, of course, if you find my - my person displeasing.’
He laid her back against the pillows and sat where he could see her face, eyeing her suspiciously. But she didn’t look as if she had run mad. Then his glance fell on the glass and he realised what had happened. ‘It’s the brandy! It’s gone to your head!’ Only, why should that make her ask h
im to marry her?
‘Oh, no! Though I do feel it has given me the courage to speak. I see now why they call people who have been drinking too much “pot-valiant”.’
His face became wooden and his eyes turned dark and stormy. ‘Well, then, I care not for your drunken jest, Mistress Bedham.’
She clutched at his arm. ‘’Tis no jest, but an honest offer and - and I think you should consider my suggestion very carefully, Wi - Mr Pursley. It would be a - a good bargain on both sides, don’t you see? I have the Manor, but I lack the skill to manage my land properly or the means to pay a bailiff. You have no land, but many skills. It’s very obvious, really.’
He sat like one graven from stone, his face betraying nothing of his thoughts, his eyes as dark as pools of deep, still water.
Since he had neither ridiculed her nor rejected the suggestion out of hand, Sarah felt encouraged to continue. ‘I am lame - and I believe I’m a year or two older than you - but I’m not too old to bear children. And in spite of my bad hip, I enjoy excellent health.’ Honesty compelled her to add, ‘Though I do get tired sometimes when I have to do a lot of walking.’
‘What put this wild idea into your head?’ he asked roughly. ‘A lady like you doesn’t marry a common farmer like me! And so you'll agree once the brandy's worn off!’
She felt tears well in her eyes. ‘No, I won’t. But I know I’m not pretty or - ’ Her voice failed her, but she remembered suddenly that he had once quite forgotten her lameness! ‘I’ve been here long enough now to realise what a difficult task it will be to rebuild this estate. So you see, I’m only offering you a lifetime of hard work. And - does the owning of a piece of land outweigh my - my personal disadvantages?’
It took him a minute to realise what she meant. How could she think so badly of herself? ‘Don’t talk like that! You may be lame and taller than - than is usual for a lady, but I’m tall, too, and you're a fine, healthy-looking woman. Why - you aren't even pock-marked and your hair is,’ he reached out to touch a strand and his voice softened, ‘a lovely colour.’
She felt suddenly breathless and hopeful, and could feel herself blushing furiously. ‘Then you - you don’t find me – too plain?’
