A Mother's Sacrifice

by Catherine King

  ‘He does not love you, my child. Nor demand that you love him. All he wants is the use of your young body to bear his children.’

  ‘Yes, I see that now,’ Quinta answered. Now she understood why Mother had hit her. ‘But what’ll we do? We’ll never get the rent we owe him and he’ll turn us out.Where shall we go?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Quinta did. The workhouse. She had walked past it once, in the town, when the gates were open, and glimpsed the wretched folk inside. That’s where they sent you if you had no work and nowhere to live. There was a family living in a makeshift hut on the moor beyond Five-acre Wood that was better off than the desperate souls in the workhouse. Is that where she and mother would end up? Living rough and scavenging off the land? Quinta couldn’t let that happen. Mother would never survive the cold nights, not with her cough.

  ‘But if he makes us homeless, why should we not live in his house?’

  ‘I cannot live under his roof knowing you had to share his bed to pay for it.’

  ‘But I want to look after you properly and have that cough seen to. I could try and love him, Mother.’

  ‘You don’t know what you are saying, child.’

  ‘Stop calling me child,’ Quinta said irritably. Farmer Bilton did not think of her as a child. ‘I am of an age to be wed.’

  ‘Yes, and I won’t see you as a wife to an old man,’ her mother retaliated sharply. Then her face softened a little and she added, ‘Oh Quinta, my darling, you are beautiful and I want better for you. A handsome young man who will adore you and court you as your father did me.’ She started to wheeze again.

  ‘It’s time that chestiness went, you know.You have had it for months now. Go upstairs and rest. You don’t cough as much when you lie down.’

  ‘Who will see to the pots and the tea?’

  ‘I shall, and the hens and the garden. And I’ll do a bit of gleaning in the fields before the daylight goes.’

  ‘The wheat’s nowhere near ready for harvesting yet.’

  ‘Oats might be ready and they are better than nothing.’

  ‘You’re a good girl, my little Quinta. I’m sorry I slapped you.’

  ‘Yes, I am, too.’

  ‘But you mustn’t ever think like that again. Noah Bilton is a wicked man for even suggesting it and I am very angry with him.’

  Quinta heaved a sigh. It was all very well her mother having dreams and fancies for her, but they could not survive at Top Field without Father. They would be homeless and destitute by Midsummer.

  Chapter 3

  ‘Farmer Bilton’s here again, Mother.’

  ‘Come away from the window.’

  ‘I wish he wouldn’t ride along the brow every day like this, reminding us he’s there,’ Quinta commented. ‘He never used to.’

  ‘He never wanted us out before,’ Laura answered. ‘He’ll go when he knows we’ve seen him.’

  ‘In that case I shall show myself now.’ Quinta took a tin bowl from the table and went out of the front door before her mother could stop her.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ she called. She was too far away to see his response and she did not wait for it. She straightened her spine and whisked around the side of their cottage and out of his sight.

  The sun was up but the air was fresh. Top Field was the highest point hereabouts and it caught the breeze winter and summer alike. She was not used to the pasture without Darby yet, and habit caused her to look for him as she walked across to the wooden henhouse. He had taken them backwards and forwards to market as long as she could remember. But he couldn’t pull the donkey cart to market anyway as one of the shafts had broken and she didn’t know how to mend it.

  Beyond the pasture was Five-acre Wood which belonged to the Hall. A fast-flowing stream marked the boundary. It was a crisp morning for late May and, where the sun’s rays lit up the flowing water, a gentle mist rose from the scrubby ground. May was always a lean month, when their winter vegetables were over and new crops were too young to pull. Still, they had the hens to keep them going. As she shooed them out of their coop, she was glad of her woollen shawl knotted firmly across her chest. She found three small eggs and knew there would be more as the days grew longer.

  Her attention was diverted, quite suddenly, by a sharp crack splitting the quiet air. Birds cawed raucously and scattered upwards from their roosts. Who was out shooting? It was a similar noise to the shot that had made old Darby start and slip in the mud a few days ago. Once down he had been unable to get up again; she remembered his pain.

  She thought it was too early for hunting unless a rogue fox had got into the breeding pheasants and the gamekeeper was seeing him off. She scanned the woodland for signs of a gun but thought the shot must have come from the moorland beyond the woods. She hoped it wasn’t poachers or travellers. They were all to be feared. At Easter she had heard tales of vagrants about and her anxiety mounted. She took the eggs indoors, relieved to note that Farmer Bilton had ridden out of view.

  Laura Haig was dressed and downstairs, stirring porridge in a blackened iron pot suspended over the kitchen fire. She wore a clean apron over her neat gown and a pretty lace cap on her head. Even in their straitened circumstances, Quinta thought, she did not let her standards slip.

  ‘Only three today,’ Quinta said.

  ‘Enough for a Yorkshire pudding,’ her mother replied.

  ‘If we had any flour.’ When Father was alive he had made sure the pantry was always well stocked and since he’d passed on Quinta had taken over many of his tasks. ‘I could ask the miller for credit until we have vegetables to sell.’

  ‘Your father never had to do that. Not even in our early years up here.’

  If her mother had not sounded so wistful, Quinta would have been irritated by this response. She missed her father as much as her mother did but they needed to look to their future now. It was a bleak prospect but she said brightly, ‘I’ll make some more oatcakes when the fire’s hot enough.’

  After breakfast Quinta went outside for more wood. They had a few trees on the edge of their land and one of them, not far from the house, had obligingly died and fallen in a winter storm. She hacked away at the smaller branches with her father’s small axe and wondered if she would ever be strong enough to tackle the trunk.

  Her cheeks were glowing when she stacked the wood in her arms. She jumped as another shot disturbed the woodland peace again and nearly dropped her logs. She’d rather there were several volleys as that would indicate a shooting party, not a lone hunter. They were a long way from the village and even further from the Hall.

  ‘What was that shooting?’ her mother asked as soon as Quinta stepped inside the kitchen. It was the only room they had downstairs, but it was large and well furnished with a strongly made table and dresser, a couch and a matching fireside chair showing signs of wear. They had striped curtains at the back and front windows, too. Laura had sewed them herself. But that was years ago and the colours were fading now.

  Quinta moved to the fireplace and tipped the logs on to the hearth to dry out. ‘I don’t know. It came from the moor, I think.’

  ‘We’d best stay indoors today. What about the hens?’

  ‘I’ll keep an eye on them. If it was a fox, it might have got away.’

  ‘Well, the second shot probably got him even if the first didn’t.’ Laura Haig chewed on her lip. ‘I hope it’s not poachers. They must be desperate to be out in daylight, but it has been a long cold winter for everybody this year.’ She pushed a stoneware mug in Quinta’s hand. ‘I’ve warmed some ale for you.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I’ll make tea this afternoon.’

  ‘That’ll be nice.’ Her mother liked to make tea to drink in the afternoon. She had a proper caddy with a lock and key, just as her ladyship at the Hall did, that she was proud of, and she laid out her best china cups and saucers as she had done in her days in service there. ‘We have honey for the oatcakes too,’ Quinta added cheerily. ‘Are you feeli
ng better now?’

  This last winter had gone on for too long. Storms had lifted the tiles off the cowshed and their food stores were right down. The ground was too frozen to sow beans early on and spring had been late coming so their hens had only just started to lay.

  ‘We could ask the Hall for a nanny for milking,’ Quinta suggested.

  Laura stared out of the window dreamily. ‘When I was working at the Hall, the old Squire used to give his tenants a young goat at Christmastide. It was tradition; a goat one year and a pair of trousers the next.’

  ‘It’s different now. The old Squire passed on years ago and his son’s in charge.’ Quinta liked the young Squire. Well, he wasn’t young. But he was forward thinking, energetic and interested in new ideas about everything.

  ‘He’s not our landlord, anyway,’ her mother responded wistfully. ‘I wish he was. Farmer Bilton isn’t real gentry.’ Mentioning his name seemed to annoy her. ‘He doesn’t know what’s right.’

  ‘They say he’s a good farmer.’

  ‘Yes, I’ll give him that. His stock has breeding even if he doesn’t.’

  ‘Well, times change, Mother.’

  ‘That’s true enough. Menfolk don’t want to work on the land any more when they can get better wages in the mines and forges by the navigation. I don’t know what the Riding is coming to with all the smoke and smells down there. I shan’t mind if we never go to market again.’

  Quinta minded. She looked forward to travelling into town for the market. It was an up-and-down road and a tiring walk but she enjoyed the hustle and bustle when she arrived. ‘We have to,’ she responded briskly. ‘Otherwise we’ll have no money for rent or food.’

  ‘We need flour and candles, too.’

  ‘It’ll soon be summer, Mother, when the days are longer. We can do without candles until the end of the harvest.’

  ‘Oh, I must have one by my looking glass. The ladies at the Hall always had two, one at each side.’

  We’re not at the Hall, Quinta thought, but said, ‘We’ll go to market when our carrots and beet are big enough to sell. They won’t be long now.’ But even as she said it, she wondered how she would get her garden produce there without a cart or a donkey.‘Will you walk down to the village for church tomorrow, Mother?’

  ‘It’s the climb back that tires me, dear.’

  ‘You can take your time. The sun is quite warm now.’

  ‘Perhaps I shall try. It will be good for both of us to get out for a while. We shall both look our very best. Stoke the fire to heat water, dear, and I’ll get the curling tongs and flat iron from the cupboard. I was a parlour maid before I married your father, and when they had house parties I helped out the ladies’ maids. Good, I was, they all said so. I shall show the village what a beautiful child I have raised.’

  Quinta watched her mother’s eyes sparkle at this thought. She lifted the tin bath from its hook in the scullery and placed it on the stone flags in front of the fire. She needed more wood to keep it burning. And water from the stream. It was teatime before the bath was ready.

  They sat facing each other by the firelight in the soft warm water, their knees drawn high. Mother unfolded a small brown paper package of soft soap for their hair.

  ‘I was saving it for Midsummer.’ She scooped a little of the slimy jelly in her fingers. ‘Here. Rub it in well.’

  Quinta washed her long brown hair and watched her mother do the same. She leaned over the side of the bath to reach for a pitcher of clean lavender-scented water to rinse away the soap, noticing the grey that streaked her mother’s waves. They splashed around in the precious warmth until it began to cool, then stood up to wipe each other down and apply salve to their hands and feet.

  Quinta pulled the bath aside and put the rug back, then drew chairs near the fire to comb and dry their hair. ‘That was nice, Mother.’

  ‘Yes. It makes me feel like a lady again.’

  ‘You’ll look like one tomorrow in your Sunday gown.’

  ‘You too, love. You’ve grown well lately and have a good shape on you.’

  ‘I take after you.’

  Laura gave a gentle laugh. ‘I’m saggy now. I have been for a few years, so I’ll need you to pull the laces tight in my corset.’ She reached for the hot tongs from the kettle hob. ‘Can you curl the front for me? I’ll have my lace cap over the rest.’

  ‘Shall I cut the front of mine like yours?’

  ‘No, dear. Just draw yours up and wind it in a knot at the back of your head.That shows off your features better.You have a lovelier face than mine.’

  Mother had never said that to her before and Quinta was startled into silence.

  ‘There is a sweetheart out there for you somewhere, my dear,’ Laura said dreamily.‘He might not be a wealthy gentleman, although that would be very nice if you loved him.’ She stared at the fire. ‘A tradesman would suit, with a regular wage, who can read and write like your father.’

  Quinta liked the idea of a sweetheart, especially if he was as clever as her father had been, but she wondered yet again where she would find him in Swinborough village. However, she enjoyed trimming her Sunday gown with freshly laundered ribbon and adding the same touch to her bonnet. Her mother, too, became quite excited at the prospect of dressing for church. She slept badly though, coughing for most of the night, and nothing seemed to ease it. The next morning she was too exhausted to get up for breakfast and their walk to church was out of the question.

  Quinta worried that her mother was not getting enough nourishment. They had oat biscuits and pease pudding made with eggs from the hens, but if she had some milk she could curdle it for cheese. Farmer Bilton had offered them his leftover from the dairy and he would only feed it to his pigs if she didn’t have it.

  When she collected Laura’s breakfast tray she said, ‘I think I’ll walk over for some skim today.’

  ‘Not from Farmer Bilton, you won’t.’ Clearly, her mother was still angry with him.

  ‘Home Farm might have some to spare.’ It was down the valley, near to the Hall it served, and further to carry, but worth the climb back, for them to have fresh milk.

  ‘It’s Sunday. They’ll be in church.’

  ‘There’ll be a maid in the dairy. Cows are milked every day.’

  ‘Very well, dear. Take one of my embroidered handkerchiefs for the dairymaid.’

  Quinta set off down the track with her yoked pails. She had no intention of going all the way to Home Farm and carrying two buckets of milk back up Bilton Hill. Farmer Bilton was only halfway down. He had said she could have all the skim she could carry and Mother needed the nourishment. She dawdled down the track until she was sure he would be in church. He always sat alone, in the pew behind the Swinboroughs, as his distant cousins had done before him, and bowed his head to his betters when they swept past him.

  When she arrived, Seth, his farmhand, was nowhere to be seen. Farmer Bilton trusted him enough to cook and clean in the farmhouse as well. It was said in the village that you never knew whether the smell from the kitchen was their dinner or the pig swill he was boiling up. But Quinta could not detect any cooking and he was the only other person who went into the house. She dreaded to think what it was like inside.

  ‘Seth!’ she called. He didn’t appear and she guessed he was in church with his master. Well, she would just have to help herself. Farmer Bilton had said she could, hadn’t he?

  There was no skim in the dairy. The morning’s milking was still cooling in the pans. She helped herself to a ladleful from a small churn. Oh, it was so rich and creamy and still warm from the cow! A pailful of that was worth three of skim for her mother. She hesitated, wondering whether she dare take it without permission, and while she dithered, heard horse’s hooves outside. It must be later than she realised. Best show myself and leave quickly, she thought. She hurried through the open door.

  ‘Well, if it’s not the maid from Top Field skulking in my dairy!’ Farmer Bilton was standing outside holding the reins of h
is horse. His tweed jacket and moleskin breeches looked new, as did his polished leather gaiters. They creaked when he moved.

  She was not in her Sunday gown with its new ribbons. She pushed a few straying strands of hair back under her soft calico bonnet. ‘I - I - you said I could have the skim, sir.’

  His large black horse was restless, but he was a big strong man and he held the bridle firmly as walked slowly towards her. ‘Has your mother decided to accept my offer for you, then?’

  ‘No, sir. She doesn’t know I’m here.’ Quinta felt quite ill at the thought that she had deceived her about coming here, especially when Farmer Bilton stood so close to her that his height and breadth overwhelmed her.

  ‘You’ve deceived your own ma?’ he said.

  She felt small beside him and moved backwards towards the open dairy door. ‘I - I wanted to make cheese for her.’

  ‘And you were you hoping to be gone before I got back, eh?’ He didn’t take his eyes off her as he tied the reins to a nearby cart.

  She nodded and looked down at her muddied boots.

  ‘Then you’re not the honest little lass your ma would have me think?’

  Exposed as having betrayed her mother, she felt even worse about her deception. Anxious to get away, she glanced over her shoulder. ‘I’ll just get my pails and be on my way, sir.’

  ‘No you won’t. ’Tis God’s will the vicar gave a short sermon today, and that my black stallion needed a gallop home.’ He stepped forward so that she was obliged to move backwards into the dairy. ‘He has sent you to me.’

  Faced with denying the Lord’s work, Quinta could only mutter, ‘If you say so, sir.’ Once inside the dairy he kicked the wooden door behind him shutting out the light, and in spite of the cool stone interior she felt hot and flustered. ‘B-but we ought not to be alone, sir. What if Seth found us?’ Seth drank at the alehouse in the village and she knew Farmer Bilton was mindful of his reputation with the local gentry.

  He hesitated, then muttered, ‘He has to walk up the hill,’ and advanced towards her, adding, ‘Besides, we are to be wed. Your ma will have to come round to my way of thinking. She’ll not see you in the workhouse.’