Quinta noticed beads of sweat erupting on his brow and realised it had been a mistake to come here. Her mind raced for a way out. He was a God-fearing man and wanted to impress his betters in this respect. Perhaps she could appeal to his religious ways? She crossed her hands over her chest, closed her eyes and bowed her head piously. ‘But, sir, it is the Sabbath.’
It seemed to work. At least something happened for she heard him make a groaning, gurgling sound in his throat.When she opened her eyes he had half turned away from her and was leaning on the wall. And - oh dear - one of his hands was over his breeches where - where his private parts were! Mortified, she stood stock still and said, ‘I - I think I hear Seth coming back.’
His voice was thick. ‘You - you get your ma to take my offer, do you hear me?’
Quinta knew there was no chance of that and replied quietly, ‘May I go now, sir?’
He waved his arm at the milk pans. ‘Take what you need.’ He pushed himself away from the wall and lumbered outside. She heard him lead his horse away.
Shaken, she considered leaving the milk. Mother would not change her mind about Farmer Bilton and it felt like stealing. But she had said she was fetching it from Home Farm so she could not return empty-handed. Miserably, she tipped the creamy, cooling froth into her pails and hoisted the wooden yoke across her shoulders.
She had racked her brain to find a way out of their situation. If she sold all their hens and vegetables at the market, Mother could pay the rent. But how could she take them to market without a cart or a donkey? And what would they eat next winter? Assuming, of course, that they had a roof over their heads after Michaelmas, for the Lord only knew where that quarter’s rent would come from. If he turned them out as he threatened they would have to go to the workhouse. Or starve and die on the moor.
Laura felt better later on and enjoyed her egg custard when it was ready.
‘Will you get up today?’ Quinta asked.
‘It’s no good, love. I haven’t the strength any more. We can’t stay here. It’s been such a struggle since your father passed on.’
‘We could ask Farmer Bilton to lower the rent for us.’
‘He won’t do that. I’ve never known any landlord do that. Besides, we have decent land here. He can get what he asks from a younger family or one with a strong lad about the place.’
‘I’m strong, Mother.’
‘Yes, you are. And if I were like you we might manage. But I can’t work the hours in the garden as I used to.’
‘Then what’ll we do?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I could go into service at the Hall, as you did at my age.’
‘If you want a proper position you have to go to that girls’ school first and it costs money.’
‘You could teach me, Mother.’
‘I’ve already taught you what I know. Anyway, the young Squire’s wife only wants girls from the school for her maids.’
‘Her cook might take me on in the kitchen. She told me she would; last summer when I took over our lettuce glut.’
‘Without any learning you’d have to do all the pot-washing and scrubbing.’
‘I can scrub.’
‘Not all day and every day, you can’t. I’ll not let you. Besides, your father wanted better for you, and so do I.’
Quinta tried to smile. She didn’t mind doing the scrubbing at the Hall. She would have liked a chance to work there, where there were lots of people coming and going all the time. Nobody ever came to this corner of Top Field because it wasn’t on the way to anywhere and you had to climb a steep hill to get here. She supposed that’s why it was leased out. Even Seth used a horse and cart to check the boundary walls.
Bilton Farm had tradesmen calling from time to time. But strangers wouldn’t scale the hill track without good reason. Well, it was their loss, she thought, gazing out of the window, for Top Field had one of the most beautiful views hereabouts. Nonetheless, Quinta missed the company of other folk when they didn’t go down to the village.
If she worked in the Hall kitchens she would have money to help Mother. Laura was ailing and wanted more than cheese and eggs to regain her energy and bloom. She needed the apothecary and he cost money. Unless . . . unless you could get to the Dispensary in town. The Dispensary treated men from the mines and manufactories, and anyone could go there. Well-off folk paid for it. They weren’t all like Farmer Bilton, she thought. But if she toiled at the Hall from dawn until dusk, how could she care for her mother?
There did not seem to be an answer.
Chapter 4
Later that afternoon, Quinta added some honey to a mug of heated milk and steadied it carefully as she carried it on a tray up the narrow stairs. She jumped as she heard a gun go off outside and spilled the milk over her fingers. ‘Bother!’ she exclaimed under her breath. She was more concerned about losing the precious milk than scalding her hand.
‘What was that?’ her mother called from the bedchamber.
‘It sounded like that gun again.’ Again, and on a Sunday, when everyone was home with their families? ‘I hope it’s not poachers.’
‘Do you think it might be?’ her mother said anxiously.
Quinta plumped the pillows to help Laura sit up and look out of the window. ‘Those folk on the moor, I expect.’
‘They wouldn’t have a gun, not unless they stole it.’
Quinta agreed and changed the subject. ‘You’re getting really thin, Mother,’ she said. ‘You need more dinners inside you. Shall I kill another of the hens?’
‘No, love. They’ve plenty of grass to eat now and they’re laying well. Wait until the winter when they go off lay.’ Mother paused and looked sad. ‘If I last that long.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ Quinta said quickly.‘You’re much better now.’ She gave her the milk and honey. ‘Will you take some of your cough mixture?’
‘There isn’t much left. I’ll save it for night-time.’
‘The sun gets warmer every day.Why don’t you put on your best lace cap and sit outside for a while?’
‘I will. I do feel a little stronger now.’
Quinta was pleased to hear this. She glanced out of the window and thought she saw a movement in the trees beyond the stream. ‘I think there’s a young deer in the woods. I hope it doesn’t come into our garden and eat all my young shoots. The hunt won’t be coming through for weeks yet.’ She hurried down the stairs with thoughts of scaring away any creature who dared to invade her precious crops and darted out of the back door.
She froze. There was a man limping across the pasture. He was a large man, with grey shaggy hair and bushy beard, leaning heavily on a crutch and carrying a . . . a shotgun? Well, she thought it was a shotgun because it was long-barrelled, but it was narrow, not like the scatterguns she recognised.
Guns cost money and this man looked like a vagrant. Was he a footpad? Had he stolen it and was about to rob them in their home? Terrified, she turned hastily and rushed back indoors, locking and bolting the door behind her. No sound came from her mother. She hoped she had not seen the man. Quinta crouched at the bottom of the stairs and held her breath, hoping he would pass by.
‘Is anyone at home?’The voice was accompanied by a rapping on the door. Quinta stayed as quiet as a mouse, but she heard the bed creak above her head.
A minute later the kitchen darkened as a bulky shape blocked the light from the front window. He saw her and tapped on the glass with his fingers. It wasn’t the same man. This one was younger, with a shorter beard and not grey at all. There were two of them.
‘I mean you no harm, miss,’ he called. ‘I have rabbit.’ He held up a brace to show her. ‘You can have them in exchange for a bed for the night in your cattle stalls.’
He had seen inside the cowshed! Well, the door was no longer secure and the roof leaked so badly that they couldn’t even use it to store food. Their winter supplies of oats and beans were kept in the tiny upstairs chamber where Quinta used to sleep. She shar
ed the big bed with her mother now.
But he had rabbit. Mother liked a rabbit stew and she was much in need of meat to help her get well. ‘Who are you?’ she answered.
‘My name is Patrick Ross, miss.’
‘Where are you from?’
‘We’re passing through.’
‘We?’
‘My father is with me. I am looking for work, if you have any to offer, miss.’
Slowly, Quinta stood up and went to the window. He stepped back so that she could see the rabbits properly. They were a decent size and just killed because she could see fresh blood on the fur. But he was not the cripple with the shotgun. He was young, not much older than she was, and tall with straight limbs. She peered round him, looking for the other man.
‘Where is he?’ she demanded. ‘Where’s the one with the gun?’
‘He’s in your cowshed. His leg is bad and he needs to rest up.’ Patrick Ross stepped forward and his wide shoulders filled the window space. He pushed his offering against the casement, leaving a smear of blood on the glass. ‘Do you want these or not?’
He had a handsome face, this fellow, she thought, with strong cheekbones tanned by the weather. A battered hat pulled down as far as his black eyebrows hid most of his long black hair. His eyes were deep set, light, she thought, and thickly fringed with lashes. Perhaps he was one of the itinerant labourers from Bilton Farm: he had on the same kind of thick country clothes and heavy boots that they wore.
The rabbits were too tempting to ignore but she hesitated and asked, ‘Why does he need a gun?’
He shook them in her face and answered shortly: ‘For these.’
So it was a hunting weapon of sorts, Quinta thought. The rabbits were a good size though, and fresh. Stewed with dried beans, they were enough for her and her mother to feast on for a week.
‘Open the window and look,’ he went on. He sounded impatient.
She was torn between her caution where strangers were concerned and wanting his kill.The window was small, perhaps too small for him to climb inside for he was a large man. She fiddled with the rusty catch until the hinges creaked open. He slung the rabbits across the ledge. ‘There’s more where they came from.’
‘Where’s that then?’
‘Out on the moor. The woods give us shelter, but the nights are cold up here and my father needs more comfort.’
The nights were even colder out on the moor where the biting winds whipped across your face summer and winter alike. She took the rabbits from him before he changed his mind, automatically testing the weight in her hand.
‘Well? Can we stay?’
She dreaded to think what Mother would say but if she kept the door locked and barred all night they would be safe.‘Where are you heading?’ she hedged.
‘South Riding.’
‘Well, you’ve reached it.’
‘I know. We’ve been following drovers’ trails for weeks.’
She pursed her lips. ‘With a shotgun?’
‘It’s a rifle.’
‘A what? Oh, never mind. It scared me half to death when it went off earlier and I spilled hot milk on my hand,’ she complained. She was still cross with herself because she felt guilty that she had deceived her mother about where the milk had come from. She thrust her reddened hand at his face.
He didn’t flinch. ‘My father has an ointment to soothe that.’
‘I have my own.’
‘I’ll work as well to make up for your injury.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You have chores need doing.’ There was a hint of derision in his voice.
For a cupful of spilled milk? She bit back the reason their farm was run down. It might not be wise to tell him there was no man living here. He was a ruffian, she decided, intent on stealing from them. But what was there to steal from Top Field nowadays? And she’d already taken the rabbits from him. She dropped them to the floor out of his reach in case he wanted them back. ‘The cowshed roof leaks. If you mend it you can stay the night.’ She dreaded to think what her mother would say.
‘Two nights.’
‘I don’t know.’
He stared at her and challenged, ‘It’s sixpence for the rabbits.’
Her mother liked a rabbit stew and Quinta had dried apples and her own cider in the pantry to cook with it. She couldn’t give them back. She hoped her mother would understand. ‘Very well. Two nights, if you’ll saw up that fallen tree over there, too.’
He looked at the gnarled old trunk with raised eyebrows. ‘You drive a hard bargain, miss. But it’s a deal.’ He spit on his palm and held out his hand through the open window.
Quinta blinked. She’d seen traders in the market do that. Only men, though. She was wary of him; he was a stranger and not to be trusted. There was a tightness in her chest that made her hold her breath. His eyes swung back to her face but he did not smile and the intensity of his gaze sent a shiver of fear down her back.
She hesitated and looked down at her small, work-roughened hand. His was a large hand, tanned like his face from the outdoors and its fingers were long and straight with blackened nails. It was the first time she had faced a stranger and struck a deal in this way. She straightened her spine, spit on her own palm and slapped it against his. ‘Deal, Mr Ross.’
His size and obvious strength were threatening to her but she refused to be frightened by him. She was aware of her heart beating faster than normal and breathed deeply to calm herself.
He, also, appeared to relax. He removed his hat in a surprisingly deferential manner. ‘I’m obliged to you, Miss . . . ?’When he raised his eyebrows she noticed his eyes were blue, a dark stormy hue that moved quickly now and took in all around him.
‘Qui—’ She stopped. ‘Haig. Miss Haig.’
He gave her a bow of his head and turned to walk away. A big man, she noticed, with a hefty pair of shoulders and long straight legs. He was handsome, all right. As he retreated to the cowshed she noticed his boots. They were worn and dusty but resembled those worn by Sir William, black with tanned leather cuffs. She wondered what Mother would say when she told her that strangers were staying in the cowshed for two nights. But she had struck a good bargain, she thought, and Mother ought to be pleased.
‘Who is it, Quinta? Who are you talking to?’ Mother’s voice carried well down the stairs.
What should she say without alarming her? Quinta closed the window, picked up the rabbits and slung them on the stone slab by the sink in the scullery. She heard floorboards creaking as Mother moved around to dress. Quinta went to the fire to stir a thickening milk and barley porridge for tea. She ladled it into a deep bowl and scraped a spoon round the honey jar for a trace of sweetness.There wouldn’t be any more until later in the year.
‘You look well, Mother,’ she said brightly when Laura appeared.
‘Who was that? I saw him go into our cowshed. Has Farmer Bilton sent him?’
‘He’s a ...’ Better to tell the truth, she decided.‘He’s a traveller.’
‘Not a gypsy!’ Her mother was alarmed.
‘I suppose he could be.’ As she thought about this Quinta’s anxiety mounted again. ‘He’s looking for work.’
‘Well, there’s none here that we can pay for.You should have sent him on his way. What is he doing in our cowshed?’
‘He’s going to mend the roof,’ Quinta answered quickly. She told her mother about the earlier exchange and the bargain. ‘And we’ll have all the logs we need and dinners for a week,’ she finished.
‘What else will they want for all that work?’ Mother exclaimed.
‘Don’t fret yourself. They’ll be gone in two days.’
‘After they’ve stolen everything we have!’
Quinta chewed on her lip. Their cart was in the cowshed along with wood that father had stored to season and make furniture from. ‘Don’t fret so, Mother, it makes you cough.’ She peered out of the window. ‘He’s started work already.’ She stood for a few minutes watching him
as he dragged her father’s ladder out of the cowshed and leaned it against the stone wall. He checked all the joints before he climbed, steadily, testing each rung with his foot until he reached the top and surveyed the broken, gaping roof tiles. ‘Sit down and try and eat some of this porridge, Mother. You need to get well.’
Quinta gutted and skinned both rabbits and was soaking them in a bowl of brine when her mother came into the scullery with her empty bowl and said, ‘There are two of them. The other one is a cripple.’
‘It’s his father.’
‘Well, I don’t like the look of him.’
‘He’s resting his leg.That’s why he wants to stay in our shed.’
‘He’s a vagrant. I’ll tell him to leave now.’
Quinta put a hand on her arm. ‘Don’t go out there. His father has a gun. I saw him crossing the pasture earlier.’
‘A gun? And you said they could stay? Oh my heaven, what were you thinking of?’
You, she thought, but kept quiet as her mother continued: ‘We’ll be murdered in our beds!’
Anxious herself, Quinta tried to calm her. ‘The gentry have guns. They are not murderers.’
‘These men are not gentry. Look at them.They’re vagabonds.’
Quinta had to agree and a locked and barred door was no defence against a gun. She said, ‘The son was civil to me when we talked.’
‘I’ll speak to him this time and tell them to leave.’ Laura went across to the front window and opened it. ‘Mr Ross. A word with you, if you please.’
He looked around from the cowshed roof. His father had disappeared again. He climbed carefully down the ladder and came over to the cottage. ‘Good morning, ma’am.You must be Mrs Haig?’
‘That’s right. What’s this I hear about a gun?’
‘It’s my father’s, ma’am. He uses it for hunting.’
‘Where is it?’
‘Inside there.’ He gestured towards the cowshed.
‘It’s in my cowshed?’
‘You are quite safe, ma’am. We are honest travellers seeking honest work.’
A Mother's Sacrifice Page 4
