A Mother's Sacrifice

by Catherine King

  ‘Yes, she should,’ Patrick muttered bitterly. He had had a narrow escape. Her husband would have killed him when he got back from the coast. ‘I won’t touch Miss Quinta, I promise you.’

  ‘She has that same look about her as Mary-Ann. Dark hair and fresh-faced. Pretty, too and, well, very womanly for a young lass.’

  Patrick gave a low laugh. ‘You don’t have to tell me that. I have eyes.’

  ‘And a lust for her, I’ll wager.’

  ‘I’ve told you. I shall not approach her.’

  ‘But do you want to? The blood in your veins is as red as mine was at your age.’

  Patrick considered how well his father knew him and replied, ‘We’re leaving soon. There’ll be distractions enough for me in town.’ But as he said it, he realised he didn’t want to go anywhere near the girls in town, with their rouged cheeks and matted hair.

  ‘That’s not what I’m thinking of, son.’

  ‘Well, what are you getting at?’

  ‘Do you think that you could wed her?’

  ‘What?’ he spluttered. ‘Me? Wed Miss Quinta? How much of that spirit have you drunk?’

  ‘You could work this farm and hire yourself out as a gamekeeper’s lad as well.You’d have a home for when I’m finished.’

  ‘What do you mean, “when you’re finished”?’ His father did not reply and he added, ‘What are you not telling me about your leg?’

  ‘My knee won’t mend now. It’s the end of the road for me.’

  ‘We’ll settle here, then, in the South Riding, where you were born. It’s as good as anywhere to put down roots.’

  ‘Top Field would suit you well, son.’

  ‘Suit me? This is about you, not me, and we are far from town.’

  ‘It would be a decent home for both of us.’

  ‘So you want me to wed to give us a home? Getting wed is more than just settling somewhere,’ Patrick retaliated sharply.

  ‘Aye, it is, and I wouldn’t want you to wed if you don’t want to.’

  ‘Well, I don’t want to. Not yet awhile anyway.’

  ‘Then we’ll move on into the town and find lodgings there.’

  But Patrick knew his father felt the same about town-living as he did. ‘You’d prefer to stay out here though, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Aye, I would. A bracing wind and a snug byre beat the smoke and smells of manufactories any day.’

  Patrick agreed. Although, even if they stayed, they would be out by Michaelmas.The rent would be too much for the widow unless she put the land to better use. He wondered where they would go. Perhaps they had kin to take them in.Winter months were always hard for them, too, especially his father. That’s when his leg troubled him most. And it was getting worse, so they’d better move nearer to town while the roads were easy to travel. He said, ‘The surgeon advised you not to delay in going to see him.’

  ‘This rest is taking down the swelling. It’s only five or six weeks to the harvesting and you’ll easily get work then.There’s bound to be a Lammas Day hiring fair somewhere.’

  ‘You really want to stay?’

  ‘If the widow has no objection.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘I’ve told you. The maid.’

  ‘Oh no, Father.’ He shook his head wearily.

  ‘You’re not understanding me, son. I know what’s wrong with my knee. There’s poison in it. My only chance will be for the surgeon to cut it open and take out the pus.’

  Patrick’s face contorted in despair and he groaned.

  ‘At least the pain will be easier afterwards. But it’ll take most of our gold, especially with the looking-after that I’ll need.’

  ‘Well, it’s a good use of our money, I’d say.’

  ‘There won’t be much left for you.’

  ‘I don’t need it, I can work. Anyway, I’ll take care of you.’

  His father shook his head. ‘You’ve got to think about your own future now. I don’t want you staying on the road.’

  ‘I like this life.’

  ‘With the two of us, aye. But you won’t like it when you’re on your own.’

  It was not something Patrick wanted to think about. But when he recalled the labourers he’d seen at Farmer Bilton’s table he wondered if he might end up like those wretches: worked like animals and treated worse by their masters.The memories of his ill treatment as a child had not faded and he knew how cruel both men and women could be to those they despised.

  ‘There are coal mines and ironworks round here if you’ve a fancy for them,’ his father suggested.

  ‘They’re not for me. I need the open sky and the wind in my face.’

  ‘You’re my lad, all right. Not that I ever doubted it as soon as I saw you. But what you need to look to now, son, is respectability. If you’re to settle in the Riding, you must be accepted and trusted by folk that live here. You don’t want to be an outsider.’

  ‘I can deal with it.’

  ‘But I don’t want that for you, not for the rest of your life. You’ll soon be one and twenty, my lad, and able to control your own life. I want to see you set up for the future and you could do it here. You could have this farm in healthy profit within a five-year, if you’re blessed by the seasons.’

  ‘I know that.’ He covered his eyes with the heels of his hands.

  ‘Do you know, also, how hard it is to get your name on a tenancy like this one? It’s the chance of a lifetime and it’s fallen into your lap.’

  ‘Not quite.You can’t be certain the landlord will approve of me.’

  ‘Or that the widow would either, unless . . .’

  ‘. . . the daughter will wed me. You really want that, don’t you?’

  His father took a swig from his spirit flask. ‘She’s a bonny lass. I thought you might have welcomed such an attachment.’

  ‘Any red-blooded man would. But to wed her, Father, on such a brief acquaintance? A wife is for life.You taught me that yourself. You’re asking too much of me.’

  ‘Aye, maybe I am. I am thinking of myself, and of ending my days here.’

  Patrick gazed at his father.‘You’ve come to the South Riding to - to die?’

  He half laughed. ‘Not yet awhile, son.’ Then he became serious. ‘I dreamed of these gentle hills, you know. In the war, in the mountains of Portugal and Spain when the sun baked the rocks hot enough to fry eggs, I dreamed of the soft rain on my face in summer and the wind whipping across the moor in winter.’ He took another swig of his spirit.

  After a pensive silence, Patrick ventured: ‘How can you be so sure that Miss Quinta will want to wed me, anyway?’

  ‘I can’t, and neither can you. But a faint heart never did win a fair maiden.’

  This made Patrick smile. ‘Why don’t you ask the widow to wed you instead?’

  ‘Wed me? A cripple? And have the prospect of you bringing another wife into their home? I should not let you do that to them. If we stay it’s the daughter or no one for you.’

  ‘Perhaps no one is better than a tie without affection.’

  ‘Well, I should not want you to wed her without having affection for her. Although the gentry marry their offspring for gain all the time and make many a happy match.’

  ‘And many an unhappy one, too.’

  ‘Aye, I know, but this one is your sort of lass.’

  ‘What’s my sort of lass, then?’

  ‘Miss Quinta. Dark-haired, fair-skinned and comely.’

  Patrick had to agree and kept silent.

  ‘Sharp-witted, too; more so than her mother. Why don’t you sleep on the notion, son? This is good land and you could do a lot worse than Miss Quinta for a bride.’

  Patrick lay awake thinking about her for most of the night. Since Mary-Ann he had been more careful where he cast his eye. Indeed he had not searched for female companionship of late. His concerns had been with finding food and shelter for his father as they made their way to this part of the Riding.

  But he admitted to himself he ha
d noticed Miss Quinta from the shelter of the woods before he saw the cowshed. He had lingered, covertly, and watched her fetch water, hack away at the fallen tree and labour in her garden. He thought she had noticed him in the woods when the donkey was despatched.

  His father was perceptive. Were she older and not a maid he would have considered a dalliance with her. But Miss Quinta was innocent in the ways of men and, yes, his father was accurate in his assessment that she would make him, indeed any man, a good wife. It’s just that he was not ready to wed. Not yet. His father would understand that when he told him in the morning.

  The following dawn was bright and sunny. Quinta and her mother were exhausted from their journey to town; neither stirred to see it. Clouds were gathering, blotting out a sun already high when Quinta rose, feeling refreshed but achy from the long walk. She dressed quickly and went downstairs to get the fire going.Within an hour the rain began to fall. Relentlessly. She wrapped a shawl around her head to fetch water from the stream and opened the scullery door to see two pailfuls, already waiting for her. Between them nestled a clutch of hen’s eggs wrapped in a piece of old sacking.

  A smile of gratitude lit her features, quickly followed by a suspicious frown. She glanced towards the cowshed, but it was closed up and the fire outside long extinguished by the downpour.

  ‘You will ask them to leave today, won’t you, Mother?’ she urged as she began stripping the fat off the skirt of beef to render in a tin dish by the fire.

  Her mother was taking the meat that was left and cutting it into pieces. She had already sliced up the ox kidney and put it in vinegar to sweeten. ‘The ground will be nice and soft after this downpour. I think I’ll ask Mr Ross to turn over some of the pasture for garden. It’s not too late to put in more roots for the winter.’

  ‘They’ll be lodging with us until August for doing that!’ Quinta exclaimed.

  ‘A boiled pudding and a wheaten loaf should take care of the payment. Then they can go as soon as he’s done.’

  Quinta chewed on her lip. It was a sensible suggestion, but her mother was too well disposed to the travellers for her comfort. She wanted to see them on their way today. However, she put her misgivings aside to enjoy their day together, kneading and baking bread dough, rendering dripping, stewing beef with kidney and boiling puddings for their pantry.

  Her day was marred only by the sight of Farmer Bilton riding into their yard on his big black hunter. She heard the horse whinny and watched him through the front window. His broad-brimmed hat was pulled well down over his eyes and he wore a large waxed coat to protect him from the rain. It spread out over the horse’s rump as he walked it around their yard looking into every corner. But he didn’t dismount, or even call them to come out. Eventually, he turned the horse’s ahead away and left.

  ‘Just inspecting his property,’ Laura commented. ‘He should be pleased we have some help at last.’

  Quinta didn’t think he looked pleased. Perhaps he was frowning against the weather. It was certainly bad today. Good for the potatoes and turnips in their garden, but not so good for his fields of wheat.

  By evening the first crusty loaves of bread were cooling on the hearth and two puddings for tea, wrapped in greased calico, hissed as they simmered in boiling water over the fire. The rain eased to a steady, soaking drizzle. Quinta’s face was red and shiny from the kitchen fire. ‘I’ll have to fetch in more wood or we’ll have none dry for the morning.’

  Laura picked up her shawl. ‘I’ll go out at the same time to the cowshed and ask about the digging.’

  ‘Wait for me to come with you,’ Quinta cautioned.

  After a whole day toiling in the heat, the rain felt soft and refreshing on her rosy cheeks and Quinta lifted her chin and opened her mouth to drink in the moisture. Such bliss! She stopped in her tracks to inhale the damp air. Her shawl dropped away from her head as she licked the drops from her lips and closed her eyes. When she opened them, Mr Ross was standing quite still in front of her with his arms full of logs. He had come round the side of the cottage from the lean-to where they stored their wood.

  ‘Oh! I didn’t expect to see you!’

  He was staring at her seriously and silently and his brow furrowed slightly as he said, ‘These are for you. I’ll put them by the front door.’

  Quinta stared back at him. He was bare-headed and very wet. His thick black hair was flattened on his skull and curled round his cheeks and neck. His tanned wet face had a glow about it that suggested recent toil. He must have been out there, chopping wood in the rain.The damp flush on his cheeks contrasted startlingly with his fiery blue eyes making them intense and jewel-like between the long black lashes. His straight black eyebrows drew closer together.

  Her open mouth smiled falteringly. ‘Thank you. Mother would like a word with your father. Will you ask him to step outside?’

  ‘Why don’t you go inside? Out of the rain.’

  ‘Very well.’ She turned. ‘Mother?’ But her mother was already knocking on the cowshed door. Quinta caught up with her as it opened.

  ‘Mrs Haig! Come along in out of the wet!’

  Quinta followed her mother into the dark dwelling. When her eyes had adjusted to the darkness she was surprised at how spruced and clean it was. And tidy. The dust and cobwebs from the rafters and wooden stalls had gone, and the stone walls, where there was no wooden cladding, were lime-washed. Freshly lime-washed! She could smell it still.‘You have done this today!’ she exclaimed, looking down at an old pail streaked with lime and water, and an even older brush. Her father’s, she guessed.

  ‘But we had no lime to make the wash!’ Laura protested.

  ‘My son brought it from the town yesterday. It was in the cart. You have no objection, have you, ma’am?’

  ‘I - I - Why, no. It’s just that - well, I am in your debt, sir, and I am here to ask more of you. That is . . . I mean of your son.’

  ‘You owe me nothing, ma’am. I should expect to do this if I paid you rent in the traditional way. What is it you want of my son?’

  ‘Farmer Bilton is going to increase my rent from Michaelmas. I need more of my land turned for garden crops.’

  Quinta noticed that this seemed to cheer Sergeant Ross. He didn’t smile but his eyes brightened and it made her cross that their bad fortune seemed to play in his favour. He answered, ‘My son will oblige you with pleasure, ma’am.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you ask him first?’ Quinta enquired politely.

  ‘Yes, shouldn’t you ask me first, Father? We are planning to move on, are we not?’

  Quinta blinked. Mr Ross’s voice was by her ear. She hadn’t realised he was standing so close behind her and she was aware of his words breezing fiercely across her damp hair. He sounded irritable.

  Laura answered. ‘Indeed I understand that, sir, which is why I offer victuals in return for your labour. Fresh baked wheaten loaves and meat puddings for you both.’

  ‘Well, that would tempt the most footloose of travellers, ma’am, but this lodging is payment enough for my son’s work. I am able to pay for our victuals, ma’am, and I shall.’

  ‘And then you can leave as soon as you wish,’ Quinta finished anxiously.

  ‘Yes,’ echoed Mr Ross.

  ‘I should like the pasture to be double dug, sir, and ready for sowing.’

  ‘That takes longer, Mother,’ Quinta intervened,‘and we should not want the sergeant to delay his journey. I am sure I can rake soil and break down clods as well as any man.’

  ‘Not as quickly though, if I may say so, miss,’ Mr Ross commented. ‘I’ll prepare your ground, Mrs Haig.’ He looked directly at his father and added firmly, ‘Then we’ll be on our way.’

  His father waited until mother and daughter had left before responding: ‘I am aware that my idea has angered you, but you will be civil to me in front of these ladies.’

  ‘Sorry, Father. But Miss Quinta has made her views about us plain. I believe she wanted to hear what I said.’

  ‘Then
you must ease her mind. She will be working in her garden while you are digging and you will be courteous to her. Is that understood?’

  ‘Of course. But there will be little time for social exchange.’

  ‘Make time.’

  When Patrick didn’t reply, his father added, ‘I should like you to think again about Miss Quinta.’

  Surprised, Patrick said, ‘My concern is for you.’

  ‘Then you should know it is possible that the surgeon will not cut my leg open. He will cut my leg off.’

  Patrick swallowed. He covered his eyes with his hand to shield a threatening tear. He was aware of this possibility, though neither had actually talked of it until now. Despair welled in his throat and he couldn’t speak.

  ‘Your concern must be for your own future. You have a whole life before you. Think on it, son.’

  Chapter 10

  The rain had stopped the previous evening and a brisk breeze coupled with the natural drainage of a hill farm enabled Patrick to start turning the pasture the following day. He had worked steadily across the marked-out plot, stopping at the end of the second row to stretch his back, remove his waistcoat and take a ladleful of water from the bucket.

  As he walked back to his spade, he noticed Miss Quinta among her rows of vegetables, earthing up potato plants. He stopped to watch her for several minutes and acknowledged a desire rising in his groin. He turned away from his digging and walked towards her. She must have heard him approach yet she continued to concentrate on her task.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Quinta.’

  ‘Good morning, sir.’

  Working Top Field reminded him of the happiest five years of his life. From the age of thirteen to eighteen he and his father had laboured together on a farm in the North Riding. They lodged in the farmhouse, ate with the elderly farmer and his wife, and learned animal husbandry and crop growing.They would still be there now if the farmer had not died, his wife taken into an almshouse and the farm sold.

  ‘It’s a fine day to be out of doors.’

  ‘Yes, indeed.’

  ‘. . . after yesterday’s downpour.’