‘I’ll make venison pies tomorrow,’ she said as he left, and went to look for herbs to season them.
The afternoon was hot and she walked upstream to collect water running directly off the moor. It was the coldest clearest nectar and worth the climb. She carried her bucket carefully, enjoying the warm summer sunshine. He came to meet her, scooping out a ladleful and swallowing thirstily.
‘I thought I heard a rabbit in one of your snares. He may need finishing off.’ He bent to pick up a large flat pebble. ‘Shall I?’
‘I can do it. The garden is my responsibility and I must learn how to protect it.’ She left the bucket in the yard and took the stone from him. ‘Where is he?’
‘Follow the squeak. Best look sharp and put him out of his misery.’
She nodded and hurried away with her head bent.
She knelt beside the dying animal, distressed as he tried to jump away and then squealed at the pain. He was weakening. The wire had tightened on his hind leg. Already it had shaved bare his fur and blood was running. Her father had often despatched rabbits in his snares. It couldn’t be so very difficult. You just hit the creature hard at the side of the head; very hard.
She raised her right arm and tested the weight of the stone. Good and heavy. She pressed her lips together, closed her eyes tightly and dropped her hand.The creature squealed and began to twitch. She brought the stone down again. Then again and again until she was sure it would not squeak or twitch any more. Then she dropped the bloodied stone as if were red hot and found she was breathing heavily.
‘I think he’s dead now.’
‘Oh! You startled me.’
‘I thought you said you could do this,’ he said, picking up the stone. ‘One hit should be enough.’ He released the rabbit’s leg and reset the snare. ‘You haven’t killed before, have you?’
She shook her head. ‘My father used to do it.’
‘You miss him, don’t you?’
‘Yes. Don’t you miss your mother?’
‘You don’t miss what you’ve never had.’
‘You had foster parents, though?’
‘You mean the couple who took me in? They were a cussed old pair who were only interested in how hard I could work for them. They kept me alive as cheaply as they could and didn’t care how harsh they made my existence. I was just another Englishman’s bast—’ He stopped and shrugged. ‘Sorry, but I do feel bitter about the way they treated me.’
She knew what he had been going to say. It was a slur on his character and Quinta felt the injustice of it. ‘It wasn’t your fault.’
‘No. But I suffered the disgrace.’
Perhaps that was why his father had searched so diligently to find him and then kept him moving about the country. She thought of the baptism in church. Even though the family was poor and ill shod, it was respectable.
He gazed past her at the pasture. ‘Your father farmed Top Field well. How did he come by it in the first place?’
Quinta shrugged. ‘I’m not sure. My mother said it was just after I was born. He did a favour for the old Squire at the Hall and in return he persuaded Farmer Bilton to issue the lease. The old Squire gave him three years’ rent in advance.’
‘He must have saved his life or something.’
‘I guess so. He’s dead now so I don’t suppose anybody will ever know.’
‘Not even your mother?’
‘I think she does. But I’ve asked her and she won’t tell me.’
‘Well, it is in the past now, though if your father was a hero she would not want it forgotten.’
Quinta had not considered this before and wondered whether she should probe further.
‘Are you angry with your mother?’ she queried.
‘She was a dutiful daughter, but I should have liked a different childhood.’
‘Life must have been hard for you as a traveller without a home.’
‘Quite the opposite. I’d rather be with my father on the road than treated as an animal by some rancid old farmer.’
Like Farmer Bilton’s itinerant labourers, thought Quinta. Patrick sounded angry and she bit at her lower lip. She picked up the flaccid rabbit, still warm and soft. ‘I should go back.’
‘No, don’t go. I didn’t mean to upset you.’
‘I’m not upset. You are.’
‘Not really. I just wish my father had found me sooner.’
‘I expect he does too.’ She put out one hand to get up. ‘I’ll get this gutted and skinned.’
‘Let me do that. Stay awhile.’
‘Very well.’ She sank back to her knees and the rabbit dropped from her hands.
He took a large huntsman’s knife from a leather sheath attached to his belt and squatted down beside her to slit the rabbit’s belly, tossing aside its steaming guts. Then he pushed his fingers between the fur and the flesh and began to prise away the pelt.
Quinta watched his strong deft fingers work. He was better at it than she was. His hands were strong. Everything about him was strong. He finished by cutting off the head, then wiped his knife on the fur and laid the naked animal in its own skin as a wrapping.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
She’d cook it for their dinner tomorrow. He toiled hard in their fields and needed meat every day. He was probably used to eating it all the time with his father on the road. She wondered if they ever went poaching and decided that they probably did. You never knew with strangers. But he didn’t seem a stranger to her any more. Now he was more like a friend, kneeling beside her and looking at her with his head on one side. She smiled at him.
The blue of his eyes darkened suddenly and his lips moved slightly. He ran his tongue over them briefly and she had a sudden desire to do the same with hers. She looked down, flustered and confused. She wanted to lean over and - and - and kiss him. She wondered if he wanted the same for he seemed to edge closer to her.
Then he carefully slid his knife back into its leather sheath and hitched it out of sight under his jacket. ‘I’ll get back to work. There’s more than a fortnight’s labour in clearing that pond.’
She carried the bloodied animal back to the stream, gave it a good wash in clean water then took it indoors to soak in brine ready to cook for the next day.
The balmy days gave way to chilling breezes racing up the valley.The winds took on a force that whipped her skirts about and took her cotton bonnet clean off her head. Quinta feared her winter cabbages would be rocked from their roots as they struggled to establish a firm footing. Patrick stopped burning the brambles and spent reeds from the pond as he could not control the smoke and flame.
Farmer Bilton rode by during the first week of her mother’s absence. Now that she was alone in the house Quinta felt more nervous of him. He rode right into their yard and walked his horse slowly around, looking at everything, hoping, no doubt, to find fault with their efforts to put their land to better use. She went outside and stood waiting patiently for him to leave.
‘What’s going on back there?’ he barked.
‘We are clearing the pond and sluices, sir.’ She had to raise her voice as the wind took away her words. ‘We can use that corner of the pasture if we drain the marsh.’
‘It’s too late to plant grain.’
‘This year maybe, but, God willing, we’ll have some next summer. And roots will see us through the winter. We’ll have more than we need, sir. Perhaps you can take some for your stock, in lieu of the extra rent?’
‘I thought the cripple and his lad were moving on.’ When she didn’t reply he added, ‘Where is your mother?’
‘Busy, sir. It’s harvest-time.’
‘Is she in the kitchen? I’ll have a word.’ He prepared to dismount.
Quinta darted forward. She had an uneasy feeling about Farmer Bilton and didn’t want him in the house. He was a surly, ill-mannered brute. His only saving graces were that he was known to be a good farmer and wanted to please his betters. Perhaps he was having second thoughts about Mother
being his housekeeper? ‘She’s not here, sir,’ she said loudly.‘She’s out visiting.’
‘I don’t believe you. In this gale without you?’ He tugged at the bit, turned his horse and spurred him to a canter down the track.
Later, at dinner, she told Patrick about his call. ‘He asked what you were doing.’
‘Did he want anything else?’
‘Only to speak with Mother. I said she was out.’
‘Very wise. I don’t trust that man.’
‘Me neither.’
From that day Patrick kept his eyes and ears peeled for Farmer Bilton. The pond was out of sight of the track unless you were on horseback and Patrick frequently straightened to his full height to scan the hillside. He was not surprised to see the familiar black horse picking its way through the scrub.
‘You! Get over here.’
Patrick put down his scythe and clambered clear of the brambles.
‘A visit to church doesn’t make you one of us, you know,’ Farmer Bilton called.
‘What do you want, sir?’ he answered.
‘I want you off my land. You and the cripple. I heard he took the widow to town on the carrier.Taking advantage, that’s what he’s doing, and turning her head with a bit of gold. Well, I’ll not have him bed her on my property.’
Patrick clenched his fists. Big as he was, Bilton was old and he could have him off that horse and dumped in the pond as easily as look at him. ‘Do you have an understanding with Mrs Haig, sir?’
‘Aye, I do, and it’s not what you think. I’ll not have you interfering with my plans. So if you and the cripple don’t get off my land, I’ll get the constable’s men after you.’
‘On what charge, may I ask?’
‘I’ll think of something. Folk know me round here, so I should make a run for it while you still can.’
‘Your threats don’t frighten me, sir. I am hard-working and law-abiding as anyone who knows me will testify.’
‘Perhaps your father will see sense. Is he with the widow now?’ He rode off without waiting for reply.
Patrick stood quite still for a few minutes to rein in his mounting anger. He hated bullies like this landlord. Such men had made his childhood a living hell; and he had seen weaker souls broken by their brutality. But as he grew into a man himself his father had schooled him well to control his aggression. Patrick had been an able and willing pupil and listened to his wisdom. His father had used his mind as well as his muscle to win conflicts, whether they were on or off the battlefield.
Farmer Bilton spurred his large black hunter up the track towards the cottage and Patrick walked purposefully after him.
A bowl of vegetables, washed ready for peeling and cutting up, was standing on the table. A brace of pigeons were beside it, waiting to be plucked and filleted for their breasts.
‘They’d better not be from Five-acre Wood.’
‘Oh!’ Quinta jumped. Farmer Bilton’s bulky frame blocked the open doorway as he stepped inside.‘You startled me. I didn’t hear your horse.’ This persistent wind masked all sounds from the yard.
He looked around. ‘Where’s your ma?’
‘She’s not here, sir.’
‘Out a’courting with the cripple again, is she? They’ve been seen together, you know. Causing a scandal, she is, leaving you alone with that lad doing the work.’
Quinta dried her hands. ‘What do you want, sir?’
He closed the door behind him, shutting out the bright daylight. ‘I want to talk to your ma, but, seeing as she’s not here, you’ll do. We understand each other, you and me, don’t we, Miss Quinta? You wouldn’t have a jar of ale in that pantry, would you?’
Patrick enjoyed ale with his dinner so she replied, ‘I have cider, sir.’
‘That’ll do. Bring a jar for yourself, too.’
Quinta heaved a sigh. He was their landlord; she had better do as he asked. He sat at the kitchen table and shoved aside the pile of dried beans waiting to be picked over and cleaned.
‘Now, Miss Quinta, I know your ma has got some hoity-toity ideas, but answer me this, where is she going to find a better offer for you? Eh? Not around these parts. They’ve all gone to mines and furnaces in the valley. Is she going to take you down there to find a husband? No. And why should she when I’m here, ready and waiting, with a house and a farm?’ He swallowed most of his cider in one gulp.‘I know you looked fondly on my idea afore, even if your ma didn’t.’
‘Well, not exactly fondly, sir,’ she answered carefully. ‘And things are different now, sir. We have help on the farm.’
‘That ruffian out there?’
‘He’s not a ruffian. His father was a sergeant in the Duke of Wellington’s army at Waterloo. He can read and write and he practises good husbandry.’
‘Aye, so I’m told. Why is he hanging about here, then? I’ll tell you. It’s for his father to wed your ma and get his hands on my tenancy. Well, that isn’t going to happen and when he realises that and can’t find any valuables about the place to plunder, he’ll clear off and good riddance—’ Farmer Bilton stopped suddenly as though a thought had dropped into his head. ‘Unless - unless he’s got his sights on - on you. Oh aye, of course, why didn’t I see it before?’ His face darkened and became quite agitated.
‘He only wants work, sir. And he’s a good labourer.’
Farmer Bilton stood up.‘Now, Miss Quinta, I’m a God-fearing gentleman and I’ve tried to do what’s right, but you and your ma have tried my patience. I’ve made a good offer and if you come back to my farm with me now, you have my promise.’
Alarmed, Quinta stepped backwards. ‘What promise?’
He was breathing rapidly and she saw beads of sweat appear on his brow. ‘I’ll make you my wife, of course. Yes, that’s what I’ll do.’ He grasped at her hand. ‘You and me, we have to make your ma see sense. Come with me, lass, and we’ll seal it. If we do it now your ma will be bound to say yes. She’ll have to. She won’t see you shamed.’
‘I don’t know what you mean, sir?’ But she knew exactly what he was saying and took another step away from him. She felt the couch on the back of her legs.
‘Don’t be coy, Miss Quinta.You’re too sharp for that. I’ll not have some gypsy take you afore I do.You’ll be my woman and no one else’s.’
‘I shall not. Let go of my hand!’ She tugged hard but he had a firm grip on her.
He lowered his voice menacingly and pulled her towards him. The sweat was accumulating, glistening, on his forehead. ‘Do as I say, girl.’
‘No, sir! You are frightening me! I think you should leave.’
‘Leave? Not without you, I won’t. I’m not letting that - that vagrant take what’s rightly mine.The old Squire said you would be mine one day.’
‘I know nothing about that! And neither do you because it’s a lie!’
‘It is not! And you could ask him for yourself if he weren’t dead and gone! His son’ll tell you, though. He knows. And he knows why. He said I hadn’t the background to marry into the gentry as befits my new station in life but you would do for me. And by the Lord you will.’ He pushed her backwards on to the couch by the wall and towered over her as she fell.
‘Mr Bilton, you must stop this! Have you gone mad?’
‘I’m mad, right enough. Mad with your ma for not keeping her husband’s promise. And I’ll be even madder with you if you don’t come with me. He told me no one else would want you.’
‘He was wrong!’ Patrick’s voice came from the doorway.
Quinta was so relieved to see him.‘Oh, thank goodness you’re here. I don’t know what has come over Farmer Bilton.’
Her landlord turned angrily and shouted, ‘You keep out of this! It’s none of your business!’
‘I think you should leave, sir, as Miss Quinta has asked you to,’ Patrick said evenly.
‘You’re the one who can get out of here! This is my property and you have no right to be on my land.’
‘If you do not go, sir, I shall have
to make you.’
‘You? You dare to threaten me?’ He let go of Quinta’s hand and swung a heavy fist in the direction of Patrick’s head.
Patrick reacted quickly. He ducked and aimed a punch at Farmer Bilton’s body, catching him full in the stomach.Winded, his knees buckled and Patrick heaved him by the collar of his jacket to the door. ‘When a lady requests that you to leave her house, it is good manners to do as she asks.’
He bundled him outside, giving a final shove to clear him from the threshold. Then he shut and bolted the door, dropping the bar in place before confronting a shocked and shaking Quinta. ‘He’s gone,’ he said, but he could see that her terror had not ebbed, so he opened his arms and added, ‘Come here.’
She stumbled forward, falling against him, half sobbing into his chest.
He held her gently, hardly daring to touch her, watching her shoulders shudder as she tried to compose herself. ‘Did he hurt you?’ he asked softly.
‘No, but he - he frightened me.’
Patrick knew how terrifying bullies could be and his heart broke for her. His arms tightened round her and he murmured, ‘You’re safe now.’ This seemed to help and her gulping eased. He would have liked her to stay longer in his arms but she moved away, wiping her eyes with the back of her hands and straightening her back.
‘Do you think he will return?’ she asked.
‘I believe he will. What was he talking about?’
‘I don’t know. Truly. I am as puzzled as you are, but I shall certainly ask my mother when she returns.’
‘I don’t trust him and I don’t like the idea of you alone in the cottage all day.’
‘I - I’m not alone. You are here.’
‘I am halfway down the track, out of sight and, with the winds chasing up the valley, out of earshot, too.You were lucky this time. I knew he was here because he came by the pond to see what I was doing. Next time he won’t.’
‘What shall I do? He’s used to getting his way.’
Patrick looked at her steadily. ‘You’ll have to call me as soon as you see him.’
A Mother's Sacrifice Page 14
