He noticed and said, ‘I’ll shave before tonight. Do you need more wood?’
‘I do. Have a look for eggs while you’re out there. The hens are laying well.’
They were so comfortable in each other’s presence, it was as though they were already wed. Well, she thought, they were as good as. They had their parents’ blessing and they loved each other. She fried eggs, cut bread and poured ale for breakfast while he carried in logs. Then he brought the gun from the cowshed and placed it by the kitchen door.
‘Remember it is loaded so you must keep it pointed in the air. Will you work in the garden today?’
‘There are caterpillars on my young winter greens. I must squash them all if I am to have any left for market.’
‘I’ll collect my tools and be off then.’ He kissed her again.
‘Come back at noon for your dinner.’
He smiled his broad handsome smile and waved as he left. She went back to her work, mixing flour and balm for bread, setting rabbit and vegetables to stew over the fire and humming softly to herself. The dough was rising under a damp cloth in the hearth. She had washed the pots and carried fresh water from the stream before she donned her sacking apron and went outside to tend her garden. With the extra land she would have roots to sell in the market as well as greens in winter, and she allowed her mind to dream of duckling and fish from the pond.
Her morning’s labour was marred only by the sight of Farmer Bilton on his black hunter on the track. It was mid-morning and she was carrying a pile of weeds to the compost heap. There was no reason for him to ride this way except to spy on her and Patrick. The corners of her mouth turned down in distaste.Would he approach her again with his pawing hands and evil intentions? She hurriedly finished her work and went back to the cottage, comforted by the knowledge that Patrick was close by and he would be here in a trice if she fired the gun.
She opened the kitchen door and lifted it to test its weight and practise the hold that Patrick had taught her. It was unwieldy in her hands and the barrel swung around. She heaved it upright again and was about to put it down when she saw the deer. A young one on its own had broken cover from the trees, crossed the stream and was heading for the fresh shoots of her crops. An occasional rabbit or two was bad enough, but a deer could strip her stalks bare within an hour.
Without thinking she ran towards it with the heavy rifle wavering. She could have yelled. It might have heard her and been scared off. Why did she not think? Why did she not control herself? In her panic she squeezed the trigger. A burst of sound split the quiet morning. She recoiled from the blast. The noise deafened her for a moment and heat from the discharge burned the skin on her hands and face, stung her eyes and made her cough. The deer started, twisted and then stumbled to the ground. Lord in heaven, what had she done?
She dropped the heavy gun and ran towards the animal. Distressed, it made valiant efforts to stagger to its feet and run, squealing and squirming in pain. She was close enough to see its frightened eyes and quivering mouth as it stumbled, dragging its hindquarters and struggling towards the stream and the cover of the trees.
She was gaining on it and was close enough to see the tear in its haunch where she had wounded the poor creature. It reached the edge of the wood and collapsed, wild-eyed and panting, its velvety mouth revealing a pink lolling tongue. She knew it was a fatal wound; that the animal would lie there, suffering, until its life ebbed away.
What should she do? This was no rabbit with a tiny skull that was easily fractured by a heavy stone. It tried again to raise its hindquarters and scramble deeper into Five-acre Wood.Tears of distress sprang to Quinta’s eyes. She looked up to see Patrick running towards her. He paused only to pick up his rifle on the way.
‘I didn’t mean to shoot it, only to frighten it from my garden! I didn’t even know I’d pulled the trigger. It - it went off in my hand.’
‘Dear Lord, this is my doing. I should not have left the gun with you.’
‘It’s suffering, Patrick. We have to kill it. I can’t bear to see it in so much pain.’
‘I’ll do it.’ He ran towards the cowshed and returned with a fresh charge for the rifle. They splashed across the stream to where the creature had fallen. She watched him reload and shoot the deer in its head. It twitched and then lay quite still with its glassy brown eyes wide open.
‘It’s not your fault,’ Quinta said. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. I am to blame for leaving the gun with you before you were ready to use it. I should have given you more lessons first. If you are to be a farmer’s wife, you will need to be a better shot than that.’ He paused and looked at her. ‘And you will be a farmer’s wife soon, won’t you?’
She managed a nervous smile. In spite of living at Top Field for all her life, she still had much to learn. ‘Thank goodness I shot it on our land. I think that makes it ours.’
‘Is this part of the wood your land?’
‘No. This belongs to the Squire.’
‘You shot it here?’
‘No! It was in my garden! It fled here.’
‘Then we’d better get it back to where you shot it. We don’t want to be accused of poaching the Squire’s deer.’
‘Oh, he would never think that of us, I am sure. Well, the old one wouldn’t. I don’t know about the new one.’
‘Help me drag it back, just to be on the safe side. Take hold of a front leg. It’s not too heavy. Just a youngster, I fear.’
‘Don’t remind me.’
‘It was an accident. I should think it’s here only because it escaped the Squire’s cull. You have probably done him a favour.’
Together they heaved the flaccid animal through the undergrowth and were just wading across the stream when they saw Farmer Bilton approaching on his hunter.
‘What’s going on here? Well, you don’t have to tell me. I can see for myself. You’ve been poaching the Squire’s deer. I knew from the start you were up to no good.’
‘It was eating my greens, so I shot it!’ Quinta protested.
‘Oh, aye? When did you learn how to load and shoot that thing?’
‘I only meant to frighten it!’
‘I suppose the vagrant had nothing to do with it?’ he retaliated sarcastically.
‘It was in my garden! It was!’
‘Don’t give me that. The Squire’ll want to know about this. He’s the magistrate, you know. I warned him you were giving shelter to a poacher on my land. He’ll not argue with me now when I turn you out.Your ma will be begging me to take you in.’
He tugged his horse’s head around aggressively and addressed Patrick. ‘You and that crippled father of yours’d be well advised to leave the Riding. When Sir William hears about this he’ll send for the constable.’ He spurred his horse into a gallop and headed in the direction of the Hall.
‘Are you certain the deer was on your land?’
‘Of course I am. Do you doubt me, too?’ She heaved angrily on the foreleg and slipped on a wet stone.
‘Of course not. But there’s no doubt that I finished him off on the Squire’s land.’
‘He would have died anyway.’
‘Here. Take the gun and I’ll drag him on to the bank.’
She hesitated.
‘Take it. It’s not loaded now.’
She did, until he dropped the animal’s front legs well into the rough pasture between her garden and the stream.
‘Farmer Bilton’ll be back, and with the Squire’s gamekeeper. I’ll leave the carcass here. Even though he’s rightly yours, if we give it back there’s no harm done. Hand me the gun now, and go inside. Do as I say.’
She blinked at his tone. He was not asking her, he was ordering her. He walked towards the cowshed without another word. She took off her gardening apron and scrubbed her hands in the bucket by the cottage. Then she went indoors to tend the dinner, but she could not concentrate on her tasks. It was a long time before Patrick came indoors without his gun.
He said, ‘I didn’t mean to speak harshly to you but I don’t trust that Farmer Bilton. He doesn’t like me or my father living here. What was he talking about the other day, when he said the old Squire had promised you to him?’
‘It’s a lie. He had no rights over me anyway, but my mother told me he had suggested it to my father and, well, he presumed my father would take his advice without question.’
‘Your father didn’t promise you?’
‘Not as far as I am aware. My mother would have known and she is dead set against Farmer Bilton.’
‘We must stay calm.’ He sat down at the table.
‘But we have done nothing wrong! You can go back to the pond.’
‘I’m not leaving you until this matter is cleared up and the deer is off your land.’
‘Well, dinner won’t be long.’
‘It smells good but my appetite has gone.’
‘Mine too.’
Patrick did not talk for a while. He appeared to be deep in thought and he frowned for much of the time. She, too, was worried about what Farmer Bilton might do and before long they heard horses approaching. They looked silently at each other and got up to go outside.
‘Who’s the gentleman on the thoroughbred?’ Patrick whispered as two horsemen cantered into the yard.
It was not the gamekeeper. ‘It’s the young Squire.’
‘He’s not very young now.’
He was still handsome, though, in a dashing way; quick-thinking and agile. Quinta thought him an attractive gentleman. As a very young girl, sitting in the back pew at church, Quinta had fancied that she would be his bride one day. Her mother had been shocked when she told her and actively discouraged what she called a ‘silly notion’.
Now she realised how foolish she had been. When the old Squire died and he inherited, he was already a successful mine-owner and iron-smelter as well as a gentleman farmer with a wife who was the daughter of a wealthy manufacturer from the town.
Yet they had produced no children between them. It was said that his wife was always with child but of a weak constitution. She lost infant after infant until her health began to fail. It was not for the want of advice, money or care. Indeed it was known to be a great source of sorrow for husband and wife. Quinta remembered that when she heard tales of his expansive influence in the Riding.
She looked up at the man she loved and smiled nervously. He searched for her hand in the folds of her skirts and gave it a reassuring squeeze. The Squire slid easily from his horse and Farmer Bilton dismounted more awkwardly.
‘Is this he?’ Sir William demanded loudly.
‘Aye, sir. Vagrant and poacher. Should be locked up, I say.’
‘I shall be the judge of that.’ He approached Patrick with the arrogant bearing of the gentry. ‘What have you to say for yourself?’
‘It was me, sir,’ Quinta answered. ‘I shot the deer because it was eating my garden greens.’
‘He’s told her to say that to save his skin,’ Farmer Bilton responded. ‘He’s wormed his way in here, taking advantage of a poor widow. He thinks he can take over the land and the maid. Look at her, innocence itself, and him - he’s just a dirty gypsy.’ He clenched his fists threateningly. ‘By God, if you’ve had her I’ll kill you! I will!’
‘Be quiet, Bilton!’The Squire had raised his voice to a boom. He stared silently at Quinta for what seemed to be a long time and then asked, quite kindly, ‘Where is your mother, Miss Haig?’
‘She’s gone into town, sir.’
‘And left you alone with this vagrant on your land?’
‘She - she has gone to the Dispensary, sir.’
‘Does she ail?’
‘A little, sir.’
‘I see.’ He looked at their clasped hands, pursed his lips and turned to Patrick. ‘You, show me the carcass.’
Reluctantly, Patrick let go of Quinta and led the Squire across the pasture. She watched the Squire circle around the beast and then inspect the grass, laid flat where they had dragged it from the stream. He looked across the water at the crushed undergrowth where the animal fell. Then he bent to examine its wounds. His voice carried clearly in the still August air.
‘This creature was killed in my wood, using two shots, and from a rifle, if I am not mistaken. I do not tolerate poaching on my land.’
Quinta strained her ears to listen to Patrick’s reply. She heard his low deliberate tones, but could not make out his words.
‘Where is the rifle?’ the Squire demanded loudly.
This time there was silence from Patrick.
‘Insolent ruffian! I demand that you give up your gun!’ Again Patrick did not reply.
The Squire was almost as tall as Patrick and grabbed him by the collar of his jacket. ‘By heaven, I am the magistrate! You will answer me or I shall have you in chains.’
Quinta held her breath as Patrick murmured a reply, shrugged off the Squire’s hand, bowed his head briefly and strode across the pasture towards her. ‘What did you tell him?’ she whispered.
‘The truth; that the deer was on your land and it was shot by accident.’
‘But not that I did the shooting?’ she queried.
‘We have done nothing wrong,’ he replied quietly and held a finger to his lips for a moment.
She remembered an adage her mother often used: least said, soonest mended, and nodded briefly.
The Squire had hurried after Patrick. ‘Bilton!’ he yelled. ‘Search the property. Find that rifle.’
‘Aye, sir.’ He headed for the cottage door.
‘No!’ Quinta started forward and was stilled by Patrick’s strong grip on the back of her skirt.
‘Stay where you are, miss,’ the Squire ordered. ‘You are not wholly innocent in this sorry incident.You will do as I say or I shall send for the constable.’
She guessed Patrick felt as outraged as she did and dared not look at him when they were forced to listen to Farmer Bilton crash through her home and her possessions. He came out empty-handed and went into the cowshed, only to emerge with the same consequence. He opened the privy, looked in the woodshed and trampled on her garden as he hunted.
‘Try the log pile!’ the Squire barked and Farmer Bilton pushed it over, spooking the horses as the logs rolled across the yard.
Eventually, angry and sweating, Farmer Bilton growled, ‘He must have dropped it in the stream.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Bilton! Even a stupid gypsy would not do that. The gun is here somewhere. I shall send my constable to search for it. He is more used to the ways of the criminal.’
‘We are not criminals, sir!’ Quinta protested.
The Squire stared at her again. ‘You are not, Miss Haig, but you are tainted by your association with this ruffian. I shall remove him from your land and save your good self from further corruption.You are fortunate in having such a vigilant neighbour as Farmer Bilton to watch over your welfare.’
‘No! You can’t. We are to be—’
‘Hush, Quinta,’ Patrick interrupted, ‘do not say any more.’
‘You,’ the Squire cried, pointing at Patrick, ‘will be silent! You will come with me now to answer for yourself in the town court. If you do not I shall send my constable and his men to hound you down as a fugitive.’ He went to his horse and rummaged in the saddlebag.
‘Do not worry, Quinta,’ Patrick whispered hurriedly. ‘I told him the truth but Farmer Bilton has already poisoned his mind against me. My father is in the town and he will speak up for my honesty. I’ll make contact with him from the gaol.’
‘Gaol?’ Quinta’s heart constricted in her breast.
‘It is only until the Squire is persuaded I am innocent.’
‘Step aside, miss.’ The Squire approached Patrick with a hank of rope. Patrick held up his wrists while the Squire bound them and fastened the loose end to the strapping on his horse.When he had finished he asked, ‘May I take it that your mother will be home soon?’
‘Oh yes, sir, very soon.’
‘Mr Bilton,’ the Squire ordered as he remounted, ‘you are responsible for this young woman’s safety until her mother returns.’
‘Aye, sir, you can rely on me,’ Farmer Bilton drawled. A smile distorted his fleshy features. ‘I’ll take full charge of her now.’
Patrick said quickly, ‘Keep the door barred, Quinta. I’ll tell Father to send your mother home immediately. I love you. Never forget that.’ The horse moved off, jerking the rope and pulling Patrick away from her.
‘I won’t. I love you, too,’ she replied hoarsely. She wondered if he had heard her.
‘Now then, my lass.’ Farmer Bilton walked towards her.‘Why don’t I come inside with you and you can draw me a tankard of that fine ale you have in your pantry.’
Quinta darted across the yard, jumping nimbly over the scattered logs, and ran swiftly into the cottage. She closed and barred the door behind her and pressed herself against it out of sight of the front window.
She heard him banging on the door. ‘You can’t stay in there for ever,’ he called. ‘I can wait. Now that jumped-up gypsy is out of the road, I can wait a day or two more.’
She leaned against the woodwork, feeling the metal fixings jab into her back. Her eyes roved around the kitchen. She had newly baked bread, fresh water and meat in her cooking pot. She could stay inside with the door barred for a week and Mother would be home, surely, within a day or two.Two against one was better odds for her, she thought.
‘Come home soon, Mother,’ she said to the empty room. ‘What is keeping you in town for so long?’
Chapter 15
After the surgeon had left the inn, George had joined Laura in the dining room. ‘It is all set for tomorrow, Laura,’ he said. ‘If you feel strong enough, I should like you to be with me. Is that too much to ask of you?’
‘Of course it isn’t. I shall be pleased to return some of the kindness you have shown me. But I do think Patrick should be here. Please let me fetch him for you.’
‘It is better he looks to his own future than waste his time fretting over mine.’
‘But - but . . .’ Laura did not know how to say it. ‘You might ...’
A Mother's Sacrifice Page 17
