It was a day as still as death, and as cold. Winter darkness sat upon the landscape still at noon, the very air leaden with the threat that hung in the clouds above. As she rode across the parkland it seemed that the world held its breath, and each sound was magnified a thousand times. A snapping twig was a pistol shot, the sudden startled rising of a bird enough to unnerve the mare and set Jessica’s own pulse racing in momentary and silly fright.
Maria was in peevish mood. ‘Truly, Jessica, you never did have any sense at all. What possessed you to ride over on such a day? It’s perfectly obvious that it will snow – and heavily.’
‘Don’t be silly, Mother. Old Hall is less than three miles away. I’ll leave before the snow starts. There’s no danger. Or if it comes down too heavily, I’ll stay until it clears. I’ve left word to say where I am. They won’t expect me home if the weather gets too bad—’
Maria turned her head. Almost any movement caused her excruciating pain now, but an onlooker would have to be very well acquainted with her to know it. ‘Well perhaps it’s just as well you’ve come. I’ve been meaning for some time to have a word with you.’
‘Oh?’
Her mother’s face was repressive. ‘It’s in my mind, Jessica, that all the hard work expended upon you was for nothing.’
Jessica was stung. ‘What on earth can you mean?’
Her mother, with the perfect timing that was a part of her armoury, hesitated for long enough for the now-faded blue eyes to move from her daughter’s untidy hair to the worn hem of her heavy and mud-stained riding skirt. With no word said Jessica felt colour rising to her face. ‘Just look at you!’ her mother said at last. ‘Slipshod and inelegant! Tell me – do you spend the whole of your life in the saddle, or hobnobbing with farm labourers and workmen? Do you never wear a decent gown, or entertain people of your own station? Jessica, you were wild as a child, and wild you still are. For your own sake you should take yourself in hand. It’s bad enough that your husband should have deserted you, and that the whole county knows it. At least don’t give them room to believe that he had good reason for going!’
Jessica was so taken aback that she could hardly for a moment speak. When she did, though she tried to keep her voice level, angry exasperation was clear in it. ‘Where Robert has gone and why is no one’s business but his and mine. And as for the way I dress and act – for heaven’s sake! – what do you expect me to do? There’s work to be done and no one to do it but me. I don’t have time to call on the local gentry and drink tea. Nor, to be truthful do I want to—’
‘Quite.’ Perfectly unruffled Maria nodded her head, her point proven to her own satisfaction. ‘Lady Felworth called the other day,’ she continued, inexorably, totally ignoring Jessica’s obvious annoyance, ‘she tells me that you haven’t once called upon her since you came home.’
‘Mother! Now stop it, do! You’re being perverse. And I won’t be treated like a disobedient child! I’ve no time for such things, both literally and figuratively. You know it. For heaven’s sake – if I called on Her Ladyship – can you just imagine the conversation? “And how is dear Robert? You’ve heard from him of course? Such a pity that he should have been called away again so soon – and with you and his poor mother left in that draughty great barn of a house – but then no doubt he’ll be home soon? Where did you say he’d gone—?”’ Jessica’s voice that had been lifted in parody of Lady Felworth’s drawling tones dropped to normal. ‘The woman is a gossip of the very worst order. A hundred years ago she’d have been ducked in the village pond!’
Her mother regarded her stonily.
‘And Patrick – you can’t tell me she keeps her tongue from Patrick? Such a juicy morsel that! “Such a lovely boy – wild, of course, I always said he was wild—”’ Jessica stopped, brought up short by the look in her mother’s eyes at mention of Patrick’s name. ‘No, Mother! I couldn’t stand it,’ she said, determinedly. ‘If the world doesn’t like the way I live my life then it’s something for the world to worry about, not me.’
‘You are isolating yourself, Jessica,’ Maria said quietly. ‘Cutting yourself off from your own kind.’
‘I’m fighting for survival. Mine. Gabriella’s. Old Hall’s. I’ve no time and no money. Pretty gowns and carriages have at the moment to run a bad second to roof tiles and winter feed.’
Her mother picked gently at the blanket that covered her knees. ‘Clara, you know, is quite making her name as a hostess.’
‘Good for her,’ Jessica said, shortly.
‘Don’t be impertinent, Jessica.’ Maria’s voice still held that note of authority that could bring Jessica up short.
‘I’m sorry.’ She was fighting to prevent herself from truly losing her temper. She realized how hard it must be on Maria Hawthorne to see the daughter-in-law she detested take her place in local society whilst her own daughter ignored her social obligations and got herself well and truly talked about. But her mother’s criticisms, unfair as she perceived them, cut to the bone. ‘You have to understand, Mother. I’m a grown woman. I have the right to make my own decisions, live my own life.’
‘And you think you’ve done that successfully up until now?’
Jessica took a long breath. ‘In your terms? I suppose not. In mine? Yes. I’m not a simpering silk-draped dummy who opens her mouth when she’s told to and keeps it shut when she’s not.’
‘I’ve noticed.’
‘The mistakes I’ve made have been my own, and I’m ready to live with them. I’ve made no one else suffer for them, that I know of—’
‘Defensiveness, Jessica, has always been one of the least attractive of your habitual attitudes.’
‘And—’ Jessica ploughed grimly on, ‘—when I’ve put Old Hall back on its feet, when the house is safe and the future assured, when the land is well managed and the flocks secure I shall know I had a hand in it – a real influence on what’s happened. I’ve discovered that that’s more important to me than the entertaining of the county, the petty gossip, the whispering behind the fans—’
Her mother was regarding her with a tart amusement that reduced her effortlessly to the status of a grubby eight-year-old. ‘I don’t think anyone whispers about you, Jessica,’ she said, mildly. ‘I have the strongest feeling that they say what they have to say about you in a perfectly normal tone of voice.’
Jessica found herself laughing at that again as she rode across the park towards the woodland path, the first soft flakes of snow drifting into her face. So her neighbours gossiped about her, did they? Let them. She was surprised to realize that it truly did not bother her – and she suspected in her heart that it bothered her mother less than she would have her believe. For all Maria’s sharpness there had been a certain twinkle in her eye. Jessica had the distinct impression that, though her mother would never admit to it, Maria Hawthorne harboured a certain pride in a daughter who, rightly or wrongly, stuck to her guns and did what she wanted to do. Jessica found herself wondering how much her mother guessed of the disaster of her marriage. She had never questioned, not even after Robert had left. Perhaps, Jessica thought ruefully, she simply did not want to know— She stopped, her train of thought suddenly broken as the mare whinneyed and pulled to the right suddenly. It was snowing much harder now, the movement quite dizzying, a little disorientating. She reined in the obviously distressed animal, peered ahead to see what had disturbed her. In the trees to the left a dark shadow moved. She walked the mare forward, softly. The snow was settling, drifting and whirling between the bare branches of the trees, limning the world in white. The flicker of movement came again, and then for a moment she caught a glimpse of a grey and menacing shadow, wolf-like, threatening.
The mare tossed her head, worried.
Jessica held her. The shadow moved closer. She waited, straining her eyes, staring tensely into the moving, swirling wall of white. For a moment she lost the vague shape, and then she found it again. It was ahead of her, cutting across her path.
She held
the mare still.
The animal appeared not a stone’s throw from her on the path ahead. That it was Charlie’s wild dog she had no doubt. It was big, but carried no weight, its wolf-like head hung low between thrusting shoulderblades, its great tail swished menacingly. It looked half-starved and entirely savage. In the darkness of the afternoon its yellow eyes gleamed perilously. For several seconds they stared at each other, the dog with each breath making a venomous growling sound deep in its throat.
Jessica’s mount shivered beneath her. The dog took a crawling step forward, and then another.
Blindly Jessica set the horse at it. The smaller beast stood its ground for a moment, snapping with vicious teeth, then it turned and fled, swift and silent as a shadow, through the woods.
Jessica fought for control of the frightened mare. By the time she had brought it to a stand the dog had disappeared, in the general direction of Home Farm.
She patted the mare’s neck, calming her, and set off at a gallop down the snowy bridleway.
She found the dog’s tracks on the bridge, fresh, only a little smudged by the fast-falling snow. She followed them.
Like an arrow they led directly to the sheep pens.
The dog just beat her in the race. She arrived in time to see the animal leap effortlessly into one of the pens. The ewes, heavy with lamb, scuttled away from it, terrified, huddled into a corner, bleating plaintively.
The dog slavered, crawling towards them on its belly.
‘Get away! Get away!’ She almost fell from the horse, cast about for a stone to throw. The dog ignored her. As she straightened, a stone in her hand, a terrified sheep broke from the flock. The dog was on it in a second, tearing savagely at the struggling animal as the rest of the flock milled in panic-stricken unison.
Jessica watched in horror, seeing the blood that stained the muddy snow, hearing the desperate cries of the dying ewe. Beside herself with anger she flung the stone. It came nowhere near the dog. The ewe had collapsed, bleating pathetically.
Jessica scrambled back onto the mare, clapped her heels to the frightened animal’s sides and set off at a flat run, to Home Farm, Charlie, and his gun.
In the few minutes it took for her to reach the house, shout for Charlie and lead him, running fast, gun in hand, back to the fold, the place looked like a slaughterhouse. A ewe lay dead, the blood from her torn throat steaming upon the snow, her stillborn lamb dead beside her, its head torn from its body. Another ewe struggled weakly upon the ground, fleece torn and bloody. The slavering dog was in amongst the rest of the frightened flock, snapping and snarling, yellow teeth bared. A ewe went down to her knees, her belly contracting, and the dog pounced.
A black and white streak went past Jessica and Charlie like a flash of light. Snow whirled. Bess hit the stray dog like a thrown hammer. The wolf-like creature staggered and turned, vicious teeth glinting like knives. Bravely Bess went for him again. The fangs slashed. Charlie whistled sharply. The sheep milled, terror-stricken. The wild dog lunged at Bess, snarling its fury. Bess yelped, and blood appeared on her shoulder. Calmly Charlie raised the shotgun to his shoulder and took aim. A frightened ewe blundered across his line of fire. He waited. The grey dog had bellied to the ground, its eyes on Bess, who stood her ground courageously, snarling challenge. Jessica’s own fingers tensed as she sensed Charlie’s steady pressure upon the trigger. The bullet caught the beast in the throat just as it was about to launch itself upon Bess. The animal reared, blood spraying, and dropped to the ground.
‘Stay here.’ Charlie, gun at the ready, approached the fallen animal, ignoring for the moment the carnage about him, the desperate bleating of the sheep. As he approached it the dog twitched. He brought the gun to its head. Jessica looked away as he pulled the trigger.
‘Mr Best! Mr Best! That you? Wha’ss happened? Mr Best?’ Peter Newton, a small replica of his sister Minna, scrambled through the snow towards them. Charlie was striding back, reloading his gun as he walked.
‘Tha’ss that. It’s dead. Petie, go get the wagon. We’ll have to get those that are birthin’ inside or we’ll lose ’em sure. Take Bess. An’ see to that shoulder of hers. Then put her in the house. The last thing these poor beasts want about them now is a dog—’
Charlie whistled Bess. Limping a little the dog joined him. He patted her. ‘Good girl. Now off! Off with Petie! He’ll see to you!’
Peter turned and began to run back towards the house and barn. ‘Come on, Bess.’
The dog looked at Charlie.
‘Off!’ he snapped, and she went.
He looked around, shaking his head, grim-faced. Jessica fought nausea. Near them a half-dead sheep, blood spreading upon the snow, was giving birth. The lamb hung, moving weakly, all but dead, half in and half out of its dying mother. The snow fell, large pretty flakes, settling on the frozen ground, melting into the blood, feathering the carcass of the dead dog. Charlie knelt beside the ewe and eased the lamb from her. Then he picked up his gun.
The flock were settling a little, though they still milled aimlessly. Several had wandered off alone, bleating quietly, their sides heaving in the first contractions of birth.
Jessica jumped at the gunshot. The ewe stopped her struggling. Charlie scooped up the tiny lamb and put it in his pocket, strode to where another ewe was standing, head down, sides quivering. He ran his hands over her, straightened. ‘She’ll be all right.’
‘What can I do?’
‘Shut the gate.’ He was already moving to another sheep that was in some difficulty. Jessica, as she ran to shut the gate, heard him curse viciously beneath his breath, then he called her name, urgently, ‘Jessie!’
‘Yes?’
‘Over here. Quickly!’
She ran back to him. ‘Bloody dog got this one too,’ he said. ‘Hold her forelegs. She’s a gonner. We might be able to save the lamb.’
Jessica dropped to her knees in the stained snow. Faintly she could hear the sounds of the cart coming down the track to the folds. Charlie worked swiftly and surely. Jessica felt the spasm that ran through the poor creature whose legs she held as the lamb was released, and then the life went from the mauled ewe, and she stilled. Charlie worked on the lamb for a moment, then shook his head and stood up. The lamb lay, a tiny scrap, dead beside its dead mother.
Charlie rubbed his hands on his jacket and shook the snow from his hair. ‘We’d better get the rest of the poor little buggers in.’
They worked, the three of them, in the failing light, for nearly two hours, Charlie and Peter taking the lion’s share of the labour, Jessica helping where she could. Snow covered everything like a blanket, making the footing treacherous and chilling Jessica’s feet, in their inappropriate riding boots, to the bone. It settled in Jessica’s hair, melted and trickled down her neck. It crept through the fine leather of her boots and gloves till her hands were as numb with cold as were her feet. But she would not give up. Until the last sheep was in, the last lamb safely delivered she stayed with them, fetching and carrying, holding the lantern in the dark barn, assisting with the animals when she was needed. She watched as Charlie introduced the orphan lamb he had carried in his pocket to a mother who had had a stillbirth, watched as he rubbed the orphan against the dead lamb, soaking it in the liquids of the ewe’s labour before gently presenting it to the mother. The ewe sniffed, licked. The lamb, wobbling on unsteady legs, bleated softly.
‘Will it work?’ Jessica asked.
‘Tha’ss difficult to tell. Sometimes does, sometimes doesn’t.’ Charlie straightened. ‘Well looks as if we’ve done all we can fer now—’
‘I’ll stay with ’em, Mr Best. I don’t mind.’ Young Peter grinned staunchly. ‘Stay all night out here, if you like. Tha’ss as comfortable as home, an’ a lot less crowded!’
‘You’ll freeze!’ Jessica said. She herself was suddenly shivering violently, and her feet had lost all feeling.
The child laughed and shook his head. The past hours had forged a bond between the three of them tha
t for the moment transcended age and station. Tomorrow, Jessica knew, he would be in awe of her again. For now he had lost his constraint with her, as had Charlie. ‘It’ll be as warm in the straw with the beasts as in me own bed,’ he said. ‘Might I ha’ a drop of ale an’ a bite to eat I’ll stay all night an’ watch ‘em.’
Jessica shivered again. Charlie glanced at her sharply. ‘Good God, look at you! You’re blue! Petie – you sure you’re all right out here?’
‘Right as rain, Mr Best. They’ve settled now, poor beasts. If I need you I’ll call.’
‘I’ll get something warm for you to drink, and some supper. Miss Jessica—’ Jessie registered the return to a more formal address with something close to regret, ‘—you should get something too, an’ warm up a bit before you go home. They’ll ha’ missed you at the Hall, I reckon—?’
She spoke through teeth clenched against chattering. ‘They’ll probably assume that I’m sitting it out at Tollbridge House.’ She shivered again, uncontrollably.
He frowned. ‘You’d best get back to the house straight away. I’ll be along in a minute.’
She did not argue. Truth to tell she was so cold that she could barely think. On feet that she could not feel she crossed the yard and entered the house. The snow was falling in earnest now, steadily and with purpose, as if it intended to bury the world by morning.
She opened the door to a blissful warmth. The early darkness of winter had fallen, and the glow from the range lit the room. She shut the door and leaned against it, tiredness washing over her. The smell of sheep, of blood and of other things she did not care to think of hung about her ruined clothes. She dragged the chair close to the range. For the moment her fingers were too painfully stiff with the cold for her to attempt to light the lantern that stood upon the table. She struggled out of her heavy cord riding jacket. It was soaked through to the shirt beneath. She looked around. Behind the door hung an old jacket of Charlie’s, enormous, tattered, but dry and warm. Taking it down she wrapped it around her shoulders, shivering, then hunched in front of the fire, rubbing her hands. The marrow of her bones felt frozen. Her divided riding skirt dripped with dirty water upon the floor, chafed her skin, the hem soaked and blood-stained. Awful as her feet felt she simply did not have the energy to try to remove her boots. She huddled under Charlie’s jacket, rubbing her arms and her damp shoulders. The jacket hung heavy and warm about her shoulders, and she smiled at the smells that reminded her of Charlie – the smell of the outdoors, of sheep, and of wood-smoke. She rubbed her cold face upon the rough, dry material of the collar.
The Hawthorne Heritage Page 51
