Ella intended to make it very clear that she had no interest in the traditions of farming. ‘You need a dairymaid to make the butter and cheese, and a servant to clean the house. I really shouldn’t be expected to do those tasks at all.’
‘Why not?’ Amos stood with his fists on his hips considering her with a slight frown on his face, as if he couldn’t quite understand what she was saying. ‘Are you ill?’
‘No.’
‘Then why won’t you work? Esther, my first wife, was happy to help all she could, as all farmers’ wives are, and the children were home in those days as they were too young for school. Round her feet for the entire week they were, yet she coped well enough.’
Tearful now, Ella had the urge to scream at him that she wasn’t his first wife, and they weren’t her children. But that would have been unkind since the poor lady was dead. ‘Well, I’m too tired to do any more today,’ she sulked. ‘I have a headache.’ As if this settled the matter, she flounced off to her room in a pet, to spend the entire afternoon reading Jane Eyre, which she’d read five times already but absolutely adored.
But all of this ill feeling, her husband’s coldness, served only to add to her sense of loneliness and misery. Ella felt desperately homesick, longed for a friend to talk to, someone who had a kind word for her, or would give her a hug of affection. There was still no sign of that from Amos, who continued to sleep in the attic. She could hear him most nights pacing the floor.
Exhausted by her emotions and her aching limbs from all the work she was forced to do, Ella snuggled down in bed and slept, but her respite was short-lived. She woke to find Amos standing staring down at her in ominous silence.
For one awful moment Ella thought he might be about to make another attempt to consummate their marriage, but then he calmly informed her that supper was ready.
If the week was hard and work on the farm relentless, Ella found the weekends even more of a challenge as the children returned home from school. Sundays in particular proved to be an absolute nightmare. Amos insisted that she must rise at eight, despite the fact she was tired after working all week. She would be obliged to eat porridge with his round-eyed, silent children, instead of a little bread and butter and coffee in bed, which she would infinitely have preferred.
Day after day, night after night, Ella ached to go home. She longed to see her sisters and gossip with her friends, take tea on the lawn, visit the library for the latest romance, and of course enjoy the many delightful shops in Kendal town. But whenever she complained that she was bored, Amos would find her yet another task to do, or suggest she peg a rug, for goodness sake, as Mrs Rackett did of an evening. Or take up embroidery, which was apparently a passion of his first wife. She couldn’t tell him that she was bored sick with hearing about the wonderful Esther, his beloved first wife.
‘Won’t you be visiting Kendal soon to go to the auction mart?’ she persisted, but he shook his head as if annoyed she should ask, saying they would go in a week or two, when the lambs were fat enough to sell.
‘We could at least visit the market. Don’t we have eggs and milk to sell?’
‘My neighbour, Mrs Jepson, sells them for me. She’s always glad to help.’
Ella had met Mrs Jepson on her first visit to St Cuthbert’s church, which the entire family was expected to attend three times every Sunday. Mrs Rackett was excused, as she had to cook Sunday dinner, although most of the work for it had been done the night before, as none could be done on the Sabbath. They were all bundled into the farm cart and bumped back along that endless road until they reached the tiny church Amos had pointed out to her on the day Ella had first arrived.
That first service had seemed to go on interminably. Hours and hours so far as Ella could judge. And all the while she was aware of people turning to look at her, remarking to each other in loud whispers that she must be the ‘new wife’. Ella didn’t feel in the least bit new. She felt old, worn out, exhausted, and desperately unhappy.
Now, weeks later, she was still waiting for Amos to give permission for their neighbour to call. Ella had broached the subject many times but he always demurred, insisting he didn’t care for strangers calling unannounced.
‘Why don’t I go with Mrs Jepson next week and help her to sell the eggs, a few vegetables, maybe a chicken or two, whatever produce we can find. Won’t that help? Don’t we need the money?’ She wasn’t in the least interested in spending a day standing in the market trying to sell their wares, but a day in town would be wonderful. Marvellous!
Amos scowled. ‘So that you can see your lover, Danny Gilpin?’
Ella’s cheeks flamed. ‘Not at all. That’s not what I intended.’ Oh, but it was, it was. She simply ached to see Danny.
His mouth twisted into a smirk of disbelief. ‘Don’t you need to make the cheese first, my dear, before you can sell it?’
This was a fact Ella hadn’t considered. In her desperation to avoid the dreaded task, she’d even taken to pouring good milk down the drain. Surely he hadn’t found her out, had he?
She hated her life out here in the back of beyond, thought it deeply unfair that she was cooped up at the farm the entire week. She felt desperate to escape, to tell her woes to sweet, patient Maggie, to weep and seek comfort in Livia’s loving arms. She really must persuade Father into allowing her to return home for a while, for a short visit at least. She would write and get the letter posted or delivered somehow.
In the meantime, perhaps she’d better learn how to make cheese, if only to give herself the opportunity to go into town.
Chapter Twelve
‘How will you ever break it to Father that you have no intention of marrying Henry?’ Maggie was gazing at Livia, her clear grey eyes wide with fright. ‘He’s not going to like it.’
Livia gave a little puff of exasperation. ‘I’ve already warned Father that I’m prepared to consider Henry’s offer but I’m making no promises, which should suffice for the present.’
‘Yes, but that won’t hold him off for long, will it?’ Maggie sounded doubtful, as well she might, knowing their father’s ill temper.
It was almost a week since Henry’s visit and he was due to call again any day for Livia’s answer. The two sisters had walked over to Serpentine Woods, their favourite spot, the hedgerows clotted with lady’s mantle, pink campion and bright blue forget-me-nots. They sat on a limestone rock pitted with yellow lichen, eating wild strawberries as they gazed out over towards the Kentmere Horseshoe and thought about Ella. They wondered how she might be faring and why she hadn’t called to see them in all these weeks.
Since there were no answers to these questions, Livia returned to the issue most obsessing her right now. ‘I don’t care whether Father likes it or not, I’ve no intention of marrying Henry Hodson simply because he wishes to get his hands on some property deal or other. I’m sure that is what’s behind this scheme. It certainly isn’t about some silly childhood promise. Look at poor Ella, for goodness sake. Is she happy? How would we know? Why doesn’t she ever come to see us? Why doesn’t she write proper letters instead of scrappy little notes? I worry about her, Maggie, but I won’t allow Father to sell me off so cheaply. We really must stop allowing him to bully us in this way. We’re grown women. We should stand up to him more.’
‘Easy to say—’
‘I know, I know. How about you, are you feeling all right? Your cough seems to have cleared up.’ Livia tucked an arm about her sister’s waist and gave her a squeeze.
Maggie gave her a patient smile. ‘I’ll survive.’
‘Of course you will.’ Livia smiled in return as she anxiously studied her sister’s frailty, the dark smudges beneath her eyes, which seemed to indicate many sleepless nights. Maggie wasn’t classically beautiful, nor perhaps as lovely as Ella, but the girl possessed a natural charm with her sweet, heart-shaped face. There was a serenity about it with its pearl-like translucence, and eyes such a clear grey it was as if you were looking into a pool of water.
But from her earliest years there had always been a fragile vulnerability about little Maggie. She’d never quite recovered from a childhood dose of measles which, coupled with a bad chill, had in turn led to a bout of pneumonia. Even now Livia would often hear her coughing in the night.
They sat in silence for a while, nibbling on the strawberries as they gazed out over the old grey town, dreaming of freedom as they so often liked to do. In truth Livia was the dreamer, the one who talked of travelling to distant lands, of earning her own living or even joining the women’s suffrage movement. Maggie would merely listen and smile, the kind of girl who would have been content to stay at home for ever, had circumstances been different. But with things as they were, she too longed for escape every bit as much as her more adventurous sister.
‘How would we do it?’
‘Stand up to Father?’
‘No, escape. We can’t possibly stand up to him, you know that, Livvy. All we could do would be to leave, to run away and disappear from Kendal altogether. But where would we go? How would we survive? Live rough in the mountains? Run away to London?’
Livia was silent for a long moment. This was the vexed question that churned endlessly in her head, one which couldn’t be ignored indefinitely, but to which she could find no answer. There were times when she almost envied Ella, who seemed to have made an escape of sorts. She hoped and prayed that her sister had indeed found happiness with this husband their father had chosen for her, and that was the reason she didn’t write more regularly, because she was too busy enjoying life.
Maggie interrupted her thoughts. ‘It’s a pity we don’t have aunts or uncles or cousins. Didn’t Mama have a sister somewhere?’
I believe she did, yes, but having lowered herself sufficiently to marry her father’s former apprentice, her family never spoke to her again after the death of her father, and never acknowledged her existence. When the marriage went disastrously wrong, as predicted, she had no one to turn to.
‘Poor Mama.’
‘Indeed, poor Mama. I miss her so much.’
‘Me too. Thank goodness we at least have each other, the three of us, or did until Ella left. But why did their marriage go wrong? Mama never explained. Didn’t Father adore her? Everyone else did. Wasn’t he at least a little in love with her when he married her?’
Livia smiled at her youngest sister’s naivety. ‘I don’t think so, Maggie. I believe Father considered she would be useful to him, as an asset. He knew she would be left with a sizeable business and inheritance. How could he resist taking advantage of that fact?’
‘How cynical you have become, Livia.’
‘With just cause.’ Livia sighed. ‘Whatever happens, Maggie love, if – no – when we do leave, we’ll go together.’
Maggie blinked away tears, her face so pale and sad Livia ached to take away whatever pain haunted the sixteen-year-old girl. ‘You will take me with you then?’ she begged.
Livia hugged her tightly. ‘Of course I will. How could you think otherwise? I’d never abandon you. You are my beloved sister.’
‘The thing is, Livvy, I’m not sure I can take much more. What he does to you – to us all – particularly when he’s angry, tears me apart.’
Livia kissed the younger girl’s soft cheek. ‘Don’t worry, I can take it, just so long as he doesn’t lay a finger on you, my precious one. I promised Mama I’d take good care of you, and I have, haven’t I? At least you are safe from his vile temper, eh?’
Maggie turned her haunted gaze away to stare vacantly out over the old grey town tucked in the valley below. Livia’s thoughts were once more gnawing upon the vexed question of what she would say to Henry and didn’t even notice that her question hadn’t been answered.
Henry called first thing the following morning for his answer, and on receiving it turned on his heel and stormed off, this time without even showing her the courtesy of removing his hat.
‘Oh, dear,’ Livia said, watching from the window as he climbed back into his trap, flicked the whip at the poor horse and departed at quite a lick.
Now she’d done it. Now she would have to tell Father the truth, that she had absolutely no intention of marrying Henry Hodson, and had just told him so.
Livia resolved to present herself forthwith before the redoubtable Miss Caraway and humbly apply for a position. All she had to do was to make her request with modesty and good manners. If that good lady agreed to her being considered as a possible trainee, then on what possible grounds could her father object?
What did she have to lose?
Livia loved visiting the store and, as always, she paused before entering to allow herself time to carefully examine the windows for anything new or exciting. Privately, she considered the display somewhat overcrowded and busy, but she particularly admired a wide-brimmed hat, which was a delightful confection of feathers and chiffon for sale at a ruinous three guineas. But then Angel’s Department Store catered very much for the discerning customer, as her father frequently pointed out to her.
Not that Livia could ever see herself actually wearing such a hat. She wasn’t the sort of girl who went in much for extravagancies. Dressed this morning in a stiff-collared shirt blouse, and a skirt bound with leather around the hem to protect it from the dust, she felt perfectly comfortable in herself. Her cheeks aglow with fresh air and exercise, and her own robust health, heart singing, Livia felt bounding with confidence, as if she could take on the world.
Once inside, she found herself surrounded by ladies of class delicately discussing the relative merits of lace or ribbons for their peignoir, the optimum width of a petersham belt in order to make a waist appear smaller, with just the right silver clasp of course.
As Livia passed by, she heard an assistant assuring one young lady that sleeves were being worn much narrower this year, and that boleros were all the rage, while another promised that an item could most certainly be put onto madam’s account. Livia marvelled at being allowed the opportunity to buy whatever you liked and pay for it whenever you wished, something the Angel sisters had never been permitted to do, despite their seeming affluence.
But then these ladies would think nothing of changing their gowns four or more times in a day. They’d start by taking breakfast in a silk dressing gown, change to a tailored outfit for a shopping expedition in town, or whatever was deemed suitable for a hack or game of tennis. An afternoon dress would follow for paying calls, then they would slip into a loose tea gown in which to relax afterwards before dressing for dinner.
Livia tugged at her own skirt, feeling really rather plain and shabby in the face of such exotic creatures, not to mention the glorious displays of ball gowns, fans, gloves, shoes and mantles on stands and mannequins set about the store. In this very respectable and proper establishment, she almost giggled as she remembered she was wearing cycling knickerbockers beneath her sensible skirt, which were surely anything but proper, being really rather racy, for all she also wore white frilly bloomers beneath those.
Oh, but how she would love to be a part of this exciting scene, free to explore the delights of the myriad tiny drawers behind each counter, to assist a young girl to choose her bridal gown, or to find a middle-aged matron something stylish and warm for winter. It all seemed such fun.
All sense of youthful happiness deserted her as she faced the ire of her father.
‘You did what?’
Livia swallowed, took a breath, and quietly repeated what she’d just confessed. ‘Henry called again this morning for his answer and I told him no, that much as I like him, I can’t marry him. I’ve declined his offer.’
‘You’ve declined?’
‘Yes.’
‘And what possible reason did you give, might I ask?’
Josiah’s tone was dangerously calm, but Livia was determined not to be put off by this, or let him see the fear that was starting to creep over her. She straightened her shoulders and opted for sweet reason. ‘I realise you were keen on the match, Father, but I don’t
love him, you see. I shall never love him. And I’m quite sure you wouldn’t wish for me to be unhappy, would you?’ She wasn’t sure of any such thing, but it seemed the right thing to say. ‘I don’t believe he really loves me either.’
‘What the hell has love to do with anything? And who gave you the right to make decisions on such important matters?’
Livia saw red at this. ‘I believe, as a woman of twenty-two, I have that right. You might be able to bully Ella, Father, and Maggie too for that matter, but not me. I’m old enough to make my own decisions now.’ She took a step towards him, her beautiful eyes challenging, even as she clasped her hands together as if in prayer.
He struck her. Livia fell backwards, banging her head on the claw foot of her father’s hat stand. Not allowing her time to catch her breath, he hauled her to her feet and hit her again, this time keeping a firm hold of her wrist while he slapped her back and forth across her face over and over, shaking her all the while as if he were a terrier and his daughter nothing but a mouse.
Livia cried out, unable to stop herself. She heard the office door open and a frightened voice apologise for the intrusion before it was quickly snapped shut again.
‘I’ll make you sorry you ever defied me, girl!’
Livia was distraught. She’d walk away from her father’s door gladly, this very minute, were she capable of escaping his grip, and if it didn’t mean leaving her darling Maggie. Oh, God, but she was in a pretty pickle! What could she do? Henry, too, had seemed to see her refusal as a form of defiance. He’d warned her that she’d regret her decision as he’d stamped from the room like a petulant child deprived of a treat. But standing up to Henry was as nothing compared to defying her father.
Grasping her by the arm, Josiah marched her from the room, along a narrow passage and out through the stock room, where shocked and curious eyes swivelled to follow their progress. Then pulling open the door, he threw her down the back steps into the delivery yard beyond. Livia fell on the cobbles, in the filth and the dirt, wincing as pain shot through her shoulder.
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