Bitter Inheritance

by Ann Cliff

  He was an attractive man when he stopped scowling. And he seemed to know about the Romans. Well, at least he’d forgotten the bad temper; Sally hated to be shouted at. She smiled vaguely. No good admitting she was a Bo-Peep.

  ‘That’s what the fog does for you! I thought you were a shepherd at first. And I’d like to find the owner of these strays. It’s not good enough, letting them wander like this.’

  Sally kept quiet and looked attentive. Don’t mention sheep, don’t look at them…. She was willing the man to go away.

  The Roman relaxed a little. ‘I’ve wondered myself about what went on up here, two thousand years ago. It was probably a summer camp – too cold up here in the winter, I should have thought.’

  ‘That’s what we’ve always thought. But there was a big Roman town over there, of course.’ Sally pointed to the valley in the direction of Boroughbridge. ‘My mother said this was probably a lookout for them.’

  ‘You’re very well informed, Bo-Peep!’ The tone was still slightly ironic, but the man gave her a friendly look.

  They looked together over the summer landscape, at the varied patchwork of fields and woods, rising in the blue distance to the Cleveland Hills. Near at hand the last shreds of mist were dissolving in the sun. Sally stole a look at him. The man spoke well, although he was dressed in plain riding clothes and boots. He looked to be in his late twenties; tough, but there was a hint of humour in the firm mouth. What would he think of a dowdy little female that couldn’t control her sheep?

  Marcus looked down at Sally and she felt very conscious of the shawl, now dripping with moisture from the fog. Why did she always have to feel so inelegant? Because she was a farmer, she supposed.

  ‘I am just looking over the farm for the new tenant,’ he explained. ‘He’s not living here as yet. I must warn him about leaving gates open. Sheep are obviously a problem here.’ He gave her a sideways glance and Sally nodded her head vigorously.

  ‘Oh yes, they are! I’m just passing by, taking a short cut over the hill; there are footpaths here as I suppose you know. That one,’ and she pointed to a narrow path leading to a stile, ‘leads over Nutwith Common, it’s the quickest way to Masham from Thorpe.’ This bit of the story was true, at least.

  ‘I like to ride these cross-country tracks. I’m a historian, only an amateur of course, but I try to read the landscape for clues. Now do you think those footpaths are medieval, or are they even older? Prehistoric, perhaps?’ He looked at her, considering.

  Sally laughed. ‘My mother and father used to wonder that too. They read a lot of history, you see, and tried to make it alive – my mother was a teacher; she often brought the children from Thorpe school up here in summer to show them the fort, before she died.’ Tears came into her eyes and she blinked them away.

  Marcus turned away tactfully. ‘So the place has a lot of memories for you. I feel the same way about Lofthouse, over in Nidderdale. The Nidd was a magic river, when I was a child!’

  They looked at each other and Sally felt an attraction of a new kind, as if she wanted to know more about the mysterious ‘Marcus’. Not many local farmers were interested in history. He must own the farm. Her father would have known who owned the land here, but Sally couldn’t remember. ‘It’s your land, I suppose? You actually own a Roman fort?’

  ‘My family does. We have a few farms scattered over the High Side. Sometimes I think we should sell them all, the sheep runs, and buy some good land down yonder.’ He pointed to the valley of the River Ure. ‘Folks down there are already thinking about the hay harvest while we’ve only just started shearing. It’s more civilized, down on the river flats. But then, you don’t get views like this one. Are you interested in farming?’ The question was so sudden that Sally jumped.

  Meeting his thoughtful dark eyes with her own blue ones, Sally said, ‘I’ve lived on a farm all my life. It’s hard work but I’d hate to live in a town, even a small one like Ripon.’

  Marcus smiled and Sally felt more at ease. He looked quite human when he smiled. ‘But Ripon is an ancient city, plenty of history there. It might be easier than following footpaths in the fog. For a young lady, that is.’

  It would be hard now to admit she was the owner of the sheep. If only she’d not been dressed so shabbily! But she would probably never see him again, so it didn’t matter.

  ‘It was good to meet you, Miss Bo-Peep. I’ll collect my horse and be off. Just tell the shepherd to get the sheep off, will you?’ Marcus raised a hand in salute and dropped down the bank to where a tall chestnut horse was tied to a tree. Sally hadn’t noticed the horse before; it was very well bred.

  Sally decided to walk away from her delinquent flock and try to retrieve them later in the afternoon, when Marcus was out of sight.

  They seemed happy enough in their hollow. But the flock had other ideas. There was a sharp clink of the bucket as Sally turned away and that was their signal. They jumped to their feet and assembled in a fairly orderly bunch round her, like children ready for a treat. The Motley Flock had had their fun and they wanted to go home. Sally ignored them and swung down the path, walking as fast as she could, but Mary and Lavinia followed, with the rest tagging on behind. The game was over, it was time to go. They bleated happily at Sally as they trotted along, peering up at her through their woolly fringes.

  ‘You horrible sheep!’ Sally was exasperated. But she was also proud of her flock at the same time.

  Marcus came up on his horse and to her surprise he was laughing, bending over his saddle and trying to catch his breath. ‘Caught you out! You can’t deny ownership now, Bo-Peep!’

  Blushing furiously, Sally went off down the farm track, the sheep behind her, following closely with their eyes on the bucket. The lambs galloped to keep up. Marcus let her go ahead but then caught up as she came to the road. ‘Would you like some help to get them home, Bo-Peep?’

  ‘No, thank you. I’m sorry I wasn’t entirely truthful … I was so ashamed.’ Sally’s face was hot and when she raised it to look at him, she saw the ironic glint in his eyes again. ‘I don’t usually set out to deceive, but do you know, someone deliberately opened the gate and let the sheep escape!’

  The horseman shook his head. ‘A despicable trick. Report him when you find out who it was. And put a padlock on the gate. We can’t have this happening again!’ He swung the horse to face her. ‘Perhaps I should follow behind to make sure they don’t stray?’

  To make sure they were well clear of the farm more likely, Sally thought. ‘They follow me very well, thank you. I apologize for them and I’m grateful for your – tolerance. I’m sorry that they strayed on to your land.’ It sounded strained, a formal little speech, but Sally felt she had to say something. He’d been quite kind. The sheep stood still, waiting for Sally to make a move. Mary, as usual, was standing very close, hoping that the girl would stroke her woolly head. How embarrassing!

  ‘I’ve never seen such a well-behaved flock, I must say. Most impressive!’ His voice softened a little. ‘You must be a good shepherdess, Bo-Peep.’

  ‘Thank you. I reared them all myself and now I’m ashamed of them!’ Sally saw the funny side of the situation and in spite of herself, laughter bubbled up. Her shawl fell back and stray curls came tumbling round her face. ‘Oh Marcus, I am so sorry!’

  ‘Don’t let it happen again, miss.’

  Reluctantly Sally turned to go back down the hill to Thorpe. She wanted to get home as soon as possible, away from this dreadful situation. But at the same time she had a strange feeling that she wanted to stay on the damp hilltop, talking to this interesting man. Who was he? Marcus, too seemed slow to leave. He was busily adjusting his girth, fiddling with the stirrups and then leading his horse out on to the track. Perhaps he was keeping an eye on her. Did he suspect that she’d take the sheep back up the hill, as soon as he’d gone?

  ‘I hope that we may meet again in better circumstances! And more comfortable surroundings, too.’

  ‘Could hardly be worse,’ S
ally muttered as, with a wave, the man turned his horse and cantered off.

  The Motley Flock was severely reprimanded by its owner later in the day, not for the first time. The sheep stood in a circle, back home safely in the paddock, and gazed up at her, as Sally told them what she thought of them. ‘And made me look so stupid in front of – in front of a stranger!’ She blushed again at the thought. There was an old padlock in the barn and Sally locked up the gate with a big chain that night. She’d have to remember where she put the key. Marcus would be pleased that she’d taken his advice.

  She couldn’t find out who he was because Camp Farm had changed hands in the last month or so and nobody seemed to know who’d bought it. ‘Some big farmer from Ripon way,’ said Robin laconically. She would probably never see him again.

  THREE

  ‘I am sorry to have to say this to the mistress of a respectable household.’ The doctor looked over the top of his glasses and the respectable Mrs Bellamy looked sternly back. She sat upright in rustling black, thin and elegant, waiting for the verdict.

  ‘This young woman is almost certainly pregnant. Either that or she has a large tumour. Pregnancy, taking into account all the symptoms, is the more likely.’

  Mrs Bellamy’s icy calm was broken. Her hand flew to her mouth and her voice was high. ‘Surely not! The child is only sixteen and young for her age! She goes nowhere alone! We are her guardians! How can she be … have you told her?’

  ‘Not yet. I thought it best to speak to you first.’ The doctor looked out of the window, wondering how soon he could make his escape. On a fine June day such as this he would rather be out of town than in grimy Sheffield, even in the upper-class suburbs. The sun filtered weakly through the smoky haze of industry. You never saw real sunshine in Sheffield.

  Emma stood up nervously as the doctor and Mrs Bellamy came back in. Her hands twisted together and she looked at the floor as her guardian spoke in a stern, quiet voice. ‘Emma Jane! Is there anything you are hiding from us?’

  ‘N-no, Mrs Bellamy.’ What could she mean?

  ‘Dr Murray says that you may – you may be with child!’ It was a terrible whisper. ‘How can this be?’

  Emma flushed crimson as the light dawned. She should have realized that it could happen. That young Mr Steele, a business acquaintance of her uncle’s, had stayed in the house on his way to London. Had stayed a few weeks in the end, as he and Uncle had made some business arrangements. She had hated Mr Steele.

  ‘I will leave you now, Mrs Bellamy.’ The doctor packed up his bag. ‘It seems that the young person has something to tell you. I will examine her again in a few weeks. Good day.’

  When the doctor had gone Mrs Bellamy turned on Emma in a fury. ‘Is this how you repay our kindness: taking you in as an orphan after your parents died? Making you a member of a respectable family in Sheffield, a leading family of cutlers with a reputation to uphold? I never thought, never ever thought that you would bring us to this disgrace!’ She paused. ‘You will be whipped, of course.’

  Emma looked at the carpet and tried to concentrate on its pattern. There was nothing she could say.

  ‘Who is the man? He shall be made to marry you! Tell me this instant, Emma Jane! With whom have you besmirched our name?’

  She could still smell the drink on his breath, hear his excited giggle as he climbed into bed beside her. They’d given Mr Steele a room next to Emma and she had no lock on her door. She’d tried to wedge it with a chair after the first night, but he’d still managed to get in. Emma had cried, but he had threatened her. ‘I’ll kill you if you tell anybody at all. Remember that.’ Strong hands had closed round her throat. Small and pale, Emma had never expected to be in danger from a man. She hadn’t thought very much about where babies came from, but had a hazy memory of what had happened last year when a maid got into trouble and had to be married off quickly.

  ‘I can’t say.’ Hot tears forced themselves out from under Emma’s closed eyelids. Her head ached. How she wished she could feel well again.

  Her guardian shook her arm roughly. ‘I demand that you tell me. Where have you been? Did you sneak off somewhere while Mr Bellamy and I were away in April? That must be it! I don’t know what Mr Bellamy will say when he hears this, but you are in deep trouble, you stupid girl! Brazen hussy, for all your meekness. You must have provoked some poor man, led him on … you slut!’

  Emma remembered those awful nights, the dread that he would come again: he usually did. She remembered the pain and the shame of it and the way he’d laughed when he left her shuddering. He was on the way to business deals abroad, thank goodness. She would never see him again so long as they didn’t find out who did it. That much Emma held on to, as she looked at the carpet. She didn’t want them to pursue Mr Steele. It was possible they’d make him marry her and she would have that dreadful nightly ordeal for the rest of her life! Anything was better than that.

  ‘To think that after we gave you a home and a family, you should behave like this.’ Mrs Bellamy went on and on, but eventually she ran out of breath and Emma was left alone in the morning-room.

  It was true the Bellamys had taken her in after her parents died. But they had also taken over the business interests and money built up by her father, a property owner, who had been a distant relative. Emma was given a small room and allowed to eat at the Bellamy’s dining-table. But she was not encouraged to join in the conversation. There was a maid for the rough work and a cook, but Emma did much of the housework and all the sewing for the household.

  Emma was often severely disciplined ‘for her own good’, which meant that she was whipped. Mr Bellamy took a small horsewhip to her of the kind used by jockeys, for the slightest reason. If Emma dropped a plate, she was whipped. Mr Bellamy seemed to enjoy it, although he said it was his unpleasant duty. She was a drudge and she knew it. Her parents’ money had disappeared and the only escape Emma could think of was to try to find a post as a governess. But she looked so young and small, it would be hard to find work. The whipping took away her confidence. And since those nights of torment she’d felt even less confident about asking anyone for a job. She felt guilty somehow, and very frightened of men.

  The next few days were a nightmare for Emma. Why had she not realized what was happening to her body? Why did nobody explain these things to young people? Mr Bellamy was appalled, of course. He wanted to get rid of Emma as soon as possible, and told her so.

  Gradually through the gloom, a faint hope glimmered. They talked of sending her to the country. Somewhere remote so that her disgrace would not affect their respectable standing. In Sheffield they were pillars of the church, known for their gifts to charity. ‘We try to set a standard for the workers to follow,’ Mr Bellamy said smugly at board meetings.

  Emma had been to the Dales for holidays in the days when she had loving parents and a happy life. ‘The country’ always had a sort of golden glow for her. If she could get away from the Bellamys even for a few months, perhaps her head wouldn’t ache so much.

  ‘It will be a just punishment for you.’ Mrs Bellamy obviously hated the country. ‘You will have to put up with horrid smells and uncouth people. There will be no polite society and no drains. And in any case your condition will be obvious. You will be in disgrace and ostracized by all decent people. It serves you right.’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Bellamy,’ Emma whispered. She would try to pack a few books in her luggage. She had not yet begun to think about the baby; such thoughts were pushed away.

  For the next few days Sally had no time at all to think of Roman soldiers. The old farmhouse dairy echoed with the swish, thump of the butter churn as she made batch after batch of butter. It took her most of a morning: skimming the cream off the top of the milk, churning in the big barrel churn, washing and pressing the granules together and finally – the best part – shaping each lump of butter into a perfect, rectangular brick with the badger pattern on the top.

  The weather continued to be fine and while Sally made butt
er, George finished shearing the Motley Flock, with dear Martha helping to wrap the fleeces. Afterwards they sat in Sally’s kitchen, eating thick slices of Martha’s fresh crusty loaf with some of Sally’s plum jam. It was the first bread Sally had eaten for a week and she was ravenous. Oatcakes made with stale corn were now her main diet, but they were not the same as bread.

  However, they wouldn’t eat the butter.’Nay, you’ll need to sell it all!’ Martha had inspected the butter and approved of it. ‘It should sell well, you’ve done a good job. Your mother always said you were a good little dairy worker!’

  George grinned across the table, satisfied with his day’s work. ‘Now Martha lass, where’s that gooseberry pie you promised?’

  ‘Here it is. Well, those sheep’ll be glad to get their wool off. Weather’s warming up. I just hope we don’t get a storm.’

  After milking that night Sally went down the gill to see her beloved sheep, unfamiliar now without their wool, although quite plump and well fed. They gathered round the bucket as usual and she noticed that the lambs were learning the same behaviour. About half the lambs were females. ‘And I think I’ll keep you girls, if you behave yourselves!’ Sally told them. ‘We’ll have a bigger Motley Flock next year and more lambs.’ She sighed, remembering that all the lambs should really be sold to help to pay the rent.

  Thursday dawned without the dreaded storm, cool and cloudy. Summers on the High Side were generally cool, with a slight breeze off the moor on even the hottest day. Thorpe was on a windy ridge with valleys at either side, but in the west there was a long line of moorland on the horizon, turning purple with heather in the late summer and white with snow in the winter. Sally knew that they were farming on the edge: any higher up the hill and the soils were too poor for a dairy. Ripon was a different climate, soft and sheltered in the Ure valley, the huge old trees indicating the depth of soil. But the High Side farmers had to compete down in Ripon with those who had life easier.