by Ann Cliff
The shadows lengthened across the square. Carts were coming to collect the sheep. The afternoon was passing, but Marcus did not come out of the meeting. George and Martha came back, worried that they’d missed the sale. ‘We’d better make tracks for home. I’ll fetch the cart and load up these girls … my, they look right well!’
Sally would have liked to see Marcus again. They still didn’t know each other’s names or whereabouts, which was silly, but everything had happened so quickly! They might never happen to meet again. But George and Martha were keen to get home before dark and she didn’t like to hold them up. So they went back with the flock, who seemed quite happy with the arrangements, netted up in the cart, jogging through the twilight to their home at Badger’s Gill.
*
Marcus went home thoughtfully after a long, slow meeting. He was president of the local show society and was keen on making the event a way of improving the local livestock, by rewarding the best breeders of sheep or cattle with cups and rosettes. But there was still much to be done to persuade the average farmer to breed for improvement. The young man sighed rather wearily as he left the little town behind and headed for the moor. Marcus was in no particular hurry; there was no one waiting for him to come home. Things would have been different had Elizabeth lived. His life had seemed set on a successful course, but just before he was to be married to the attractive young woman he loved, she died of pneumonia. That was three years ago; Marcus still felt lonely at times, but Elizabeth’s memory was fading. Life had to go on.
The big horse knew it was going home and quickened its pace. Colsterdale was home: a big sheep farm belonging to his family, who lived at Pateley. The little dale was not far from Masham but it was separate, a different world. Marcus and the farm workers saw few outsiders in the dale and he was used to his own company. Of course, he reminded himself, he was lucky to have the Browns to look after him, husband and wife who had a cottage on the farm. Jesse Brown was a very good shepherd and his wife Jeanie cleaned the house and cooked for the boss, not without a certain amount of grumbling about his untidy ways.
No doubt it was time he thought again of marrying, but after Elizabeth’s vivacity, other lasses seemed insipid. Until, that is, he’d met the girl at Camp Hill. Miss Mason of Badger’s Gill. He knew who she was, now.
As the meeting ended, Martin, the man who’d come to call him, had teased Marcus about the motley pen of sheep he’d sold. Not quite the family standard, Marcus had agreed. ‘D’you know who bought them?’ he’d enquired casually.
The other man had laughed. ‘There you were, shaking hands and you hadn’t been introduced! That’s Robert Mason’s daughter. Farmed Badger’s Gill. He died early this year … a bonny lass, too. Now, can you tell me where to buy a good tup? We had no luck at the sale today.’
It was strange, thought Marcus as he turned in at the familiar farm gate, that he couldn’t forget Miss Mason. Today she’d seemed beautiful, her heart-shaped face framed with chestnut curls. He shook himself. Must be spending too much time on his own.
There was something about the Masons that he had almost forgotten. An old quarrel, and they’d never mixed with the family. He must ask his father about it. Shut away in Colsterdale he was not up to date with what the old boy was doing, but he knew that Radford Estates had owned that farm, Badger’s Gill, for a few years. Presumably Miss Mason’s father was the tenant. Had been … Martin had said he’d died. Perhaps he should read the death notices in the paper more often and take more notice of what was happening outside his own boundaries … surely the poor little lass wasn’t farming on her own?
Ripon Cathedral clock was booming the stately hour of one o’clock as a party set out from Trinity Vicarage on a solemn mission. In the outside driving seat of the old-fashioned barouche was the corpulent Jeremiah Jones, the vicar’s gardener and handyman, who had been at the vicarage for twenty years and who sang with Welsh fervour in church on Sundays.
Under the vehicle’s hood, the vicar tucked up his wife in her many rugs and settled back to watch the familiar winter landscape slide past. They had waited for a fine day to make the trip to Thorpe. Jeremiah drove very slowly, as Mrs Mason preferred, and her husband noticed that they were outpaced by an energetic walker. ‘Do not hurry, Jeremiah!’ Bertha reminded him again as they passed the city boundary and came into open country, as though the man would make a sudden dash. ‘You know how it affects my poor nerves!’
Samuel commented on the scenery and talked about the plans for a Christmas concert: anything, to keep his wife off the topic of Sally. They were going to visit Sally at Bertha’s insistence and he hoped that at this pace, they’d manage to get back to Ripon before dark.
It was good to visit his niece, Samuel agreed, but he did not like the agenda; he hated disagreements of any kind and they were certainly heading for one today. Bertha thoroughly disapproved of Sally’s farming ambitions and was still determined that the young woman should be brought back to Ripon, for her own good. She would also make a useful addition to their household. Sally would have to be brought to heel, and quickly, she told her husband in the sweet voice that so misled some people.
Samuel worried about Sally, but he had no idea of how to help her. The absence of bank books was odd; where could Robert have kept his records? Did he have any money left? Bertha was probably right: there was no future for Sally at the farm.
Samuel settled down in his seat with a sigh, glad that he didn’t have to argue with Bertha, which made his head ache. He hoped Sally would come quietly. The old horse plodded on, making heavy work of the hills. It was dark and claustrophobic under the trees at Thieves’ Gill and Samuel was glad when they reached the top of the bank and could see the line of moors against the sky. It seemed a long way to Thorpe.
Sally had no idea of the doom that was slowly drawing nearer to her, jogging up to Thorpe on the Ripon road, because nobody had told her it was coming. She knew at the back of her mind that the business was not settled and that Aunt Bertha had her sights set on Sally and her furniture. But it was easy enough to ignore for the present, in favour of more urgent problems.
The young farmer was busy making blackberry jam, stirring a large cauldron over the kitchen stove. The scent of blackberries hung in the air, a fragrant, warm, purple aroma. The last of the autumn sunshine was being bottled up for winter use. Jam and scones were useful for a paying guest. Sally’s hands were purple from handling the fruit and eating some of it, and her face was flushed. Stray red curls escaped from under her white cap. She was perfectly happy, secure in the moment, knowing that out in the cold afternoon Joe was getting through the necessary farm work. And best of all, the rent had been paid.
A few apples were needed to bring out the flavour of the blackberries. Sally went to the pantry, where her apples were laid out in rows on the shelves. She stretched up to take one and heard a knock on the door.
Uncle Samuel’s booming parson’s voice left Sally in no doubt as to what would happen next. Aunt Bertha swept into the kitchen, trailing rugs and threw her arms round Sally, recoiling as she realized that blackberry juice would stain her coat. Sally’s uncle followed, calling a greeting and Jones took the trap into the farmyard, where he managed to terrify the geese. The old dog barked and the peace of the afternoon was gone. But that was only the beginning.
Hurriedly taking off her apron and washing her sticky hands, Sally led the visitors into the parlour where she had a small fire, mainly to keep the books from getting damp. She was glad that the furniture was dusted and the room was tidy. The visit already had the feeling of an inspection.
‘You know why we are here, of course?’ Bertha’s eyes were darting round the room, lingering on the piano, which was a good one and positively feasting on the little corner cabinet in which Sally’s mother had kept her china.
‘But Aunt, I’ve already said that I want to stay here.’
‘You can’t afford to stay here, my sweet! You have very little income.’ The voice, powerful an
d sugary at the same time, echoed round the room and down the hall.
Sally couldn’t get a word in, as her aunt took the floor and told her how her future was going to be. ‘You will come to live with us as soon as it can be arranged, my dear girl, for your own good, as we agreed when you visited us in summer. Your room is ready. We are waiting to welcome you with open arms!’ There was a dramatic pause and a reply seemed to be expected, but Sally was speechless. How dare she! They had agreed on nothing!
Bertha whipped out a tape measure from her bag and measured the cabinet. ‘This will go nicely in my drawing-room.’ She smiled and turned back to the matter in hand. ‘Now, Sally, you must defer to our experience, you know. There is danger here. Your reputation could be compromised, my dear, by living alone, young as you are. What if some young man quite innocently called at the farm? There would be gossip about you immediately and as a clergyman, your uncle cannot allow that sort of thing to happen. Sally, my dear, we think only of you!’ Bertha paused for breath, bosom heaving. ‘Just look at you, like a scullery maid in a dirty apron, you poor child! This is not the life for you. You need to be living more as a young lady should. At the vicarage, we have a maid for such rough work as this!’ Her aunt waved a hand through the door at the jam, which was in danger of boiling over.
Thankful for a diversion, Sally dashed back into the kitchen to attend to the jam, her face crimson with suppressed rage. Was it the red hair that made her feel such emotion? Sally had often wondered what she would have been like with dark hair and a calm disposition. She pulled the jam off the stove and went back dutifully to her guests.
‘I realize that the animals will have to be sold and the landlord informed that you are leaving. But I have arranged for a carrier to call next week, to remove such items of furniture as we will require at the vicarage. Please don’t look so alarmed, dear Sally. This is all for your own good, no thought for us at all.’
‘But I’m not….’ wailed Sally.
Bertha rolled on, inexorably: ‘Of course, we will leave dear Robert’s furniture to you, in our wills, so you will eventually inherit. Watson the auctioneer can sell the rest, when the farm animals are sold. I have already been to see him about it. He will deduct his costs from the proceeds of the sale and give the remainder to your uncle, to invest for you.’
‘He what?’ Anyone would think she was simple, unable to look after her own affairs. Sally turned to Uncle Samuel, who had the grace to look uncomfortable.
‘And now, I need to measure the dining-table,’ Bertha announced majestically, drawing the tape measure from her bag once more. She made for the dining-room door.
Sally flew across the hall. ‘No! Don’t go in there, it’s private!’
Ignoring Sally, Bertha swept into the dining-room and the first thing she saw was the fire, blazing merrily. ‘What extravagance! Surely, my sweet, you don’t need a fire….’ her voice died away as she saw Miss Wakefield, sitting with a straight back at the table, primly sewing.
‘Who may this young person be?’ Bertha demanded. Samuel shrank back in the doorway as his wife surveyed the young person from head to foot, taking in the obvious pregnancy – and the ringless left hand. ‘What is the meaning of this?’ For once the sugary tones were forgotten and Bertha’s voice was hard.
Sally stood in front of Emma as if to protect her from Aunt Bertha. ‘Miss Wakefield is staying with me, for the present. So you see, Aunt, I’m not alone in the house.’
Bertha sat down suddenly on a dining-chair, as if overwhelmed. ‘Miss! Miss! A fallen woman! You have taken into your house a fallen woman! We will never live this down – never! You have disgraced us all. Sally Mason, you are not fit to organize your own affairs, this is proof of your folly! Get rid of this female immediately and come to Ripon with us tonight!’ She fanned herself with a handkerchief.
Sally was nearly fainting from a combination of rage and horror. She felt the blood drain from her face as she opened her mouth to defend her guest.
Miss Wakefield stood up, quite composed. Her young face was also hard as she looked at Bertha. ‘Please do not speak to Miss Mason like that, whoever you are. She has been most kind to me, have you not, Miss Mason?’
This was so unlike Miss Wakefield that Sally paused.
‘But obviously you are with child – Miss Wakefield. Putting yourself forward in the presence of decent folk! Who are you to talk to me, girl?’ Bertha quivered with indignation.
‘What do you know, that you accuse us so unjustly? My name is Emma Wakefield and I am not immoral. I was a victim. I was raped. Forced against my will, and got with child.’ Emma spoke simply, staring at Bertha. ‘I cannot allow you to blame Miss Mason, or me, for anything. I am staying here quietly until my time is over, and I will thank you to go away and leave us alone. I am not going to be a victim any more.’ She went quietly to stand by Sally. ‘I couldn’t help overhearing some of what you said. The financial arrangements between us are private, but I can tell you that Miss Mason can afford to stay here. And obviously, she should be allowed to make up her own mind.’ Emma walked out and they heard her going upstairs in the horrified silence that followed.
‘Well, Sally, perhaps we should leave you in peace. You seem to have solved at least some of your problems!’ Her uncle looked over his glasses at his niece, obviously glad that the crisis was over.
Sally managed to find her voice. ‘Thank you, Uncle Samuel. I’m grateful for your concern for me, but I can manage and I want to stay here.’
Her uncle looked relieved, but Bertha was not. ‘I am most upset that our offer of a roof over your head has been rejected. And I am very concerned that you are not living the life of a lady. And now, we shall have to find another maid. It is all very vexing.’ She sobbed a little.
Uncle Samuel tried to calm his wife down and Sally went into the kitchen to make them a pot of tea. Aunt Bertha admired the old china cups, but sadly, as though beaten. Sally thought she would find it hard to give up the dining-table, even if she could live without her niece. Slowly, the atmosphere returned to near normal and soon the visitors decided that it was getting late and they ought to go home. While Jeremiah Jones was bringing round the horse, Sally cornered her uncle in the hall. ‘Please will you tell the carrier not to come and cancel the auctioneer? I hope you won’t be offended, Uncle, but I’m staying at Thorpe.’
Uncle Samuel gave her a brief hug. ‘I know. How like your mother you are, Sally.’
The ordeal was over and Sally had won – with the help of her little friend. Emma’s change of character was amazing. Sally was left feeling limp by the visit, but she felt a deep gladness that her paying guest had shown a human, caring side.
EIGHT
Emma Wakefield sat on her bed weeping tears of relief. After all this time, feeling was coming back to her. The person she used to be was returning as if from a long journey. Feeling meant pain, but it was better than the terrible ice. To speak out, after months, years of silence, had lifted a weight from her, had somehow freed her from the worst of the memory of what had happened. The admission that she’d been raped and was innocent had been instinctive, to help Sally. Emma had listened with horror to Bertha’s booming voice telling Sally what she must do and it reminded her of her own experience at the Bellamys’ house.
Emma had been too young to defy her guardians, being brought up to be dutiful to one’s elders. And she had only dimly realized that they had taken her in, not in charity but so that they could get their hands on the property she’d inherited. She’d been determined not to let them know what had really happened. But she had been living with the Bellamys for over two years and the lack of any real warmth or fellow feeling had made her withdraw into herself.
Sally had been a surprise, prepared as Emma was for a grim Miss Mason. Emma hadn’t known how to react. But the habit of silence and keeping a distance had frozen her feelings, and she’d deliberately kept Sally away. Until recently, Emma had thought that she was there on sufferance, only because of the
money, just as she’d been in Sheffield. Sally was much nicer than Mrs Bellamy, of course. But Emma hadn’t realized that Sally, too, had her own problems. Not until now.
Emma felt that she’d matured these last few weeks, without realizing it. She had started to look at things from Sally’s point of view. Badger’s Gill had already done her good. There had been no harsh words, no frigid silences; just the peace of this old house and healing walks in the lovely countryside. Gradually, she had allowed herself to relax. And although she’d kept Sally at arm’s length, the warmth of her host’s personality had gradually melted the ice in Emma’s soul.
When Sally tapped hesitantly on her door, Emma dried her eyes and put on her coat. She stepped on to the landing and smiled at Sally’s anxious expression. There was no turning back; Emma took a deep breath and moved into the future. ‘Will you have you the time to come for a walk with me?’
Emma felt rewarded; the anxiety vanished and Sally’s face was lit by a radiant smile. ‘We’ll have to hurry up, the sun’s going down. Shall we go to collect the cows for milking?’
The two girls walked down the green lane towards the river. From a thorn bush, a robin piped his evening song. They could hear the distant cawing of homing rooks and see them dark against the sky. They walked slowly, because Emma was now heavy and awkward. Nothing was said for a while and then Sally turned to Emma. ‘Thank you so much for saying what you did this afternoon. It must have been very difficult for you. But it certainly stopped my aunt in her tracks!’ She laughed, a clear happy laugh that set Emma smiling.
It was hard to break the habit of over two years, but Emma knew she had to do it. ‘Yes, Sally, but it was time for me to stop being so selfish! It must have been difficult for you, dealing with me when you have nobody else to talk to. But I’ve had plenty of time to think as I’ve been sewing.’
The cows were waiting at the gate ready to come in and Sally let them through into the lane. ‘Come on girls, hurry up! Joe’s waiting for you.’ Emma stood behind Sally, afraid of closer contact with the cattle. They looked so big! When the cows were plodding up the lane Sally said quietly, ‘You’ve had a dreadful time and I think your, er, reserve has been due to that. I understand now, how you’ve been feeling.’ She closed the gate and rejoined Emma.
