‘Lorna! Come quick. Come and see,’ he urged. ‘Do wake up, you ninny, and look. I won’t tell you again, you must see for yourself.’
He jumped up and down impatiently until she struggled to her senses and, somewhat crossly, ran to join him. She, too, stared in amazement at the sight which met her eyes. Large areas of the surrounding moorland had disappeared under a vast sheet of water which sparkled in the sunlight. From it the tips of shrubs emerged and startled birds swooped above it uttering shrill cries of alarm. The higher ground was unaffected and a few stray animals had found their way to it — a small group of ponies who grazed unconcernedly and several sheep.
Lorna looked at her brother, her young face suddenly grave. ‘All the animals!’ she said. ‘The rabbits and foxes — will they all be drowned?’
‘I doubt it,’ replied Piers, who was none too sure. ‘But make haste and dress and we’ll ask Papa if we can ride out.’
She needed no second bidding and before long they were hurrying down to the kitchen where Minnie was already at work. The fire blazed and the porage was bubbling.
‘We can ride out to see the flood,’ Piers told her breathlessly, ‘Papa said so.’
‘But first we must eat a good, warm breakfast — Mama said that.’ Lorna grinned and they sat down at the table while Minnie ladled out two helpings of porage and added a spoonful of honey to each dish.
‘You go careful,’ she warned them. ‘We don’t want you falling in.’
‘We won’t,’ said Lorna. ‘Papa has told us not to leave the horses. We are to stay mounted. And we must not go too far. We promised.’
‘Well, see that you do as your pa says. There’s neither of you can swim yet and water’s very wet stuff!’
The two children giggled, scooping the thick, sweet porage into their mouths in their haste to be off.
Once outside, they raced to the stable and were soon mounted. Jack watched them go, hands on hips. ‘And you mind what your pa told you and keep on the horses,’ he yelled, but they merely waved in reply, too intent on their adventure to waste words on an answer.
They rode out of the stable yard, skirted the house and went down the hill on the far side until they stood at the water’s edge. The river banks were hidden under the swirling brown water and the original course of the river was no longer visible. A solitary dabchick paddled furiously against the current, making no headway.
‘I wonder what the fish think of it,’ said Lorna, gazing down and trying to pierce the murky depths. ‘The eels and the roach and the mullet … they’ll all get lost.’
‘Fish don’t get lost,’ said Piers. ‘I’ll wager our lower garden is flooded. The steps, too, most likely. We’ll have a look later. Ah, there’s a kingfisher! Did you see it?’ Lorna shook her head. She was watching something further out. ‘It’s a tree,’ she cried, pointing excitedly. ‘See, Piers, a whole tree floating along with its roots and branches.’
‘Aye, I see it. The current must be very strong. And look to the right — the stone bridge is half hidden. The arches are out of sight.’
They looked at each other soberly.
‘Will it come higher?’ asked Lorna anxiously. ‘Will it reach Heron?’
He tried to picture it happening, screwing up his face in concentration. ‘It might,’ he said at last, ‘but we would climb upstairs if it did.’
‘And if it came up the stairs?’
‘We’d climb out onto the roof.’
‘Oh.’
A sudden thought struck her. ‘Nat Gully!’ she cried. ‘I wonder if he is flooded. Should we go and see? Is Nat Gully’s too far?’
‘I think not,’ said Piers, so they turned their horses and rode alongside the water. When they drew opposite to his hut they saw that it was above the water line — but only just. There were three or four yards between the doorstep and the encroaching water. Of Nat there was no sign. They shouted but there was no reply.
‘Brin’s not there either,’ said Piers. ‘He would have barked.’
‘He would have been pleased to see us.’
‘Aye.’
‘I wonder how far is too far?’ said Piers. ‘I wonder if the old wooden bridge is too far. ’Tis built higher than the stone one. We might be able to cross it and then we could look for Nat on the other side.’
They looked back the way they had come. Heron was still in sight, its thatch just visible through the hawthorn trees. While they were deliberating, the sound of barking came faintly to their ears.
‘’Tis Brin!’ cried Piers. ‘They must be up ahead. We’ll surprise them.’
They urged the ponies to a trot and rode on a few hundred yards then stopped and listened again. The barking continued, but now it was quite obvious it came from the far side of the swollen river. They reached the wooden bridge and were dismayed to see that it, too, was almost submerged. The wooden supports were out of sight and the water flowed over each end of the bridge to a depth of a few inches. Only the centre was free of the water where the curve of the bridge reached its highest point. The barking was nearer now and Lorna opened her mouth to call to Nat but Piers put a finger to his lips to silence her.
‘We’ll go and find them,’ he told her. ‘We can cross the bridge.’
Lorna glanced down at the dark water which swirled around the wooden beams.
‘We daresn’t,’ she protested. ‘We must stay on the horses.’
‘We will! We’ll ride over the bridge. ’Tis strong enough. Cattle cross it.’
It was true. An excited gleam shone in her eyes.
‘Then let’s make haste,’ she said eagerly, and headed her pony towards the water’s edge.
‘Can horses swim?’ she asked as they splashed through the shallow water.
‘Aye,’ said Piers, who did not know whether they could or not. ‘But I should lead the way. ’Twas my idea.’
His protest went unheeded for already his sister’s horse was splashing on to the wooden bridge, his eyes rolling nervously.
‘Go on!’ cried Lorna crossly, digging him with her heels. ‘You stupid old thing, go on!’
The sound of Brin’s barking drew nearer and they heard Nat laugh.
The old pony was jerking his head from side to side, unaccustomed to the gleaming expanse of water which surrounded them. ‘Hold him steady!’ cried Piers, trying to persuade his own mount to follow Lorna’s on to the bridge.
Suddenly, Brin dashed from the cover of the trees and ran towards them and Lorna’s pony took fright and reared up. Somehow Lorna clung on but by now Piers’ pony had moved onto the bridge.
‘Take him forward!’ cried Piers, but Lorna had lost control and the pony, backing away from the excited terrier, collided with Pier’s mount and sprang forward with a shrill whinny of fear. As Lorna tugged at the reins, the horse swung sideways and the bridge rail creaked ominously. Brin had reached the bridge and dashed on to it, straight under the hoofs of the terrified animal which made a frantic leap. Lorna lost her hold and was flung sideways. With a despairing cry, she clutched at the rail as she fell, but her hands could find no purchase on the smooth wood.
Piers screamed, ‘Lorna!’ and then Nat appeared running towards them.
Piers was struggling with his own pony and trying to avoid Lorna’s. ‘Lorna!’ gasped Piers. ‘She’s in the water!’
Nat took in the situation at a glance. Lorna’s head surfaced for a moment and she screamed, too far now to try and take hold of the bridge supports for already the current was carrying her downstream.
‘I’m coming! Stay with the horses!’ cried Nat, as he dived into the water and swam after the little girl.
Sometimes he saw her head or an arm as she struggled in the fast-moving water. Sometimes she sank from sight and Nat’s heart sank with her. It seemed impossible that he could catch up with her before she sank for the last time, but suddenly she was carried up against the torn bough of a tree which slowed her progress momentarily and gave Nat the vital time he needed to reach her.
‘Make haste!’ cried Nat, through chattering teeth. ‘Help me turn her.’
Together they lifted Lorna’s unprotesting body and held her upside down until a rush of water emptied her lungs and she swung choking and spluttering — but mercifully still alive. Piers gulped back tears of relief as she burst into loud, uncontrolled sobbing and Nat, shivering and exhausted, tried to comfort her. When she was calmer they rode back to Heron. Nat rode Lorna’s horse, with Lorna on the saddle in front of him. He sat with one arm round her, trying to warm the frail, trembling body as she leaned against him, half fainting with cold and shock. Their arrival at Heron sent the household into a near-panic. Lorna was carried into the house and straight up to bed. Clean dry clothes and three hot bricks brought the colour back to her pale face. Minnie heated milk and added a spoonful of brandy to warm and soothe her stomach. Later there would be plenty of explaining to do, but in the meantime Nat Gully was the hero of the hour.
*
After the snows and heavy rains of the first two months of the year the high winds of March were welcomed by one and all. They dried out the low-lying pastures and the sheep returned to their grazing grounds. Once more men moved freely about their business and journeys that had been delayed were embarked upon. Ploughing was started and the ground prepared for early corn. Hunting was resumed and the population waited eagerly for the first signs of approaching spring, when tight buds would open and the children would scurry forth to search the trees and hedges for birds’ eggs. The sun shone but there was little warmth in its rays.
Hugo sat by the fire in the Hall, a letter in his hand. Beside him Piers worked at the table, busy with a piece of writing which wholly absorbed his attention. Lorna, at his side, practised plaiting with three leather thongs and waited patiently for him to finish. He leaned over his work and the tip of his tongue protruded.
At the far end of the room Maria worked at the loom, deftly sliding the shuttle backwards and forwards, soothed by the monotony of the movements. She glanced up at the windows. It was already growing dark and she saw that Hugo had turned the letter towards the firelight to read it more comfortably.
‘Fetch a taper,’ she told Lorna. ‘You shall light the candles for us … and ask Minnie for an extra candle for me. I shall work on for a while longer.’
The little girl hurried out and Maria looked across at her son.
‘What are you writing so diligently?’ she asked him. ‘I wish Master Parry could see you. He’d be most impressed with your perseverance.’
Piers looked up. ‘I must write one full page in my best hand to present to him in the morning.’
Hugo glanced at him curiously. ‘And what is your subject?’ he asked. ‘Won’t you read it aloud?’
Piers hesitated, then dutifully began to read:
‘The fox. A treatise … ’ he began.
‘A treatise on the fox?’ Hugo repeated, astonished. ‘Who teaches you such matters?’
‘Nat teaches me. He knows about all animals. He knows about foxes, badgers and martens. He hunts squirrel and rabbit and … ’
Hugo laughed. ‘Go on with your treatise. I am convinced.’
Piers began again: ‘The fox. A treatise. The young fox is called a cub but after one year, ’tis called a fox and later an old fox. Two foxes make a brace and the tail is called a brush or drag. When the fox mates ’tis rightly called clicketting and the she-fox is with cub when she carries her young. The fox is hunted with hounds and in cold weather leaves the strongest scent — ’
Hugo said, ‘Nathanial has taught you well. I trust he will not teach you to poach also.’ Piers kept his eyes on his writing and made no answer.
‘And is there more?’
Piers nodded.
‘Then let us hear it and then away to the kitchen for your supper. Ah, here is Lorna with the taper.’
The boy continued. ‘The fox is hunted with the horn also and will oft go to earth. Then must he be dug out with a broad spade. Or else he will be caught above ground and the hounds will kill him and his body be raised up on a pike staff.’
He reached the end and looked up at Hugo for his appraisal.
‘Well done,’ said his father. ‘You will make a fine huntsman — one day. Next year you shall go with me after an otter or a stag.’ He took the taper and lit the candle which Lorna then carried and set beside Maria. Hugo lit the two candles that stood at each end of the table and also the torches ensconced on the wall. ‘And now, away with you,’ he told the two children. ‘Your mother and I have much to discuss. Remember your prayers and sleep well.’
When they had gone, he re-read the letter which was from Melissa’s sister. For a while he was silent, considering its contents. Then he glanced at Maria.
‘Leave your weaving,’ he urged. ‘Let it wait until the morning. You will tire your eyes.’
Maria obeyed willingly and, blowing out the candle, crossed the room and settled herself beside him. He put an arm round her shoulders and she nestled closer, enjoying his closeness. ‘This girl that Abigail so warmly recommends for Allan,’ began Hugo. ‘What do you think on the matter? This Eloise Ballantyne. She comes from a good family and Abigail says she is well versed in music and dancing as well as household management.’ He glanced again at the letter. ‘She says she is in sound health and of comely appearance with a pleasant voice and manners. Do you think Allan will consider her?’
Maria hesitated. ‘I cannot say. I confess it would please me but mayhap ’tis too soon. He has scarcely recovered from Harriet’s death and his mood is so sombre.’
Hugo nodded. ‘The more reason for a new interest,’ he suggested. ‘He is young and he needs a woman in his life. He is he eldest son and needs an heir. This Eloise sounds very suitable — comely, a sweet voice, pleasant manner … ’ Maria smiled. ‘Quite a paragon in fact! I think you are half in love with her yourself.’
‘I think not,’ he laughed, tightening his arm around her. ‘She is very young, not yet fifteen, and I am an old man.’
‘Old? You will never be old! Forty-one is no age at all.’
‘Nevertheless I shall not succumb to her young charms. I have all I want in my Maria. But shall we go to Rochester and see the girl? It can do no harm. Mayhap we could visit Abigail and meet her and speak of it to Allan on our return.’
‘And if Allan won’t consider it?’
Hugo shrugged. ‘We cannot force him to wed but I am hopeful. Allan has known the joys of the marriage bed. He surely will not choose to stay celibate for ever. If he will not wed this year, then it must be next year. Why delay? ’Twill serve no purpose.’
‘But will he think that way? Oh, poor Harriet! Why did she have to die? They were so happy. If only I could have saved her.’
‘No one could save her. You did everything possible. You must not reproach yourself.’
‘Poor Allan. Mayhap a new bride will restore his spirits. I confess I grow anxious. He has changed so these last few months.’
‘He has lost his wife! I would change if I lost you. I would be melancholy.’
‘But would you choose only your own company for days at a time? Would your temper grow short and would you shout where once you spoke calmly? I am fearful. Do you believe ’tis just the melancholy?’
He turned and looked at her troubled face and kissed her gently. ‘I do,’ he said lightly. ‘We men are stra
nge creatures. Allan is mourning Harriet, ’tis no more than that. We will send word to Abigail to thank her for her letter and to advise her of our visit. If we like what we see we can broach the matter with Allan. We shall ride to Rochester at the beginning of April, when hopefully the highways will at least be passable … Eloise — ‘tis a charming name. Let us hope she is as charming as her name. By this time next year you may well have a new daughter-in-law.’
Abigail had done Eloise an injustice. She was not comely. She was beautiful. Her thick chestnut hair fell almost to her waist and, by contrast, made her fair skin appear paler than it was. There was no blemish on her face — not a scar, not a pockmark. Not even a freckle spoiled the translucent quality of her skin. Her blue eyes were large and flecked with dark green and her nose was small and straight. Even her teeth were white, and free of decay. Only Abigail, trying hard to be dispassionate, would have described her as merely comely. Eloise was the second daughter of James and Stella Ballantyne. They had six children. The first two, both girls, were James’ children by his first wife. The four younger ones, all boys, were Stella’s.
Although Abigail and Stella met rarely, the husbands were on friendly terms and their business interests overlapped. Adam Jarman, Abigail’s husband, now owned the flourishing boatyard which had been in his family for seven generations. James Ballantyne owned a ship’s chandlers from which he made a more than comfortable profit. He had settled his older daughter Bridget with a generous dowry and a middle-aged husband. He did not like his elder daughter and was thankful to be rid of her. Now he could devote himself to finding a suitable, and acceptable, husband for his beloved Eloise. Of all his children Eloise was the only one towards whom he felt the true affection a father should feel for his child. She was his pride and joy from the first moment she opened her eyes and nothing was too good for his beautiful Eloise. All her life she was petted and favoured and her transgressions, small or large, were either readily overlooked or else they were acknowledged and promptly forgiven. The other children grew jealous. Even her mother protested at such blatant favouritism — but to no avail. Eloise could do no wrong in her father’s eyes and she grew up accepting male adoration as her due. Her body developed early and by the time she was fourteen her good looks were complemented by fashionably small but perfect breasts, a neat waist and long slim legs. She was precocious, wilful and indulged, but promised, within a very few years, to be a great beauty.
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