He shrugged without answering.
‘Allan! Answer me!’
He turned slowly to look at her. ‘If you must have an answer then ’tis this. Harriet is still my wife. A poor dead wife, mayhap, but I love her, still. If I must wed again at some future time I’ll consider your Eloise. But I make no promises, Maria, and do not try to force a decision. I will be courteous, aye, but no more. And have you considered this — that she may not care for me when we meet? What then of your fine plans? Have you thought on that?’
Maria shook her head. ‘She will care for you. She must.’
‘There’s no must about it,’ he said harshly.
‘But if you do like her, Allan, and if she cares for you — then will you agree to a betrothal? ’Twill be next year before you can be wed. She will be fifteen then.’
‘I’ve told you, I make no promises, Maria. If you are determined — ’
‘Hugo thinks it wise, Allan.’
‘And you?’
‘Now that I’ve seen her, I agree with all my heart. She will make you happy, Allan.’ She sighed deeply and stood up. ‘So I can tell Hugo you will consider her?’
He nodded reluctantly, already regretting his acquiescence. He had allowed himself to be swayed by her eloquence. He cast around in his mind for a loophole. ‘On one condition,’ he said.
‘And that is?’
‘That she is told of the Gillis strain in me.’
Maria gave a shocked gasp, and her face paled. ‘Oh no, Allan!’ she begged. ‘Not that, I thought it was decided long ago that — ’
‘I was younger then,’ he reminded her. ‘And prepared to take advice from you and Hugo. You advised me as you saw fit but now I am older and make my own decisions. I will only agree to a betrothal if she is told the true facts and still wants me.’
He felt a sense of freedom as he delivered the ultimatum. The Gillis blood was a convenient route by which he could escape. Strange that after so long he should find a use for the unpalatable facts of his birth. Another glance at Maria’s face showed him that he had indeed found a weapon which he could use in his own defence. Eloise would feel the sharpness of its edge! There was a rich irony in the prospect. He would accept Eloise but she would reject him. Then the blame would lie with her. He would be the wronged party — the innocent victim of Fate. It was a trump card. No one could press him into a loveless marriage. Eloise would go back to Rochester and he would be left in peace with his beloved ghost.
Maria faced him wearily. ‘And is that what I must tell Hugo?’ she asked. ‘’Tis your last word on the subject?’
‘Aye,’ he said. ‘The very last.’
CHAPTER FIVE
Martin Kendal was like his father, in colouring, at least. He had the same swarthy skin and gleaming dark hair and the same humorous brown eyes. However he was not stocky like Hugo. His limbs were longer and his neck was slim. He had inherited his father’s confidence and was cheerful, trusting, assuming his fellows to be friends until they proved themselves otherwise. He was popular at school and enjoyed his life. Winchester had a lot to offer and Martin worked hard and was a successful student. He was thirteen years old but already tall for his age so that people believed him to be older. The school term ended on 20 July and he arrived home in high spirits, prepared to enjoy the delights of home. He was soon being regaled by Piers and Lorna with the latest news. That Minnie had moved into Heron he discovered for himself. Meeting her in the Hall, he swung her off her feet and kissed her cheek. She squealed and put up a token resistance and then confided that she had roasted a mallard especially for him.
‘And beetroot in almond sauce?’ he cried.
‘I remembered that also.’
‘’Tis well done, Minnie, for I’m ravenous. Will there be boiled onions?’
Minnie rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, ’tis boiled onions as well, is it? Then I’d best be off and prepare some. Boiled onions, he says. Tut! You haven’t changed at all, young Martin.’
‘Young Martin?’ he teased. ‘Why I’m twice your size.’ He held out a hand and touched the top of her head. ‘I do believe you are shrinking, Minnie. ’Tis old age, and your bones are crumbling.’
And he darted away before she could retaliate and headed for the garden with Piers and Lorna skipping beside him excitedly. Minnie watched them go with a smile on her face but she thought, They’ll be grown up soon, all of them and Heron’ll be a quiet place. She knew that negotiations were in hand for a new bride for Allan. At thirty-four Minnie had not outgrown her habit of eavesdropping and was always well informed.
‘And dear old Maggie has moved into Ladyford,’ Piers told Martin.
‘And Allan is to be wed again. Her name is Eloise and she’s to move into Heron the day after tomorrow and she’s pretty and she sings and Nat says we can go and watch the lurcher races.’ Lorna paused for breath and looked at Piers to see if she had omitted anything.
‘And Ruth is ill again,’ said Piers, ‘and Mama must go down there at once. She’s an old, old lady and must surely die.’
Martin sat on the grass with his back to the broad trunk of the chestnut tree and leaned back, his hands clasped behind his head. He always made for the same tree and did not consider himself truly home until he sat there. He considered the chestnut tree his own property, for he knew every branch and fork and had spent many years as a boy hidden within its dense leaves. There were two notches in the bark, toe holds from times past that Matt had made for him when he taught him to climb it. The initials M.K. were carved in it — his own handiwork — and Maria, diplomatically, had asked his permission before Lorna’s swing had been hung from the lowest bough. Higher up there was a small rotting hole where the squirrels hid their nuts which was known only to Martin. He regarded Piers and Lorna fondly for a moment as they knelt beside him, then he took his hands from behind his head and with a sudden movement pushed them both over backwards. Then he sprang to his feet and galloped off, slapping his thigh and making a fair imitation of a hunting horn. The two younger children picked themselves up and raced after him as he careered wildly across the lawn. At last he threw himself face downward under an oak tree and feigned death.
‘Get up, you ninny,’ said Piers. ‘We know you’re not dead.’
‘We know it,’ piped Lorna. ‘Get up, Martin.’ He lay quite still, his face hidden in the grass. Lorna looked at him anxiously and then at Piers. ‘We know it,’ she repeated with less conviction.
‘Martin!’ cried Piers pushing him with the toe of his shoe. ‘Martin, do get up.’
With a sudden terrifying roar, Martin leapt to his feet, snatched Lorna up and pretended to devour her. ‘I’m a wolf.’ he cried. ‘A hungry wolf!’
When at last her squeals subsided and the excitement was over, he settled himself under the tree, hands behind his head and looked at their flushed faces. ‘And now,’ he asked. ‘Tell me about the lurcher races?’
*
Maria was so busy with the preparations for Eloise’s arrival that she was not aware until the middle of the afternoon that Martin, Piers and Lorna were all absent from the house. Puzzled and vaguely annoyed, she checked with Minnie to see if they had gone picnicking. Minnie shook her head.
‘Not to my knowledge,’ she said, ‘and they’ve not come to me for food and drink so I doubt it. When did they go?’
‘I scarcely know,’ Maria admitted. ‘I thought they must be in the garden or — ’
‘Most likely gone riding,’ said Minnie. ‘Jon would know.’
Jon was swilling down the stable floor ready for Eloise’s mount. They were expected early evening. He shook his head in answer to Maria’s query.
‘Haven’t clapped eyes on ’em,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Young Lorna’s not even been out to feed the ponies. Off gallivanting, I expect, and I wish I could join ’em. Fine day and all. At least the visitors will have a pleasant journey.’
‘I hope so.’ She sighed crossly. ‘I wanted all the family to be here to greet them. Hugo is coming
home early from the mine. Oh, how very vexing!’
Jon seized a broom and began to sweep the water out of the stable door and Maria backed away hastily and retreated to the house. Upstairs, she took a last look at the room she had prepared. She was pleased with her morning’s endeavours. The small bed chamber smelt fresh and clean. There was clean linen on the narrow bed and a pomander hung in the window on a red ribbon. The sun’s rays warmed it, giving an orange tang to the air which mingled with the lavender which was generously sprinkled on the rushes on the floor. A sheepskin rug lay beside the bed and a candle stood on the small wooden chest beside the bed. This would be Eloise’s room until she was married. It had been Maria’s room and Hannah’s before that. Alison had slept there before her marriage to Luke and earlier still it had been Elizabeth’s. Now she, Maria, slept with Hugo in the main bed chamber, but one day they would relinquish it to Allan and his Eloise. The thought held no regrets for Maria — she found it strangely comforting. Pray God it will always be so, she thought, a Kendal man to rule Heron and a Kendal woman to love and cherish him.
For a moment she let her thoughts wander. Eloise seemed a very suitable match for Allan. Hopefully he would accept her and they would marry when Eloise was fifteen. They had not met each other, but Allan was an attractive man and Eloise should find no fault with him — if he would put aside his morbid thoughts and shake off the memories of his recent tragedy. Eloise would make him happy if he allowed it. Maria was sure of it. Eloise would give him sons and daughters and his life would be full and happy. It could happen and it must, she told herself. So why did a nagging doubt persist? Was it a doubt or less tangible than that? A feeling of unease? She shrugged the thought aside. She was a foolish woman to allow such notions. The visitors might arrive at any time. With half the family missing it was even more important that at least the mistress of Heron should be properly attired and ready to greet them. She hurried along the passage to her own room, calling to Ellie to come up and help her dress.
*
The lurcher races were held once a month during the summer and were to be found at a variety of venues around the town. They were haphazard affairs at best, starting in the afternoon as soon as enough dogs had arrived at the arranged meeting place and ending when it grew dark or when no one had any money left to wager, whichever came sooner. On this particular day, Nat had told them that the meeting would be held further along the river bank, beyond the wooden bridge where the land was flat, before it reached the first granite outcrops. Martin, Piers, Lorna and Nat walked along with Brin trotting dutifully beside his master. Lorna thought secretly that with such short legs he would scarcely win a race but she hoped to be proved wrong.
‘And remember,’ Nat said for the third time in as many minutes, ‘’Tis not my fault if Allan’s bride-to-be arrives and you’re not there. I’ve no wish to face your father’s wrath nor your mother’s, neither. ’Tis you wanted to come.’
‘Oh do stop chuntering,’ said Martin. ‘We won’t be late back and they won’t arrive early. But what if they did? ’Tis Allan she’s going to wed not one of us. She’ll see Allan and that’s all that matters. Anyone would think ’twas the wedding we were missing. ’Tis only Eloise and her father arriving from Rochester. They’ll manage well enough without us.’
Nat, still nervous, opened his mouth to argue but Lorna interrupted with a shrill cry.
‘I can see them! I can see all the people. And all the dogs!’
They had rounded a bend in the river and the sight of the crowd of men and dogs put an end to all their doubts. The long awaited excitements loomed and at once Eloise and her imminent arrival faded from their minds. In some way the meeting was a clandestine one. The races were held in out of the way places so that those who attended could do so safe in the knowledge that loved ones, employers and other interested parties would not discover them. There were men of all classes there and a few women. Some of the men were flat-capped prentices who had feigned illness to escape for an afternoon’s sport. Others were tradesmen who had ‘gone off on business’ and left their wives to watch the lad in the butcher’s shop or make their excuses at the smithy. The saddler’s son wandered through the crowd carrying an armful of leather dog collars and his mother was draped in a selection of leads. An old man offered canine remedies which would cure all known distempers, and charms that would guarantee fleetness of foot. A few, like Martin, were gentlefolk prepared to wager small sums on the outcome of the races. Others were like Nathaniel Gully — an owner, fussily competitive and eager to see his dog race for the sheer fun of it and the occasional heady taste of glory if the animal won. There were several tinners there, somewhat dismayed to see Martin Kendal, and Lorna recognized Colin Parry, the cousin to their tutor as well as Mistress Bellamy, the cobbler’s wife.
They were just in time. Stakes were being driven into the ground to prop up the wattle hurdles which would separate the dogs at the start of each race.
‘That way they each get a fair chance,’ Nat explained, ‘and the dogs can’t bite each other. Their owners will hold them — you’ll see in a moment — and then the whistle goes and off they go.’
‘But where do they go to?’ Lorna asked, mystified.
‘They chase the hare, ninny,’ said Piers, abashed by her ignorance.
Nat smiled at her. ‘But ’tis only a make-believe hare, not a real one,’ he said. ‘A lump of wood wrapped in a hare’s pelt and dabbled with blood to make it smell like one. Tis on a long rope and the rope is wound on to a drum. Come — I’ll show you. ’Tis cunning, the way ’tis done.’
They followed him in and out of the tangle of owners and dogs and leashes until they came to a ‘wall’ made of straw bales. There was a hole through the straw large enough for one dog, and behind the straw there was a narrow wooden drum set on its side on a spindle with a handle at each side and a rope round the middle of it. Piers and Lorna looked at it, no wiser than before and Nat laughed at their expressions.
‘I’ll tell you how it works,’ he said patiently. ‘At the end of the rope there’s the make-believe hare, you see? The hare lies in front of the dogs who are lined up at the start, separated by the hurdles so they can’t see each other. All they can see is the “hare”.’
Martin, he noticed, had wandered off and was deep in conversation with a man holding three leashed dogs.
‘When the whistle blows two men up this end start to wind in the rope and that pulls the hare along so the dogs think the hare is running away. They rush out and chase it. When the quarry that’s the hare — reaches the straw it’s pulled through the hole and the first dog to go through the hole after it is the winner.’
They were very impressed and after a few more questions were satisfied that they understood. Men, with their dogs, were still arriving, some walking, some mounted, a few even rowing downstream to the meeting place. As the crowd grew the noise increased as dogs whined and barked and their owners boasted about their own dog’s invincibility. An enterprising ale wife arrived in a rickety cart carrying three large barrels of ale, and she was soon doing a steady trade. The talk grew wilder and was punctuated by bursts of loud laughter. The sun shone and the river ran by, gurgling round the boulders. On the far side of the river a dozen or more long haired cattle watched curiously through sleepy eyes, their heads raised occasionally as the scent of the dogs was carried across the river by the light breeze.
Lorna and Piers were left to their own devices as Nat hurried to the start of the course to enter Brin in the first terrier race. There were six pens and Brin went into number three. Two men crouched at each end of the traps to watch that no dog was released by its owner until the whistle blew. The fourth dog was put into the pen next to Brin and everyone waited impatiently for the last two. These were all black and white short-legged terriers. The lurchers belonged to the gypsies. They were long-legged with shaggy broken coats, cross-bred between collie and greyhound. Lurchers and terriers would run alternate races. In went another terrier and the
n the last. There was a roar from the spectators, who crowded to the edge of the hundred-yard track and began to shout for their dogs even before the whistle. Piers and Lorna had squeezed a way to the front and now joined in the general excitement, screaming loudly for Brin. The whistle blew and the hare jerked forward as the owners released their dogs and the six small animals surged in pursuit of the bloodied bundle of fur which tantalizingly leapt just ahead of them, no matter how hard they ran.
‘Brin! Brin! Come on, Brin. You can run faster than that!’ shouted Piers. ‘You can win! You must. Go on, Brin. Go on!’
The excitement was almost too much for Lorna. She imagined that the blur of fur was a real hare and, fearful that the leading dog would reach it, she covered her face with her hands and prayed for its survival. Piers, beside her, continued to shout but as Brin fell behind his excitement gave way to disappointment and his cheers to groans. A dog by the name of ‘Wrangler’ was declared the winner and the next race announced and wagers invited. Martin reappeared briefly to smile at the children, then he was pushing his way through the crowd and was once more lost to view. Nat returned with Brin beside him and the two children made a great fuss of him as he stood panting, his sides heaving with the effort of his race.
‘He’ll do better next time,’ Nat assured anyone who would listen. ‘He needs the first race to warm up, you see. Never does well until the second or third but he’ll go! Aye, he’ll win before the day’s out. Now watch, the lurchers are almost ready. Watch number five. He’ll win. Can you see, little Lorna? Stand in front of me, that’s the way. Ah, they’re ready — they’re off!’
Before the whistle blast had faded the dogs were away and once again the spectators shouted themselves hoarse as the air rang with their cries of encouragement. Number five came in third but Nat was not at all put out.
‘Off form,’ he told them airily. ‘That’s a youngish dog and still moody. I still say he’s the best of that lot. Just a bit off form. You’ll see.’
White Water Page 9
