“Nor do you want to, I’m thinkin’,” Joseph Miller muttered.
Sir Matthew was on his feet, the anger he had purposely held in check overflowing. “ I’ll see you get no work hereabouts, Miller. I’ll not have trouble-makers amongst my employees.”
“I’d sooner starve first!”
The two men glared at each other and Sir Matthew said tightly, “Your attitude may well bring you to it, Miller. It may well bring you to it!”
Once more, as his father had before him, Joseph Miller found himself without allies against the enclosure of the common land.
“But’ee pays good wages, Joseph,” Seth Brindley argued. “ Better’n some as I’ve ’eard tell.”
“That’s only to get you into his employment, to get you entirely dependent on him. Then what? We’d be no better than those black slaves they bring into Liverpool by the boatload!”
“Well …” Seth cast about for some reasoned argument. He liked working for Sir Matthew, knowing that at the end of each week he would have a regular income. The uncertainty of grubbing his own living from meagre strips of land and his own scrawny three or four cows had been replaced by a comforting sense of security. “Well, ’ee seems fair to me,” he ended lamely. “ ’ Ee gave me a good price for me cattle.”
Joseph brought his fist down upon the scrubbed table. “ Mebbe so—now. An’ to those whom he offers employment.” Joseph leaned towards Seth, who backed away. “What of all those who he don’t employ? What’s to become of them?”
Seth was silent. He had not the intelligence nor the foresight of Joseph Miller. Amongst the simple country folk, Joseph Miller was something of an individual. Though, like them, he could neither read nor write, his intelligence and logical reasoning far outstripped that of the ordinary labouring man.
Seth—and all his kind—lived for today, but Joseph Miller could visualise tomorrow—and he did not like what he saw!
Autumn gave way to winter and with the harvest over the villagers began to plan for their Christmas celebrations. Every year Sir Matthew held a festive gathering in his huge barn at the back of the Manor for all the villagers—an event anticipated with pleasure by everyone. Even Joseph Miller would put aside his resentment and join the merry-making.
Lady Caroline said, “ Sarah, I shall join the villagers’ celebrations this year.”
Sarah looked up, her action in folding Caroline’s undergarments stilled. “ Will your Papa allow it, m’lady?” the young girl asked doubtfully. Though Lord Royston doted on his vivacious daughter and spoilt her in many ways, lavishing gifts on her and arranging the life of the Grange around her, Sarah could not believe that he would allow Caroline to mix socially with the workers on his estate.
Lady Caroline shrugged her smooth shoulders and thought for a moment. “I’ll ask Guy Trent to escort me.”
Sarah thought about the wild young man she frequently saw galloping about the district on his horse, usually at a distance. But only the previous week he had spoken to her for the first time. She had been walking home down the lane from the Grange on her free afternoon when the sound of thudding hooves behind her had made her scurry to the side of the road. Guy Trent had pulled his temperamental chestnut stallion to a standstill, whilst he grinned down at Sarah, who drew further back on to the grass verge away from the restless animal’s pawing hooves.
“Good day, Miss Miller.”
Sarah gave a startled gasp, surprised that he should know her name. Then, as if reading her thoughts, he laughed, showing white, even teeth. His red hair was fashionably long and tied at the nape of his neck, but he spurned the wearing of a hat. His blue eyes had twinkled roguishly down at her. He was short and stockily built, but for a man who led the life of an idle gentleman his shoulders were broad and his muscles powerfully developed. She had heard he joined in with the village youths—wrestling, bare-knuckle fighting and other such contests of strength.
“Don’t look so frightened. What have they told you about me, eh Sarah? Have they told you what a wicked fellow I am?”
Sarah had taken another step backwards. “Yes—I mean, no, sir.”
Guy’s laughter had rung out, then his expression had softened. He had steered his mount close to her, reached down and touched her cheek with the tips of his fingers. “ Don’t be afraid of me, Sarah, I wouldn’t want to hurt a pretty little thing like you.”
His touch had seemed to burn her cheek and, with a swift intake of breath, she had leapt back yet again. “I mun go,” she had muttered and turned to hurry on down the lane, her heart beating alarmingly.
“I’ll see you again, lovely Sarah,” he had called after her and seconds later she was obliged to step again into the grass at the side of the lane as he galloped past, the panting horse’s thudding hooves so close.
As she emerged from the shade of the overhanging trees, at a bend in the road she had seen him leap a hedge into a field and gallop wildly down the steep-sloping meadow towards the stream. Madly he had plunged his mount into the water, splashed through the stream and climbed up the opposite bank. He had pulled on the reins, bringing his horse to a standstill. Then he had swung round and waved to her again.
“We’ll meet again, Sarah.” he had shouted, his words reaching her faintly on the breeze. She had looked about her anxiously, afraid that someone would hear his wild promise.
When she had looked back at Guy Trent, he was galloping across the common, through the herd of cows grazing there and across the second stream and up the opposite hill towards the Manor.
Remembering her meeting with him brought a faint blush to her cheeks as she recalled too the rumours she had heard about Guy Trent concerning two or three village girls; the warning her father had given her so many times, “You keep away from Master Guy, our Sarah. He’s a wild one and no mistake. Don’t let him charm you wi’ his fancy talk. He’s a rogue.”
In the next breath Lady Caroline herself confirmed this. “ He’s a philanderer, of course, but,” she sighed, “ since I am to be stuck here in the country until the next London season, he’s the nearest there is to a suitable escort. And Sir Matthew and Lady Penelope will be there, so perhaps Papa won’t object.”
At first Lord Royston did object, but Caroline wheedled and coaxed until he relented.
If only he could have foreseen the disastrous consequences which were to follow this one, seemingly innocuous, merrymaking event, he would have locked his precious daughter in her pink room and thrown away the key!
Sarah arrived at the barn with her own family. She was wearing the finest dress she had ever possessed—a discarded gown of Caroline’s altered to fit the smaller, thinner Sarah. It was a full-skirted pale pink gown with a pleated flounce at the hem and also on the sleeves. The neckline was low with a black velvet bow at the bosom.
Henry Smithson was both admiring and yet suspicious. “You look the right lady now,” he said, an edge of sarcasm to his tone.
Sarah laughed and her eyes sparkled, intoxicated by the excitement and the atmosphere. The barn was lit by numerous rush-lights and warmed by the earthy smell of the animals who normally wintered there.
“Come on, Henry, let’s dance,” Sarah begged, eager to join the red-faced sweating villagers jigging about to the surprisingly tuneful noise issuing forth from the motley selection of instruments which the villagers always managed to produce on these occasions.
Reluctantly he allowed himself to be dragged into the melee of the boisterous villagers. Whilst Sarah was light on her feet, a natural dancer, Henry was clumsy, growing red with embarrassment at every faltering step.
“Aw, I ain’t no good at this, our Sarah,” he puffed, but Sarah merely laughed and continued to skip lightly around him on her toes. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Lady Caroline dancing with Guy Trent and envy flooded through her. They made such a handsome couple, dancing so expertly together that they outshone everyone else.
Lady Caroline’s entrance a few moments earlier on Guy’s arm had surprised and con
fused the villagers. They were a little shy of continuing their celebrations in her presence. Guy Trent’s arrival did not disturb them, for he was frequently in the company of the young men of the village—and of the young girls too, much to their parents’ chagrin! They were all used to the Trents’ attendance, but not that of Lord Royston or his daughter. But when they realised that she meant to join in their festivities whole-heartedly, they forgot their shyness and the chasm between their social positions. When the spiced ale had inspired confidence, they ceased to be embarrassed.
Whilst Sarah danced with the clumsy Henry, casting envious glances at her young mistress, Guy Trent led Caroline towards the corner of the barn where his particular friends had gathered.
“No bad language, you fellows,” Guy laughed as he presented Caroline to them. “ We have a lady amongst us.”
Caroline shot him a look of annoyance. She did not want to be marked out as someone different. Tonight she wanted to be one of them. She smiled brightly at the four faces before her, all of whom she knew by sight.
There was Joe Robinson, the village smith; Will Briggs, the son of the landlord of the Monk’s Arms; Patrick O’Reilly, the forester on the estate, and Thomas Cole, the estate’s bailiff and Abbeyford’s parish constable. They all rose and greeted her pleasantly and Thomas Cole offered her his place on a bale of hay.
“Thank you.” She bestowed upon him her most brilliant smile and the quiet Thomas Cole, shy of women, was utterly captivated. He was scarcely taller than Caroline with soft, wavy brown hair and a skin tanned to a pale bronze from being out riding around the estate on his horse in all seasons. He was not a conventionally handsome man, but his face mirrored the kindness and gentleness that was his nature and his smile made deep furrowed creases in his cheeks and around his eyes.
“What a noise!” Caroline laughed and leant towards him. “But they seem to be enjoying themselves enormously.”
Thomas Cole’s shyness intrigued Caroline. The young men of her acquaintance, of the same social standing as herself, dandies all, were over-confident, superior beings, treating her with an air of charming condescension. Now this quiet, thoughtful man was looking at her with such admiration in his tender eyes that it made her girlish heart turn over. And despite his air of diffidence there was an earthy strength and virility about him that excited her as no other man had ever done.
“I’ve seen you riding about the estate,” she told him, herself feeling an unaccustomed self-consciousness under his steady, bemused gaze. For some reason she could not herself explain, Caroline wanted this man to think well of her.
She need not have worried. Thomas Cole could hardly believe his good fortune to be here talking to this lovely creature, the goddess he had only ever seen before from a remote distance.
“Yes, m’lady.”
“Oh please call me Caroline—for tonight at least,” she added swiftly, lest her bold suggestion that they forego formality would offend his idea of propriety. She patted an empty place at the side of her. “ Please tell me about yourself,” she asked, Guy Trent quite forgotten as Thomas Cole sat down beside her.
The smile creased his face and Caroline found herself smiling in response—that was what his smile did to people. They just had to smile in return and Lady Caroline at this moment was the very last person to wish to fight against the natural instinct.
“There’s not much to tell, really,” Thomas Cole began, in his soft, deep voice, and for something to occupy his nervous hands he fished out his pipe from his pocket and began to fill it. Fascinated, Caroline watched his strong fingers packing the brown tobacco into the bowl of the pipe shaped in a fox’s head.
“I’ve never seen a pipe like that before.”
He held it out towards her and she took it from him and held it, cradling it in her soft hands. The tangy smell of the tobacco rose to her nostrils, but it was the intricate, perfect carving of the fox’s head which intrigued her.
“It’s beautiful,” she murmured and handed it back to him. As he took it their fingers brushed, the merest touch like a butterfly’s wings, but it was enough to make their eyes meet each other’s steadfast gaze and to feel the tingling run from the touching fingers through the whole of their bodies.
Thomas was the first to break the spell, as if realising suddenly that he had no right to look at the earl’s daughter in such a way. Just because she had come amongst them at Christmas to join in their festivities was no reason to suppose that that closeness could continue once Christmas was over.
But Caroline was feeling acute disappointment as he cleared his throat and looked away from her.
“I was born in Amberly,” he was saying. “My father was bailiff on the Lynwood estate and I began work under him.”
“You said was Lynwood’s bailiff?” she prompted softly.
“He died last year.”
“I’m sorry,” and her tone held genuine sympathy, not merely the utterance of obligatory condolence. “ You didn’t take over in his place then?”
“No. I was already employed here and well settled. And there was no reason to move back. My mother had died two months before him.”
“Oh how dreadful for you!” Caroline said. “To lose both of them in such a short space of time.”
She glanced down at her hands lying in her lap. The pain of her own loss was still fresh. She raised her green eyes to look into his gentle ones. “I don’t know what I should have done if I’d lost them both—like that—so quickly.”
“I think it was my mother’s death that caused my father’s. They were very devoted to each other and he—well—he seemed to fade away after her death.” Thomas clamped the pipe between his teeth and lit it, inhaling deeply on it.
Caroline was thoughtful, trying to understand the bond of love that so tied two people together that the death of one could break the other’s will to go on living. In her own society a marriage between two people was usually arranged by their respective parents who believed the match to be ‘suitable’ either by way of an amalgamation of properties, or a title married to wealth, or for some such mercenary reason. If the marriage partners were fortunate, an affection grew between them later. Occasionally—though rarely—they fell deeply in love with each other and were doubly blessed. That could not be said of her own mother and father, Caroline thought, though she did believe that they had been fond of each other and that a mutual respect and genuine friendship had existed between them. And certainly they had been united in their devotion to her, their only-child. But now, as Caroline listened to Thomas Cole’s deep voice speaking of the love between his parents, she realised that perhaps her own parents had missed experiencing the dizzy heights of a grand passion and a deep abiding love. Her romantic, girlish heart yearned to experience such a love.
The fact that Guy Trent danced with Sarah Miller four times during the course of the evening whilst only once with any other village girl escaped the notice of the ale-bemused villagers. All, that is, except one. Glowering resentfully, Henry Smithson observed his Sarah dancing so lightly, so expertly, with Guy Trent. There was nothing he could do about it. Guy Trent was the young master and Sarah was not betrothed to Henry. At least, not yet.
But she would be before this year is out, Henry vowed, and since there was scarcely a week of the old year left he would speak to her father the very next day.
Unaware of, or at least determinedly ignoring, Henry’s sullen mood, Sarah danced on. Her eyes sparkled and in the flickering lights her white teeth glistened. Her cheeks were pink with the exertion of the dance and with excitement and pleasure. Watching Caroline dance with Guy Trent, Sarah had longed to change places with her, knowing that she too could dance just as well. And now here he was, Guy Trent, the handsome young master, looking at her as if she were the prettiest girl in the barn that night, and his sweet words of flirtation whispering into her willing ear. She was intoxicated by his flattery. It was the first time any man—except Henry and he didn’t count being almost a cousin—had pai
d her such attention.
“Where’ve they been hiding you, Sarah Miller? You’re the prettiest girl in the village. How is it I haven’t seen you before a week or so ago when we met in the lane?”
Pertly she smiled and said, “Oh I’ve been there, Master Guy, but you just haven’t noticed me, that’s all.”
Guy clasped his hands to his heart and threw back his head, giving a mock cry of agony. “ Oh, all that wasted time! You were there and I didn’t see you! Sarah, my lovely Sarah!”
Gaily Sarah laughed, accepting his madcap compliments lightheartedly, and yet her heart quickened to see the look in his eyes, to feel the pressure of his fingers upon her hand. She tossed her flowing black hair and danced on, swaying, skipping, curtsying, flirting with the handsome young master. And all the time Henry Smithson watched them, the jealousy in his heart festering into hatred.
Chapter Four
Joseph Miller said, “Aw Henry, she’s too young yet to be promised to anyone. She’s nobbut a lass. Besides, what have you to offer her, eh?”
Henry’s scowl deepened. “You’ve changed your tune all of a sudden. A bit back you’d have let ’er marry me to stop ’er goin’ to the Grange.”
“Mebbe so. But you’re Trent’s man now, aren’t you?” Joseph said scathingly.
“Ah—so that’s it!”
Henry Smithson had been offered—and had accepted much to Joseph’s disgust—the job Miller himself had refused, that of head cowman.
“But you’re wrong, Joseph Miller, trying to fight the Trents. It’s progress. Sir Matthew’s building up his herd. One day he’ll be famous for his cattle.”
“Ach!” Joseph flung out his arm in a gesture of dismissal. “An’ it’ll be your labour that makes him famous—and puts money in his pocket!”
“An’ if I’m well paid for it, why not?”
Joseph growled and turned away.
“An’ if that is why you wun’t let Sarah marry me,” Henry shouted after him. “Because I work for the Trents, well, you want to watch out. Young Master Guy has his eye on her.”
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