William Dale continued in his own time, not in the least daunted by Sir Matthew. The power he wielded in this neighbourhood as employer and magistrate did not intimidate William Dale, who regarded himself as a professional man, safe in the knowledge that there was no other physician for miles around with his expertise. No—he had naught to fear from Sir Matthew’s temper. But those who had harmed his son would be in grave danger.’
“To my mind,” he continued, sipping the brandy between phrases with irritating slowness. “To my mind, your son has been set upon. Perhaps by thieves—or perhaps by someone who bears him a grudge.”
“What makes you think that?” Sir Matthew growled menacingly.
“Your son does not appear to have defended himself. He was too drunk for one thing,” he added baldly. “ There are no lacerations or bruises on his hands.” He doubled his fist and punched the empty air to demonstrate. “See what I mean? In an equal fight there would be such evidence—and also I would expect to see bruising on his forearms where he’d put up his arms to protect himself. Where d’you say he was found?”
“In the wood on the road to Amberly.”
“And his horse returned home riderless?”
“Yes, yes.”
“Hmmm. Seems to me,” the apothecary mused shrewdly. “He—or they—lay in wait for him in the woods. Probably frightened his horse and it threw him. Then they set upon your son.” He finished the brandy with a flourish and got to his feet.
Sir Matthew put up his hand, palm outwards. “Just a minute. What exactly are my son’s injuries?”
“A broken nose, severe bruising to all areas of his face, particularly his eyes. Two teeth broken, a cut lower lip and a damaged ear. He’ll probably be deaf in one ear for the rest of his life. Add to that severe bruising in the groin and the risk of a severe chill since we must presume he lay in the open for most of the night.”
“I—see.”
“I’ll call again tomorrow, Sir Matthew. Good day to you.”
“Good day,” Sir Matthew murmured automatically, but already his thoughts were elsewhere.
He knew who had attacked his son and that man would be made to suffer for it.
Not for nothing had Sir Matthew become magistrate for this district. It gave him not only power over the villagers as their employer, it gave him absolute power over every aspect of their lives!
Ironically, it fell to Thomas Cole to arrest the man Sir Matthew believed had attacked his son.
Sir Matthew had consulted Lord Royston who was also a magistrate and considered senior to Sir Matthew by way of position, wealth and power.
“I want this man arrested and tried for attempted murder,” Sir Matthew had told him bluntly.
Lord Royston had sighed and waved his hand towards Sir Matthew in a gesture of dismissal. “Do whatever you have to, Trent. It’s no concern of mine. I’ve got my own problems,” he muttered.
Thomas Cole knocked at the door of the low, squat cottage. It was opened by Beth Miller, who, with no premonition of the disaster which was about to fall upon her family, politely invited the bailiff to step inside.
Joseph Miller, who had not been able to find casual work that week, was at home. He rose from his chair at the table. Mrs Miller looked up but did not rise. Ella continued to eat her meal without noticing Thomas Cole.
Of Sarah there was no sign.
“Is there something wrong, mister?”
“I’m afraid so, Miller,” Thomas Cole sighed. He had no stomach for the task he had to do. He had not wanted the job of parish constable along with that of bailiff on the estate, but he had been desperate for employment not too far from his parents in Amberly and, knowing Abbeyford to be in the main a law-abiding community, he had agreed.
Now he regretted becoming keeper of the peace.
“Joseph Miller—I am Instructed by Sir Matthew Trent as magistrate of this parish to arrest you on a charge of attempted murder of his son, Guy Trent.”
Ellen Miller screamed. Joseph’s mouth gagged open and he sat down heavily in his chair as if his legs had given way beneath him. Beth’s sharp eyes darted from her father’s stricken face to Thomas Cole.
“It weren’t me pa, it were Hen …”
“Hold your tongue, girl!” Joseph Miller snapped, recovering his senses swiftly. Slowly he rose again from his seat at the table. Bemusedly he looked around the small, dingy room, as if feeling this might be the last time he saw it.
“You’ll come peaceable-like?” Thomas Cole asked.
“Aye, I’ll give you no trouble, mister. Seems as if I’m in enough already!”
Ellen’s customary composure deserted her. She fell to her knees and clasped her husband about the legs. “Joseph—tell him! Tell him it weren’t you. Tell him the truth!”
Joseph Miller bent down towards his wife. “ Hush, woman. It’s better this way. Think on Sarah.”
Still Ellen clung to her man. “ Sarah! Sarah!” Her voice rose to hysterical pitch. “ Why must you always think of her? After what she’s done? She’s the cause of all this. All these years we’ve been an honest, hard-working family with naught to fear from the justices. And now—now …” She choked on the words, could not speak of the fear that was in her heart.
Justice, metered out by the squire or the lord, was swift and severe. If Joseph Miller walked out of their cottage now, Ellen knew she might never more see him back there!
At best it would be prison, at worst swinging from the gibbet!
Gently Joseph released himself from her clinging, careworn hands, stood and squared his shoulders. His face was ashen, but his voice was steady as he said, “I am ready to come wi’ you, mister.”
As they left the cottage, Henry Smithson met them. He stopped, his eyes glancing from one to the other as they passed him.
From the doorway Beth shouted. “He’s takin’ our pa, Henry Smithson, for summat you done!”
Thomas Cole hesitated, stopped and turned round. Joseph stopped but did not turn about.
“Is that true, Miller?” “You’ad orders to arrest me, didn’t you, mister?” Joseph muttered,
looking steadfastly ahead.
“Yes, but …”
“Then you’re arresting me.”
Once more Thomas Cole looked towards Henry Smithson,
standing there, not moving, saying nothing.
“It’s a bad business,” Thomas murmured, “ a bad business.” And,
turning, took hold of Joseph Miller’s arm and made to lead him
away.
Then Joseph did look back, his dark eyes boring into Henry.
“Look to our Sarah, lad. You know what you mun do, dun’t you?”
The two men stared at each other, then slowly Henry nodded.
Satisfied, Joseph turned and walked away without a backward
glance.
In the attic bedroom beneath the thatch Beth leant over her sister
lying on the bed.
“Do you hear, the bailiffs taken Pa—accused of murder, he is?
All because of you.”
Sarah’s violet eyes flew open and the last vestige of colour in
her already pale and sickly face drained away.
“Pa? Oh no! Why do they think it were Pa?”
Beth smiled wryly. “They knows Pa has no love for the Trents
an’ because of you they think he done for Master Guy.”
Sarah struggled to sit up. “ Guy—he—he’s not dead?”
Beth screeched and lashed out at her sister, the palm of her hand
striking Sarah’s cheek. “ You still think of him— even now. Think
on Pa! What’ll they do to Pa? They’ll likely hang him!”
At eight o’clock on an early September morning in the year of 1796 Sarah Miller married Henry Smithson. No one attended the ceremony except the Reverend Hugh Langley and sufficient persons to witness the ceremony legally.
They married because Joseph Miller demanded it. Sarah, because he was her fat
her and there was no other way to cover the shame of her swelling body, and Henry Smithson agreed because Joseph Miller stood accused of the crime he, Henry, had committed. In tacit agreement made in those few moments when Thomas Cole arrested Joseph Miller, Henry had understood what was expected of him.
Joseph would keep silent if Henry would marry Sarah and take her bastard as his own.
Grimly Henry walked beside Sarah from the church back to the Millers’ cottage where he would now live with his bride.
Once he had loved this girl in his own rough way, but his heart was filled with hatred—against Guy Trent, even against Joseph Miller for forcing him into a position where he was obliged to marry Sarah when she had belonged to another man. And most of all he hated Sarah for betraying the love he had had for her, for giving herself to young Trent, for lying with him, for …
Each time he thought of them together he felt the violence creep over him again and knew that though they had to spend the rest of their lives together, he would never forgive and never forget!
They entered the Millers’ cottage. Ellen Miller sat in front of the cold hearth, her hands lying idle in her lap, her eyes staring and vacant. Ella in her corner rocked to and fro, clutching her rag-doll close to her thin chest.
Beth was tying a shawl about her head.
“Seems I mun become milkmaid now,” she greeted them resentfully, “ else we shall all starve.”
“Is there any news?” Henry asked, whilst Sarah lowered herself into a chair opposite her mother and bowed her head.
Beth’s eyes met Henry’s. “ But for you Henry Smithson, he’d be here where he belongs, not standing ’afore the magistrate.”
Roughly Henry grasped Beth’s arm and twisted it cruelly. “ I’ll not take that from you or anyone else. Your father knows what he is about.”
Beth glanced at Sarah. “Aye, an’ so do we all. He’s sacrificing himsel’ for that!’ She flung her arm out in a gesture towards Sarah.
“An’ he’s not the only one, an’ don’t you forget it,” Henry said grimly.
They stood staring at each other, the man with bitterness in his heart, the girl with her badly pock-marked face, full of resentment. Then Beth shook herself free of his grasp and left the cottage. Ellen Miller had not stirred, had not seemed to notice the heated exchange of conversation. She contintued to stare into space.
“Well, Sarah Smithson. You’d best start being a wife. Seems your ma has given up. I’ll be away to me work.”
As the cottage door banged behind her husband, Sarah covered her face and wept, the sobs racking her body. But no comforting hands reached out to her. Guy’s embrace was lost to her for ever, and even her mother, who sat only a few feet from her, did not reach out to comfort her conscience-stricken daughter.
Chapter Eleven
Joseph Miller squared his shoulders and faced Sir Matthew across the wide expanse of the leather-topped desk in Sir Matthew’s study at the Manor.
As local magistrate, Sir Matthew was entitled to hold the ‘court’ at his home.
Thomas Cole cleared his throat and attempted, from his scant knowledge of such proceedings, to carry out his duties correctly.
“Joseph Miller, you are hereby charged that on the night of August thirtieth last you did wilfully assault Mister Guy Trent with the premeditated intention of causing him fatal injury. How do you plead? Guilty or not guilty?”
There was silence in the room whilst Sir Matthew and Thomas Cole waited for the accused man to reply. Joseph fixed his gaze upon the window behind Sir Matthew’s chair, clamped his jaw firmly shut and said nothing.
“Well, man, speak up, did you do it or didn’t you?” Sir Matthew Trent thundered.
Still Joseph did not speak.
Thomas Cole sighed heavily. He didn’t like all this. Not one bit. Ever since the moment he had arrested Joseph Miller he had doubted that the man accused had had anything at all to do with the attack on young Trent. And now the fool refused to speak in his own defence.
“Sir Matthew,” Thomas Cole murmured. “ I think Miller is protecting someone, I think …”
“Nonsense. If he won’t speak up, then his silence must be taken as an admission of guilt. Well, Miller, have you naught to say?”
Joseph continued to stare steadfastly above Sir Matthew’s head.
Sir Matthew viewed the accused man standing before him through narrowed eyes. He knew he had to be careful. He would have liked to have rid himself of Joseph Miller for ever, to have seen him at the end of a rope or at least transported to Botany Bay, but to turn the charge into a capital offence would mean the trial would have to be held in a higher court—and then he could not be sure that Miller would be found guilty, particularly if the whole sorry story of Guy’s involvement with Miller’s daughter—of the bastard she would bear him—were to come out.
Sir Matthew shuddered. He could not afford the scandal. No, he would keep the whole matter within his own power—especially since he had so far had the luck that Lord Royston did not wish to be involved.
He decided to pretend leniency.
“Now look here, Miller—in view of the unfortunate—er— circumstances concerning your daughter, which we both know about …”
Joseph’s face remained impassive.
“… and because you didn’t use a weapon on my son—only your own murderous fists …” Sir Matthew clenched his own fist in an attempt to hold his own temper in check. “… I am prepared to change the charge to a ‘common law misdemeanour’ with a maximum sentence of two years’ imprisonment with hard labour …”
Joseph gave no sign, but Sir Matthew heard Thomas Cole’s shocked, swift intake of breath, but he ignored it.
“… and when you return to Abbeyford, I hope you will have learnt your lesson and …”
Thomas Cole was leaning across the desk, anger blazing in his usually docile eyes. “ Why, man, it’s a death sentence you’re giving him. In those gaols …”
“Nonsense, Cole. What would you prefer? To see him on the end of a gibbet?”
“It might be kinder …”
“It’s not within my power to try a capital offence, he’d have to be tried in a higher court.”
“Well, let him be. Yes, let him. He might stand a better chance …”
“No!” Sir Matthew snapped. “No—we’ll deal with this ourselves.”
“I don’t see anyone else present—only you!” Thomas Cole muttered. In desperation, he turned to Joseph. “For God’s sake man, speak out. Did you do it?”
He felt this was all wrong. Sir Matthew was using his power to rid himself of a troublesome element in the valley.
Thomas Cole believed Miller innocent, but at least, even if guilty, the man should have had a proper court trial, with jury and a properly conducted hearing. This way, Sir Matthew was using his power—to Thomas’s mind—unjustly.
Thomas groaned deep within himself. Joseph Miller remained stubbornly silent.
Thomas turned back to Sir Matthew, rage bubbling up inside him. “You can’t do this—it’s wrong!”
Sir Matthew glowered at him and said in a dangerously controlled voice, “And why not, pray? Am I not squire and magistrate of this valley?”
“Aye and I’m beginning to see why! You have no proof of this man’s guilt and I tell you I have strong suspicions that he’s definitely not the man! And yet you still send him to his death …”
Sir Matthew attempted to laugh. “ Imprisonment is not death.”
“Oh yes it is, and you well know it!” Thomas Cole thundered. “If he survives the hard labour, if he survives amongst the criminals and rogues he must live with, you know as well as I do that the gaol-fever will get him. You know all that and yet you still send him—I say—to his death.”
“I’ll have no trouble-makers in my valley,” Sir Matthew growled. “I still hold him responsible for those damaged fences.”
“But you’ve no proof—either about that or this attack on your son. You’re just using this
as an excuse to get rid of someone who has dared to stand up to you. A man who was only trying to protect his livelihood and his family. You reckon you can rob a man of his land, use his young lass for your pleasure and still expect him to touch his forelock to you. You’re a dictator—a bloody murderer!”
Sir Matthew was on his feet. “How dare you speak to me like that? Take care I don’t dismiss you …”
“I’ll not give you the chance. I won’t work for you a minute longer!” Thomas Cole shouted.
For the first time Joseph Miller opened his mouth. “ Nay, Mister Cole, I don’t hold you to blame for a’ this. I wouldn’t want you to lose your job ’ cos ’o me.”
Thomas swung round, his soft brown eyes now blazing with indignant fury. “Miller—why don’t you speak up, man?” he demanded again.
With quiet resignation, Joseph said, “I have me reasons, mister.”
“Aye, an’ they must be good ones. Man, you’re throwing your life away!”
Stubbornly, Joseph Miller’s jaw hardened and he remained silent.
Thomas Cole’s shoulders sagged in defeat. “I can do no more if you won’t defend yoursel’.”
His eyes met the cold, hard stare of Sir Matthew Trent. He made one last desperate effort. “What of his family? Will they be turned out of his cottage to starve?”
“No. If I understand things correctly,” Sir Matthew looked towards Joseph for denial. “ Your daughter is by this time married to young Smithson and he will move into your cottage? Is that correct?”
Joseph Miller’s eyes came at last to rest upon Sir Matthew’s gaze. For a long moment they glared at each other, a challenge of strong wills between the man who knew himself master and victor and the underling who knew himself beaten, yet still could not deny the pride in his blood.
Released from the necessity for silence, the flood of passion poured from Joseph’s lips. “Aye, they’ll be wed by now. Your son’s bastard will bear the name of Smithson.” He pointed his finger at Sir Matthew, “And he’ll be raised to bring revenge to you and yours for this day’s work …”
“That’s enough, Miller. Get him out of here, Cole.”
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