‘What?’
‘It’s a Welsh endearment, my sweet. I don’t want him to stay away long, either. Bad enough to have one son in exile, never mind both.’
So I stayed where I was till morning, though I didn’t sleep. I crawled down to breakfast and Bronwen said that Ralph had left early, to see the master of a ship that was now in Minehead harbour, about getting Philip away. Then Josiah came for me.
I was beyond protest by then. I packed my things as bidden. I let Josiah take me to Porlock in the Bucket. I don’t think I exchanged one word with him, though, all the way. It was a warm day and I sat on deck and watched the cliffs go by, towering massively on our left, their feet littered with the debris of old rock falls, like dark teeth sticking out of the water while the waves, breaking over them, threw up great plumes of white spray.
We passed the old landslide that Ralph had told me about, that had blocked a useful path between a cave and the clifftop, a path the free traders had once used. I remembered him telling me. I could hear his voice in my head. To be with Ralph was always to hear something interesting. I did not know how I would live without him.
By midday, we were at Porlock and Josiah was arranging, as he had said, to borrow a pony and cart. We drove back to Foxwell, through the same lanes that had seemed so beautiful on the day of the fair. Now I noticed only the ruts in the track and the tangles in the long grasses and the brambly banks.
My mother, all distraught, met us at the gate of the farmyard.
‘I’ve heard!’ she said shortly. ‘I gave ’ee a day to send her back; otherwise I’d have come to get her. Glad ’ee’s had a bit of sense, Josiah. Well, come in and have a cider. I won’t ask ’ee where Philip is, though I don’t doubt you know well enough. Here’s Bert Page. Bert, see to this pony and cart and then carry Peggy’s things up to her room. Peggy, come inside; I’m that thankful to see ’ee home! What a mercy I said ’ee shouldn’t wed until August. What a mercy I held out. If ’ee’d been wed already – oh, the shame of it! Oh, I’m sorry, Josiah but when it’s one’s own daughter …’
‘I understand. Why else would I have brought her back?’ said Josiah. We all went inside. I cried as I crossed the threshold of my own home. It felt like entering a prison.
The days that followed are a blur in my memory. I wept often, I know. I also kept on wearing my pearl betrothal ring, which made my mother angry. Those things do stand out from the blur, like the top of Dunkery Beacon standing clear of low cloud. Particularly my mother’s wrath about the ring.
‘But it’s my engagement ring,’ I said. ‘I’m still betrothed to Ralph.’
‘Oh, no ’ee’s not and don’t put on that fine young lady voice with me, either. You’ll never marry Ralph and that’s final.’
‘I’ve promised to wait for him. He’ll come back one day and …’
‘You’ll not wait for ’un; he’ll be gone years, mark my words, and life b’ain’t like that. Wenches b’ain’t like that and that means you!’
‘When I’m twenty-one, and it won’t be long, I can marry whoever I like and wait for whoever I like, as well!’
‘That’s enough!’ We had been at breakfast but now my mother was on her feet, coming at me round the table. Betty was in the room and cried out in protest but my mother ignored her. She seized my left wrist with one hand and with the other tried to tear the ring from my finger. I clenched my fist in resistance and she hit me across the side of the head, so that my ears rang and pain exploded through my skull. Bert Page, breakfasting with us as usual, exclaimed: ‘That’s enough!’ and came to my aid, seizing my mother’s arm and breaking her hold on me.
‘Let the maid be! Oh come, Mrs Shawe, come, the wench has only just been parted from the man she was to marry; be gentle, I beg ’ee, be gentle …’
‘Take that ring off!’ Mother shrieked, crimson with fury. But Bert had drawn my mother away and although I was still seeing stars, I sprang up and ran for the door, and the stairs and my room, where I locked myself in. Below in the kitchen, I could hear my mother weeping wildly and crying out that if only my father had lived, nothing like this would ever have happened; he’d never have let me even think of marrying into the Duggans, not right, it wasn’t, the Duggans being what they were and all very well to buy a few free traders’ goods but when it came to marrying such … and I could hear Bert Page’s deep, steady voice trying to calm her.
Trembling, I sat miserably down on the edge of my bed, my left fist still closed to protect my ring. I heard Mother come upstairs, sobbing, and go into her own room. At length, cautiously, I made my way downstairs again and found Bert still in the kitchen, sipping a fresh mug of tea.
‘I were waiting for ’ee,’ he said as I came in. ‘Tell you what, maid, best take that ring off or we’ll all be frazzled afore long. She’ll carry on like that whenever she sees it. No one’ll have any peace.’
‘I won’t take it off! I am still engaged to Ralph and one day …’
‘I didn’t say otherwise,’ said Bert pacifically. ‘But why get thyself knocked about over it? Keep the ring, but not where she can see it. Wear it in bed! Hang it round thy neck under thy dress. But in the name of peace and quiet, hide it. Maybe the day will come to bring it out again. Meanwhile, life’s got to be lived and I like to eat breakfast in quiet. Don’t do the digestion any favours, all this to-do.’
‘Mother’ll think I’ve given in, abandoned Ralph and I haven’t, I haven’t!’
‘Say so if you must,’ said Bert, ‘though in your place I wouldn’t. But hide that ring.’
I didn’t take the ring off at once, but when Mother eventually came downstairs, to eat the midday meal that Betty and I had prepared, she stared at it all the time, her face so angry and bitter that I couldn’t bear it.
That night I took the ring off and put it on a string. Next morning at breakfast, when I saw Mother’s eyes on my ringless finger, I said: ‘I have removed my engagement ring as you wished. But please understand that I have not ceased to be engaged.’ The ring was lying over my heart. It would stay there, I told myself, until the day when once again, it could grace my hand.
Bert at this point made some commonplace remark about the farm work and Mother said, quite quietly: ‘Folk ought to stick with their own kind. I’ve been relying on thee to bring a useful son-in-law here. And don’t go thinkin’ you’ve a broken heart. Them Cleopatras and Heloises of legend can have broken hearts; common folk have tougher ones, and any little bits of damage,’ she finished, on a note of grim amusement, ‘soon get cured by hard work.’
I said nothing, but I left the table as soon as I could. As I went out of the kitchen, she added, quite mildly: ‘You’ll see, love. Nature’ll win ’ee round, given time. You’ll see.’
Nature would do nothing of the sort, I said to myself. Nor time.
But I had left one thing out of my calculations. I hadn’t reckoned with Ralph himself.
Wearing Away
Hard work, my mother’s recommended treatment for heartbreak, is easy to come by on a farm. Throughout the rest of the year 1800 I must have done plenty of it, though I recall few details. But the harvest had to be got in and sheep had to be moved about and presumably these things were done. Pigs must have been slaughtered for there were hams and bacon for us women to prepare; muck had to be spread on the fields ready for next year’s crops; stock sold at markets.
News filtered through, concerning the aftermath of Philip’s disappearance. Stephen Duggan’s pony somehow found its way home and was discovered one morning standing hopefully outside its stable. As far as I ever heard, the constables who came to arrest Philip never realized that he’d taken a pony at all. No one knew how he’d got away or where he’d gone.
And then, it was Christmas, and the Bright family came over from Marsh on Boxing Day and dined with us, which meant facing James Bright. I had of course seen him since my return home, when he paid a civil visit one Sunday and told me, in a formal sort of way, that he was sorry to hear of my broken en
gagement.
‘It isn’t broken,’ I said, ignoring my mother’s angry expression and slipping a hand under the shawl I was wearing, so that I could feel the pearl ring on its string. ‘But the wedding has had to be delayed. Ralph Duggan has had to make a business trip abroad.’
‘Ah, yes. I heard something about that, at the market in Dunster one day,’ James said. ‘I came across Josiah Duggan. He’s telling people that there’d been talk of it some time ago but it was all set aside once plans began for Ralph to get married.’
I could guess what kind of tale Josiah was putting about. Philip’s disaster had caused my mother to end the engagement, Ralph had taken himself off to foreign climes after all, and if I persisted in saying we were still engaged, well, wenches are sentimental creatures but the truth was, the betrothal was over.
In the spring of 1801, I had a letter from Ralph.
It began, encouragingly, with the words My darling, but the rest of it was like the tolling of a knell.
I am sorry to tell you that I cannot return to England soon. I hope this won’t be too much for you to bear. I can but hope that by now, what I have to say won’t hurt you too much. It hurts me, my love, more than I can say but I am helpless.
Philip and I are in Antigua. I came with Philip to see him settled but it has proved difficult. Our relative – George Duggan, the son of a second cousin of Dad’s – has a sugar plantation here. He lives in a fine house with his wife and four young children. In this part of the world, the workforce is mostly slaves, and sometimes there’s cruelty, yes, on the Duggan plantation too, that I won’t tell you about, as it sickens me and yet it’s all legal – and in England, Dad and I could have been imprisoned or transported as criminals for landing a few kegs of cheap brandy!
The Duggans here see nothing wrong with slavery but they were appalled to hear of the accusation against Philip. My father sent a letter with me, that I was to give to Cousin George. It explained the circumstances and declared every confidence in Philip’s innocence. But Cousin George and his wife were so shocked that they wanted to put Philip on the first ship home! They only agreed to keep him if I stayed too and ‘kept watch over him’ and let them know at once if he gave any trouble.
They wrote to my father, saying that they would harbour Philip (that’s the way they put it) if I agreed to stay for five years, and Dad wrote back to me, saying that I must consent. He told me that if I set foot in England even one day short of that, I would never inherit the boatyard – he’d leave it to Luke Hatherton’s son. Roger Hatherton has joined the boatyard now, I gather, and is doing well. I have been so angry! I’ve never liked the Hathertons. But here I have to stay, like it or not.
If I come home and throw my inheritance away, I still couldn’t marry you for what would I have to offer you? I am no farmer and in any case, I could not bear to live at Foxwell at your expense. Also my father truly thinks it isn’t fair to you, to expect you to marry into a family as tainted as ours now is. And also, of course, he respects your mother and her wishes. What can I do? The power is in his hands.
I’m bitter but helpless. I hate Antigua, but for the time being I must stay. Philip and I came out on the Sheila Marie, the merchant brig that was due to call at Minehead before leaving for Antigua. I think she was mentioned to you. Her master and Dad knew each other as boys.
George Duggan is regarded as a decent man. He does see that his slaves are tended if they’re ill and he won’t break up families. The slaves can’t marry but they pair up and he won’t sell off one of a pair without the other. But slaves they are, just the same, and if one of them displeases him … God help the poor creature.
Philip’s not so sensitive. He’s learning the sugar business. So am I. Dad sent some money with us and as long as Philip behaves himself, George may be willing, later, to help the two of us start up on our own. He is gradually warming to Philip, whose behaviour is exemplary. I think Philip hopes I’ll stay for good, once I’m used to the place.
I don’t want to do that, but the five years must be served before I can think of coming home. I can’t ask you to wait. Find a good man, Peggy darling, don’t waste your life waiting.
My father has written to me that one of his fears for you was that one day, you’d find yourself with a husband in prison or worse and have to beg charity from your family, or else you might be caught up in lawbreaking yourself – as you already have been (destroy this letter and show it to no one!). There’s something in that, I suppose. It is why I’ve always worried about Dad. He’d never survive being shut up in prison; he’s a man of the open seas. I worry even more now I am so far away.
Peggy, love, find a husband and have children. I don’t say forget me. I won’t forget you! But it was just a dream that couldn’t come true. My dear love you will always be. Be happy, darling.
Goodbye, your loving Ralph.
I read the letter sitting in my room, by candlelight, one evening. I had kept it by me all day, waiting to be alone and private before I opened it. I read it twice and then I wept. And raged. And next day, I went to my mother and said, very calmly, that I was now of age and could not be kept from marrying where I chose. I said I wished to go out to Antigua to marry Ralph. My mother burst out into harsh laughter.
‘You’ll need money for that! Fares to Antigua can’t be any too cheap. Well, ’ee needn’t think I’ll pay!’
There was work that day, in the lambing pens, but I ignored it. At a moment when the kitchen was empty except for myself, I kissed Ralph’s letter and then, as he had so wisely advised me, tore it to pieces and fed them into the fire. When I was certain they were utterly destroyed, I took a pony and went to Exford to see Mr Silcox.
I told him what was in the letter (except of course for the reference to my own lawbreaking). Mr Silcox was kind, sympathetic, and a broken reed.
I arrived just after I reckoned he would have stopped teaching for the day. He took me into his parlour, gave me a glass of wine and explained that there was no possibility whatsoever of my getting to Antigua without money, and that even if I had money, he would do all he could to stop me.
‘I wouldn’t send you or any young woman off on such a journey, all alone. You can hardly work your passage as a sailor, either,’ he added ironically.
‘I might get employment with some family that’s going out there,’ I said, suddenly inspired. ‘As a companion or a children’s nurse. Aren’t there agencies in Minehead and Taunton, that find such posts for people?’
‘And how often would you have to go to Minehead or Taunton to see if there were any offers? You’d be back and forth every other day. And you’d have to pay fees to the agency. And when you got to Antigua safely, and it’s not a journey anyone would recommend for a girl on her own, do you even know the name of the plantation or how to find it? Your young man is right. He sounds a decent fellow but he’s out of reach.’
‘We’re in love. You don’t understand!’
‘Yes, I do. But it’s like a fever and people can recover. Many a fine marriage has been made between people who weren’t in love, but were alike enough to make good partners. As you well know,’ said Mr Silcox, filling a pipe with a rich-smelling and probably smuggled tobacco, ‘there’s a farmer’s son called James Bright who’d marry you tomorrow if you’d give him half a chance. Take him, Peggy. You’ll be safe. You won’t even have to leave your home! You’ll be where you belong and I’d take my oath that before long, you’ll be as happy as any woman in the world. Take my advice.’
I thanked him for the advice and went miserably back to Foxwell, where I was again summoned to help with the lambing. If Ralph was helpless, so was I. I could do nothing without money …
I did think, then, of the cache I had hidden in the wall of the old barn. I could use that!
And then I knew the bitter truth. I wasn’t brave enough to go to a shipping agency by myself and try to find a passage to Antigua or anywhere else. I hadn’t the confidence or the experience.
Ralph was lost
to me.
The year wore on. The Brights came to Sunday dinner twice, and we went twice to them. Nothing of significance was said but I saw James Bright’s eyes on me, again and again. Seasons changed. Haymaking came round again, in collision with sheep shearing, as usual, and we were all busy. The June weather was good and the hay must be cut while we had the chance. Neighbours rallied round to help each other. Stephen Duggan never made an appearance on these occasions, but he always sent two or three men to lend a hand, and the Brights turned to, as well. In a very short time, our hay was in and the fleeces were off our sheep; then, in turn, we helped at Marsh and Standing Stone. My mother, along with the wives of the various farmhands, provided refreshments and I worked at piling the mown grass into haycocks until it was dried right out and ready to be built into ricks. We were making haycocks at Marsh when James, who had been at the far end of the field, where scything was still in progress, found someone to take over from him and came back to me.
‘Peggy,’ he said, ‘you look hot and thirsty. So am I. Let’s get ourselves some cider and take a few minutes’ rest.’
There was a clump of trees at one corner of the field and in their shade was a barrel of cider and some tin cups. I was indeed thirsty and I did as James suggested. The sun was very warm and I was far too hot for comfort, even in my thin linen gown. James, in shirt and calf-length breeches, was probably hotter still. There was a beading of sweat on his temples and forehead, where a lock of his tow-coloured hair was stuck to the skin. His eyes were the same blue as the clear sky above us, and their expression was friendly. It was also remarkably adult. I had known him all my life and yet, now, there seemed to be something unfamiliar about him, as though he had changed in some way while I wasn’t looking.
‘It’s time for us to talk,’ he said. ‘I reckon, Peggy, that you know well enough how I feel about ’ee, and your ma and my dad know too and like the notion. It’s a happy thing, for a couple to marry and have their families round them all smiling and pleased. It’s a good start, that is. No, don’t say anything yet.’ I had opened my mouth to say something about being still engaged and how much I cared for Ralph, but James hadn’t finished.
Late Harvest Page 9
