Late Harvest

by FIONA BUCKLEY

  But the horrible Mr Waters can viciously torment a terrified girl of thirteen, his own daughter, because she found it hard to memorize a long speech from Shakespeare, and no one would utter a word of protest. He is paterfamilias of his house and he is within his rights to bring up his children according to his own ideas. What kind of insane world am I living in?

  At last, I straightened up, swallowing. I returned to the kitchen, where the others stared at me but did not speak. I collected a glass of water, and went upstairs to my room, where, before long, Mrs Waters came to find me.

  ‘I was shocked, Mrs Woodman, by your behaviour this evening. It was not for you to criticize the way your employers discipline their children, by rushing out of the room without leave, when you had been bidden to stay.’

  ‘I was unable to stay, madam. I left the room in order to be sick.’

  ‘How dare you?’

  ‘I couldn’t help it,’ I said. I found that I was quite unable to be apologetic. I was frightened but something reckless in me, perhaps the same recklessness that had sent me out into a dark night to warn Ralph of his danger, insisted on speaking the truth. ‘I was shocked. To treat a young girl – a child – in such a way just because she has difficulty in memorizing Shakespearean speeches!’

  ‘Has difficulty? She could do it if she applied herself. She is lazy and must learn better ways, that’s all. When she has had time to recover, she will be set once more to memorize that speech. She will do it, I assure you.’

  ‘She’ll probably be too terrified to memorize anything,’ I said.

  ‘This is insufferable. Mrs Woodman, I have valued your services; which I admit have been excellent. I had quite decided to keep you on, but neither I nor my husband can tolerate the way you have acted and now spoken this evening. You may have a day, one day, tomorrow, in which to find a place to stay. We are Christian folk; we will not turn you out into the night with nowhere to go. The day after that, you must leave. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Entirely clear,’ I said.

  There was no need to say any more, no need to tell her that my bout of sickness hadn’t been entirely due to horror at the scene I had witnessed. It was over three weeks since I had been cast out of Foxwell. Ten days ago, I should have needed some of the linen squares I had made ready. The need had not arisen, and I had been sick, as unobtrusively as possible, three times before this.

  I had told Mrs Waters that the mythical Mr Woodman had died three months before my arrival at the Grey House. The Waters family would throw me out soon enough, whatever I said or did. Even if they had been prepared to keep me on if I produced a posthumous baby, they would quickly have realized that it couldn’t be my husband’s.

  And indeed it was not. James and I had not been together for at least twelve weeks before he cast me off. This child would be the son or daughter of Ralph Duggan.

  The Only Hope

  I left the next day. My wages would provide for my stagecoach fare; I left my father’s hoard untouched. I had needed to use a little of it earlier for travel and clothes and the like, but I knew I must keep the rest hidden. It made me angry, but I was afraid of James and the law.

  One of the maids brought me some breakfast. Then I packed my hamper, which was mercifully not too heavy, and shifted it downstairs. In the hallway, I met Mrs Walters.

  ‘May I say goodbye to the children?’ I asked. ‘I have grown fond of them.’

  ‘As you have made abundantly clear,’ said Mrs Waters coldly.

  ‘Mrs Waters, did you really approve of what was done to Augusta last night?’ I said.

  Her cold eyes flashed, like ice in bright sunlight. ‘You have no right to ask me such a question!’

  ‘I know, but I do wonder.’

  ‘I obey my husband, as I promised to do when we were married. His decisions must therefore be right in my eyes.’

  So, at heart, she didn’t approve. Perhaps one day he would go too far and she would turn on him. Meanwhile …

  ‘Please let me say goodbye to the girls.’

  ‘You may not see Augusta. Maria … well, here she is. You may take your leave of her, as long as I stand by.’

  Did she think I was going to preach rebellion to a scared ten-year-old child? ‘I am leaving the household, Maria,’ I said. ‘Your mother will explain. I have much enjoyed knowing you and I wish you happiness with all my heart. Do please tell Augusta the same.’

  She looked bewildered. I kissed her forehead and that was that. I never saw the Waters girls again. I have always hoped, and even prayed, that eventually they grew up to find kind husbands who would give them the love their parents had denied them. But I shall never know.

  I left the house, coping with my hamper as best I could. Fortunately, it wasn’t far to the inn where I could board a coach. It pulled into the yard of the Wellington inn in Minehead during the afternoon. I was able to bespeak a small private parlour and I ordered myself a good meal. It was always like this when I was expecting. When I didn’t feel sick, I felt ravenous. After that, I picked up the hamper and once more prepared to set off, but the innkeeper, seeing that its weight was a worry to me, said: ‘Where be you bound, missus? That there’s a bit of a load for a lady.’

  ‘I’m going to the hiring stables round the corner. I must hire a trap to take me to Exford. I hope they can supply one.’

  ‘Lord love ’ee, we’ve stabling here and a couple of traps for hire if wanted. You set back down now in this liddle parlour and I’ll get Bruce, that’s one of my grooms, nice sensible lad, he is, to harness up a trap for ’ee, and he’ll get ’ee to Exford easy enough before the afternoon’s out. There’ll be a charge, o’ course …’

  ‘Of course,’ I said reassuringly.

  If I were to hold by my decision to protect my secret store of money, both to safeguard it from James and to be prepared for future disaster, then I would have to apply to friends for help. This time, I would have to go to Mr Silcox. It would mean that Edmund, and, presumably, Harriet, would learn what had happened that night in the forest, but I needed assistance badly and could think of no other way to obtain it. Besides, the coming child was Ralph’s and Ralph was entitled to know. The child was entitled to have a father, too.

  By early evening, I was dismounting from the trap in front of Mr Silcox’s door and saying goodbye to Bruce. He was a cheerful, pink-faced youth who had enlivened the journey with anecdotes about his work at the Wellington, and I suspected that like most youths, he had a healthy appetite. I therefore gave him a healthy tip so that he could if he wished eat at the White Horse before starting for home.

  I did, though, ask him to wait until I had been admitted to the house. ‘If they’re all out, I’ll go to the inn myself and you can take me.’ I really wanted transport for the hamper. It seemed to have grown heavier as the day wore on.

  However, there was no difficulty. Alice Meddick opened the door to me, looked surprised, but at once held it back for me to enter.

  ‘They both be in the parlour,’ she said. ‘School’s well over for today. They’m takin’ tea.’

  I waved to Bruce, and he nodded and drove off. ‘Let me put my hamper down in the hall, please, Alice,’ I said. ‘I haven’t come to stay, of course. I shall go to the inn; perhaps your husband would be kind enough to carry the hamper across the green for me. But I do need a word with Mr Silcox.’

  Alice duly announced me and I stepped into the parlour, where Mr Silcox and Edmund, who had been seated opposite each other at a tea table, at once came to their feet.

  ‘Peggy!’ they said in unison.

  ‘I am sorry to intrude on you without warning,’ I said. ‘But I need to speak with you both. It is important.’

  They knew, of course, that James had thrown me out. I had not thought of this before, but probably Rose and John had continued at the school and would have told them that I was gone, though I hoped that they had only spoken of warning smugglers, and not realized that there was more to it than that.

  M
eanwhile, I watched Mr Silcox and Mr Baker recover from their surprise. Mr Silcox pulled up another chair and asked Alice to bring more tea and cakes and then we all sat down and they stared at me. I began on my story. I approached the heart of the matter very slowly and also very fearfully but I knew that approach it I must. I was here because I was carrying Ralph’s child. I could not avoid admitting it.

  I left that to the end, though. First I talked of warning the smugglers, of going to Taunton, of being employed by Mrs Waters and how my employment ended, with the shocking scene that I had witnessed. At that point, Edmund interrupted.

  ‘The man was within his rights, you know. As a father and the head of his household, he is entitled to discipline his children. They may well thank him for it in time to come.’

  ‘I can’t imagine anyone giving thanks for what I saw happen to poor Augusta!’ I said angrily. ‘But I have not come here to talk of that. I spoke my mind to Mrs Waters afterwards and was dismissed, but she would soon have dismissed me anyway. There is something more.’ I took a deep breath. The moment had come.

  ‘I am with child and it is Ralph’s. It happened when he brought me back that night, after I had warned him. We were once engaged,’ I said defensively. ‘We have never stopped caring … I am not trying to make excuses. I am just repeating a fact. And I have come to you because, yes, I need help and advice, but also because Ralph has a right to know. And his child has a right to be recognized by its father.’

  They looked as though I were addressing them in Chinese. Then, after a lengthy pause, Mr Silcox said: ‘Are you asking us to inform Mr Ralph Duggan? But why should you think the child you are carrying isn’t James’ baby?’

  ‘Because since I was very ill with John, James and I … have not had much to do with each other. It cannot be his. I am unwilling to approach Mr Duggan myself. That would mean … intruding on him and Harriet. But yes, I want him to know. He ought to know.’

  ‘You hope he will make himself responsible for you and the child?’ asked Edmund. ‘You say it is his child. Are you sure?’

  The veiled insult sent the blood rushing to my face, and caused my whole body to clench, as if to defend itself from a blow.

  ‘I am sure,’ I said. I tried to speak coldly, but my voice trembled all the same.

  I remembered then, the words that had spoken themselves in my mind when – was it only yesterday? – I had stood in the kitchen yard at the Grey House and leant on the wall after my bout of nausea. A version of those words, edited for my present audience, now spoke themselves aloud.

  ‘I have something to say in answer to what you have just – hinted,’ I said, addressing myself to both of them, but mostly to Edmund. ‘Yes, in the eyes of the law, I have done wrong, for warning Ralph of the Revenue’s plans. Ralph and I love each other and always have. We were dragged apart by our elders almost on the eve of our marriage! I suppose they thought they were doing right but they were not. It didn’t change our feelings. We went on loving each other and that was what brought us together, that once, the night I went out to warn Ralph that he was in danger. Never, never, would I … look elsewhere.’

  I fixed my gaze firmly on Edmund Baker. ‘You almost suggested, just now, that I might have done. That was an insult, Mr Baker, which I will not accept. Between Ralph and me, nothing has ever changed. Forced apart, we lived life as best we could, marrying … doing our best with that … but we should have married each other. And now, because at last what was between us dragged us together, just once, I fear – from the look on your face, Mr Baker – that I am to be condemned, cast out as an outrageous sinner. But Mr Waters of Taunton can torment a terrified girl of thirteen, his own daughter, because she finds it hard to memorize long Shakespearean speeches, and who will condemn him? You defended him!’

  Neither of them spoke. I said: ‘I came to you to tell you of my condition because, yes, I hoped you would inform Mr Duggan, so that I don’t have to do it myself. I am in your hands.’

  ‘You admit to breaking the law and also your marriage vows. We can hardly connive at such things …’ began Edmund and was then silenced by a glare from Mr Silcox.

  ‘I trust, Edmund, that you aren’t proposing to tell the Revenue that this young woman, who is with child, is in league with the smugglers!’ Mr Silcox spoke coldly. ‘She could end up in prison or transported. In her condition, that could be fatal. Is that what you want? Anyway, the child’s father does have a right to know. I shall go myself to Minehead tomorrow and see Mr Duggan. Peggy, you will stay at the inn here. I have no doubt that some arrangement can be made, without upsetting Mrs Duggan too much, or at all. Perhaps she need not even know, if I can speak to Ralph privately.’

  ‘Wait,’ said Edmund. ‘I am shocked, scandalized, by what Peggy has told us’ – his eyes were hard as he looked at me – ‘but I see that your mind is made up, Arthur. However, you need not go to Minehead tomorrow. I will go. Ralph Duggan is my brother-in-law. I will try to speak to him alone, as you recommend.’

  Alice’s husband, the groom, Mr Meddick, did carry my hamper across to the White Horse for me, and there, once more, I bespoke a room. I stayed in the inn all the next day. All the time, my mind was trying to follow Edmund Baker to Minehead. Would he find Ralph at home? What would Ralph say? Would Ralph … perhaps … come to see me? Oh Ralph, please come. I have but to think of you and my bones turn to water. No, not water. To something much warmer and much rarer. To molten gold. Ralph. Ralph.

  At the end of the afternoon, when I was sitting disconsolately in the inn parlour, thinking and longing and worrying, Mr Meddick came to fetch me. ‘You’re wanted at the house, Mrs Bright.’

  He walked across the green with me, talking amiably about people I knew in Exford. He was just his ordinary, slightly bow-legged and slightly wizened self. Probably, neither he nor Alice knew anything of my purpose here. When Alice opened the door, he touched his cap and left me for the stables, while I went inside. Mr Silcox came from the study which he and Edmund shared. ‘Ah. There you are, Peggy. Go into the parlour. Someone is waiting for you there.’

  I went into the parlour, and Harriet Duggan, who was standing by the window, turned to face me.

  It was several years since I had seen her, but she hadn’t changed much. Her chestnut hair had faded a little but she had the same regular features and grave expression; the same beautiful chestnut eyes. Her smile would probably still be beautiful too, but she was not smiling now. She was well-dressed, in a high-waisted yellow gown patterned with dark blue dots, and lying on the wide windowsill beside her were a fashionable bonnet and an elegantly beaded reticule. The plain pelisse and workaday shawl in which I had travelled and was still wearing looked shabby in such company. I also noticed that at her feet was a basket. I wondered what it contained.

  I didn’t know what to say, and waited for her to speak first.

  ‘Peggy,’ she said. And then stopped.

  I said: ‘Harriet.’ And also stopped. Then I felt that this was absurd and added: ‘Shall we sit down? I take it that you have a … a message for me.’

  Harriet nodded and we did sit down, on opposite sides of the room. Between us was the table where I had taken tea the day before, and on it lay a box of polished wood, with a brass lock. It was about eighteen inches long, perhaps a foot from front to back, and roughly six inches high.

  But Harriet was not looking at it. Her eyes were on me. Not for several seconds did she speak. Then she said: ‘I am grateful to you, Peggy. I know what you did to save my husband and his friends from arrest and – very likely – a passage as convicts to the other side of the globe. I am grateful. With half of me. The other half would like to hate you but can’t quite manage it.’

  ‘Please,’ I said. ‘Please don’t hate me. Even though …’

  Some things, in some circumstances, just refuse to be put into words. I stopped trying.

  ‘I know all about it. Edmund spoke to Ralph in private but there are no secrets between Ralph and me. I know what happ
ened between you and Ralph that night and I knew it before Edmund came to see us today. Ralph himself told me, the morning after it happened. It isn’t that. The half of me that hates you does so because, all through our life together, you have always been there, like a shadow in the corner of the room. I was and am, second best. Not that Ralph has ever said an unkind word to me, or done an unkind thing. But still, you were and are there, custodian of his heart. When you live close to someone, as husbands and wives live close to each other, you know these things. You must be well aware of that.’

  I was well aware of it. What had James said?

  It’s allus been the same; he’s allus been there, in between us, all through the years. I’ve tried and tried but ’ee’ve never been properly mine. Stood at my side in church, didn’t ’ee, and made promises? But all the time wishin’ you were makin’ them to him, and he’s never been out of your heart.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘It isn’t a thing … that one can choose about. We did betray you, Harriet. Once. Only that once.’

  ‘I accept that. And you risked your marriage and in a way, your neck, to protect Ralph. He told me you were terrified on the cliff path.’

  ‘I was,’ I said.

  ‘And now you’ve been thrown out of your home, on to your own resources, and thrown out of your employment. Edmund told Ralph everything. I wasn’t there at first but when Ralph started to shout, I rushed into the room and then …’

  She stopped, and her eyes were angry. Nervously, I said: ‘Yes?’

  ‘Ralph … was raging. Well, I knew about his … little adventure with you, but neither of us knew that you had been cast off by James; we had heard nothing of you since – that night. I said, What is it, what is it? And he told me and then I had to cling to his elbow and Edmund actually had to get in his way, physically – stand with his back to a closed door and refuse to move – because Ralph wanted to rush straight out of the house, saddle up his horse, ride to Foxwell and half-kill James. Or maybe just kill him! Somehow we got him to see sense …’