She paused and then said: ‘I think I really did hate you then. I kept wondering whether Ralph would ever be so angry on my behalf!’
‘Harriet, I …’
‘And then I wondered whether I would ever have taken the kind of risks for him, that you took, when you went out at night to warn him. I hope I would but I can’t be sure. Oh dear heaven!’
Suddenly it burst out of her. ‘If only he would give up the free trading, as he calls it! I loathe it. I’m frightened all the time, and I think it’s so wrong, anyway! But mostly I worry about him, so much that sometimes I feel ill. You did save him, and I thank you, and in the end, he and Edmund and I sat down at the dining table and discussed what ought to be done to help you – without breaking Mr Bright’s neck. Ralph is determined that you must not be left in penury, homeless, because of him, least of all with his child on the way. He was delighted to hear about the child! That made me hate you too, but unborn babes must be protected.’
She had opened her reticule and taken out a key. She held it out to me and pushed the polished box nearer to me.
‘This opens the box,’ she said. ‘Inside, you will find the deeds of Standing Stone farm. From now on, it belongs to you.’
‘What?’
‘There are tenants there now; Great-Uncle Stephen died four months ago.’
‘Did he? I didn’t know.’
‘Yes. It was sudden. Ralph could have taken it over but he didn’t want to and he knew people who would like to rent it. He has the freehold of Standing Stone; his great-uncle apparently bought it from the Acland family and so Ralph is now the true owner of the place. He has let it. The new tenants are to pay rent to him, except that in future, the rents will be passed on to you.’
At last, a trace of smile lit the chestnut eyes. ‘Legally, of course, what is yours is Mr Bright’s. Everything a wife owns is actually the property of her husband. But by doing it this way, Ralph thinks we can make sure that Mr Bright never finds out. I too am now privy to something that is on the wrong side of the law! All of us are, even my virtuous brother. I understand that you have some funds but Ralph thinks you should conceal them, as your husband could claim them. So Ralph has sent you some money – in this box – to rent a home with. He suggests you stay in Taunton because you have already got to know the town a little. My brother will tell us your new address when you are settled.’
‘Thank you.’
Harriet’s eyes were shrewd. ‘Are you wondering why Ralph didn’t come himself?’
‘I … no.’
‘I expect you are. He wanted to. I said no, I would come instead. The rents of Standing Stone will be delivered by messenger, and for the same reason. You know what that is.’
‘You would rather he and I didn’t meet.’
‘Quite. And now,’ said Harriet, beginning to gather up her belongings, ‘I must be away. I came in our trap, driving myself. I must return to Minehead.’
We both stood up. Doubtfully, I held out my right hand, and after a moment, she took it. We shook hands.
I said: ‘I too wish that he would give up his dangerous … interests. For your sake as well as his. I mean that.’
‘Thank you,’ said Harriet.
A Pale Horse in the Shafts
I came out of my cottage on the outskirts of Taunton on a fine morning in early spring, and drew in a long breath of fresh air. It was good to feel well again, after two weeks of being very ill indeed, followed by a further week of gradual recovery. My legs were now only a little trembly; my head and chest were clear. Half my neighbours had fallen ill with the influenza epidemic and two had died. I was glad to be among the survivors. It was a vicious type of influenza, that year of Our Lord, 1827.
To strengthen my legs further, I began to pace about in the garden, and as I paced, I thought about my years in Claypit Cottage.
I had lived there now for eleven years. It was a pleasant place, taking its name from the claypit that was now worked out but had once been in an adjacent field. It wasn’t large. Downstairs it had a modest parlour and a tiny dining room, and an equally tiny kitchen. The stairs went up from the parlour, and overhead, there were two bedchambers, one leading out of the other, both with dormer windows sticking out of the thatched roof. But for me, it was enough. The rent from Standing Stone, together with a regular sum that Ralph sent me for the support of our little daughter, Charlotte, was adequate for paying the rent of the cottage with sufficient left over to feed and clothe us and I was content with that.
I was very content. I had agreeable neighbours, who knew me as widowed Mrs Woodman, left to bring up my posthumous daughter alone. They called on me and I called on them. There were little gatherings; I was invited to supper at one house, to join a birthday party at another; in return, I occasionally invited people to take dinner or supper with me. There was a little school for Charlotte, which she attended on weekday mornings. It was a pleasant way of life.
Well, most of the time. I can’t say I missed James very much, but I missed Foxwell and above all, now and for ever, I missed my children. I was thankful to have Charlotte; she was not only a very sensible little girl, she also resembled Ralph strongly and I loved her all the more for that. But I longed for William and Rose and John, wondered constantly how they were faring, and still, often, I wept for them in the night.
Though during the last five years, I had at least had news of them. In the summer of 1822, William found me.
It was afternoon. I was in my kitchen and I saw him from the window. I stared in disbelief and some alarm, thinking that he was James. Then I saw that this was a much younger man, and suddenly realized that it was William and with that, I rushed out to greet him.
‘William! I knew you at once but … you’re so big!’
He’d been a gangling lad when last I saw him. Now he was twenty, stocky and muscular, the very image, indeed, of James, except that his tow-coloured hair was thicker and there was an affectionate smile in his brown eyes.
‘It happens,’ he said, laughing. ‘Lads do grow!’ He dismounted from his pony, which I recognized as Copper, and tethered him to my front gatepost. ‘I’d have come sooner but Dad never let me go anywhere and not say where I was going and if I ever said I wanted to see you, well, you can imagine. He’d beat me. Only lately, I’ve put on a few inches, sideways as well as upwards, and a lot more muscle, and the last time he tried to use a strap on me, I knocked him down. I said I was going to find you and it was my business, not his. Ma’s my mother, I told him, and if I want to find her, I will.
‘He tried to say he’d throw me out but I laughed at him. You’ll have hard work to run Foxwell without me, I said. I do three men’s work here as it is. And that’s the truth! He always was a bit on the stingy side and now he’s worse.’
‘Oh, William! I don’t like to think … I am so sorry. How is Rose? And John?’
‘Well enough. They do as they’re told and believe what they’re told. Rose looked at me as if I was an army deserter when I said I was going to look for you. John went off by himself to think – that’s a trick he has. When I was setting off, though, he came out of the house and said good luck so I think he’s secretly pleased. He’s missed you, I think, same as I have.’
‘But how did you find me?’
‘Oh, dear old Silcox. He’s getting older now but he and Mr Baker are still there in Exford. I wondered if they by any chance knew where you were. I had an idea you might have gone to them for help. So I did the same thing. Ma, they told me about my little sister.’
He paused, awkwardly. ‘Is she my full sister or my half-sister? They said half-sister. I’d like to know. You’re my mother, whatever you’ve done, and my sister wasn’t responsible anyhow. I talked to Mr Silcox and Mr Baker about it all. Mr Silcox said to me that a son should respect his mother and that it was true that my sister was blameless. Mr Baker was all stiff and disapproving, and he just said, “The Commandments tell us to respect our parents, and I also respect my elders and I’ve nothi
ng to add to what Mr Silcox has said,” and I said to him that the position I was in was a bit awkward; as things were, I couldn’t very well respect both parents, but my father did have three men’s work out of me and that ought to be respect enough! Now it was my mother’s turn.’
‘Oh, William!’ I said, laughing.
‘Mr Silcox told me where you were and I went home and thought it over. That was a week ago and … well, here I am. Aren’t you going to ask me in?’
I said: ‘I haven’t answered your question about Charlotte – your sister. She is indeed your half-sister. Her father is Ralph Duggan. Your father was entitled to reject me, for I was unfaithful to him, though only once, under very extraordinary circumstances. I have not seen Mr Duggan since that night. I don’t want to say any more, or make excuses. It was only once. Only – it resulted in Charlotte. Your father will never forgive me and most people would agree with him. But oh, William … I am so very glad to see you!’
‘I want to meet Charlotte. If she’s my sister – well, I’m her brother. We ought to know each other.’
Dear William. He must have been so puzzled, so bewildered, caught between his natural love for his mother and the storm of condemnation from his father, along with all the moral upbringing he had had. I am grateful, have always been grateful for the existence of William. Which means, of course, that I have in a way to be grateful to James, who fathered him! I often think: how complicated it all is.
Adopting a practical tone, I said: ‘You’d better look after Copper and then come inside. I’ve a neighbour with a spare stall. Did you come from Foxwell today?’
‘Started at dawn. Copper’s tough.’
We got Copper settled and then William came in and was introduced to Charlotte. After that, he came every few months or so. On the next occasion, he arrived in the company of a small, pretty girl with soft light brown hair and light blue, sparkling eyes, and I heard that this was Susie Harding from Exford where her father had a hardware shop, except that she wasn’t Susie Harding now; she was Susie Bright, because she and William had just got married. A year later, I was able to congratulate William on the birth of a son, Harry.
I heard that Fred and Mattie had changed very little. Their eldest son Dickie was foreman at Standing Stone and had a wife and family of his own. Neither William nor the Websters had any idea that this news had much significance for me. My ownership of Standing Stone was a secret that I would not risk sharing. But I was glad to know that it was in charge of a man with such a knowledgeable father.
I heard that Annie had married, a cowman on another farm. She had had two children, who were now in the care of her married sister in Porlock, and Annie had run away from her husband, who had mistreated her, and returned to Foxwell. Phoebe and Lucy had both married and left but nowadays Annie had a new maid called Jenny to work with her – the eldest of ten children in an enormous farming family near Molland, apparently. She was a lively little thing, William said, thin, dark but as active as could be. And naturally, I heard news of Rose and John.
Rose, at nineteen, had married a Mr Henry Hannaford, who had a farm near South Molton, on the other side of the moor. James had put aside his stinginess for once, and given her a big wedding, and ‘away she went,’ said William.
He added sadly: ‘I think the big wedding was because she’s what Dad calls a dutiful daughter. I did try to persuade him, and her, to invite you but neither of them would have it, and nor would Mr Hannaford. Properly prim and upright, he is; Methodist. Only tea in his kitchen, never cider, and he talks like a preacher even when he’s got mud over the top of his boots.’
I heard later that Rose had had a daughter, a grandchild that I might never see. Never have seen, to this day. John, at sixteen, had rebelled against the overworked life at Foxwell and his father’s slave-driving, and run off to sea.
Now, on this spring morning, with my legs still weak from the influenza, I paused in my pacing round the garden and wondered if I would ever see my younger children again. The ache was always there. Well, thank heaven for Charlotte.
I resumed my pacing. I didn’t recover from illness as well as had done in the past. I was now well into my forties and sickness struck harder. I had been lucky to have a kind neighbour who had already had and got over the influenza, and came in to look after me when I was ill.
I was still prowling round my front garden when a trap drew up at my gate. I didn’t recognize the grey horse in the shafts, but a moment later, I realized that the man who was driving it was William.
Charlotte came out of the house, calling his name, and he jumped down. ‘Welcome!’ I said as he came up to us. And then: ‘But what is the matter?’ One glance had shown me that his face was pale beneath its weathering, and his blue eyes were full of anxiety.
‘It’s Dad,’ he said breathlessly. ‘I think he’s dying.’
We took him indoors and Charlotte made tea while I sat him down and got him to explain.
‘It’s this here flu that’s going round, knocking folk down like skittles. Both the Websters are in their beds and their second boy, Ned, was laid up for ten days. Ned works for us now – looks after the horses mostly. We were hard put to it to keep the place in order without him but we managed, and then I got it and then Dad. I’ve recovered easy enough but Dad! He’s desperate sick!’
His eyes filled with tears. ‘Choking for breath, he is. Can hardly speak; just glared at me when I said I’d fetch you, but he’s your husband still; you’ve a right to be there if so you want to be. I said I’d bring you and he needn’t argue, the old devil, not that he can, as things are.’
‘William! Who’s looking after him? Susie?’
‘No, Annie. She had it too, same time as I did; she’s still shaky on her feet but she’s coping. Susie can’t, she’s lyin’ in; she’s just had another boy but it was a long business; Susie’s no stronger than the babe! She’s lost two since the first one; I never told you. It upset her that much! Well, she’s carried this one all the way and pray God all goes well now. We’re keeping infection away from her all we can. Jenny has had it but she’s better now and she’s caring for Susie. Folk don’t seem to get it twice, so she won’t pass it on. We’ve sent Harry to stay with Annie’s sister along with Annie’s children, to keep him safe. Fine, strapping lad he is now, nearly four. We want him to stay hearty.’ He hesitated, suddenly nervous. ‘Only, if you come, I hope you won’t get it too!’
‘I’ve just got over it. I’m protected, like Jenny. You started out this morning?’
‘Aye, I did. A good seven hours, it’s taken me. It’s been hard on Caesar – that’s the grey in the shafts. Just bought him; wanted something a bit bigger than a pony. I brought the trap so that Charlotte can come, and the luggage too – you’ll need clothes and things. Caesar must have a rest and a feed; it’s a long way home and we must get back today if we can.’ A wry look crossed his face. ‘I’m remembering some of the things Mr Silcox used to tell us about – the four horseman of the Apocalypse … did he tell you about them when you were at school?’
‘Yes, but what …?’
‘A pale rider on a pale horse and his name was Death,’ said William sadly. ‘I have a pale horse in the shafts. Very suitable! But we need to hurry … if we want to be in time. If you’ll come, that is. I haven’t even asked you properly yet!’’
‘Of course.’ James was my husband, for all our long estrangement. And Foxwell was my home.
Bitter Reunion
The ride back to Foxwell was strange. During my years at Claypit Cottage I had never returned to the moor, and it should have been a joy to me. Indeed, it was so in part, despite the circumstances. I did find delight in jogging through the river valleys, where the trees grew out of the steep sides at such astonishing angles and met overhead, and the new young foliage cast a green, dappled light over the track. Though one also had to pluck leafy switches to brush the flies away, so that it was still more welcome to emerge on to the open moor and see the smooth moulded bac
ks of the hills all round, behold the wide sky overhead, hear the twinkling music of the skylarks, feel the wind and see the heather and the moor grass, purplish at this time of year, though it would turn to pale gold later.
But my enjoyment was tempered for I kept thinking of James, suffering the illness which I had just had myself. I remembered all too well the pain of that vicious sore throat and how I had lost my voice entirely for three days. But I had not died and James, apparently, was likely to do so. His suffering must be far greater than mine.
I was sorry for him. I thought about that, while William talked to Charlotte about the farm. They were friends, as brother and sister ought to be. That was a happy thing. But I didn’t think James would welcome Charlotte to Foxwell. I feared that even if he was sick to the point of death he would still hate me and would resent my daughter, and show it. Even though I might be able to help him. I still had some of the local physician’s remedies, for I hadn’t needed them all. I had brought them with me, hoping that I might at least be able to ease James’ pain.
For our refreshment on the journey, we had brought flasks of water and cider, and assembled some bread and cheese and mostly we ate and drank on the move, though we did make a couple of short stops at inns, to let Caesar drink and take a brief rest. It was a long way and the sky had dimmed and the first stars were showing before we came in sight of Foxwell. However, there was still enough light to see the shape of the farmhouse as we drove into the yard and the familiarity of it came to me like a shattering blow. It looked so exactly as it always had. I could not believe I had been away so long.
Would I now be able to remain? I hadn’t even asked William what the maids and the Websters would think of my reappearance.
William pulled up. Caesar stopped thankfully, his head hanging low. A brisk young man, like a rejuvenated version of Fred Webster, came to his head. ‘Poor old fellow. Now don’t ’ee worry; there be fresh straw waitin’ for ’ee and a warm bran mash in a jiffy. Glad to see ’ee back, Master William, and the missus with ’ee.’ The rest of the household were going to accept me, it seemed. ‘Mr Bright, Annie says he’m holdin’ on but it do be a bad business. Come you down, now. This the missus’ little girl? Pretty wee thing, you be, maid. Best get inside, all of ’ee. Leave Caesar and the hampers to me.’
Late Harvest Page 20
