Once more in the lane he kept up the gait so as not to arouse suspicion. The last thing he wanted was for them to associate the girl with the Choicelys. If she turned out to be Ben’s child he wanted to know. He wasn’t sure yet what he would do, but he would certainly see that she was never destitute. He turned back into the main street, where he met no one as he walked to the end of the village, although he didn’t doubt for one moment that there were people who saw him and wondered who he was. It was a further mile to where the pony and trap would be waiting – he had told his driver to go off on his own and not stay close until it was time to collect him. The trap was there waiting and soon they were heading for Chasebury Manor.
During the next few days Richard found out a lot more about Betsy Salden. He now knew she had gone to work for Mrs Wallasey when she was ten and had been married to George Hatton at barely fifteen. Quite how she became Daniel Forrester’s wife he wasn’t sure, but the most likely explanation was that George had sold her. Richard could not understand why: a lovely woman like that, but it seemed the only logical thought. Unless she had run away from George Hatton and Daniel had rescued her. The more he thought about it the more likely that seemed to him. His natural curiosity coupled with his love of research took over and he determined to find out more about the life of the beautiful woman who could possibly be his niece.
His logical mind looked at every aspect of the situation. On physical appearance alone the idea was feasible – he had the portrait of his late mother taken down from the wall and studied it from every angle. Those dark–blue fathomless eyes, that midnight-black hair, the skin colouring, which Richard thought the artist had captured perfectly in the painting, it all matched. No wonder that girl had looked familiar when he first saw her. She was like a younger edition of the mother he remembered coming into the nursery when he was a child.
Although he did not have it taken down he went on several evenings after dinner to the long gallery and looked on his brother Benjamin’s portrait. The likeness was there too, especially when you knew what you were looking for. Again his astute mind searched for snags but found none. He tried to picture the girl with her long hair cut to just below her ears, with a man’s body stature instead of a woman’s and grinned ruefully when he realized that man or woman, both Ben and Betsy seemed to have the charisma that made folk remember them for their beauty.
That was another thing, her name. Betsy. He wondered if her mother had deliberately given her a name beginning with the first two letters of his brother’s, but he dismissed this as too fanciful. He wished he had a portrait of Betsy to compare with the others, but he only had the impressions in his mind.
He returned to the library, fetched some paper and pens and tried to draw the girl. He had been a reasonable artist in his youth although Ben’s drawings and paintings were the ones that found their way to his mother’s treasure-chest. Now he mentally tossed that rather bitter memory away, as his pencil rapidly sketched the high cheekbones, the small nose, the long hair and the glorious figure of the woman he had seen only twice in his life.
Richard Choicely sank into the deep armchair. On the small table by his side was a drink and on his lap a sketch-pad with various drawings of Betsy Forrester. He sipped and savoured the brandy, gazing all the while at what he had drawn. There was no doubt she had many of the features of his mother’s side of the family, the Beaumonts. How he hadn’t seen it was his mother of whom she reminded him, he didn’t know. William had noticed it immediately, so it definitely wasn’t imagination on his part.
Recalling the time when the village woman had come to Chasebury Manor Richard tried to remember what he knew, which had been precious little at the time. He realized Ben was in serious trouble but his elder brother seemed to thrive on it. This time, though, there had seemed to be real concern in the family. He recalled the talk in the servants’ quarters. It always stopped when he appeared, but he heard enough to know something was afoot.
In retrospect, remembering snatches of conversations he wasn’t meant to hear, and picturing the scenes between his parents, he was sure that this was Benjamin’s child and the woman was her mother. What had she hoped for when she came to Chasebury? Money most probably, or recognition for her daughter. Was the beautiful Betsy that child? Those memories were hazier than the ones of his brother’s death, which occurred not so long afterwards. As he stroked the brandy-glass he let the memories run through his mind again, like a well-remembered play.
Ben had gone riding early in the morning. He did this most days and he was usually gone for several hours. Later that afternoon his horse was seen in the woods over a mile away and the search for him began. They found him in a clearing half a mile from the house, dead, with head wounds and a broken back.
His mother was inconsolable and took to her room, refusing to see anyone but her husband when he took her food to her. Sir Benjamin went around the place, carrying on his duties but with such a forbidding air that the young Richard kept out of his way.
Recalling that time now he found the snatches of talk among the servants were clear in his memory. ‘Not a natural accident, Pike says there was some rope stretching between two trees.’ This had been cook and the butler speaking about Pike the gamekeeper.
‘Foul play – mind, he had his enemies. There’s many a wench round these parts whose lives he’s ruined. I know one from the village as nearly died a few months ago when she was in trouble.’
Yes, there had been lots of such conversations which mysteriously stopped when he appeared in the kitchen. His young mind must have registered not only the words but the expressions and tones of voice, for he could picture the scenes as clearly as if it had all happened yesterday instead of all those years ago. He wondered now about that rope stretched between two trees. That servants’ gossip he had picked up on must have embedded itself deeply in his mind and was being triggered now by a beautiful and familiar face seen in the market-place.
Had the woman who had left Chasebury without anything for her child taken a terrible revenge on the man who fathered it? If only Pike were still alive. Suddenly he remembered that Pike had had a son. If he wasn’t mistaken that son was now gamekeeper to Charles Dicton at Pensfield. His hands lovingly circled the brandy-glass and he smiled to himself. He would pay Charles a visit just as soon as he could.
It was nearly ten days later before Richard found the time to take the twenty-six mile trip to Pensfield. He travelled with his coachman and they put up at an inn for the night. The following morning he sent a note to Sir Charles Dicton and less than an hour later the two men were greeting each other. At first the talk was about the land, the king, the government, but eventually Richard asked about the gamekeeper.
‘Yes, Jim Pike’s with me. A good man.’
‘As was his father,’ Richard said. ‘He was with my father for many, many years. I should like to have a word with Jim about his dad if that is possible while I’m in the area. I remember him as a little lad, of course. We are about the same age.’
‘His cottage is along the lane. Primrose Cottage. Third one along from here.’ The men parted on convivial terms and Richard made his way to the gamekeeper’s home. He was in luck as Jim Pike was indoors. The two men spoke of many things to do with game and country matters before Richard broached the reason he had come.
‘Jim, did your father ever speak to you about my brother Benjamin’s accident?’
Jim shot him a wary look, then nodded his head slowly.
‘I’m checking a few things from the past, Jim. Ben was a superb horseman and no other rider was involved, yet something threw him that day.’ Jim continued to look at him without speaking, and Richard said, ‘I was a child at the time, yet I heard rumours. I didn’t fully understand their meaning then, of course, but thinking about it all now I am wondering whether it was an accident or something more sinister. Will you tell me what your father told you?’
‘No harm to now, I s’pose.’ Jim drew his lips together into a sucking mo
vement, sending lines running up his weather-beaten face. ‘’Twas when he were ill, not long afore he died when he mentioned it. “Jim,” he says, “I’m going to tell you something I wouldn’t have believed if I hadn’t seen it with me own eyes, lad.” ’
‘Go on,’ Richard said into the silence which followed the gamekeeper’s words.
‘“A few yards from where young Ben lay there was a rope stretched between two trees. I rushed to Ben, of course, but he were dead and I went straight to the big house and when I went back to the wood afterwards the rope had gone.”’
‘Gone?’
‘That’s right, gone. That’s what me dad said. No sign of it at all, so he didn’t mention it to anyone.’
‘What else did he tell you, Jim?’
‘Said it played on his mind a bit – you know – that someone had deliberately tied it across.’
‘Well, thanks, Jim. It’s too long ago now to follow it up, of course, but it looks as though someone set out to kill my brother, doesn’t it?’
‘It’s what me dad thought. He said the horse would be going too fast there to stop.’ As Richard rose and extended his hand the gamekeeper said, ‘There was one more thing he told me. When he went back, while the others were with your poor brother, who had been taken up to the house, he stood looking round for the rope which wasn’t there any more.’
Richard held his breath as Jim Pike paused dramatically and rubbed his big hand against his chin. ‘As he moved away he saw the back of a woman hurrying through the trees. He ran after her but she dodged him and he never saw her face.’
‘He had no idea, l suppose, who she might be?’
‘No. He said she had a black shawl or something round her head and shoulders. He never told the master or mistress because they were in such a state. He did ask what time the accident was, though. You know, if he’d been lying there dead a long while, and Sir Benjamin told him the doctor said it had only just happened before they arrived, even though he’d been out all morning. It seemed he was on his way back.…’
Richard thanked him and took his leave. He returned thoughtfully to his carriage and home. Had Betsy’s mother killed the man responsible, and because Pike came along looking for him at that point she had had no time to take down the evidence until he went to fetch help? It looked suspiciously as though that were the case. Now she was dead he would never know the truth. The old man at the cottage in Marshdean would probably know, might even have helped tie the rope, but he’d never admit it.
The village of Marshdean wasn’t far from Chasebury Manor, especially if you cut through the woods, and it would have been as easy for any of the girls from there to meet Ben as it was for those from several other hamlets in the area.
Richard shuddered, suddenly wondering if he wanted to pursue this any more. What was it that that greedy man had said to him the day he went to the village, ‘You got some money for ’er then?’ He was one of the Saldens, her mother’s brother maybe, which would make him Betsy’s uncle, the same as me, he thought, if my workings out are anywhere near the truth.
Forcing his mind back through the years he recalled that Ben’s horse, Strike, although uninjured, had been shot afterwards. Knowing about the rope now he thought the horse had probably pulled up sharply on seeing it, Ben had been thrown and the horse had galloped back the way it had come. He remembered how upset he had been when he knew that Strike had been killed, and the warmth of the comfort he found in the kitchens of Chasebury Manor, while his parents upstairs cried for their elder son.
Chapter 6
During the winter Betsy concentrated on her fight for women to be recognized as equals and partners to men. She wrote letters to the papers, to members of parliament and to anyone in public life who she thought could help her cause.
Daniel supported her in these efforts and although she still hoped they would have a child she tried to take a realistic view and accept that it might not happen. It wasn’t easy. Loving him as she did she wanted to bear his children. What was wrong with her that she hadn’t been able to? Her heart told her she hadn’t conceived when she was with George Hatton because he forced himself on her, but her thinking told her that it would have made no difference. It was a natural happening. I’m a simple country girl, she told herself, but I have been taught how to use my mind, and there is a reason somewhere. I’m not educated enough to find it. Nevertheless she took comfort from the fact that three times now she had found herself with child.
She quietly mourned for those lost children but she kept these thoughts to herself, and would have been surprised if she could have seen into Daniel’s mind sometimes when he observed her in these moments and felt her sadness but did not know what to do to ease it.
Why do I lose my babies, she wrote in her notebook, for she had returned to writing down some of her thoughts as she used to do for Mrs Wallasey. Maybe the answer to that is to do with my father because my mother managed to have many children.
She wrote a passionate piece about educating girls because they are the mothers of all the country’s children and if they are educated and respected they in turn will do the same for their sons and daughters and life will be fairer for everyone.
She even wrote to the king decrying the practice of public wife-selling. Not knowing how to address him she simply put: To King George, Will you do something to stop the barbaric practice of buying a wife in the market as if she was a sack of flour? She did not receive a reply.
She did have answers to a few of her other letters, however. Some from like-minded people and some from folk who wanted no change in the treatment of men and women. But then, the girls it happens to are usually the ones who cannot read and write, she confided to the notebook. I can and I must use my knowledge to help them. She formed a bond and exchanged letters with the ones who answered but neither she nor any of them were in a position to do something about the situation just now.
‘But the time will come,’ she said to Daniel when they discussed the matter, ‘and teaching all children to read and write is the beginning of it.’
Employing her energy in the fight for a better deal for women went some way to putting the episode with Tom Shooter behind her.
In between her letter-writing and managing the house and dairy she was often out with Daniel and Jim seeing to the animals during a bad winter.
At the beginning of December Joseph rode over to say the older Mrs Forrester was ill and he couldn’t manage. Apart from the animals it was quiet at this time of year on the farm and Daniel went over to see his mother, but on the second day he returned.
‘The farm is in a dreadful state,’ he told Betsy. ‘Everything falling to pieces around them. That lazy brother of mine has only ever been interested in having a good time and apparently our mother has been ailing for some weeks and has let things go. Will you come with me tomorrow? We can leave Jim here to see to things and the dairymaid can manage on her own for the day.’ The dairymaid lived with her parents and younger siblings in one of the four cottages at the end of the lane.
They took some provisions with them and while Betsy cleaned and cooked Daniel helped Joseph with repair jobs around the farm and house. He was careful to be indoors when his brother was there, never leaving him alone with Betsy.
They came home that evening but returned the following day to Sandilands Farm. Mrs Forrester seemed a little better. ‘That’s because of your good food and attention,’ Daniel said to Betsy.
It was as she was leaving the bedroom later that afternoon, having taken her mother-in-law some soup and waited while the old lady slowly drank it, that she encountered Joseph on the steep, narrow stairs. Instinctively she pulled herself into the side and he said quietly, ‘Come on, Betsy, one little kiss won’t hurt.’
‘You touch me, Joseph and I’ll push you to the bottom of the stairs. I mean that.’
She saw the uncertainty in his eyes and pressed home her advantage. ‘Keep your hands off and let me pass. I don’t give second chances,’ she sai
d. To her great relief he did just that and she went down the stairs and into the kitchen with the invalid’s soup bowl.
It was another week before the old lady was up and once more in charge of the farm and her kitchen. Betsy and Daniel drove over in the trap for part of each day, Daniel always did some things on his own farm first because he said it wasn’t fair to leave too much to Jim. Betsy left soup and bread and cheese and sometimes a piece of apple-pie for Jim’s lunch. He stayed willingly enough and Betsy later confided to her notebook. Jim is the best there is. How would we have managed without him?
On the last day they were at Sandilands Daniel’s mother grudgingly thanked them for helping out. ‘Now I’m on me feet, Joseph will work,’ she said. ‘I’ll make him.’
Betsy did not doubt that when she came in from feeding the hens and overheard her shouting at her younger son. ‘Getting that bastard brother of yours over here, you lazy sod. From now on you do your share here, I’ve had enough of giving in to you. You’ll get nothing more from me if you don’t pull yer weight. I could’ve died while you sat on yer bum and let me.’
Daniel injured his ankle on that last day, twisting it as he tried to avoid falling on to some wire netting thrown down outside. He limped indoors and Betsy found some clean rag and put a cold compress on the swelling. Joseph, who had seen what happened laughed and their mother said to Daniel, ‘You’ve always been clumsy.’
Betsy was kneeling on the floor tying the cold rag round his ankle and she almost bit her tongue when Daniel shook his head at her to stop her losing her temper and answering back. Later, as they climbed into the trap to leave she said, ‘Why do you let her treat you like that?’
‘I don’t like arguments. But I couldn’t leave her to die and Joseph would not have done anything.’
The Straw Halter Page 8
