The Fleethaven Trilogy

by Margaret Dickinson

  For a moment a look of uncertainty crossed Beth’s face as if she were struggling with her conscience. Then her dark head came up defiantly. ‘Well, it’s a mite late for me now to have such high-minded principles. I’ll leave you to your lonely bed, Esther Everatt, and wish ya well on it.’ With that parting shot Beth tossed her long hair back and flounced away.

  Esther, determined to have the last word, shouted after her, ‘You’re welcome to him.’

  Beth disappeared out of the barn into the darkness to find Matthew.

  Later that night, for the first time in her life, Esther lay awake with a strange feeling of restlessness. Matthew could be right, she thought sadly, maybe she’d never know what it was like to be really loved by someone kind and thoughtful. Perhaps no one decent would want to marry a girl with a name; ‘my sister’s bastard’ as Aunt Hannah had constantly reminded her.

  All she had ever wanted, Esther told herself fiercely in the lonely darkness of the little attic room, was a place to belong. That was why she had left her aunt’s house and walked through the night. That was why she had forced herself upon the ailing Sam Brumby. He needed her youth and her strength. But Esther was honest enough to acknowledge that her need of Sam and his farm was even greater than the old man’s need of her.

  She had no place in her scheme of things for rolling in the hay with the likes of Matthew Hilton!

  With harvest time over, now came the preparation of the ground for next year’s crops. The work would continue as the weather allowed throughout the winter months, though Sam told Esther he liked to aim to get the ploughing done by December.

  ‘Ah dun’t always manage it,’ he told her ruefully, ‘and there’s the threshing to pull in an,’ all.’

  ‘We’ll manage it, mester,’ Esther told him confidently. ‘Me an’ Matthew between us.’

  Sam grunted doubtfully. ‘Reckon you can manage them great horses of Tom Willoughby’s, d’ya, wench?’

  Esther grinned at him, her green eyes sparkling. ‘You just watch me, mester.’

  So on the first day that Tom brought his pair of heavy horses to Brumbys’ Farm, both he and Sam followed Esther as she led the animals out to the field; stood watching her as deftly she harnessed them to the plough. She marked out a rig and then cut her first furrow, true and straight. Her clear voice rang out across the field, ‘Gee-back, gee-back,’ as she guided the horses on a right turn at the end of the rig and began her way back down the field towards the two men. As she approached, Esther’s concentration never faltered, her hands stayed firmly on the plough, yet she was aware of their critical scrutiny.

  Tom’s rumbling voice carried to her ears. ‘By heck, lass, that furrow’s as straight as I could do mesen. What d’you say, Sam?’

  Faintly, she heard Sam’s now-familiar sniff. ‘Aye, it’ll do,’ was all he said.

  From Sam Brumby that was praise enough.

  So day after day Esther took turns with Matthew in following the horses borrowed from Tom Willoughby, guiding the plough as it carved furrow after neat furrow until her legs ached and her ankles were sore from all the miles she had walked on the uneven ground. Her hands were chafed raw from holding the plough handles but doggedly she plodded on through the rain and mud of autumn. The days seemed to grow rapidly shorter and the weather turned colder. Seagulls shrieked above her diving down on to the freshly turned furrow in search of food. Mile after mile she trudged and then, cold and wet, she would return to the farmhouse at night, but only when the horses had been brushed and fed with corn and chaff did she allow herself any respite. In front of the glowing fire in the range she would fall asleep in the wooden chair in the corner by the hearth, often too exhausted even to eat.

  Life at Brumbys’ Farm fell into some sort of routine for the three of them – Sam, Esther and Matthew. Matthew did not work full time for Sam, Esther found. He helped out on all the local farms and so several days could go by without Matthew being there. Then suddenly he would appear again, grinning cheekily, winking at her and, given less than half a chance, slapping her buttocks, although he was quick to dodge out of the way of her stinging right hand returning the slap.

  With the ploughing, Matthew was needed at Brumbys’ more than usual. On Mondays Esther washed and ironed, on Tuesdays and Wednesdays she helped with the ploughing when Matthew was needed elsewhere, then on Thursdays she baked and cooked enough food to last the week. Fridays and Saturdays she worked outside again, sometimes more ploughing, sometimes with the stock. But on Sundays, she found that Sam was quite happy to do a minimum of work.

  ‘It’s the Lord’s Day,’ he said gruffly one Sunday morning when he found her black-leading the range. Even the animals were given as little attention as possible.

  ‘Give ’em a sharpener on the Lord’s Day,’ Sam told her. ‘One feed a day instead of two on the Sabbath – they’ll be all the more ready to come to the trough tomorrow.’

  So on a Sunday, Esther found she had time for herself.

  Walking down the lane from Brumbys’ Farm towards the Point one Sunday afternoon, when the winter sun lay low in the southern sky, streaking the fields with a golden glow, Esther hummed to herself and every so often she gave a little skip of sheer happiness. She came to the stretch of grass between the cottages and the river bank. Four of Ma Harris’s children were chasing each other in a noisy game of tag. Esther smiled to herself. Sabbath or not, Ma Harris would never manage to keep that brood quiet.

  ‘Is yar mam at home?’ she asked a boy with a runny nose.

  ‘Nah, she’s away yonder,’ he pointed inland with a grubby finger, ‘there’s a babby bein’ born at Souters’ Farm.’

  ‘A babby?’

  ‘Aye, the missus is having her fifth babby. Me mam alius goes to ’elp when a babby’s getting borned.’ He wiped his nose with the back of his hand and sniffed noisily.

  Esther nodded, said goodbye, and walked on towards the river bank.

  Now she had time to take a look around her, at the sea and the sand and the river that joined the sea. She was fascinated to see the little fishing boats moored along the river bank, and she followed its curve until the bank gave way to the sea. Esther paused in her walk to look at the huge boat where Robert Eland lived. It was lodged half on the bank, and shored up by sleepers and wooden poles dug deep into the bed of the river. At high water, it would seem to be almost afloat and yet the vessel was firmly anchored and would not move from its place. There was a narrow wooden jetty built up from the firm ground running on to the boat. Esther stood looking up at it in wonderment. She had never seen anything like it. It was a strange place for a man to make his home, she thought. She accepted, though, that there were those who felt an affinity with the sea as she did for the land she helped to work.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  The voice came from behind her, interrupting her reverie. She turned to find Robert Eland standing beside her. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean . . .’

  ‘You’re Sam Brumby’s wench,’ he stated bluntly.

  Esther bristled. ‘If you mean I work on Mester Brumby’s farm, the answer’s yes. If you mean owt more . . .’ Her green eyes glinted. ‘Then you’re quite wrong.’

  The expression in his eyes lightened a little, but he did not smile. His mouth was completely covered by his wiry beard. He was a dour man, who saw little humour in life in general and even less in his own. ‘Aye, I heard of your little – er – rumpus – with Missus Willoughby and ’er sister.’ He was glowering again. ‘Aye, an’ that’s not all I’ve heard about you. You took the job my Beth went after.’

  ‘Your Beth, but – but I thought she was Matthew’s girl.’

  The scowl deepened. ‘Huh, him!’ Robert Eland muttered. He seemed about to say more, but then turned away angrily. As he brushed past her and headed for the gangway to his home, Esther thought she heard him mumble, ‘Ah, what’s the use?’

  Esther walked on and came to a place where the river widened and joined the waters of the sea. On her
left – to the east – was marshland, the beach and the North Sea to the horizon and beyond. To the west lay mile upon mile of flat farmland as far as she could see.

  Esther shaded her eyes and looked out towards the sea. In the far distance she could see the Spit jutting out into the water, further out even than where she was standing. She retraced her steps past the cottages and the boat and took the path leading across the old marsh until she came to the dunes. Pushing her way through thick clumps of spiky marram grass, she came to the Spit and walked along the narrow ridge of scrubland to the end until she was surrounded on three sides by the sea. At high tide, the point of land could afford boats a haven from the treacherous currents and sudden squalls of the North Sea. At low tide the River Lynn still wound its way through the mudbanks.

  All around her was a magnificent bleakness. She turned slowly in a full circle, but every view was the same – flat as far as the eye could see. With the land so low and level, the glorious sky seemed to surround her entirely. There was so much space, it gave her such a sense of freedom.

  She threw back her head and breathed in the exhilarating air. She closed her eyes as the sea breeze wrapped itself around her, lifted her skirt and ruffled her curls, like a man flirting with her. The sound of the waves gently lapping at her feet was soothing.

  Whatever happened in her life, she thought, the waves would continue to break upon the shore and the tide would ebb and flow. It gave her a feeling of constancy, a sense of security. Behind her was the land that she loved already. Before her was the sea that she would come to know, too. She belonged in this place, she would make this place her own. She bent and picked up a fistful of the sand. She revelled in the feel of it in her hand. Then she flung it high into the sky and laughed aloud as the particles showered around her.

  Esther – unwanted and unloved all her young life – had found a place to stay, a place to love. She had found her home.

  Eight

  TO Esther’s disappointment, Christmas Day in Sam Brumby’s house was little different from any other day. She had cooked and baked for most of Christmas Eve, so that there was a chicken and vegetables to be cooked on the day itself, and a pudding to be warmed. Even her aunt had made more of Christmas than this, Esther thought disconsolately, as she remembered the shouting and laughter of her young cousins, her uncle carving at a huge goose and the dinner table loaded with all manner of food that they never tasted at any other time of the year. It was the first – and probably the only – time she would think kindly of her aunt.

  That night Esther’s sleep was disturbed by dreams of a family of children, her own children, with a husband sitting at the opposite end of the table. At first the man in her dream was just a shadowy, indistinct figure, but then the features took shape and it was Matthew who sat at the head of her table. She awoke early, sweating and breathing heavily, but she could not understand why.

  That winter on Sam Brumby’s farm was a harsh one. Snow came although it never seemed to stay long, yet the north-east winds from the sea were bitingly cold and whipped savagely across the flat land. Matthew still came for a day now and then to find Esther working about the farm huddled in a thick cloak, her hands chapped and her lips blue with cold.

  ‘You want some warming, Esther,’ Matthew told her saucily. ‘’Tis cosy in the hayloft.’

  She tossed her head and turned the barrel churn angrily until she heard the flip-flop of the cream turning into butter. ‘You never give up, do you?’

  He moved closer. ‘No, Esther, I’ll never give up.’ And he reached across and planted a rough kiss on her cheek.

  ‘Oh, go on with you.’ But the protest was half-hearted now and there was a faint tinge of pink to her cheek that had nothing to do with the cold.

  There was no let-up in the wintry weather and at the beginning of January there came such severe frosts that everything seemed to be frozen solid. The trees were white with ice and the ground as hard as stone. There could be no more work on the land until the cold spell eased, so Sam sent Esther to ask if they could borrow the threshing machinery.

  ‘I ain’t no threshing gear, Esther lass,’ Tom Willoughby told her. ‘Sam must have meant you to go to the Grange.’

  ‘Oh, mebbe he did, Mester Willoughby. He didn’t say, but because we borrowed the ’osses off you, I just thought . . .’

  Tom roared with laughter. ‘I ain’t that well off. But dun’t you worry no more, lass. I’ll see the squire’s bailiff for you and see what we can do.’

  ‘Thanks, mester.’

  *

  One Sunday morning Esther was surprised to see Matthew appear at the cowshed door as she was finishing the milking.

  ‘Hello, Esther. My, but you look bonny this morning. Your cheeks is all rosy.’

  ‘’Tis the cold,’ she said tartly to his compliment.

  ‘Esther, can you get time off this after’? The pools in North Marsh Field are frozen solid now. I thought we could go skating.’

  Esther almost dropped the pail of milk she was carrying. ‘Me? But I can’t skate.’

  ‘Aw, it’s easy. Come on, Esther. ’Tis time you had a little fun. I’ll find you some skates.’

  ‘Well,’ she said doubtfully, ‘all right. I’ll be ready after dinner.’

  ‘See you later, then.’ Matthew went off whistling loudly.

  As she went to and fro between the kitchen and the scullery clearing away the pots after dinner, Sam settled himself in the chair by the range for his Sunday afternoon nap.

  ‘Matthew says North Marsh Field is frozen solid. He’s tekin’ me skating,’ Esther told him.

  Sam’s only reply was a sniff as he pulled his pipe from his pocket, but a short time later, when she had finished the washing-up and was reaching for her shawl from the peg behind the door, Sam said, ‘Wench, watch ya’sen with that lad.’

  Slowly she put her shawl about her shoulders and stared at Sam. It didn’t register for a moment that Sam was warning her about Matthew. It was the first time the old man had shown the least concern for her. Strangely, the knowledge warmed her.

  ‘Aye, I’ll mind him, Mester Brumby,’ she said gently.

  Satisfied, Sam nodded and, stretching his feet out towards the glowing coals in the range, went back to packing his pipe.

  When they reached the field it seemed to Esther as if half the townsfolk of Lynthorpe were there. Happy shrieks of laughter filled the sharp air.

  Esther clutched Matthews arm, convulsed with laughter. ‘Oh, look – do look at her over there, she went a right cropper – and her petticoats flying!’

  Matthew laughed, ‘Look at him, then, he can’t control his feet, they’re sliding in all directions!’ They clung together hooting with laughter.

  ‘Oh, Matthew,’ Esther said at last, tears running down her cheeks, ‘I don’t think I want to try this after all. I’ll only mek a fool of mesen.’

  ‘It’s much more fun watching everybody else do that . . .’ His voice trailed away, and she felt his arm stiffen under her touch. She glanced up at his face to see his lips pressed together into a hard line of anger. A frown creased his forehead and she followed the line of his gaze across the frozen surface to a couple skating slowly and sedately around the far side.

  It was Beth and Robert Eland. He held Beth’s hand with his left, whilst his right arm was around her plump waist to steady her.

  As the couple passed close by them, Matthew slipped his arm around Esther’s waist. ‘Come on, Esther. Let’s give it a try.’ Without waiting for her to agree he propelled her forward on to the ice.

  They staggered around the perimeter of the ice clinging together, laughing helplessly, aware that they were every bit as funny as those they had been laughing at earlier. They were behind Beth and her partner now. Matthew gave Esther a little push that sent her sprawling on to the ice and sliding into the couple. Beth shrieked and clung to Robert Eland but he was even more unsure on his feet than she and he fell on to his back, clutching at Beth so that she fell on top
of him. Matthew, the only one left standing, could hardly hide his mirth at the flailing legs of the other three, the tangled bodies and petticoats fluttering.

  Matthew was beside them, holding out his hand to Beth to help her to her feet, leaving Esther to scramble to hers as best she could unaided. As for Robert Eland, Matthew paid no attention to him whatsoever.

  ‘Whatever did you make me go an’ do a thing like that for, Matthew Hilton? I’ve never felt such a fool in all me life!’ Esther hissed angrily, but Matthew was paying no attention to her either now.

  ‘Come on, Beth,’ he was saying, ‘let’s show ’em how it should be done.’ Before Robert or Esther had a chance to make any protest, he put his arm firmly around Beth and skated off with her.

  ‘Well,’ Esther gasped indignantly, ‘would you look at that?’ she demanded of no one in particular.

  ‘Aye, I see it,’ said Robert Eland, having now regained his feet. ‘I see it all too well.’

  Esther saw the look of anger and jealousy in the man’s eyes as together they watched the other two skating quite expertly. Round and round they went, faster and faster, until the other skaters, most of them still unsteady on the ice, began to move out of their way and to smile and nod towards Matthew and Beth in admiration.

  ‘I’m no judge of skating, mester,’ Esther said grimly. ‘But I’d say them two’s done this afore – and together!’

  She glanced up at the man at her side and saw such an expression of hatred as he glowered at Matthew that she was quite startled. That look was far more than just pique because Matthew had stolen his skating partner. Then, just as she heard Robert mutter, ‘What’s the point of stayin’ here any longer?’ she saw Matthew propel Beth to the side where they were standing and come to a halt in front of them with a flourish and a shower of ice.