The Fleethaven Trilogy

by Margaret Dickinson

  The daily demands of the farm forced them to settle quickly into a routine. The following morning Matthew fetched his belongings from the cottage that had been his home at the Point, and Esther scrubbed and cleaned the bedroom that had been Sam’s. Now it was Matthew’s Sunday best suit that stood on the hanger in the corner, Matthew’s boots set ready beneath. There was fresh linen on the bed and on cold winter nights there would be a fire in the grate.

  But Esther did not try to remove every trace of the old man to whom she owed so much. She put Sam’s family pictures on the mantelpiece and that night, as they undressed for bed, Matthew padded across the floor to look at the faded photographs.

  ‘By heck,’ he exclaimed. ‘Is that his pa? He’s the spitting image of him!’

  ‘I never dare ask him – but I ’spect so. It’s not Sam. I reckon that one’s Sam as a younger man.’

  Esther pointed to the other photograph in a silver frame. Matthew looked closely at it. ‘Not a bad looking fellow, was he?’ Then he pointed at the pretty young girl with a cloud of curls. ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘I reckon that’s Katharine Brumby, Sam’s sister. There’s an entry about her birth in the old Bible in the front parlour – and did you notice at the funeral where Sam was buried?’

  ‘No, can’t say I took any notice. I dun’t like funerals. I wanted to get out o’ there as quick as possible.’

  ‘Sam was buried alongside his parents, but on the other side was the grave of Katharine Brumby, his sister. She was only forty when she died. She can’t ever have married.’

  Matthew leant forward and peered closely at the faded picture. ‘She looks like you, he murmured. ‘That explains it, then.’

  ‘Explains what?’

  ‘Why he took a fancy to you, of course.’ He came and stood in front of her. ‘You probably reminded him of her or summat. But then—’ Suddenly he grabbed her round the waist and lifted her bodily off the floor and tossed her on to the bed, so that the old springs squeaked and protested. ‘Who wouldn’t fancy you, Esther?’

  He could not quell his hunger for her, yet now there was a look of resentment deep in his eyes.

  ‘Wait a minute, Matthew. There’s something else I want to show you.’

  He was on top of her, his dark eyes so close, his breathing rapid. She could feel his desire.

  ‘Dun’t start mekin’ excuses, else I’ll . . .’

  ‘I’ll not break me promise,’ she said quietly, ‘but there’s something I want to show you.’

  ‘What?’ he demanded roughly, his tone still suspicious.

  ‘Let me up, then.’

  After a moment’s hesitation, he rolled off her on to his back. Esther slid off the bed and bent down to pull out a heavy wooden box from under it. As she lifted the lid, Matthew reared up on one elbow and peered over the side of the bed. His jaw fell open. Inside were a great many coins, more money than either Matthew or Esther had ever seen in their lives.

  ‘The old miser!’ Matthew grinned, but there was admiration for the old man, not insult, in his tone. His ill-temper was smoothed away by the sight of so much wealth. Wealth that was now Esther’s and – by rights – his too. ‘Who’d have thought it?’

  Esther let the lid fall and pushed it away. Then she climbed back into bed.

  Esther kept her part of the strange marital bargain. Never once did she refuse Matthew his demands upon her body, day or night. He took her whenever and wherever he wanted. In the hayloft, in the wash-house as she bent over the dolly tub, out in the fields where anyone might have seen them – almost as if he were trying to punish her, trying to make her refuse him, just once, so that he could turn on her and accuse her afresh. Certainly, he was trying to humiliate her. But Esther remained stoically docile to her husband’s demands. Not a word of complaint or protest passed her lips. Matthew had not reckoned on her strength of will. Nothing he could do to her physically would break her resolve. She had got what she wanted – the farm – and she had been willing to pay the price. And the price was to be a dutiful wife to her husband.

  For a time there was an uneasy truce between them, but a week after their marriage, that tentative pact was threatened almost before it had begun.

  Beth came to the farm.

  From the wash-house Esther saw her talking to Matthew and as she stepped out towards them, drying her hands on her apron, they both turned to look at her. Matthew’s face was set in an angry glare, whilst tears trembled on Beth’s black lashes. As Esther came closer the weeping girl whispered, ‘So it’s true, ya got yar way at last?’ She turned her tearful eyes to look up into Matthew’s face. ‘She dun’t love you, Matthew. She – she’s used you. Mester Willoughby, ’ee told his wife that the squire said he never gives the tenancy of his farms to a woman. She had to be married – to get the farm.’

  ‘Beth, I—’

  ‘It’s true!’ Her voice was becoming shrill. ‘I love you, Matthew, I’ve always loved you and I thought we was . . .’

  ‘Beth, I’m sorry, I—’

  The girl shook her head. ‘Mebbe it’s me that’s the fool. I let you . . .’ her voice broke and she took a deep, trembling breath. ‘But she – she got you by holding out, didn’t she? Didn’t she?’ She screamed at him now, pummelling her fists against his chest and then falling helplessly against him, sobbing hysterically.

  ‘Aw, Beth.’ His voice was an anguished whisper, and for a moment his arms were around her holding her tightly against him, whilst Esther stood watching them. She heard Beth give a gulp and saw her pull away from Matthew. Beth turned, her head bowed, as if to walk away, but with a final fury that shuddered through her body, she turned on Esther and came close to her, shaking her fist in her face.

  ‘You’ll suffer for this, Esther Everatt, you’ll—’

  ‘Esther Hilton now, Beth,’ Esther corrected her with brutal calmness.

  The girl gasped and the colour flooded into her white cheeks. ‘You’ll suffer for this,’ she spat again so that Esther actually felt Beth’ spittle on her face. ‘You an’ yours will never know happiness!’

  It was like a curse being laid upon her.

  ‘If you plough a crooked furrow an’ sow a bad seed, you mun reap a bitter harvest.’

  Fourteen

  ‘YOU heard the news then, lass?’

  Ma Harris placed her milk can on the floor of Esther’s spotless pantry and watched whilst Esther filled it with creamy milk.

  ‘No, what’s that?’

  There was a triumphant note in Ma’s voice as she said, ‘Beth Hanley’s married Robert Eland, all quick-like. Yesterday, it were. What d’ya think to that – an’ only four weeks after yours, eh?’

  Esther almost dropped the small churn she was holding. Slowly, she straightened up to meet Ma Harris’s keen gaze. Levelly, Esther said, ‘I’m very pleased for her, I hope they’ll be very happy.’ She forced a smile to stretch her mouth. ‘Mr Eland has been – fond of her for a long time, I believe.’

  Esther felt Ma’s shrewd glance studying her, but skilfully she avoided meeting those perceptive eyes. ‘Aye, that’s right,’ the older woman acknowledged. ‘Strange how things work out, ain’t it? Young Beth married to a man old enough to be her father . . .’ She cackled at her own joke. ‘Well, not really, I’m exaggeratin’ a bit. He’s thirty-summat but she’s only nineteen. An’ she’s gone to live in that monstrosity of a boat thing – I don’t reckon it’s safe, mesen,’ she added musingly. ‘An’ there we was all thinking . . .’

  Esther picked up the full can and held it out to Ma Harris, holding out her other hand for the coppers in payment. ‘Shall you want any eggs this week, Mrs Harris?’

  ‘Eh, but call me Ma, lass, everyone else round here does.’ The toothless gums widened into a smile and Esther found herself unable to resist smiling in return. ‘I’ll have half a dozen,’ Ma said, ‘and they’ll want a dozen at the pub.’ Slyly, she added, ‘An’ shall I ask Mrs Eland if she wants to place a regular order for milk and eggs?’

 
; Esther, having recovered her composure after Ma’s piece of news, raised a quizzical eyebrow and returned Ma Harris’s gaze steadily. ‘I dun’t reckon the new Mrs Eland will want to get her milk and eggs from me – from us.’ She shrugged. ‘But ya can ask her, if ya like.’

  Ma turned and waddled back through Esther’s kitchen. ‘Eh, but you’ve worked wonders with this place. It’s spotless. I ain’t never seen old Sam’s place look so clean. He’s a lucky young feller, that Matthew Hilton. Fallen right on his feet, ’ee has, what wi’ you gettin’ the farm, an’ all.’ Again she shot Esther a knowing glance. Nothing, it appeared, got past Ma Harris’s astute understanding. With what sounded like a note of disapproval, she added, ‘But I don’t expect he realizes it. Same with all the fellers, lass, they don’t know a good thing when they’ve got it!’ She chuckled at her own philosophy. ‘But they know when they’ve lost it.’

  As Esther closed the back door behind Ma Harris, she was wondering how Matthew would take the news of Beth’s marriage to the man he had always disliked. Would he start to think about what he, Matthew, had lost?

  Esther could not bring herself to speak of Beth to her husband, yet the black-haired girl lay like a shadow over any chance of happiness that their marriage might have had. She guessed Matthew must have heard of Beth’s marriage, for the same night that Ma Harris had imparted the news to Esther, Matthew ate his meal in silence and left the farmhouse without a word to her. He had still not returned when Esther banked down the range, took her candle and went upstairs to bed.

  She awoke with a start.

  A loud crash had disturbed her. Her heart pounded. She heard someone moving through the kitchen, as if they were lurching from side to side, colliding with the table, knocking over a chair. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and reached with fingers that trembled to light her candle. Her mouth was dry with fear as she reached the top of the stairs and heard the door from the living room into the small hall smash open, thrown back against the wall. She held the candle high to see who had dared to invade her home.

  ‘Matthew! Whatever—?’

  ‘Hello, Esh-ter, my beeootiful darlin’. Your husband’s come home to hish lovely wife . . .’ He hiccupped and reeled backwards falling against the front door behind him. He slithered down into an untidy heap on the floor. In the flickering candlelight, she could see the silly grin on his face.

  ‘You’re drunk!’ she accused, rather unnecessarily.

  Matthew giggled. ‘I think I musht be.’

  She turned and carried the candle back into the bedroom, leaving him in total darkness. She climbed into bed, blew out the light and lay there shaking with anger as she listened to every blundering step he made, pulling himself slowly up the stairs, muttering to himself then giggling foolishly.

  ‘Esh-ter, bring the candle back here, woman. I can’t see a thing. I’ll fall down and break me – me neck.’

  Grimly, Esther lay still and stared with wide eyes into the blackness.

  He gained the top of the stairs and fell into the bedroom, the door thumping back against the bed.

  He lay on the floor laughing stupidly. ‘Ya know, I reckon I’ve had – hic – a bit too much.’

  Esther said nothing.

  She heard him pull himself to his feet and sit heavily on the side of the bed. She listened whilst laboriously he took off his boots. Slowly and with careful deliberation, he took off each item of clothing and laid it across the bottom of the bed. She could feel the heaviness of his clothes across her feet. Then he tugged at the bedclothes and scrambled his way beneath them. For a few moments he lay beside her, breathing heavily. Then suddenly, he rolled over towards her, flung one arm across her, brought up his knee and thrust his right leg over her body.

  Although the smell of drink on his breath made her feel sick, she lay rigidly still. He tried to pull himself up to lie astride her, but in his befuddled state the effort was too much. He nuzzled his head against her shoulder and then gave a huge sigh, sending waves of ale fumes into her face.

  His breathing became regular and soon he was snoring heavily. After a few minutes she gently eased herself out from under his heavy limbs and pushed him on to his back and on to his side of the bed. She turned her back to him and lay as far to the outside edge of the bed as she could. Her fingers gripped the thin mattress and her eyes stared sleeplessly into the darkness.

  What have I done? she asked herself. What have I done?

  The New Year brought its own problems. January was one of the wettest that the old farmers could remember. The ploughed fields became a quagmire and the swollen river spilled over its banks on to the fields that bordered it. The bitter winds whipped across the flat land, howling around the exposed farmhouse in the dark of the long nights. The winter ploughing was a long way from being finished, but there was no way they could get on to the land.

  ‘We ought to have our own ’osses, two at least,’ Matthew said to Esther. ‘When the weather lets up, Tom Willoughby’ll want his ’osses for his own ploughing. I reckon he’s further behind than us.’

  Esther nodded. ‘He’s more acreage than us, he’ll not want to be lending us his team when the weather does get better, will he?’ She was thoughtful for a moment. ‘Do you think the squire would lend us a couple of his?’

  Matthew shrugged. ‘We could ask, I suppose, but Souters’ Farm always has first call on Mester Marshall’s ’osses. We ought to try to get our own, Esther,’ he persisted. ‘Could we find the money to buy a couple of carthorses?’

  Esther pulled a face. ‘We-ell,’ she said slowly as if thinking aloud. ‘Last year’s harvest was good. We’ve enough and more to see us through for winter feed. Then there’s seven pigs almost ready for market, still leaving us a couple for our own use.’

  ‘What about that money you found under Sam’s bed after he died?’

  Esther looked up sharply and her eyes narrowed. ‘I didn’t want to use that. I wanted to hang on to that in case we ever hit a bad time and needed it for the rent and – well – just livin’.’

  Matthew appeared to consider. ‘Yes, I suppose that’s sensible.’ There was disappointment in his voice.

  Esther looked across at him. It was the first time since their marriage that he had shown positive interest in the running of the farm. Oh, he worked hard, she couldn’t deny that, but he seemed determined to remain the hired hand, rather than take his rightful place as the tenant farmer of Brumbys’ Farm.

  It seemed to her as if he was always angry, as if there was a brooding resentment simmering just below the surface ready to flare into anger at the slightest provocation – particularly towards her. His once merry, ready-to-laugh face seemed to have a perpetual frown, where before there had been laughter lines around his brown eyes. Now those same eyes were often resentful and shadowed with bitterness.

  The day they had gone to the Grange again to meet the squire and his lawyer, who turned out to be Mr Thompson, Esther had felt that Matthew had been deliberately awkward. As they had entered the squire’s study, Mr Thompson had risen and come towards them, holding out his hand and smiling at Esther. ‘My dear Mrs Hilton, what a pleasure it is to see you again. How are you settling down into married life?’

  She had glanced at Matthew in time to see him glowering truculently at the lawyer, and when Mr Thompson had placed the Tenancy Agreement before them, Matthew had pushed it roughly away from him, almost shouting, ‘I can’t read all that complicated stuff. You’d better ask my wife to deal with all this. She’s the “mester”!’

  Patiently, Mr Thompson had read the lengthy legal document, pausing to explain the obscure parts in simpler words, at last saying, ‘Despite all the involved legal jargon, Mr Hilton, I can assure you – both – that this is the standard form of Agreement which Mr Marshall has with all his tenants. There are no catches.’ He had beamed across the desk at them.

  ‘Quite so,’ Mr Marshall had put in. ‘Just sign it at the bottom, my boy, and let me shake you by the hand as my new
tenant.’

  Matthew had made a great play of signing the Agreement with big scrawling letters, as if he could barely write properly, whereas Esther knew he could sign his name quite easily. She had felt that this behaviour was all part of his punishment of her for having trapped him into marrying her so that she could secure the tenancy of the farm.

  Now, as they stood in the kitchen discussing the possibility of buying a pair of horses, for the first time he was showing real enthusiasm in planning their future.

  A thought struck her. With a calculated subtlety that was normally alien to her candid nature, she said, ‘Why don’t you have a word with Tom Willoughby? He would probably know how much a pair would cost. He might even know of some for sale?’

  Matthew grinned at her, and for a moment he was the old Matthew. ‘Eh, but you’re a sharp one, Esther Hilton. Why didn’t I think of that?’ Then, remembering suddenly, his eyes clouded over. ‘Aye, you’re a sharp one, all right, an’ don’t I know it.’ He turned away abruptly, the tentative signs of a burgeoning co-operation dying instantly.

  ‘I’ll see Tom some time,’ he said casually over his shoulder and went out to feed the pigs.

  Esther sighed and returned to churning the butter, venting her disillusionment by thumping the wooden barrel of the churn over and over vigorously.

  With February came the snow.

  It fell heavily and almost continuously for three days. A strong wind sprang up off the sea from the north-east, a bitingly cold wind, drifting the snow and cutting off all communication with the town and even with the other farms.