They were standing in Tom’s stack yard. ‘I’d help you if I could, lass, but I’ve none mesen, now. I have to borrow the squire’s. You’ll have to do the same.’
‘Aye, but I’ll be at the end of the line, won’t I?’ she added bitterly.
Tom faced her squarely. ‘No beating about the bush, lass. I dun’t reckon the squire holds anything against you, personal like.’
‘Not like the rest of you, ya mean?’
Tom’s huge shoulders lifted fractionally as he said truthfully, ‘You’re not perfect, Esther Hilton. You’ve made mistakes and takin’ up with that young feller whilst your husband was at war hasn’t gone down too well with the folks round here . . .’ He held up his hand as she opened her mouth to protest, speaking for her the words she had been about to utter. ‘Aye, I know, it’s no one else’s business. But folks around here, I’m afraid, will always make other people’s business their own. It’s the penalty you pay for living in a little community like this. Matthew was one of us, an’ you were a stranger here.’
Stiffly, she said, ‘I’m sorry if you think badly of me, Tom, but there’s – things you don’t know . . .’
Tom nodded. ‘Eeh lass, I’ve been around a long time. I don’t think badly of you at all. And maybe I understand a lot more than you think, but there’s some as don’t.’
‘Tom—’ she said, suddenly needing to know. ‘You never thought I fired your stack, did you?’
Tom pushed his cap back and scratched his head, but did not answer.
‘How can you believe that of me, Tom? How can anyone believe I’d do a thing like that? Me, who loves the land more than I—’ She stopped. She had been about to say ‘more than I love people’. Once, not so long ago, that would have been a valid statement. Since she had known Jonathan, it was no longer true.
‘Besides, I wouldn’t hurt you for the world, Tom – even,’ she added with embittered truthfulness, ‘if I ain’t much time for yar wife and that sister of hers.’
‘I know, lass, I know. But she reckons you swore vengeance on her and Flo for reporting your – er – friend to the authorities. Then after that ran-tan-tanning they give ya . . .’ Once more Tom’s huge shoulders lifted in a non-committal shrug.
‘Aye, I did threaten her.’ Esther faced him squarely, courageously admitting her faults but stoutly defending herself against false accusation. ‘And in that moment when her and Flo were in their trap in the lane, gloating over the policeman payin’ us a visit, I would have done her a mischief an’ no mistake. But – ’ her voice softened, not at the memory of Martha and Flo but at the mention of Jonathans name – ‘he stopped me. Jonathan held me from tippling the trap over’ She met the older man’s gaze steadfastly. ‘Tom, I’m not vindictive. Yes, I bear her a grudge. I’ll never forgive her for what she’s done to me. First goading Matthew into volunteering, then reporting Jonathan . . .’ She shook her head again in disbelief. ‘But I would never, ever do a thing like firing yar stack! Please believe me, Tom?’
As Tom pulled his cap back on his head and opened his mouth, there was a loud squawk of rage from behind him and Martha came striding across the yard waving her fat arms and shouting at her husband, closely followed by Flo Jenkins.
‘Thomas – how can you let this creature on to our farm after what she did?’
‘What’s she doing here?’ Flo demanded and her voice rose shrilly with a touch of hysteria. ‘Martha, she’s come to kill us – kill us all. It wasn’t enough to try to set fire to our farm. She’s a whore and a trollop. Set the dog on her, Martha!’
Tom turned to look at them both. ‘Now look here, Flo Jenkins,’ his deep voice boomed as he stepped forward. Esther saw Flo’s face turn a funny grey colour and her thin hand fluttered to cover her mouth. ‘I’ve let you live in this house nigh on ten year and in that time you’ve done nowt but cause trouble between me and me wife with your tittle-tattle. You’ve a poisonous tongue on you, woman.’
‘Thomas . . .’ Martha began to plead.
‘And you can hold yourn, else I’ll leave the pair of you and join up.’
Martha gave a cry. ‘No, Thomas. You wouldn’t. You couldn’t – you’re too old.’
‘Too old be damned!’
‘Thomas!’ Martha still had enough spirit to admonish him for his language, but the farmer took no notice. ‘There was a piece in the paper last week saying that they’ll take anyone – anyone, mark you – who’ll volunteer to dig trenches.’ He leaned towards her and said slowly and deliberately, ‘Now that I could do, Martha, as you well know, for I’ve dug a few in me time.’
‘Thomas . . .’ Martha wailed. ‘How can you side with – with her against your own wife?’
‘Now come, Martha my dear. You know me better than that. I’ll not take your part if I think you’re wrong – and this time, you are. I never did believe that Esther fired that stack and I still don’t.’ He laughed suddenly, throwing back his head, his great belly wobbling. ‘She’s more likely to come an’ give you a good hiding, but set fire to a stack? Never!’
Martha all but stamped her foot. Her face grew puce. She turned and, grabbing Flo’s bony arm with her fat hand, she hustled her sister away and back into the house slamming the back door behind them.
Unperturbed, Tom merely rubbed his huge hands together and smiled again. ‘She dun’t like to be beat, Esther lass, and that’s put her in her place this time – and that sister of hers – and no mistake.’
‘Oh, Tom, I’m sorry. I didn’t come to cause you trouble, but I’m glad you believe in me.’
It was a comfort to Esther to know that she had Tom’s support, for apart from the ever faithful Will, she saw no one now. Even Enid came less and less to the farm to help out and Luke, one of the younger Harris boys who had for a time tried to take Ernie’s place, had stopped coming. But Kate was still welcomed at the Point cottages to play with the Harris children – and with Danny Eland.
The only person in whom Esther could confide was Will Benson. She looked forward to the days when he visited Fleethaven Point and had his dinner with her. Sometimes she never spoke to another soul – apart from Kate – from one of his visits to the next.
‘Y’know,’ he said between mouthfuls, ‘I miss my little lass on me visits, now she’s at school. How is she? Does she like it?’
Esther frowned. ‘Oh, yes, she loves it. Getting quite the saucy minx now. All the children from the Point walk to the school in town together.’
She felt Will’s perceptive eyes upon her. Quietly, he said, ‘An’ you don’t like that because she’s with Danny Eland.’
She glanced at him and pulled her mouth into a grimace which implied agreement.
‘I shouldn’t let it worry you none, lass. They’re only bairns. No harm can come of it.’
‘Mebbe, mebbe not. I still don’t like it, though. They – they seem drawn to each other, Will. She thinks he’s wonderful. It’s all “Danny says”, and “Danny did this” with her.’
Will shrugged. ‘Well, they are brother and sister . . .’
‘Half brother and sister,’ she corrected.
‘Half brother and sister, then. Perhaps there’s a kind of closeness – kinship, if ya like – that won’t be denied.’
‘Yes – and it worries me,’ Esther said, heaving herself up from the table. She gathered up the empty plates and took them out to the scullery. ‘Though there’s not a lot I can do about it, I suppose.’
‘You’ll find the more you try to stop ’em playing together, the more they’ll want to. Even at this age, they’ll rebel against you, given half the chance. I’d let them be, lass. Really I would.’
‘I expect you’re right, Will.’ She grinned at him with affection. ‘You usually are. I should listen to your wisdom sometimes.’
He stood up and laughed wheezily. ‘Mebbe you should, me lass, mebbe you should.’
They exchanged a knowing glance, but still the words she would have liked to hear him say were not forthcoming.
The months dragged on and it was only the needs of the animals and the land that kept Esther going. She was saddened to think that Matthew was dead, for, three months after the telegram, another official form arrived. The words were just as informal and impersonal:
It is my painful duty to inform you that no further news having been received relative to Sgt Matthew Hilton, the Army Council have been regretfully constrained to conclude that he is dead.
This letter was not such a shock as the telegram had been for despite what the squire had said, she had not thought that the War Office would send such a telegram unless they really believed that there was little hope of Matthew still being alive.
Poor Matthew. He hadn’t wanted to die. He hadn’t even expected to die, like many of them had done when they volunteered for the glory of it all.
She realized now that although she had never felt for her husband the overwhelming passion she felt for Jonathan, still in a way she had loved Matthew. She owed him a debt of gratitude and the loyalty that any man ought to be able to expect from his wife. But now, having known the intensity of falling in love with a man, of being loved and desired and almost worshipped by that man in return, there was a tinge of sadness in her memories of Matthew. She had no doubt that Beth had loved Matthew like that, and, too late, Matthew had come to realize that he loved Beth. Then he had felt cheated and trapped by his marriage and had vented his unhappiness upon Esther.
Carefully, she placed the letter in the sideboard drawer and closed it. Matthew was gone and she could not alter what had happened in the past. Even so, it had not been all bad, she comforted herself. They’d had the farm and they had created a daughter.
Now the farm and Kate were all she had left.
*
One blustery afternoon, Esther went into her meadow which adjoined Tom Willoughby’s land to check the bloom on the grass. She sighed. This field was ready for cutting now – in fact it had been ready for two weeks. Somehow she was going to have to cope completely alone with the harvests this year, for no one would come to help her. She looked about her at the long grass rippling like waves on the ocean in the stiff breeze that blew in from the sea. Clouds scudded across the sun and their shadows travelled across the fields. Suddenly she was filled with a desire to go to the end of the Spit – just to get away from the never-ending workload, if only for an hour.
She left the fields and walked back down the lane away from the borders of Rookery Farm and towards the sand dunes and the marsh beyond them. She had climbed the bank and was about to run down the other side to cross the marsh towards the Spit, when she heard the rattle of wheels in the lane behind her. She turned to see Martha and Flo in their trap, their smart bonnets suggesting they were heading for Lynthorpe. Not wishing to become embroiled in yet further argument with Martha and her sister, Esther ran quickly down the bank and out of their view.
The tide was high and the wind drove waves against the Spit as she walked along it, but she was determined to get to the end where she could find solace and peace surrounded by the sea and the sky with only the birds to share her loneliness.
Seawards, she could see a small boat making towards the haven. Perhaps it was Robert Eland returning from a day’s fishing. No doubt, as he drew closer, he would see her standing there, but he would be too intent upon threading his way between the markers he himself had placed in the marsh at low tide to bother himself with Esther Hilton. The poles, sticking up out of the water when the tide was high and the sea covered the marsh, were to guide him up the deep channel of the river bed.
How long she stood there, she didn’t know, nor did she know what made her turn suddenly to see Martha and Flo only a few feet away from her, for no sound of their approach had come to her ears above the sound of the sea and the wind.
Suddenly, Esther was filled with an unaccustomed dread. She was standing on the end of the narrow strip of land with her back to the swirling, rushing water and before her, advancing with menace in every step, were the two women who hated her most in the world. Perhaps even more than did Beth Eland.
Esther was trapped. There was no place to run. Young and strong though she was, she would be no match for the two of them.
They had stopped and were standing side by side on the narrow strip of land, effectively barring any chance of escape towards the marsh. Exultation showed on both their faces. The sea, splashing against the bank, showered their best skirts with salty spray yet they didn’t seem to care, didn’t even seem to notice.
They had Esther Everatt Hilton at their mercy.
Thirty-three
MARTHA was speaking. Her mouth, twisted into an ugly sneer, was moving, but her words were snatched away by the wind before they could reach Esther.
Together they moved forward and Esther felt the fear rise in her throat. Even out here in the cold wind she found she was sweating with terror. Behind her the sea, once her solace, had become a malevolent monster waiting to devour her. The water was not deep but Esther could not swim, and there were hidden channels and pools that were always water-filled even at low tide. If she should fall into one of those . . .
The two women moved forwards again, coming closer, ever closer . . .
There was no escape for Esther.
Suddenly, with one accord, they lunged towards her hitting her in the chest and sending her falling, arms flailing helplessly, backwards into the sea.
The waters closed over her face and there was a gurgling in her ears. She struggled, thrashing with her arms, trying to find the bottom with her feet, striving to bring her head above the water. She broke the surface and drew great gasps of air into her bursting lungs. She could not open her eyes for the stinging salt water. A wave hit her in the back and sent her tippling forward again, face down in the water. She lost her footing and now she could not feel the bottom, could not feel firm earth beneath her feet. She twisted and writhed and tried to push herself upwards. Her sodden clothes were now dragging her down and she felt as if her lungs would rupture. She tried to open her eyes but all she could see was murky, swirling sand. There was a glimmer of light above, but so far away, too far away . . . Water filled her nose and mouth. Her heart was pounding, there was a drumming in her ears. She had never felt so frightened in her life. She knew herself to be drowning and she so desperately wanted to live. She must live – for Kate – for Jonathan. In that moment she saw his beloved face in her mind – the smile crinkling his eyes, the flop of fair hair falling across his forehead – and then there was darkness . . .
Suddenly strong arms were lifting her and she was hauled upwards until her head was above water. She was being shaken and her face was being slapped and suddenly she was coughing and spluttering and clinging on to someone. She coughed and dragged in gulps of air and coughed again until she was sick. Hanging over her rescuer’s strong arm, she retched until she had brought up all the sea water that had entered her lungs. Esther was clinging to a man’s arm and being pulled along. She felt herself bump the side of a boat.
‘Come on, Esther,’ said the man’s voice. ‘I can’t lift you in, you’ll have to help me.’ She brushed her hand across her face and blinked. Her eyes were sore and swollen so that she could scarcely open them. But she knew his voice. Her rescuer was Robert Eland.
She tried to speak but could make no sound. Her breathing was still painful and there was a dreadful ache in her chest.
‘Come on,’ he was urging her again. ‘Put your arms over the side of the boat. Try and grasp hold and I’ll heave you in.’
They struggled for a few moments until a helpful wave gave an extra buoyancy to her tired limbs and she found herself sprawling in the bottom of the fishing boat. She was scarcely aware of Robert somehow getting himself back into the boat and rowing away from the Spit towards the mouth of the river and the Point. She neither knew nor cared what had happened to Martha Willoughby and her sister.
It seemed a long time before the boat bumped gently against the river bank, by which time Esther was shiveri
ng uncontrollably. Her head ached and her chest still hurt. She kept blinking her eyes to clear her vision. It felt as if she had a barrow-load of sand in each eye.
But she was safe.
Robert was bending over her. ‘Can you get up, Esther?’
Valiantly, she made the effort to pull herself up and he supported her, taking her arm and helping her to step out of the boat and on to the wooden landing stage.
‘Oh, dear Lord,’ she heard a woman’s voice exclaim. ‘Whatever has happened?’
Still with Robert’s arm to support her, Esther staggered on to the land and fell to her knees. She had never been so thankful in her life to feel the firm earth beneath her.
‘What happened?’ came the voice again.
Slowly Esther raised her head to see Beth standing over her, bending down towards her and even holding out her hands to help her rise.
After only a moment’s hesitation, Esther grasped the outstretched hands and hauled herself to her feet. She stood swaying and then she felt Beth’s arm about her waist, supporting her, urging her forward. ‘Come on to the boat, Esther. I’ll get you some dry clothing. Whatever has happened?’ she demanded yet again.
Now, relinquishing the care of Esther to his wife, Robert said, ‘’Twas them two old biddies from Tom Willoughby’s farm. They pushed her into the sea off the Spit. God knows what would have happened if I hadn’t been near enough to get to her in time.’
Though she could not yet speak, Esther echoed his sentiments. God alone knew!
Esther did not go to the Elands’ boat home. She wanted to get to the farm as quickly as possible and Beth took her. Only when she had seen Esther stripped of her wet clothing and sitting before the range with a cup of hot tea, did Beth leave Esther in Kate’s care.
Esther recovered quickly and all she told the child was that she had been foolish enough to walk along the Spit on a blustery day and at high tide, and had fallen into the sea.
The Fleethaven Trilogy Page 29
