by Evie Grace
‘It isn’t fair. Why should a man get away with sins such as these while the woman has to suffer? Why should you be punished?’ It wasn’t enough that Ivy had been censured by her mother. Her husband was still wreaking revenge on her for her past. Catherine gazed at the yellowing bruise on her sister’s – her mother’s – cheek and the fresh one around her eye.
‘I’m grateful to Len,’ Ivy said as though she’d read Catherine’s mind. ‘He took me on when other men wouldn’t—’
‘He beats you.’
‘He isn’t a bad man.’
‘Don’t you wish you had married for love?’
‘I do love him,’ Ivy insisted. ‘He’s given me a home and security. He doesn’t mean to lose his temper. When he has the gripes, he suffers so.’
‘That’s no reason for him to make you suffer as well.’
‘It could be worse. We want for nothing, except a child, but that is God’s will.’ At the sound of a low shout from the cottage door, Ivy straightened. ‘We will not speak of this again. Go and pick some peas. I’ll cut some flowers.’
Catherine placed handfuls of fat pea pods in the basket and Ivy laid stems of mallow and orange blossom across the top. They were beautiful, she thought, running her fingers across the soft, smooth petals. They were like bright truths in an otherwise grey day of dishonesty. If she hadn’t been desperate to protect Ivy from further trouble with Len, she would have broken down, but she had to appear strong so that he wouldn’t suspect there was anything wrong.
‘I’m labouring over a fire, killing myself, while you’re here cotchering,’ he grumbled as she and Ivy returned to the cottage.
He could hardly criticise them for gossiping, Catherine thought, when if anyone wanted to know their neighbour’s business, they came to ask him.
‘I wanted to send some peas and flowers to Ma in return for the pie.’
‘Doesn’t she have her own peas and flowers?’ Len said scathingly. He stepped up close to Ivy and held her by the chin. ‘You should be more careful where you walk in future, my lubberly woman.’
‘I fear that calling someone clumsy only makes them more so,’ Catherine dared to say.
Ivy uttered a small gasp and bit her lip.
‘You should learn not to come between husband and wife,’ Len said, scowling.
‘Go, sister,’ Ivy said. ‘Thank Ma for the pie. I’ll bring her dress to the farm as soon as I’ve finished the alterations.’
‘I’ll tell her,’ Catherine said, torn between getting away as fast as she could, and her concern for Ivy’s safety. She didn’t feel anything for Ivy as a mother. She felt sorry for her as she would for any human being who was under threat of abuse. She would rather have been brought by the stork than be Ivy’s daughter. Ivy had always been cold to her and now she knew the reason why.
She turned and fled. As she hurried past the forge, Stephen stepped out into the sunlight as if he had been waiting for her. He was wearing a shirt with the sleeves rolled up, trousers and a leather apron. His arms were long and lean and his shoulders were bulky with muscle.
‘Hello, Miss Rook. How are you—’ He stopped abruptly. ‘Not well, I see. Can I see you home?’
‘I’m all right. Really. Thank you for asking.’ She could barely speak.
‘Oh, come here,’ he said. ‘Let me take your basket for you.’
She was too upset to argue. She handed it over and walked alongside him.
‘Are you sure you can spare the time?’
‘For you, Miss Rook, of course. Has something happened? Has Matty upset you? Because if he has I’ll give him a good hiding. Has he said something? Has he done something to hurt you?’ He hesitated. ‘I thought there might be something between you, that you had a fancy for him.’
She stopped and turned to face him. ‘No, Stephen. Absolutely not. I hate him. He’s a horrid creature. In fact, I can’t believe that you two are brothers.’
‘I’m the quiet one, while Matty …’ He shrugged.
Matty had more of a spark, she thought. He was more like Jervis in some ways, whereas Stephen was dutiful and steady. But whatever the differences between the three Carter brothers, Catherine wished she had never allowed herself to become friends with Matty.
At the crossroads, she held out her arm for the basket.
‘You must get back to the forge. Thank you, Stephen.’ She told him that she was going to the mill to see Emily, but it was a ruse to walk back through the woods to avoid passing Toad’s Bottom Cottage and the Carters. She needed to be alone for a while to think.
To avoid running into the Irish who had set up camp ready for hop picking, she crossed the chalk pit, the stones sliding underneath her feet. She had learned some important lessons today. She was special, but not in the way she had imagined. She was a bastard, born out of wedlock and sired by a drunken lecher who’d taken advantage of an innocent girl. She shuddered at the thought. How many times had she seen Mr Hadington at church on a Sunday? She’d had no clue that he had any idea who she was. She recalled how he never once looked in her direction, whereas – she remembered now – Emily had once said that he’d stared at her in a strange way. Catherine understood now. He was a truly wicked man.
She thought of Ma, her grandmother, resentful at being put in the position of having another mouth to feed, and jealous of the way Pa favoured her. Her grandfather had treated her kindly, but why? Was it because he’d felt sorry for her? And who else knew of her situation? Ivy, Ma and Pa, George and Matty. What about John and Young Thomas? Why had no one thought fit to enlighten her before?
She felt sick at heart. She had been flammed, deceived. How could she ever trust anyone again?
Chapter Seven
Hop Picking
Catherine was crying when she went past the pump to the house. Ma opened the back door and pushed the cat who was waiting outside with her kittens away with the toe of her boot.
‘That cat should be drownded,’ she said. ‘I’ve asked your pa but he’s too soft. He’d rather that she steals the food from our mouths.’
Catherine felt as her erstwhile father did. The cat was a friendly creature who kept the granary and barns free of vermin. She spent a lot of time in the stables with one of the horses, rubbing against his face and sitting on his back. Each litter that she had disappeared once the kittens reached a certain age, and the cat would howl as she searched for them in every nook and cranny.
‘Is that how you felt about Ivy?’ A bitter taste rose in the back of Catherine’s throat. ‘Did you wish her child drownded too?’
‘What are you talking about?’ Ma said sharply. ‘Is Ivy all right? Did she send you my clothes? Have you forgotten, you dunty girl?’
‘I did not forget. And don’t call me stupid. You have no right.’
‘I have every right. You’re my daughter.’
‘You’ve bin lying to me. I am not your daughter.’
‘I don’t know where you’ve got that from.’ Ma rested her hands on her hips. ‘That’s enough of your insolence.’
‘Why did you do it? Why did you wrench me from my mother’s arms?’
Ma’s mouth fell open. There was a fly buzzing around – Catherine wished it would find its way inside and choke her.
‘Who said so?’ Ma said eventually. ‘Ivy?’
Catherine shook her head.
‘It doesn’t matter who said what. You and Pa are my grandparents.’
‘Well, maybe we are, but that’s neither here nor there. We think of you as our daughter.’ Ma continued, ‘Let me help you understand the situation we found ourselves in. There are many who are envious of what your pa has achieved and believe that they are more deserving than him of the squire’s favour.’
Catherine thought of Jervis and how he resented the Rooks.
Ma turned away to scoop a boiled ox tongue from a pan of boiling water. She placed it on a plate and stood brass weights on top of the meat to squash it down into a good shape for slicing once it had cooled.
‘There are some with a child born out of wedlock who have gone on to marry respectably,’ Catherine ventured, ‘Drusilla’s sister, for example.’
‘She made a disadvantageous union with a drunkard. As for Ivy, Len would never have considered Pa’s proposal of marriage if she’d had a child in her arms.’
‘Pa proposed to Len?’
‘He had a word with him. He pointed out the merits of such a match, considering his age and unfortunate appearance. Anyway, that’s by the by. There was gossip, but no proof that you were anyone but my daughter. You were one of those babies that sometimes comes along unexpectedly in one’s middle years.’
Ma fell silent as Pa entered the kitchen with John following along behind him.
‘Something smells good,’ he said.
‘I’m hungry.’ John kicked off one boot and left it in the middle of the floor.
‘Catherine, help him with the other one, and take them outside,’ Ma said.
She did as she was told, hardly able to bring herself to look at the man she’d thought was her father. Her chest ached. His betrayal had broken her heart.
‘Is everything all right?’ Pa asked. ‘I can see steam coming out of your ears, Margaret.’
‘No, it isn’t all right. After all we’ve done to keep our secret from her, Catherine knows everything.’
‘How did she come to find out?’
‘Does it really matter?’
‘I thought we had everything battened down and watertight.’
‘It wasn’t Ivy, so it must have been one of the Carters who said something to Matty, because I’m sure it will have been him who told her. He’ll have blabbed to everyone by now. Catherine is ruined.’
‘Oh please, don’t exaggerate,’ Pa sighed.
‘No one will have her after this. She will be passed over by every eligible bachelor this side of Canterbury.’ Ma was crying with frustration and disappointment.
Catherine walked outside. Pa followed.
‘I’m sorry, ducky,’ he said gently. ‘We did what we thought was best at the time.’
‘I thought I was special,’ she said, thinking back to when Pa used to carry her out to the orchard to pick the ripest cherries, or pluck the sweetest apples, depending on the time of year.
‘You are. Haven’t I always treated you like a princess?’
‘I’m different. Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘We weren’t sure you could keep a secret being so young, so we thought we’d leave it until you were older, but the longer we waited, the more difficult it became to speak of it. May God forgive us if we made the wrong decision!’
Catherine turned furiously on the man who’d been her beloved father.
‘How can I believe anything you say again?’
‘Haven’t I always treated you as a daughter?’
Catherine steeled herself against the raw emotion in his voice. He was hurting too, but as far as she was concerned, he had brought it upon himself. How had he and Ma ever imagined they could keep their secret from the gossips of Overshill?
‘Don’t you ever call me “daughter” again,’ she snapped. She walked away, scattering the hens as she hastened through the yard and out of the gate into the fields. She didn’t stop until she reached the orchard, where she sat down beneath one of the apple trees and watched the sun set on her innocence. Knowing about the likes of Mr Hadington made the world seem a dirtier place.
She took her supper on her own, sitting in the back of the cart that George had made ready to carry the hops the next day. She threw crumbs for the hens that clucked and cawed at her.
‘A penny for them?’
She looked up to find Pa approaching her. Not Pa. How should she address him? As Thomas or Mr Rook? Grandfather? Her throat tightened as he took a seat alongside her.
‘Leave me alone,’ she said. ‘I have no wish to speak with you.’
‘John is distressed that you didn’t eat with us. Catherine, you are acting like a child.’
‘Which is how you have treated me.’
‘I don’t want there to be bad feeling between us. I’ve apologised. That’s all I can do. Maybe we did make a mistake in keeping you in the dark, but we could see no other way. Ivy had been wronged and Mr Hadington was – and still is – a man with influence. All we could do was protect the family’s interests as far as we could from the scandal that would have broken out if it had become common knowledge.
‘What I’m trying to say in a roundabout way is that life goes on. The seasons come and go the same, year after year. The great turnwrest plough turns the soil, we sow the seed and the corn goddess bestows rain and sunshine for the grain to grow and ripen. We reap and thresh, and we plough again, and the cycle is repeated. Your life will go on the same as before.’
‘How can I trust you?’
‘Nothing like this will ever happen again, I promise. All will be well. You will marry and have children, and then you’ll find out that you will do anything that’s necessary – lie, cheat and steal – to protect them.’ His voice tremored.
‘Oh, Pa,’ she whispered.
He opened one hand to reveal a few crushed hops. The tips were brown and beginning to break apart from their golden centres.
‘What do you think?’ he asked.
She took one and rolled it between her fingers, making it rustle and release a sweet aroma.
‘They’re ready,’ she said.
‘That’s my girl. Come indoors back where you belong with your family. I don’t expect everything to be right between us straight away, but time will mend.’
Catherine wasn’t convinced. She felt as though their relationship was beyond repair after Matty’s revelation, but she returned indoors and she gave John a hug. He smiled gormlessly.
‘Oh, my darling brother.’ She smiled back. She would always love him as her sibling, no matter what.
‘I’m hungry,’ he said. ‘I could eat a sheep.’
‘I don’t think your pa would approve.’ The flock had grown significantly since the ewes had arrived at the farm, but this year’s lambs were not yet fat enough for the table. ‘I’ll cut you a slice of pie. How about that?’
She sat with him until it was time to retire to bed. Ma had already gone upstairs having taken some sleeping drops for one of her ‘heads’, and Pa soon made himself scarce. Catherine remained awake for a long time that night. Tomorrow she would see Matty again. How could she face him, though? She was still seething with anger. Not only had he disturbed her peace of mind with his unwanted revelation, he had turned out to be insufferably, unbearably right, which was what rankled her the most.
She wondered about pretending to be sick so she could stay in her room for the duration of the hop picking, but her sense of duty and loyalty to the farm meant that she was up at dawn the following day when the mist began to rise from the vale.
‘Hurry, Margaret, and you, Catherine,’ Pa said as she was lacing her boots. ‘The hops won’t pick themselves.’
They walked to the hop garden where thirty or forty people, including the Irish families with their horses and carts, Young Thomas Rook and his family, the Carters, and a handful of strangers, were already gathered. Two of the strangers, a man and a woman, were wearing cloaks with hoods. One of the Irish – Catherine recognised him as being the head of the group, a man of about forty years old, dressed in dark clothes and carrying a cudgel – stepped forwards.
‘Mr Rook, sir,’ he said.
‘Mr O’Brien?’ Pa s
aid.
‘Just to say that none of us is prepared to work until you pay us the balance of what you owe from before.’ Catherine stiffened – his voice was as bitter as gall. What was going on? Pa had grumbled about the yield of barley this summer, but had not mentioned being unable to pay the harvesters in full. She didn’t think he’d told Ma either – she was being supported on either side by two of the village women.
‘I said I’d settle up after hop picking. I’m a man of my word.’
‘Words won’t feed our wives and children.’
A young woman stepped up, holding a baby in her arms. It started to cry.
‘My child is sick, Mr Rook. I’ve tried the old ways, but she needs medicine.’
‘I don’t see why I should break my back picking hops for you when you might or might not pay us, Mr Rook,’ one of the regular labourers called out. ‘I seen Mr Nobbs last night and he says there’s work for some at Sinderberry Farm.’
‘Why did you come here, then?’ Pa asked.
‘To tell you, sir.’ He touched the brim of his hat. ‘You’ve always been good to us, so we felt it was only right to speak to you in person.’
‘Well, I thank you for that at least, Mr Moon, but can’t I persuade you to stay? I’ll pay you half of what I owe when the hops are picked and the rest when the brewery have paid me for them.’
‘I’m sorry, sir, but our minds are made up.’ Mr Moon turned and walked away with three of the local men and their families.
‘What do you think of that?’ Pa said, standing his ground. ‘Aren’t you going with them?’
‘We’ve heard that Mr Nobbs is stingy with his beer,’ Mr O’Brien said.
‘We should go.’ The woman with the baby grasped the Irishman’s arm. ‘We’ve come all this way to work the whole summer to take money home with us. It’s too much of a risk when all he’s offering is his word.’
Catherine stared at her father. He wouldn’t let them all go, would he? If the hops weren’t picked, there’d be no income for anyone.
‘I have a reputation for being an honest man,’ Pa said, his voice loud and clear. ‘I have made a promise and I shall keep it. The beer is excellent and in a plentiful quantity. What’s more, I’ll give you money for the child’s medicine, whether you stay on to pick the hops or not.’
