For The Sake of Her Family

by Diane Allen

  ‘Well, dear, it is a cruel story. It happened before Master Gerald and Miss Nancy came to Whernside, back in the days when the family lived in Russia. You know where I mean?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve heard of Russia.’

  ‘From what I hear, Nancy was very young at the time and Master Gerald was in his late teens. Their parents owned a mine near Moscow – in fact, Master Gerald still has involvement in it, but that’s another matter.’ Mrs Dowbiggin paused to draw breath. ‘Anyway, the workers in Russia decided they’d had enough of toiling long hours for a pittance of pay and so they went on strike. Very soon the trouble spread all over the country and things began to turn nasty, with workers out to get their revenge on employers. Unfortunately, the Franklands being English, they came in for a lot of resentment and the troublemakers accused them of raking in a profit at the expense of poor Russians. One night a mob of them set the Franklands’ mansion alight, burning it to the ground. Master Gerald was spared, being at school here in England at the time, but Miss Nancy was found the next day, wandering in the garden in a terrible state. Poor girl must have seen some frightful things. Both her parents died in the fire, nothing left of them but ashes. And Nancy’s face and shoulders were so badly burned it took ages for the skin to heal.’ She paused and took a long, deep drink of her tea. ‘Terrible, terrible times. So it’s understandable why she’s the way she is.’

  ‘Gossiping again, Hilda?’ Faulks had sneaked in through the kitchen doorway unnoticed. ‘Don’t let Master Gerald hear you – he’ll have you out of the house as fast as you can say “Eggs is eggs”.’ Giving both women a haughty glare, he resumed his seat.

  ‘Oh, what’s it to you, you old misery? The lass has to know how the land lies if she’s to work here. It’s only fair she knows what she’s up against. Aye, and while I’m on the subject, you’d best steer clear of Master’s gambling mates, Alice. Some of them are not to be trusted.’

  ‘Hilda, that’s enough! I will not have gossip in my kitchen.’

  ‘Since when did the kitchen become yours? I’ll have you know this is my kitchen and I will gossip all I like in it. In any case, it’s not gossip; it’s giving good advice to a young, vulnerable lass. Now go and get me the brasses from out of the parlour so I can give ’em a polish.’

  With a baleful look, Faulks grudgingly left the room.

  ‘Sometimes he gets ideas above his station, that one. Have you finished your dinner, dear? And is there anything else I can tell you?’

  Giving Alice no time to answer, Mrs Dowbiggin whisked away the empty plate and began getting the brass cleaner out and spreading newspaper on the kitchen table, ready for the afternoon’s polishing session.

  ‘Would you like to give me a hand, dear? I hate this job and there are so many brasses to clean. If you’ve time, I’d appreciate the door knocker, bell and letter box being polished. That’d give me ten minutes’ peace before I have to start preparing this evening’s meal.’

  ‘I’ll do all the outside bits for you, Mrs Dowbiggin, but then I have to go home. I’ve to make dinner for our Will and my dad. Thank you for telling me about the family history.’ Alice picked up the tin of Brasso and two orange cloths: ‘Are these to be used for polishing?’

  ‘That’s it, lass. Much obliged, that’ll help a lot.’ Mrs Dowbiggin turned away and began taking the copper pans down from the shelf in readiness for their clean.

  Resolving to do the front door first, Alice set off in that direction. The huge lion door knocker had caught her eye yesterday as she had nervously stood on the huge steps. Now here she was, part of the manor. How curious that twenty-four hours could alter things so quickly.

  She had just finished smearing Brasso liquid on the features of the lion and was about to start polishing when she heard Will calling her name. He sounded agitated.

  ‘Alice, Alice – for God’s sake, leave that alone! It’s Father – they’ve found Father!’

  The yard of the Moon Inn was crammed with curious onlookers, all trying to peer into the dark orifice of the beer cellar.

  ‘Back now, get yourselves back!’ Arms out wide, Uriah Woodhead was frantically trying to steer the crowd away. ‘Give the doctor some room now.’

  Moments later, the doctor emerged into the light, his wiry old body struggling to climb the cellar steps. He was shaking his head.

  ‘Well, Dr Bailey, is he . . . is he dead?’ Uriah Woodhead pulled his handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his brow. The sweat was pouring off him. Ever since he’d made the gruesome discovery, he’d felt as if he was having a heart attack.

  ‘Aye, he’s dead, all right. Looks like he tumbled down your cellar steps and dislodged one of the barrels. When it fell on top of him, it broke his neck clean in two.’

  The crowd gave a gasp of horror. Poor old Bob Bentham: what an awful end to his life. What would become of his family?

  His voice rising above the murmurs of sympathy and concern, Uriah was anxious to absolve himself of any blame: ‘I told him to get hissel’ home. Silly old bugger, I thought he’d gone. How was I to know he’d go creeping around in my yard?’ For all his protests, Uriah was feeling guilty. He’d meant to close the cellar doors before the evening rush got underway, but in the event he never got round to it. By then it was too dark to see Bob lying at the foot of the steps. It had given Uriah a terrible shock when he went down at lunchtime and stumbled over his body.

  ‘Don’t you fret, man.’ Dr Bailey patted him on the shoulder. ‘You had no way of knowing that this was going to happen. He’d not been coping well since losing his wife last year. It’s a shame for his family, but at least Bob’s at peace with hisself now. I’ll class it as death by misadventure, but I’ll have to tell the local constable what’s happened, to make it official. All right with you if I go into the Moon to make out the death certificate? I could do with a tot of brandy . . .’ Seeing that his heavy hint had fallen on deaf ears, Dr Bailey added: ‘Medicinal purposes only, of course.’ Still no response from Uriah. Reluctantly admitting defeat, the doctor left Uriah and went into the bar.

  No sooner had the doctor gone than the sound of running feet reached them from the cobbled street. The villagers fell silent when they recognized Will and, a hundred yards behind him, his sister Alice. Both were breathing heavily, their faces taut with anxiety, as the crowd parted to let them through. Uriah Woodhead immediately stepped forward to intercept Alice, drawing her away from the cellar entrance.

  ‘You want nothing of looking down there, Alice. Come inside, lass. My Annie will take care of you.’

  Will glanced sharply at Uriah, then descended the steps. A lantern illuminated his father’s lifeless body, lying among the beer barrels. Falling to his knees, Will took his father’s limp hand and clasped it to his chest. He wanted to rant and rave at the old fool for letting it come to this, but then grief overcame him and his shoulders heaved with dry sobs. He was still bending over the body when Ernie Batty arrived.

  ‘Leave him to me now, lad.’ The portly undertaker patted him gently on the back. ‘Let’s have him out of this dark place, eh? Mrs Batty and I will see to him, don’t you worry.’

  Wiping his nose on the sleeve of his corduroy jacket, his eyes full of tears and his nose running like a tap, Will climbed the cellar steps. He emerged to find the crowd had gone – dispersed by the local bobby, they’d all hurried off to their homes, the gossips among them eager to spread the word and discuss the Benthams’ misfortune over a cup of tea.

  A lone figure was waiting in the yard: Uriah. ‘Now, lad, come into the pub. My missus is looking after Alice. I can’t tell you how sorry we are for the both of you.’ The landlord wasn’t good with words at the best of times; knowing what to say under these circumstances was beyond him. Putting an arm around the boy, he led him into the snug. Alice was already there, hands shaking, eyes red with tears. Annie Woodhead sat by her side, doing her best to console her.

  ‘Well, is it him? Tell me, our Will, is it him?’ she pleaded. ‘Happen this lot h
ave got it wrong; happen it’s some passing tramp that fell in, not knowing the hole was there.’ Alice didn’t want to believe that in the space of four months they had lost both parents.

  ‘No, Ali, it’s Father . . .’ Will wished he could say something to ease his sister’s grief, but in his state of shock, words failed him.

  Numb with pain and looking for someone to blame, Alice jumped up from the bench, eyes blazing, and turned on Uriah. ‘You killed him! It was you who killed him! You’ve even pinched my mother’s clock – it’s right there on the mantelpiece.’ She motioned to the carriage clock that had been her late mother’s most cherished possession, occupying pride of place in her parlour.

  Uriah, his face flushed in a mixture of embarrassment and anger, felt compelled to defend himself against the accusation. ‘Now wait a minute, Alice. I’m as shocked as you are about this. I thought your father had gone home. The only way I’m responsible is that I left the cellar door open overnight. As for the clock, well, he traded it for beer. I only took it because I felt sorry for him – that’s my biggest sin; happen I did encourage him to drink. God knows, I wish I hadn’t now, but a man’s got to make a living.’

  Alice, spent after her angry outburst, had collapsed in a sobbing heap. Wrapping his arms around her and stroking her hair, Will said in a low voice, ‘Shh, our Ali, you’re upset. Uriah’s not to blame and you know it.’

  ‘I’ve spoken to Ernie Batty. He’ll put your father in the chapel of rest until you’ve arranged a date for the funeral. I’ve told him I’ll pay.’ Uriah considered himself an honourable man, at least in business, and the last thing he wanted was the death of one of his regulars on his conscience. Drawing up a stool, he sat down opposite the grieving youngsters. ‘If there’s anything that me and the missus can do for the pair of you, let us know. Your father was a good man; he just couldn’t cope with life without your mother.’ He reached out a hand and patted Alice’s arm as she sobbed into the jacket of her brother.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Woodhead, that’s good of you. I don’t know how me and my sister would have managed to pay for a funeral.’ Will got to his feet, gently drawing his sister with him. ‘We’d best be off home now. It’s a lot to cope with, today’s happenings. We need a bit of time to ourselves.’

  With quiet dignity, Will helped Alice through the door and into the evening air. Jack was waiting in the lane with his horse and trap. The moment he saw them, he dropped the reins and reached out to Alice. Thankful for the presence of a friend, she ran to him, burying her head in the warmth of his tweed jacket, clutching him tightly as if she were clinging to a rock, afraid of being swept away if she released her hold.

  ‘Shh, I’m here. Don’t cry, Alice,’ he soothed, wrapping his arms around her. He wanted to squeeze her and tell her everything was all right, that he would always be there for her and that she would never need anyone else, but he was mindful of Will’s presence and didn’t want him to think he was taking advantage of the situation. While Will settled things with Ernie Batty and thanked Uriah Woodhead once more for agreeing to pay for the funeral, Jack held on to Alice, lovingly stroking her long blonde hair, which smelled like the wild thyme that grew on the fellside. Her blue eyes brimming with tears, she looked up at him.

  ‘Take us home, Jack . . . although I no longer know where home is. What are we going to do? No parents and no money – whatever are we going to do?’

  He helped her up into the trap, whipping the horse into action the moment Will climbed aboard. They rode in silence, broken only by the alarm call of a nesting blackbird, disturbed from her nest by the sound of the horse and trap. The piebald, familiar with the trail to Dale End, needed no words of guidance from Jack as it carried its grieving load homewards.

  4

  Kneeling by her father’s grave, Alice removed the previous week’s flowers and set a freshly picked posy of white dog daisies in their place. Rising from her knees, she looked around her. The graveyard was set on a gently sloping hillside, with views all the way up to the head of the dale. The scurrying clouds cast shadows on the flanks of Combe Scar, which was covered with the white balls of fluff of grazing sheep and their lambs. She took in a deep breath of the clear air with its smell of peat and sphagnum moss – how she loved that smell. Up here, surrounded by the graves of her kin, with the warm spring breeze on her face and the sounds of birdsong and the lamenting bleat of a distant lost lamb in her ears, she was reminded at every turn of her deep and abiding attachment to Dent and the surrounding dales. She wanted to carry on living here, until it was time for her to be laid to rest in this churchyard in the company of her parents and grandparents and generations of her kind; she only hoped that someone would love her enough to mourn over her.

  ‘Paying your respects, Miss Bentham?’

  Startled from her reverie, she turned to find Lord Frankland staring at her. He doffed his hat in acknowledgement.

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you behind me. I was lost in my thoughts . . .’ Alice hesitated, uneasy in his company as usual. She was never sure how to address him or whether she was supposed to curtsy. After the death of her father, Gerald Frankland had been nothing but caring and considerate, insisting that she need only attend the manor one day a week. That was bound to change, though, now that all the sheep had been lambed and normality had returned to Dale End.

  ‘Nancy is missing you, Alice. Indeed, Nancy’s not the only one who is missing you. I swear Mrs Dowbiggin is just about begging me to ask you to become a member of our live-in staff, and even Faulks asked after you the other day – now that surely is a miracle!’ He smiled at her, then continued. ‘What’s more, it’s time that a decision was made with regard to that farmstead of mine. The place isn’t big enough to support the pair of you, and Will is too good a worker for me to let go. So, I shall come by this evening and speak to you both, if that’s convenient?’ Without waiting for Alice to reply, he turned and set off along the churchyard path towards the kissing-gate entrance.

  Alice almost took to her heels in pursuit, but thought better of it; she had her pride, and she wasn’t going to be seen begging the right to live in the farm. Will would sort it tonight. He’d tell Lord Frankland that, with her help, he could manage to do his job and still keep the farm on. Besides, now that she was finished at the graveyard she was off to see Uriah Woodhead, who’d promised her some work at the Moon Inn. In all their discussions on the subject of what was to be done, both Alice and Will were in agreement on one point: it was not good for the two of them to be dependent on the manor. Better not to have all your eggs in one basket, as her mother used to say. A day at the manor and a few days’ work at the Moon would keep the wolf from the door. As for the tenancy, she was sure Will would sort something out.

  True to his word, Lord Frankland arrived in the early evening. Things got off to a civil enough start, but for the last half-hour the sound of heated debate had filled the kitchen of Dale End as Gerald Frankland’s voice was raised in disagreement with young Will Bentham.

  ‘I tell you, Will, that’s simply not possible. These are difficult times, and I must address my assets. This cottage will be sold and the land amalgamated into the manor’s estate, and that’s final. I’ve got to generate income from somewhere – the import of Italian marble is affecting my profits; the stuff we produce at the marble works is practically worthless nowadays. I think you’ll find my terms are more than generous. I’m offering accommodation and full-time employment for both you and your sister . . .’

  Will, red in the face and befuddled by talk of addressing assets and amalgamating land, stared dumbly at Lord Frankland. The last thing he wanted was for his sister and him to be beholden to the manor, twenty-four hours a day. ‘Never be a bought man’: the words of Uncle Will – his namesake who returned a hero from fighting in the Crimean War – kept running through Will’s mind.

  ‘. . . what’s more, I’ll guarantee you a good price for your stock. So there you have it: we can either do this the gentlemanly way,
or I can evict you. Let’s face it, what would the pair of you both do without a job or home? And how much do you think you’ll get for your stock with the market the way it is? See sense, man!’ Gerald Frankland hadn’t come to Dale End with the intention of making threats, but he was fast running out of patience with the stubborn young whipper-snapper.

  Will rubbed his head. He knew that he was in no position to haggle a bargain for himself, but at least he could make life easier for Alice.

  ‘All right, you can have our farm back and we’ll sell you the stock. I will even come and live at the manor, in the room above the stables. But not our Alice – she’s not moving into the manor. Uriah Woodhead has offered her work and accommodation at the Moon. She can still come and befriend Miss Nancy one day a week, but she’ll spend the rest of her time working for Uriah.’ As he spoke, Will studied his employer’s reaction: was it the farm he wanted, or was it his little sister? So far as Will was concerned, the look on Frankland’s face told the real tale.

  Having been warned by Will to keep out of the way while he and Lord Frankland conducted their business, Alice was sitting on the stairs, eavesdropping on the conversation. Tears filled her eyes as Will finally submitted to Lord Frankland’s demands. Her beloved home! She loved living halfway up Whernside, away from everyone, with a view from her bedroom window that extended right down the dale. Her new home would be the attic bedroom of the Moon; all she would be able to see from there would be the rooftops of the village houses. Perhaps a room at the manor would have been better, but Will had been adamant that she should not live under the Franklands’ roof and be forever at their beck and call.

  ‘Good! I’ll get someone to value the stock, and let’s say a month’s notice on the house.’ Lord Frankland’s voice took on a less satisfied tone as he continued: ‘I don’t think you are being fair to your sister. She’s worthy of something better than being a serving girl in a hostelry. I could offer her comfort and security in my employment.’ Lord Frankland tapped his walking stick sharply on the ground and stared intently into young Will’s face.