‘I’ll talk to them,’ Thomas Ramsgill said, backing away towards the front door.
‘What good’ll that do?’ Mary asked, but took Thomas’ hint and, with a last glance at the door where Richard and Elizabeth were still shouting, led me out of the house.
She pulled me down the lane as if scared they were coming after us, then, with a glance back to make sure we were far enough away, said, ‘Did thee see Hannah’s face? She believes tales, and she has influence over Thomas. If Ramsgills add their weight to witch talk, thee’s in big trouble, Jennet. What happened last night’s just start.’ She sighed, looked me in the eye, and I realised with a jolt she were crying.
‘Whole village is already wary of thee – living alone in that house of thine. Then there’s business with babbies and cursing. If Ramsgills are calling thee witch – and they’ll do owt to protect one of their own – thee’s not safe here. Is there anywhere thee can go? What about thy pa’s family?’
I shook my head. There were nowhere – no one.
‘I don’t know anyone outside of this valley,’ I said. ‘And Pa never spoke about his family. All I know is that he’s from Scotland.’
‘Well, thee needs to think of summat, lass. Thee can’t stay here.’
I shook my head. ‘This is my home,’ I hissed. ‘They’ve taken everything else from me, they won’t take that as well!’ I were shouting now. ‘I won’t let them! I won’t! I’ll see them all dead first – and I’ll start with Little Rob Ramsgill!’
I glanced up, saw Thomas watching us, and ran down the hill, cheeks streaming with water, back to the safety of my house. I hated the Ramsgills, hated the village, hated them all, but I would not run away. I would not.
Chapter 47 - Jennet
27th December 1777
I stared at the moors, then shifted my attention back to the village and the lane – something had moved.
There! A bonnet bobbing up from behind the new wall that hid the lane from view.
She walked nearer the entrance to my farm, but I still couldn’t make out who it were. I gritted my teeth in frustration, then relaxed when she paused at the new gate, glanced at the house, then back to the village, Mary Farmer. I had last seen her that time at Thomas Ramsgill’s. I caught my breath in anticipation. She carried on walking.
No! No! Before I knew it, my fists were in my hair and pulling my scalp backwards and forwards. ‘No!’ Now the word had voice.
Mary Farmer turned back, opened the gate and walked to the house. There were about fifty yards between window and lane. I were sure she could not have heard me.
I flung the door open before she reached it. ‘Mary!’ I cried, and sank to the ground.
She reached the threshold and I clung to her, sobbing.
‘Hush, lass, people will see, get inside.’
I let go and sat back, allowing Mary to enter, then stood to shut and bar the door behind her.
‘By heck, lass, thee’s let theesen go! When were last time thee washed?’
I looked down at myself. I wore the same shapeless clothes Mary had made me put on three weeks ago. I could not remember venturing out to go to the well. I shook my head.
‘And what’s this?’ She held up a dish with some meat scraps.
‘For cat,’ I said, embarrassed.
‘What?’ She stared at me in amazement. ‘Is thee telling me thee’s feeding cat?’
I nodded. It let me stroke it now.
‘Thee can’t be feeding cat, lass. It’s supposed to keep mice from oats!’ She pointed at the grain stored at the opposite end of the room to the chimney. ‘If it’s fed, why would it bother to hunt?’
I nodded, I knew she were right.
‘Has thee been like this all Christmas?’ Her voice softened. ‘We were worried when we heard nowt from thee, thought thee’d be up to see us.’
Mary sighed when I did not respond, went to the fire and peered into the pot that hung there. She tutted and went to the baskets she had put on the table and which I had barely noticed. Cream, spice, and honey went into my posset.
‘Keep an eye on that, lass, while I go to well. Thee needs cleaning up, then we can set about house.’ She looked around her in distaste. Blood and broken egg still stained the floor, and I had no holly, ivy or any other kind of greenery as decoration, never mind a yule log.
She stared at me, sighed, rested her gnarled hand on my shoulder a moment, then picked up a couple of my buckets, unbarred the door and left. I barricaded myself in again as soon as the door had closed behind her.
I stayed at the window until I could see her hunched form struggling with the weight of two buckets of water. Guilt pierced me and I opened the door.
I took two steps outside and panic overwhelmed me. I looked round – trying to see in every direction at once – searching for the source of my fear. I could see nowt and ran back inside. Only two steps, but I were gasping for breath. Mary followed and looked at me in confusion, but said nowt about my brief appearance and sudden dash back through the door. She thumped the buckets down and water sloshed on to the dirty stone floor.
‘We’ll get thee priddied up, then we’ll see about getting more watter for floor.’ She stared at my look of panic, but did not shift her eyes until I dropped my gaze and nodded. ‘Right then, get them rags off.’
Fingers trembling, I untied and discarded. The Mary Farmer of my youth were back – the one that were impossible to deny.
She rummaged until she found a couple of clean cloths, dipped them in one of the buckets, gave one to me and started to scrub my back with the other.
Slowly, I washed my face, chest, belly and legs, and Mary moved on to my arms.
I screamed at the sound of laughter from the open window, and scrabbled round to see young Robert Ramsgill leaning on the sill, pointing. ‘Look at her, being washed like a babby! Where’s thy curses now, witch?’
Mary shot through the door – faster than I thought her old legs could carry her.
‘Little Rob Ramsgill, thee little shite! It’s high time someone gave thee a beating – knock some sense into thee! Get back here thee little runt!’
‘Get away with thee, thee awd carlin! Get back to thy babby!’
Mary came back in, barred the door, closed the window shutters and lit a candle.
‘It’s all right, lass, he’s gone.’ She picked up her cloth again, ignoring my trembling, but were much gentler as she wiped off the dirt that had stuck to my wet skin as I had lain curled up on the floor.
‘Right, thee’s done, now get theesen dressed. We’ll go for some more watter, then clean rest of house.’
‘I can’t! Mary, I can’t go out there!’
‘Nonsense, lass. Thee loves moors, we’re only going to well, we’ll stay out of way of village and folk – that little bugger is long gone. Thee’ll feel better when thee gets back out into fresh air.’
I sighed and pulled on bodice, petticoats, and collar over my shift, then replaced my forehead cloth and coif, and finally pulled on Pa’s hobnailed boots. I knew from experience there were no arguing with her in this mood. And she were right, I had missed the moors. There were no way in Hell I were going anywhere near folk though, whatever she said.
‘Thee can’t go out with thy hair like that, and a comb’ll be no use. Where’s thy carders?
I fetched the wooden paddles studded with nails normally used to untangle wool ready for spinning, and she dragged one through my hair. It hurt, but I did not scream; I remembered Mam doing this when I were a nipper, and enjoyed the memory despite the scrapes to my scalp.
‘Thee needs to be seen, folk are talking about thee and way thee is now. They’re afeared of thee and they have enough to fear already.’
I shrugged into Pa’s coat.
‘Winter, starvation, plague,’ Mary carried on, oblivious to my silence. ‘They’ll get rid of owt else that scares them. They’ll get rid of thee, lass, if thee don’t take better care.’
I glanced at her and shook my head. She were just an old woman worrying too much.
‘Mark me words, lass, thee needs to take better care!’
I nodded in the hope she would stop all her doom and gloom.
‘Right then, where’s rest of thy buckets?’ she asked.
I looked at the corner of the room and she bustled over, found two more and tossed them at me, then picked up her two and led the way outside.
I hesitated on the stoop and looked around. There were nobody about. I took a deep breath and a small step, paused, then took another. Mary stood just ahead, waiting for me. I turned and shut the door, then faced her again and took another step. They were getting easier.
A breath of wind rustled my hair and I lifted my face to it, enjoying the peaty, heather smell of the moors.
‘Alright, lass?’
‘Aye.’ I walked slowly to join her. The wall had not yet surrounded the house and we could walk unimpeded up the hill.
*
Half an hour later we had four overflowing buckets of water and struggled back to the house. Mary had been right – this were what I had needed, and I felt like my old self again.
I were relieved to be home, though, and hurried to my door, then fell against it when something hard hit the back of my head. More stones rained around me and the water I had dropped. I cowered into a ball, screaming, and tried to protect my head with my arms. I were aware of Mary’s shouts and male laughter, then Mary’s arms around me.
‘It’s all right, lass, they’re gone.’
‘Who?’ I mumbled, though I knew.
‘Little Rob Ramsgill and his little gang of reprobates. Come on, let’s get thee inside.’ She opened the door and I crawled in. Mary barred the door behind us.
‘Right, let’s have a look at thee.’ She tutted and got to work cleaning the blood from my hair and applying poultices.
An hour later, clean, tended and defeated, I crawled into bed, unable to face more of the day. Mary took her leave, promising to come back in the morning. I forced myself back downstairs to the door to bar it, checked the window shutters were secure, then back over the newly scrubbed floor to the stairs. I lay for some time shuddering and sobbing, and had never been more grateful for sleep.
Chapter 48 - Emma
8th February 2013
I dropped the quill and notebook, and buried my face in my hands. That poor girl. Tears flooded down my face as I thought of her attacked in her home, then terrified to go out – at a time when there was no running water or electricity. If Mary Farmer hadn’t found her when she did, she would have died.
I wondered what had taken Mary so long to visit her, knowing what had happened. Why had she stayed away? Were the gossips of the village getting to her? Or was she scared of Jennet and her curses as well?
‘Emma, what is it?’ Dave had heard my sobs.
‘Jennet,’ I managed to say through a spasming throat. He said nothing, but sat beside me and held me until my sobs subsided.
Once I had calmed, he pulled away.
‘This is getting beyond a joke, Emma. I know we agreed for you to write her out, but look at the state of you. You haven’t slept since we got back from Portugal, and you look ill.
‘I know the counselling starts in a couple of weeks, but what about going back to the doctor for some sleeping tablets?’ he continued.
‘I can’t take sleeping tablets when I’m pregnant.’
‘How do you know? There may be some herbal ones that are safe. Go and ask her.’
I said nothing.
‘Emma, please! I’m really worried about you – you know I’m away back to Edinburgh next week – I need to know you’re sleeping, at least.’
I nodded. I’d give him anything at the moment – not many men would have stayed in this situation.
‘Do you have to go?’
‘Aye. I’ve to see some potential buyers at the site to show them what’s what – I’ve already put it off twice, I can’t do it again. I’ll make it as short as I can, but I have to go.’
‘Ok, I’ll ring the surgery now.’
‘Then we’ll eat.’
I smiled, kissed him and picked up the phone.
*
‘Do you fancy going out for supper?’ Dave asked. ‘We haven’t been up to the Stone House for a while.’
‘Oh yes, that’s a good idea. It’ll be nice to get out of the house for the evening.’
‘Great – jump in the shower, we’ll go as soon as you’re ready.’
I grimaced, realising I hadn’t washed for a few days. My routine was all over the place; I started writing as soon as I got up – some days I even forgot to get dressed until it was time to go to bed.
Half an hour later, I was back downstairs: clean, refreshed and looking forward to an evening out with my husband.
Dave held the front door open for me and I led the way to the car. Five minutes later, we pulled into the pub car park, then made our way inside.
‘Kathy! Mark.’
They were sitting near the door, full plates in front of them.
‘Evening,’ Mark said.
‘Oh, hello!’ Kathy was much warmer. I smiled at them both, but Dave ignored Mark and only greeted Kathy.
‘How are you? We haven’t seen you for ages!’ Kathy said. She glanced at Mark and Dave in confusion.
I carried on regardless. ‘We’re well thanks, Kathy, how are you? How are Alex and Hannah? Have they made their minds up yet?’
‘Yes, thank goodness – they’ve both put Leeds as their first choice.’
‘That’s great!’ I stopped, not knowing what else to say.
‘Well, better get to the bar, good to see you,’ Dave said into the silence, and we escaped. I glanced back while Dave was ordering our drinks, and saw Kathy hunched over the table, questioning Mark.
‘Here you go, Emma.’ Dave passed me a glass of red wine, and sipped his pint of bitter. ‘Do you know what you want?’
I studied the menu chalked above the bar and smiled, remembering our dinner here with Alice and the girls and how we had laughed. It seemed a long time ago now.
‘Shepherd’s pie,’ I replied. Dave ordered, beef and ale for him. He paid, then we sat down – at a table as far away from the Ramsgills as we could find.
*
‘Dessert?’ Dave asked. ‘Treacle sponge or bread and butter pudding.’
I pulled a face. ‘No, they’re too heavy, I’m already stuffed. I’ll just have coffee, please – decaf.’
‘You’ll be lucky.’ Dave laughed, and went to the bar.
I waited until he was back, then got up to go to the ladies.
On the way back out, I bumped into Mark. He must have been waiting for me in the narrow corridor.
‘How are you?’ he asked.
‘Fine.’
‘And the baby? He reached out to touch my belly, and I knocked his hand away, stepped back and crossed my arms over my chest.
‘The baby’s fine,’ I said, looking over his shoulder. Had Dave seen him follow me?
‘Is it . . . is it mine?’ he asked. I glared at him.
‘No, Mark, it’s not yours. It’s not mine either, come to that. It’s Jennet’s. It’s Jennet’s baby.’ For some reason I did not want to tell him I was expecting twins.
‘What? Oh, don’t start all that again!’
‘Start what? Think about it, you know it’s true – neither of us wanted to do what we did – it was her! She’s connected to me somehow, and you’re a Ramsgill. This is Jennet and Richard’s baby – not mine, and certainly not yours!’
‘Mark?’
I glanced up and gasped. Kathy stood behind Mark – shock written over her face. Dave stood further back, hands in pockets, frowning.
Mark whipped round. ‘Kathy, it’s not what you think.’ He stepped towards her – she backed away.
‘How could you? Twenty years and you do this, you ba
stard!’ she shouted, and I was aware of silence in the rest of the pub. ‘And you! I thought you were my friend!’
Mark stepped towards her again, and she slapped his face. ‘Get away from me, get away!’ She turned and ran, barging past Dave, who stared at Mark. Mark didn’t meet his eye.
‘I’m sorry,’ he muttered. ‘So sorry.’ He followed Kathy.
‘Time to go?’ Dave asked.
I nodded at his cold tone, and followed him through the pub and out to the car. Nobody spoke. Everybody stared. I wanted to go home and lose myself in writing. I couldn’t deal with this. Couldn’t think about poor Kathy. Couldn’t look at Dave. I had to get rid of Jennet.
Chapter 49 - Jennet
4th January 1778
‘Ay up, lass, summat’s wrong.’ John Farmer walked in, looking worried, and both myself and Mary glanced up at him.
‘What is it, John?’ Mary asked.
‘Looks like fire. Lass, I think it’s thy place.’
I jumped up and ran to the Farmers’ door. Smoke rose from below. John Farmer were right – my house were on fire. I ran down the hill, heedless of anything but my home. Everything I had bar the sheep were under that roof. Everything I had left of Mam and Pa were in that house. I had to save it.
I ran over the last rise and stopped. The thatched turf-house, sheltering a couple of months’ supply of peat, was well ablaze, and smoke poured out from the gaps in the window shutters of the house itself. A dozen people stood around, watching and doing nowt.
I hurried to the house, shouting at people to get buckets. I saw Richard Ramsgill and gave him a push to get him moving towards the smithy – William Smith always had buckets of water by his forge.
I shoved open the door and coughed. Burning peat had been strewn over the floor, and I watched the flames reach the wooden staircase, then the grain store and take hold.
I grabbed the besom and started to push the burning peat outside. I screamed as a torrent of water hit me, then I were pushed out of the house mesen.
The Haunting of Thores-Cross Page 18
