Wideacre twt-1

by Philippa Gregory

  Dr Rose had faithfully forwarded every one to me unopened with his monthly reports. These were clear and had done much to increase my tension. If the lawyers did not hurry, if John continued to improve, I should have him back at Wideacre before I had given his fortune away to my cousin in return for the entail. Dr Rose’s first report had been gloomy. John had completed the journey in a drugged state but when he woke to find himself in a room with a barred window he had gone crazy with fear. He had sworn that he was imprisoned by a witch, by the Wideacre witch, who had her whole family under some spell and would keep him imprisoned until he was dead.

  All this sounded sufficiently lunatic to keep him inside and safely away from Wideacre for years. But Dr Rose’s later reports were more doubtful. John was making progress. He still had a craving for drink, but for the rest of his time he was lucid and calm. He was using laudanum in controlled amounts and was taking no alcohol. ‘I think we may begin to hope,’ Dr Rose wrote in his last report.

  I was not beginning to hope. I was beginning to fear. Events were taking place outside the estate where my word was law, beyond my influence. I could not make the lawyers go faster; I could not speed the negotiations with my cousin. I could not set back John’s recovery. All I could do was to write letter after letter to the lawyers pressing them to move on with their slow processes, and the occasional sad reply to Dr Rose, assuring him that I would rather my husband stayed with him for a year than prejudice his health by bringing him home too early. I had also a hard task to keep John’s father safely away in Edinburgh. As soon as John was committed and power of attorney vested in me I wrote to him to tell him of his son’s illness and to assure him that John was receiving the best of care. Using Dr Rose’s authority I explained that no one was allowed to visit John, but as soon as he was well enough I would contact old Mr MacAndrew at once so that he could visit his once best talented son. The old man, in a storm of grief and concern, never thought to ask how John’s fortune was managed while he was inside the asylum, and I never offered information. If he had asked me I would have said that Harry held the MacAndrew shares in trust for John. But I had been holding to the hope that by the time John was released and ready to reclaim his fortune, it would all be gone. Spent to put the bastard who bore his name into the Squire’s chair in the house he hated.

  All had to happen at the right time. If only the lawyers would hurry. If only my cousin would sign the contract, surrendering his inheritance. And all I could do was wait. And Celia could only write letters. Eleven letters I had in my drawer in the desk, one for each week that John had been away. Every Monday Celia wrote on one side of one sheet of notepaper, judging perhaps that a long letter might disturb him. Uncertain yet, whether he forgave her for what he had called her betrayal of him. Tender letters they were. They were full of a love so sweet and innocent, the love that two children might share. She started each letter, ‘My dearest brother’, and she ended each one with the words, ‘You are daily in my thoughts and nightly in my prayers’, and signed herself, ‘Your loving sister, Celia’.

  And all the body of the letter was news of the children, a word about the weather, and always the assurance that I was well. ‘Beatrice is well and grows lovelier every day,’ she wrote in one. ‘You will be glad to know that Beatrice is well and, as usual, most beautiful,’ she wrote in another. ‘Beatrice is well but I know she misses you,’ wrote Celia. I smiled a bitter smile when I read them. Then I tied them together and stuffed them at the back of the secret drawer, locked it, hid the key behind a book in the bookcase and went to change for dinner with a light step and my eyes shining. I held to my private pledge not to enclose the common before the worst of the bad weather was over, and I waited until March before two days of settled clear cloudless days tipped my impatience to have done.

  I told the parish roundsman that I would be enclosing two hundred acres of common on the following day and that he should have twenty men waiting for me in the morning. He scratched his head and looked doubtful. He was a plain man, in brown fustian, with the good boots of the labouring man who is making a better living than most, on the backs of the rest. John Brien his name; he had married one of the Tyacke girls and moved into the village. A little freer of village loyalties, with book-learning from his Chichester day school, he had obtained the job of parish roundsman and could now congratulate himself that he was the best-paid and most hated working man in Acre. He had no great love for me. He disliked the tone in my voice when I spoke to him. He thought himself a cut above the rest of the Acre villagers because he could read and write and because he did a job most of them would be shamed to do. Somewhere in my heart I still held to the old ways, and if the villagers despised and disliked a man then so did I. But I had to do business with him, and so I held Sorrel on a short rein when I stopped the gig and explained to him civilly where I wanted the men to meet.

  ‘They’ll not like it, Mrs MacAndrew,’ he said, his voice expressing contempt for such people who would refuse to work when and where the Quality and their dogs like him bade them.

  ‘I don’t expect them to like it,’ I said indifferently. ‘I merely expect them to do it. Can you get enough men together for tomorrow, or should we wait a day?’

  ‘I have the men to do the work.’ His hand gestured towards the shuttered cottages where idle men were sitting, heads in hands beside empty tables. ‘Every man in the village wants work. I can pick and choose. But they will not like the job of fencing in the common, fencing themselves out. There may be trouble.’

  ‘These are my people,’ I said with the indifference of a local for a stranger’s advice. ‘There will be no trouble that I cannot manage. You get the men there. There is no need for you to tell them what job they are to do. And I will meet you there. And any trouble I shall deal with.’

  He nodded and I held Sorrel in, my hard eyes on him until he turned the nod into the full bow that I expect from my people in my village. Then I gave him a tight smile and said abruptly, ‘Good day, Brien, I shall see you at the beech coppice tomorrow, with twenty men.’

  But when next day I trotted my gig down the lane and turned the corner to the start of the common land I saw there were not twenty men, there were more like one hundred. Wives too, and children, and the old people too aged for work. And a handful of the poorer Wideacre tenants, and about a dozen of the cottagers. The whole of the poor community of Wideacre was out to greet me. I halted Sorrel and took my time in tying his reins to a bush. I needed time to think; I had not expected this. When my head came up from fumbling with the reins my face was Clear and serene, my smile as lovely as the bright morning.

  ‘Good day to you all,’ I said. My voice was as bright and as untroubled as the robin in the beech tree over my head who started a clear and lovely warble at the pale blue sky.

  The older men were in a little cluster, conferring among themselves. They jostled each other like boys caught in an orchard and then George Tyacke stepped forward, the oldest man in the village, still hanging on to life and his cottage, though he was stooped and bent with rheumatism and his hands shook with palsy.

  ‘Good day, Miss Beatrice,’ he said with the gentle courtesy of a patient man who has spent his life at other men’s bidding, and yet never lost temper or dignity.

  ‘We have all come out today to speak to you about your plans for the common,’ he said. His voice had the soft accent of the Sussex downland. He had been born and bred here, spent all his life within this circle of green hills. His family had never lived anywhere else. It was probably his ancestors whose bones lay in Norman Meadow. It was probably his land before my ancestors stole it.

  ‘Good day, Gaffer Tyacke,’ I said, and my voice was gentle. Today might see a hard act, a harsh act, against the poor of Wideacre, but I could never keep a smile from my eyes when I heard the slow drawl of my home. ‘I am always pleased to see you,’ I said with courtesy. ‘But I am surprised to see so many from Acre village, and others, too.’ My eyes flicked towards the tenants: my te
nants, whose roofs depended on my goodwill, and they shuffled their feet at my scrutiny. ‘I am surprised that so many of you should think you have anything to say about what is done by me on my own land.’

  Gaffer Tyacke nodded at the reproof, and the tenants looked as if they wished they were elsewhere. They knew that in that one swift glance I had noted every one, and they had an uneasy fear that they would pay for it. As indeed they would.

  ‘We are just worried, Miss Beatrice,’ Gaffer said gently. ‘We did not want to come up to the Hall and when we first heard of your plans we did not believe that you would do it. So we have left it so long to speak to you.’

  I set my hands on my hips and looked around at them. In the winter sunshine my driving dress glowed a deep black. Under my neat black riding hat my hair gleamed as ruddy as an autumn beech tree. They had formed a circle around me but it was the circle of a court, not that of a mob. I was in utter control of this scene and they all knew it. And even old George Tyacke with his dignity and wisdom could not keep the servility from his voice.

  ‘Well,’ I said, and my tone was clear and loud so even the most distant of my shrinking tenants could hear me. ‘I’m damned if I can see it’s anyone’s business but my own, but since you’ve all made a day’s holiday to be here, you’d best tell me what it’s all about.’

  It was as if a flood had broken through a dam.

  ‘It’s the rabbits! I can’t buy meat, they’re the only meat we eat!’ said one woman.

  ‘Where am I to get kindling from if I can’t come here?’ said another.

  ‘I’ve a cow and two pigs and they’ve always grazed here,’ said one of the villagers.

  ‘I set my beehives out on the common for the heather honey,’ said one of the tenants.

  ‘I cut peat for my stove on the common!’

  ‘I gather my brushwood here!’

  ‘My sheep graze here in autumn!’

  And above the babble of voices Gaffer Tyacke’s old-man trembly tenor carried to my ears.

  ‘Look behind you, Miss Beatrice,’ he said. I turned. I had been standing in front of a great oak tree, one of the oldest in the woods. It was a pretty tradition of the village that lovers plighting their troth should seal their engagement by carving their names in its bark. From as high as a tall arm could reach, down to the roots, were love knots and names entwined and hearts carved, sometimes exquisitely carved, in the bark.

  ‘There’s my name, and my wife Lizzie,’ said George and pointed behind my head. Carefully I stared at the knots and whorls of the tree trunk and made out, as lichened as an old headstone, the heart shape and ‘George’ and ‘Lizzie’ carved inside.

  ‘And above them is my pa and ma,’ said George. ‘And above that is their pa and ma, and the names of my family go back as far as anyone remembers until you cannot read the names but see only a chip in the old bark where a name was.’

  ‘So?’ I said coldly.

  ‘Where are my grandchildren going to carve their names when they are courting?’ Gaffer said simply. ‘If you fell this tree, Miss Beatrice, it will not be like courting at all for the Acre bairns.’

  There was a murmur of support from the crowd. The main issues were those of food and fuel, but even the poor have their sentiments.

  ‘No,’ I said uncompromisingly. It had been on my lips to offer to leave the tree and to run the fence around it so that the couples of Acre could still walk the dark lane on summer nights and carve their names together, then stop in dark undergrowth to make love on the way home. But it was folly and sentiment. And it was nonsense to put a kink in a straight fence for the happiness of children as yet unborn.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I know you are set in certain ways at Acre and you all know that I have stood your friend in the past. But Wideacre is changing and the way we have to farm is changing. There are still acres of common left that will not be enclosed this season. You may go on grazing your beasts and snaring rabbits, and gathering firewood there. But this area is to be sown for wheat.’

  ‘It will be a bad day when there are wheatfields all around Acre and no one with the price of a loaf inside the village,’ called a voice from the back of the crowd, and there was a murmur like a groan of support.

  ‘I know you, Mabel Henty,’ I said certainly. ‘You owed me three months’ rent last quarter day and I let the tally run. Don’t you raise your voice against me now!’

  There was a ripple of laughter from some of the other villagers and Mabel Henty flushed scarlet and was silenced. No one else took up the cry. I let my gaze roam around the circle of faces until all the eyes had dropped under my hard green glare. They were all looking at their boots. Only Gaffer’s head was still up; only Gaffer Tyacke’s eyes still met mine.

  ‘I am an old man, Miss Beatrice,’ he said. ‘And I have seen many changes in my life. I was a young man when your pa was a boy. I saw him wed and I saw him buried. I saw your brother married and I was at the church gate to see you go in a bride. I was at the back of the church when they buried your ma. I have seen as much here as anyone. But I have never seen a Squire at Wideacre who went against Acre village. Nor heard tell of one. If you go on with this when we have asked you, begged you, not to, then you are not the Master as your pa was, nor as his pa was. There’s been a Lacey at Wideacre for hundreds of years. But they’ve never given the poor cause to groan. If you go on with this plan, Miss Beatrice, you will break the heart of Wideacre.’

  I nodded quickly to clear my head. A dark mist seemed to swell up from the ground and I could only dimly hear the murmurs of support from the crowd. To fail the land, to fail the people, seemed more than I could bear. In that second as I shook my head like a weary deer surrounded by hounds, I felt afraid. I felt afraid that I had, somehow, lost my way, had mislaid the whole thread and purpose of my life. That the steady constant heart of Wideacre would no longer beat when I listened. I put my hand to my head, the anxious faces around me had blurred into a circle.

  John Brien’s face stood out. Bright, curious, uncaring.

  ‘You have your orders, Brien,’ I said, and my voice seemed to be someone else’s, a distant clear tone. ‘Put the fences up.’

  I took half-a-dozen unsteady steps to the gig and clambered up into it. I could see little for my eyes were filled with hot tears and my hands were shaking. Someone, Brien, untied the reins and handed them to me. My hands, as automatically skilful as ever, backed Sorrel and turned the gig.

  ‘Don’t let him do it!’ called a desperate voice from the crowd. ‘Miss Beatrice, don’t do this to us!’

  ‘Oh, get on with your work!’ I said in sudden desperate impatience. ‘Enclosures are taking place up and down the country. Why should Wideacre be different? Get on with your work!’ And I flicked the reins on Sorrel’s back in one irritable gesture and he jumped forward and we swirled away down the lane, away from the circle of shocked faces, away from the old lovely wood, which would be felled, and away from the sweet rolling heather and bracken common, which would be burned and levelled and drained dry.

  All the way home I had tears on my cheeks and when I brushed them away with the back of my gauntlet I found my face was wet again. But I could not have said what had made me weep. Indeed, there was nothing. The common would be enclosed as I had ordered, the half-spoken protest of Acre village would be the talk of the ale-houses for half a year and then forgotten. The new fence would soon blend in, greened with moss and greyed with lichen. And the new courting couples of Acre would find another tree for their carvings. And their children would never know that once, through the woods, there had been hundreds of acres of land where little children could hide, and play at war, and picnic and roam all day long. All they would know would be field after flat field of yellow wheat where they would not be allowed to play. And knowing no different, why should they grieve?

  It was those of us who had known the common who would grieve. And the next day when I put on my black silk dress I felt I was in mourning indeed. For by now the fences woul
d be up and the men would be cutting down the great lovely trees and hacking out the roots. I would not drive out and see the work done. I did not want to see it until it was so far advanced that no sudden softness of mine could halt the relentless progress of the mindless beast that Harry exultantly called ‘The Future’. Neither would I be driving to Acre village for a while. The voices in the crowd had been grieved, not angry, and no crowd led by Gaffer Tyacke would ever be other than courteous. But when they saw the fences going across the ancient footpaths they would be angry. And there was no reason why I should see that anger. I did not choose to.

  But after a long breakfast, during which I planned my day, which seemed very empty if I was not to drive out on Wideacre, I went to my office and found John Brien waiting in the lobby by the stable door.

  ‘Why are you not at the common? Has something happened?’ I asked him sharply, opening the door and beckoning him in.

  ‘Nothing has happened,’ he said, ironically. I sat at my desk and let him stand.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I said. He heard the tone in my voice and he heard the warning note.

  ‘I mean nothing has happened because the men won’t work,’ he said. ‘After you left yesterday morning they went into a little huddle with old Tyacke …”

  ‘George Tyacke,’ I prompted.

  ‘Yes, Gaffer Tyacke,’ he repeated. ‘And then they said that they wanted to take an early dinner break. So they all trooped home and when I waited for them to come back an hour later no one came.’

  ‘And then?’ I said sharply.

  ‘Then I went to look for them,’ he said, his voice almost petulant. ‘But I could get no answer at any of the cottages. They must all have left the village for the day, or else locked their doors and kept silent. Acre was like a ghost town.’

  I nodded. This was a petty rebellion; it could not last. The people of Acre were in a hard vice of needing work, and Wideacre was the only employer. They needed access to the land, and we owned all the land. They needed roofs over their heads, and they were all our tenants. No rebellion could last long under those circumstances. Because we had been good, even generous, landlords they had forgotten the total power the Squire of Wideacre has for the using. I would not want to use the power. But I would certainly do whatever was needed to get those fences up and that common land growing wheat.