Every Mother's Son

by Val Wood

  ‘That was ages ago,’ Harriet maintained, hoping that Daniel was content on the farm; she couldn’t bear to think that he might leave and never come back.

  Fletcher gently patted her cheek. ‘Mother hen,’ he smiled. ‘Your chicks will fly eventually, you know.’

  ‘Yes,’ she murmured, catching his hand and squeezing his fingers. ‘I know. But not yet, and I hope ’girls will stay close to home when they marry, and then we’ll have grandchildren!’

  ‘Not yet,’ Fletcher begged, ‘please!’

  ‘No, of course not yet,’ she teased. ‘But they’re all growing up so fast it’s frightening.’

  As she gazed at him so close to her, at his soft grey-blue eyes and full warm mouth smiling back at her, she thought that they were not yet too old to have more children, who would fill the gap if their older children did leave home. She wistfully remembered the baby she had lost a few days after Joseph’s mishap with the horses – there had been no more since.

  *

  Tom stretched his back at the end of a busy harvesting day; they had turned the horses into the fold yard to drink and tomorrow at six would start another field. He and Daniel had been mending a broken spoke on a cartwheel whilst Fletcher and Lenny went back to the house. He looked up. ‘Hello?’ he said. ‘Who’s this come visiting?’

  Daniel followed his gaze. Two women on horseback were on the road above them, looking down. ‘Don’t know,’ he muttered, slightly uncertain; there was something familiar about one of them. ‘Just riding by. Or is it …’ Yes, he thought, it could be – but mebbe not. Then she waved, and he waved back. ‘It’s Beatrice!’

  ‘Miss Hart, you mean,’ Tom murmured as he watched the two young ladies turn their mounts down on to the stubby grass and come towards them.

  Beatrice hadn’t come straight home from Switzerland at the end of term but had been in France for several weeks visiting a friend, and he hadn’t seen her for some time.

  ‘No,’ Daniel said, watching their progress, ‘Beatrice. Unless she’s changed.’

  ‘Bet you she has,’ Tom grinned. ‘I’ll leave you to it. Some of us haven’t time for entertaining.’ He touched his hat to the approaching young ladies and started walking towards the house.

  ‘Hello, Daniel.’ Beatrice gazed down at him. She was dressed in a blue riding habit with her fair hair tucked under a jaunty feathered hat and was mounted on a dark chestnut thoroughbred, not one he had seen before. Some Arab breeding, he thought, stroking the horse’s neck and nodding his head in admiration. Beatrice’s companion was slightly behind her.

  ‘Hello, Beatrice,’ he said, suddenly awestruck by the change in her. Her skin had a golden glow and an escaped lock of hair seemed lighter, maybe bleached by the Swiss sun. ‘Is this a new hoss? I haven’t seen him before.’

  Beatrice lifted her chin and gave a deep sigh. ‘Mademoiselle Babineau, may I introduce my friend Daniel Orsini– Tuke. Daniel, Mademoiselle Agathe Babineau.’

  Daniel cast a surprised glance at Beatrice. Why did she give him two surnames? Why not just Daniel? he thought, before turning his attention to her companion, who had moved her mount forward, and touched his hot and sticky forehead. ‘Happy to mek your acquaintance, miss. Are you here on holiday?’

  Miss Babineau’s forehead creased. ‘I am. Yes. I am visiting Miss Hart at her parents’ kind invitation.’

  Her accent was attractive and Daniel smiled. ‘Good riding country round here,’ he said, running his hand over the mare’s nose. ‘This is Tilly, isn’t it?’ he asked Beatrice. ‘The mare you used to ride?’

  ‘I still do,’ Beatrice said. ‘Prince here belongs to Charles; an early birthday present from our parents so that he can get some riding in before the summer is over. I’ve borrowed him and loaned Tilly to Agathe.’ She changed the subject abruptly. ‘Did you know that Charles wants to finish school next spring? Is this what you and he planned all that time ago?’

  ‘Oh! Has he asked your father?’ Charles should have talked to me first, he thought. I’ve got to plan what to say to Da and Ma.

  ‘No, but he let it slip to Agathe that he might be travelling through France in the spring.’

  ‘Did he?’ He gazed back at her, and spoke without thinking. ‘You look nice. Erm, I mean … you look well …’ He stumbled over his words. ‘You look very well.’

  She didn’t reply but simply arched her fine eyebrows, so he turned to her companion. ‘I hope you enjoy your stay, miss.’ He knew he couldn’t manage her name without making a fool of himself.

  ‘I ’ope so too,’ she said, and smiled at him, showing small white even teeth. ‘Per’aps when you come to France we might meet again?’

  Daniel’s mouth parted. What on earth had Charles been telling her? Some tale anyway. ‘Aye,’ he murmured. ‘Mebbe so.’

  They left then, turning their mounts to ride back up the meadow. He watched them go, and when they were almost at the top Mlle Babineau turned her head and looked down, lifted her hand and gave a little wave. Daniel laughed and gave a hearty wave back. Mmm, he thought merrily, I might have to ask Charles to teach me some French phrases before we go away.

  Agathe gave a little giggle as they rode along the path, ducking their heads beneath the overhanging tree branches. ‘He is very ’andsome, is he not? But his manners are not those of a gentleman, and you are right, he ’as some foreign blood, and ’is name – Orsini, I think you said? – it is Italian, yes? Or per’aps Sicilian? He is – erm, how you say, attracted to you, yes?’

  ‘No,’ Beatrice said emphatically. ‘I’m just a friend; he doesn’t notice me.’

  ‘I think you are wrong,’ Agathe said mysteriously. ‘He ’as noticed you but doesn’t yet know why. But,’ she shrugged, ‘it is no matter, for he is not for you. He is a peasant, I think. A labouring man, ’andsome but quite unsuitable.’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Charles appeared at harvest the next morning wearing his oldest clothes. ‘I’ve come to give you a hand,’ he announced. ‘Beatrice said you were harvesting.’

  ‘Another hour and we’ll be knocking off for our lowance.’ Daniel wiped his forehead with his shirt sleeve. ‘We’ve been out here since six.’

  ‘Oh, good.’ Charles grinned. ‘I’m just in time, then. Has your mother been baking?’

  ‘Yes, but not for you,’ Daniel countered. ‘Onny for ’workers. Why don’t you help at your own harvest? Not that I’m saying we don’t want your help, we’re allus glad of an extra labourer, but—’

  Charles clicked his tongue. ‘I would,’ he sighed, ‘but Father’s not keen. He says the men would feel awkward if I offered to help; you know, their employer’s son. They’d have to watch their language and so on.’

  Daniel eyed him. ‘Well, that wouldn’t be a bad thing, would it? The casual labourers who come to help us don’t use bad language if Ma and my sisters are around. Tom and Da wouldn’t have them here if they did. Or is there another reason why you don’t want to be there?’

  ‘There is actually.’ He followed Daniel to where the stooked sheaves were set out in neat rows to dry. ‘It’s Agathe; she keeps following me about. I’m sure that my parents asked Beatrice to invite her to stay for my sake as much as hers. In fact I don’t think that Bea likes her all that much; she seemed to be cool towards her yesterday evening – in a polite sort of way, you understand.’

  ‘And yet you told her – Agathe – that you might be visiting France next spring.’ Daniel continued working, binding up the sheaves with twine to keep them secure, whilst he was talking.

  ‘I know.’ Charles pulled a face. ‘I don’t know why I did. Making conversation, I suppose.’

  ‘Look,’ Daniel said. ‘Why don’t you go up to ’house and help Ma bring out ’food and drink? She’s more to do now that Maria’s away.’

  ‘Yes, all right.’ Charles turned as he was bid. ‘But we need to talk later. And I want to hear what your parents have to say about our jaunt before I tell my father.’

  Tell him? Danie
l queried under his breath as Charles walked away. Doesn’t he mean ask him? Mightn’t he have to wait until he’s twenty-one before he can tell his father anything? And, he suddenly realized, so will I with Ma and Fletcher.

  When the men knocked off for their break, Charles appeared carrying a tray balanced high like a waiter or serving footman, and calling out in a pseudo-affected manner, ‘Come along, gentlemen, luncheon is served. Will you take wine or water, sir?’ he asked a harvester from a neighbouring farm.

  ‘I’ll tek wine, m’lud,’ the man answered. ‘A large one.’

  Charles handed him a jug of water and a large beaker. ‘The best from the cellar,’ he declared, before moving on to the next man, who was sitting on the ground and leaning against a sheaf with a chunk of bread in his hand.

  ‘I’ll tek ’same, sir, if you please.’ The labourer squinted up at him; the sun was now high in a cloudless blue sky. ‘An’ you can come an’ work alongside o’ me any time you like.’

  Charles bent down to murmur, ‘I might well have to if my father finds out what I’ve been up to.’

  ‘Don’t you worry ‘bout that, sir.’ The man took the water. ‘Your father probably got up to mischief just ’same as you when he was your age, like we all did. When we were young and free and had no encumbrances.’

  Harriet called to Charles to come and eat. She had brought thick slices of bread stuffed with beef and spread with mustard, pork pie, apple pasty and jugs of steaming tea and cold fresh water from the pump.

  Charles sat down by her side and took the offered sandwich. ‘Don’t tell Daniel I’ve been eating his lowance, will you?’ he said, munching enthusiastically. ‘He’ll say I haven’t earned it.’

  ‘There’s plenty,’ she said. ‘I always do too much.’ She looked thoughtful. ‘I think it’s because of my upbringing. There were times when there wasn’t enough to eat, so now I mek enough for ’next day too, and I don’t ever waste it. If we don’t eat it then ’pigs have it—’

  ‘And then you eat the pig.’ Charles smiled, and rolled over on to his stomach. ‘Did you—’ He stopped speaking and put a hand to his eyes to blot out the sun, the better to see Daniel and his stepfather coming towards them.

  ‘Did I what?’ Harriet said.

  Charles rolled over again, his back to Daniel and Fletcher. ‘Erm – I’ve forgotten what I was going to say. The sun has addled my brain.’

  ‘Didn’t know you had one,’ Daniel quipped as he sat down next to him. ‘Hope you haven’t eaten all ’pork pies.’

  ‘I’ll have some beef, please, Harriet,’ Fletcher said, adding, ‘How do, Master Hart. Come to help ’workers, have you?’ He took a gulp of water.

  ‘They wouldn’t let me play,’ Charles joked. ‘I did offer but I was sent to the kitchen as a scullion.’

  ‘Well,’ Fletcher said. ‘Nowt wrong with learning how ordinary folks live out their lives.’

  Charles gazed at him intently. ‘I wouldn’t say that any of you were ordinary, sir. You’re earning an honest living, which is more than I’m doing.’

  ‘Ah, but you’re gaining an education, which will prepare you for greater things.’

  ‘Like running a country estate,’ Charles muttered. ‘There’s no great esteem in that, surely? Not when it’s handed down to me as my right.’

  Harriet looked away, eyes averted from Fletcher.

  ‘You’ll be giving people work,’ Fletcher told him. ‘If people like your father didn’t employ them, what would country folk do? Not everybody can afford to buy a smallholding the way Tom and I did.’ He pointed to Tom, who was coming over to join them. ‘We run this farm to feed us and our livestock and mebbe share a small profit at ’end of ’year. Some folk would think that riches.’

  ‘And if we don’t get on with it,’ Tom interrupted, ‘we’ll not get this crop cut afore ’end of ’day.’

  ‘We’ve onny just sat down,’ Daniel objected.

  ‘Five minutes then.’ Tom joined them on the ground and Harriet handed him a pie; she knew he had an appetite like a sparrow and would only finish half of it. He thanked her, cast a glance at Fletcher and then at Charles, and nodded amiably.

  ‘I’ll have to go home,’ Charles told Daniel. It was well past six o’clock and the men were still working; Charles’s face and neck were sunburnt. ‘Mother will send out a search party if I’m not back in time for dinner. Can I come back later so that we can talk to your parents?’

  Daniel shook his head. ‘We won’t be finished for another couple of hours and Da will be too tired to talk. We want to get this field finished and dried off ready for threshing. Let’s leave it for now. There’s no hurry, is there?’ He was anxious about his mother’s reaction to the news that he really would like to go away; he knew how she felt about the brother who had never returned and would have to reassure her that he would always come home. He looked sideways at Charles, wondering whether this would be a good moment to broach a subject which had been worrying him for some time, and decided that it would.

  ‘There is summat to think about,’ he said awkwardly. ‘I don’t have much money, onny what I’ve saved over this last year. If I am allowed to go I’ll be travelling on a shoestring.’

  ‘I’ll have my allowance—’ Charles began.

  ‘No!’ Daniel was adamant. ‘I’m not borrowing or allowing you to pay. If we’re travelling together we should start out wi’ same amount o’ money.’

  ‘Right,’ Charles agreed after only a slight hesitation. ‘That’s fair enough.’

  At nine o’clock, Fletcher and Tom were the last to finish. The casual workers had gone up to the house to collect their wages from Harriet, Lenny had already had his supper and gone upstairs, and Daniel was checking on the horses before he finished, tired and aching and ready for his bed.

  ‘I, erm, I feel I should just mention …’ Tom began as the two men set off towards the house. ‘It’s nowt to do wi’ me, but …’

  ‘What?’ Fletcher asked. Tom wasn’t usually reticent in coming forward with a question. He and Fletcher were boyhood friends and knew most of what there was to know about each other.

  Tom paused at the field gate. ‘Young Hart,’ he said. ‘When he was here today.’

  ‘What about him? I thought he worked all right,’ Fletcher said. ‘For a young gent.’

  ‘He did,’ Tom agreed. ‘I’m not disputing that.’

  ‘Well, what then?’

  ‘I’ll tell you if you give me a chance,’ Tom admonished him. ‘Just listen. I might be wrong but I think ’penny’s dropped wi’ him. Didn’t you notice how he kept glancing at you as if he was puzzled over summat?’

  Fletcher frowned. ‘No. Like what?’

  Tom sighed. ‘Are you not right sharp at ’minute? Or …’ he hesitated as if embarrassed, ‘is it because you didn’t think I knew?’

  ‘Knew? Knew wh—’ Realization struck him like a hammer blow. He took a deep inhaling breath. ‘You mean …’

  ‘Yeh.’ Tom looked away into the distance. ‘About your ma, and … I’ve allus known. I heard when I was just a nipper, playing under ’table at Aunt Mary’s house. Not from Mary,’ he added quickly, ‘she wasn’t there and wouldn’t have allowed that sort o’ talk if she had been. I can’t remember where she was, out in ’garden fetching her washing in or summat, but I heard ’other women whispering about your ma and Master Hart, and you.’

  ‘All that time ago?’ Fletcher was astonished. ‘You’ve known all these years? Ma didn’t tell me till I was a grown man just back from America!’

  ‘Yeh, I reckon she decided to tell you after Mr Tuke and Noah drowned in ’estuary. There was nobody to dispute it then, was there?’

  ‘And you’re saying that young Charles spotted the likeness between his father and me? Never!’ he said. Then: ‘Is it so obvious?’

  ‘As plain as ’nose on your face,’ Tom said. ‘I suppose I’ve allus seen it because I knew, but as you’ve got older you’ve got more like him.’

  ‘I didn’
t believe her the first time she told me – too shocked to tek it in, I suppose – but Harriet allus believed it, and that’s why Maria’s gone into service. She and Stephen Hart became friendly and Harriet was nervous about it. If Christopher Hart is my father, and my mother insists that he is,’ he said reluctantly, ‘then I’m their brother, or half-brother or summat, and my bairns are … I don’t know, related, anyway. What I don’t understand,’ he blurted out, ‘is if Ma thought she’d kept it such a big secret, how is it that other folk knew about it, like those women you heard talking?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Tom admitted. ‘But that’s ’joy of living in a country district. Everybody knows everything about what’s going on, but it goes no further and they all pretend that they know nowt.’

  ‘But now,’ Fletcher said slowly, ‘young Charles Hart has noticed ’likeness.’

  ‘He has. I’ve no doubt about it, but he’s not going to ask his father, is he? And he’s certainly not going to question you. But I thought you ought to know.’

  Later that night, Fletcher told Harriet what Tom had said. She suppressed a cynical smile at the idea that Ellen Tuke thought she had kept her secret; in a small community like this, somebody was bound to put two and two together. And, wide awake with a harvest moon shining though their bedroom window, she recalled Tom’s Aunt Mary once telling her how Ellen Tuke hadn’t always been truthful, and of how she had cried when Fletcher was born. ‘I’m sure your mother and Christopher Hart thought that no one knew of their liaison,’ she said softly, knowing how hurt and embarrassed Fletcher was over the whole sordid affair. ‘But how wrong they were.’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Daniel turned twenty in December and during the long Christmas vacation Charles rode over to visit. He said that Beatrice was confined to her bed with a cold and was in a filthy temper because of it.

  ‘She’s not been made into a lady, then?’ Daniel asked.

  ‘Not that you’d notice,’ Charles grinned. ‘How’s everybody here?’