Sunday dinners were changed by the poem, too, for she read a little more of it before they sat down to eat and chose something particular to read aloud to her parents as the meal progressed. They were impressed despite themselves.
‘He’s a man a’ compassion, I’ll give him that,’ her mother said. ‘He don’t like to see hanimals tormented.’
Her father was taken by the couplet about the hunted hare. ‘I never did like the screams they give when the dogs tear at ’em,’ he said. ‘I’ve heard it many’s the time an’ never liked it. Read it again.’
And Betsy read, ‘Each outcry of the hunted Hare/A fibre from the Brain does tear.’
‘Can’t see anyone stoppin’ it, mind,’ her father said. ‘Hare coursin’. Not when the gentry enjoys it so much.’
Each Sunday brought a new idea to challenge them. ‘The Lamb misus’d breeds public strife/And yet forgives the Butchers Knife.’ ‘Well, there’s a thing,’ her father said. ‘I’ve never thought how the lamb feels about it. Never occurred to me.’ ‘A truth that’s told with bad intent/Beats all the Lies you can invent.’ ‘He’s a learned man, your Mr Blake, I’ll say that for him. For tha’s as true as anythin’ I ever heard.’ And Betsy was pleased to think that she could almost claim this learned man as a friend. His wife was certainly a friend or she wouldn’t have given her this precious poem nor listened to her with such patience.
But the loss and sadness at the centre of her life still remained and hurt like a wound. She knew she had to endure it and that there was nothing she could do about it but that didn’t diminish the pain. She’d known both those things from the moment she ran out of the kitchen, hot with shame and anger and frantic to get away. She’d known it all through that first dreadful night, as she lay on her frowsy straw mattress among her snoring companions and tried to weep without making a noise. And when the morning finally came and she had to get up before dawn and put on her sacking apron to go to her first milking, breathing in air so cold it hurt her lungs and striding cold-footed over ridged mud that crackled with frost, she felt as if her life had been frozen to a stop within her. She saw her breath streaming before her like smoke and rubbed her hands in a vain attempt to warm them and thought of the fire in the kitchen at Turret House and the good food that would be on the table there and she knew she’d thrown away all hope of a better life. But what else could she have done, after all the terrible things that had been said to her? And what else could she do now? Nothing except get on with this new existence.
She’d expected to feel unhappy when she saw Johnnie again, after walking out for so long and loving one another so much, but oddly she felt nothing at all, not even anger because he hadn’t been there to protect her when she needed him. It was as if she was seeing him from a great distance, as if he was somebody she had once known and almost forgotten, as if her ability to love him or be angry with him had been frozen along with everything else. And perhaps it was just as well she felt that way, for there was no going back. She couldn’t walk out with him again, even if she wanted to. That would set tongues wagging and she would be insulted all over again. Better to lie low, do the work that offered, keep away from gossip and hope it would all die down.
Mr Haynes was all for taking a stroll to Turret House and having it out with Mrs Beke ‘there an’ then, bein’ someone should stand up for the child, which I mean to say, I don’t like to see her cast down, pretty dear,’ but his wife dissuaded him. Whatever the cause of the quarrel – and she had a pretty shrewd idea she knew what it was – in her opinion it was better to leave well alone.
‘She’ll come round in time,’ she hoped. ‘She’s a sensible girl even if she is headstrong. Keep her fed an’ healthy an’ she’ll come round. You’ll see.’
But the weeks passed and there was no change in her. She came to church and walked home with them soberly afterwards, enjoyed her meal and read another line or two from the poem, but she was still subdued and too quiet for comfort. And she barely said a word to Johnnie Boniface even though he greeted her lovingly every Sunday and everybody could see how upset he was to be treated so coldly.
The year began its tilt towards spring. The first crocuses pushed tentative buds through the dark soil, there was an occasional day of blue sky and green sea, March winds blew boisterous, the apple blossom erupted into a joyous froth.
‘Our ol’ daffydillys are comin’ up lovely,’ Mr Hosier said, as he and Johnnie worked in the vegetable garden. It worried him to see the boy so miserable. ‘We done well with them this year.’
Johnnie didn’t care one way or the other. They could come up lovely or fall over and die. ’Twas all one to him. He’d lost his love and spring was an irrelevance.
It was also a time for bad news. To nobody’s surprise, the war with France had broken out again and Napoleon was reported to be gathering his troops ready for his long-threatened invasion. After a year’s grace and good earnings, there were no holiday-makers in the village and no hope of any. The Dome was shut up, the inns and their stables were empty and William the ostler had gone back to digging Mr Blake’s garden for want of any other employment.
‘There’s times,’ Mr Haynes said to his friends in The Fox, ‘when I wish them danged Frenchies ’ud invade us an’ have done with it. All this off an’ on gets wearyin’.’
‘Quite right,’ Mr Cosens agreed. ‘I’m sick of alarums an’ invasions an’ such. If they’re comin’, let ’em come say I. Then we can get it over an’ have somethin’ else to talk about.’
‘Seen a rare ol’ funeral this a’ternoon,’ Reuben offered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Two black hosses, plumes an’ all. Very grand affair. Young Molly was there.’
That roused more interest. Funerals were always a happy topic. ‘Who’s gone then?’ Mr Grinder asked.
‘Her aunt, seemingly,’ Reuben said, ‘what was cook-housekeeper to ol’ Miss Pearce, what lives opposite the George an’ Dragon. Very grand affair for a housekeeper. She must ha’ saved up for it for years. The aunt Oi means, not young Molly. She never got two ha’pennies to rub together that one.’
‘I s’ppose she’ll go an’ see young Betsy,’ Mrs Grinder said, ‘which’ud be no bad thing. Bit a’ comp’ny ’ud do her good. They was allus pretty thick together.’
‘She’ll have a job to find her,’ Mr Haynes sighed, ‘stuck in that dairy all hours. We onny ever sees her a’ Sundays.’
But Molly hadn’t come all the way from Lavant just to go to the funeral. She had every intention of visiting her friend and, as soon as the funeral tea was done and her mother had dried her eyes and was settled, she put on her bonnet and walked straight to Turret House. She was most put out to discover that Betsy wasn’t there.
‘Why didn’t she write an’ tell me?’ she said to Nan. ‘I call that unkind. I might not be quite the scholar she is, but I can read a letter. So where is she?’
Nan shrugged her plump shoulders. ‘Best go and ask Johnnie Boniface,’ she suggested. ‘He’s more like to know her whereabouts than we are. All we know is she’s upped an’ gone, an’ the rumour is she’s workin’ in a dairy somewhere.’
Molly stomped out into the garden at once and found Johnnie in the orchard. He was digging over the compost heap, sweating in the unaccustomed heat and pungent with the fumes that were rising all round him. ‘Yes,’ he agreed, ‘’twas a bit sudden like. She had words with Mrs Beke.’
Molly was intrigued. ‘What about?’
‘That I couldn’t say,’ Johnnie told her diplomatically and truthfully – for it would have been disloyal to explain – and unwise. There were some things it was best to keep hid. ‘You’ll find her in the dairy up Middleton way.’
‘You means the farmhouse, surely,’ she said. ‘She’s not workin’ as a milkmaid. That I won’t believe.’
Johnnie rested on his fork, took off his cap and wiped his forehead with it. ‘Tha’s what she said,’ he told her. ‘Milkin’ cows. I heard her with my own ears.’
‘Well I never heard the like,’ Molly said, trenchantly. ‘She’s much too good to be a dairymaid. I don’t know what she’s thinkin’ of. I shall go straight there an’ tell her so.’
‘Won’t do you no good,’ Johnnie warned. ‘She’s set her mind on it.’
Molly straightened her bonnet. ‘We’ll see about that,’ she said. ‘I got a mind an’ all.’
Johnnie watched her go and sighed, feeling miserably worldly-wise. All these months, he thought, an’ love letters she don’t read, an’ visits to Mrs Blake she don’t take no notice of, you don’t know how stubborn she can be. Then, since there was nothing else he could do, he got on with his work.
Chapter Fourteen
Betsy was sitting on a pile of dirty straw with her aching back against the byre, taking in the spring sunshine. It was the first time it had been warm enough to rest outside and she and her three workmates were making the most of it. The others were gossiping, as they usually did, but Betsy sat with her eyes shut and her red hands idle in her lap, and simply drank in the warmth.
Molly was shocked by the sight of her. She looked so dirty, her skirts swathed in a sacking apron, her boots thick with mud and muck, her face smeared and her once pretty hair uncombed and frowsy and tied up in a piece of tattered cloth.
‘Land sakes, Betsy Haynes,’ she said, as she walked across the yard. ‘What have you done to yourself?’
To her horror, Betsy opened her eyes and burst into tears.
Molly was a sensible young woman and, being one of a large family, she was quick to respond to distress. She skimmed across the yard and was down on her knees beside her friend before the other milkmaids were aware of what was happening. ‘Hush now,’ she said, putting an arm round Betsy’s shoulders as if she were one of her siblings. ‘Don’ ’ee fret. Molly’s here.’
But Betsy fretted for a long time. ‘What’s to become of me?’ she wept. ‘Oh, Molly, what’s to become of me?’
Molly wasn’t just sensible, she was practical too. ‘You’re to wash your face and put on a clean cap and get rid of that horrid apron and come for a walk,’ she said.
And although Betsy protested that she had to be back for the milking, she did as she was told. They walked arm in arm towards the village, as the spring sun warmed the fields and dappled their path with shadows. And bit by bit, Betsy told her story, with suitable embellishments to show how intolerably unkind Mrs Beke had been, and a few necessary omissions to keep her own part in the tale as respectable as she could.
‘I thought you an’ Johnnie was walkin’ out,’ Molly said. ‘I thought you’d be wed by now. I been waitin’ for the invite.’
‘No chance a’ that now,’ Betsy sighed. ‘He don’t feel nothin’ for me or he’d ha’ come into the kitchen an’ stood up for me when Mrs Beke was givin’ me what-for, which he never. An’ I don’t feel nothin’ for him. ’Tis all changed. Walkin’ out’s a fool’s game. You gets called a common slut if you walks out.’
‘But you didn’t have to come out here an’ work as a milkmaid,’ Molly said. ‘There must ha’ been better jobs for ’ee.’
‘I tried for ’em,’ Betsy told her. ‘I knocked on every door, all that day, mornin’ an’ afternoon, every single door, and no one needed a servant of any kind. I didn’t come here by choice.’
‘Pity my aunt couldn’t ha’ died back then,’ Molly said. ‘You could’ve had her job if she had. Which come to think of it, why don’t you ask for it now. Miss Pearce is high an’ dry. She’s onny got ol’ Mrs Mumford to wait on her now an’ she’s no use to man nor beast on account of she can’t see what she’s about. She must be looking for someone.’
‘She won’t want me,’ Betsy said gloomily.
‘If she don’t, she don’t,’ Molly said. ‘There’d be no harm trying. Least you got a clean face an’ you’ve combed your hair an’ took off that horrible apron. She wouldn’t have took you the state you were in when I found you. We’re nearly in the village, look. I can see the mills. What do ’ee think?
There was a robin singing lucidly in the hedgerow, the sun was blessedly warm, Molly’s face was encouraging, even the dust of the path smelled sweeter. There was no harm in trying. If she don’t, she don’t.
Miss Pearce lived in a small cottage just up the road from the smithy. She was a skinny old lady, with a fluff of sparse white hair, faded brown eyes, six teeth the colour of weak tea and long gaunt cheeks powdered pale. At first sight she seemed frail and unassuming but her appearance was deceptive. Underneath that cloud of hair and the feminine lace of her cap, she was a martinet, her spirit as strong and her determination as rigid as the whalebone in her stays. She dressed in the style that had been fashionable when she was a young woman, with an embroidered stomacher to restrain the bodice of her gown and keep her upright, and a fine lace apron to cover her skirts with modesty. She had a variety of spectacular caps, all of them made of lace and trailing long lappets, her hands were decently covered with matching lace mittens, her boots strictly buttoned. Thanks to her father’s skill in the City, she had always been comfortably off, so her house was well furnished and immaculately clean, for she ran two servants and always kept them under tight control. Her voice might be soft but her commands were absolute.
‘I keep an orderly establishment,’ she said to the two girls, when Mrs Mumford had hobbled them into her presence. ‘I wish that to be understood directly, or we shall not proceed.’
It was understood. Solemnly.
Miss Pearce nodded. ‘I’ve seen you in church, I believe,’ she said, holding up her lorgnette to take a close look at her applicant. ‘Wearing a red cardinal. Do I know your parents?’
Betsy explained who they were and was nodded at again.
‘I will tell you what I require in a cook-housekeeper,’ Miss Pearce said. ‘I believe in complete honesty. You will cook my meals and shop for such foods and delicacies as I require, you will bake my bread – I presume you can do that – you will wait at table, you will wash and iron the more delicate items of my apparel, with particular attention to the lace – we have a wash-house in the garden – you will dust and clean and you will open the door. Mumford will wash the heavier items and keep the floors scrubbed and empty slops and so forth. I will provide board and lodging and such clothing as you require for service when I have company and you will have one afternoon a week when you will be free for your own devices – although understand that I do not allow followers. As to remuneration, I will pay you £4 per annum, sums to be received quarterly.’
Betsy stood before her, thinking hard. It was a good offer, less than she’d received at Turret House but a great deal more than she was earning as a milkmaid and she knew she could do the work and do it well. She was aware that Molly was pinching her arm to make her reply but Miss Pearce was peering at her through that lorgnette again.
‘Can you read?’ she asked.
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Then I shall require you to read to me sometimes of an evening,’ the lady said. ‘My sight is not what it was, I fear. Would that be agreeable?’
It would.
‘Very well, then,’ the lady said. ‘I think we have covered all the salient points.’ She smoothed her apron with a mittened hand and looked up to make her final pronouncement. ‘I shall require a reference, as you would expect. Could you provide one? Who was your previous employer?’
Betsy’s heart shrivelled. Just at the very moment when she was thinking that this was a job she could do and that she wanted to come back to Felpham and do it, all hope of it was being swept away. But she offered Mrs Beke’s name. How could she do anything else?
‘Return tomorrow at the same time,’ Miss Pearce instructed, ‘and I will tell you my decision. That will be all.’
‘She’ll say no, sure as eggs is eggs,’ Betsy said as they walked away from the cottage. ‘Old Ma Beke’ll tell her I’m no better than a trollop and that’ll be that.’
Molly tried to encourage her. ‘You don’t know that,’ she sa
id valiantly.
‘I do.’
They’d reached the church and the footpath to Molly’s home. ‘I’ve got to go,’ she said. ‘Pa’ll have the cart ready for me an’ he hates bein’ kept waitin’. Write to me an’ tell me what happens.’ And she kissed her friend and ran off along the path.
Betsy walked back to the farm as slowly as she dared and very miserably. There was no hope for her. It was all over.
But she was wrong. Mrs Beke had a sharp tongue but she wasn’t vindictive. The letter she wrote in answer to Miss Pearce’s query was honest but certainly not damning. She had employed Betsy Haynes for the last six years, she said, ever since she joined the household as a girl of twelve. She was a hard worker and willing, was an adequate cook, baked an excellent loaf and was fast becoming a skilled needlewoman. If there was a drawback to her character it was that she had a tendency to be a trifle headstrong and would therefore need firm handling. ‘However that would present no problems to such as yourself. I trust you are in good health. I remain yr obedt servant, Margaret Beke.’
The job was offered to Betsy that afternoon and was taken with such obvious relief that Miss Pearce made use of her lorgnette again and decided to reemphasise her most important restriction. ‘I don’t tolerate followers,’ she said. ‘Not under any circumstances. I hope you understand that.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ Betsy said, drawing herself up tall to emphasise her understanding. ‘There’s no likelihood of any followers, ma’am. No likelihood at all. When would you wish me to start work?’
Gates of Paradise Page 18
