Blake's Reach

by Catherine Gaskin

  ‘Patrick! … Blonde Bess is a loan! Nothing more! And Mr. Turnbull intended nothing more! And you’re not to gossip about what’s not your concern!’

  Patrick looked pained. ‘I swear to Heaven, Miss Jane, that there’s never a word out o’ me mouth. I was only meanin’ that all I hear of Mr. Turnbull is that he’s a fine gentleman …’

  ‘Enough!’ she said. ‘Enough talk now! There has to be more work and less talk in this house. William and I will stable Bess …’

  Patrick bobbed his head in assent, but she checked him again as he turned away.

  ‘Understand, Patrick ‒ Mr. Turnbull is not Lord O’Neill!’

  She helped William down from the saddle, and together they took the mare into the stable. William pumped some water into a pail, and struggled across the yard with it, standing quietly by to watch as Bess drank.

  ‘Not too much,’ Jane cautioned. ‘Let her cool down …’

  She put a few pitchforks of hay into Bess’s stall, and William helped her with the unsaddling. The mare stood patiently, feeling their hands on her without protest or anxiety, as gentle as Robert Turnbull had said. And when they closed the door of her stall, she did not go immediately to the hay, but stood to watch them hang the saddle and bridle on the wooden pegs. Through the bars at the top of the stalls the pair of carriage greys regarded the mare with faint suspicion.

  Jane and William went back to work on the vegetable patch. The sun was hotter now, and it beat down on the back of their necks. The fichu of Jane’s gown grew damp with perspiration. The weeds seemed thicker than they had been before, and higher ‒ the riotous growth of the ten or more years that had passed since the last gardener had departed from Blake’s Reach. The enthusiasm of William’s first attack on the weeds began to fade; he looked hot and weary. Jane bent her back stubbornly, but she paused often to wipe her forehead with a grimy hand. She toyed with the idea of sending once again to Appledore for help, and then recalled the hearty country appetites she would have to satisfy at her table, and the shrinking pile of coins in her purse. So she shrugged, and thrust the spade once more down among the weeds.

  This second time she was too far gone in her own thoughts to notice the footsteps on the brick walk. He was standing above her, and speaking, before she raised her eyes.

  ‘It’s too warm a day … and you’ll spoil those fine hands …’

  Paul Fletcher smiled gently as he spoke. This was not the amused, mocking tone he had used two days ago in the church. He said the words simply, as if he was concerned for her.

  She thrust the spade into the ground, and straightened. His presence here covered her with confusion, and yet she was aware of a great warmth of relief and pleasure sweeping through her. She was glad he had come; there was nothing more to do than admit it. She was conscious of only a second’s regret for the silk gown and curled hair of last night, and then the regret died, and was finished.

  ‘Necessity presses,’ she said, jerking her head towards the weed-choked beds. ‘I’ve a thrifty notion to eat my own produce and stop paying my neighbours to supply it. What happens to my hands,’ she shrugged ‒ ‘I must bear with. You see I…’

  William’s patience had gone. He dropped the hoe, and moved towards Paul, breaking into Jane’s speech.

  ‘Did you bring them, Mr. Fletcher, sir? ‒ the mice? Did you bring them?’

  Paul nodded back in the direction of the stables. ‘I left them with the manservant ‒ Patrick, is that his name?’

  William immediately started along the path, then halted. ‘Where? ‒ in the stables?’

  ‘Yes ‒ Patrick seemed to think that that’s where they should stay …’ Paul found himself talking to empty air as William vanished around the corner of the building.

  When William had gone a silence fell between them. Jane was amazed to find herself suddenly tongue-tied, even a little shy of the man who stood there. He looked different from the person in the church. His hair was powdered and caught back with fresh ribbon; he wore a frilled shirt and sober, well-cut breeches and coat. He held his expensive, but not new, hat under his arm. The buckles on his shoes were silver.

  ‘I came to beg your pardon for not appearing last evening, as you had ordered me to.’ When she gestured to dismiss the words, he smiled. ‘I regarded it as an order ‒ just as you intended, and if I had possessed seven league boots I would have been here, and at your service. But the ‒ er ‒ trade which engages me is an unpredictable one. I was many miles from Blake’s Reach last night.’

  The hostility they had felt in the church seemed to have gone. She sensed that he was no longer here to criticise; he had come to accept her presence as Kate and Lucas, and the villagers of Appledore had done. The little time that had passed since they had seen each other had wrought a change in him also. Those blue eyes of his, with the sun-wrinkles etched in the skin about them, did not laugh and mock her now.

  She spread her hands to indicate the dirt on her gown. ‘You missed a fine sight by not being here last night. I put my prettiest silk gown on for your benefit, and curled my hair, and played the fine lady in my drawing-room. It’s hard that you should come now when the fine lady has given place to the maid-of-all-work.’

  ‘I suspect I’d be afraid of that fine lady in her drawing-room, and I like well enough what I see now. The dirt on your chin is a charming adornment, and you wear it with distinction.’

  She put her hand to her face, self-consciously, and was silent. She was without words, and she felt that he knew it. What was the matter with her ‒ she, who in the church had answered him with such great sureness? Wasn’t it possible to take this compliment from him with ease ‒ to let it warm her, and encourage her, as he had meant it to? He had been gentle, kindly, and didn’t she have grace enough to lift her eyes to him, and smile her gratitude. There had been too much pretence in the last weeks of a poise and security she did not truly feel. It would be such a relief not to have to pretend with this man.

  At last she did lift her eyes, and smile at him.

  ‘Thank you.’ His own smile answered her, broader, gayer.

  ‘You know, you are pretty when you smile like that ‒ the kind of prettiness that has nothing to do with being beautiful … Such a pity you don’t smile more often. A woman should … it’s … softer. A man gives almost anything to a smile.’

  And now she did smile broadly, teasing. ‘And have you given often? You sound experienced in smiles.’

  He shrugged. ‘There’s no nicer object of giving than a charming woman. And if the giving turns out to be a loss after all, then the memory generally has a pleasant tinge to it.’

  Then he dismissed the subject with a wave of his hand. ‘Well … I must tell you more of that philosophy later. I hoped to gladden your heart this morning by telling you that the extra money for the church would be forthcoming …’

  Her lips drooped a little. ‘No …?’

  ‘I don’t know yet. I haven’t been able to discuss the matter with my employer. I sent a message that I wanted to speak with him, and I find he’s away from home these few days, and may not return for a week.’

  ‘Well, then ‒ it must wait. There’s no help for it.’ It was not possible, now that he had so far penetrated her stiff guard she had held up before her world, to keep the disconsolate note from her voice. ‘I … I would like to know as soon as possible.’

  ‘The other day you said the money hardly mattered to you.’ It was spoken with the merest indication of a questioning note ‒ to be taken up or not, as she chose.

  She gestured slightly, taking in the hoe, her soiled gown and the wilderness of the vegetable plot. ‘I can’t pretend with you. The money matters ‒ of course it does!’

  He nodded. ‘I understand this well enough. I don’t like your mixing in this affair at all, but since you’re determined to have it so, then I don’t see why my employer shouldn’t be parted from a little of the money I earn for him. I’ll do my best … I promise you that.’

  For
a few seconds she studied him, smiling a little to acknowledge his promise; then she shrugged and shook her head.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘You’re different to-day,’ she said, ‘and it isn’t just your fine coat. You made no promises of aid when we met before.’

  He laughed at her reference to his dress, but he didn’t seem inclined to give her an answer.

  ‘Go on,’ she prompted. ‘You surely can tell me. Is it …? Are you beginning to think, perhaps, that I’m not so mad, or so foolishly stubborn in deciding to stay on here?’

  Leaning on the spade, she waited for him to speak. He frowned a little, and looked away from her, looked towards the two great oaks that raised themselves above the line of the roofs of Blake’s Reach, and towards the hazy sky over the Marsh, whose stretching distance was broken by a swooping flight of seagulls. He seemed to be reaching for an answer, struggling for words which would not come easily.

  ‘It really isn’t my business,’ he said at last, turning back to her. ‘But I thought about something you said ‒ up there in the church.’

  ‘What did I say?’

  ‘You said … “Since when have women been able to decide which way their lives will go? … It’s Blake’s Reach or nothing!” ’

  ‘Yes, I said that! So …?’

  ‘I began to feel I had done you an injustice. There must have been other ways open to you … in London. You’re a beautiful young woman, and men open their purses to beauty and youth. Instead you choose to burden yourself with a young child, and a debt-ridden estate. I think your aims are mistaken, but I admire your courage. If I can get money for you, I will.’

  He hadn’t intended to say so much, and the knowledge that he had betrayed himself made him brusque. It was the first time he had realized how often she had been in his thoughts since their meeting. He spoke again, quickly, before she had time to frame a reply.

  ‘And ‒ you’d better give me that spade. So long as I’m here I could make myself useful.’

  And then he tossed down his hat on the brick walk, and his fine coat followed it. Impatiently he rolled the sleeves of the frilled shirt, and then reached out and took the spade from Jane.

  ***

  The hours that followed were the happiest Jane had known for a long time. She seated herself on an upturned pail, her gown bunched under her, and watched Paul as he worked. She took pleasure in the rhythmic, purposeful movements of his strong body, with no motion wasted or laboured. It was good to sit and rest, and to be with him. His shining boots were covered with the damp soil, and his shirt stuck wetly to him with sweat; the carefully tied hair began to drift loose. He dug systematically, and swiftly. As the sun reached its midday heat, she protested that he had worked long enough. Half the vegetable garden was now cleared.

  He leaned back on the spade. ‘The Navy puts callouses on your hands that never wear off. And as for this pale English sun ‒ you wait till you’ve seen the noon sun in the tropics, then you’ll know! But …’ he conceded, ‘I’ve a thirst you could cut with a knife.’

  She planned to give him dinner in Spencer’s room, with the fine linen and silver to distract him from the heaviness of Kate’s cooking. Before they went indoors she took him first to the stable to look at Blonde Bess. Paul remembered seeing Turnbull ride her on the Marsh; they spent some time discussing her points. Paul was frankly curious about the loan of the mare, and, Jane thought, a little stung that it was not in his power to make a similar gesture. William was there also, squatting in the sun by the door, absorbed in watching the two white mice in the cage; his interest in Blonde Bess had faded a little. Paul went to join him, and they were both bent over the cage as Jane turned to go and give Patrick instructions about laying an extra place at table.

  As she walked across the yard, Paul called to her.

  ‘It’s too good a day to be in the house. Why don’t we take some food down into the orchard?’

  William sucked in his breath quickly his eyes widening with excitement and pleasure. It occurred to Jane, as she watched him, that he had probably never in his life eaten a meal out-of-doors.

  And so it was Paul who accompanied her into the kitchen, who filled a pitcher with cider, selected the cheese, and directed Kate in cutting slices of bread and brawn. Kate and Patrick were disapproving ‒ and speechless. Kate was afraid of Paul’s presence at Blake’s Reach; she did no more than glance towards the simmering pots on the stove which was the dinner Jane and William should have eaten. She obeyed Paul’s orders with folded lips, and spoke only once, an aside to Patrick which Jane was meant to overhear.

  ‘Well ‒ it’s to be hoped Lucas and Jed don’t see them. A fine thing it will be to have talked about all over the Marsh!’

  Jane pretended she didn’t hear. Whatever regrets she would have later for the recklessness of this hour, it would not diminish her pleasure in the present. She took the pitcher firmly, and followed Paul from the kitchen. General was waiting for them in the yard; he closed in behind the small procession as they made for the orchard.

  There the long grass was soft, and smelled sweetly. The trees, blossoms still upon them, and not yet in full leaf, let through the sunlight in soft dappled waves that stirred and moved as the breeze touched them. Bees droned among the blossoms, moving from flower to flower; farther off and high up somewhere, a lark sang. They looked for it, but it was invisible against the sun. When the bread and cheese was finished, and they had drunk all the cider they wanted, Paul lay back in the long grass, his hands clasped behind his neck, his eyes closed. Jane leaned against a tree trunk, idly stroking the long silken curls on General’s ears. Peace and acceptance was established between them, an unspoken thing. William lay on his stomach, studying the ceaseless movement of an ant; presently he grew bored with this, and called to General. Together they moved off down towards the great dyke at the bottom of the slope.

  Paul opened his eyes.

  ‘I shall not come here again like this, Jane.’

  She turned to him, disturbed. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Need I say it to you? You saw how it was with Kate ‒ and she’s a loyal Blake servant! There will be tongues less easy on you if I appear again at Blake’s Reach for no urgent reason. I’m held in some suspicion hereabouts, and it can do you no good if it’s known I’m a visitor at Blake’s Reach. Perhaps we shall meet sometimes ‒ out on the Marsh, where there’s fewer people to see. But in Rye or Hythe or Folkestone, if we should meet, we will bow and pass on ‒ or else not see each other.’

  She flushed, and was glad he was looking away from her, staring straight up into the trees above him; it came like a blow to have this said to her now, to have him destroy the peace she had believed they had shared in these past hours. He could have spoken from solicitude for her reputation ‒ or perhaps out of boredom. She tried to see this visit as it might appear to him. What man wanted to come calling to have a spade and hoe thrust into his hand, to ruin his fine clothes and his leisure hours in one stroke? Would he stay away in future because he expected young women to entertain him, not put him to work, or to involve him in unwanted problems? What did she know of Paul Fletcher, after all? ‒ and what kind of a naive fool was she to suppose that there was no other woman who waited for his visits. Suddenly the picnic in the orchard seemed like a silly game, and he had probably suggested it in preference to eating Kate’s cooking. It seemed as if the best entertainment Blake’s Reach could offer him was bread and cheese. Her face grew hot again at the thought of it.

  ‘Just as you wish,’ she said shortly. Then she got quickly to her feet, and began gathering up the remains of their meal.

  ‘If you’ll excuse me, I have things to see to indoors.’ She was aware that he glanced round at her, startled. She bent to pick up the cider pitcher.

  ‘I won’t detain you any longer,’ she said. ‘I’m sure you have many other claims on your time.’

  V

  Paul was gone, having taken leave of her with polite, impersonal words, which could h
ave been the result of his bewilderment at her sudden change of attitude, but which she chose to interpret as indifference. His going left an emptiness, and she flung herself into the kitchen in a fury of suppressed rage. Her energy demanded an outlet, and found it in elbowing Kate out of the way, and starting in to bake a batch of bread. It would have to be rye bread, for Blake’s Reach had not seen a sack of white flour for a long time; she would have to see to it that there was white bread to serve when guests came to the house ‒ the fine grained white bread that had been a luxury item at The Feathers, but commonplace on Anne’s table. Some of her anger against Paul spent itself as she kneaded the dough; she told herself she was a fool to care what he thought, of herself or Blake’s Reach, for he was no part of the future here. She would think about him no more. Then to absorb herself she tackled a complicated cake recipe, which she had watched Sally make for special occasions at The Feathers ‒ an extravagant one calling for eggs and great quantities of sugar and spices. It was to be a surprise for William, and an act of defiance at the same time.

  But the thought of Paul did not leave her; she spent a restless night, and next morning at breakfast snapped irritably at William, and ignored General’s wordless pleading for scraps from the table. Grimly she went back to digging in the vegetable patch, though to-day William kept clear of her. Dinner was a gloomy meal, rabbit pie and rice pudding, which she and William ate as quickly as possible, and in silence. The afternoon was warm and still; her digging grew slower. To break the monotony she took up the hoe, and started working on the part already dug. Suddenly she flung the hoe down.

  ‘I’ve had enough of it! I’ll take Blonde Bess out and try her ‒ maybe I’ll even ride to the sea!’

  But as she crossed the yard she slowed her walk. William sat in the sun on the wide flagstone doorstep of the kitchen; his face was turned in towards the kitchen, and he was talking. Jane could hear Patrick’s voice replying to him. Between his knees he steadied a pewter jug, and he polished it vigorously. As she drew nearer, Jane could see the table covered with the silver Patrick was cleaning. William looked up a trifle apprehensively as she approached; it was then she changed her mind about riding alone on Blonde Bess.