Sons and Daughters

by Margaret Dickinson

Charlotte took his hand and the deal was made.

  Leaving Joe to make the arrangements, the others walked away.

  ‘Ugh, he spat on his hand, Miss Charlotte. And you shook it.’

  ‘That’s the way Ned makes his deals, Georgie. It means he gives his promise to sell the horse to us. Even if he got a better offer, he won’t break his word. That horse is Ben’s now.’

  After a few moments Joe caught them up. ‘Ned says there’s an auction in one of the inn yards at two o’clock. He reckons we might find a good mount there for Master Philip.’

  Charlotte glanced at Miles to find him watching her. ‘Is that all right?’ she asked him.

  ‘Whatever you say, Miss Charlotte.’ He smiled and she had the uncomfortable feeling that he was beginning to guess just exactly who was choosing the horses – and striking the deals.

  When the auction began, Georgie got very excited. ‘I can’t see, I can’t see. I want to see when our horse come up.’

  They’d already viewed all the horses due to go through the auction and had picked out one they liked for Philip. A grey, docile-looking animal.

  ‘Sh,’ Charlotte whispered, hiding her laughter. ‘You mustn’t say which one you like.’

  He turned his innocent blue eyes on her. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because,’ she explained softly, ‘it lets other people know the one you’re interested in and it might make someone bid against your father and drive the price up. You don’t want your papa to have to pay more than he needs to, do you?’

  Georgie shook his head and pressed his lips together as if to stop himself speaking. Then unable to help himself he said, ‘But I still want to see.’

  ‘All right, then. I’ll lift you on to the wall, but you mustn’t say anything or wave your hands because the auctioneer might think you’re making a bid.’

  Charlotte sat on the wall beside Georgie and Ben climbed up beside her. Miles and Joe were standing close by. Miles, under Joe’s guidance, was to do the bidding. The two boys were lost in the proceedings, whispering every now and again to Charlotte, asking her questions. Then Georgie wriggled with excitement and squeezed Charlotte’s hand. ‘This is Phil’s.’

  The horse was paraded in front of the crowd and the bidding began. As Miles watched and waited but made no move, Georgie became agitated.

  ‘It’s all right,’ she murmured to the boys. ‘Just wait and see.’

  The bidding slowed and two of the men, who’d been making bids, shook their heads. Now there was only one man left who’d made the last bid. The auctioneer raised his gavel, his gaze travelling around the faces in front of him. Georgie, his eyes wide and fearful, drew in a deep breath, just as, close by, they heard Joe mutter, ‘Now, sir. Raise your hand . . .’ And Miles’s hand shot high in the air. The gavel was lowered as the auctioneer nodded towards Miles in acknowledgement. Now bidding between Miles and the other man continued backwards and forwards until, at last, the other man shook his head. The gavel fell and Joe turned with a wide grin to Georgie and Ben. ‘And he’s a fine mount, but gentle. I think he’ll suit your brother.’

  Ben nodded and Georgie clapped his hands in glee. ‘What shall we call him, Ben?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe he’s got a name already – like Ned said mine’s called Blaze. Besides, Phil should decide.’

  ‘It’s Prince,’ Charlotte said, quite forgetting in the excitement, that she was not supposed to know. But having looked around at all the horses together, the boys didn’t seem to notice her slip and question how she came to know the name of the horse.

  Only Miles glanced over his shoulder and regarded her curiously yet again.

  ‘I just hope Philip’s going to take better care of him than he did of Midnight,’ Charlotte said later to Joe, as they waved the family off outside Buckthorn Farm.

  ‘I had a word with the master. He’s going make sure he does.’

  ‘Mm.’ Charlotte was doubtful. Miles couldn’t supervise his eldest son every minute of the day. There were bound to be times when the young man was riding alone, and what would happen then?

  Fourteen

  Two days after the horse fair, Charlotte took Midnight to the beach further north to avoid the treacherous marsh. It was the first time she’d ridden him any distance from the farm. Gentle patience coupled with a firm hand had earned the animal’s trust. Old Matty had always been on hand to offer his advice, but he’d hardly been needed. He’d merely nodded his approval. It had been a few weeks before she could put a saddle on the horse’s back and another week or so before he would let her ride him.

  ‘You’ve worked wonders with that ’oss, miss,’ Joe marvelled. ‘And in such a short time an’ all. It takes some o’ them so-called experts months sometimes.’

  Charlotte smiled and glowed inwardly at his praise as she stroked Midnight’s face. ‘He’s a beautiful animal. All he needed was to be treated with kindness and he responded. That’s all, Joe.’

  She made it sound so simple, but all Joe could think was that it was a pity she didn’t receive that same kindness from a certain person. But he held his tongue.

  Now Charlotte felt confident enough to take Midnight to the sea. ‘A good canter along the beach will do him the world of good. He’s a big horse and could do with the exercise.’ And it would do her good, too, she couldn’t help thinking, to get away from the gloomy house.

  ‘Want me to come with you, Miss Charlotte?’

  ‘I’ll be fine, Joe.’

  He nodded. ‘If you say so, miss, but if you’re not back in – let’s say three hours – I’ll come looking for you. I know where you’re going.’

  She smiled down at him from her lofty seat on the horse’s back, but she was touched by the man’s concern. At walking pace, she and Midnight left the stable yard, but she could feel Joe’s anxious eyes watching her a long way into the distance.

  She turned north, along the lanes, until she came to the area near the seaside town’s golf course where there was no marsh between the sea bank and the beach. The stretch of hard sand left by the receding tide was firm enough for the horse to feel surefooted. As she urged him up the sand hill and on to the beach, Midnight whinnied, unused to the softness beneath his hooves. But she soothed him gently and, trusting her, he obeyed her commands. Gaining the top of the rise, Charlotte lifted her face to the sea breeze and breathed in deeply. How she loved the sea! She loved it in all its moods. Calm, like today, when the waves seemed almost too lazy to lap the shoreline, or ferocious, when the gales whipped the waves into a raging frenzy, crashing on to the beach in fury. But she loved it best when its mood was somewhere between the two extremes; when the waters seemed playful, the waves bowling to the shore, trying to catch anyone unawares who dared to step too close.

  Charlotte encouraged Midnight down the slope. When they gained the firmer sand near the water’s edge, she urged him into a brisk trot, then a canter and, finally, a gallop.

  Breathless but exhilarated she reined the horse in and slowed him to a walk again.

  She saw three horses in the distance coming towards her. As they drew nearer, she could see the little figure on the smallest mount, waving excitedly. Georgie, she thought, and then recognized Ben and Miles Thornton alongside him.

  ‘Did you see, Miss Charlotte? Did you see me riding, Gypsy?’

  Charlotte laughed, her face pink from the fresh air. ‘I did indeed, Georgie. And very well you ride, too. Good afternoon, Mr Thornton – Ben.’

  They were staring at her, but both of them touched their caps with their riding crops, which Charlotte fervently hoped were more for show than use.

  ‘You’re not wearing your spectacles,’ Georgie said suddenly.

  ‘Now, son, don’t make personal remarks,’ his father rebuked gently. ‘It’s not gentlemanly.’ But the young boy only grinned.

  ‘Then is it gentlemanly, Papa, to tell her she looks so much prettier without them?’

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘I take it as a lovely compliment,’ Cha
rlotte put in swiftly to save them any further embarrassment. ‘Thank you.’ She forbore to say that this was the only time she was sure her father wouldn’t find out that she’d taken them off. She hoped fervently that the little chatterbox would not let her secret slip out.

  ‘I say,’ Ben said, ‘I’ve just realized. You’re riding Midnight. Father – she’s riding Phil’s horse.’

  ‘So I see,’ Miles said quietly. ‘But it’s no longer Philip’s horse. It’s Miss Charlotte’s.’

  ‘Except that you haven’t let me pay you for it yet.’ She laughed, then turned to ask Ben, ‘How are you getting along with Blaze?’

  She turned Midnight round and they began to walk alongside each other back the way Charlotte had come.

  ‘He’s great,’ Ben said.

  ‘And the horse you got for Philip?’ She wanted to ask if the young man was treating the animal kindly. She hesitated and bit her lip. But Georgie came to her rescue.

  ‘He’s being good with him, Miss Charlotte,’ he giggled, ‘but he calls him an old nag and doesn’t ride him much. He wanted Ben’s horse instead, but Papa said no.’

  ‘He’s decided he wants a motorcycle or a car,’ Miles put in. ‘But I shall hold out against that as long as I can. I don’t think he’d be safe with either.’

  They rode together companionably until they came to the end of the short lane where Charlotte turned for home.

  ‘I must get back or Joe will be worried. This is the first time I’ve brought Midnight away from the farm.’ She leaned forward and patted his neck. ‘But he’s done very well, haven’t you, old feller?’

  Having bade them goodbye, Charlotte rode towards Buckthorn Farm, unaware of Miles’s thoughtful gaze following her.

  ‘But she was prettier without her glasses,’ Georgie said to no one in particular.

  The wheat was ready for cutting and the extra hands arrived at Buckthorn Farm. Mary and Peggy had been baking for a week to provide food for the workers, but on the days when the corn was cut even they went out into the fields to help put the sheaves into stooks. Then, when all the fields at Buckthorn Farm had been cut, everyone moved on to the other farms to help out where needed.

  On the following Monday morning, Joe knocked on the door of Charlotte’s office and then poked his head round it. ‘Could I have a word, miss?’

  She smiled a welcome and gestured towards the chair he always sat in.

  ‘It’s about Dan Bailey at Purslane Farm, Miss Charlotte. He’s not well again and he’ll be struggling to get his harvest in. I was wondering if you’d mind us helping him out. A bit more than usual, I mean.’

  ‘Of course not, Joe. Have you told Mr Thornton?’

  Joe shrugged. ‘I don’t like to. It’d seem like telling tales. I’m not one to kick a man when he’s down. Dan Bailey’s a good man. He’s just hit a bad patch of illness and his farm’s suffering, that’s all.’

  Charlotte smiled. ‘I’ll let Mr Thornton know we’ll all be helping out there now that we’ve finished here. He needn’t know it’s any different from normal.’

  ‘We’ll need the threshing tackle from Home Farm,’ Joe warned. ‘Dan’s let his gear get into bad repair, so his farmhand, Jim, was telling me in the pub last night.’

  Home Farm had its own traction engine and threshing drum that the estate’s tenant farmers had the use of if they needed them. Buckthorn Farm, too, had always hired the gear but Dan Bailey, although a tenant of the estate, had his own. Until now, it seemed.

  ‘And can me and the lads lend a hand with his threshing through the winter? We’re used to the squire’s engine.’

  ‘Of course. We’ll all help whenever it’s needed. Just one thing, Joe,’ she added as he got up to leave. ‘Don’t forget to save me some of the last sheaf of wheat from our fields when it’s brought to the stack yard. I must make a corn dolly for the Harvest Supper as usual.’

  Joe nodded, unable to speak for the lump in his throat. This poor lass, he was thinking. Ever since she’d learned how to make a corn dolly as a little girl, she’d made one to be carried to the Harvest Supper celebrations at the manor. The irony of it was that the girl had never been allowed to join in the festivities.

  Her father had seen to that!

  Harvest time in the rural area around Ravensfleet had always been a big celebration. Almost as big as Christmas. Until recently, when the largest landowner in the district, Mr Davenport of Ravensfleet Manor, had fallen ill and died, the festivities had always been held in one of his huge barns and people had travelled for miles to attend the Harvest Supper. Farmers and labourers mingled freely, forgetting, for one night, their ‘place’. Landowner served his tenants and, in turn, tenant farmers served their workers. All the workers on Buckthorn Farm attended, even though they were not part of the Ravensfleet Estate, for Osbert Crawford owned his farm. But Osbert himself never joined in the revelry.

  Only Charlotte Crawford had never been allowed to attend a Harvest Supper.

  ‘It’ll be different this year.’ Mary nodded sagely to Peggy. ‘You’ll see, that owd beezum’ll go to the manor this year. You mark my words.’

  ‘Thing is,’ Peggy remarked thoughtfully, ‘does Mr Thornton know what’s expected of him? I mean, it’s obvious to us – me ’n Joe – that he’s new to this game. He’s always asking my Joe for advice.’

  ‘Is he?’

  The two women exchanged a look of understanding, but it was Mary, greatly daring, who murmured softly so that only Peggy might hear. ‘And your Joe asks Miss Charlotte, I suppose?’

  Peggy nodded, her mouth a tight line. ‘But Mr Thornton dun’t know that.’

  ‘Of course not,’ Mary said on a sigh. There was a pause before she added, ‘And is Joe going to tell him?’

  Peggy sighed. ‘I expect he’ll have to be the one to say summat. About what’s expected of him as regards the harvest celebrations. We can’t expect Miss Charlotte to do it.’ Again there was a hard edge to her tone as she added, ‘Seein’ as the poor lass never even gets the chance to go.’

  Fifteen

  The only place where Charlotte did have some say in the celebrations for a harvest safely gathered in was in Sunday school. And Cuthbert Iveson also relied upon her to explain to him what was expected of him in the church services, this being his first year.

  ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you, Miss Crawford. Your advice ever since I came here has been an enormous help to me. And your work with the children – well – I’ve never seen anyone so universally loved by the little ones.’

  Charlotte blushed under the unexpected compliment. ‘Well, I love them all dearly,’ she said and added impishly, ‘even the naughty ones.’

  Cuthbert smiled too. ‘And there are certainly one or two of those in your class. But you do seem to have a wonderful way of handling them. I hear you have an amazing affinity with animals, too. It must be a gift.’

  She blinked behind her spectacles. ‘I – I’d never thought of it like that.’

  ‘Then I think you should,’ Cuthbert said solemnly. ‘It’s not something given to everyone.’

  He paused and then added. ‘You’re well liked in the community. Have you – I mean – would you ever consider becoming – ’ he paused again and ran his tongue nervously round his lips – ‘more involved with parish work.’

  Suddenly Charlotte felt uncomfortable. How could she be involved in church work more than she already was, unless . . . ? She forced a laugh and hoped he wouldn’t notice the blush creeping up her face. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Iveson, but I really couldn’t. My father would never allow it.’

  There, she thought, that should put a stop to what ever he might have been about to say.

  ‘But what am I going to say to Mr Thornton, Peg?’ Joe asked his wife worriedly. ‘You’ve got to spend a lot of money throwing a party for a lot of people you don’t even know?’

  Peggy laughed at Joe’s worried expression. ‘I’m sure – from what you’ve told me about the new squire – that he’d be m
ore than willing to do it. It’ll be a way for him to meet all his tenants in a friendly atmosphere and to get to know a lot of the other landowners and farmers around here, too.’

  Joe wasn’t so sure. ‘Don’t forget half the folk from the village come an’ all.’

  ‘I hadn’t forgotten. But they’re all part of this community. They may not actually work on the land themselves, but they’re involved. Where would the greengrocer be without his supply of fresh vegetables straight off the land? Where would all the little shops be without the custom of all the farm workers and their families? I don’t think you need worry about Mr Thornton, Joe. But,’ she added, putting her head on one side and smiling mischievously at him, ‘you could always get Miss Charlotte to speak to him herself.’

  Joe shook his head vehemently. ‘Oh no. Any advice Mr Thornton asks for has to seem to come from me. She made that quite clear at the horse fair.’ He chuckled. ‘You should have seen us. Never knew I could be so – what’s the word? – furtive.’

  ‘Well, well, I shall have to watch you, Joe Warren.’

  ‘It’s only to protect Miss Charlotte, love. I’m an honest sort of bloke most of the time. But I wouldn’t want to bring more trouble on her head, poor lass.’

  When he’d finished work that evening, Joe walked the mile or so to the manor. It was growing dusk when he reached the back door. He’d already raised his hand to knock, when he heard a scuffling in one of the outhouses nearby. He paused, listening. Then he heard girlish laughter. He stiffened. That’s our Lily’s laugh, he thought. I’d know it anywhere. He’d already turned, ready to stride towards the outhouse, when the girl herself appeared, straightening her apron and smoothing her hair. At the sight of her father, even through the gloom, her eyes widened and colour suffused her face.

  ‘Dad! What are you doing here?’

  ‘I might ask you the same question, girl.’ He nodded to the door behind her. ‘What are you up to in there? One of the farm lads, is it? If it’s young Eddie Norton, I’ll—’ He took a step forward.