Sons and Daughters

by Margaret Dickinson

  ‘No, Dad. No, it isn’t,’ Lily said quickly, linking her arm through his and urging him away from the outhouse and towards the back door leading into the kitchen.

  ‘But I heard you laughing. There’s someone in there.’

  Lily laughed, still a little nervously, Joe thought. ‘It’s – it’s only the farm cat. She’s got some kittens. I – I was playing with them, that’s all.’

  Joe’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t like to think that his daughter would lie to him, but somehow he couldn’t quite believe her. When he said nothing, Lily asked again, ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I’ve come to see the master. Is he in?’

  ‘I’ll see. But it’s almost dinner time.’

  ‘Dinner?’

  ‘Oh aye, we’re posh here, Dad. Dinner’s in the evening, not midday.’

  Joe grinned ruefully. ‘Aye, well, ’tis tea or supper in our house, now, ain’t it? And I’m ready for mine. But I need to see Mr Thornton and I can’t come in the day.’

  He didn’t need to explain to his daughter what would happen if Osbert Crawford found out he’d been visiting the manor in working hours.

  ‘I’ll see if he’s free, Dad. Come on in . . .’ She skirted round him, opened the back door and held it for him to enter.

  Just before the door closed behind him, Joe heard the squeak of the door across the yard. That’s no cat, he thought grimly. He said no more for the moment, but he’d tell Peg about what he’d heard. Lily was of age, but she was still his little girl. However, maybe such matters were best spoken of between mother and daughter.

  A few minutes later he was standing in Mr Thornton’s study and the man was leading him to a chair by the fire and bidding him to sit down. It was a courtesy that was never extended to him on the rare occasions he saw Osbert, though Charlotte always treated him with this same respect.

  ‘A drink, Joe? You’ve no doubt finished for the day?’

  ‘Aye, well, I have an’ I haven’t, Mr Thornton.’ He chuckled. ‘I suppose I’m a bit like our local bobby. I’m never really off-duty.’

  ‘You’re a good man, Joe.’ Miles wrinkled his forehead. ‘D’you think I should employ a foreman here? Obviously, my predecessor didn’t find it necessary, as most of the land is worked by the tenant farmers, but – just sometimes – I feel a bit at a loss to know what to do, especially around Home Farm which I’m supposed to manage.’ He grinned ruefully. ‘As I think you know by the number of occasions on which I’ve sought your advice.’

  Gently, Joe said, ‘Well, the old squire’s family had lived here a long time. So he was brought up to it.’

  ‘Mm,’ Miles said thoughtfully and Joe put in, ‘But I’m sure we – that is, Mr Crawford – would always be willing to help you out.’

  Miles nodded. ‘He’s said as much, but . . .’ He stopped and held Joe’s gaze steadily. ‘Is it really Mr Crawford who runs Buckthorn Farm?’ Joe held his breath, fearing the end to the question. ‘Or you?’

  Joe breathed again and smiled lopsidedly. ‘Well, without wanting to sound conceited, Mr Thornton, I suppose it’s me. Though I always ask for advice when I need it,’ he added, choosing his words carefully.

  ‘Mm.’ The other man was still thoughtful. ‘You took over the position from your late father, didn’t you?’

  Now Joe was on more comfortable ground. ‘That’s right, sir. I was born in the cottage where we still live.’

  ‘So, he taught you everything you know, eh?’

  Again, Joe was cautious. ‘Something like that, sir.’

  Miles crossed the room to the sideboard, poured generous measures of whisky into two glasses and brought them back to the fire. Handing one to Joe, he sat down opposite him.

  ‘Now, what is it you’ve come to see me about?’

  ‘I’m not keeping you from your – dinner, sir, am I?’

  ‘No, no. Another half an hour or so yet. We dine a little earlier, perhaps, than most households. I like all the family to be present and Georgie is only young. You have a young son too, I believe. He and Georgie have become friends. Young Tommy often comes to play here.’

  ‘Does he?’ Joe couldn’t hide his surprise. ‘I hope he’s no trouble.’

  ‘Good heavens, no. My boys are free to make their own friends and anyone they choose is always welcome here.’

  There was a moment’s pause before Joe began, haltingly, to explain the reason for his visit. ‘Except for the past two years, sir, when old Mr Davenport was too ill, it’s always been the tradition that the squire – and that’s really what you’re thought of, living at the manor – has held the harvest supper in the big barn at the back of the house.’

  ‘Really?’ Miles’s eyes lit up. ‘That sounds a splendid idea. What do I have to do?’

  Joe breathed a silent sigh of relief. He hadn’t expected it to be so easy. The two men spent the next half-hour happily discussing plans for the festivities. As the gong sounded, Joe said, ‘I should be going and let you get to your dinner, sir.’ They both stood up as Miles said, ‘Won’t you stay and eat with us?’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, sir.’ Joe was touched by the man’s magnanimity. ‘But Peg – my wife – will have my supper all ready and waiting.’

  ‘Of course.’ Miles held out his hand. ‘Thank you so much for coming to see me. We must talk again. I’ll be very grateful for your guidance. Perhaps I could see Miss Charlotte, too—’

  ‘Oh no, sir,’ Joe said swiftly. ‘Miss Charlotte isn’t allowed to attend the harvest supper.’

  ‘Isn’t allowed?’

  The two men stared at each other, both realizing that perhaps they had said – or implied – too much already.

  ‘Good night, sir. I’ll see mesen out the back way.’

  Joe almost hurried from the room, still afraid that Miles Thornton would voice the question that was in his eyes.

  Sixteen

  The preparations for the harvest supper were well underway by the day that Miles rode over on horseback to Buckthorn Farm to invite Osbert and his daughter to attend. All the sheaves of wheat had stood in the fields to dry for three weeks and then had been brought to the stack yard. Threshing would go on through the winter months, a little at a time on each farm in turn, but now it was time to think of celebrating a harvest safely gathered in.

  ‘I understand it’s a tradition that the squire should host the harvest supper in the big barn at the manor.’

  ‘Huh!’ Osbert grunted. ‘A waste of good money, if you ask me. We never go.’

  ‘But I’d very much like you and Miss Charlotte to come this year. I believe all your workers attend.’

  ‘Aye, they do,’ Osbert said bitterly. ‘And a fat lot of use they are for work the next day after all that free beer.’

  Miles sighed, thinking the man had a very Scrooge-like attitude, even though it wasn’t Christmas. But maybe he had the same outlook on those festivities, too. ‘Well, I’m sorry you feel that way,’ he began, but, suddenly, Osbert smiled.

  ‘Your sons will all be there, I take it?’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘Hmm.’ There was a pause before Osbert said, ‘In that case, I’ll be glad to come.’

  ‘And Miss Charlotte?’

  ‘No.’ His mouth was a hard line. ‘Not her.’

  ‘I – see,’ Miles said, though he didn’t see at all. Instead, he added firmly, ‘Well, I hope very much that she will come. I’d like to see her there and,’ he added pointedly, ‘I’m sure my sons would too.’

  With that, he gave a curt but polite bow and strode from the room.

  The harvest festival service took place in September. Under Charlotte’s guidance, the children brought vegetables, fruit and two sheaves of wheat. On the previous Sunday, Charlotte had worked on her corn dolly at Sunday school, showing the children how to plait and weave the straw into the shape of a doll. Now this sat in the centre of the display on the altar steps. The service was a joyous occasion with everyone singing lustily the hymns they kn
ew so well.

  During the next week, several of Miles’s workers readied the barn for the celebrations on the following Friday evening. They decorated it with flowers and replicated the display of produce that had been in the church. Mrs Beddows, Lily and the kitchen maid were run off their feet cooking and baking and Brewster was dispatched to the town to buy ale from the local brewery.

  To everyone’s surprise, Osbert Crawford was one of the first guests to arrive at the supper and, to their shock but enormous delight, walking in behind him, came Charlotte, shyly carrying the corn dolly she’d made to take pride of place in the celebrations.

  Sadly, she was still dressed in her drab Sunday purple with a long dark coat over her dress, but before many minutes had passed Jackson had grabbed her hand and whisked her away from her father.

  ‘Here, let me take your coat, Miss Charlotte. Biddy!’ he called to one of the villages lasses. ‘Take care of Miss Charlotte’s coat, will you?’

  The girl smiled, dimpling prettily. ‘Hello, Miss Charlotte. Nice you could come,’ she said diplomatically.

  The villagers were whispering to each other.

  ‘He’s let her come.’

  ‘Fancy, after all these years.’

  ‘Why now, d’you suppose?’

  ‘He’s all over the new feller at the manor like a rash, that’s why. An’ Mary Morgan says the squire rode over to Buckthorn Farm last week and invited them both to come, an’ he wouldn’t take “no” for an answer.’

  ‘Well, good for ’im then, I say. I’ll raise me glass to Mr Thornton and drink ’is health. ’Specially as it’s ’is beer I’m drinking!’ The blacksmith from Ravensfleet laughed raucously and drank the squire’s health. Those nearby joined him. ‘Good health, Squire.’

  ‘And hers,’ someone else added. ‘Let’s drink to the lass, an’ all.’ With one accord they all raised the tankards or glasses they held and turned towards Charlotte.

  ‘Good health, miss, and happiness to you.’

  Hearing them, Jackson touched her arm and nodded towards the four or five men. ‘They’re toasting you, Miss Charlotte.’

  She turned and smiled and bobbed a little curtsy of thanks.

  ‘Aye,’ muttered one of the drinkers. ‘An’ no one deserves it more’n you, lass.’ But he didn’t speak aloud the words that were in everyone’s mind: ‘But you’ll not find happiness whilst yon miserable devil you call “Father” still has you in his clutches.’

  Miles had seen the Crawfords arrive and noticed how Jackson went at once to Charlotte’s side and drew her into the gathering of the younger folk at one end of the barn. He’d heard the toast to her and seen her smile and the pink tinge of pleasure – and perhaps a little embarrassment – touch her cheeks. And now Georgie, too, had seen her and was running across the barn towards her. Then he noticed that Osbert Crawford was standing alone near the door, leaning heavily on his walking stick and glaring around him with a morose frown on his face. No one had gone to him to take his coat or welcome him to the proceedings. Always aware of his position as host, Miles moved towards him and held out his hand.

  ‘I’m so glad to see you both. Come, this way. I’m sure you’ll know most of the men here . . .’ He led Osbert to the corner where other farmers from the district were gathered. They nodded towards him, but not one of them made any effort to engage him in conversation. Miles felt a distinct chill in the atmosphere now that Osbert had arrived which had nothing to do with the autumnal evening. But he pressed on, offering him a drink and something to eat. The man and his daughter were here at his express invitation and it was his duty to see that they had a pleasant evening.

  It was not until Philip appeared that Osbert smiled, excused himself from the gathering and moved towards the young man.

  ‘Thank God for that,’ muttered Roland Thompson into his beer. ‘Can’t abide the man. No offence, Squire, but as you’ve mebbe gathered, Osbert Crawford in’t exactly popular round here.’

  ‘No,’ Miles said thoughtfully, his gaze still on the older man now talking to Philip. ‘So it would seem.’

  But, even though he waited, no one volunteered any further information.

  When the dancing started, Jackson drew Charlotte into the throng.

  ‘Oh, but I can’t dance.’

  ‘Neither can I, miss,’ he grinned, ‘but all we’ve got to do is jig about a bit.’

  She laughed and put her hands into his.

  It was all right whilst the merry dances were playing, but when it came to a slow waltz, after treading on her toes three times, Jackson said, ‘This has got me beat an’ all. I reckon we’d best sit this one out.’

  Charlotte, fanning her hot face, agreed. But she’d not been sitting down for many seconds when a diffident Cuthbert Iveson approached her and asked if he ‘might have the pleasure of this dance’.

  ‘Go on, miss,’ Jackson urged. ‘Mebbe Vicar can mek a better fist of it than I can.’

  Charlotte rose and put her hand shyly into Cuthbert’s. Together they stepped in amongst the dancers. Cuthbert put his arm about her waist and whispered, ‘Just relax and let me lead you.’

  Now he was holding her firmly against him. Her body moulded to his so that when he moved, she automatically followed his steps.

  ‘One, two, three. One, two, three,’ he murmured in her ear and smiled down at her.

  The other dancers, seeing Charlotte and the vicar together, smiled and nodded. Gradually, couple by couple, they stopped dancing and stepped to the side. At last, only Cuthbert and Charlotte were left in the centre of the floor. As the music came to an end, applause burst out spontaneously. Cuthbert bowed and Charlotte curtsied. They were laughing and moving to the side, when there was an angry roar as Osbert pushed his way through the throng, brandishing his walking stick. He stopped in front of his daughter and the vicar.

  ‘How dare you disgrace yourself, girl? And you, sir.’ He turned his venom on the timid man. ‘Cavorting in public in such a manner. You dishonour your cloth. I shall report you to the bishop.’

  ‘But, sir . . .’

  ‘Father . . .’ Charlotte began, but Osbert grasped her arm roughly and dragged her after him towards the door. In disbelief, the revellers parted to let them through, too stunned to move to help her. He pushed her through the door into the dark night. ‘Get yourself home, this instant. I should never have let you come. I knew it was a mistake. You can’t be trusted.’ His raised his stick and struck her viciously on the side of her face.

  There was a cry from the women watching and one or two men moved forward, but before anyone had time to come to her aid, Charlotte picked up her long skirt and ran out into the night.

  Jackson pushed his way through the throng and ran outside, Georgie beside him. But already Charlotte had fled into the darkness.

  ‘He hit her,’ the little boy said, tears choking his throat. ‘He hit her again.’

  Jackson looked down at the young boy. ‘Again? What do you mean “again”?’

  ‘I saw him hit her with his walking stick once before. At church. Why, Jackson? What’s she done wrong?’

  Jackson put his hand on the boy’s shoulder, his mouth a grim line as he muttered, ‘God only knows, Master Georgie. God only knows.’

  Seventeen

  After the incident, the merriment seemed to die. Even though the musicians – locals who played an instrument and got together to entertain at such gatherings – struck up once more, no one had the heart for dancing now. Georgie was in tears and was carried off to bed by the housekeeper at the manor, Mrs Harkness. Ben soon followed of his own accord and only Miles and Philip were left of the Thorntons. Miles would have liked to escape too, but seeing as he was the host, he knew his departure would be seen as a signal for the party to break up.

  ‘Come on, Lily,’ Philip said, grabbing her hand and pulling her towards the empty space which served as a dance floor. ‘Let’s liven things up a bit. Let’s get their tongues wagging. We’ll do the Charleston. D’you know it?’
/>
  ‘Well, a bit, Master Philip. Someone tried to teach us it at the Valentine’s Dance in Ravensfleet village hall, but I—’

  ‘Let’s give it a go then. Now, I wonder if this motley crew can play the music.’

  ‘Eddie Norton on the fiddle can, Master Philip.’

  ‘Right, I’ll ask him. But stop all this “master” stuff. It’s Philip.’

  Lily blushed but as the music began, she kicked her legs in a pretty fair go at the dance that was sweeping the aristocratic parties of the ‘flappers’.

  From the sidelines, Miles watched with amusement, but in Joe’s eyes there was a wary, anxious look.

  ‘She’s only having a bit of fun, love,’ Peggy whispered at his side. ‘She’s a good girl.’

  Joe said nothing. He buried his nose in his beer, but his gaze never left the gyrating couple.

  As the festivities came to their natural end just after midnight, Jackson said, ‘Miss Charlotte left her coat and hat. Shall I take them to the farm tomorrow, Dad?’

  Miles, overhearing, butted in before Joe could reply. ‘It’s all right, Jackson. I’ll see they’re returned to Miss Charlotte first thing in the morning.’

  A swift look of disappointment crossed the young man’s face, but, dutifully, he nodded. ‘Right you are, sir.’

  The following morning Miles mounted his horse and took the package his groom handed up to him. He lifted his face and breathed in the autumn air. He loved September and never more so now that he had been introduced to the traditional harvest celebrations. There was a special smell to autumn and the colours were so glorious, though here on the flat open land there were few trees. That was the only thing he missed about his previous home in Derbyshire, the abundance of tree-laden slopes in all their wonderful greens and browns and golds. But in compensation, he revelled in the magnificent Lincolnshire sunsets. Never had he seen such skies. The glowing pinks, mauves and bright oranges of the setting sun. He was so thankful that he and his family had been accepted into the community and he felt a moment’s sadness when he thought how his dear wife would have loved it all too.