At Buckthorn Farm, Edward opened the front door.
‘Is Miss Charlotte at home?’ Miles asked. ‘I’ve come to return her hat and coat.’
‘Yes, sir, but she’s – er – indisposed this morning.’
A concerned frown furrowed Miles’s forehead. ‘She’s ill?’
‘Not – exactly, sir.’
The man said no more, but from his grim expression Miles deduced that she was perhaps suffering the ill effects of the incident the previous evening. Perhaps her problem was more emotional than physical harm.
‘And Mr Crawford? Would he see me?’
Edward inclined his head in his best butler manner. ‘If you’d care to step inside, sir, I will enquire.’
Edward took the package from his hands. A few moments later, Miles was being shown into the sitting room; not, as he had expected, into a study.
Osbert was sitting by the fire, a book in his lap. He rose as Miles entered and waved him towards a chair on the opposite side of the fireplace. ‘I’m glad you’ve called, Mr Thornton. I planned to call upon you later today myself.’
Miles sat down whilst Osbert instructed Edward to bring coffee. When the door closed behind the manservant, Osbert said, ‘I must apologize for my daughter’s disgraceful behaviour last evening. As for the vicar, I shall take steps to get him removed from his post. Dancing, indeed!’
‘I saw no harm in Mr Iveson enjoying himself amongst his parishioners. Surely, it helps him get to know them and vice versa.’
Osbert glared at him. ‘You think so. I’m afraid I cannot agree. A man of the cloth should keep himself aloof – be an example – not be cavorting like a village lad. And I shall have to have words with Joe about his son, Jackson, too, I can see.’
Miles stared at the bitter, twisted man and couldn’t stop the question. ‘Why?’
‘Why?’ Osbert barked. ‘Do you really need to ask?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Making a fool of my daughter.’
Miles shook his head. ‘He did no such thing. He danced with her, that’s all.’
‘Well, she made a fool of herself, then. I won’t have it.’
There was no persuading the man that it had been harmless enjoyment.
‘There’s one good thing come out of it, though,’ Osbert went on, his mouth a hard, bitter, unforgiving line. ‘It’s made me come to a decision. That’s what I was coming to see you about.’
Miles waited.
‘I have realized that I am getting on in years and I need to make a will if I am to safeguard the future of Buckthorn Farm. Since I have no son of my own to carry on the family farm, I intend to bequeath my farm and all my possessions to your eldest son, Philip. I’ve taken a liking to the young man and he will be a worthy landowner and employer, I’ve no doubt.’
Miles’s jaw dropped open. ‘But – but what about your daughter?’ he spluttered. ‘It’s her inheritance.’
Osbert glared at him but offered no explanation. ‘What I want to do with my farm – and the reasons for it – is my business,’ he said tartly.
‘But you hardly know us.’
Osbert shrugged. ‘That’s of no consequence. As I say, I’ve taken a liking to your boy. If it should come about that he proves unworthy of my confidence in him, then I can always change my will.’ He stared at Miles with cold, hard eyes that defied contradiction.
‘But – but Philip made it clear that he has no interest in the land. He wants to become a lawyer and I intend to help him achieve it if that’s his ambition.’
‘You don’t wish to hand your estate on to your eldest son?’ Osbert was surprised and it showed.
‘I – ’ Miles hesitated. He’d been going to say that he had two other sons, both of whom might prefer to be gentleman farmers. But it seemed a cruel remark to make to the man who had no son and was so obviously disappointed. He altered what he’d been about to say. ‘Ben seems more interested in the land than his brother.’
‘Hmm.’ Osbert frowned. ‘He seems a sensible young fellow, I grant you. Quiet and well mannered, but as for your youngest boy, God knows what will become of him.’
The note of disparagement in Osbert’s tone was not lost on Miles, but he smiled quietly to himself at the thought of Georgie. Then he brought his wandering thoughts back to the amazing – and to his mind ridiculous – suggestion.
As if sensing the other man’s doubts, Osbert leaned forward to press home his point of view. ‘Even if Philip doesn’t want to manage the farm himself, I’m sure his brother would oversee it for him. Just think how the addition of Buckthorn Farm would enhance the Ravensfleet Estate. Between them, your sons would be the biggest landowners for miles.’
‘But – your daughter . . . ?’
Osbert leaned back. ‘Ah, now there is a proviso. As you can see for yourself, she is unlikely ever to attract a suitable marriage partner. She is plain, dull and useless. But I suppose I must make provision for her in some way.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘In return for me leaving my farm to a member of your family – most likely Philip – I would expect you to marry her.’
Miles stared at him. Was he in a dream? Or rather a nightmare? The man must be crazy to think up such a preposterous scheme. It was tantamount to being back to the days of arranged marriages amongst the landed gentry, when unions were sought for reasons of wealth, possessions or power. Well, he would have none of it. He stood up suddenly, the coffee cup he still held clattering in its saucer.
‘I’m sorry. I cannot agree to such a suggestion. It is totally unacceptable to me, my family and, I’m sure, to Miss Charlotte, whom I presume you have not even consulted.’ He gave a small bow. ‘I wish you good-day, sir.’
As he turned away, Osbert said in a silky tone, ‘I beg you not to be so hasty. You are throwing away a superb opportunity for your son.’
But Miles, incensed by the man’s arrogance, marched towards the door, flung it open and left the house, passing a surprised Edward in the hallway without a word.
Eighteen
That evening, after work had finished for the day, Miles again rode over towards Buckthorn Farm. He would have enjoyed the gentle ride through the dusk of the balmy September evening, but his mind was still reeling. This time he did not go to the farmhouse, but stopped at the farm workers’ cottages. The two semi-detached cottages each had a piece of ground at the back cultivated as a vegetable garden and room at the far end for chickens and a pig.
Horse and rider came to a halt outside the Warrens’ cottage. Through the lighted window Miles could see the five members of the family sitting down to their evening meal. Only Lily was missing. Whilst he had no wish to interrupt them, the matter he wished to discuss with Joe – and possibly with Peggy too – was gnawing at him. As he watched, he saw John, the eldest son, come to the window and peer out. Then the young man turned back towards those still sitting around the table, presumably to say something, for Joe got up. Moments later, he was opening the front door and coming down the short path. Miles sighed and dismounted.
‘Mr Thornton?’ Joe’s tone was worried. ‘Is owt wrong?’
‘No, no, man. It’s just – well, I’d like a private word with you and your wife, but I see you are eating. I didn’t want to interrupt—’
‘Think nowt of that. Come away in. We’ve almost finished and Peg will make us all a cup of tea. That is—’ Joe hesitated as he realized he was speaking to this man as if he were an equal. Miles Thornton – and his family – were so friendly, it was easy to forget the differences between them. ‘If – if you’d like one, sir?’
Miles smiled. ‘That would be most welcome. Thank you.’
He tethered his horse to the fence and followed Joe up the path, to be greeted a little anxiously by Peg and her two sons.
John and Jackson exchanged a glance and raised their eyebrows. Jackson could contain the question no longer. ‘Is it our Lily? Is summat wrong?’
Miles blinked and then said swiftly, ‘Good heavens, no. Oh dear, I never though
t my coming here might make you think that. No, no, Lily is fine.’
The tension in the room relaxed and Peggy bade her surprise visitor sit down in Joe’s chair by the range whilst she made tea.
‘Away to your bed, Tommy,’ Joe said to the youngest boy.
‘Aw, Dad,’ he began to protest, but Jackson put his hand on his young brother’s shoulder and, without another word being spoken, steered him towards the door leading to the staircase. As the door closed behind him and they heard his footsteps thumping up the stairs, they all exchanged a smile.
‘Boys!’ Peggy said and raised her eyes to the ceiling.
‘Now, Ma,’ Jackson teased. ‘You’d not be without any one of us.’
When they had all been served with tea, the four remaining members of the family looked towards Mr Thornton expectantly. Under their scrutiny his resolve wavered. He glanced at John and Jackson, a little unsure whether he could trust them. But they were grown men, one thirty already and the other in his mid-twenties.
‘I would be very grateful if you would keep this conversation confidential.’ His gaze swept them all. Joe turned towards his boys and seemed to be about to ask them to leave, too, but Miles held up his hand. ‘No, I’d like you all to hear what I’ve got to say – or rather to ask.’ The family members glanced at each other but their gaze came back to the squire.
Miles took a deep breath and smiled a little sheepishly. ‘This is difficult. If you don’t wish to answer my questions, please say so. I shall quite understand.’
Joe frowned, growing more mystified by the minute. He felt like saying, ‘Get on with it, man,’ but of course he said nothing.
‘Joe, just what is going on at Buckthorn Farm?’
Joe blinked. Whatever he’d thought the purpose of Miles’s visit might be, it wasn’t this. ‘I – er – don’t understand what you mean?’
‘Mr Crawford’s treatment of his daughter doesn’t seem – well, normal.’
Now Joe understood and his face was grim. For a moment the man sitting opposite him believed he was about to get short shrift and asked – politely, no doubt – to leave. But to his surprise, the four all spoke at once.
‘No, sir, it isn’t—’
‘You’re right there—’
‘That poor lass—’
‘It’s a bloody disgrace—’
This last remark from Jackson earned him a glare from his mother. The young man apologized at once. ‘Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but it is. She’s a lovely girl and she’s been held down and used – yes, used – all her life. He treats her like a skivvy—’
‘That’ll do, Jackson,’ Joe said quietly. For a long moment, he looked into Miles’s face, wondering if he dare trust the man. He was still a stranger to them. If Joe spoke out of turn and it got back to Osbert Crawford, the whole family could find themselves in serious trouble. And not even Miss Charlotte would be able to save them.
He glanced at Peggy and, seeing her silent nod of agreement, he cleared his throat. ‘I’d better explain it as I see it, sir, but it’s only as I see it, mind.’
‘We, Dad,’ Jackson put in. ‘As we all see it.’ And his brother nodded agreement.
‘Our family have lived in this cottage and worked on Buckthorn Farm for four generations now, if you count the boys.’ He nodded towards his sons. ‘It started with my grandfather who came to work for Mr Osbert’s grandfather. I reckon it was his father who bought the farm. Now, grandfather came here in the late forties, because my father, Harry, was born here just after they arrived. His father died when he was about twenty, I think, and he stepped into his dad’s position.’ Here Joe paused and smiled. ‘Didn’t go down too well with some of the older workers, so he used to tell me. Him being made up to foreman at such a young age. But there you are; he was, and he made a damned good job of it.’
Miles nodded. ‘If your expertise and knowledge come from him, then he certainly did.’
Joe’s smile faded. ‘Ah well, I’m coming to that in a bit, Mr Thornton. I’m sorry it’s taking a while to tell you it all, but I want you to understand everything.’
‘That’s quite all right. I want to hear it all.’
‘More tea?’ Peggy asked, taking the chance of the pause in Joe’s tale.
‘Thank you,’ Miles murmured, but his attention was still wholly on Joe. Whilst Peggy moved about quietly, pouring them all more tea, Joe went on.
‘Mr Hubert Crawford – that’s Mr Osbert’s father – took over the farm when his father died in – let’s see – ’ Joe wrinkled his forehead.
‘In 1870,’ Peggy put in helpfully, ‘because it was the same year as Mr Osbert was born. I remember your mam telling me, Joe.’ She turned to Miles. ‘Joe’s mam loved relating family history. Not only her own family, but everybody else’s as well. And I suppose it was natural she should take an interest in the Crawfords. Their two families had been – what’s the word – entwined, is that it? – for so long.’
‘That’s right, love. And then Mr Hubert died fairly young really. Only forty-eight, he was. I remember that. I was about sixteen and Mr Osbert was only twenty and, of course, he had to take over the farm there and then. That was in 1890. Five years later he brought home a bride.’
‘Alice Hall.’ Peggy took up the tale briefly. ‘But where she came from and how he met her and courted her, none of us ever knew and never have known.’ She glanced at Joe and murmured, ‘That’s when it all began to get a bit mysterious. They were married the same year as us – ’95. She had a baby boy same year as John was born and another the same year as our Jackson. But she miscarried them both at about seven months. I felt dreadful, I don’t mind admitting, that there I was with two healthy strapping lads and that poor lass couldn’t give her husband the sons he craved. And I mean craved.’
‘She had another boy, didn’t she, Ma, before Miss Charlotte came along?’ Jackson said.
‘No, that was after, but poor little mite was stillborn.’
‘But they had a daughter by then?’ Miles looked around the faces before him, seeing the family glance at each other, their expressions a mixture of sadness and anger.
Quietly, Joe took up the tale once more. ‘And that was the tragedy of it. All Osbert Crawford wanted was a son to carry on the farm and the family name. That’s all he’s ever wanted and he treats that lass – well, I don’t rightly know how to say he treats her, but it’s not like a daughter. If it hadn’t been for Mary and Edward Morgan looking out for her, I don’t know what might have happened to the little lass, ’specially after her mam died. Charlotte was only five.’
‘But she seems – well – all right. I mean, she doesn’t have pretty clothes, I grant you, and those glasses—’
‘She doesn’t need no glasses,’ Jackson burst out. ‘They’re made out of plain glass. He makes her wear ’em because – because it makes her look even more plain and – and unattractive.’
Miles stared at him, unable to believe that a man would do such a cruel thing. He remembered now how, when they’d met her riding on the beach, sharp-eyed little Georgie had said with the guileless candour of the young that she was prettier without her spectacles.
‘And now we come to the crux of it all, sir,’ Joe went on. ‘And here I must ask you in return, most sincerely and respectfully, to keep what I am about to say to yourself, else my family could all find themselves thrown out of their jobs and home.’
‘Of course,’ Miles said quietly. ‘You have my word.’
Joe met and held the other man’s steady gaze and then gave a small, satisfied nod. He believed he could trust him. ‘As you’ve seen for yourself, sir, Miss Charlotte is kept downtrodden. It’s as if he’s punishing her for not being a boy. Thing is – ’ Even now he hesitated in telling the secret he’d held for years. He glanced once more at Peggy for her reassurance, but then, taking a deep breath, said, ‘The thing is, it’s Miss Charlotte who runs Buckthorn Farm. You say I’m knowledgeable, well yes, I’ve learned a bit about running the farm from me da
d, like you say, but I still go to her for a lot of help and advice about things. And it was her that chose them ’osses for you at the fair. We ’ad to be careful you didn’t see.’
‘I didn’t, not really, and yet there was something about that day I didn’t quite understand,’ Miles murmured, amused and yet appalled at what he was hearing. ‘Now I do.’ If the girl was clever enough to run the large farm, knowledgeable about horseflesh, then why . . . ?
‘The master does nothing, sir, not a thing now. He did in the early days, of course, but for the last – oh, almost ten years – he’s done nowt. It’s her sits in the office at the back of the house, her does all the books, pays the wages, buys everything we need. Together – her and me – we plan the crops, buy and sell beast, sheep and pigs at market. And yet he treats her as if she’s worth nothing.’
‘And she works out on the farm alongside us, an’ not just at harvest,’ John said. ‘She’s first up in a morning to do the milking and last to bed at night when she’s shut up the chickens.’
‘And I’ll tell you summat else, an’ all,’ Jackson put in. ‘She’s a clever artist. I’ve seen her out with her sketchbook, drawing. Painting too, sometimes. But she has to keep it all hidden – secret.’
There was silence before Peggy spoke. Now it was she who was a little hesitant and she glanced towards Joe for support. ‘There’s another bit of a mystery, Mr Thornton, that we don’t understand. You know that Joe’s dad died in April – just after you came to live at the manor?’
Miles nodded.
‘Well, he was very agitated just before he passed away. Had us send for the vicar and insisted on speaking to him alone.’ A flicker of a smile crossed her face. ‘God only knows what he said to the poor chap, ’cos the young feller came out white as a sheet and scuttled off.’
‘Dad died without telling us owt,’ Joe added. ‘And we can’t expect the vicar to break a confidence, now, can we?’
Miles shook his head.
‘We did find out a bit, though, and that was what was odd, you see.’ Jackson now took up the tale. ‘Me grandad had bought a plot in the churchyard – a grave – next to Mrs Crawford.’
Sons and Daughters Page 12
