Chaff upon the Wind

by Margaret Dickinson

  Suddenly shy, she whispered, ‘Meet me tonight, Jack. Please. It’ll be different – I – I promise.’ The last words were said so low, that she wondered if he had heard, yet the passion that flared in his eyes told her that he understood.

  Suddenly, he bent down and, putting one arm around her shoulders and the other under her knees, he swung her once more into his arms and carried her across the uneven ground towards the stackyard. Close to her ear he whispered, ‘I’ll not hurt you, Kitty, I swear it.’

  As they neared the gateway leading into the yard and to the stables, they heard the thud of a horse’s hooves behind them and Jack, still carrying Kitty, stepped to one side to allow the young mistress to pass through the gate before them.

  Fearfully, Kitty glanced up at Miriam but the girl rode straight past them without even glancing down. It was almost as if they did not exist, Kitty thought.

  ‘There’s no other place I know,’ Jack murmured, resting his arms along the top of the five-bar gate, ‘that has sunsets like that. Just look at that sky, Kitty. Dun’t it fair catch ya breath.’

  She tucked her hand through his arm and leaned her cheek against his shoulder, feeling beneath the rough texture of his shirt the hardness of his muscles.

  Before them the sky was ablaze with colour, red-gold and pink suffusing into the dark blue of the deepening night sky as the sun sank lower and lower behind the horizon.

  ‘Beautiful,’ she murmured, smuggling up, smelling the sweat of him, feeling the warmth emanating from his body. He removed one arm from the gate and put it about her shoulders so that she nestled closer, burying her head against his chest. Against her cheek she could feel the gentle thud, thud of his heart.

  Jack turned towards her and she saw the gold of the setting sun mirrored in his dark eyes. Putting his arm about her waist, he led her towards the looming shape of a stack. Burrowing a nest in the warm straw, he gently pressed her down and now she made no protest as he bent over her . . .

  He was surprisingly gentle, knowing that, for her, it was the first time. He caressed her and whispered words of love until she was quivering with delighted anticipation and willing him to take her. She had expected pain, but there was none and she was surprised and a little shocked at herself as she found she was clinging to him and arching herself against him, giving little cries of ecstasy until even he shushed her lest someone should hear them.

  When it was over, she lay against him, her head on his chest listening to the pounding of his heart as, steadily, it grew calmer.

  ‘Oh Jack, I do love you so.’

  He stirred and sat up. ‘You’d better go in. It’s late.’

  ‘No. I don’t want to go yet.’ Her mouth searched for his, her hunger growing again and with a low groan he returned her kiss with equal ardour.

  ‘You ought to, Kitty,’ he murmured against her lips. ‘What if Miriam calls for you?’

  A vague unease slipped into her mind. There was something odd about the way he had said Miriam’s name. It sounded far too familiar coming from the mouth of a man who was employed by her father.

  ‘Jack . . .?’ she began, but his lips were seeking hers again and she was lost once more, the thought erased from her mind before it had scarcely taken shape.

  At last he pulled away from her and made to stand up, but she caught his arm. ‘Jack, when shall we be getting married, then?’

  Under her hand, she felt his muscles tense and then he wrenched himself away from her as if, suddenly, her touch was burning him. ‘Married? Who said owt about getting married?’

  Kitty gasped. ‘But we must get married. Now. And you gave me the corn dolly. That must have meant something. I thought – I thought it meant that I was your girl.’

  He gave a harsh laugh. ‘I’ve told you afore, Kitty, I’m not the marrying kind. I thought you knew that.’

  A surge of anger flooded through her and she scrambled to her feet. Slowly, buttoning his trousers, he stood up too.

  ‘You’ve used me, Jack Thorndyke, just like you use all the girls. I’ve given you everything – everything . . .’

  ‘Kitty, Kitty . . .’ He spread his arms wide. ‘I know you have. And it was wonderful. You’re wonderful. But don’t go all possessive on me.’ He shook his head slowly. ‘I’m the way I am, Kitty. You know the kind of life I have to lead – like to lead. Always on the move, never settled in one place. I can’t change, Kitty, I don’t want to change.’

  Tears of anger welled in her eyes, but she brushed them away impatiently and stepped closer to him again, placing her palms flat against the breadth of his chest, running them down towards his narrow waist and then over his hips, caressing him with a daring she had not possessed before tonight. ‘But I love you, Jack,’ she said huskily, so persuasively that the man groaned and his arms went about her almost of their own volition.

  ‘Kitty, oh Kitty, do you women know what power you have over us poor fellers?’ he murmured, closing his eyes and burying his face in her black curls.

  In the darkness that engulfed them completely now that the sun had sunk below the far horizon, he drew her down again deep into the straw, his body heavy upon her. He kissed her neck and his hands roamed all over her body, awaking her senses yet again until she shivered with longing. With a last moment of rational thought before passion overwhelmed her once more, Kitty whispered close to his ear, ‘I’ll follow you, Jack Thorndyke, wherever you go. You won’t get rid of me so easy.’

  Eighteen

  ‘Married? To Threshing Jack?’ Mrs Grundy’s face was a picture. ‘You’re having me on, girl. He’ll never marry no one.’

  ‘Oh yes, he will.’ Kitty skipped around the kitchen table and clapped her hands. ‘He doesn’t know it yet, but he will.’

  ‘Has he asked ya?’

  ‘No, but he gave me the corn dolly. And that means . . .’

  Before she had finished, Mrs Grundy cut in, ‘Is that all? And how many other girls d’ya reckon have got a corn dolly from Jack Thorndyke tucked away in their keepsake box, eh?’

  Kitty’s dancing was stilled and she stared at Mrs Grundy, a moment’s doubt seeping into her happiness.

  ‘Aw, Kitty.’ The older woman was reaching out towards the girl. ‘I don’t want to see you, of all people, hurt by the likes of him. I’m very fond of you, you know. You and all ya family. Why, I had to stand by and watch when ya mam . . .’ Abruptly Mrs Grundy stopped. ‘Eh dearie me, there I go, letting me tongue run away with me.’

  ‘Mrs Grundy, just what . . .?’ Kitty began, but the cook’s hand flapped at her.

  ‘Don’t start that again, Kitty. Don’t ask questions ’cos I aren’t going to answer ’em.’

  Kitty sighed, but the mysteries of the past were soon blotted out by the problems of the moment. ‘Well, I don’t care what you say about Jack. I love him and I know he loves me.’

  Mrs Grundy was shaking her head. ‘I just hope you don’t get yarsen into real trouble, lass. ’Cos he’s not the type to marry anyone, not even if he gets ’em in the family way.’

  Kitty’s lips parted in a gasp and she stood motionless with shock, staring at the round, waddling figure of the cook who turned away from her still shaking her head sadly and muttering, ‘Well, I’ve done all I can. It’s up to you, lass. But I can see tears ahead for ya and a lot of heartache. That I can.’

  In the weeks leading up to Christmas, Kitty was happy. Miss Miriam spent much of her time riding to the Hall to see Master Guy, returning with glowing cheeks and a sparkle in her eyes. Kitty smiled to herself. Miss Miriam was in love with Master Guy, just like she was with Jack.

  Then the family at the Manor and its servants were plunged into the turmoil of preparations for Christmas and Kitty was so busy she had little time to see Jack. But after Christmas, she promised herself, he’ll be here to complete all the threshing work for the master. Then I’ll see him every day. She hugged the thought to herself and sang as she skipped through her work.

  In the middle of January, she heard th
e chug-chug of Sylvie’s engine as it turned into the driveway at the side of the house and moved triumphantly into the stackyard.

  ‘He’s here, oh he’s here again,’ Kitty murmured, pressing her nose to the window pane of Edward’s room. She felt the familiar flutter of excitement. This time Jack would be here for several days, until all the threshing work was done.

  Behind her, the boy in the bed, suffering a bad bout of bronchitis, said nothing.

  Every morning the threshermen came to the kitchen for their breakfast and every evening, when the noise in the yard died away, Kitty would sneak out to meet Jack.

  But on the second night after their arrival, he said, ‘Sorry, Kitty. I’ve to work on me engine.’

  ‘Well, I can be with you, can’t I?’

  He shook his head. ‘It’s a mucky job. No place for a pretty little thing like you in your white apron and lacy cap, now is it?’

  ‘All right then. I’ll see you later?’

  He shrugged. ‘Mebbe. But it’ll be a long job.’

  Close to midnight, Kitty crept into the dark and deserted yard. There was no sound save the wind whistling through the tall trees in the driveway, no light except from a fitful moon behind scudding clouds.

  ‘Jack,’ Kitty called softly. ‘Jack, where are you?’ There was no sound. She smiled and gave a little skip. He’d finished early. He’d be waiting for her in his little loft room . . . But when she pushed open the door, it was to see the bed ruffled and unmade since morning, his working clothes in a heap on the floor and a bowl of soapy water on the table where he had washed hurriedly, leaving a ring of grime around the rim.

  Of Jack, there was no sign. Gone drinking with his pals, she thought, instead of waiting for me.

  ‘Where were you?’ she challenged him the following morning. ‘We could have had the whole night together, because Miss Miriam went to the Hall and didn’t come back until real late and she said before she went that I needn’t wait up for her. So you see,’ she punched his chest, half in play, half in accusation, ‘you missed out there, Jack Thorndyke, didn’t you?’

  ‘Mebbe I did, Kitty,’ was all he said. ‘Mebbe I did.’

  On the day they finished working at the Manor, Jack said bluntly, ‘I’ve got lodgings at the farm where we’ll be working next, Kitty.’

  ‘But you’ll come back to see me, Jack?’

  ‘When I can,’ he said shortly and turned away to climb up on to the footplate of his engine.

  He came back that night and they walked together through the copse across the field behind the Manor, the frost crunching beneath their feet.

  ‘Let’s go back to the loft room,’ said Kitty, snuggling closer to him.

  ‘We can’t. Not now I’ve left the Manor.’

  ‘Whyever not?’ Kitty stopped and stared at him, trying, through the black night, to see his features.

  ‘It wouldn’t be right.’

  There was a pause before Kitty’s laugh rang through the night air, echoing among the trees. ‘I never thought I’d see the day. Jack Thorndyke with a conscience . . .’

  He pulled her to him and silenced her teasing with his mouth.

  His visits became more infrequent, the intervals stretching to two, even three, nights in a row when he did not come to the Manor after his day’s work. And it always seemed to happen, Kitty thought crossly, just when she could have spent extra time with him, when Miriam was out visiting Guy or had just said, ‘I’m going to bed early, Kitty, I shan’t need you later.’

  On each occasion, Kitty waited alone in the dark and the cold of the yard, but Jack did not appear.

  Kitty began to get angry. ‘Just where were you last night – and the night before that?’

  The excuses were varied. ‘The engine was playing up. I had repairs to do through the night. I’m sorry, Kitty, but you know me work has to come first. It’s me livin’. And Ben’s. He’s a wife and three kids to support.’

  Grudgingly, she said, ‘Well, all right then. But I’m beginning to think you love Sylvie better than you love me.’

  He’d put his arms about her and nuzzled his face into her long hair. ‘But she doesn’t smell half as good as you, my sweet Kitty.’

  He pulled in deep breaths as if revelling in the smell of her skin and her hair. ‘You’re lovely, Kitty.’

  And all further reproaches had been forgotten.

  Now, this morning, after another long and futile wait in the cold and draughty stackyard the previous night, the tiredness was beginning to undermine even Kitty’s strength. ‘I wonder what excuse he’ll come up with this time,’ she muttered as she tied her apron strings behind her back and hurried down the stairs to the kitchen.

  As she passed Miriam’s door, she heard a strange sound from inside the room. She gave a soft tap, anxious not to wake the rest of the household at this early hour, and quietly opened the door.

  In the pale light that filtered in through the curtains, Kitty could see the outline of Miriam’s figure, still in her nightgown, bending over the marble-topped washstand in the corner of her bedroom, her head over the blue and white washbowl. She was retching, making an awful noise, as if she would bring up the very depths of her insides.

  Kitty closed the door behind her and hurried across the room. ‘What is it, miss? What’s the matter?’

  She drew back the curtains to give more light and turned to look at the girl as Miriam lifted her head from the bowl and groaned. ‘I feel ghastly. It must be something I’ve eaten.’

  Her face was grey and spittle ran from the corner of her mouth down her chin. Kitty picked up a towel and gently wiped it away. ‘There, there, miss. Come back to bed. You’re shivering.’

  Miriam’s forehead was clammy beneath Kitty’s fingers. ‘It’ll be a bilious attack, miss. Ya mam’ll get the doctor later.’

  ‘I’ll be all right, Kitty.’ She climbed into the bed and lay back against the pillows, looking very like her sickly brother at this moment.

  ‘You lie there. I’ll go down to the kitchen and get you a nice drink of . . .’

  ‘Just water, Kitty. Nothing else, just water,’ Miriam murmured, her eyes closed.

  Kitty bit her lip and scurried from the room. She had never known Miriam to have a day’s illness in all the time she had been at the Manor. It had always seemed to her that poor Edward had enough sickness for the whole of the family and that the rest were spared. But now Miriam was poorly.

  Returning with the water, Kitty was surprised to find her sitting up in bed, the colour returning to her cheeks. Taking the glass from Kitty’s hand, she said, ‘I feel better already. I think I’ll go riding before breakfast. A bit of fresh air will blow the cobwebs away.’

  ‘I don’t think you should . . .’

  ‘When I want you to tell me what I should or should not do, Clegg, I’ll tell you.’ She flung back the covers and swung her bare feet to the floor. ‘Meanwhile, lay out my riding habit – if you please.’

  For a moment Kitty glared at her, tempted to argue. Then she shrugged her shoulders and turned away to do as she had been asked.

  Half an hour later she watched as Miriam, her long auburn hair flying in the wind, cantered across the fields towards the copse. Surely, Kitty thought, she’s not going to the Hall this early in the morning.

  ‘You feeling all right now, miss?’ As she helped to serve the breakfast to the family, Kitty bent over to whisper in Miriam’s ear. She knew she was taking a grave risk in even speaking.

  ‘Of course I am. Don’t fuss, Clegg,’ Miriam hissed.

  ‘Sorry, I’m sure. I only thought . . .’

  ‘Well, don’t think. Maids aren’t paid to think.’

  ‘What? What’s going on?’ Mr Franklin’s newspaper rattled furiously and his glowering eyes appeared over the top of it. ‘Can’t we have a bit of peace in a morning? Maids, like children, should be seen, not heard.’ His irate glance swivelled from his daughter and her maid to his wife sitting at the opposite end of the table. ‘And what is she doi
ng serving breakfast, may I ask? Where’s the other girl?’

  ‘Sarah has a cold . . .’

  ‘Another one? If the girl keeps being ill like this, send her packing.’

  He shook the paper to straighten it out and lowered his eyes again to read. ‘Just look at this. These wretched suffragettes. Will they never learn?’

  Kitty held her breath, waiting for Miss Miriam to make some retort. Over the past few months, the more Mr Franklin had ranted on about the Votes for Women movement, the more his daughter had goaded him.

  But this morning, Miriam’s eyes were downcast as she pushed scrambled egg about the plate with her fork, clearly uninterested in eating.

  It seemed she had not even heard what her father had said.

  Mrs Franklin reached across the corner of the table and touched her daughter’s hand. ‘Are you all right, dear? You look pale this morning . . .’

  ‘I’m all right,’ Miriam snapped, standing up and pushing her chair back with such a sudden, violent movement that it fell backwards on to the floor with a crash.

  ‘What on earth . . .?’ The newspaper was lowered again but before he could utter another word, the girl cried, ‘Oh, why can’t everyone just leave me alone . . .’ And she whirled about and rushed from the room, leaving Mr and Mrs Franklin staring at each other down the length of the table.

  Later, Mrs Franklin quizzed Kitty.

  ‘All I know, madam, is that she must have eaten something that disagreed with her because I found her being sick first thing this morning.’

  Mrs Franklin was staring at her. ‘Sick? F-first thing this morning?’

  ‘Yes, madam. I ’spect it was something she ate yesterday, but I darsunt tell Cook. You know how upset she gets if anyone ses summat – something’s – upset them.’

  ‘Yes,’ Mrs Franklin said vaguely, seeming to be only half-listening.