The Governor's House

by J. H. Fletcher

  The villagers thought it was the devil’s work, a young maid fighting like a man. She’d heard them talking but didn’t care. Let them roast in hell, her pounding fists said. Let them rot. If Mother dies, she thought, how shall I survive?

  SIX

  When the weather was fine old Squire Dunstable liked to stroll through the village, condescending to the villagers who were also his tenants. Today he returned to Dunkery Hall, the stately home on the hill outside Porlock that had been in the Dunstable family since the Restoration. He was at peace with the world but had hardly sat down before his housekeeper brought him a letter from London that soured his mood at once.

  He read it, frowning. ‘My nephew is planning to honour us with his presence.’

  ‘Does Mr Arthur say when we may expect him?’

  ‘Judging by the tone of the letter I suspect very shortly.’

  He wondered what the young fool had been up to this time.

  ‘You, sir, are a regular tartar,’ said Claude Villiers.

  ‘I know it,’ said Arthur Dunstable in a gloomy voice. ‘You have described me exactly.’

  ‘Loses every penny he’s got twice over,’ Claude informed the mantelpiece clock. ‘And does he retire from the fray to lick his wounds? No, sir, he does not. He plunges on like Ponsonby’s dragoons at Waterloo. Death or glory! And then loses another fortune! A regular tartar, sir! It would be admirable if it weren’t so damned tragic.’

  There was a rumbling of dray wheels from the cobblestoned street below the windows of the handsome second-floor apartment.

  ‘What is really tragic is that Fortescue will be looking for his money,’ Arthur said. ‘If I don’t come up with the readies he’ll likely set his bully boys on me.’

  ‘Anyone might be scared of that,’ Claude said.

  ‘Scared, you girl?’ Arthur said. ‘You needn’t think I’m scared, Miss Villiers. But it might be a touch embarrassing to have to deal with them. Ain’t that so?’

  ‘Maybe Mrs Archibald can help,’ Claude Villiers said. ‘Deuced attractive woman, your landlady, and from what I gather you’ve a pretty warm relationship with her.’

  ‘Not any more,’ Arthur said. ‘The widow’s turned a spot acid since I never paid back what I borrowed from her last time. As I said to her, I don’t have it so how can I pay you? She didn’t take it well. And now I owe her three months’ rent on top of it. Next thing she’ll be talking Debtors’ Prison.’

  ‘Better than Fortescue’s bully boys, I’ll be bound,’ Claude said.

  ‘Don’t fancy it, all the same. Think I might hide away in the country for a spell. The old uncle ain’t the best company but some of the local trollops should be worth exploring.’

  ‘Fresh air and rosy cheeks,’ said Claude.

  ‘And peaches just waiting to be squeezed, if I remember rightly from the last time I was there. I ain’t much of a one for the country but I’ll be squire of Porlock when the old man dies so it might not be a bad plan to pay it another visit.’ He laughed. ‘See what’s worth selling, don’t you know? In fact I dropped my uncle a line the other day. The way things went yesterday, the sooner I’m out of town the better.’

  ‘I’ve a mind to come with you,’ Claude said. ‘Took a flyer with a wench a week or two back; now I hear her better half is looking for me.’

  SEVEN

  Three weeks later Mother seemed stronger so Cat, who had watched over her day and night, left her with Mrs Wheeler, a neighbour, and headed up to the moors again.

  Restlessness devoured her. There was so much she wanted to know: not that there was anyone up there to teach her. Nobody she had ever met knew anything. None of them seemed to care but Cat cared. If only I knew the answers to the questions I got. What makes the trees grow? The grass? Why is there wind? Where do the fish come from? And the clouds? What are the stars? Why do people die?

  If I could read I would maybe know these things, she thought. If I could read I’d be free. In the meantime there was only the walking, the longing to be away, somewhere, anywhere. And the all-important, unanswered question. What would happen to her if Mother, if Mother…? She could not bring herself to put the rest of it into words.

  It was evening when she got home. Mrs Wheeler met her with a sombre expression. Mother had had a relapse, coughing blood in torrents. Now she was lying on the bed with closed eyes and a chalky face, a streak of blood scoring the corner of her mouth: blood that she no longer had the strength to wipe away with the sopping red cloth she held in her nerveless hand. The signs were too clear to be ignored. Even as Cat tried to do what she could for her – cleaning the blood from her face, saying she would bring her a drink of warm water to ease her – she felt panic. The only person she loved in the world was dying and Cat would soon be alone. Every day she sought freedom in solitude but if Mother died it would mean not freedom but destitution.

  Mother coughed, with more blood. Cat mopped her lips.

  I can’t just let her die, she thought. I got to do what I can.

  Obadiah Gregory had the only general store in the village and she had to go there to buy the things they needed. Ever since the day he’d touched her she had taken care to go into the shop only when other people were there. She would have preferred not to go at all but there was no help for it, particularly now, because Obadiah Gregory was the only source of the medicines that he claimed would cure all illnesses from cholera to housemaid’s knee. He was her last hope: unless he could save her Mother was doomed.

  It was too late to go to the shop now – it would be shut and Obadiah was not an obliging man – so she waited until the following day to call on him.

  ‘Why, Catherine… I was beginning to think you’d forgotten our little arrangement.’

  ‘Never arranged nothing. Mother’s feverish. That’s why I’m here.’

  ‘I’m right sad to hear that.’ His eyes feasted on her, inch by inch. ‘What seems the problem?’

  ‘Consumption’s the problem,’ Cat said.

  ‘Oh dear oh dear. Spitting blood, is she? Of course she is. Well, let’s see.’ He produced pills the size and colour of damsons and wrapped them in a screw of paper. ‘These should ease her fever. Then we can try her on the cure. Herbs of my own collecting, my dear. See her dancing in no time. Come back for them at six o’clock tonight, just before closing.’

  ‘Why not now?’ Cat said.

  ‘We must give the fever time to dissipate.’

  ‘Please?’

  ‘To go away. Otherwise the cure will do no good. Come back this evening, like I said. I’ll be waiting.’

  ‘I don’t have no money.’

  Two ladies walked into the shop. Obadiah’s frown changed to an ingratiating smile. He spoke loudly, for the world to hear. ‘Your mother’s health is what matters. We won’t talk nothing about price until the poor lady’s on her feet again.’

  At six that evening, with Mother no better, Cat was back but the cure still wasn’t ready.

  ‘I’m that sorry, my dear,’ Obadiah said. ‘I’ve been rushed off my feet and had no time to make it up. Come back in an hour’s time and I’ll have it ready for you.’

  Cat wasn’t too pleased but there was nothing she could do. She thought of going home but there was nothing she could do if she went, and with Mrs Wheeler there to take care of her Mother was in good hands. So she turned the other way and walked up the steep track to the moors.

  EIGHT

  Arthur Dunstable and his friend Claude Villiers were out riding. They reined in at the top of a ridge and looked about them.

  ‘If I had remembered how dire the rustic life was, my dear,’ Arthur said, ‘I swear I’d have stayed in town and taken my chances with Fortescue and his boys.’

  ‘And no rustic peaches in sight,’ Claude said. ‘Or none worth squeezing, at any rate.’

  The light was fading but enough remained for them to see that the land in front of them sloped down to a stream that vanished into a tree-lined valley. Beyond the stream the land rose a
gain to a ridge where heavy clouds were gathering. As they watched, a woman in a grey dress appeared over the top of the crest and began making her way down the heather-clad slope towards the water. There was no path they could see and she was too far away to make her out clearly but from her nimble walk it was obvious that she was both young and familiar with the ground. As they watched she reached the far bank of the stream before disappearing into the tree-choked valley. Arthur and Claude looked at each other.

  ‘Should we introduce ourselves?’ Arthur said.

  ‘It would be ungentlemanly not to,’ Claude said.

  ‘A few moments’ dalliance?’

  ‘My thinking precisely.’

  They spurred their mounts down the slope.

  From the high ground above Holmwood Combe Cat had seen the horsemen on the next ridge. She had the eyes of a merlin and knew at once they were Squire Dunstable’s nephew and the friend who’d arrived with him from London two weeks before. Last time Arthur Dunstable had been in these parts he’d used Sally Myles so cruelly that people said she would never be right again. Cat didn’t plan on the same thing happening to her so decided to cut down through the combe where the undergrowth was too thick for horses. Directly she was under the trees she turned, knowing she could not be seen in the shade, and looked back in time to see the two riders thundering down the slope after her. She turned and ran.

  The detour would mean she would not get back to the village before dark. Obadiah’s shop would be shut but hopefully he would remember his promise and open up for her. As it was, with Arthur Dunstable and his friend after her, she couldn’t see she had any choice.

  It was a pathless place of shadows, of dippers darting on stumpy wings from stone to stone, of the wet plash of water. Cat listened for pursuit but heard nothing. Perhaps they hadn’t been after her at all but she daren’t risk it. She pushed on through undergrowth that made her progress dangerously slow. On the far side of the stream the trees were more widely spaced but getting there would be a problem.

  Something moved in the undergrowth. She froze, holding her breath. A thud of hooves as the deer, disturbed in its drinking, fled. Conscious of the staccato beating of her heart, Cat went on.

  She came to a fallen tree trunk spanning the stream. It was greasy with moss, in places rotten, and Cat was unsure it would bear her weight or even that she would be able to balance on it but it represented her best chance of crossing to the more open ground on the other bank. With the two gentlemen somewhere behind her she thought she’d better give it a try.

  She drew a deep breath and stepped on to the trunk. It creaked and sagged but held. She edged out from the bank, the rushing water ten feet below. She inched forward, pressing her toes into the slippery wood. She was halfway across now, arms outstretched for balance. Fall here, she thought, I’ll likely break my neck.

  She reached the point where the trunk split into a series of branches that rose steeply to rest upon the further bank. It was impossible to believe they could support her weight yet going back was not an option. She flung herself forward, feeling the branches giving way beneath her, and just managed to grab the lip of the bank. Her fingers grappled with mud, seeking a safe purchase, while her weight dragged her down. Her right hand closed on a tree root that held her for a moment. The weight of her body threatened to break her grip but she managed to reach with her other hand. That too took hold of the root. Painfully she hauled herself up. Another heave and her hips were over the lip and she was safe. The ground was firm beneath the trees with a scattering of pebbles and pine needles. She lay gasping for a moment then dragged herself upright.

  A voice said: ‘Well, well.’

  Cat stared at the two men who faced her. Arthur Dunstable and his friend had somehow crossed the stream higher up and cut her off. It was her worst nightmare but nightmares were meant to be confronted. She felt not terror but fury that they should think, as they clearly did, she was theirs for the taking.

  They watched her, enjoying the moment. Cat Haggard was at their mercy and they had all the time they needed to gloat over the pleasures awaiting them. It gave her the seconds she needed. They had thought she might run. She did not. Maud Rout’s voice echoed in her ear.

  A kick in the goolies or a good clout to the jaw should make him start thinking holy thoughts.

  She bent, snatched a pebble the size of a goose egg from the needle-strewn ground and attacked. They had been so sure she was helpless they were unprepared for the virago who now flung herself at them.

  A kick in the goolies… Cat had never worn shoes in her life and her feet were as hard as horn. Her right foot lashed out, snake quick and wickedly low. It caught Arthur Dunstable plumb on target.

  ‘Ahhh…’

  Arthur doubled up before subsiding on to the damp ground, knees raised to his chest.

  The friend started forward, hands lifting, but was far too late.

  A good clout to the jaw… He ran into Cat’s fist clenched tightly around the goose-egg pebble. A woman with the strength of the Furies whom Maud Rout had taught to fight. The blow threw Claude’s head back and Cat hit him again, hard, on his exposed throat. He fell, gasping for air.

  Cat wasted no time gloating. They would kill her if they caught her so she took off, running hard up the slope beneath the pine trees. By the time she reached the crest it was almost dark and beginning to rain. She ran on as fast as she could but was still soaked by the time she reached the track leading down into the village.

  It took Arthur and Claude over an hour to get back up the valley to their horses. Arthur could barely walk or Claude speak and their thirst for revenge was intense. They too were wet through by now, which did not improve their mood.

  ‘I shall kill her,’ Arthur said.

  ‘Like you did just now?’ Claude whispered.

  Contempt brought out the worst in Arthur. ‘I shall lay a complaint with the constable –’

  ‘Saying we thought to have some sport with her but she was too much for us? You’ll have us the laughing stock of the county!’

  ‘I shall hire a couple of bully boys –’

  ‘To deal with a village girl? You think the word won’t get out?’

  ‘We can’t just let her get away with it!’

  ‘Of course not. But there are better ways, my dear.’ Claude swallowed and grimaced, but whispered on. ‘You mentioned the constable just now. Would you say he’s the sort of man to do a chap a favour?’

  ‘He’d certainly do me one. He knows I’ll inherit when Uncle dies so naturally wants to stay in my good books.’

  ‘Not too many scruples?’

  ‘Where his interests are concerned? None at all, I would say.’

  ‘Then let me make a suggestion.’

  NINE

  As Cat had expected, Obadiah’s shop was shut. Soaked through – the rain was still bucketing down – she looked at the locked door, the dark window, and hesitated. She had always sworn never to be alone with Obadiah Gregory again but thought of Mother lying on her bed in the cottage and once again knew she had no choice.

  She knocked on the door. No answer, so she banged as loudly as she could. A minute later and there was a flicker of candle flame as the bolts of the door were drawn back. Obadiah looked suspiciously out.

  ‘I come for the cure, Mr Gregory.’

  ‘Why, Catherine,’ Obadiah said. ‘Come in this minute.’

  ‘I’ll drip all over your floor.’

  ‘Never mind that!’ He smiled at her. ‘You’ll catch your death else.’

  He closed the door and Cat heard the click as he turned the key. She stood shivering, one wet foot atop the other.

  Mr Gregory watched her. ‘I got a nice fire in the back room. That’ll warm you soon enough.’ He placed the flat of his hand on Cat’s back. ‘My ivers! You’re soaked. You’d be better off without that wet dress only I don’t like to suggest it.’

  While the blue eyes watched.

  Cat shrugged his hand away. ‘I just come f
or the cure,’ she said.

  ‘And you shall have her, so you shall. But I got to make her up, see, so you might as well be warm while you’re waiting. Isn’t that so?’

  And again waited until at last she gave in and followed him into the back room. Where there was a fire, sure enough.

  ‘Sit you down there, my dear, and I’ll be with you directly.’

  She sat cross-legged in front of the hearth, the warmth beginning to ease her, and in two minutes he was back with a paper tightly wrapped.

  ‘Here it is,’ he said. ‘Made up special for you.’

  She stood up and stretched out her hand but at the last moment he held the packet away from her.

  ‘Question of payment,’ he said.

  ‘I told you I got no money.’

  ‘Did I mention money?’

  The same catch in the breath, the same wet lips, and Cat was back to the time she had been here last, Obadiah’s moist hand exploring, his voice saying oh my, oh yes, very nice.

  ‘One kiss,’ he said. ‘Not much to ask.’

  Cat caught a hint of his tainted breath then thought of Mother, poised between life and death. ‘One kiss then,’ she said. ‘Just one.’

  His lips were wet and slobbery, horrible. She felt him pressing against her and then his hand was on her breast. She ripped herself free. ‘One kiss! That’s what I said. Now give me the cure and I’ll be on my way.’

  Face purple, Obadiah ignored her. He seized her again and dragged her to him. Panicking, she forgot Maud Rout’s teaching. She flailed at him with open hands and he hit her hard across the face. She tasted blood in her mouth as she fell. Obadiah was on her at once, twisting her face down upon the floor, knee crushing her spine as he forced her wrist up behind her.