High Garth

by Mira Stables

  HIGH GARTH

  Mira Stables

  © Mira Stables 1977

  Mira Stables has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1977 by Robert Hale Limited.

  This edition published in 2018 by Endeavour Media Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  Author’s Note

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  For all my friends in the Dales who have encouraged me, by claiming to enjoy my stories, and especially for Nell who walked the green tracks with me.

  Author’s Note

  Those who know the Yorkshire Dales will find themselves on familiar ground. The place has not changed so much in a hundred and fifty years. But High Garth and the people who lived there, and the sink hole known as the Gullet, exist only in the author’s imagination.

  M.S.

  Chapter One

  March had come in like a lion, but the private parlour at the Pheasant was surprisingly comfortable for so small a posting inn. With a good fire blazing in the hearth and a high-backed settle drawn up to it to protect the traveller from any wandering draught, it was positively cosy, even without the added emphasis of the blustering gale that was rattling the casements and hurling an occasional flurry of hail and sleet against the window panes.

  But the gentleman who was prowling up and down its well-polished floor seemed unappreciative of his good fortune. His brows were knit in a heavy frown. From time to time he pulled out an old fashioned time-piece from the inner pocket of his well-worn coat, and since this faithful servant refused to lie to him, his annoyance became more obvious on each occasion; though perhaps it was the firelight, striking red gleams from tawny hair worn slightly too long to be fashionable, and the scarce-controlled energy in the long supple stride that gave the impression of feral anger.

  A log falling apart drew him to the comfort of the hearth. He kicked the blazing embers back with a shabby boot and drew a slim packet of letters from his pocket. There were three of them, but after a cursory glance he dropped two into the heart of the fire. The third he re-read with more care, put it back in his pocket, and resumed his restless pacing.

  The sound of footsteps approaching the parlour door caused him to glance up with a certain lightening of expression, but when it was only the landlady who came in, the frown returned.

  “Still no one?” he queried abruptly.

  “A letter, sir,” said Mrs. Robertson, proffering it. “The guard from the stage walked across from the Feathers with it. Said the lady had left the coach at Leyburn but had given him a shilling to deliver her letter.”

  In deference to the landlady, Mr. Delvercourt swallowed an oath and mentally consigned all shilly-shallying females to the devil. The terms of his advertisement had been perfectly plain, yet the two applicants whom he had already interviewed had been hopelessly unsuitable, while the third—the most promising of the three—had obviously changed her mind. He would, have to advertise again. More delay—and possibly another day devoted to interviewing prospective housekeepers—when, with lambing already begun, he was urgently needed elsewhere.

  Mrs. Robertson was still waiting. He turned to nod dismissal. She said diffidently, “Will you be requiring the parlour any longer, sir? Not that it’s likely we’ll have more guests in this sort of weather, but I’d not like to be sending any one up here if your honour was still wanting to be private.”

  Mr. Delvercourt’s features relaxed into a smile so attractive that it was easy to see why the good lady accorded such deference to one who bore all the appearance of a hard-working and impoverished farmer.

  “No, indeed, Mrs. Robertson. If I may ask ten minutes more grace? I must read this pesky female’s letter, and then, I fear, draft another advertisement. It will save time if I do it now. Then I shall look forward to one of your suppers—and my bed. For I must set out betimes tomorrow.” He considered the attractive prospect of a bowl of rum punch to follow the supper, decided that it was unwarrantable extravagance, and sat down at the writing table.

  The letter was much as he had anticipated. The lady had decided that High Garth was too isolated and had accepted another post. He shrugged, crumpled up the missive, tossed it into the hearth and set himself to composition. It was not easy. High Garth was indeed remote, the wage that he could offer was small. And the existence of Philip complicated the business. A competent housekeeper might have been found fairly easily—some decent widow, perhaps. But one who would also undertake the charge of a lively six-year-old, check his capacity for getting into mischief—and danger—and supervise his first lessons, was a far more difficult proposition. He thought of the two candidates whom he had already rejected, the one a genteel spinster of uncertain age, utterly out of place in a farm kitchen and probably ineffectual as a governess, the other a sturdy wench, plump, comely and capable-seeming, but with an acquisitive gleam in her eye and a frank assessment of his own person that had given plain warning of her intentions. A man who needed a housekeeper was presumably fair game, but that young woman had been a little too obvious. He grinned wryly. She would have found poor pickings at High Garth and scant compensation in his charms. He doubted if her plans for making the post a permanent one would have outlasted the first week.

  It seemed that his needs demanded a non-pareil. He sighed, added another five pounds to the salary that he could so ill afford, and put the pen aside. The money would have to be found somehow. Janet was aging, and despite her fierce protestations the work was too much for her. While the thought of Philip running wild all summer with no one to keep him from the dangers that awaited the heedless adventurer in that harsh countryside, was more than he could sustain. Last summer had been difficult enough. He could have filled every minute twice over with urgent tasks, and the five-year-old Philip, timid and inclined to tears in the insecurity of a new way of life, had clung to him closer than a shadow. Very much in the way he had been at times, but at least Patrick had known where he was. But a year had wrought a vast change. Philip had settled down almost too well; had come to realize the delightful possibilities of the new regime. No longer was there Nurse, a couple of nursery maids, and any number of other interfering adults to fuss over him and scold over most of his activities. There was not even that rather frightening bearded gentleman known as Papa, whom Philip had decided was God’s brother. Both, to Philip, meant an unnatural state of cleanliness and an insistence that he stay still and quiet under uncomfortable conditions. God lived in the church, where you were shut up in a kind of a box called a pew and couldn’t see anything interesting. But you only had to go and visit him on Sundays. Papa lived in the library. The seats were more comfortable than God’s, though a small boy’s feet still didn’t reach the floor, and there were nice things to look at. But you had to visit Papa every night, and Papa, unlike God, had a way of booming out sudden questions to which Philip rarely knew the answers. Then he would hang his head, knowing that Papa was disappointed or angry by the way his beard waggled.

  When first he had come to live with Patrick at High Garth, he had been surprised but pleased to discover that neither God nor Papa had further need of his attendance. Papa, explained Patrick, had gone to stay w
ith God. Philip could understand that Had not he himself come to stay with Patrick? They were only half brothers, and Patrick was quite grown up, but he was a very good sort of brother to have. He knew a lot of interesting things, even if his hand was much harder than Nurse’s had been. As for going to church every Sunday, Patrick said it was too far to walk and that Maggy had worked all week and deserved her rest. Philip was well content. Janet heard him say his prayers every night, but he could gabble those off without really thinking. And there was so much to see and to do and to ask about on the farm that he didn’t really miss the Court, except for his pony. And Patrick had promised that he should have another pony, if he could buy one reasonably at the horse fair. Meanwhile there were lambs and calves and chickens. He was allowed to feed them. And not even Janet grumbled about grubby hands and muddy boots, though she did scold when he tore his smalls, and asked him if he thought they grew on trees, a remark that Philip thought exquisitely funny.

  During the long winter, trying to cope with a small boy’s energy in the intervals between feeding stock and dealing with all the maintenance jobs that must be done on a farm when other work is at a standstill, Patrick had looked ahead to the busy days of spring and summer and had realized that something must be done about Philip. There were not even any other children for him to play with. And he was too young to be sent to school. A governess—firm without being too strict, and energetic, too—was the obvious answer. But he also wanted to relieve Janet of the arduous task of housekeeping, so willingly undertaken for love of himself, and he simply could not afford two wages, two more mouths to be fed. It was make and scrape as it was, and every spare penny to be saved for Philip’s schooling when the time came.

  He sighed. And absentmindedly succumbed to the invitation of the high-backed settle, stretching out long legs to the comfort of the fire and resting his head against the solid red cushion that had been hung at just the right height to give its support. He had been at work before dawn to win himself time for this fruitless journey, and now it would be all to do again. His lids drooped. Within five minutes he was deeply asleep.

  He woke to the sound of voices. “You’ll be all right here, miss. Very respectable house, the Pheasant, and Mrs. Robertson a kindly soul. Now there’s your ticket for the stage. Nine o’clock tomorrow from the Feathers yard, but it’s only a step down the road.” The voice, immediately identifiable to a discerning ear as that of a man-servant, middle-aged and responsible, took on a note of resentment. “Might have bought you a seat in the Mail. You’ll be shaken to bits in the stage, let alone taking two days longer! Well—talking pays no toll—so I’ll bid you good evening, miss, and Mrs. Porter and me hopes you’ll find a good post as soon as maybe. We’ll both of us miss you sore, and that’s a fact.”

  “And I shall miss you, so good as you’ve both been to me.” The answering voice was clear and pleasant. “I’ll write to Mrs. Porter as soon as I’m settled in a new post. And will you give her this. No,” as inarticulate noises of protest were heard, “it is only a handkerchief that I have been embroidering, but it will serve to remind her of the girl she so kindly mothered.”

  “She’ll treasure it dearly, miss, I know she will.” The voice was gruff with feeling. “And we both of us think it a right shame to turn you off so. It wasn’t your blame.”

  Never mind, John. At least I wasn’t turned off without a character!” There was a hint of a smile in the girl’s voice.

  “So I should think, miss. The least they could do, after the way you’ve managed those young rapscallions. But I’d best be off, ’fore someone starts enquiring why I’ve been so long. And you’ll be sure and write to the missus?”

  “Indeed I will. And who knows? Perhaps some day we’ll meet again.”

  The parlour door closed. Still a little dazed by the mists of sleep and guiltily aware of having listened to a private conversation not intended for his ears, Mr. Delvercourt caught a sound suspiciously like a sob. It brought him erect as one stung, clearing his throat with quite unnecessary energy to draw attention to his presence and making pretence of rubbing sleep-bleared eyes and stifling a yawn as he said, “So sorry, ma’am. Must have dropped off. Thought myself alone. Didn’t imagine anyone else’d be abroad on such a dirty night.”

  Another blast of hail obligingly rattled the casement to add point to this remark. “Shocking, ain’t it?” he drawled, deliberately rustic, and crossed to the window to allow the girl time to recover herself.

  It had been a sob. But the handkerchief had been whisked out of sight at his first words and he saw the instinctive bracing of slim shoulders as she swung round to face him.

  “I beg your pardon, sir,” she said stiffly. “I was assured that I would be private in the parlour.”

  “So you should be, ma’am,” he apologized. “I told Mrs. Robertson I’d go down to the coffee room as soon as I’d drafted my advertisement—and then fell asleep instead. I’ll take myself off at once.” He hesitated briefly, then succumbed to the gambling instinct that in one form or another had been for centuries a Delvercourt characteristic. “Just for a moment I thought you might be another young lady come to apply for the post. But of course you’re not. Pray forgive me.” He bowed slightly and moved towards the door.

  He was well pleased when, even as he lifted the latch, the girl said slowly, “A post, sir? What kind of post? It so chances that I am, in fact, seeking a new situation, but I have not yet applied for one and am not come in answer to your advertisement.”

  He turned towards her but made no move to return to the hearth. “Not an easy post to fill,” he said ruefully, “as I have been discovering all afternoon. And not, I fear, a suitable one for a young lady who looks and speaks as you do.”

  She studied him curiously. She knew very well that it was unwise, even potentially dangerous, to fall into conversation with a casual stranger. But surely nothing could happen to her in a respectable inn. She was depressed and anxious. Her future was uncertain and far from bright. There could be no harm in talking for a little while. The gentleman did not seem to be of an encroaching disposition—indeed he was plainly poised on the edge of departure. It might be that listening to the recital of his difficulties would help her, briefly, to forget her own.

  Being herself of a forthright disposition, she said lightly, “Where, then, do you place me in the social scale? And what is the position for which my speech and my appearance render me ineligible?”

  Cool hazel eyes scanned her thoughtfully. Yet the frank appraisal was not offensive—and she had asked him. She sustained it with composure.

  “I place you as a gently-bred, well-educated female of independent mind, a little past her first youth,” he told her coolly. “I would suspect that you earn your bread as a companion or a governess—probably the latter, since you are rather young for the other post.”

  It was extremely reprehensible, but Miss Ann Beverley badly wanted to laugh. Fortunately the remark about her age rankled sufficiently to enable her to keep her countenance. She curtsied slightly. “You are percipient, sir. And I am four and twenty. Pray tell me more of the paragon you seek.”

  “I fear she has no existence outside my hopeful dreams,” he said, shaking his head regretfully but matching her own light tone. “My housekeeper, though quite indomitable, is too frail for the perpetual drudgery of a primitive farmhouse. But whoever undertakes to relieve her of the heavier work must also manage to persuade her that she is still quite indispensable and submit patiently to her occasional crotchets. Just in case this is not asking enough, there is also my small brother who stands in sore need of companionship, correction and instruction, not to mention the whole time services of a guardian angel with sufficient foresight to outpace his ingenious brain. Show me a woman willing to undertake such a labour and I will tell you that her price is above rubies. Or, to descend from the poetic to the practical, that she should command a handsome salary and be given every possible comfort and assistance with her formidable task. I, on the
other hand, can offer a beggarly twenty five pounds a year, the help of two young maids, willing enough but wholly untrained, and no modern comforts whatsoever. Do you wonder that I doubt the possibility of the lady’s existence?”

  Ann Beverly was staring at him in growing astonishment. During the past five years she had held a number of posts and had been interviewed by many different types of employer, but this was the first time that she had heard anyone express concern for the difficulties which the applicant might encounter. These were always minimized. Spoiled children were described as ‘so high spirited’; selfish, tyrannical females who enjoyed ill-health simply for lack of better distraction, became ‘martyrs to migraine’—or whatever complaint they had elected—‘so brave, so patient’. One was expected to feel that it was a privilege to serve these rare spirits in return for the merest pittance. To hear someone openly proclaim that the post he was offering was no sinecure certainly compelled the attention. It even invited further investigation.

  “And a well-educated young woman, no longer in her first youth, is not suited to such a position?” she enquired mischievously—indeed rather rashly on such brief acquaintance.

  He had the grace to look slightly ashamed. “I should apologize for my extremely personal remarks, ma’am,” he said stiffly. “Ruralizing has done nothing for my manners. As for suitability—you may well be an excellent governess. You will forgive me if I leg leave to question your domestic capabilities. You have not exactly the appearance of one accustomed to manage economically for a hungry household in humble circumstances.”

  That was a compliment worth having, thought Ann, well-pleased, because it was quite unwitting. He was not to know that her scrupulously neat travelling dress owed its fashionable appearance to her own clever fingers. She said cheerfully, “Now there, sir, you are sadly mistaken. I may have had the advantage of a good education, but I fear I am not a very successful governess. My domestic capabilities, on the other hand, are of a very high order. Upon leaving school I was obliged for some time to keep house for my step-father. His notions of holding household were nip-cheese if not downright miserly. I learned to market, to wash and mend, brew and bake, to preserve fruit and game in season—oh—all the attributes that go to the making of a good housekeeper, with every farthing accounted for and not so much as a crust wasted. Which just shows that you should never judge by appearances, doesn’t it? Still—I wish you well in your search, and I hope you find your paragon.”