High Garth

by Mira Stables

  “I was early,” he explained when she protested, “and thought to save time. And since I want to call at the smithy in Giggleswick on our way home we must not loiter. Shall we go and make sure that the porter has stowed all your belongings in the buggy? I would hate it to reach High Garth only to discover that some indispensable had been left behind.”

  They strolled out into the inn yard. The vehicle standing there had a capacious boot, which was just as well since it was already heaped with a motley collection of goods. While Mr. Delvercourt helped the porter to bestow the baggage so that the weight was evenly distributed, Ann studied the buggy with interest. It was exceedingly shabby as to paintwork and upholstery, but the harness was well-kept, and if the sturdy brown mare between the shafts laid no claim to high breeding, she looked to be in prime condition. She rolled an inquisitive eye at Ann and accepted her overtures of friendship with affable condescension.

  Mr. Delvercourt tipped the porter, the coins slipping easily from palm to palm. Ann wondered why men always seemed to perform this necessary office so easily, while females made much to-do of it. As he turned to help her up into the buggy, Mrs. Hartley came hurrying out with the second saddle bag and a caution to Mr. Delvercourt to mind and keep it the right way up. Then they were off.

  “We follow the turnpike as far as Ingleton,” explained her escort as they left the market square. “But I have to collect Philip’s pony first. I bought it at the fair yesterday—a long-standing promise—and then discovered this morning that it had a shoe loose. So I left it with the smith while I came for you. It’s only a step out of our way, and it’s a pretty village—if you’ve not had your fill of scenery these past few days.”

  He was negotiating the bridge over a swift flowing river as he spoke. Ann smiled, her gaze lifting to the blue-grey bulk of Penyghent that guarded the valley to the north. “Not of such scenery as this,” she returned. “I have seen nothing like it. For though it is wild, magnificent, it is somehow reassuring and homely too. It does not overawe the spirit as do, say, the Pyrenees.”

  He was a little surprised, not having thought so young a female, and one, moreover, in humble circumstances, would have travelled so far afield, but as they had now reached the smithy he was unable to pursue the subject. He handed her the reins and jumped down.

  The pony was hitched to a ring by the mounting block. In his thick winter coat he looked a shaggy roly-poly little creature, but he was clearly well used to being handled and made no objection to being fastened behind the buggy.

  “I’ll lead Maggy through the village,” said Mr. Delvercourt. “She’s not used to this sort of caper. Best see how she takes it.”

  Since the road went down a steep hill and turned sharply to the right, his passenger was grateful for this sensible precaution. They passed a beautiful old church and some pretty cottages, crocuses already flaunting their purple and gold in the tiny gardens, crossed a bridge over a gurgling beck, and that seemed to be about all there was of Giggleswick. Mr. Delvercourt, pointing with his whip, told her that a mile or so up that road lay Croft Closes, Mrs. Hartley’s farm.

  “She manages a farm as well as an inn?” exclaimed Ann. “And she says her husband is very much an invalid. Yet she is so friendly and so cheerful!”

  “She’s a good woman, and a brave one,” agreed Mr. Delvercourt. And then, on a lighter note, “And a heaven-sent cook. Maggy doesn’t seem to mind the pony, does she? One never knows with horses. She has the kindest disposition but she’s full of curiosity. Perhaps she has decided to postpone investigations until they meet in the seclusion of the stable.”

  It was a very mild pleasantry, but Ann giggled. It was such a perfect day, and she had nothing to do but enjoy it in sympathetic company. Mr. Delvercourt didn’t talk much. His conversation was typified by a jerk of the head and a laconic “Giggleswick Scars. Limestone quarries,” but somehow she knew that he was enjoying the sight of that impressive escarpment as much as she was.

  Soon after they rejoined the turnpike he stopped the buggy to show her a roadside well. It looked to her like a perfectly ordinary drinking trough until she noticed that the level of the water was falling. While they watched, it slowly began to rise again. Her guide told her that this was the famous Ebbing and Flowing well, and that people came from miles around to see it.

  When he had helped her back into the buggy he did not resume his own seat but handed over the reins once more. “Buckhaw Brow next,” he explained, “and a hard haul for Maggy. Let her take it gently, and I’ll walk to lighten the load.”

  Evidently his consideration for people—even people so unimportant as a housekeeper or a governess—was also extended to animals. “Could you not lead her? I would gladly walk too,” exclaimed Ann impulsively, as the curve of the road revealed the extent of the hill.

  “Best save your energies,” he smiled back at her. “Once we turn off the pike there are several places where we must walk and lead the horses. High Garth is well named. The top of the pass is some fifteen hundred feet above sea level, though the farm itself is lower.”

  Ann stared at him wide-eyed. “Goodness! Well you did tell me it was isolated but you didn’t say it was on a mountain side.”

  “It doesn’t make a great deal of difference to the working of the place,” he assured her. “Just makes it more difficult of access.” He chuckled suddenly, and turned a face alight with laughter to hers. “It is to be hoped you like your new situation, Miss Beverley, for if you don’t, you will find it extremely difficult to leave it!”

  He looked so different, so much younger, the lines of care and cynicism briefly erased by laughter, that she forgot all about their relative positions as employer and servant and yielded to the strange sweet exhilaration that filled her. “Are you suggesting that I should turn back before it is too late?” she said gaily. “I’m not so chicken hearted, I promise you. As for your mountains—I told you—they seem friendly, reassuring. They will not frighten me away.”

  His laughter faded. His voice was sober as he said. “You are seeing them in benign mood. Make no mistake, Miss Beverley, our mountains can be killers, relentless to those who treat them lightly. And there are caves and sinkholes that—But no matter for that. It need not concern us, since, while you are in my household you will not leave the valley without my knowledge and approval.”

  It was the first touch of the curb. Resentment rose within her, even while she conceded that he was concerned only for her safety. She fell silent. Mr. Delvercourt, leading his mare up Buckhaw Brow, quite unconscious that he had given offence, wondered if any other girl had ever looked so much like spring incarnate. At their first meeting he had thought her good-looking if not strictly beautiful. But he had seen her only by candle light and so he had not allowed for a skin that, in this stark, revealing sunshine, was flawless. Though little given to fanciful hyperbole he found himself thinking of the petals of a wild rose. And the eager light in the big brown eyes was delightful.

  It was a line of thought that must be sternly checked. It was the girl’s capability, her industry that mattered, not her appearance. Whenever he had looked back to that chance meeting at the Pheasant, he had felt considerable misgiving, guiltily aware that he had allowed himself to be influenced by an evening spent in congenial company—the first for many months. They had talked of books, of ideas, of new inventions and a changing world. And such talk had been to him like a cup of cool water to a man foundering in a desert. He knew that it had caused him to reverse his first judgement and to offer Miss Beverley employment. Riding home in the bleak dawn he had been amazed at his own folly. To put such a girl in a hill farm and expect her to cope with its heavy work was like putting a thoroughbred mare to the plough. He must have been mad! But he had given his word and he would stick by it.

  Now his doubts came back in full force. The position was already difficult enough. If he were to find himself physically attracted to his new housekeeper, it would become impossible. And in her neat dark green habit,
with that look of delighted anticipation on her flower-like face, she was a sight to quicken any man’s pulses.

  He climbed soberly back to his place when they reached the top of the hill and steadied the mare on the long descent in silence. But sober thoughts were alien to the glory of this perfect day. The very air was like wine. He could see his companion savouring it, almost swallowing it, in great gulps. Mr. Delvercourt yielded to temptation, decided to enjoy his exceptional holiday to the full, and put care from him.

  There were several miles of good turnpike road, and every bend revealed new and even lovlier vistas. There were early primroses peeping from the banks, a haze of greenery over the larches, and lapwings wheeling in their courtship display overhead. Maggy was well content to plod along steadily, choosing her own gait while her master answered Miss Beverley’s eager questions. He regaled her with all the theories, scientific and legendary, as to what caused the Ebbing and Flowing well to ebb and flow. He smiled at her eager exclamations for the beauty of the changing scene. Save for an occasional reminder that this was an unusually early season following upon a mild winter; that sometimes they were still snow-bound at this time of year, and that frosts could be expected as late as May, he said nothing to damp her enthusiasm. Indeed he shared it, was deeply if inarticulately proud of this country of his birth. His warnings were given only lest disappointment should follow this too perfect introduction. By the time they reached the point at which they were to leave the pike, they were getting on famously, the easy companionship into which they had fallen at their first meeting already re-established.

  The green track they were to follow branched off by Thornton church. Two horses were tethered to the stocks that stood by the church gate, and the youngster in charge of them, a tall, well-set-up lad of about nineteen or twenty, was amusing himself by sitting in that seat of sinners with out-thrust legs and folded arms. He jumped up when he saw them coming and knuckled an eyebrow to the lady. There was a brief colloquy as the saddle bags were strapped into place. Mr. Delvercourt came over to help Miss Beverley out of the buggy. “And don’t forget!” he called over his shoulder. “Put up at Crag Hill overnight if you think Maggy’s done enough. They’re half expecting you.”

  The boy nodded understanding and drove off with a twirl of his whip that made Mr. Delvercourt grin. “Young Robert Alder,” he said. “A good lad. His father is our nearest neighbour, and no man could want a better. To look at him and to hear him talk you’d think he was as dour as a January frost and closefisted to boot. But these are his horses we are riding, and offered without so much as a thought. Young Robert is his only son.” His face clouded. “There should have been another, but something went amiss. It was in the depth of winter and no one could get in or out to bring help. They both died. He had bred that mare you are riding himself—a gift for his wife. Now Robert lays claim to her and loves her dearly, but he was proud to bring her for you to ride.”

  The mare was certainly a lovely creature, far superior to the rather clumsy bay that Mr. Delvercourt was bestriding. Even without his explanation it was easy to see that she was someone’s cherished pet. She was a delightful ride and sure-footed as any mountain goat. Which was just as well, for the track, to Ann’s eyes, was appalling. Quite as bad as some she had known in Spain. It went up and up, twisted back on itself, then submitted to circumstances and climbed again. There was little opportunity for admiring the scenery, though Mr. Delvercourt did draw her attention to the majesty of Ingleborough, serenely purple-blue against the paler blue of the sky. “That’s the nearest we come to it,” he told her. “Whernside—ahead there—is a bit higher but less impressive.”

  Ann grew hot and breathless. Presently they had to dismount and lead the horses. They were very high up now. Occasionally she glanced back at the magnificent view spread behind them. Even under sunshine the dale was a savage, forbidding place, but she took comfort from the sight of the occasional solid looking farmhouse tucked away among its sheltering trees.

  Goodness but she was going to be stiff and sore tomorrow, she thought resignedly, toiling steadily upward. It was months since she had ridden, and then only a subdued livery hack in the Park. Today’s little jaunt was very different! Climbing this rough track in habit and boots wouldn’t help unaccustomed muscles, either. And to think that she had come of her own free will. “Ride the last five miles,” indeed! Did the creature call this riding? She would not be so easily cozened next time!

  She was very thankful when “the creature” finally called a halt, even though his solemn courtesy as much as the smile in his eyes betrayed the fact that he was very well aware of her feelings.

  “We’ll turn the horses loose while we eat,” he suggested. “Not that there’s much grazing for them yet. Will you see to lunch while I unsaddle? Set it out on this rock here, where the spring comes out of the hill-side. The wall will shelter us from the breeze and we shall be warm enough in the sun.”

  Ann forgot both aches and pains and indignation. This was fun. If it was months since she had ridden it was years since she had enjoyed a picnic, and as she unpacked the satchel she saw that Mrs. Hartley’s notion of proper provision for such an occasion was designed to tempt a sybarite, let alone healthy young appetites sharpened by exercise and keen moorland air. There were meat pasties, fresh baked that morning, still warm in their napkin. There were eggs boiled hard and cheese and oatcakes, sticky gingerbread and apples, as well as a bottle of lemonade and two horn drinking cups.

  Mr. Delvercourt put the bottle in the stream to cool, stretched his long length on the turf, sighed luxuriously and bit into a crisply golden pasty. They ate for a while in companionable silence. So peaceful it was that it seemed almost unreal. Ann began to count the sounds that she could hear. There was the plash of the spring, falling two or three feet into the tiny pool; the occasional sigh of the breeze and the cropping of the horses as they moved nearer; once, faintly, the distant barking of a dog. And that was all. She leaned back-against the sun-warmed rock and thought that even the small tearing sound of her teeth biting into an apple seemed loud in that utter stillness. A sensuous pleasure filled her. She might even have drifted into sleep, had not the clear bubbling call of some strange bird broken the spell.

  “Goodness! What was that?” she exclaimed, startled.

  “Curlew,” returned Mr. Delvercourt succinctly. “See—there he goes.” A large brownish bird with a long curved beak flapped slowly away down the valley. “They came early this year,” he said contentedly.

  She looked the question.

  “They winter on mud flats in estuaries,” he explained. “Their return to the moors is our first harbinger of spring.” He scrambled to his feet and went down to the stream for the lemonade. It was cold and delicious and she drank thirstily, demurring politely when he made to replenish the cup until he said that he preferred water. “Especially this water, straight from the spring,” he added, shaking the drops from his cup and handing it back to her. There was a good deal of food left. He watched her neatly re-packing the satchel with a quizzical eye.

  “And now that you have sampled our Dales’ cooking—admittedly at its best—do you still feel yourself capable of catering for a hungry household?”

  She looked up from her task indignantly, caught the teasing gleam, and said demurely, “I shall do my best to give satisfaction, sir.”

  He laughed. “I suspect that you will at least give as good as you get,” he told her, and went off to catch the horses.

  “A pity to leave this delightful spot, but I want to be back for evening milking,” he explained as he tightened the girths and secured the saddle bags. “I’ve enjoyed my holiday, but on a farm that usually means that others have been doing my work. So if you’re rested, Miss Beverley, we’ll push on. We have quite a distance to walk before it is reasonable to mount again.”

  The track had begun to descend, dropping sharply at times but eventually settling down into a sunken lane. They could ride abreast now and it was eas
ier to talk. Ann’s questions about the farm came thick and fast. Mainly sheep, he told her. They kept a few cows—there were seven at the moment—to supply their own needs and make butter and cheese for the market. Any surplus went to fatten the pigs. They grew as much hay as possible and turnips for winter feed. No. No oats nowadays. Too chancey a crop at this altitude. They might do well in a good summer, but good summers were rare. She was just going to enquire about a vegetable garden when he said quietly, “There is High Garth. You can just see the chimneys through the trees. We shall lose it again as the lane swings away, but we are nearly home.”

  The approach to the farm was a short track leading from the lane. Some attempt had been made to improve the surface by filling in the worst holes with small stones and ramming them down as smoothly as possible. Ann remembered the smooth well-kept drive at the Anstruther’s. Remembered, too, that it had been forbidden to the governess, who was expected to use the side door in her comings and goings, and reserved judgement.

  The house itself looked surprisingly commodious. It was long and low and built of local stone. They came first to a barn-like building which Mr. Delvercourt called a laithe. Adjoining this was the house itself. Ann had a brief impression of small twinkling window panes, a low stone porch sheltering the front door and a narrow strip of garden where a few crocuses and daffodils peeped bravely through a tangle of dead stuff that should have been cleared in autumn.

  “The stable is at the back,” said Mr. Delvercourt, and she followed him obediently round the end of the house into a small yard roughly paved with stone flags. As he swung down from his horse a small boy came hurtling from the back of the house and flung himself upon him.

  “Did you buy me a pony?” demanded an excited voice.