by Mira Stables
“I think I might have accepted the suggestion of running the household,” she said thoughtfully. “I am not bookish, so such a position as Barbara’s would not have done for me. Such talents as I have are domestic. I enjoy keeping a home clean and comfortable, and I like cooking. However the question did not really arise, because for no consideration would I have consented to change my name. I loved my father dearly and I am proud to be his daughter. Beverleys have always taken their share of working and fighting when it was needed. There was a Beverley at Agincourt and another at Marston Moor. And if they never achieved fame or wealth, they were respected, even honoured, by those with whom they had shared the burden of the day. If ever I marry”—she broke off and twinkled at him mischievously—“and despite Papa Fortune’s gloomy prognostications I am not yet at my last prayers—I shall change my name for that of a man whom I can love and honour as I loved and honoured my father. I would never do it for money.” And then as though already regretting that she had revealed so much of her heart, she said lightly, “Besides—just think how dreadful it would be to go through life greeted everywhere as ‘Miss Fortune’.”
He laughed. “Yes. I see. I confess I had not thought of that aspect of the case. So you parted company?”
“We did. But if you imagine that he thrust me out of doors forthwith, you do him an injustice.” The voice was so cool, so impersonal, that it was difficult to assess her feelings, save by the obvious effort that she made to mask them. “Luckily, since Mama’s housekeeper had just left, announcing that it was only devotion to her poor lady that had kept her there so long, I was not actually an object of charity but was able to make myself useful. And before a new one had been engaged a friend of Mama’s had found me a post with her mama—a dear soul, but sadly crippled with rheumatism. There”—the steady voice faltered momentarily—“I was very comfortably placed for close on two years, until Mrs. Langholme died.”
He could well imagine the weariness, the frustration, of this eager young creature, bound in servitude to a frail old lady, be she never so kind. Indeed, the kinder she was, the more exacting the service.
“Since then I have had a number of posts. But nowhere”—the voice was quietly intent—“have I been so happy as at High Garth. So you can imagine my distress at the thought of leaving. Perhaps that will suffice to excuse the unmerited insults that I flung at you,” she ended, a little shyly.
He smiled. “Not wholly unmerited. Though I hope I am not cruel. The fault lay in my pride. I am very well aware that the hospitality of High Garth is not of the standard that I would choose to offer to a lady; and the thought that curiosity alone had brought you here and that you were just amusing yourself was enough to touch off my temper.”
Ann held out hands that bore one or two burn scars and sundry other marks of toil. “Amusing myself?” she said ruefully.
“But you said you were happy here,” he reminded her briskly. “And those are honourable scars that a Beverley may be proud to bear.”
She laughed at that, and said that no one, Beverley or not, could be proud of the amount of work that she had done that morning. Philip would be thinking that he had been granted a holiday.
“Which reminds me that you have had no holiday at all since you came to us,” commented Patrick. “I daresay Mr. Fortune’s many minions are much better served. But it is difficult in a place like this. What can you do with a holiday, even if you are granted one?”
Ann was wondering if this was the time to drop a hint that she would like a holiday in September when he went on diffidently, “Would you care to come for a picnic with Philip and me? It is his birthday at the end of July, you know, and he is demanding a riding picnic. I’m not quite sure where he wants to go. Not too far, obviously, though his horsemanship is progressing apace. Since the provision of suitable food will fall upon you, it seems only fair that you should share the treat. If you would care for it,” he added with meticulous politeness, and then grinned disarmingly. “Or even regard it as a treat. He’ll almost certainly choose to go poking about in one of the caves with which this countryside is so liberally furnished, and that may not be at all to your taste.”
“Not really,” she admitted ruefully. “I was once taken to see some caves near my father’s home in Somerset. They are quite famous, I believe, and everyone exclaimed over their beauty, but I, I confess, was frightened. I didn’t like to feel shut in, and I was terrified that the guide’s lantern would go out. But I was very young,” she excused, “no older than Philip. And I expect small boys are braver.”
“He’s plucky enough,” agreed Philip’s brother, “and heedless with it. But I rather think it is the lure of gold that draws him to the caves.”
Her brows lifted in enquiry.
“Legend has it that a band of Jews fleeing from York during one of the massacres that afflicted that unhappy race in mediaeval times, made their way to this part of the world and took shelter in some unidentified cavern. During the reign of King John, the story goes, which is probably why Jingling John’s cave is a favourite hunting ground. Yorda’s is another, though in that case I rather fancy that the mythical treasure is a Viking hoard. Whichever version you prefer, the story goes on that the refugees brought with them great treasure in gold and jewels, though why any one should suppose that the treasure is still in the caves—even if the rest of the tale is true—is more than I can well understand. However, Philip believes it implicitly, and has taken the happy notion that if only he could stumble upon the hidden gold, the fortunes of the Delvercourts would be re-established. Hence his passion for exploring the caves. But since many of them are dangerous he is not allowed to go there alone. This birthday expedition will give him a long awaited opportunity.”
“Well, I shall certainly leave the exploration to the gentlemen of the party,” decided Ann firmly. “I am sure the proper feminine role is the preparation of lunch for the hungry adventurers upon their return. And I feel sure we should build a fireplace and light a real fire, even if we only toast bread and bacon.”
“An excellent notion,” approved her employer heartily. “I begin to think I shall enjoy this expedition as much as Philip.”
In this boyish mood he seemed so genial, so approachable, that perhaps it was, after all, the right time to mention Barbara’s wedding, even though it was still three months away. Though how she would pacify Barbara if he made difficulties, she couldn’t imagine.
Nor need she have troubled her head. Of course she must see her sister married he said, almost reproachfully, and then enquired with unfeigned interest as to the exact situation of Mickleford Hall and its distance from Lancaster. His solicitude made her feel quite guilty. He must not trouble himself about her travelling arrangements, she stammered. The Broughtons were to send a carriage for her, if she could get leave of absence. The road was good as far as Dent Town, and she need take very little luggage. If the season was dry and the roads good, she need be away no more than a week.
“Splendid,” pronounced her employer cordially. “And pray don’t make so much of the trouble you are causing. In truth there is no trouble about escorting you to Dent. September is our quiet season—if the weather has been kind and we are not still struggling to salvage the remains of the hay crop. But honesty compels me to admit that it is your return, rather than your departure, that concerns me. You speak of a week. I will be more generous and suggest two. But you won’t succumb to the lure of Lancashire, will you, Miss Beverley? You will come back? For High Garth would miss you sorely.”
Chapter Eight
It was an odd ending to an interview that had begun with a threat of summary dismissal. It sent Ann hastening back to her neglected duties with a light heart. Patrick, declaring that it was too late now to begin lessons, swept Philip off with him to watch the preparations for haytime. There were scythes to be sharpened—a skilled job this, since each blade must be replaced at exactly the right angle for its owner and the handles adjusted for his height and swing. The rakes
must be examined for loose teeth and plunged into cold water to swell the wood, and then there was the hay rack to be fitted to the cart, though that would not be needed for a day or two yet.
There was still an hour before Ann need begin preparations for the mid-day meal. She started damping down a pile of linen that awaited ironing. Janet, placidly darning stockings in the sunny window, said, “What was to do, then? Mr. Patrick seemed fair hackled about something.”
During the weeks of working together, confidence and affection between the old housekeeper and the new had grown steadily. And Ann, like Janet herself, was not one for making mysteries where there was no need. She poured out the tale of the confrontation in the parlour readily enough, saying little of the encouragement bestowed upon her at its close, but elaborating on her sentiments at the prospect of dismissal.
“He’d have done it, too,” nodded Janet. “I don’t say he’d have sent you off with Will—that was just his temper riding him—but off you would have gone if you couldn’t have explained things to his satisfaction. If he couldn’t have escorted you himself he’d have got young Robert. Never one to brook defiance wasn’t Master Patrick.”
“It was mostly my own fault,” admitted Ann. “I’ve got a temper, too. And you were cross with me last night, weren’t you? I never thought of Meg and Jenny being serious about going into service in London. Goodness! If only they knew how much better off they are here.”
“All young things are the same,” said Janet comfortably. “You might think London was proper Paradise, pearly gates and all, the way they keep on about it. So don’t you take on. What you said afterwards, once I’d dropped you a hint was just right. No use warning headstrong lasses of temptation and danger. They’d only think that it made it more exciting. As for Mr. Patrick you must make allowance for him. He’s learned to distrust females who care only for money and novelty. One can’t say Miss Errol jilted him, because the betrothal had never been puffed off in the papers, but everyone knew there was an understanding between them. Only it was the Court she wanted. Far too fine and daintified for a hill farm. He’s a sight better off without her—an expensive, spoiled, frivolous flirt.”
In her absorption Ann sprinkled a pillow case much too liberally. This was the first time she had heard mention of romance in Mr. Delvercourt’s past. She waited hopefully. Janet talked if she felt like it. Questioned, she closed up like a clam.
Presently the old woman said slowly, “I’d not have minded so much if she’d worn the willow for him. Just for a little while—for decency’s sake. Maybe she wasn’t to blame for admitting that she couldn’t face a life of hardship such as she’d never been bred to. But she married less than a year after she found out how matters stood—and persuaded her husband to take a lease of the Court, so that she could queen it there as she’d always wished. Small good she got of it. The decent families held by Mr. Patrick. Naturally. There’d been Delvercourts in these parts time out of mind. Came over with Norman William did the founder of the line, so Mr. Patrick says. And a gallowsripe rogue he was, by all accounts. None of your noble lords but a tough captain of men-at-arms. And the name was D’Elvas. ’Twasn’t for nigh on four hundred years, when the Court was just a-building, that the name and the house got mixed together and one of the family got into the history books in Queen Elizabeth’s day as Jonathan Delvercourt. And the less said about him the better. Lucky not to end on Tower Hill. But they’ve mostly been good landlords and good neighbours, till Mr. Henry went railway mad. As for the Conroys—Miss Errol married a Conroy—talk about the cold shoulder! They didn’t stay above three months. Then they were off to Town with a lot of fine talk about the Season and parties and being buried alive in the country. They’ve been back a time or two since, but never for long, and tucked away up here as we are, most times we don’t get to hear of their coming till they’re off again. Happen it’s as well.”
Ann considered this judicially. “I should think such callous behaviour would have cured him of his penchant for that particular female,” she offered. “You said he’d learn to distrust the type—and in any case she’s married.”
Janet smiled indulgently. “Easy to see you’ve never been in love, my lassie. His mind has learned to distrust her. But if he should be thrown into her company again—married or not! He’d never behave dishonourable, but she’s so sweetly pretty. Small and dainty, golden curls and big blue eyes. Just like those china shepherdesses. And a confiding little way with her that made even me feel that I was big and strong and ought to look after her, so dear alone knows what it did to the men. It’s not so easy to put that sort out of your heart, whatever common sense may say.”
Ann looked rueful. “It really isn’t fair, is it?” she said. “Barbie is just such another. She looks so small and feminine and helpless. If ever she’s in a hobble there’s always some eager gentleman ready to leap to her aid. And actually she’s every bit as tough and capable as I am. As for falling in love, it’s just as well I haven’t. I’d have come home by weeping cross. It was plain to be seen when Mama took Barbie and me to parties. She was a regular honey-pot. I was considered sensible and conversible and given a middle-aged gentleman of sober mind for my dinner partner. It was quite unnecessary for Papa Fortune to point out that my chances in the Matrimonial Stakes were poor. I was already aware. But at least I am free to choose where I will work—and for whom!”
Brave words. But Janet guessed at the sore heart, the tear-wet pillows, when a much younger Ann had felt herself pitifully inadequate beside her pretty sister. It said a good deal for her sweetness of disposition that the experience had in no way lessened the affection in which she held that sister.
“Aye!” she admitted. “You’re over tall for most men’s liking, I can see that. But your face is bonnie enough, if only you’d stop wearing those caps that hide every scrap of your hair and make you look every day of thirty.”
Ann laughed. “I’ll discard them when I go to Mickleford to Barbie’s wedding,” she promised. “Maybe I’ll find myself a handsome beau who’ll come acourting into Deepdale. The caps are mostly laziness you know. I wore them at first because they did make me look older—more like a respectable housekeeper. Then I discovered that I could abandon formal hair dressing and just plait my hair and pin it up under them, which saves ages in the mornings when there’s so much to do.”
She put the basket of linen aside for later ironing and began to mix some pastry. Janet fell silent. She was sadly disappointed, poor Janet. Almost from the first she had sensed that Miss Ann was as much out of place in a farm kitchen as Mr. Patrick himself. Her speech, her gentle ways, her fine underlinen, all gave Janet food for much speculation. Childhood has no monopoly of dreams. Like young Philip, Janet, too, dreamed of the resurgence of the Delvercourts. The prospect of her adored Mr. Patrick spending the rest of his life at High Garth—‘scratting a living’—was not to be entertained. But unlike Philip she did not expect miracles. Janet’s dreams were founded on practical possibilities. An heiress. That was the answer. A girl with money that would bridge the gap until those dratted railways began to pay their way. And of course she would be pretty and loveable and warm-hearted. Possessed by her dream, Janet had allowed herself to weave incredible fantasies when Ann arrived. Such a romance as even her giddy-pated great-nieces would have laughed to scorn. Might not Miss Ann prove to be this much-needed heiress? To be sure it seemed odd for a young lady of fortune to work so hard and so competently. And why had she sought a position in so remote a spot? Was she, perhaps, hiding from some unwanted suitor? The victim of family persecution? It was a pity that she was not a dainty little piece like Miss Errol, the only female for whom Mr. Patrick had ever formed any sort of penchant, but that couldn’t be helped.
For Janet, who had heartily disliked Lavinia Errol, even before the débâcle that had followed Mr. Henry’s death, was beginning to love Ann Beverley, even though she was not the pretty puppet of her dreams. She was far better, vowed Janet fiercely. Sweet and sound as
a pippin. But had she any money? To Janet’s knowledgeable eye she exhibited every sign of gentle birth and an expensive education, but so did Mr. Patrick, and he had no money save what was sunk in those pesky railways.
It was a sad blow to hear, from the girl’s own lips, that she had neither fortune nor prospects. In a mood of deep dejection Janet finished the last sock and announced that she was going to pull rhubarb for the pies.
Fortunately she was allowed little time for repining over her vanished dream. Two days later, after a prolonged study of the evening sky, the appearance of the young moon and the behaviour of certain animals and birds, Jim announced at supper, “Us could put scythe in tomorrow, master, if so be as you think fit.”
Patrick tilted his head enquiringly towards the old man. “How long do you think it’ll hold?”
“Three days for sure. Mebbe longer—even a week,” opined Jim. “Might be heavy dew first thing, but it’ll dry out quick enough. Be a right scorcher by noon.”
All round the table faces brightened. Hay-time was hard work—but it was different. Apart from absolute essentials, ordinary routine went by the board. The women would spend most of the first day preparing food that could be carried to the fields, but after that they, too, would help in the strawing and turning, raking the hay into wind-rows and then into haycocks, ready for carrying. There would be sore hands and stiff muscles, but so long as the weather held good there would also be something of the atmosphere of a picnic.
“We’ll start on the four-acre,” decided Patrick. “Might as well make sure of the best. It’s done well this year—heaviest crop we’ve had. Take a bit of drying.”
Will nodded agreement. “Plenty o’ work for you lasses,” he grinned at the twins. “Need turning a time or two, that lot will.” And the girls groaned and pretended dismay, which sorted ill with their laughing eyes.
It seemed to Ann that the moment had come to make a bid for her own share in the enterprise. “With three of us, it won’t be so bad,” she said, cheerfully casual.
