High Garth

by Mira Stables

  There was silence. But at least the remark had not brought forth an immediate veto, though Will was looking dubious and Jim was slowly shaking his head.

  Patrick said politely, “Every pair of hands is useful at hay-time. It is very good of you to offer your help. But it is hard work in the heat of the day, and you are not accustomed as we are. Would you not be more comfortable in the coolness of the house?”

  Since his recent encounter with this single-minded damsel, he had handled her with circumspection, but in this case it served him ill. Had he said that he thought she would be better employed in the kitchen, she would have accepted the decision, albeit reluctantly, as an order. Tricked out as it was with courtesy and consideration, she felt that she might rightly contest it.

  “The domestic arrangements will not suffer,” she told him swiftly, casting him into some confusion since he had intended no such aspersion. “As for coolness indoors—you should have been here yesterday when we had been baking all day. I’ll warrant it was hotter than any hay-field.” Having demolished his argument before he had time to recover she went on more slowly, “Please let me help when I can spare the time. I promise that I will not neglect my other tasks. The thing is, you see, that my stepfather never would agree to my helping in the harvest fields and I did so wish to. He saw nothing demeaning in my learning to milk and churn and scrub the dairy shelves, but he would not have me, as he phrased it, ‘hob-nobbing with common labourers’. But here it’s different.” For the first time she sounded a little shy. “Here we’re—a kind of family, aren’t we? So—please let me do my share.”

  Patrick admitted defeat. It was plain that Will and Jim who might have supported him, had been disarmed by the innocent compliment. And when Janet, too, went over to the enemy, there was no more to be said. “She’ll have an hour or two to spare, with no lessons to see to,” pronounced Janet, “and that’ll be plenty for a start. Don’t let her do too much, Mr. Patrick. No use knocking yourself up, Miss Ann, and no one with the time to wait on a sick room. What’s more you’ll need something cooler than that gown you’re wearing, and a sun-bonnet. Those caps of yours won’t do. Something to shade your face and the back of your neck is what’s needed. I daresay I can find one that will serve.”

  Ann, feeling about seven years old as everyone nodded endorsement of Janet’s remarks, accepted the offer gratefully and, on the plea of putting Philip to bed, quietly effaced herself before anyone could think of further advice or restrictions. Patrick decided gloomily that two conniving females in one household was one more than an ordinary man could manage. Such help as Miss Beverley might give would be more than offset by the added responsibility of seeing that she didn’t overdo things. He hadn’t the heart to depress her eagerness, but she was not of the same sturdy breed as the twins and the work would be too hard for her.

  Also, in his inmost thoughts, he admitted to another reason for his reluctance to see her working in the fields. It was an absurd reason—quite out of place in a practical hard-working farmer. It was just that he did not want to see that delicate skin exposed to the ravages of wind and sun. Though he was at some pains to conceal it, Miss Beverley’s lovely purity of colouring gave him considerable pleasure. The same sort of artistic satisfaction, he assured himself, that he derived from the contemplation of beauty in any form. It would be a pity to see that perfection marred. But wilful women would have their way. He hoped that Janet’s sun-bonnet would provide adequate protection, and recalled that Miss Beverley’s charming complexion had apparently taken no hurt from the fierce Iberian sunshine, shrugged philosophically, and turned his thoughts to more profitable channels.

  The next day’s weather actually improved upon Jim’s prophecy, since there was no heavy dew to delay the start. Moreover there was a pleasant breeze which, said Will cheerfully, would dry the stuff out in no time at all. The twins, carrying down well-filled baskets to the workers at noon, came back to report good progress. More than half the field was down already. As soon as they had eaten their own dinners and washed the pots, they were to go back and start strawing.

  Ann would dearly have loved to go with them, but Janet was adamant. It was the hottest part of the day. The breeze had dropped, though it would freshen again towards evening, and strawing the fresh-cut grass was heavy work. Time enough to try out her ’prentice hand when it had dried out a bit. Better to get the milking over with a bit earlier than usual, then they could take the afternoon drinkings down to the field and stay on to help.

  However she was pleased to approve the well-worn pink dimity that the girl proposed to wear, since it was long sleeved and high to the throat, thus affording protection from the sun, and hurried off to her own room to find a sun-bonnet.

  She came back with a bonnet of dark brown linen perched on her hand, declaring that she hadn’t liked it when she bought it. “It’s a dowie sort of colour,” she complained, “but it was the only one that Bridie had left the last time she was up. And it’s the only one that’s like to fit you,” she added, eying the thick fair plaits that hung to the girl’s waist.

  While Ann stripped off her grey house gown and hurried into the pink dimity, Janet proceeded to explain about Bridie. “For you’ll be seeing her, like as not, before next month’s out. She’s a pedlar woman. Makes her way through the dales, selling her wares and buying knitted goods to sell in Kendal market. And as decent a body as ever stepped. An Irish girl she was, that married a Romany—if marriage you can call it, by their heathenish rites. Her husband was killed in a knife fight and she was left with this daughter that grew up to marry Will.”

  Ann turned and stared. She had never thought of Will as anything but a bachelor.

  “Only the girl was wild as a moor pony,” Janet went on, “neither to hold nor bind. Scarce a year wed and she was off with a soldier. That bonnet’ll never go over that quantity of hair,” she put in, as Ann pinned up the thick coils. “You’ll have to dress it different.”

  The abrupt change of subject made Ann start, so absorbedly had she been listening to the tale. “Yes. Go on,” she said, pulling the pins out of her hair. “What happened?”

  “Why—nothing. Only that it’s Will that Bridie clings to, not her own flesh and blood. Always a good flannel shirt put aside for him from her pack to keep him warm in the bitter winters. You’ll have to get her to tell your fortune. Lot o’ nonsense I daresay, but it’s queer how often she hits off the truth. Claims she has the sight, does Bridie, and her the seventh child of a seventh child. But Mr. Patrick says it’s just a mixture of shrewdness and commonsense. Did you never think to have your hair cut, Miss Ann?”

  But Ann, struggling to force the bonnet over the silver-fair plaits, said that her father had been proud of her luxuriant mane and had begged her never to succumb to the temptation of a fashionable crop.

  “Well there’s no way it’ll go under that bonnet. Here. Let me try.”

  A search in a neatly kept sewing basket produced a knot of tape. She bound a length firmly round the end of each plait and looped them up to tie again at the nape. Because of their thickness the plaits stuck out sideways with an endearingly quaint effect, but at least the bonnet would now go on.

  Satisfied that the fair skin was now protected from the sun, Janet did not stop to study the effect of her efforts. Neither did Ann, much too impatient to be on her way, save for a passing thought that she must look slightly ridiculous. She tied the bonnet strings under her chin, picked up the baskets that she had packed with such care, and with Janet carrying the jugs, set off for the four-acre meadow.

  Only as the girl set down the baskets to open the gate did Janet glance at the eager face framed in the dark brown bonnet and suddenly wonder if she had done wisely. But who could have guessed that a childish hair style and a plain brown bonnet could have effected such a transformation? Perhaps the soft rose of the dress, so different from the sober hues that the girl usually affected, was partly responsible. Janet was not given to flights of romantic fancy, but she co
uld clearly recall a picture in one of Mr. Patrick’s nursery picture books. The tale was all about a lost princess masquerading as a goose girl. Save that she carried baskets instead of herding geese, Miss Beverley might have posed for that self-same picture.

  Chapter Nine

  What Patrick thought of this sudden transformation in the appearance of his staid young housekeeper was not immediately apparent. Since early manhood he had learned to exercise rigid self control in the face of a series of disconcerting discoveries. The exercise served him well now, and the check in the smooth rhythm of his scythe passed unnoticed in the general focussing of interest on the contents of the baskets.

  No one thought it odd that he should move steadily on to the end of his swathe before joining the others, or that he should sit a little apart, slightly withdrawn from the eager chatter of the twins. Presently he was able to permit his glance to rest casually upon that slender rose-clad figure, to mark with quiet satisfaction her handling of the twins. They were a little above themselves, exclaiming over her changed appearance with a freedom that might so easily have become displeasing. Yet her innate dignity, her gentle manner, kept them from going beyond the line without quelling their exuberance too harshly.

  Patrick knew very well that he, too, had gone beyond the line. The transition from a warm liking, half amused, half respectful, to a love that he already recognized as hopeless, had happened in the blink of an eye. That it was bound to create painful problems and could only end in self denial and bitter loss, he was very well aware. But for the moment he was content to savour present happiness.

  If he was quieter than usual over supper that night, so were they all, drowsy from the long hours of toil and the heavy sweet scent of the new-mown hay, even Philip willing for once to go early to bed. Only Janet thought it strange, not to say foolish, that Master Patrick should choose tonight of all nights to stroll out after supper with a casual recommendation tossed over his shoulder that no one should wait up for him. With the prospect of unremitting labour while the weather held, he should have sought his bed like the others. Worried about money, she surmised sadly, and lay wondering where it might be possible to make further economies until she drifted into well-earned slumber.

  Despite his physical weariness, Patrick was urgent to be away from the farm with its windows like watching eyes, the gleam of a candle still showing from Ann’s room where the girl was patiently brushing out and re-braiding the silky masses of her hair. He strode down the farm track to the lane. This was high summer when the night sky was never really dark. The young moon showed only faintly against its tender blue. One bright star pricked out from a drifting veil of rosy, feathery clouds. But Patrick was in no mood to appreciate the beauties of nature. He had borne himself with dignity and reticence in the face of a shattering discovery. Now he craved only solitude in which to come to grips with his dilemma.

  He walked on down the lane, which lay in deep shadow between its high banks, until he came to a spot much beloved by Philip, where a beck cast itself over a ledge in impetuous cascade. Here he paused and leaned his weary body against a convenient tree, insensibly soothed by the water noises and the comforting dusk.

  Here was the very situation that he had dimly foreseen and feared. Love had grown within him, credibly disguised as liking, until he was suddenly shocked into recognition by the sight of a girl’s face framed in a serviceable brown bonnet. He permitted himself a brief recollection of that moment; the eager anticipation in the big brown eyes; the soft sheen on the delicate skin that he longed to touch and kiss. After their recent talk he could not help knowing that the cards were stacked in his favour. She was lonely—desperately lonely. She loved High Garth and her life there. She was fond of Janet and the girls and he thought she liked and trusted him. If he wooed her, as instinct bade, could he not teach her to love him in return? Then they could marry and live contentedly at High Garth. Let the world go by.

  The even ripple of the beck was broken as some small creature swam across. A hunting owl drifted over-head. Patrick sighed. Lavinia Errol had shown him that life was not so simple as a man might think. To be sure, Ann was no Miss Errol. But Lavinia had made it very plain that no woman of breeding could endure the hardships of a hill farm. Maybe he could coax Ann into believing the world and its comforts well lost for love. But was it fair to do so? Lavinia’s lesson had cut deep. If a man could not lap his wife in luxury, then he should not marry. Patrick dismissed the wistful dream of a woman who would be more than willing to share his fortunes and bear his children—so that she and they were his.

  With marriage ruled out of court, what was best to be done? He could not leave the farm, and Ann obviously didn’t wish to do so. Yet he did not feel he could long endure their close association without betraying himself. If that happened he would be forced to send her away—though probably she would take the initiative herself. And in the midst of his anxious deliberations he grinned wryly. At least he would not give her cause to set about him with a candlestick!

  Perhaps when she went off to her sister’s wedding she would recognize more clearly the stark nature of her present existence and would decide against returning. She might even meet some eligible gentleman who would wish to marry her. If he truly loved her, he ought to wish for something of the sort. The difficulty was that he found it impossible to visualize any imaginary suitor who could be worthy of his beloved Ann, though he found no difficulty at all in picturing the various means of dealing with this paragon if he should ever appear in the flesh.

  The activities of the next few days gave him little time for romantic yearnings. He took the risk of cutting the third meadow, leaving Jim and the girls to finish leading the first. After that it was a race between the workers and the weather. The fifth morning was grey and sultry. The sun was veiled; the little breeze had died. They were working in the last field, the furthest from the house, and here the growth was uneven because of the slope of the land. Half of it was dry enough for leading, but the thicker stuff in the bottoms still showed greenish. They worked on steadily, opening up the damp windrows, raking up the rest ready for leading, Philip proudly taking charge of Maggy, who knew a good deal more about the business than he did.

  The day became oppressively hot. They had agreed that they would not stop for a meal but would work straight through in an effort to beat the threatened storm, but Ann, going up to the house with the second load, brought back jars of nettle beer and a basket filled with generous hunks of jam pastry. She was greeted with acclaim. The sharp cool drink was very refreshing and the pasties vanished with surprising speed.

  “That was a good notion,” nodded Patrick approvingly. “We’ll work the better for it.”

  A rumble of distant thunder added point to the reminder. The workers returned to their tasks, Ann, flushed with gratification, hastily gathered up the debris of the impromptu lunch and stowed it under the hedge before joining them.

  It was three o’clock before they finished the last load and Philip, as the youngest, rode triumphantly back to the laithe on top of the swaying, bumping vehicle. By that time the thunder was close and an occasional vicious stab of lightning set the twins squealing hysterically, but blessedly the rain still held off, and they had stowed the last rakings safely on the baulks before the first heavy drops fell. The twins, who had been enviously watching Philip indulging in the age-old pastime of jumping from the baulks into the soft hay piled in the moo, and regretting that petticoats and advancing years prevented them from emulating his exploits, went scuttering up to the house, there to be scolded by Janet for leaving Miss Ann to start the milking alone.

  But even Janet’s scolding was half-hearted. No one could be out of humour on such a joyous day. The hay crop was the mainstay of the farm’s economy, and this year they had got in a bumper crop in prime condition. It was a very cheerful and extremely hungry party that presently gathered in the big kitchen. Janet had cooked supper while Ann was busy in the dairy, and in honour of the occasion she had c
ut into the last ham—there would be no more till November brought pig killing—and had heaped their plates with the pink-brown sizzling slices, helped out by potatoes baked in the embers. With rhubarb pie to follow, Patrick vowed it was a feast fit for a king, and when she triumphantly brought out a jug of cream to go with the pie there were exclamations of delight, for this was a rare treat. But then, as she pointed out, there had been no time this week for butter making.

  Will wanted to know if there was any more of ‘that there nettle beer’ and Ann, bringing out the last jug, told how she had learned to make it from the farmer’s wife on Papa Fortune’s Hertfordshire estate, who swore by it as a specific for cooling the blood. Will did not seem to be greatly concerned with this property of the beverage, but earnestly suggested that it would be a good thing if miss made a lot more of it next year, even going so far as to volunteer to cut the nettles for her, since the task must involve blistered fingers.

  Ann, tired but happy, basked contentedly in the thought that her presence at next year’s hay time was taken for granted, never dreaming that her employer, placidly supping his nettle beer, was wondering how much longer he could maintain the facade of easy camaraderie.

  The girl had pulled off her sun-bonnet, but in the press of work to be done there had been no time to change her gown or dress her hair. With the fat plaits dangling on her shoulders, a few loose tendrils waving about her temples and nape, a few tiny freckles powdering her nose, she looked young and carefree and happy, and Patrick wanted nothing so much as to take her in his arms and caress the petal skin with gentle lips, freckles and all, before he kissed the innocent mouth.

  Will, commenting approvingly on the rain, which was now “fair siling down” and the beneficial effects that this would have on the turnips and a possible second growth of “fog” in the fresh cut meadows, diverted his thoughts to more practical matters. They began to plan the work of the coming week.