She stopped dead for a moment, her mouth open to call as she looked through the freckled light at the outline of the man sitting with his back to the far side of the trunk. She had never before known William to sit like that; he would always be on the watch, and would come hurrying to meet her.
She forced herself to walk slowly through the trees, but even so her footsteps were audible as they crunched the dried leaves and undergrowth. When the figure on the ground made no move she screwed up her eyes against the light. Then her hand came up sharply and pressed against her mouth; she was staring at the man’s boots. They weren’t William’s boots, highly polished and reaching almost to his knees, they were big ugly working men’s boots.
She couldn’t see the upper body or the face of their owner. She stood perfectly still now wondering if she could make her escape without disturbing him, but apparently not, for the figure sitting on the ground moved, and when the head was turned towards her she made to run, but in turning stumbIed and only saved herself from falling.
The man was on his feet now, but with the light in her eyes she couldn’t define whether he was really man or boy; then he moved away from the tree and came slowly towards her, but stopped within two yards distance of her.
‘Hello,’ he said.
Some seconds passed, during which the fear in her subsided and she managed to answer in the same vein. ‘Hello,’ she answered. ‘It’s very windy today.’
‘Aye, yes it is. You taking a walk…?’
‘Yes.’
‘Aye, I thought you were.’
What a strange young man, and he was a young man, and so odd looking. Well, not really odd; but his hair was unusually fair, and thick; and stranger still, he wore neither hat nor cap on it. And he should have worn a cap, being an ordinary working man by the sound of him. She noticed too that he had freckles right across the upper part of his face, and she was relieved to note that his mouth looked kindly.
As her fear of him subsided her impatience grew. Why didn’t he go about his business? William was likely somewhere in the vicinity waiting for him to take his departure.
He now turned from her and went back towards the oak tree, and her face stretched in surprise when, his head to one side, he said over his shoulder, ‘You’re one of the lasses from The Habitation, aren’t you?’
When she thought about it later it shouldn’t have surprised her that anybody knew that she was ‘one of the lasses from The Habitation’, except that she had never seen the young man before.
‘How do you know that?’
‘Oh, I go past your place pretty often, me da and me. We’re drovers, we cut across that way when bringing the sheep from the hills over yonder.’ His head moved slowly back on his shoulders. ‘I was past there yesterda’. ’Twas late on, mind, being market day in Hexham. You’ve never seen me afore, have you?’
‘No, no, I haven’t.’ As she spoke she walked forward into the open and glanced about her. William would never show himself, as long as this young man remained here. Oh, she wished he would go about his business.
‘I’ve seen you many’s the times.’
‘You have?’ She looked at him again. He was quite pleasant to look at, not very tall but thin and straight, and rather arresting because of his hair.
‘It’s funny you know, folks can live cheek by jowl most of their lives and never clap eyes one on t’other. Our place is not four miles as the crow flies from your house yet you’ve never caught sight of me.’
He was a strange young man, a very strange young man. ‘No, no, I haven’t.’ Again she looked about her.
‘Look, come on along o’ me for a minute up to the rise an’ I’ll show you how near our place is to yours.’
‘I’m…I’m sorry.’ She half turned from him, about to go back through the copse, but his voice stopped her, not so much by what it said, but by it’s tone. It was soft, very quiet, it was as if he were talking to a sick or frightened person in an effort to soothe them. ‘Now don’t be afraid of me, I mean you no harm. No, never that. But you’re out for a walk, so come on, walk along o’ me up the rise. Come on—’ he made a small motion with his hand—‘you can keep your distance, only walk up the rise with me.’
Her head turned towards him, her eyes fixed on his, she found herself walking across the open land, then up the hill. It was a steep hill and she slipped once or twice, but he didn’t put his hand out to save her falling. Then they were standing on the top. He didn’t look at her now as he spoke but swept one arm wide as he exclaimed ‘Did you ever see anything like it? A finer view? It’s a bonny place this, wild at times, creepy like at others, but always bonny. Look, follow me finger. You see over there, like a thread of light? Well, that’s the river scurrying itsel’ towards Newcastle. Now take your eye to the side a bit, to the left side, you see that bump? Well, it’s more than a bump, it’s a goodly hill, and it’s got some white specks on top of it. You see them? Well, that’s our house, an’ the shippens an’ outbuildings.’
She looked at the white specks; then she looked at him, and he was saying now, ‘It seems a long way off but it’s only four miles as the crow flies from door to door, I should say. But our doors are different, ’cos the river’lI never reach our door. Me great-granda was wise to the river an’ all it can do so he built high on a hilltop.’
Her face was straight. For the moment she thought of Martha Mary and what her answer would be to that, for he was implying that their forbears had been stupid in building low down in the valley. But now he was compensating apparently for this tactlessness for he was going on.
‘But mind, you’ve got one advantage and it’s a big one, you’re sheltered down there. Of course you’ve got to risk floodin’, but that doesn’t happen but now an’ again, where us! Oh, Windy Nook isn’t in it. We wonder many times how the house holds to the ground, but it does. Stone it’s made of, stones from the Roman Wall; oh aye, as me da says, we live plumb in the middle of history.’
He was a strange young man, very strange.
‘Well then, now you’ve seen our place, you’d better be gettin’ back then, hadn’t you?’ He turned from her abruptly and began to descend the hill, and she followed at some distance.
He made no further comment until they were approaching the tree, when, looking at her, he said flatly, ‘My name’s Robson, Robert Robson, but I’m mostly known as Robbie. An’ your name’s Miss Nancy Crawford.’ He nodded his head sideways at her. ‘You see, I know what you’re called. An’ you’ve got one sister Martha an’ another Mildred, an’ you buried old Dilly Thompson not long ago. You see’—he was bending towards her, laughing now—‘I know all about you.’
For a moment she now experienced an acute fear of him. Why was he talking like this? What was his intention? She had heard of young ladies being attacked on the highway, and not so long ago either; but then, of course, they had been in coaches and it was mostly one or two desperate pitmen, on strike, who had been driven to robbery.
They were standing one each side of the tree now facing each other. She had the feeling that William was somewhere close at hand watching them, waiting impatiently for the intruder to take his departure. But now the young man dispelled this feeling for he was saying something that again brought her fingers to her lips. His eyes were turned from hers, his head slightly bent while he spoke, saying, ‘There was a young gentleman here an hour or so ago, he left you something in the tree trunk.’
She could not close her mouth. This man, this person, had been spying on her, on them. She knew instinctively that this was not the first time he himself had viewed their meeting at this particular place, and likely he knew all about the previous letters that had been left in the hollow between the branches and which she had to stretch hard to reach into. And did he also know where she buried her letters? No. No. Oh no. She was burning with humiliation; her face was afire.
He was looking at her again, saying stiffly now, ‘It’s all right, ’tisn’t what you’re thinkin’. I wasn’t spy
ing, I’ve come to the rowan ring ever since I could walk this far. Me da brought me first ’cos the outcrops had power to heal warts. You spit on the wart, rub it on the outcrop three times, then walk away and don’t look back and the wart goes, and it does. So, so you see you’re not the only one who uses the place. That’s what I’m tryin’ to say. An’ I just happened to see you and him, but I didn’t spy. I’m no spyer; I’ve got enough in me head to keep me occupied without doin’ a peepin’ Tom, but I can say this, an’ in truth, that I come here more often then either of you do.’
Her fingers were going through her hair now, and it seemed to bring home to her that she was without a head covering. Almost snatching at her hood, she pulled it forward; then taking her eyes from him she looked towards the tree.
He, too, turned and looked at the tree; then moving towards it he reached up, put his hand into the hollow and, turning towards her, held out the letter.
She looked at it. She wanted to snatch it away from the broken-nailed fingers, from the rough-looking hard-skin hand; but she made no move towards it.
‘Here, take it.’
She took it, but did not look down at it but straight into his face, asking herself should she beg him not to mention what he knew of her meetings with William, for if he knew all about her and her family, then he certainly knew the name of the man she was meeting, for the Hall lay not two miles from where he said his home was.
As if reading her thoughts, he broke into them saying gruffly, ‘You needn’t be afeared of me an’ what I might say; I mind me own business, and let others get on with theirs. We’re like that, we Robsons; we’re not scum. We never have been. Drovers aye; but that’s only now; me granda was a farmer with his own acreage until they started the enclosure business, an’ like many another he was wiped out. The big pots, they never have enough, they must grab. An’ why do they grab? ’Cos they’re afeared, that’s why. An’ why are they more afeared than we are? Why? ’Cos they’ve got more to lose. That’s why. Anyway, that’s another subject altogether; I just want you to know you can go back with an easy mind.’
The wind seemed to have fallen, died away altogether, so quiet was the space between them, and all around, and she broke into it, saying haltingly, ‘Thank you. Thank you very much. You’re…you’re very understanding. Now I must say good day.’ She swallowed, made a motion with her head, then again said, ‘Good day,’ and turned from him.
She had gone about half a dozen steps when he spoke again, not wishing her good day but saying, ‘If ever you want any help, a service done, I’d be pleased to give it, very willin’.’
She half turned towards him, and as she looked at him she couldn’t believe he was real. The whole scene appeared now as if she were dreaming it, his great mass of fair hair, his thin freckled face, his voice that of the common man yet the substance of his talk not common at all.
‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome.’
She was walking away again, and when she had passed beyond the far boulders she did not run, nor did she open the letter that she still held in her hand. She didn’t open it until she was nearing the wood that led down to the river.
Leaning, as if exhausted, against a tree trunk, she hastily split open the envelope and read:
‘My dear Nancy,
I am so sorry I shall be unable to see you during my present visit home; circumstances are such that I must pay a visit abroad. Nor do I expect to be home for the summer term. Nevertheless, I shall be thinking of you. I must say that I shall always think of you no matter what happens, and I thank you from my heart for all the pleasure you have afforded me in the past. Please think of me kindly.
Ever your true friend,
William.
Her mouth was agape again, the back of her head touching the trunk, her eyes gazing upwards into the branches, while her hands hung by her sides, the letter dropping from the fingers of one hand.
No! No! She couldn’t believe it. She wouldn’t believe it. She was no fool, she wasn’t such a silly young girl that she didn’t know that this was a dismissal, a polite goodbye. No, he couldn’t do this. He mustn’t do this. She must see him.
‘Lady Brockdean’s visitor is a young French lady.’ She could hear Mildred’s voice as she chattered away last night. ‘She’s not beautiful, but very smart. Oh, really elegant. Her suit was edged with fur, and she wore a fur hat, and she spoke English very well, but quaintly. They were all very merry, Miss Rosalind, William, and her.’
They were all very merry. They were all very merry. They were all very merry.
No! No! William, you mustn’t do this. You promised. You promised, since you first kissed me when I was but fourteen. You always said one day we should marry.
She swung round and pressed her face tight against the bark of the tree while her arms encircled it, and she prayed, ‘Oh, Lord, Lord, don’t let it happen. I won’t be able to live, I won’t be able to bear it. Please Lord, there’ll only ever be William. If I don’t marry William I’ll marry no-one…I’ll be like Aunt Sophie…’
As if the tree had spoken the last words she sprang back from it, then beat her fists against it, crying at it, ‘No! no! I won’t, I can’t, I can’t be like Aunt Sophie.’ And she continued to batter her fists against the trunk until suddenly, all strength leaving her body, she slumped and slid down to the foot of the tree and, her face buried in her hands, she rocked herself while the tears flowed through her fingers …
It was some time later, the spasm over, she was leaning sidewards against the trunk gasping when of a sudden she turned about and looked back over the way she had come. For a moment she had the idea that that young man was somewhere in the trees watching her. Although she could see no-one, she dragged herself hastily to her feet and began to walk homewards.
She did not run but all along the way she cried, a slow quiet painful crying, the while telling herself that this wasn’t the end, it couldn’t be the end. She would write to him, write to him openly the minute she reached home, and she would catch the carrier cart on its return to Hexham, and the driver would post the letter for her; she would ask him to do it immediately he reached the town, and it would be delivered at the Hall tomorrow. In it she would ask him, beg him, to come and see her before he took his leave. And he must come. She must look on him again, touch his face, feel his arms about her, and when they were close he could not but help continue their association.
It was when she came in sight of the house that she stopped. If Martha Mary saw her in such distress she’d want an explanation. What could she tell her? The truth? Oh no. Yet she couldn’t bear to suffer this alone. Yet she would be alone, she’d always be alone if William went out of her life, and she would pine, pine away and die…Martha Mary would have to know.
But first she must write that letter and to do so she must get into the house without anyone seeing her. She would let herself in by the drawing room window; she knew how to lift the latch from the outside. Martha Mary would be in the kitchen at this time of day; if not, she would be attending to Aunt Sophie. There were writing materials in the drawing room; she would write the letter there, then slip out again …
Nancy had been right about one thing. Martha had been watching her. She had watched both her departure and her return. She had seen her go round to the side of the house, and she had heard the window creak below.
She now held her head to the side listening for the drawing room door to open and for the soft padding of footsteps on the stairs, because it was evident Nancy wanted to get to her room without being seen; but when she heard no such sounds she looked down towards the floor puzzled.
She went quickly out of the bedroom, across the landing and down the stairs, then walked softly towards the drawing room door and paused a moment before opening it.
Nancy was seated at the escritoire. She didn’t swing round in a startled fashion but she put both hands over the paper on the desk before turning her head slowly and looking down the room.
; ‘What is it, dear?’ Martha Mary was standing at her side bending over her, looking down on her bowed head. ‘Tell me, come.’ And she took her by the shoulders and turned her about. ‘You can tell me. Anyway, I think I know.’
Nancy raised her face upwards. The tears were raining down her cheeks again and she stammered ‘Ab…about William?’
‘Yes, about William.’
‘Oh! Martha Mary.’ Her head was buried against Martha’s waist now, and Martha’s arms were about her holding her tight.
As Martha stroked the tousled brown hair she looked towards the window. How simple they all were, how trusting, even Mildred, for from her chatter last night she was still of the opinion that Lady Brockdean had an interest in her. When she realised that it was condescension, at best mere politeness on a lady’s part, would her hurt be comparable with Nancy’s? Well, it all depended on what value you put on your desires.
She pressed Nancy gently from her now, and taking a handkerchief she wiped her face, saying, ‘There now, there now; no more, or else you’ll be ill.’
‘I feel ill now, Martha Mary.’
‘I know you do, dear. I know you do.’
‘I love him.’
To this Martha wanted to say, ‘You imagine you do, you’re so young’; but what she said was, ‘This will pass, dear. I promise you this will pass. And you’ve only known him for a short duration…’
‘No, no—’ Nancy was shaking her head vigorously now—‘that isn’t true. I’ve known him for years.’
‘Well yes, of course, I know that, dear, but not on—’ she had to force herself, to end, ‘familiar terms.’
Miss Martha Mary Crawford Page 19
