by Mary Mackie
‘Pull, damn you!’ the man snarled. ‘Pull!’
As he raised his stick again I found myself running through the gateway, crying, ‘Stop, you brute! How dare you? How dare you?’ I have seldom been so angry, or felt so impotent.
The gang-master argued and blustered but, determined to save the child, I swept all his protests aside. Seeing that the youth leading the cart was one of our own lads, I summoned him and had him lift the boy and place him on Dandy’s back. I led the horse myself, all the way back to the farm.
Carrying the child in through the side door, I gave orders for hot water to be brought and then, despite Mama’s cries of horror, I took him upstairs to the bathroom. The filthy rags all but fell from his thin body, exposing a mass of bruises and weals and scratches; the bindings on his feet covered boots several sizes too big, whose soles grinned away from the uppers. Beneath them his feet were encrusted with dirt, hard with callouses and red with chilblains.
The young maid Howlett appeared with two buckets of hot water which she added to the bath, fretting that I shouldn’t be doing it myself, that my clothes were all muddy, that I would get wet…
I suffered her to fetch me a coarse apron, but I refused to let her take over. She could help, but it was a task I needed to do myself. I kept thinking of my own child, wondering if she too would come to degradation without my care. Perhaps I was a little mad.
As the warm water soaked away the mud, the boy whimpered, but he did not cry. I was the one who wept. His hands and feet were cracked and bleeding, his body a mass of bruises and weals where I had no doubt the gang-master’s stick had landed. Even his face had not escaped; his mouth was chapped and split and under one eye the yellowing remains of a bruise showed. Seeing it, I wanted to rush out and beat the gang-master until he too was black and blue and bloody.
Later, wrapped in blankets, the boy sat in the kitchen devouring a hunk of bread and cheese, his upper lip white with cream from the fresh milk he had gulped. His clothes had been washed and now hung in front of the fire, steaming. While he ate, Mrs Benstead, the two maids and I looked on in satisfaction.
‘Though I don’t know whatever you’ll do with him, Miss Rose,’ Mrs Benstead commented, shaking her head. ‘He can’t stay here, he’ll have to go back to his family.’ Bending near the boy, she asked, ‘Is your mother with the gang, my man?’
The child glanced at her with bird-bright eyes. He shook his head, then, as if he had only just understood the question, nodded vigorously and sank his teeth into the bread, tearing off a chunk that he stuffed into his mouth with his fingers.
‘Poor mite don’t know what we’re a-sayin’,’ said Mrs Benstead, touching the child’s hair which, now that it was clean, had a soft golden tint to it, and an appealing curl. ‘Now then, my little man, what’s yore name?’
The child ignored her.
One of the row of bells on the wall – the one labelled ‘Front Door’ – jangled tunefully. Straightening her cap and apron, Swift went to answer it, while I tried to persuade the boy to speak. He was intent on wolfing down all the food Mrs Benstead could supply.
‘Begging your pardon, Miss Hamilton,’ said Swift, returning in a fluster of pink cheeks. ‘There’s a gentleman to see you. Mr Geoffrey Devlin, if you please.’
‘More trouble,’ Mrs Benstead muttered.
Despite the breathless swoop of my heart, I kept my expression neutral as I turned to the maid. ‘What does he want?’
‘He asked to see the master. When I said Mr Hamilton weren’t here, he asked to see you, miss. That’s all he said.’
‘Well, it’s most inconvenient. Tell him I’m not at home. Tell him…’ But why should I refuse to see a neighbour who had called? If I avoided him, it might cause speculation. Aware of the increased speed of my pulse, I smoothed damp palms against my skirts. ‘Oh, never mind, I’ll speak to him myself. Look after the boy.’
‘Shall I get Miss Narborough?’ Mrs Benstead asked.
‘No, don’t bother. She’s busy with Mrs Hamilton.’ Besides, the fewer witnesses to this encounter, the better. ‘Where have you put him, Swift? The drawing-room?’
‘The parlour, miss. There’s no fire in the drawing-room. You told Howlett not to light one and be wasting coals.’
‘So I did.’ But I had not been expecting company.
‘Your apron, Miss Rose!’ the call came after me.
I had forgotten about it. As I removed it, I became aware of the state of my clothes – my oldest clothes, serviceable serge crumpled and streaked with dried mud, boots and hems crusted, sleeves and bodice damp from bathing the boy. I brushed ineffectually at the marks, and, pausing by a mirror, swept back a trailing frond of hair, then snapped my hands down. Why should I care how I looked for Geoffrey Devlin? But even in the dimness of the hall, heightened colour revealed my agitation.
He was in the homely parlour, straddled on the hearthrug with his back to the fire as he gazed round the room with its round table covered in baize, a brass lamp standing at its centre. The walls were hung with oils, engravings, and a couple of calendars from merchants, and among the fine old pieces of china on the sideboard were saucers of wheat and barley samples, and ‘Prize Cattle’ cards.
On that December day, with clouds low overhead, the room was dim, the fire’s light gleaming on Geoffrey’s polished knee-boots. Elegant in riding attire, he examined every detail of my dishevelment before his dark gaze rested on my face, questioning and anxious, seeking a response.
Despite the tension inside me which squeezed my lungs and stirred each tiny hair on my skin, I believe I managed to sound uninterested. ‘Mr Devlin. Good afternoon.’
The animation in his face died as if a curtain had been drawn. He sketched me a bow, imitating my formality. ‘Miss Hamilton. Forgive me, I had hoped your father would be at home by now. I find it hard to believe that he has gone away and left you with no one in charge.’
‘I’m in charge.’
A sceptical eyebrow twitched. ‘That was the impression my father received. I told him it couldn’t be true, despite the rumours I’ve been hearing. It’s hardly the proper—’
‘I’m perfectly capable of running the farm,’ I broke in, annoyed that he should presume to criticise. ‘Was it my father you came to see?’
‘Yes. But perhaps it’s better if you answer for yourself, since you were the one who wrote the letter.’
‘Letter? Ah.’ So that was what had brought him. ‘Do you intend to repair the hedge, or must I resort to a solicitor?’
He drew his brows together, mouth set and eyes sparking as he threw out an arm in a gesture of irritation. ‘Must we p-prolong this ridiculous feud?’
‘Feud?’ I repeated.
‘What else would you call it? It has been going on for too long already. Now your ill-conceived interference has made matters worse. My father was incensed – justifiably so – by the tone of your communication. I can’t think what p-possessed you to write in such terms. What right had you—’
‘More right than your father had in coming to this house and upsetting my stepmother!’ I exclaimed. ‘Especially at this time, with my father away and all of us distressed. May I remind you it’s barely a month since we buried my brother?’
That reached him. He took a long breath, regarding me sombrely as he extended his hand in appeal. ‘I can only apologise most sincerely, and beg your indulgence. My father doesn’t always think before he acts. He’s irascible, and growing worse with the years. That’s why… This ludicrous b-business of the hedge…’
It had begun two years before: one of our trees, struck by lightning, had been left in a dangerous condition, so Father had ordered it felled. Unfortunately, the men had miscalculated and the tree had fallen into the boundary hedge, breaking down an entire section which had recently been plashed and layered at the cost of much time and trouble to Sir Arthur’s men. He, in a temper, had blamed Father for negligence, and though our men had repaired the hedge as best they could, it had not sati
sfied Sir Arthur: he chopped down their repairs, and filled the gap with wicker hurdles, which were constantly being blown down, letting animals through in one direction or another, so that continuing arguments had ensued. The damaged hedge had begun to sprout again from its roots, but it was not yet strong enough to keep out greedy sheep – as we had discovered.
‘It’s a sorry tale, don’t you agree?’ Geoffrey said. ‘Two stubborn men locking horns over a trifle. My father is the main culprit, that much I allow. But your father replies in kind, and your recent letter has only made my father angry, and even more determined not to repair the hedge.’
‘I didn’t know,’ I said.
‘No,’ he replied with a sigh, his eyes cloudy as he gazed down at me. ‘How could you?’
He was very close to me – how he had come there I do not know, for I don’t recall either of us moving, but somehow he had come very close. I could almost feel the warmth of him. His nearness reached out to encompass me, calling me to touch him, lean on him, to know again the strength of his arms. I remembered too well how his lips felt, gentle on my face, how his hands would tremble, touching me, how his body blended with mine and— No!
I jerked back violently, making him blink and frown at me. He said: ‘There’s no need for us to quarrel over it. I hope we can be friends, you and I.’
Friends. The word was meaningless. ‘Acquaintances, perhaps.’
‘Oh, Rose…’ he sighed, the message in his eyes, and the regret in his voice, raising shivers along my nerves. ‘More than that, surely. After everything that was between us…’
‘Don’t speak of it!’ Throwing my hands to cover my ears, I moved further away. ‘Don’t ever speak of it.’
‘But we must, Rose,’ he said quietly, stepping softly towards me. ‘There are so many things I want to…’
I swung round and snatched at the door, throwing it open. ‘I must ask you to leave, Mr Devlin.’
‘Rose…’ he pleaded, coming closer.
I stood frozen, my face averted, and when he reached past me to close the door I spun away, holding my skirts to avoid crowding tables and chairs as I made for the far side of the room. There I tugged on the silk rope that would ring the bell and summon the maid.
‘You’re angry with me,’ Geoffrey said. ‘Did you… d-did you have my letter? I wrote to you in Brighton. I wanted—’
‘I had it.’ My voice was flat, bitter. I couldn’t look at him.
‘I took the coward’s way,’ he confessed. ‘I know I did. But if you knew what pressures…’ The words trailed off and there was silence for a moment before he added with a sigh, ‘I won’t bore you with my troubles. But we are neighbours, Rose. We’re bound to meet. If we can at least be polite with each another…’
Regarding him from my eye corner, I said stiffly, ‘You will never have cause to reproach me for my conduct.’
He smiled a little ruefully at that. ‘And are you reproaching me for mine? Do you find it strange that I am unable to forget—’
But, whatever he had in mind, its telling was curtailed by the arrival of good-natured, incurious Swift.
‘Mr Devlin is leaving,’ I said.
‘Yes, miss.’
She bobbed a curtsey and turned to lead the way to the door. In her wake, Geoffrey exaggerated a bow that both mocked and chided me.
Then, as he started across the hall, there came a high-pitched scream, and a yelp, and a small naked body erupted from the kitchen passage, stepping on a mat that slid and spilled him, sending him tumbling headlong against Geoffrey’s legs. The impact nearly unbalanced Geoffrey.
‘What the—’ He grabbed for the naked imp, but the boy was up and darting away, colliding with a whatnot. It toppled, shedding ornaments and a big potted aspidistra that crashed deafeningly on to polished floorboards. Shards of broken pottery appeared among a mess of spilled soil. The boy dodged away, started up the stairs – and stopped when Narnie appeared at the top, demanding to know what was going on.
‘He bit me!’ Mrs Benstead announced, emerging from the passageway with the assaulted finger raised. ‘Bit me, the nasty little toe-rag! Do you come here, my man, and I’ll learn you how to bite!’
Caught between Narnie, at the top of the stairs, and Geoffrey at the bottom, the boy looked from one to the other like a trapped animal. Quick as light, he shinned up to the banister, poised there on his bare feet like an acrobat in a sideshow, and took a flying leap. He hit the floor awkwardly, a splat of flesh against board, and sat there nursing his leg, muttering obscenities that came the more shocking from one so young.
Everyone began talking at once. Geoffrey was astonished, Narnie outraged, Mrs Benstead seething. Howlett and I looked on in mute amazement as Swift bent and wrapped the struggling boy in her apron, carrying him away to the kitchen.
‘Whatever is going on?’ Mama asked in bewilderment as she joined Narnie on the landing. ‘Oh… Mr Devlin, good afternoon to you. Is something wrong?’
‘It’s that boy,’ Narnie said, glowering down at me. ‘I knew no good would come of it, but Miss Rose has to have her way.’
‘Rose, have you offered Mr Devlin some refreshment?’ As always, Mama dealt with unpleasantness by ignoring it. She came down to join us and insisted that Geoffrey must have a cup of tea before going out again in the damp chill weather.
So we sat in the parlour by the fire, like polite company, making polite conversation over tea and the first mince pies of Christmas. I found myself recounting the tale of the urchin and how I had rescued him, while Narnie tutted her scorn from a corner behind me.
‘It was a kind impulse,’ Geoffrey said. ‘But you can’t hope to improve the boy’s lot by giving him a bath and one good meal.’
‘I’ve shown him a different way of living, however briefly,’ I replied. ‘I’ve shown him that there is kindness as well as cruelty. He may remember it. It may influence him, to the good, in the future.’
His expression said he doubted this would be so, but he said, ‘Perhaps.’
‘What would you have had me do?’ I demanded. ‘Leave him to be beaten because he was too exhausted to work?’
‘Was he? If so, he recovered remarkably swiftly.’
‘Mr Devlin is right, dear,’ Mama put in. ‘Oh, I applaud your charitable instinct, but such a child…’ She shuddered delicately. ‘I heard the language he used. My dear, such children are beyond help.’
‘Indeed,’ said Geoffrey. ‘You will recall, Miss Hamilton, the ingrate bit the hand that fed him.’
Glancing at him, I saw an ironical gleam in his eye and realised he was having a little fun at Mama’s expense, though she remained unaware of it.
‘Oh, yes!’ Mama breathed. ‘He bit Mrs Benstead. Such ingratitude.’
I sat staring down into my cup, tensed against a sudden desire to laugh aloud. Geoffrey had always been able to make me laugh. It was one of the things about him that I loved. Had loved, I reminded myself sharply. And I had been mistaken in him. I mustn’t be fool enough to forget how badly he had betrayed me.
The trouble was that, every time I saw him, the present reality of him – his apparent sincerity, his undeniable charm, his disarming wish to make amends – blurred the details of memory. I even caught myself wondering if I had been wrong about him, and the next moment, angry with myself, I knew that I was falling prey to that same old spell. I wanted to cling to my dream. Deep inside, I was still a fool.
Later, Mrs Benstead reported the disappearance of the work-gang child. Waiting for his clothes to dry, he had curled by the fire, seeming to be sleeping, but in fact waiting for the moment when Mrs Benstead stepped out to the dairy. When she returned, the boy and his damp clothes were gone, and with them the blanket in which he had been wrapped, a loaf of bread, three herrings, some onions – and two silver tablespoons.
In fading daylight, I went after him, but he was not with the work-gang as they made ready for the weary trek home. ‘Run off back to Castle Acre, I ’spect,’ said the gang-master. ‘
Well, I did try to warn you, Miss Hamilton. That young Jack Huggins’s a wicked sinner. But his father’s dead, and his mother’s sick, and three more young ’uns to raise. Will you be bringing charges?’
Though I was angry at being made to look a fool, I deemed it best to forgive. The lad was welcome to the food, and as for the spoons, well, perhaps they might procure a few comforts for his family.
Narnie told me I was a fool – a naïve fool. Charity was best kept for one’s own folk, who could repay it with loyalty and hard work. It was not to be squandered on the likes of young Jack.
* * *
Thoughts of Geoffrey continued to haunt me. Memories, and unanswerable questions, intruded whether at work or leisure, getting into my dreams at night. He had said we must talk. Perhaps he was right. Too much had gone unspoken between us.
When he came again to Orchards, as he surely would, I resolved to listen to what he had to say. I looked forward to it.
But the days went by, and Geoffrey did not come.
* * *
I went down to the yards at dawn, as usual, to give the men their daily orders. To my surprise and relief, Father was there, talking with Plant and Benstead. He looked at me across his shoulder – a dour look – then went on with his discussion. I waited nearby, hearing him ascertain what work was in progress, and when I tried to intervene to correct something Plant said, Father again looked at me. ‘I’ll talk to you later, Rose. Go up to the house and wait for me.’
Finding myself with nothing else to do, I trailed home and waited to be called for breakfast.
‘Did you know Father was home?’ I asked Mama when she appeared.
‘He is?’ Her hand sought the comfort of her amethyst pendant as her face lit with hope. ‘Oh, Rose… How is he? What did he say?’
We were at table when Father came in. Mama looked up, eyes wide and anxious over the whiteness of a napkin she crumpled at her lips.
